The Hash-so-poorly-attended-that-we’ll-see-it-again-soon Hash

Run #1084, January 8, 2007

Hare:  Dr WHO

Location:  Glen Farm, Portsmouth

Weather:  Low 40’s (but rapidly falling), fresh rainfall.

Present:  Oozing SD, Basket Boom Boom, Short Peck, WIPOS.

The Run:

What could be better than a winter rainfall for a Monday night hash? And in virgin territory, on “the island”! Obviously few shared the hare’s views on this matter, as no one but the dregs bothered to show, for what legitimately could be considered Trail-of-the-year! But 6:30 always comes around, and led by Basket, Oozing and Short Peck followed trail south from the parking area opposite the Polo Fields at Glen Farm.

Trail led around the schooling ring and turned left towards the Polo Fields. The trail led for a few hundred yards through a fine combination of thistles, mud and old horse manure. It came to a check that obviously turned right into the woods. There were few choice here. The “trail” was densely hemmed in with briars, and the way was 80% under water from the recent rains. Led by Oozing, the group embarked upon a counter-clockwise circle through the muck, ending up on an eastward trail to a legitimate swamp and a check.

As they cast about trying to find true trail, they could hear a horn in the distance. This meant one of three possibilities: Bondo, WIPOS or an eccentric fox-hunter giving chase through the dark in a swamp. They quickened their pace. Basket tried left, further into the swamp. Short Peck tied a drier path more sharply left, out of the Swamp. Oozing tried right, and almost gave up, until he saw the hare following. Trail led out to Sandy Point Ave.

Another check led to some confusion, but meanwhile the distant bugle appeared to be approaching. The pace became frantic. Finally, Short Peck found a mark heading east, and correctly took Colonel Barton Dr to Colonel Christopher Green Rd. They were confused for a moment by the absence of the hare, but at Sigourney Rd, he called them back and they continued east to Sandy Point Beach. Trail now led north on the beach to a check just across a stream. Each hasher made a decision, and all of them were wrong; most satisfying for the hare.

Finally, trail was found by Short Peck, turning west on a wooded path parallel to the stream. A few more checks were dealt with and the group came to a ruined stone cottage in the middle of the stream. Trail led into the cottage. Trail led out of the cottage. But the hashers, sensing a good spot for a BC, stayed put and waited for the hare. They waited. And waited. To the north, they could hear the whistles of the hare. To the south, faintly, they could hear a bugle. They finally abandoned their post and turned north and uphill to come out at a field and the hare’s light.

The hare informed them that he had hidden the beer under one of the three giant fir trees. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that there were in fact FIVE giant fir trees. After some profanity and rolling about under dense evergreen foliage in the mud, Short Peck came up with the juice, and they moved into an old open horse stall in the middle of the field. A few songs were started. The bugle in the distance became fainter so they all breathed a sigh of relief.

Trail back was begun, but after a brief shiggy patch crossing a stream, the hare decided to save the rest of the trail for the next time, and led the group on a visit to his daughter’s horse, in the hope that one of the hashers would get kicked in the head. No such luck, and they came back west on the stable roads. They circled.

Ratings were of course reflective of the outstanding shiggy, the virgin territory, the lack of Bondo and/or WIPOS the mysterious bugler with the only subtractions being the hare losing his own beer, and the lack of bimbos: +0.69. Hashit: Basket. Why? Because I say so, that’s why! On On On was at the Coddington Brew Pub, where the small numbers didn’t prevent the waitresses from giving the group a jaundiced eye and an isolated table as they sat subdued and repentant from their last visit to this establishment.

On On