The MeatEater Crew’s Most Memorable Misses

I have a few misses that still wake me up in a cold sweat every now and then, including what would have been my biggest buck to date. If there’s any consolation in missing, it’s knowing that everyone does it. And, yes, that includes the MeatEater crew. Whether you’re licking your wounds from a recent miss or need some enjoyment from a few of our gaffs, here are the misses that still keep us up at night.

Clay Newcomb

In 2004, I began a quest to kill a mature buck with a bow in Arkansas every season. I killed a nice one that year, getting off to a hot start for my streak. When November 1^st rolled around in 2005, I was on stand when I saw the legs of a deer moving through the brush at about thirty yards. I could tell just by the size of them that it was a mature buck. I finally saw the buck’s rack. Sure enough, it was a bonafide Ozark stud.

The buck was covering ground quick, so I drew and judged him at about thirty yards (this was before I carried a rangefinder), and grunt-stopped him. A small tree covered part of his vitals, but I hugged it tight and let it rip. The shot was low, and I watched my arrow graze his brisket and strike a rock directly behind the buck. When my broadhead hit that rock, it sparked. It might as well have started a forest fire because that miss has been burned into my memory ever since.

Jordan Sillars

I started bowhunting whitetails last year, and I was lucky enough to bag a doe. This year, I set my expectations a little higher in hopes of tagging my first archery buck. I'd been seeing one on camera daylighting at the same place most evenings, so I decided to hunt that spot when the conditions allowed. I climbed into the tree saddle about an hour before he'd been showing up. Sure enough, he strolled in right on cue.

Everything unfolded according to plan, until I drew back. I had the shakes and tried to muscle through, but when I released my first arrow—thwap—I ten-ringed a sapling. He scampered off, and I deflated. To my surprise, I saw the buck circling back to roughly the same spot. I quickly nocked another arrow and drew again. This time, when I shot, the deer took off like a rocket, and I watched in horror as my arrow, with very little penetration, took off with him. It was a high-shoulder shot, and it didn’t look promising.

The blood trail was sparse, and I talked myself in and out of hope 10 or 20 times over the next hours and days as I trailed tiny specks of blood. I searched all over for that deer, but I knew from the shot and lack of blood that he’d probably make it.

About three weeks later, he showed up on camera again. Despite the wound in his shoulder, he seemed normal. Hopefully, I’ll catch up with him next fall. Who knows, maybe the third time will be the charm.

Mark Kenyon

I've experienced my fair share of missed opportunities chasing whitetails. However, the miss that stings the most occurred in 2021 while I hunted the great state of Iowa. I was on a seven-day trip for MeatEater’s One Week in November show to hunt the famed Hawkeye state. So, of course, this trip came with oversized expectations. With a real shot to tag a once-in-a-lifetime buck, I passed on several great bucks in the 125-140-inch class. Normally, I'd never pass that caliber deer, but this was Iowa.

Unfortunately, my Iowa whitetail experience quickly deteriorated after the first few sits. Those first action-packed sits were followed by all-day hunts with little to no deer movement. I tried new stands, properties, and techniques, but nothing worked—until the last day.

I scouted and located a new spot on day six, then snuck in before daylight and hung a saddle set on a ridgeline scattered with doe bedding. As day broke, my cameraman and I struggled to arrange our various bags, my bow, and camera accessories in such a way that I could shoot all necessary angles. I finally called it good, but, of course, when a giant Iowa eight-pointer showed up, he walked through the one spot cluttered with gear. To make the shot, I needed to crouch down and slide my bow underneath a hanging bag. As soon as I released the arrow, I knew I'd screwed the pooch. My arrow sailed underneath the buck, and I had to watch one of the most impressive deer I’ve ever seen run out of my life.

Adam Moore

One winter break, I came home from college to hunt with my dad for a few days on our family property. The dates lined up with the rut here in central Mississippi, so we decided to hunt a few spots that bucks historically traveled during this time of year. This particular season, I decided to revert back to only ground hunting. I was sitting on an old fence row that divided a young pine plantation and an overgrown field.

My initial setup only allowed me a small but sufficient window to shoot, especially with a rifle. However, there was also a large community scrape just out of view. Around nine that morning, I decided I needed to move further down the fence row so I could watch that scrape and the trail.

I hadn’t seen any action that morning, and I thought a slight change might improve my setup. I texted my dad to let him know as much, and started to make my move. I eased out from the fence row and looked for another spot that would give me the vantage point I wanted. As I stood on the edge of this field, in the wide open, I glanced back to the trail and saw a deer head hovering just above the ground, munching on clover. I couldn’t believe it. He was the biggest buck I’d seen in person, and I couldn’t move.

He stepped out into the field, broadside, and looked directly at me. I quickly tried to shoulder my rifle, tipping him off as I did. He bounded across the field and I took a shot, knocking the bark off a pine tree as he slipped into the woods. I was red hot. Had I waited another two minutes, I would have had a twenty-yard chip shot on the biggest buck of my life.

In the flurry of events, I tried to eject the shell, but buck fever took over, and I only made a half-eject, jamming the rifle as I did. I tried to shake the empty casing loose, when I noticed another smaller buck trotting down the same trail into the pine stand. He never saw me, but apparently, the gunshot didn’t make him want to stick around.

I finally racked another shell, but the smaller buck disappeared by that point. I could feel my phone vibrating in my pocket, and I knew it was my dad. I decided to hail Mary a few grunts to coax the bucks back out when I saw a rack come back out of the pines. I could tell it was the smaller buck, and when he cleared the pines, I lined up the ghost ring sights over his vitals and squeezed. He made it a few yards before tipping over.

I called my dad back, and when he got there, I relayed the whole fiasco to him as we dragged that small buck back to the truck. There was some consolation in punching a tag that day, but missing that big buck still stung. What stings even worse is that my dad killed that buck not a week later in the same spot. It ended up being his biggest buck to date, and he even shoulder-mounted it. Now, I get to think about that miss every time I visit my parents, and my dad doesn’t hesitate to remind me of it either.

Tony Peterson

It was Halloween evening, and I was in the stage of my hunting career where I really wanted to level up to a mature buck. While sitting on a ridgetop waiting on a cruiser, I had a deer that was all of 150 inches walk-in only for me to miss. I had a full-on buck fever meltdown and didn’t even aim.

He didn't spook super far, so in a panic, I tried to rattle him back in. He didn't come back, but a 125-inch eight-pointer walked right up to me, and I whiffed on him as well. This all happened in the span of about ten minutes. I missed two mature bucks simply because my brain melted. I think about that sit almost every day of my life.

Janis Putelis

My first miss still haunts me. I was sixteen, and after a deer drive, I decided to walk the woods back to camp instead of driving with the rest of the party. I bumped some bedded deer, and a group of does took off. Then, I saw a buck make a few bounds as he stopped and looked back to see what interrupted his nap.

I couldn’t have been fifty yards away, but the woods were thick, and a few saplings obscured his chest. His neck was wide open, but as a new hunter at the time, I aimed for what I thought was the safer option and fired at his vitals. He ran off, and I searched for blood until I found the two-inch sapling that took my bullet.