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Hash Trash

Hashit - 9th November, 2002, PPH4

For Immediate Release:
As the first rays of the sun began to melt the accumulation of snow on the deck outside my southern window, I looked blearily out at the day. The office door opened halfway, enough to allow the voluptous figure of my 29 year old secretary to enter, her hips swaying slightly inside the tight blue skirt. She leaned over the desk and lit my cigarette, handing me a fresh cup of coffee, with just a splash of bourbon to fight off the morning. Taking the cigarette from her red lips she opened them slightly and breathed quietly

"time to lay the hash."

The hash wasn't the lay that I was thinking of as I sipped the first of 17 whiskeys I would consume that day... but, after all, the first Alferd G. Packer memorial hash needed appropriate attention. Affairs of state would just have to wait... until later.
In November of 1873 a party of 21 strong left Provo, Utah. According to Packers confession, available here: , the party had insufficient supplies for the entire journey. Stranded in the high country and starving, the men ate the horse feed, then the horses, then Packer ate the rest of them.
All this passed through my mind as I drove to the gathering place for the PPH4, known to the world as the Pikes Peak Hash House Harriers and Harrierettes. The bi-weekly meeting having been established for the express purpose of drinking, met for the 9th November, 2002 hash at Pine Gables Tavern in Green Mountain Falls, Colorado. Ratz Ass, the named co-hare, failed to present himself, having decided instead to travel to Rome (Italy, not Tennessee), there to quaff quantities of vino with the local gentry, perhaps to pay a visit on the Pope hisself. Slugsucker agreed to distribute minute amounts of flour in his stead, and was, as usual, late.
Because of the location and time of year, the same time that Packer, stranded in snow, was forced to consume barley and flesh, our intrepid hashers arrived dressed for the predicted snow storm - now beginning to fall - consumed barley (in liquid form) and prepared to eat each other if necessary...
Slugsucker deliver the obligatory instructions to the newbies - with the blue trail to be followed by eagles, and the red trail to be followed by the turkeys... with much non-fanfare, a toot on the bugle by Barnacle Bob, Misdeweiner in tow, they were off.
The trail started through the stream next to the lake and headed down the pass towards Cascade. A clever sleight of hand found them climbing, the isolated mountain town reverberating with the sound of whistles blown with abandon. Passing the original starting point, having circled back to the north, the trail climbed and climbed, until finally the highest point was reached - with views of Ute pass, Crystola, Green Mountain Falls, and a large blue Beer Near in flour as the hash reached the first beer check. Roach Motel arrived first, the acronym FRB hereinafter changed in meaning to reflect her gender. As the rest of the hash arrived, they quaffed the beer, left some slightly modifed beer on the side of the trail, while admiring the view and appropriately off-color jokes led by the hash mouth, ole' whatsisname. ( I never bother to remember male hash names, however, for some reason I always remember the harrierettes.... ).
At this point, the hash was off... but wait, where were the turkeys (no girth - having been instructed in the location of the start, the beer check, the direction of the turkey trail, and the final location of the circle, was completely lost... never found the beer check... ). Well, no good, the hash had to move on. Stumpy Worm decided, in the best traditions of the Hash GrandMasters (emeritus), to skip the trail and SCB directly to the only other known bar in the area. Most of the hash followed his, somewhat questionable, lead, and began jogging up Hi-way 24 in the general direction of Crystola. Rear Ejection - our local RIO - was in the lead of the true trail as he went up the pass, by the horse manure, pausing to admire the bones which were carefully arranged in a random pattern on the trail in memory of Packer, through the stream twice more, across the pasture marked clearly "No Hashers Allowed" - ok, so it was a rule 6 violation - and finally over the last ridge into the Crystola Inn.
The on-on circle was accomplished, in short order the hash polished of 27 pitchers of the local brew (actually, it was Budweiser). Many songs were song, beer was spilled, drank, spilled again, while most of the male hashers leered lecherously at the beer-maid (... her lips parted slightly in anticipation as she said "want another pitcher...")... Roach Motel, offered the chance to do a down-down for being an FRB at the beer check, instead demurred and Slugsucker and myself were forced to throw ourselves in the path of the beer... always grateful for the opportunity to do another DOWN-DOWN.
By this time the snow began to fall in earnest, the beer was drank, the hash was done. Four vehicles took hashers back to the starting point and everyone disappeared in the snowstorm...
It was late when I got back to the office... but my secretary was there, awaiting my return.
"It's great to sheee you schweetheart...", I said, as the door closed softly, behind.

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