![]() Because the deer are so far ahead of the dogs, they’re typically trotting away, not running full speed as one might assume.With all the escape routes covered, hunters communicate via CB radios, listen to the direction of the dog howls, or use gps collars to pinpoint the deer’s travel route.At this point the deer are already at their escape routes, well ahead of the dogs. Once the dogs cut a track, they begin howling.Once everyone arrives at their spot, the dog handler turns the hounds out in hopes that they cut a track and jump a deer.Usually anywhere from five to 20 hunters work together with no fewer than three hounds on the ground. The size of the hunting crew depends on the size of the area.Other hunters are posted at safe distances around this bedding, covering expected or historical escape routes.Hunters decide where they plan to turn the dogs out, usually at the edge of a known bedding area.The featured artist behind these runs is Tim Orders, one of Limestone’s longest tenured members. The preferred mediums are CB radios, beagles, and old lever guns or pump-action rifles. In that half century, their dog hunts have become something of an art. ![]() And while a few other surrounding camps also hunt deer with dogs, the Limestone club has clung to this tradition tighter than any, for almost 50 years. Limestone Creek is just one camp within a patchwork of clubs that are scattered around the Pearl River region of south-central Mississippi. They would meet there first, then decide where to turn the dogs out each morning of the season. Before this camp house was built, members like my grandfather and father just gathered around an old burn barrel that marked the official rendezvous point. Every member of the Limestone Creek Hunting Club lives within 20 minutes of here, so there’s no need for actual living quarters. An aerial map of the property (all 3,000 acres of it) and faded grip-n-grin photos of bucks from past seasons adorn the walls. Inside, a makeshift counter holds a logbook for stand locations and check-ins. Meandering through the stand, my truck headlights brighten the back wall of a squat tin building that looks more like an old feed shed than a deer camp. Past an old logging gate, a gravel road snakes through a young stand of pine.
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