Run #860 - Hashing the Ponderosa

Run 860 began by heading south along a poorly marked trail that curved and wound through the countryside south of Calgary near Dewinton. Hashers disappeared to the right and left, eyes scanning the fields, searching for the trail. Several of the front runners followed a long and treacherous false trail to the west, despairing of ever getting back on track before finding a shortcut back east where the rest of the pack was gathered.

Then we got of our cars and circled up. Nice map.

In the circle, Fuckawee was seen to place textured prophylactics on his feet while Wet Butt ran laughing and screaming and Party Pumper autographed the Hash Sheet for horrified fans. We were also introduced to a visiting reporter and photographer from the Herald who were there to record the hash.

As the run started, it quickly became apparent that the usual rule about heading to the on-in as soon as it was within sight would have to be suspended for the day. In the open spaces of ranching country, the on-in and everything else within 20 miles was constantly visible. But we didn't get much of a chance to look around as you always had to watch that next step.

We ran through treacherous swampy ruts. Nipple Detector took a tumble that could have been serious had he not landed on such a soft and squishy surface - his stomach barely showed the impact.

We searched for marks. Flour marks on wet soil and jiffy marker on fence posts were hard to see, but the car of the Herald photographer waiting to take photos proved to be a pretty good trail marker.

We endured heaps of shiggy. Sure, there was lots of water on Run #859 too, but it was clean water. No one got out of this one with dry shoes. If someone had been foolish enough to wear new runners, drinking from them at the on-in would have been fatal for sure.

We ran over and through barbwire fences. Dreary offered the helpful advice to Left Bun that she should watch her breasts, possible overestimating their pendulousness. Nobody thought to offer warnings of the risk of penetration to Party Pumper who took one deep between the legs while bending over a fence.

We ran through a veritable minefield of shit. Chunks of equine feces were seen to fly 20 feet back from the feet of chronic FRB Krusty.

It was hard to tell how far the run actually was because of the lack of landmarks but finally, after we had circled around the on-in for over an hour, most of the weary hashers short-cutted in for a beer and a snack. A few of the brave and the proud continued along the trail in what had to be the longest hash run since 007's Massacre on the Hill (#839). Nipple Detector and Cocktail rode in last, the sound of their rocks banging together echoing across Airbrakes' parking pad where the greedy were already looking for a beer and a Layä as Wet Butt slowly turned blue by the fire.

At the on-in, we enjoyed beers and burgers (so that's why there were so few cows), courtesy of Airbrakes who deserves a big thanks for sharing his place with the hash at the risk of frightening his animals and his neighbours.

Choir: Dreary and P'tooie, elephant walkers.
Hare: Airbrakes
New boots/visitors/archives: Jim, Hillgard (?), Woody
Namings: Choirgirl, Callgirl and Lois Lane.
Krusty: Run 150 (actually put on 300 runs worth of mileage)
Blue Balls: Run 400

Tiny Bubbles and King Shit were honoured for vehicular decreptitude King Shit was presented with the 400 run trophy. Party Pumper was commiserated for injuries received.

And finally, the Hashit was passed (but kept in the family) from Beaver to Butthead for his ruthless censorship of the Run #859 Hash Sheet.

And that's the way it happened. A competing version of these events will appear in the Herald.

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