This appeared to be the same buck I'd passed on early in the season -- and then kicked myself ever since for not shooting. Then, six days before this evening hunt, I'd again had him at handshaking distance but could not swing far enough around my stand tree to shoot as he stood directly behind me.

My second buck of the season appeared on my Digital CamTrakker several times during the summer. Evidence like this motivated me even more than normal to milk every possible hunt out of November.

Now he'd come within range for a third time, and as he stood broadside, weighing his own options, I eased back the string of my Pronghorn takedown longbow, touched anchor, and sent an arrow cleanly through his lungs. He lurched away but made it barely 40 yards before hitting the deck among the yellow cottonwood leaves surrounding some scrapes he'd probably just visited or scent-checked. Perhaps my initial estimations of 125 inches gross had been a little generous, but he was a fine buck, nonetheless. Suddenly, all the effort I'd been putting into my daily hunts seemed like no big deal at all.

Quickly, I fetched my Silverado; snapped a few pictures of me with the deer; loaded the corn-fed buck into my vehicle; and took him out into the picked ag fields, far from my treestand, to field dress. After all, I still had a week before rifle season, and one more either-sex tag to fill. Suddenly, my fatigue was gone, replaced with optimism.

The extra effort to milk precious minutes out of the all-too-short October and November workdays is an endeavor requiring perseverance, organization, and a single-minded purpose that may not be for everyone. Someone once defined dedication along the lines of, "Dedication is remembering what it is you want, and being willing to do what it takes to achieve that."

That pretty well describes my mission. As long as something can be done about it, I cannot accept the thought of burning daylight hours during the prime window of the season. This has meant turning down coaching opportunities during the fall, grading papers and doing other schoolwork long after dark, and making the most of my sick days.

It has entailed weeks of using the green soap for all showers, abstaining completely from cologne and other sweet-smelling products for work, and sacrificing the social life. It has meant weeks of feeling weary beyond comprehension, cursing the working man's hours, and wishing I had extended leave time instead of a measly three personal days per year.

Your ability to find a narrow sliver of opportunity before or after work depends on several variables. First are reasonable working hours. Second are places to hunt close to work or home, preferably both. If you can milk as much as an hour of hunting time, you can kill a quality deer. Even if you have enough time only to drive to your whitetail spot to glass at dusk, you can gain enough knowledge from your observations to structure a successful weekend of hunting.

Making the most of your time can sometimes call for extreme measures. On Thursday, November 10, 1992, two days before the Saturday rifle opener in Nebraska, I arrived at the woods with just an hour to hunt. The air was calm, the fallen leaves were extra crunchy, and I could ill afford the 15 minutes of pussyfooting required to sneak in properly. Besides, the deer were probably already up and about, and I was likely to spook them regardless.

So I simply galloped 200 yards to a waiting portable stand and quickly climbed in. I'd scarcely got my safety harness attached when a curious young buck trotted right in, looking to see what had caused all the commotion, and the next half hour featured literally nonstop action. When a stout 4x4 cruised in looking for a fight, I interrupted those plans with a Zwickey-tipped wood arrow launched from my longbow.