Catamint Swamp Hash

Run: #833 April 15, 2002

Hare: Bondo Jovi
Where: Diamond Hill, Cumberland
Scribe: The Slasher Dr. W.H.O.
Temp: Clear, 60's

Present: Async, Dr. W.H.O., WIPOS, P.W., Oozing S.D., Basket Boom Boom.

Supervisors: Ben, Jake, Baxter, Zoe.

Celebrating:  Patriot's Day, and the fact that the wankers from Boston were so hung over from the Marathon festivities that there was no way they'd come down to RI not even Shine On who doesn't drink but gets tired at work so she wasn't about to drive all the way from Nadick to Cumberland even if it is only about 40 minutes away already.

The Run:

There is a time of year, usually early April in New England. A time when the air is soft and warm, clear without the sometimes-oppressive humidity of summer. The smell of forsythia and the first flowers of spring fill the gentle breezes; the poison ivy and oak are less virulent and have not yet formed leaves. There is a briskness not of temperature but of pure being. The recent needed rain is past and has only blessed and moistened the land. The first major hatching of mosquitoes, black flies and the like is yet to come. A brief shining moment in time when it is good to gambol in the streams and fields of our world and to live life to the fullest. In other words, lousy weather for hashing.

The usual misfits, expelled all-too willingly from their homes by wives anxious to get together with real men, gathered at the Diamond Hill parking area. The hare Bondo Jovi, was sweaty and tired appearing (although this means little, as he gets that way if he has to use the TV remote control more than twice in five minutes). Async and Dr. WHO did the usual changing contortions in their cars. WIPOS prepared his lightweight summer Kevlar hash gear, adjusting vents and seals with an ease that only comes with years of experience at environmental protection. PW (Misses Enema Bill) pulled in, obviously expecting the usual Bondo run: no exertion, no brainwork, and fine beer. The Great Mechanical Cathartic himself, Basket Boom Boom (Enema Bill) pulled up and attempted to run over Ben in his half-blind, half-mind way.

The hare promised virgin territory across the road from Diamond Hill. He had chosen this spot because of it's most prominent feature: Catamint Hill. [He was obviously confusing catamint (n. kăt´-ă-mînt. nepeta mussini. A small common herb related to catnip, with blue flowers, syn. nept.) with catamite (n. kăt´-ă-mīt. A young boy who serves an old man or hasher for sexual purposes.).] As a secondary benefit to his location choice, late arrivals (EverReady and The Raging Queen of Beers amongst others) simply short-cutted to the obvious beer-check, the top of Diamond Hill and waited in vain for the hare to show up with the beer. Their plaintive cries of "RU" and "O God, where is the beer?" rang through the night (unnoticed by all except the Cumberland branch of the Daughters of the American Revolution who decided that the unholy screams from the top of Diamond Hill were calls from the spirits of Redcoats trapped in these hills for more than two centuries. They felt that an exorcism was needed but this kind of thing is damned expensive and for financial reasons they could not risk proceeding under the current tax laws and so they just went to bed with sprigs of garlic and catamint above their beds. But I digress.).

The appointed time came, and with no instructions except for an arrow and a "Go West, young men!" from the hare, they were off. They crossed Rt 114 and entered the western part of Diamond Hill State Park from an access road south of an ice cream shop on 114. Basket, despondent from the loss of his horn in Boston on Saturday, hung back in shame making rare efforts to coax a sound from his short pink conch (sic). He also seemed to have an unusual interest in WIPOS' long pink pole. Oozing took the lead early on, only to encounter a savage and vicious attack dog, obviously being trained to kill Saudi terrorists. This fearsome creature, a Cairn terrier almost two hands high, had to be forcibly restrained by his muscular four-year old owner, while Oozing, Dr WHO and Async passed, weak with relief.

The pack was soon into the woods, heading west and south to the slopes of Catamint Hill. Several long falsies were encountered, each no doubt indicative of considerable confusion on the part of the hare when he set trail. His work was not in vain as each prolonged false trail was followed by Async, Dr WHO and/or Oozing for its full length. PW and Zoe strolled along at a gentle pace, awaiting the sounds of the true "On on!" Basket in the rear blazed through a falsie blindly and missed the trail completely, followed by the ever-hopeful WIPOS.

A fearsome noise was heard rapidly approaching the true trail. Bursting from the woods like a angry catamount (n. kăt´-ă-măoont. mountain lion or carnivorous hasher with an attitude problem.) clad in red and black spandex, on a dirt bike, with "STP" and "Halvoline" logos on its chest, came a mysterious rider, spewing mud and flour over the trail. His outfit was impermeable, shimmering and magnificent and WIPOS's gasp of envy was audible even above the whine of the motorcycle. He charged up the trails recklessly, and appeared to be aiming to obliterate all evidence of white powder in the woods. Who could this be? Some thought an angry Newport hasher, jealous of the RIH3's overwhelming and self-evident superiority. Some thought it might be a disguised RIH3-er seeking vengeance on the hare for this year's AGM. Perhaps it was the legendary "Anthrax-Man" a strange visitor from another planet with powers and abilities to seek out bio-terrorist powder far beyond those of mortal men. Regardless, the intruder did not know whom he was dealing with. Members of the RIH3 have never expected to actually find powder on trail anyways.  It only confuses them. The intrepid crew carried on west to an access road that led through some quarries to a powerline.

