Visits to Thunder Ranch: My experience as a lone female student

A note from Hubby

Some people might wonder what this has to do with ghost towns. When your wife is addicted to traveling the back roads into isolated areas, encountering some of the more curious characters in rural Nevada, it becomes obvious. Her training at Thunder Ranch is as much a part of her skill stack as being able to air down a tire or research a news article from the 1800s. Count it as the “Beyond” in “Ghost Towns and Beyond.”

I have been fortunate to train with Clint Smith at Thunder Ranch three times in the last year. Twice, I was one of only two female students; once, I was the only one. Instead of feeling different, I always felt like one of the guys.

While the training was about firearms, it extended beyond situational awareness and personal defense.

The problem

I have had my CCW permit for over 20 years, yet I never felt comfortable carrying a sidearm. For years, my husband and I debated what type of gun, external safety, and when to carry. The debate was how I would carry. I tried briefcases, CCW purses, and backpacks. We tried shoulder holsters, belts, clips, and specialized tank tops. I was never comfortable with any. I realize it wasn’t the carry method but the gun that made me uncomfortable.

Not being comfortable with firearms is why I most often did not carry. I had a few scary incidents, including almost walking in on a hostage situation at the pharmacy in our office complex, holding only a baby. It was only my son’s crying that kept me from walking into a fatal stand-off.

In 2020, I started Nevada Ghost Towns & Beyond. I decided it was my midlife goal to visit every ghost town in Nevada. Little did I know where it would lead me. According to Stan Paher, the king of Nevada ghost towns, there are over 600. Stan’s definition is very specific, but there are thousands of sites that don’t meet his criteria: Pony Express Stations, emigrant graves, mines, ranches, small settlements. I had a lifetime of sites to visit.

I turned my website into a full-time job. If I wasn’t exploring, I was researching and writing. I started traveling Nevada extensively. It is not unusual to be 75 miles from the closest town with a gas station and over a hundred miles from the nearest law enforcement. Help could be hours or a day away in good weather. In bad weather, it could be days. I took classes in off-road driving, recovery and survival. Yet, I often did not carry on my body. Usually, it was in my Jeep.

Changing my mind

Three incidents in the spring of 2022 changed my mind.

I was at Pine Grove, a popular ghost town. While at the cemetery, I was surprised to see a group of Neo-Nazis drive past. If the shaved heads left room for doubt, they had swastika and SS stickers on their vehicle and SS tats down their faces. They looked like movie extras; I had no idea they existed in Nevada. At least it would have been easy to describe to law enforcement if the need arose. They had their vehicle loaded down with ammo and covered in swastika stickers. Thankfully, the only thing they shot at us was dirty looks.

A few weeks later, I was visiting the ghost town of Park Canyon. I was with my good friend and we parked at the base of the mill. We took photos as we rounded the abandoned mill.

At the top, we found a tweaker encampment, complete with abandoned precursor containers. My first thought was that I left the rifle in the Jeep.

Thankfully, we never saw anyone; I’m unsure if they were hiding out or had moved on. I learned later Park Canyon was also known for mountain lions stalking visitors.

Soon after, I was exploring the lower ruins being careful where I stepped. I came through a window to get inside. I looked where I was putting my hands, butt, and feet; I sat on the ledge and landed on the dirt below. A second later, I heard…

Bzzzzzzzz

I froze; the only thing that moved was my brain saying, “Oh, Sh…”

My first thought was, “Thank heaven, I’m wearing BUBB.” Big Ugly Black Boots. A rock wall was to my back, a large rock pile to my left, and a vast open dirt area in front. I did what you aren’t supposed to do, I made an Olympic-quality long jump. We never found the snake that I pissed off, but we found Baby who was equally as displeased with my presence.

I was shaken up the rest of the day and the 4-hour drive home. A tweaker camp and two Nevada Danger Noodles not long after the Neo-Nazi encounter was overwhelming. I walked into the house, poured a large glass of wine, then told Hubby, “I’ll start carrying on my hip now.” Hubby broke out laughing. He replied he just told his friend I would come home, pour a glass of wine, and say I’ll start carrying on my hip. After 25 years, the man knows me well.

I carried more when I was out but never felt comfortable. Hubby wanted me to receive training for years. We debated whether I would go to Thunder Ranch in Lakeview, Oregon or Front Sight in Pahrump, Nevada.

