The old cut & paste direct from Tundra Thumper herself:
Although notice was incredibly short, five intrepid hashers & two intrepid onlookers showed for the first of its kind Presidential Fitness hash. The trail departed from the end of the Stampede Road, where curious Memorial Day campers looked on as first hare then hounds shot forth from the parking spot with furious speed.
Hounds were treated to three events along the trail, including the Standing Puddle Jump, the Sit & Reach (for your beer) & the Beer Bicep Curl (to which mandatory renderings of Metallica songs provided sonorous backdrop). The puddles were broad & deep & the mud was fine. In the end, it was the newly minted Gentleman Shotgun who emerged as victor in all contests.
We’ll do a bit better with forewarning next time. Obstacles existed that wanted hurdling, but so it goes.
Hare: Serbian Jungle Chode
Hounds: Reacharound, Back-up Ranger, Red Rocket (formerly known as Shitfoot), Gentleman Shotgun (formerly known as Young Buck & almost known as Powdered Semen) & Millenium Crotch. Poison & Papa Smurf Jizz Face were in attendance, as were Hoss & Oliver.
Trail: Stampede, puddles & all
There are intimations borne aloft on winds from the Village that perhaps Tundra Thumper is plotting a hash soon, but time will tell.
Until then, on on!
There are things that in the course of normal life we may regret. We consider the totality of circumstances, the surroundings, the environment, the social implications, etc. There are those sorts of things, & then there is hashing, thank goodness. & so it is that someone exemplifying all the behaviors one might imagine an inebriated eight year-old to exhibit can write this narrative without a great deal of shame.
We gathered on Friday last to celebrate the greatness of our departing friends Frogfucker & Whisperstick. They have been with us since our inception & have been absolutely fundamental to the warp & weft of our every hash. The entire feel of our gatherings is colored by their idiosyncrasies & their unflagging commitment to the basic tenets of the hash. To say they will be missed is an understatement. & so we had to honor them best we could– with four beer nears, an enormous bonfire, some general debauchery & a wealth of rotgut liquors.
Reacharound & GSS put in a trail that wound us through willows, over ice, down & back up Halfway Creek, over one of the finest ten acre parcels you’ll ever see & then out on to the flats behind the dispatch house, where curious onlookers stood over a grill with arched eyebrows & mystified countenances, uncertain whether to shoot, shit or go blind. Exposed shins were torn asunder, blood flowed, Hamms & R&R went down smooth in honor of our humblest beginnings & the group plodded along in search of the elusive hares. New trail designations for Fish & Yeager Fish were created. Rusty took bites at people’s asses. There was not to my knowledge any obvious display of alcohol abuse, nor of upchucking, nor of egregious trail behavior. Sure, a group of SCBs almost skipped the penultimate beer near, heading directly for the gravel pit, but they were roped back in in short order.
Once we all returned to the gravel pit, the Circle commenced. Oration was provided over a bed of toxic flame after a road flare lit the dog box on fire (many thanks to Davy Cockit & to Buckskin O for their respective contributions to the fire). Down downs were administered, the hallowed stars of the evening appropriately celebrated, the gargantuan bonfire lit & ludicrous behaviors begun. Beerfoot, group mooning & windshield urination were the orders of the day, for better or worse. In a highly stylized ritual, Frogfucker anointed Reacharound as our new Religious Adviser. It was a reverent passing of the baton, & a well deserved one at that.
The night ended variously, as it tends to do. Some withdrew quietly, others were carried to waiting escorts. The fire paled, the embers cooled, & the hash, alas, said its final farewell to dear friends.
Rest assured, though, hounds & harriers, we will honor Frogfucker & Whisperstick as we have honored all of our friends who inexplicably take jobs Outside– by continuing to drink while running the shittiest trails we can find. On on!
Hares: Reacharound Lindeman, Glistening Shit Stick
Hounds: Ranchdick McKinley, Frogfucker, Whisperstick, Davy Cockit, Backup Ranger, Shitfoot, Young Buck, Blow it Twice, Double Pole, Tundra Thumper, Millenium Crotch, Papa Smurf Jiz Face, NNKorhut, NNRaffaeli, Snowplow Pussyface, Serbian Jungle Chode, Randy S. Beavers, NNMiliken, NNKing, Buckskin O’Connor, Stephen Cocking. Who am I forgetting?
Ferriers & Miscellany: Poison (who got a new name that neither of us can remember. Anyone?), Leprecockin, Borrowed Panties, NNSivvy, NNRagland, NNCorey, NNThompson, NNTFlo
Beer Nears: Hamms & R&R
Trail: Shitty, shitty, then flat (which was shitty)
New names: Young Buck, Shitfoot
Really: NNRaffaeli doesn’t have a name? Really?
