Run #1466 - Fish Creek is for Pussies

July 27, 2009

Hare: Dastardly
Where: Dastardly's Domain, Redwood Meadows
Big Rock: in the river
Attendance: 43

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If there was one overwhelming truth emerging from navigating a Dastardly trail in Redwood Meadows, it was this: Fish Creek is for pussies.

Those hashers who thought 28 straight weeks of Fish Creek Park's mud and mayhem was tough, think again. Those muck bogs, no big deal. A stream crossing or two or three, suck it up Buttercup.

It was all nothing — even though various washing machines would probably disagree — compared to what Planet Dastardly was able to concoct in the woods and jungles around Indianville.

You want thick woods and major bushwhacking, you got it. Traversing huge, slick rocks ain't your thing, too bad. Tree roots and low-hanging branches bother you, tough. Mud bogs, ditto.

But perhaps the greatest challenge was the raging waters of the Elbow River, which threatened to send unsuspecting hashers downstream and probably ending up in Glenmore Reservoir.

A few decided it was best to float down the river and see how far away they ended up from true trail, a kind of free waterslide on steroids. Others chose to cross the churning water and hope for the best.

The fast-running water showed what some were made of. Yoga Queen Shack Shock was all about herself, others be darned, as she inched her way across, with help from King Shit.

William and Wesley, Mike Hawk's spawn, treated it like a wave pool, summoning their inner kid because, well, they are kids. Master Beater played the lifeguard with a heart of gold, ferrying anyone across who needed help. He was still living the dream after losing out to David Hasselhoff for the lead in Babewatch, er, Baywatch.

By the time hashers arrived at the beer regroup on a rocky island in the Elbow River, everyone was pretty wiped out. Luckily, it was just a short trudge across a narrow, shallow, calm section of water before hitting the trail for a short jaunt back to Chez Dastardly and Chez Duty Free.

Oh, there were rewards for those who persisted — sorry, Clueless, throw a hissy fit, you lose — grilled cheeseburgers, jalapeno smokies, strawberries, salads, corn on the cob, and beer — lots and lots of beer.

There was also a firepit, in case anyone got too chilly on the lovely summer's night while listening to RA Bobbinator dispense hash justice.

Mr. Robin was part of the orange-clad Mormon Gay Tabernacle Choir — not to be confused with the hash choir of Mum, Chick Lick and Rubber Made — and was also wearing a stylish strap around his left ankle. Who knew that electronic shackling would work as far away as Redwood Meadows? Did his parole officer know?

• Pyro had a bittersweet hash experience. On one hand, he got to drink a half-yard for his 950th run. On the downside, he lost his original wedding band somewhere on trail. Perhaps the long drive home would give him time to create a believable story to tell Mrs. Pylon, or maybe not.
   
• Summoning his inner Whale Wanker, only worse, Rag Head was awarded a Hash Thingy for wearing a pair of skimpy blue 70s nylon running shorts that Mr. Wanker threw out in the trash before he left for British Columbia.

  The godawful shorts did nothing to hide Rag Head's pasty-white legs, which kinda served as a double whammy for other hashers. Mercifully, in a small concession to others' sensibilities, he covered the shorts with a pair of mustard-yellow running pants during hash business.

  
   

• Aussie visitor Scott became Kiddie Diddler, which had something to do with him plucking a couple kids from the raging river. So now he departs for a few months in Scotland with a new moniker, assuming he ever claims it again.
   
• Shocking as it may seem, Dastardly kinda forgot to carry another Hash Thingy and gets to keep it another week — assuming Hash Puppy Onyx doesn't chew it to pieces, as he'd already started to do before the hash was over.
   
• Flapjack got a lovely glass mug for her 50th run, and did a sloooooooooooooooow down-down to celebrate. Booty Camp had planned to attend for her 50th run, but had a job interview as a roadie for new punk band, Pussy Whip and the Velcro Queen. Her big dream is to become a background singer on the group's new single, I Wanna Kill 9 Hashers.
   
• Speaking of music, Happy Beaver vehemently denies that she played any role whatsoever in the disappearance of Michael Jackson's prosthetic nose from the LA morgue. Baby, aka Michael Jackson's hair twin, was extremely distraught that a Chicago jewelry company is planning to turn a lock of the alleged, wink, wink, child molester's hair into diamonds.

  "Hey, if I'd have known that, I wouldn't have cut my hair," Baby said through Rubber Made, his translator, Girl Friday and mother of his twins. "I want part of that action."
   

• Duke of Hurl narrowly escaped death when two enraged neighbours of Dastardly, one of whom was carrying a saw and a gun, demanded to know what he was doing on their property.

  Duke told them he was just following a pathway through the woods, as hashers splashed through a nearby swamp, and didn't realize it was their property. Then he decided that giving them a brief hash history, sorta like a USA Today version of any Dreary story, might save him.

  Alas and alack, it did. But just in case, he gave them Mr. D's real name and address and got the hell out as quickly as he could.

  Upon further reflection, death or maiming might have been preferable to challenging the Elbow River again and again.

On-On!

Duke of Hurl

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