Gunsite: Reconnecting with the Roots of Modern Combative Shooting

By Jeff Boren

There are places in our profession that carry more than just a legacy—they carry weight. Gunsite is one of those places. It stands as perhaps the most significant landmark in firearms education—a living testament to the evolution of modern combative shooting.

Long before training was systematized or structured as we know it today, there was Colonel Jeff Cooper. In 1976, he founded what was then the American Pistol Institute, now known as Gunsite. His modern technique of the pistol, with its deliberate use of stance, grip, and sighted fire, laid the groundwork for nearly every credible defensive shooting program that exists today. But Cooper didn’t just offer mechanics, he offered mindset. He built a doctrine rooted in moral clarity, individual responsibility, and a steadfast belief in the role of the armed citizen. His ideas didn’t just shape technique, they defined a profession.

For those of us who teach today, there’s no denying the profound influence of those who came before us. As Sir Isaac Newton once wrote, “If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” This principle of honoring foundational knowledge is something my friend, mentor, and colleague Aqil Qadir and I hold close. We both believe that understanding where you come from matters—and that honoring the legacy of those who laid the foundation is not just respectful, it’s essential. This conviction guided our decision to attend the Gunsite Instructor Development Course.

We’re both Rangemaster certified instructors, and our approach to teaching is shaped, in many ways, by another giant in our field: Tom Givens. Aqil serves as a Rangemaster staff instructor and is among the most respected voices in the training world today. His command of both hard skills and deep, conceptual teaching makes him a rare kind of educator.

Tom often says, “Jeff didn’t teach me how to shoot—he taught me how to teach.” That distinction isn’t lost on us. Tom spent a significant amount of time learning directly from Colonel Cooper, absorbing not just skill, but philosophy. In turn, Aqil—much more extensively than I—has spent years learning from Tom, and I’ve benefitted from that wisdom both directly and through our shared work. It’s a lineage we don’t take lightly. One of our shared values is the belief that history matters—that we’re not just building skill, but carrying forward lessons entrusted to us.

In our own way, returning to Gunsite feels like closing a circle. Both Aqil and I had previously attended the renowned 250 Pistol course as students, absorbing the fundamentals of the Modern Technique directly from this historic institution. Now, coming back for Instructor Development, specifically under Jerry McCown, the return represents not a destination, but a deliberate reconnection with the roots of our profession. We came here not just to refine what we do, but to stand—quite literally—where it all began, seeing the same grounds through new eyes and with deeper understanding of our place in this continuum.

When we examined our options for instructor-level development, our focus wasn’t on novelty but on depth and tradition. We sought instruction deeply rooted in the principles that shaped our discipline. This led us specifically to choose Jerry McCown as our instructor—a man whose lifetime of practical experience commands respect. His approach emphasizes substance over spectacle, which aligned perfectly with our objectives.

Lineage as Living Heritage

The concept of lineage isn’t unique to martial disciplines, but perhaps nowhere is it more vital. When we speak of lineage in firearms instruction, we’re not merely tracing a family tree of who taught whom. We’re tracking the transmission of principles, philosophies, and proven methodologies that have been tested not just on ranges but in real-world confrontations.

Cooper himself drew from multiple traditions—from the fast draw techniques of the Southwest to the point shooting methods of Fairbairn and Applegate—but his genius lay in distillation and systematization. He didn’t just collect techniques; he developed principles. His color code of awareness, the four fundamental rules of firearms safety, the combat triad—these weren’t just collections of best practices, but integrated systems of thought.

These systems then flowed to his students. Men like Clint Smith, Louis Awerbuck, and Chuck Taylor didn’t simply duplicate Cooper’s teaching; they understood its principles deeply enough to maintain its essence while adapting to new challenges. Later generations—including Tom Givens, Ken Hackathorn, and many others—continued this process of principled adaptation.

What makes this lineage so powerful isn’t its rigidity but its coherence. While techniques have evolved with new equipment, technologies, and understanding, the core principles remain recognizable. This coherence allows for innovation without abandoning what works. It creates a framework where techniques can be evaluated against established principles rather than trending fashions.

