A fine day for Hashing began just beyond the East bank of the fragrant San Jacinto river. After taking full advantage of the port-a-lets in an adjacent construction site, the hares pointed the pack back west, along the feeder road. Trail led us over a low wire fence and through a glorious pile of mud. A backcheck was called, with the FRBs already on the far side of a waterhole. We were so enjoying the trek, we continued off trail. "Scum Puppy", always ready to lend a hand, stayed behind me, as to give gentle shoves to my backside when I had trouble climbing up a slippery hill. I was beginning to wish we were in the boat "Blue Balls" had suggested we use to cross the water,,, I had been worried that I would be used as an oar. Searching for guidance, I mistook "Scum Puppy’s" aforementioned aid for leadership, and followed him into the first mucky water crossing, which I shortcutted and found myself in a cell of briars. In front of me, through the vines was a berm which appeared to be the road to my freedom, until a heard for the first time a group of hunters, whining about these runners..."they're everywhere! - yellin' 'on, on' an' stuff - I tole 'em theys about to git theys' selves kilt!" I leapt back into the water and searched for a less controversial route back to the trail. I ran into "Sticky lips"; we proceeded on our merry dash about the great white hunter's terrain. The merriness soon turned to madness; just as we passed a pile of deer corn, we heard two close-range rifle blasts. Zounds! The hounds have become the hunted. We came across "Heartache" & "Limp Noodle", and thought about teaming up; but thought it wiser to hash the rest of the trail. In order the escape the arsenal, we took the low road around the shore of the lake. The flour kept us knee-deep in the chilly water for some time, and at last, led us to dry land. No sooner did we feel safe to abide on solid ground, than we for the second time encountered "Zed", a double-fisted rifle-weilder, one evolutionary step above the banjo player from "Deliverance". We hardly paused to explain our p/flight, only to say that our trail was the only way "the hell out of there". and no, we most certainly were not the ones in charge'. As we reached hwy. go, a short breaststroke seemed to be the path towards freedom. "Purty Mouth"', the most at home of the pack, expressed his displeasure at the prospect of crossing this delightful little stream. After the water check, we heard another dull roar. This time, it was rednecks riding what appeared to be some very high-powered lawn maintenance equipment. They were riding up our trail, so we thanked them for showing us the way, and asked that they yell "no, no" to any later groups of Hashers that they might see. to signal that they were traversing the trail backwards. At the next check, "Sticky" fell
victim to a false trail. The Hash gods,smiling, led me to a marsh, filled to the
brim with cypress stumps. As much as we enjoyed being alone in the woods with
"Limp Noodle". tears nearly came to our eyes when we saw there was "beer
near". The hashers enjoyed a bevy of snacks and beverages, and later, conducted
a joyous song circle around the fire. "Stop -n- Blow" and I enjoyed a
tender moment until we realized that we were out of beer. Alas, another weekly Hash
had come to a close. If only there were a month of Sundays ... |
The BOG JOG III SUNDAY, DECEMBER
9th, 1997 RUN # 980 VENUE:
SAN JACINTO RIVER AND HWY 90 HARES: “JOHN
BOY” & “STOP-N-BLOW”