turkey hunting Archives

Smoked Wild Turkey Breast

by Pursuit | Apr 18, 2025 | Inside Pursuit

One of our favorite wild turkey recipe’s is smoked turkey breast. Here’s a simple recipe to try:

Ingredients:
• 1 wild turkey breast
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 2 tablespoons poultry seasoning
• 1 tablespoon salt
• 1 tablespoon black pepper
• 1 tablespoon garlic powder
Instructions:
1. Preheat your smoker to 225°F (110°C).
2. Rinse the turkey breast and pat it dry with paper towels.
3. Rub the olive oil all over the turkey breast, making sure to cover it evenly.
4. Mix the poultry seasoning, salt, black pepper, and garlic powder in a small bowl.
5. Rub the seasoning mixture all over the turkey breast, making sure to cover it evenly.
6. Place the turkey breast on the smoker rack, making sure there is enough space for the smoke to circulate around the meat.
7. Smoke the turkey breast for 2-3 hours, or until the internal temperature reaches 165°F (74°C).
8. Remove the turkey breast from the smoker and let it rest for 10-15 minutes before slicing and serving.

Note: Make sure to follow all safety guidelines for handling and cooking wild game. It’s important to fully cook wild turkey to ensure it’s safe to eat.

How to Take Your Father Turkey Hunting

by Pursuit | Apr 18, 2025 | Hunting

There’s an old split-rail fence at Mom and Dad’s place that separates the lawn from the horse pasture. I like to lean against it just before dark and owl hoot. Across the pasture, and beyond the creek, is an oak hillside, and in the spring a gobbler roosts there as many nights as not. The acoustics must be perfect because if I hoot from that fence and he’s there, he’ll answer. Tonight, he’s there.

I expected as much because Dad had seen him strutting in the pasture just the day before. He’d even set up on him, but although the bird gobbled, he never did come in. I was glad to hear that Dad had given it a try, though, because the fire he once had for turkey hunting has faded. There’s nothing I’d like more than to help Dad shoot this bird in the morning.

When I walk back into the cabin with the good news, Dad is watching CNN at two clicks shy of full volume, the television set buzzing like a cheap sound system. He turns it down and asks, “Hear him?”

“Yep,” I say. “He’s roosted right over the creek. But we’re going to have to set up early.” As I emphasize that last word, Dad’s eyes narrow the way they always do when I hint at taking the lead on, well, anything.

“How early?”

Getting a Start

Twenty-four years ago, I watched my first gobbler walk into gun range. I was sitting between Dad’s knees, cradling a 20-gauge as the turkey gobbled over and again, first on the limb, then on the ground. Dad whispered to me, “I’ll tap your neck when he’s close enough.”

He often used friction calls, but Dad was talented enough with his natural voice to win a few local calling contests. He yelped softly, and the longbeard popped into view 30 yards away. The tap on my neck, and the roar of the shotgun, and the gobbler winging out of sight seemed to happen all in same moment. I fought back tears but couldn’t hold them all. Dad just smiled and said, “Do you want to quit?”

“No,” I said.

“Good.”

That one morning shaped my whole life, to this very moment. How do you repay something like that?

Too Late

I know we need to get up at 3:45, but I also know that if I suggest that, I’ll have to argue with Dad, and I’m not up for it. As he’s gotten older, he likes to sleep in. “Four-thirty,” I tell him. “But we’ve got to go as soon as we get up.”

At 4:50, I’m pacing the cabin while Dad fusses with contact lenses and nurses a cup of black coffee. I step onto the porch and strain my eyes at the sky, as if staring at the stars will keep them out a little longer. When I go back in, Dad’s wearing camo pants but fishing around in the hunting closet. “Have you got some extra shells?” he asks.

“I’ve got you covered there,” I say. “TSS No. 9s.”

“Nines?” he says. “I like 4s.”

“Dad, these are…” I stop myself. “I have some lead 4s too.”

He walks back over to his coffee, and I step back out onto the porch, where I hear the first notes of the dawn chorus. “Dad, we need to get going!” I say, slinging a bag of decoys over my shoulder.

“OK!” he says, and splashes his coffee into the sink.

We cross the fence, and I can already see the maples on the edge of the creek, where we’d talked about setting up. It’s shooting light by the time we sit down. Two distant birds sound off, but all around us, it’s silence.

“Think we scared him?” Dad whispers.

“Yes,” I answer. “He watched us walk across that pasture and set those decoys, plain as day.”

“I don’t think so,” he says.

I shrug. The gobbles from the distant birds are faint but steady. Suddenly I see Dad twist to his right and shoulder his 870. My heart jumps. I’m thinking that the roosted tom has walked in silently. Instead, I see the wake of a beaver swimming down the creek. We’ve lost a few acres of timber due to flooding out here, and I know what’s coming. Dad hits the beaver in the head with the entire payload of a $10 TSS shell, which I’d handed to him in the dark. Geese flush off the creek, and the horses stampede from the pasture as the blast reverberates through the timber. Dad racks the slide, and regards the smoking hull with a smile.