But lineage isn’t automatically preserved—it requires active stewardship and deliberate transmission. Each generation must understand not just what to teach, but why it matters, how it fits into the broader framework, and when it applies. Without this contextual understanding, techniques become mere movements, divorced from the principles that give them meaning.

The Character of True Instruction

The essence of effective instruction—the distillation of complex concepts down to their most vital elements—represents the highest evolution of teaching craft. It’s what distinguishes instructors like Cooper, Givens, and Jerry McCown: not simply their knowledge, but their ability to identify precisely what matters most and remove everything that might obscure that essential knowledge. This skill isn’t developed overnight; it emerges only after years of teaching, refining, and ruthlessly evaluating one’s own effectiveness.

This principle, captured perfectly by Hans Hofmann—”The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak”—defines the approach we observed throughout our Gunsite experience.

The best instruction isn’t about commanding attention; it’s about earning it quietly and consistently. It’s about clarity of message and consistency of approach. The most effective instructors don’t accept vague answers. They make you work. They force you to articulate clearly, testing more than just technical knowledge—they test your mindset. This deliberate pressure is the essence of professional instruction.

True instructional excellence isn’t flashy; it’s effective. It’s not about novelty but depth and tradition. It’s about systematic evaluations and results, not simply adhering to tradition for tradition’s sake. Professionalism in firearms instruction means constant refinement through objective measures.

What makes an instructor like Jerry McCown exceptional isn’t just his knowledge—it’s his ability to communicate that knowledge in ways that create understanding, not just compliance. He doesn’t just tell students what to do; he helps them understand why they’re doing it. He doesn’t just demonstrate techniques; he reveals principles. And perhaps most importantly, he teaches in a way that enables students to continue learning long after the formal instruction has ended.

This approach embodies what Phil Knight articulates when he says, “The man who loves walking will walk further than the man who loves the destination.” In our profession, the journey matters more than any credential or destination. You can’t simply love outcomes—you have to love the process, the continuous refinement, the patient building of understanding.

The Threats to Instructional Heritage

In today’s training environment, several forces threaten the preservation of this instructional heritage. None is more insidious than the culture of personality that has emerged with the rise of social media. When an instructor’s following becomes more important than their foundation, when their brand overshadows their background, something vital is lost.

This isn’t about resisting change or rejecting new voices. Innovation has always been part of firearms instruction—Cooper himself was an innovator. But there’s a profound difference between innovation that builds upon established principles and innovation that dismisses them without understanding what’s being discarded.

We see this most clearly in the emphasis on technique over understanding. Techniques are easier to package, market, and demonstrate in short video clips. They yield immediate visual results. Principles, by contrast, require time and context to appreciate. They don’t always photograph well. But while techniques may win matches or look impressive on camera, principles save lives.

Another threat comes from what might be called the “commodification of instruction.” As firearms training has grown more popular and profitable, the incentives have shifted. For some new instructors, the emphasis is on maximizing student throughput and minimizing their own preparation. Courses become products, students become consumers, and the relationship between teacher and student—once almost sacred in martial traditions—becomes purely transactional.

These threats don’t come from malice but from the natural evolution of a growing field. Yet they require conscious resistance if we are to preserve what makes this profession meaningful. They require instructors who understand what’s at stake—not just skills, but lives; not just techniques, but tradition.

The Challenge of Context

Perhaps the greatest challenge in preserving instructional lineage is maintaining context. Every technique, tactic, or principle was developed in response to specific circumstances—particular threats, equipment limitations, or tactical realities. As those circumstances change, the techniques must adapt. But without understanding the original context, those adaptations risk becoming arbitrary rather than principled.

This is where the value of direct connection to founding figures becomes apparent. When Tom Givens learned from Jeff Cooper, he didn’t just learn what Cooper taught in seminars—he learned why Cooper taught it that way. He understood the experiences and observations that shaped Cooper’s approach. And when Aqil learned from Tom, that contextual understanding was preserved and extended.

But direct lineage isn’t always possible. As founding figures pass on, their direct students age, and the training community expands, most instructors won’t have the opportunity to learn directly from the sources. This makes the preservation of instructional context all the more important.

