“Impossible!” I pronounced after my tenth miss of an impossibly towering clay seeming to float between Doug firs scratching the clouds. “Show me how.” Hank McKinnell stepped to the station and called for the target. There’s no way he’ll scratch it. And he didn’t. Until his third shot. Then the crazy, deceptive, curving, falling-while-it-appears-to-be-climbing little disc of clay broke. The echoes of the shot had long faded before we heard the shower of falling pieces on the forest floor. “I’ve had some chances to work on that shot,” Hank humbly confessed. That made sense, because Hank owns the clays course we were shooting. It’s part of his 2,200-acre Lazy Triple Creek Ranch, an hour’s drive west of Jackson Hole.