Turkey shoot a holiday tradition, with no ruffled feathers

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This article was published 22/12/2025 (260 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

WAKE FOREST, N.C. (AP) — With the blast of a shotgun, the Raleigh Moose Family Center Turkey Shoot is under way. But fear not: No gobblers were harmed in the making of this holiday fun.

“The main misconception is, they think we shoot live turkeys out here,” says Glen Coplen, a past governor and current dispenser of shells at the Loyal Order of Moose Raleigh Lodge 1318. “We do not.”

Three nights a week, from late October through Christmas, muzzle flashes and fire pits illuminate the darkness as shooters compete for cash, baby back ribs, a ham and, yes, a turkey.

“This is a fun turkey shoot,” says Coplen. “There are very competitive turkey shoots out there, but this is charity.”

While there is no official nationwide count, events like this have been a holiday staple of sportsmen’s clubs, and veterans’ posts across the country for generations.

“Turkey shoots are as American as Boston baked beans and brown bread, or corn pone and sowbelly,” read an article in the November 1953 edition of American Rifleman magazine. “The very name ‘turkey shoot’ conjures up a picture of a forest glade at the edge of a frontier settlement where men in the buckskins of the forest competed with those in the homespuns of the settlements.”

These events once DID involve live turkeys. In his 1823 book, “The Pioneers,” James Fenimore Cooper describes a shoot in which the bird “was fastened by a string of tow, to the base of the stump of a large pine,” the shooters blasting away from a distance of 100 yards (91.44 meters).

Today’s contestants take aim at clay pigeons or, more often, paper targets. At Lodge 1318, they use No. 8 shot, fired from 63 yards (58 meters).

“It doesn’t matter how many pellets you have or whatever,” says Coplen. “The closest pellet to the center is going to win.”

This bone-chilling December night, he needs a caliper to determine the champion in several rounds.

“This is going to be a tough one,” he says, maneuvering a target under a lighted magnifying glass.

The price of admission if $5 a round. Proceeds go toward various charities, including a big Thanksgiving dinner for area seniors and an “angel tree” surround by Christmas gifts for needy children.

But the shooters don’t go away empty-handed either.

Tammie Smith, whose boyfriend introduced her to the sport a few years ago, took home two prizes: A pot roast pack complete with vegetables, and a “breakfast pack” with sausage, a dozen eggs, biscuits and jelly.

“Sometimes I donate my winnings, and sometimes we share it with the family,” she says, a bauble fashioned from the caps of her first winning shotgun shells dangling from her left ear. “So, it’s a good time.”

Roger Jones drove 45 minutes to take part in the shoot and won a Butterball for his efforts.

“It’s just fun,” he says, holding the bird by its plastic netting. “It’s something that I did with my father and brothers, ever since, you know, we all were little.”

Mick Wysocky, 12, won some money two days earlier but came up empty this night.

“I joined pretty recently,” he says, sporting his Moose sweatshirt. “I really haven’t been shooting that long, and it’s been a pretty good experience.”

It’s been a bit of a struggle to keep the Lodge 1318 turkey shoot going.

Once firmly in farm country, urban sprawl has crept in on all sides. A pellet-scarrred wooden wall and dirt berm are all that separate the shooting range from a large subdivision.

Lodge members leaflet the neighborhood at the start of every season. The county noise ordinance allows them to shoot until 11 p.m., but they stop at 10 out of courtesy to their neighbors.

“They’re so used to it now,” Coplen says. “We haven’t had a complainer call all year, or last year either.”

So far, they’ve managed to keep their property from being annexed into a city that forbids the discharge of firearms. But with the pace of development, Coplen wonders how long they can keep this beloved rural tradition going.

“You know, we might lose it someday,” he says as cars whizz past on busy U.S. Route 401. “We’d hate to, but it’s just a fact of life.”