At Gunsite, this context is preserved not just in curriculum but in culture. Stories matter—not as mere entertainment but as vessels for wisdom. When Jerry explains why a particular technique was developed, or shares an account of when it worked (or didn’t), he’s not just filling time; he’s preserving context that gives meaning to the instruction.

This is why our profession requires more than skilled demonstrators—it needs true teachers who understand that their responsibility extends beyond the immediate student to the broader tradition they represent. It needs instructors who recognize that they’re not just teaching a class but contributing to a lineage.

Beyond Technical Skills

Our time at Gunsite had absolutely nothing to do with refining our technical skills. It was about understanding that the principles that guide us today were refined through decades of dedicated work by those who came before us. There’s a fundamental difference between knowing how to perform a skill and knowing how to build that skill in others.

What we do as instructors transcends us. It isn’t about social media recognition or financial gain. It’s about empowering people to protect themselves and those they love. It’s about saving lives—sometimes in the literal physical sense, but often by instilling the confidence that yes, they can navigate this challenging world.

For Aqil and me, this work represents not just a career but a responsibility—one we gladly accept just as those who came before us did. We wake up each day determined to put in the work necessary to honor their legacy. Our commitment to principles like clarity, precision, and the wisdom to focus on what truly matters isn’t just professional—it’s personal.

The Evolution of Excellence

Preserving tradition doesn’t mean resisting evolution. The giants upon whose shoulders we stand were themselves innovators. Cooper didn’t simply replicate what came before him—he synthesized, refined, and advanced the state of the art. The truest honor we can pay to his legacy is not blind adherence to specific techniques but commitment to the same process of principled innovation.

This requires balancing seemingly contradictory imperatives: respecting tradition while embracing progress; honoring established principles while remaining open to new evidence; maintaining doctrinal coherence while adapting to changing circumstances. It’s a difficult balance to strike, but the best instructors manage it.

Jerry McCown exemplifies this balance. His teaching is firmly rooted in the Cooper tradition, but it isn’t static. He incorporates new understanding from fields ranging from sports psychology to tactical medicine. He respects the tradition not by treating it as a museum piece but by keeping it relevant and effective.

This approach to evolution requires both confidence and humility—confidence in the core principles that have proven their worth, and humility about one’s own understanding and innovations. It requires the ability to distinguish between essential principles that must be preserved and specific applications that can be adapted. Most of all, it requires an ongoing commitment to effectiveness over ego.

The best instructors are simultaneously the most traditional and the most progressive—traditional in their respect for proven principles, progressive in their willingness to refine or extend those principles based on new evidence. They understand that tradition without innovation becomes dogma, while innovation without tradition becomes faddism.

Preserving the Profession’s Soul

There’s a certain gravity to acknowledging that we are caretakers of something larger than ourselves. The profession of firearms instruction stands at an interesting crossroads today. On one hand, there’s never been more access to training, more instructors, more programs, or more information available. On the other hand, that very abundance creates a risk of diluting the core principles that define true professional instruction.

In an age where social media presence often overshadows substantive teaching, where flashy techniques can eclipse fundamental principles, the preservation of our professional heritage becomes all the more vital. This isn’t about resistance to innovation or new approaches—quite the contrary. It’s about ensuring that innovation builds upon a solid foundation rather than replacing it with something less substantial.

Cooper’s principles weren’t simply techniques; they were a philosophy of instruction and personal responsibility. The Color Codes of Awareness, for example, aren’t just about situational alertness—they’re about decision-making frameworks that shape how we respond to threats. The Modern Technique isn’t just a collection of fundamentals—it’s a comprehensive approach to defensive pistolcraft rooted in observable, repeatable principles.

The most concerning trend we observe today isn’t the creation of new methods or approaches—it’s the possibility that the fundamental “why” behind our principles might be lost in translation. When instructors teach techniques without understanding their underpinnings, they’re not truly teaching at all—they’re merely demonstrating. True instruction builds understanding, not just performance.