“Killed that son of a bitch dead,” he says. “You think we ought to move?”

New Spot

We sneak to the other end of the farm, where the distant birds have since gone silent. Setting up on the side of a ridge, with our backs to a copse of hickory saplings, I stake the decoys 20 yards ahead on the right, to Dad’s side. I sit on his left and cutt hard on a mouth call, and any expectations of relaxing in the sun vanish when a gobbler with marbles in his throat fires off 100 yards away. Dad yanks his shotgun to his knee.

I call again, and the bird cuts me off with another deep gobble. He’s coming fast. For five minutes, it’s back and forth—call and gobble—and I know we’re about to see him. I’m watching the rise just beyond the decoys, expecting the tom to materialize at any second. But then, nothing. I yelp, but there’s no response. No drumming, no walking in the leaves. Fifteen minutes pass, and I think this turkey too has busted us.

Then Dad yelps with his voice. Damn, we sound desperate, I think to myself—but the turkey roars back, right on top of us, and I hear drumming. I look all around the decoys, but he’s not there. Cocking my eyes to the left—on my side—I can see the gobbler standing in full strut and plain view, about 30 yards away. Dad has no shot with me between him and the bird.

“Kill him,” he says. I don’t move. “He’s going to get away if you don’t!”

The bird spins his fan to me and drums, and I snap my gun to my shoulder. Dad yelps again, and the turkey deflates, craning his neck. At the shot, the bird flops down the hill, coming to rest just feet from our decoys. When I stand up, I’m shaking my head in disgust.

“What’s the matter with you?” Dad asks.

“I really wanted you to shoot that bird,” I say.

“Hell, I’ve been calling them in for you to shoot for 25 years,” he says. “I don’t know why that should change now. Let’s go eat breakfast.”

Mom takes our picture with the turkey, next to the split-rail fence. It might not be the exact hunt I was envisioning, but I think in Dad’s mind, it played out perfectly.

Written by Will Brantley for Field & Stream and legally licensed through the Matcha publisher network. Please direct all licensing questions to legal@getmatcha.com.

Featured image provided by Field & Stream

Total Outdoorsmen: Eat, and Share, What You Kill

by Pursuit | Apr 2, 2025 | Inside Pursuit

No matter if it’s a gourmet feast or a rustic camp supper, a family meal of shared wild game has always brought hunters together

The dusky grouse came from the big slopes of the Flathead and Kootenai national forests, behind Tom Healy’s house in the Northern Rockies. When Fast Eddie, Healy’s wirehaired pointing griffon, locked up along an edge of pines, Healy knew instantly and intuitively that it was no ruffed grouse. “The big duskies like that sunshine, that open ground in the big woods,” he says, standing in the deep shade of a wall tent, stirring a mixture of grouse meat, elk meat, and wild rice. “I knew what was coming.”

Healy harvested this wild rice too, with his wife, in a canoe deep in Minnesota’s Boundary Waters. Now he stirs the dirty rice in a black iron pot as he describes arrowing through the dense rice stalks in the canoe, knocking the grains loose with short wooden batons so they fell into the boat.

There is elk heart in Healy’s dirty rice mix too, and elk sausage from a cow he killed eight days into a Big Hole Valley backcountry hunt. He had a .270 in camp, he recalls, but he carried a slug gun that day. “I wanted to force myself to get a little closer,” he says. “Make it a little more real.”

I glance around the tent. Nearby, a tall, bearded, cowboy-hatted guy sears mallard breasts from a Rocky Mountain spring creek. Another outdoorsman debones a Bristol Bay salmon. There is snowshoe hare and Idaho chokecherry sauce and goose confit in the works. On an open fire outside the tent, skewers of lynx meat sizzle. Getting closer to the heart of the matter seems to be the dish of the day. I’m in Boise, Idaho, at what is arguably the world’s most impressive wild-game meal: the Backcountry Hunters & Anglers field-to-table dinner, held during the group’s annual Rendezvous. Each year, some of the country’s best wild-game cooks put on a fundraiser feast so fine, it’s been written up in gourmet-cooking magazines.

I wander from camp stove to fire pit, sampling beaver meatballs and smoked Lahontan cutthroat trout. I quiz the chefs about each dish, but what I hear most isn’t the merits of wild plums versus the grocery-store variety, or why jackrabbit is underrated on the table. Instead, everyone tells me a story about the harvest. I hear how warm it was that January day on the Boise River when the trout were biting, how the moon lit the trail on the tough hike out with the elk quarters.