I asked friends in law enforcement who lived by Front Sight where to go. They unanimously told me to go to Thunder Ranch. It took a few months, but around Thanksgiving, Hubby and I had the same discussion we have had for 20 years: Which facility? He wanted me to train with Clint Smith at Thunder Ranch. We saw there was an opening in December for Defensive Handgun. I booked the class and ordered ammo.

Thunder Ranch: Defensive Handgun

The next month was a whirlwind of selecting which sidearms to take and which supplies for the class. As the weather was forecast to be cold and snowy, I went through my winter gear to see what I could layer together. Finally, the time came to head to Oregon.

Walking into the classroom, I was nervous as a freshman on the first day of college. Though I arrived early, the room was filled with big men. No one was speaking; I sat at the table’s end to hear better. For ten minutes, we shuffled papers, and there was minimal chatting. Finally, I asked where everyone was from, and half of the men responded. Then silence returned.

Only one other woman was in the class of fourteen. She was friends with the Smiths and attended with her husband. She was a newcomer to firearms. At least I’d been shooting with Hubby and had taken classes for my CCW permit.

Clint started the class by asking me and the other woman if we were easily offended. I replied that I hung out mostly with men, many of whom were retired from law enforcement. He said he would treat us like every other student. Just how I wanted it.

We started on the range the first day after lunch, each lined up before a target. We partnered with the student next to us and kept the same partners for the three training days.

Clint was our rangemaster. He had us fire one shot; I was nervous but I hit center. Then he had us shoot twice more; I was off a little but still had a decent group. Clint reviewed our shots, and I got a “Good, good, good!” and a fist bump. That made my day.

We spent three days at the range, going through nearly 1,000 rounds. Drills included shooting at moving targets, shooting while moving, and shooting at longer ranges.

We worked on clearing malfunctions: Stovepipes, failures to eject, and double feeds. My idea of clearing malfunctions had always been to hand the gun to Hubby. The process had always seemed mysterious, involving him scowling at the pistol and muttering strange four-letter incantations.

Clint had succinct advice for malfunctions…

“Your gun doesn’t fire? Load the f***ing gun!”

Tap, rack, and shoot. Nothing mysterious about that. With Clint’s clear yet colorful instructions, I knew what to do.

The final day we worked on single-handed shooting, dominant and non-dominant hand and using flashlights.

As the third day was a sultry 34 degrees, the dirt backdrop started melting. I found a way to sling mud almost as fun as Jeeping. I ended up with mud everywhere. We reached our final drill, and the range master said to make these the best shots of the class. I took out the center of the target.

I loved my Defensive Handgun classmates. Everyone worked together, supporting each other. My partner had my back even before I knew I needed it. As Clint said, I was treated like every other student. We joked, talked smack, and congratulated each other. I was never looked or talked down to. Nor was I treated like a princess, which I would have hated. I was simply one of the guys.

At the end of the trip, I wrote, “If the Training Fairy visits, I will retake Defensive Handgun 1, then Defensive Handgun 2, and Urban Rifle.”

Thunder Ranch: Defensive Revolver

It was soon apparent that a Glock 19 was difficult to conceal. Hubby and I debated options and I decided to carry a snub nose revolver. I had wanted to repeat Defensive Handgun but we decided Defensive Revolver would be a good choice. This would be a review of the skills I learned while adding reloading a revolver. Two months after Defensive Handgun I was back at Thunder Ranch.

The dynamics of this course were different. For this class, I was the sole female. The class was more advanced shooters, mostly men who were serious firearms enthusiasts. Day 1 was difficult for me. With multiple hand surgeries and temps hovering in the 20s, my hands couldn’t reload the way Thunder Ranch teaches. Instructor Mike worked with me on reloading and adapted a technique for me.

Defensive revolver training was similar to Defensive Handgun. As the shooters were more advanced, we did more tactical drills, shooting from a variety of positions and moving from cover to cover.

Smith & Wesson videoed the entire weekend. It’s a good thing I was shooting a vintage S&W Model 10! The guys joked that I wasn’t old enough to train with a classic S&W revolver. My classmates were supportive, especially my partner, but they weren’t as close as the previous class. Once again, I was never treated differently for being a woman.

Shooting the revolver was more difficult than my Glock 19. I’m glad I took the class, but I would take my Glock any day. I wondered if Defensive Revover was the best class for me, but as Clint says, “What makes you think you will be fighting with your gun?” The tactical portions were invaluable and carried over to any handgun.

Looking back almost a year later, I learned there is still a place for a revolver.

Enter Trailer Trash Tami

During Defensive Revolver, Jack, the primary instructor, nicknamed me Trailer Trash Tammy. After calling me this a few times and my blank stares, Jack asked if I knew about Trailer Trash Tammy— never heard of her. He told me to look her up. She is a social media comedienne, known for smoking, eating fried food, potty mouth, and being hilarious.

