Worst Turkey Miss Contest with Stories from the Crew

Killing a turkey seems simple in theory, but misses happen to even the best hunters. Sometimes, there’s little you can do to avoid it. Other times, you just plain whiff. Even the MeatEater crew misses every now and then (if that’s any consolation).

And because misery loves company, we want to hear about your worst turkey blunders, too. Post a comment with your most painful turkey miss story, and you’ll be entered for a chance to win a slew of killer prizes. If you’re still reeling from a recent miss, welcome to the club, and enjoy some of the crew’s worst turkey misses.

Tony Peterson

About eight years ago I got permission to turkey hunt a farm near my house. I started glassing in March and ended up finding a monster tom that had a group of 11 hens pretty much locked up. He was the perfect candidate for a full strutter, so I put up a blind and made a plan to bowhunt that specific bird (which I never do).

The first day I hunted him, I spotted the longbeard with his ladies and called him away from them and straight into my spread. When I drew on him, my brain registered a weird noise and a feeling in the draw cycle, but it wasn't enough to set off any warning bells. He was 10 yards out and in full strut when I centered my pin on him and released.

My arrow cut a triangle-shaped hole through his fan, so I scrambled to nock up and shoot again. I put another hole in his fan, nearly on top of the first one. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew enough to not shoot again. So, I watched him chest-bump my decoy until he got bored and wandered back to his girlfriends. Later at home I realized that the draw stop on my top cam had sheared off when I drew the first time, causing me to hit way high. I arrowed a consolation bird a few days later, but I've never forgotten the only time I had a hit list tom and missed him twice at a distance I could probably have killed him with a rock.

Adam Moore

This miss is so fresh the empty shotshell is still smoking. I didn’t have a plan for opening morning of the 2026 Mississippi turkey season, so I decided to hunt a spot that’s produced in the past. Right at prime gobbling time, I heard a distant gobble. I knew he was roosted on the neighboring property where I don’t have permission. His muffled gobble also told me that I’d have to convince him to wade through a privet thicket.

I cut the distance (as much as I could) and waited for him to gobble again. To get a better pin on him, I owl hooted, and he immediately gobbled. I knew it was a long shot to call him through that thicket and off the neighboring property, so I called to him from the middle of an old firebreak near the property line. He cut me off, and I quickly dropped back, setting up on an overgrown fence row.

About 15 minutes passed in silence, and I decided to call again. Nothing. I knew he wasn’t going to come through that thicket, so I decided to shut up, sit tight, and just listen. I was already daydreaming about another spot when that longbeard gobbled behind me, within gun range.

I slowly cut my eyes and then turned my head. I could see him strutting in the pasture behind me. Not only had he come through that thicket, but he made a big loop around me. Luckily, I had enough cover to get turned around (a little too much cover). He gobbled again, so close that I could hear that rattle in his throat.

I settled my gun on my knee and picked an opening where he’d have to walk before I could get a clean shot. It would be quick and close. After three soft yelps he came out of his strut. I watched his head bob through the brush, rope of a beard swinging. My heart was racing and my breathing was so loud I thought it would spook that bird. When he popped into my shooting lane, I settled the red dot and squeezed. Instead of flopping, he made a 180 and bolted. I couldn’t believe it. Not until I lowered my gun and saw the privet saplings that were bent and splintered not 6 inches from my barrel. No feathers, no blood, just some broken trees and a bruised ego.

Janis Putelis

Just last year I missed a gobbler in Wisconsin. But this story isn't about the miss, it's about how I missed the opportunity to kill his brother, who came in full strut just moments earlier.

I had a leg-burner of a morning hunt: I pretty much transected the 500 acres I have access to hunt multiple times, chasing distant gobbles that stopped gobbling once I reached the location they should be.

Around 11 am I headed down the main ridge, tail tucked between my legs, trying to decide whether to make myself a late breakfast or an early lunch. I stopped on a bluff to send out one last series of loud clucks. To my surprise, a gobble hammered back. A response like that at 11 am is what turkey schnitzel is made of.

That gobble was still distant, so I dropped off the backside of the ridge, zipped down 200 yards, and popped up on a bench that I thought would be close to the gobbler. I found a nice white pine that offered a bit of shade and started a series of yelps. He cut me off on the second note. I scratched the leaves next to me, and both gobblers hammered. I was close enough to hear two birds responding to my hen imitations.

Moments later I could hear turkey feet marching up the hill, crunching oak leaves. I flipped the safety off. The birds were on track to pop up 20 yards in front of me. The first thing I saw was the lead bird's fan. “Perfect,” I thought.

I briefly saw his head before it disappeared behind a double-trunked oak. I had to decide to either track the first bird as he moved behind the two trunks and shoot him on the other side or leave my gun barrel pointed where he just popped up, assuming the second bird would follow the same path. I decided to track the first bird when the second one popped up and saw my gun barrel move. He putted, and both birds flushed without a second thought. I quickly pivoted back to the second bird and tried to shoot him on the wing. It was a waste of TSS. The lesson? Take the first good shot opportunity you get.

Clay Newcomb

Since the ninth grade, I’ve lost some of the hearing in my right ear, but my left ear still works fine. Since my right ear is compromised, I can’t really course a gobbler anymore. I learned the hard way the importance of hearing for the turkey hunter.

One spring morning, about 9 o’clock, I struck a gobbler in the national forest mountains here in Arkansas. I cut on my mouth call, and he immediately cuts me off. I could hear well enough to know he was within 150 yards, and he just kept gobbling. He was on his way. I think he’s coming from straight in front of me, so I sit down and point the gun directly in front. The next time he gobbles, he’s within 60 yards, but I can’t see him. I still think he’s coming right down my gun barrel, so I sit still for another few minutes when I catch movement and see him coming up directly from my left.

I was off. Bad off. I coursed him wrong by almost 90 degrees, and he showed up at my 9 o’clock at 25 yards. He’s right there, putting and strutting when I finally see him. I’m way out of position, but I swing, shoot, and miss him. He goes to fly, but I put the bead right on him. I mean, I was just going to drop him with the second shot. I went to squeeze the trigger, and nothing happened. Apparently my gun was dirty and jammed. I had one shot, and I missed. So I learned two hard lessons that day: One, I couldn’t trust my ears. Number two—clean your dadgum gun.

Brent Reaves

The week the first episode of my podcast aired, I was turkey hunting in Missouri. Clay Newcomb joined me in camp, and we were filming a hunt for MeatEater.

I had a turkey gobbling his brains out on a ridge where I’d called many turkeys from over the past twenty years. It was like the chorus of a song repeating, just a year apart. The year prior, I was sitting within ten yards of where Dave, my cameraman, and I now sat. We were calling to a gobbler on the opposite end of that same ridge. That bird flew down, strutted, and gobbled all the way within range, and I promptly filled his jaws full of shot.

This one was playing out just as it had the year before and many similar hunts just like that one.

He flew down right on cue, went into full strut, and slowly but purposefully made his way straight to where Dave and I were hidden. The footage was incredible.

At 35 yards I couldn’t take it anymore and asked Dave if he had him on camera. Upon confirmation, I pulled the trigger. Instead of a flopping bird, I had a complete miss and an even worse followup shot. I always thought missing a turkey was the worst thing that could happen. Missing one for the world to see is way worse.

To enter the contest, simply post a comment below this article with your turkey-miss story before April 6. Prizes include a Case Knife and $500 First Lite gift card, a Moultrie Edge 3 trail camera, and The Wild + Whole Cookbook. Winners will be chosen at random. To read the official rules of the contest, click here.