It’s been this way, always. This might be one of the fancier wild-game gigs I’ve ever attended, but I’ve felt this same kinship in Cajun squirrel camps, Yukon duck camps, and my deer camp back home. It’s what we do. The earliest art, religion, and connections between human communities were all rooted in the things we chase, kill, and eat. And share.

Spice of Life

Here’s another story: A few years ago, my wife, Julie, and I had new friends over for dinner. I smoked a chunk of pronghorn backstrap and served it with Gouda cheese and red peppers blackened on the grill. It was not terribly different from our normal wild fare. To our guests, though, antelope was the most exotic meat they’d ever eaten. They gushed about its tenderness and sage-tinted bite. They wanted to know where I’d killed it (Wyoming) and how (arrowed from behind a decoy). They asked about my other hunts. They were surprised to learn that I butchered my own deer and aged ducks in the refrigerator’s vegetable crisper. They were unaware of the modern hunter’s connection to this ancient cycle, that wild meat still nourishes soul as much as body.

I asked if they’d like to meet their meal, since the antelope’s head was hanging on my office wall. They politely declined, but still, that one simple meal sparked a conversation about hunting, sustainability, and the honesty of eating what you kill. They still talk about it. Not every wild-game dinner is a conversion experience, to be sure. Sometimes you just want to chew on a squirrel leg. But there’s no doubt that a grilled backstrap is as fine an argument for hunting and fishing as any philosophical treatise.

At the BHA chow-down, I hover over Idaho chef Randy King as he works up a dish of spring rolls stuffed with goose confit. Always a sucker for a good goose dish, I’m about to ask for the particulars of the dish, but King tells a different story. “This is kind of funny,” he says, “in sort of a bad-funny way.” He tells me that he and his 12-year-old son, Cameron, hunted these geese from a southwestern Idaho farm ditch last winter. Cameron was shooting a single-barrel 20-gauge, the kind with an exposed hammer, and with the first shot, the hammer bit the boy on the cheek hard enough to require stitches. Blood gushed. “I felt awful,” King says, “but he is so proud of that scar, you wouldn’t believe it.”

But I would, of course. What hunter wouldn’t? It’s the kind of story that seasons a meal and life long after the hunt, and makes every day on this Earth a sweeter bite of life.

Gear Tip: Cooking by the Book

Time to make some room on your bookshelf. Randy King’s collection of recipes and essays, Chef in the Wild: Reflections and Recipes from a True Wilderness Chef is pretty close to sharing a cooking fire with the Idaho icon. And the latest cookbook from award-winning food author Hank Shaw, Pheasant, Quail, Cottontail: Upland Game from Field to Table, elevates gamebird and small-game cookery to its rightful status.

Written by T. Edward Nickens for Field & Stream and legally licensed through the Matcha publisher network. Please direct all licensing questions to legal@getmatcha.com.

Featured image provided by Field & Stream

Turkey Hunting The Black Hills

by Pursuit | Mar 15, 2025 | Hunting

A sudden winter storm makes an already challenging public-land hunt even harder—and more rewarding

I was on my way to check one last piece of public ground for my evening hunt, when something out of place on the trail, covered with fresh snow, caught my eye: a set of turkey tracks. I hopped out of my truck for a closer look. They were small, but I hoped they belonged to a jake, rather than a hen. I grabbed my shotgun and set off to follow the footsteps like mountain lion hunters in the area had been doing a few months earlier after their quarry.

It had been a grueling day in the snow and cold of the Black Hills, but this line of prints took the bite out of the air. I crept alongside the tracks, making some quiet yelps along the way. At any moment, I expected a gobble back but didn’t hear a sound. I kept going.

Change in the Weather

I’d already had a successful spring turkey season, with an Eastern that I shot in early April and the new state-record Rio Grande that I killed with my bow not long after. To complete my South Dakota slam, I just needed a Merriam’s, and the Black Hills offered the best chance to get one.

As this is one of the few places in North America where all three species are found, I was in a unique position to take each bird in the same state and season. This would be my toughest turkey hunt yet, though, tackling unfamiliar public ground. The Hills are known for their abundance of birds and rough topography, both of which allow South Dakota to be liberal with its unlimited resident and nonresident tag allocation: There might be a lot of turkeys here, but they’re all hard-earned.

The Black Hills are also known for moody weather. According to the National Weather Service, Spearfish experienced one of the most remarkable weather events in history with a 49-degree temperature change in Dec. 1943, when the mercury jumped from minus 4 to 45 degrees in two minutes. The Köppen climate map tells a similar story, with a humid subtropic climate and a subarctic climate existing within just 50 miles of each other inside the Black Hills. On my hunt, I’d have both.