This is why our pilgrimage to Gunsite matters—not just for us, but for everyone we touch through our teaching. By strengthening our connection to the foundations of modern defensive instruction, we become better equipped to distinguish between valuable innovations and empty novelties. We gain the discernment to embrace what advances the discipline while preserving what defines it.

Building Bridges Across Generations

The preservation of instructional lineage isn’t just about looking backward—it’s about building forward. Each generation must not only receive the wisdom of those who came before but prepare to transmit it to those who will follow. This requires intentional bridge-building between generations of instructors.

We see this bridge-building at work in several ways. Formal instructor development programs, like the one we attended at Gunsite, provide structured opportunities to absorb not just techniques but teaching methods. Mentorship relationships, whether formal or informal, allow for the kind of personalized guidance that can’t be captured in a curriculum. Professional associations and instructor conferences create communities where knowledge can be shared across experience levels.

But perhaps the most important bridge-building happens in the everyday work of instruction itself. When we teach with an awareness of our place in a continuing tradition, when we contextualize techniques rather than just demonstrating them, when we emphasize principles over procedures, we’re preparing our students to become the next links in the chain.

This doesn’t mean every student will become an instructor. But it does mean that even those who never teach formally will understand what they’ve learned deeply enough to preserve its essence. They become carriers of the tradition even if they aren’t its formal teachers.

For those who do become instructors, this depth of understanding becomes even more critical. They need to know not just what works but why it works, not just how to perform techniques but how those techniques fit into broader tactical principles. Without this understanding, each generation of instruction becomes a slightly degraded copy of what came before—like a copy of a copy, losing definition with each reproduction.

Our aim isn’t to stand tall enough for others to climb upon, but rather to conduct ourselves with such care and diligence that what we pass forward is worthy of those who entrusted it to us. If, through our efforts, we can help maintain the chain of knowledge that connects Cooper’s insights to tomorrow’s instructors, we will consider that time well spent.

The Return to Fundamentals

Perhaps the most valuable lesson from our experience at Gunsite was the power of returning to fundamentals. In a training world often obsessed with advanced techniques or specialized scenarios, the disciplined focus on fundamental principles was refreshing and powerful.

This focus on fundamentals isn’t about being basic—it’s about being essential. The most advanced techniques are ultimately just sophisticated applications of fundamental principles. Without those fundamentals, advanced techniques become merely complicated rather than truly sophisticated.

What makes someone like Jerry McCown such an effective instructor isn’t his ability to teach complex techniques—though he certainly can—but his ability to reveal the fundamental principles at work in seemingly simple actions. Watch him coach a student through their trigger press, and you’ll see layers of understanding that turn a basic action into a profound lesson.

This return to fundamentals reminds us that mastery isn’t about accumulating techniques but about deepening understanding. It’s not about how many different ways you can shoot but how completely you understand the core principles of shooting. It’s not about collecting drills but about recognizing the fundamental challenges those drills are designed to address.

For instructors, this focus on fundamentals is even more critical. Teaching advanced techniques is relatively easy if students have a solid foundation. But helping students build that foundation—that’s the real challenge and the true test of instructional skill.

Conclusion: A Living Tradition

Our journey to Gunsite wasn’t about nostalgia or historical preservation. It was about connecting with a living tradition—one that continues to evolve while maintaining its essential character. It was about strengthening our understanding of the foundations upon which we build our own teaching, and recommitting ourselves to the professional standards established by those who came before us.

The lessons we gained weren’t just about how to teach specific skills but about how to preserve and extend a tradition of instruction that has saved countless lives. They weren’t just about techniques but about the responsibility that comes with teaching those techniques.

What we do as instructors matters—not just to our immediate students but to everyone those students may someday protect or teach. We carry forward not just methods but meaning, not just skills but a system of values that places protective capability in the service of moral clarity.

As we continue our work, we do so with a renewed appreciation for the giants upon whose shoulders we stand, and a deeper commitment to preserving what they built. Not as museum curators preserving artifacts, but as gardeners tending living traditions that continue to grow and bear fruit.

In this way, we hope to honor the legacy of Cooper, Givens, McCown, and all those who have contributed to making modern firearms instruction not just a collection of techniques but a discipline worthy of being called a profession.