In the immortal words of Robert Frost (or Ponyboy, depending on your sources), nothing gold can stay. It is with that curious combination of crestfallen sadness at their pending absence & enthusiastic joy for their future endeavors that we say goodbye to Frogfucker & Whisperstick, two of the stalwart foundations of the Denali 3H Kennel. Frogfucker has been our Religious Adviser all this while, & without his direction & Whisperstick’s endless encouragements, who knows how the kennel will shape up in their wake. But for now, they are here, & we will send them off in the grand style that we’ve always sought & never fully achieved. Yes, hounds & hares, this will be to date our most ambitious hash. Do not half-ass this thing like I always seem to do.
When: Friday, April 18th, 6:30-7:00 p.m. Meet at the State gravel pit no later than 6:45 to be shuttled to Reacharound & Randy’s house. That way, you will be the more swiftly reunited with your vehicle at the On In.
Where: The home of Reacharound Lindeman & Randy S. Beavers
Theme: Drink like a Fish, Dress like a Fish, Run like a Fish
Course: A to B, ending at the gravel pit, where a bonfire of epic proportions ought to ensue
Remember folks, this is akin to losing our Pope & our High Priestess. Let’s send them back to California with fresh memories of shitty trail, tussocks gleaming with Hamms, Canadian Hunter flowing like water & flames licking the heavens. Or something.
New Year’s Resolution #1: Break our existing Alaskan record for blazing fast speed in the hallowed beer mile.
#2: Do so in the customary garb we associate with the pending Sochi Olympics (celebrate the pageantry without celebrating that whole vaguely fascistic intolerance thing).
#3: Adhere to this strict set of rules:
1. All participants must drink one full beer before starting, at the 1/4 mile mark, at the 1/2 mile mark & at the 3/4 mile mark.
2. All participants must imbibe said beer out of an aluminum can unadorned with such features as big gulp tops or the like.
3. All beer must be at least 5% ABV. PBR counts, just for reference.
4. All participants must provide their own beer. Bring a six-pack.
5. This will be a timed event. We have to get on the official books here.
6. If a participant vomits, he or she must run an extra 1/4 mile.
7. All beer must be consumed in full in a ten meter transition zone (5 meters on either side of the 1/4 mile marks). Participants can’t begin drinking until in the transition zone, nor can they begin running until they have finished their beer.
8. No shotgunning or other forms of can tampering.
9. Witnesses are welcome, but your names can’t be entered into the tomes for one night’s posterity.
Remember, in running the beer mile we harriers join in with another venerable tradition. Results will be submitted to the official beer mile record keepers.
Where: Meet at Reacharound Lindeman’s, A to B ending at Ranchdick McKinley & Glistening Shit Stick’s (meaning meet on Menkent for prayer, end with pizza at the end of Denebola)
When: 7:30, Friday, January 3, 2014
Why: It is a moral imperative. Plus, can you think of a better way to welcome in the new year? No. No, you can’t.
Although many of our regular hashers were elsewhere engaged, wearing shinguards & sporting euro-mullets &, worst of all, NOT drinking Colt .45 on the soccer field, an intrepid handful gathered at the state gravel pit for a good old fashioned summertime hash. I ended up being fairly fond of the public meeting spot in spite of any reservations. Took the pressure off of everyone, & there weren’t any dishwashers for people to topple over on top of & break.
I hared it solo, adjusting my grandiose notions of tree-climbing & ravine crossings & all around awfulness to incorporate the plain fact of not really having a plan. Turns out I found some good shin-splicing willows, some fine mud puddles, a good deal of shiggy & not much else. It never really picked up, speedwise. I was assisted greatly by the joint efforts of Hoss & Wangus, who sampled each bit of flour to ensure quality.
Hounds had the pleasure of imbibing Essence of Selleck (Malibu, Bacardi Limon & orange cream soda) dropped into a Solo cup of Colt 45, & then, later along, taking down a cold cup of Billy Dee infused Tom Selleck (i.e. a shot of 45 in a rum & Coke). They all collectively decided to shortcut the trail, since I led them to the precipice of the pit, so, you know, I suppose it’s understandable. One notable exception was my wife, Poison (a name in sore need of revision), who had the grave misfortune of walking carefully around the cliff, only to sprain her ankle miserably on a rock not ten feet from the car. When I say miserably, I mean it was the size of a grapefruit, & remains swollen & sorely bruised unto this day.
In the circle, the following were determined:
NNDittmar became Millenium Crotch
a NN cannot be given a name unless he or she actually runs
Hounds present: Poison, Frog Fucker, Whisperstick, Ranchdick, Millenium Crotch, NNMaher, NNHistrand (who maybe got a name? I don’t remember), Pussyface Snowplow, Buckskin O’Connor
Hare: Serbian Jungle Chode
All in all, the mud & sweat & bugs made it clear that summer is upon us. Before these arid Saharan climate swings dry up all the nastiness of the trail, it would be good to launch another hash in the not too distant future. Any willing hares or hosts in the Village? On the ‘pede? Points in between not in the park?
We’ll figure it out. Until then, on on!