For the rest of the class, Jack called me Trailer Trash Tami.

While exploring, I opted for the Glock. My friend Kris is half Filipino and always keeps us laughing about how Filipino women pose for photographs and the position the men get into to take the picture. Kris put me in the position. My friends laughed, saying I looked more like Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. I’ll take it!

Hubby insisted I take a rifle on outings, but I wasn’t comfortable with one. Hubby joked, “Mommy is going to work,” and insisted on taking a picture.

Thunder Ranch: Urban Rifle

As much as I wanted to do more sidearm training, I knew the rifle was my weakness.

My rifle often got left behind. With two handgun trainings under my belt, I was more comfortable thinking about training with the rifle. The question was, which one? I emailed with Sue, Clint and Heidi, messaged with Jack and spent a lot of time talking to Hubby. We decided an AR was the best option. Weight was key. I have had shoulder issues and hand surgeries, and I wanted something light to carry and shoot.

Once I decided on an AR, Hubby went to work on building one. He had a Aero Precision lower, one of the last Thunder Ranch editions. He slimmed the gun down as much as he could. I told Hubby some people might question giving a menopausal woman an AR for her 50th birthday. He replied with more four letter incantations referencing some peoples’ intelligence.

Hubby tried to help me with familiarization, but anyone who has tried to teach a spouse something knows how well that goes. Thankfully, my friend Al was a handgun, shotgun, rifle and submachine gun instructor for the San Francisco Police Department. He spent several days working with me on body positioning, shooting, and sighting in the rifle.

After several adjustments, I hit the bottom of the X three times. Al was happy with my zero and had a big smile. It wasn’t good enough for me. We made one more tiny adjustment, and I hit the target right in the center. With an even bigger smile, Al brought the target back and said, “You’re a badass.”

This time, we had a female instructor who had recently retired from law enforcement. One other female was in the class; she and her husband take multiple firearms classes a year and run competitions. Most of the students had taken courses or had experience with rifles. Several were retired law enforcement and firearms instructors. I was intimidated by being one of two with little experience.

Walking into class was a homecoming—hugs from Clint, Heidi and Jack. Trailer Trash Tami jokes commenced. Clint who had called me “The Explorer” the previous two classes, updated my name to “Blond Bombshell,” what a great birthday present! The dynamics of the rifle class were similar to my first class. Everyone joked and supported each other.

Day one at the range was sighting in the rifle and basic firing drills. Day two started with a lesson in offset. Coming from handguns, this wasn’t easy to understand. The day started with a “training tool.” We placed our sight directly on the target and fired, hitting several inches below the target.

It may seem strange to be off the target, but I hit exactly where I should. With the height difference between the barrel and scope, at close distance, the two are several inches off. Jack showed us how the space is about the width of a magazine. Hubby had told me about sight offset, but it didn’t make sense until we practiced.

Clint was our rangemaster that day. We spent much of the class working on offset, and hitting different zones. It wasn’t bad to aim two inches high from center mass; what was strange was shooting off and above a target. It was disconcerting to aim into the air to hit the target.

Day Three was spent on tactical training. We moved with a rifle and partners, around objects with minimal exposure. I remembered the sight offset and hit center.

The final drill was moving through an obstacle wall. We shot from low and high, climbed stairs and under items. The target was about 50 yards away. This drill was one at a time, so everyone knew how you were doing. I was nervous but headed up when it was my turn. I didn’t shoot fast, but I hit the target every time.

By the end of the class, Jack had everyone calling me some variation of Trailer Trash Tami. Trailer Tami, Trash Tami. I intentionally partially loaded magazines to practice reloading, leaving a trail of empties through obstacle courses. After each drill, someone held up my marked magazines and called, “Trailer Trash Tami!”

The finale of each class is The Terminator 3. The Thunder Ranch website states, “The Terminator 3 is a two-story indoor shoot house with every conceivable indoor obstacle and circumstance. The ideal place to learn how to cope with a less-than-ideal situation.” Clint told us it was the most f****d up structure he could imagine: doors opening in different directions, cubby holes, blind corners and a million places where a bad guy could hide.

One by one, students were called off the line to work on clearing rooms in the shoot house. I have always had great respect for law enforcement and the military, and I have even more now. Clearing a building is something I would never want to do, especially one with which I wasn’t familiar. I cleared three rooms, which was nerve-wracking, but I took out the bad guy with one shot. The exercise was mainly to show us how dangerous clearing a house is. That proved to be a good thing to know.

