In whitetail hunting, perseverance pays, as my friend Ryan Olson proved emphatically once again when he arrowed this buck on a public hunting area -- in January. Photo by Mike Carney

For five minutes I pled silently for him to move and fought back waves of quivering urges to make something happen. Then my heart sank as the buck cautiously turned and promptly walked back exactly the way he had come. Although shaken to the core, I was confident the buck never made me in the tree nor got my wind. In the coming weeks leading up to and entering the rut, we would meet again.

Unfortunately, neither of “my” bucks gave me a shot opportunity during the rut. I played the game the best I knew how; being assertive when I thought necessary but never over-hunting my areas. Still, the bucks evaded me.

NOW IT WAS EARLY December, and all the second-guessing was eating at me, raising the inevitable question -- have “my” deer made it through the gun seasons?

Unseasonably deep snow provided great intelligence on deer movements, and based on my observations I decided to bow-hunt the last evening of the muzzleloader season. It would give me an additional chance to read sign, and maybe the gun hunters would push deer into my area and even give me a shot opportunity. Thinking shots might be longer than normal with all the leaf cover gone, I grabbed my Hoyt compound and headed to the sycamore stand. The wind was perfect for that location.

I have always listened to seasoned whitetail hunters, and I respect their talk about the joy of bowhunting in December. Many say that bucks are easier to pattern then as the animals visit late-season food sources. As for me, I have always hunted areas with lots of pressure, and the only things I’ve observed there during late seasons are after-hours deer movement and hyper-alert bucks. Still, I was determined to tough out the season and remain as optimistic as possible.

This particular evening I watched a small parade of does and yearlings leaving the security of the big woods on their way to the picked corn and bean fields. As I observed this movement and contemplated the odds that either of the big October bucks might have lived through the gun seasons -- a few big bucks always survive, don’t they? -- I looked up to see that lone deer with its head hidden by the stately Osage. Given the animal’s visible dimensions, I was sure it was just another doe following all the others down to the corn and didn’t even bother to take my bow off the peg.

When the deer’s head cleared the tree, electricity and the warmth of adrenaline surged through my circulatory system. Cautiously I stood and, already quivering, lifted my bow off the peg and clipped the release aid onto the bowstring. The buck’s rack, perfectly silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, looked even bigger than it had in early October. I resolved not to look at it further.

The buck walked forward and, cutting the trails of the does that had previously passed, urinated in an old bed and headed toward my stand. As he came by at seven yards, I reached full draw and waited for him to turn broadside. He looked gaunt now, his spine clearly visible, in stark contrast to the powerful, stately physique he carried in early October.

Then he stopped, quartering to my left, and as he took one more step, the arrow was gone. The hit looked good, and his body language during the mad dash away in the deep snow indicated a fatal shot.