At Home on the Range By Christine H. O'Toole Special to The Washington Post Wednesday, June 14, 2000

At Nemacolin's Shooting Academy, the 30 shooting stations are lavishly landscaped. Photo courtesy Nemacolin Woodlands Resort and Spa

And with that I raise my 12-gauge shotgun and fire--not at a real bird, but at a fluorescent orange disk sailing softly through the mist. Boom!

The scene looks like a Japanese print--fog, white mountains and black trees--but it's the southwest Pennsylvania hills of the Shooting Academy at Nemacolin Woodlands Resort & Spa. And say, isn't that Mr. and Mrs. Thurston Howell III strolling by?

Nah, it's just us--a couple of neophytes, aim and ascots less than sharp, taking our first shooting lesson. The ads promise the thrills without the kills; no creatures, just clay.

Four miles from the hotel, the resort's Sporting Clay Course in Henry Clay Township apes the resort's grandiose style: 140 acres, 30 shooting stations, a Valhalla-size lodge and ambitious plans for rifle ranges, trap and skeet fields, archery and paint ball.

It's a target-rich environment.

The self-described "grandest sporting clays course in the country" is far larger than its domestic competition, Virginia's Homestead in Hot Springs, and much chillier than the only other U.S. course, in Hawaii. You don't have to be a hotel guest to try, and you can even bring your own guns, if they're well behaved.

Guns not being on special at Home Depot, we opted to rent ours, signing waivers and donning vests with padded right shoulders that protect against the recoil of the semiautomatics. Then we headed downhill on a golf cart to Station 5--one of the 30 stands along a one-mile course. As we approached, shots echoed through the valley.

Though I'd envisioned the setup as sort of a driving range, it's more like a golf course: a lovely string of woodland scenes, some with gazebos, others with open decks. Each location varies the targets to float in, out, across and over your field of vision. So-called teals and ducks fly over water; rabbits (actually green and black clays) bounce along the ground. With 80 automatic Laporte traps to launch the clays at the push of a button, you could shoot the whole day. For our introduction, we stuck to the simplest stations and skipped the shoot cards. For the birds we broke, we could keep score on our fingers.

The initial lesson: muzzle up, safety on, earplugs in. Certified by the National Sporting Clays Association and the National Rifle Association, our 22-year-old instructor, Sinal, had the ease of a seasoned veteran, the smile and patience of Buddha. Where our motions were tight and clenched, his were completely relaxed.

Thurston watched once, shouldered the gun, said "pull" and broke the bird on his first shot. A natural-born killer. My first shot went far right, as if I'd done it with my eyes closed. Sinal grabbed the stock immediately.

"Ladies tend to holler and drop the firearm," he explained. I'd held on more from shock than skill.

"It's just like pointing your finger," he reassured us.

The more you think about it, Sinal said, the harder you make shooting. "People don't realize how unbelievably stupid you have to be," he said, laughing. As we shuttled past warming huts, wooden gazebos and outhouses with half-moon and star motifs, we began to understand the Zenlike approach that Sinal advocated. His three mantras: focus, form and tempo.

Focusing was difficult, especially on white clays against the gray sky. As for form, mine stunk, but Sinal had some advice that helped: "Lean forward, like you're throwing up on your shoes." Sure. I could do that.

And tempo, the trickiest of the trio. Without wasting ammunition (we bought 50 rounds each), Sinal coached us through dry fire. "When you see the bird, say 'bang,' " he instructed. "Bang," I repeated obediently, bringing the Beretta against my cheek. "Bang. Bang." I reminded myself of Elmer Fudd.

When our teacher analyzed my problem and shifted the gun from my right to left shoulder, I broke my first bird: an overhead shot, with a bark far worse than its bite against my shoulder. The fragments fell soundlessly; the fog and smoke trailed past my face.

"How'd you like that?" he said happily. Not bad, and satisfyingly thunderous.

Later, the lodge was warm and deserted except for the nonnative fauna staring from the tall Timberlake-red walls (buffalo haven't roamed this stretch of Route 40 in about 400 years). A fire crackled; faux-western antler lamps and antler chandeliers blazed. Signs warned we would not be permitted to shoot after being served at the bar. Thurston and I can drink to that.

The Shooting Academy at Nemacolin Woodlands Resort & Spa in Farmington, Pa. (183 miles northwest of Washington, about a four-hour drive; 1-800-422-2736) is open seven days a week. Walk-on shooters are welcome. Our outing--with lesson, equipment, cart rental, ammunition and targets--cost $240 for two. Web site: www.nwlr.com/sporting.html