The powerline (which had a perfectly good path along its southern edge) was passed on a path that led north briefly. Casual water was encountered on trail. At first, it could be bypassed. But it soon covered the whole trail in mires and tarns, qualifying it as true shiggy. Dr WHO and PW followed Async and Oozing as the trail became rougher, and then turned right into Pine Swamp proper. This swamp is part of the watershed for Catamint Brook, and this brook (RI001006R-07) has been categorized by the RI DEM as a Class 2 "Impaired Water" secondary to fecal coliforms. This soon became detectable in the air around the runners.  It also enabled Dr WHO, through long familiarity with the properties of fecal matter, to move past Oozing and Async into the lead. Oozing always has preferred a more symbolic and figurative approach to shite. He dropped back ostensibly to attempt to learn some new profanities from PW who was quite vocally making his way through the rank mud, using all his imagination to summarize his feelings at the moment.

Soon the trail made it back under the powerline and followed underneath east-northeast. By this time though, the surrounding brush was too thick to even consider crossing out to the side, or even backtracking. The trail had to be followed. The water level varied from ankle to chest, with no visible clue to gauge the depth. The suction level created by the viscous mud made shoe loss an imminent possibility. (PW's car keys are still out there somewhere at the time of this writing.) Every step was an adventure. After a while, it became clear that the hare had carved his way into the swamp with a machete, and the lack of flour did not matter. Underwater bicycle tracks led to more than one false passage. Bicycle tracks?! Never mind. Fresh bubbles of noisome gas showed that no hare had been this way before. For God's sake, when would it finally be over?!!

In fact, sad to say all good things must indeed come to an end. After maybe 200 yards of this, the trail led southeast back to the woods. Async rapidly recovered and passed Dr WHO, who was inspecting (under magnification) his private parts for leeches and ticks. Plaintive and distant cries of " For the love of God (and Allah), R U?!!" and "PW! I had no idea you were so big!" were ignored by the FRBs who scented the ineluctable odor of Bondo Beer farts on the northwest zephyrs of wind.

Async took off to the east, then north, then west, then south. Then north again. Then east and then south and then northwest.  Dr WHO tried to follow for a while and then just went east to where the beer check had to be, on the northeastern cliffs of Catamint Hill. Basket, WIPOS, and the hare were found. The group was standing on a precipice almost 27 FEET above the ground below. There was a noticeable paucity of beer. It turned out that Basket and WIPOS had bypassed the trail and gone straight to the beer check. They drank. And they drank, and they drank. With the hare participating, this meant that there was not much left for the ones who actually ran. Async and Dr WHO joined the group and took what sustenance they could from the limited remnants of the hare's beer supply.

After a while, conversation ebbed. A brief appearance by the mysterious dirt-biker (who appeared to be chasing a black Labrador retriever with lustful intent) provoked little interest. The fate of Oozing and PW was briefly considered: should a rescue party be sent back into the swamp? The answer to this was obviously a unanimous and resounding "Baa-a! Not a chance!" So the pack made preparations to finish the hash when… the sheepish duo arrived. The remainders of the beer were unshouldered and provided to the prodigals, giving each at least two ounces of beer. Their story of losing trail in the marshes and using dead-reckoning and superior woodcraft to find their way out was belied by their tousled appearances and sly grins. Enema Bill was more than slightly suspicious, and hung back to say a few sharp words to the Misses while the rest turned back to the cars.

The trail led briefly northeast to the foot of the hill, and then curved south and east back to the access road. All gathered shortly at the cars. The hare provided water to rinse, and those who actually took part in the hash eagerly took advantage of this. [This was much to the detriment of the nearby Sylvy's Brook which took the runoff from the rinse water, resulting in the precipitous demise of several trout and a pickerel as well as the DEM later reclassifying said brook at an emergency meeting on Tuesday. But I digress.]  The group drove separately to the hare's house in Woonsocket for the circle, only PW skipping out, heading home to deep-clean his car and his dog.

The circle was joined in the hare's garage. Ratings for the run: there were some mixed feelings as the limitless potential for the hash had been almost ruined by the unfortunate weather. Nonetheless, the quality of the shiggy could not be gainsaid, and the hare received a +6.9, and was granted the award for "Run of the Week". Likewise, the hashit had numerous candidates: WIPOS for not even lightly testing his armor, Basket for missing the run entirely, Async for egregiously flattering the hare at the beer check. Ultimately, it was given to Oozing for willfully leading PW out of the swamp to safety. No other business was presented and they "swung low", and moved to the backyard.

Just Big Sh*t had an idea what the trail was like, and as such, had doubly padlocked the door to the hot tub. The group thus remained outside while the hare cooked spicy hamburgers over the grill. Async showed off his new girlish figure having lost weight through untested and possibly dangerous uses of vegetables, Dr WHO presented state of the art nutritional research (enabling him to deduct the cost of the hash from his taxes next year), and WIPOS started angling for a free massage from JBS. In all, an outstanding hash and meal which all (except Baxter, who got no workout at all) appreciated.

 On On

 The Slasher Dr. WHO