Dead Dry in Johnston Hash

Run # 949, June 21, 2004.

Hare: WIPOS

Location: Off Reservoir Road, Johnston

Weather: High 70’s, Clear and Dry

Present: Dr W.H.O., Oozing S.D., SESYB, Bondo Jovi, Fuwangi Boner, Tinker, Ben, Jake.

Latecummer: Basket Boom Boom.

Visitor: General Sperm Gurgler (Heidelberg H3).

The Run:

The hare began on an auspicious note when his d’erections for the start led to a gated lot at the girls softball field on Reservoir Rd in Johnston. There is nothing like the feeling you get after running a hash and returning to find your car trapped behind a locked gate in a field in the middle of nowhere. At any rate, he redirected the arrivals to a small dirt lot at the side of Reservoir Rd. overlooking the ball fields. Oozing, Fuwangi and SESYB began playing soccer in the traffic. Fuwangi locked himself out of his truck. Then he dented Dr WHO’s car door while breaking into his own vehicle. General Sperm Gurgler, a ex-military visitor from Heidelberg, watched in amazement. Promptly at 6:30 they were off (running as quickly as possible because they hoped to be gone before Basketa rrived).

Trail set off behind the softball fields. The hare left a giant flour arrow by the cars to indicate this, thus ensuring that when Basket did arrive, he would head in the opposite direction. This is in fact what happened (although to be fair, he might have had more fun than the rest as he headed west into the Johnston Land Fill). But the pack entered the woods going east and then turning north.

The trail was mostly bushwhacking, with a few areas of briars and poison ivy to make things interesting. But there was no unavoidable water. There was no water at all. There were the usual number of falsies, although none were as prolonged as one could usually expect from this hare. Fuwangi and the visitor traded the lead mostly, with WHO on their tails, and Tinker on SESYB’s tail. (He’s not as dumb as he looks.) Oozing was suffering from an acute overdose of World Cup soccer watching, and kept kicking at the patches of flour, hallucinating soccer balls as he ran along. As they ran further north, they kept having tantalizing glimpses of the Jillson (Almy) reservoir. They were sure that a swim would come. But it was not to be. The hare had planned for many a dry mile, and there would be no relief for the dry and dusty hashers this night.

The group crossed a small (dry) stream and began to make their way northeast. There were some paths, some deer trail and some frank bushwhacking. But no water. They came to a gas pipeline which turned slightly south of east. There was some standing cracked traces of mud in the middle, but you’d have had to be pretty inventive to even moisten your shoes on this trail.

They ran the pipeline for what seemed to be an eternity and then made their way into a neighborhood on Woodlake Drive. They re-entered the woods quickly however, and turned back north to the powerlines by the Rt 6-295 cloverleaf. South again, this time on a prolonged trek through the dry dust of dirtbike trails and powerline access roads parallel to Rt 295. Several high (although dry) points promised to be likely beer checks, but not yet. The long straight trail made the group spread out widely, with the fit (GSG and Fuwangi) leading WHO past a bloated and festering carcass of a large deer (obviously the victim of dehydration), while Tinker, Oozing, SESYB and the hare followed more leisurely.

Just before Central Pike, they crossed the Dry Brook. Aptly named, too! A “BN” was seen. They crossed the road and climbed the powerlines to the top of a rise. They saw a “B” and began to search for the beer. It was a lovely spot. There was a dry breeze. In the distance, shimmering in the dry heat, rose the majestic Johnston Landfill. [There was a small moving cloud of dust seen at the Landfill, perhaps marking Basket’s trail at that moment. But I digress.] As they found and sipped their first beers, they began to count the ticks on their persons. Everyone had at least six or seven, and some had even tried to penetrate the hare’s armor. The ticks weren’t looking for blood, they just wanted to drink some sweat, it was that dry!

A few songs were sung, and the beers finished off. The group was directed back to Central Pike for the long and dry run west back to the cars. Basket was sitting in his car, sleeping. He was awakened and began his usual stories, fabrications and excuses. He was dismissed to go back to rescue the dry and fading dogs with Bondo. They were finally all present, and circled up across the road in some (dry) bushes.

Ratings for the run were terrible: too dry, poor weather, dryness, no losses on trail, missed reservoir opportunities, too long, etc., etc. But giving back points for Basket missing the run, and 1 point for each tick on the hashers: total: 0.69. Hashit went to Bondo for again attempting to kill the Grandmaster. The visitor could provide no excuses. Religion was held and they moved on to the Bishop Hill Tavern on Rt 6, where they ate well, and amused a pair of aging Italian Wise Guys and their teenaged hookers with some classic songs (once the food was served). They even heigh-ho-ed out of the restaurant. But throughout the meal, no one had to use the rest room because they were too damn dry!

On On

The Desiccated