On this particular evening, it seemed like God was turning down the dimmer switch from daylight to darkness -- in a hurry. I'm certain the dingy gray December skies and the dense evergreen forest I was hunting had something to do with the daylight fading faster than normal. But mostly, the cautious crunching of an unseen whitetail buck ghosting his way over the frozen landscape at a snail's pace was what really convinced me that darkness would arrive before he did. I had to be patient.

With just a few minutes of legal shooting light left, I saw movement, and finally the boxy shape of the buck's rack appeared against the snow-covered forest floor. My pulse quickened. This was the mature 4x6 with the broken right eyeguard I'd seen in many trail camera photos for nearly a month. In person, after more than 70 hours on stand, I'd caught a glimpse of him just once before.

Here was my chance -- or was it? The buck twitched, shuddered, and jumped like a kid at a scary movie. One of the local does had been "crying wolf" for the last half-hour, causing the other deer to scatter despite the lack of apparent danger.

With agonizingly slow progress, the buck warily walked into my shooting lane. As soon as his chest cleared the pine boughs, I drew my bow as slowly as possible. Despite my caution, in the cold stillness the buck must have heard the slight rustle of my heavy clothes. Instantly, he turned and walked back the direction from which he'd come. I continued to draw, but just as I got my sight pin on him, he stopped behind a snow-laden fir bough.

Still at full draw, I searched for a hole in the branches to shoot through. Leaning to my right, I found a tennis ball-sized gap in the branches that lined up with his chest. He was only 17 yards away, and I'd made shots like this before. All I had to do was sneak the arrow through the branches and my perseverance would pay off.

I chose to stick it out.

My hunting partner Ted Chapman knows the value of perseverance. This stand has produced several good bucks for us in recent years. The expansive conifer forests where we hunt have few natural food sources, so we establish feeding stations, a legal practice in Washington. Here, Ted Chapman pours out whole kernel corn laced with C'mere Deer powder.

Instead of hearing the distinct thwack of my broadhead zipping through the deer's chest, however, I heard the disappointing sound of my arrow ricocheting off branches, followed by the thud of the arrow smacking into the frozen ground. The buck danced away into the darkening forest, unscathed.

My excitement and adrenalin evaporated quicker than the buck had vanished. Now I felt nothing but numbness and disappointment.

Climbing down from my treestand with a heavy heart, I trudged back through the silent, snowy darkness to the truck. At this point, I had only two days left to hunt in Washington State's '07 late season. I'd already spent at least a few hours in the tree on 16 days. The shortest vigil had been three hours, the longest 11 hours. With temperatures plunging below 20 degrees, I had a big decision to make. Since I'd spooked that buck, should I cut my losses and throw in the towel? Or should I persevere and see this hunt through to the end?