The day prior, it had been 70 degrees with clear skies. But that morning, I sat in my truck with the glow of my rearview mirror reading 25 degrees as a bland radio host warned that a foot of snow was on its way. I got out of the vehicle and stepped into total darkness. Tall pines cloaked the lights of Rapid City, and dense clouds eclipsed the moon and stars. As I started up an old logging road, the forest was dead silent. No wind, no footsteps, no songbirds and, worst of all, no turkeys. I could hear only the snow—now trending closer to ice—pelting off my hood before it began to collect in my beard. When the sun finally rose, the hills felt emptier than they did in the dark.

For two hours, I hiked the trail without hearing or seeing a turkey. I’d stop on tall ridges to glass the vast mountains, and call with hopes of coaxing a gobble. It was a fruitless hunt, and a march that only a desperate turkey hunter would make.

With these conditions, the birds were in survival mode. The blizzard drove the turkeys to bunch up and seek shelter and food near bird feeders and feedlots. With 1.2 million acres of public land at my disposal, though, the last place I wanted to see a bird was within eyesight of someone’s patio.

I stuck to the logging roads all morning and afternoon. When I’d get cold or tired, which usually took just a couple miles of hiking, I’d head back to my pickup and relocate to a new piece of ground. I did this three times, dreading the next time I’d have to get out of my truck to take my shotgun for a walk. I took the scenic route to the last trailhead, consciously getting behind schedule so I’d have more time to stay in my dry and warm vehicle. That’s when I spotted the turkey tracks.

Bearded Lady

After a quarter mile, I arrived at a steep cliff face where the tracks temporarily ended. If the turkey wasn’t on the other side of this, I figured, I’d start my descent back to the trail. Just over the crest, there stood my Merriam’s. I raised my shotgun—only to realize it was trained on the blue head of a hen. I brought the gun to my side, mumbling something about my luck with the unknowing bird at 30 yards. Accepting that this hunt was over, I kneeled in the snow and watched the hen. Then the bird turned broadside to me, exposing a 6-inch beard, making her legal to shoot with a male turkey tag. After I was absolutely certain the beard wasn’t a mirage that my greedy brain was projecting, I reshouldered my gun and touched off a concluding shot.

As I stood over the bird, I took a mental picture of the scene. This rare bird was a fitting reward to a demanding day afield—a salve for my aching feet, numb fingers, and chapped face. I’d do it all over again in a second.

Gear Tip: Shock Treatment

Shock-gobbling is a weakness in the turkey’s armor, since it gives away a tom’s location on the roost. Hunters can use this to their advantage in areas they’ve never hunted; the technique is great in big woods like the Black Hills. The most common locator calls mimic an owl or crow and are most effective just before daylight. I like the H.S. Mega Hoot Owl Call ($12; hunterspec.com), which takes some practice but makes lifelike calls. If you’re able to get a tom to answer, move in on his turf and surprise him with a couple of hen yelps at daylight.

Written by chillman for Field & Stream and legally licensed through the Matcha publisher network. Please direct all licensing questions to legal@getmatcha.com.

Featured image provided by Field & Stream

7 Turkey Hunting Essentials

by Pursuit | Mar 15, 2025 | Gear

So you’re planning to go turkey hunting, well you should! We’ve put together a simple list of Turkey Hunting Essentials that will hopefully help you out as you make the next step into the exciting side of Turkey Hunting.

1. Turkey calls: Turkey calls are essential for attracting turkeys. There are different types of turkey calls, such as box calls, slate calls, mouth calls, and locator calls. You may want to bring a few different types to see which one works best for the turkeys in your area. Box calls are always an easy first introduction to calling and easier to use then mouth calls.
2. Camouflage clothing: Turkeys have very good eyesight, so you’ll want to wear camouflage clothing that matches the environment you’ll be hunting in. Make sure to wear a camo hat, face mask, and gloves as well.
3. Turkey decoys: Turkey decoys can be effective in luring turkeys into range. There are different types of decoys, such as hen decoys, jake decoys, and tom decoys. Depending on the season and location, different decoys may work better.
4. Shotgun: A shotgun is the most popular firearm used for turkey hunting. A 12-gauge shotgun is the most common, but a 20-gauge can also work. There are even .410 options that can work well. Make sure to use turkey-specific loads that provide enough shot density and penetration to take down a turkey.
5. Ammunition: As mentioned, turkey-specific loads are essential for hunting turkeys. Look for shotshells that are specifically designed for turkey hunting and have a shot size of #4, #5, or #6.
6. Turkey vest: A turkey vest can hold all of your turkey hunting essentials, such as calls, ammunition, decoys, and more. It can also provide some cushioning when sitting on the ground for long periods of time.
7. Safety gear: Safety should always be a top priority when hunting. Make sure to wear a hunter orange hat and vest when moving to and from your hunting location especially when hunting on Public Lands.

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