Toward the end of Day Three, one of the instructors told me he was going to call me Sunshine because I was always smiling and having fun, even rolling in the dirt and gravel. Later I told my friend Mike who is a retired training officer about my nicknames. He asked me which meant more: Trailer Trash Tami or Sunshine. I guessed Trailer Trash. He laughed and said that meant I was accepted.

Before Urban Rilfe, I started an article about why I carry and my training at Thunder Ranch as a solo female. This class reinforced how comfortable I felt training by myself at Thunder Ranch. Clint pulled me aside at the end of the three days. He wanted to make sure I felt comfortable in a class full of men.

I am not particularly emotional, but the day after class I headed home in the morning. I had tears in my eyes, I wanted to return to Thunder Ranch and play with my friends. I hope Hubby and I can train together at Thunder Ranch, but part of me will miss being on my own. Instead of being one of the guys, I worry I’ll be Hubby’s wife. Hubby said it is more likely that he will be “Trailer Trash Tami’s Old Man.”

Epilogue: Practical Application

My sister decided that for my belated 50th birthday, she would take me to Las Vegas for a couple of days of fine restaurants, spas and hiking. Being a country girl at heart, I’m not a big fan of big cities, but we went anyway. It was an opportunity to visit and document some historic sites.

I thought about what to carry. Because of the Mandalay Bay shooting, a rifle was out. It might be legal, but no hotel would allow me to carry it to my room. Having it locked in the hotel’s safe would be useless. I didn’t want to carry my Glock or another autoloader; there is too many problems with accidentally breaking concealment. Although I carry legally, I didn’t want to have anyone see it and call 911 over a “woman carrying a gun.”

That left a small revolver. It wasn’t my first choice, but it made sense in this situation. I was not going to give up my ability to defend myself.

On the last night of our trip, my sister and I were in our hotel room getting ready for dinner. We heard a crash. I am deaf in one ear and have difficulty locating sound. Thinking the ironing board fell over, I checked, and that wasn’t it. Soon after, there was a knock at the door. No one was there.

My sister called security. At first, I thought she was overreacting. (What is security going to do about someone knocking on our door?) She was told the rooms around us were vacant, so no one was banging on the adjoining walls.

Then came another solid hit. I looked out the peephole into an empty hallway. I knew there was a door into the stairwell on the left, along with floor-length curtains, a door across the hall, and to the right an entire hallway of alcoves where someone could hide.

The noises got louder. One sounded like a kick to the door. Then a last one… a solid, unmistakable, violent kick to the door, so hard it shook the room. My sister was on the phone with security and I made myself ready in case someone broke the door down.

Ten minutes later, security guards showed up at our door. They had been clearing the floor and stairs. My sister told the younger guard how she felt threatened. I talked to the older guard. He had a star on his name tag and I knew he was active or retired law enforcement. I described what happened, including the hard kick to the door. Security said we were safe to leave the room and that they would update us with what they found.

We headed downstairs. Following dinner, we ran into one of the security guards. This time, my sister talked to the older guard and I spoke to a guard with a star on his name tag. I repeated what happened, including my assessment of possible hiding places in the hallway. He paused for a second and said, “You have tactical training.” I almost said no, then I thought of Thunder Ranch.

Housekeeping had seen hooded teens causing issues in the hotel. They threw water bottles at doors and knocked items off food service carts. As we were leaving the following morning, I looked at our door and found an upside-down footprint. Someone had donkey-kicked our door, trying to break it down.

Clint has said, “The best example of good training is never having to use it.” That may seem like a cliche. I knew what to do from Clint’s lectures and range practice: How to take up a good defensive position in the room in case someone broke in and tried to attack us. I thought about cover and concealment and how to position myself. The Terminator taught me not to leave the relative safety of my room and try to flee into a potential tactical nightmare. My training at Thunder Ranch from Clint, Heidi, Jack and the other instructors and students paid for itself many times over that day. I didn’t panic. Clint says that Thunder Ranch isn’t a shooting school, it’s a thinking school. I thought through the situation and was ready for whatever might have happened. Fortunately, that was nothing, which was the best possible outcome.

Afterword from Hubby

To Clint, Heidi, Jack, and the distinguished instructors and students of Thunder Ranch: I hope to join you soon, weather and work permitting. Seeing how Tami’s confidence and competence grew after being there was wonderful.

It was also amazing to hear how her vocabulary expanded after Clint’s lectures…

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