After about 5 minutes of flailing about, a clearing was spotted up ahead–the pack had emerged on the edge of a field beset with oaks, a promontory giving them a clear view of the possibilities a-cranium, with the Plantations water-tower and Rt. 366 in the far distance, with the compost piles and horse pastures to the left, and fresh footprints following an open-field deer-trail to the right! (Also a J-hook with tasty cinnamon schnapps.)

The horse pastures, for those of us who have yet to experience their majesty, sit on the gently-sloping western face of Turkey Hill, exposed to the afternoon sunlight and the vicious, unceasing gales that do not ever end. Though going was slow, the pack was treated to a magical visage of the blowing snow across the fields, caught in the afternoon’s mythical Golden Hour. All was right with the universe for that moment in time, when Toothy took a long look back at the town that has been hers since at least IH3 trail #200.

—​///—>

The Odyssey of the Nine Mile Shit Show

November 23, 2014

Hares : FertilizeHer and Captain Smashballs (virgin lay)

Hounds:

PG

Master Baster

Ookie Cookie

Nurse TaKillYa

Brown Hole Delivery

Arachnoflobia

Came With a Fake Name – SOH4

Captain – SOH4

Jackoff O’Lantern – SOH4

Trust Me It Won’t Spread

Dunga the Blumpkin King

Tastes Like Tenth Grade

Thunderbolt Fanny (Cornell Grad Student who had hashed previously in Azerbaijan while serving as a member of the Peace Corps)

Virgin X (That came with Thunderbolt Fanny)

Buttfloss

Handy

Pack N Play

Spike

Just Travis

Just Katie

Virgin Chris

Thank You Cum Again

Tell me, O muse, of those ingenious heroes who travelled far and wide to set trail. Many hobo cities did they visit, and many were the kennels with whose manners and customs they were acquainted; moreover they suffered much by the tongue lashings gained during trail  while trying to save their own life and bring the hash safely to On-In; but do what they might they could not save the hash from their suffering, for they were trapped by their own sheer folly in drinking the nectar of the Sun-god Gispert; so the god prevented them all from quickly reaching circle.

The epic tale begins.  Religious Advisor Master Baster ministers to the pack “Hear me, hashers of Ithaca, and I speak more particularly to SOH4, for I see mischief brewing for them. The hares are not going to be away much longer; indeed they are close at hand to deal out death and destruction, not on them alone, but on many another of us who live in Ithaca. Let us then be wise in time, and finish our beers before flour talk commences. Let the Syracuse hashers do so of their own accord; it will be better for them, and more entertaining for the rest of us.”

When we had set out on trail thence the flour took the pack first through Cass Park. After many checks going in many directions, a more hasher-friendly land was found on the Black Diamond Trail.  As no one  then said that we had better make off at once, and the pack predictably was attracted to some sort of not-creepy-at-all ruins of a karkinos, so they stayed there drinking and looking on as SOH4 Captain attempted to slay the karkinos without the assistance of the pack.  Meanwhile the Ithacans cried out for help to other Ithacans who lived inland.  These were more in number, and drunker, and likewise skilled in the art of slaying playground equipment, for they could fight, either from snow disk chariots or on foot as the occasion served. They did not set in the battle in array, and the brave SOH4 Captain slayed the karkinos alone. As the day was beginning to wane and trail was still young, though the pack had no idea just how young, we got on our way with those that were left.  Which was everybody.

“Thence we ran onward with insufficient alcohol in our guts, but glad to be on trail and among hashers of little sense and good humor.  Many falses and a vaguely recalled Singapore backcheck which would not fool the foolish hashers on this day.  Land and sky were hidden in thick clouds, and threat of night sprang forth out of the heavens. FRBs ran before the pack, which at this time was spread thinly through the land somewhat approximately near where trail was.  The enchanted land of Wegman’s was found, and treasure therein in the form of the oft-sought after shopping cart of which our dear SOH4 Captain sought boldly, and with the assistance of Butt Floss the great treasure was joyfully utilized and the actions recorded for posterity by our beloved Tasty Hash Flash who had been called forth from her position far ahead in the pack for the occasion.  Shortly thereafter, the pack feared they had drawn the ire of local law enforcement, however the threat was a passing one as the officer was already engaged in ruining someone else’s fun on this day.

The pack was driven thence by winds which contained an air of Safety Meeting, which many near-DFLs pursued but could not find.  At this point we came upon the land of the Donut-leaver, who live on a food that comes from a factory masquerading as a bakery.  “Give it to Jackoff!  Many were heard to say, “he will eat anything!”.  Jackoff, thusly challenged lamented the waste of such obviously succulent processed snack food. Here we landed to briefly admire a channel of not-terribly-fresh water, and the pack discovered a trove of unidentified liquids, which many posited was likely a collection of the Donut-leavers’ liquid waste, though some, in their desperation for the golden nectar of Gispert, plead with many hash deities for it to be beer.  Immediately disappointed,  they started at once, and went about among the Donut-leavers, who did them no hurt, but gazed inquisitively at the motley pack making their way through their many claimed lands.

Now off their overdeveloped district there lies a wooded and fertile land not quite close to the land from which the pack set out, but still not far. It is populated with marginalized citizenry, that exist there in great numbers and are oft-disturbed by figures of authority; but it lies in a kind of urban wilderness untilled and unsown from year to year, and has living things upon it. There are meadows that in some places come right down to the inlet, well watered and full of thorns.

Here we entered, but so waning was the light of day and so sparse was the flour, that Gispert must have brought us in, for there was nothing whatever to be seen. Many hashers were blinded in their search for beer, their thirst now growing stronger with each passing mile, and followed Baster past the first Beer Near and had to be called back by the increasingly abused hares.  It was here that Nurse found the slippery ground, and bravely demonstrated its effects for the pack to see, and be thusly warned of its danger.  The misguided returned and partook with the hash in the long-long-long-long-sought after golden treasure.  The pack rejoiced and imbibed, and was eventually cajoled into moving On-On.

With constant abuse of the far-wandering hares, and frequent whines and groans rising from the pack, the group actually left the boundaries of the fair city of Ithaca and was greeted by the form of an often-celebrated and treasured hall – the Ithaca brewery loomed in our sights.  The optimistic among us celebrated the genius of the hares, and gained hope of a joyous celebration within the sacred hall.  The pack was quickly disheartened, however, as trail lead us away and the night’s approach was increasingly clear.  There was wandering about on railway and trail, near creek and highway alike.  The accounts of our travels here become hazy, as the pack was again spread thinly through the land and a variety of mind-altering substances combined with the half minds resulting in few mammaries to account for this portion of our epic journey.

The pack eventually came upon a second beer near, situated in an inconspicuous and as-usual-not-creepy location.  At this point, an auto-hashing Dunga rejoined the pack and celebrated the survival of all involved thus far.  There was a great deal of half-minded complaining as to the length of our journey, and the leadership, intelligence and potential sadistic qualities of the hares was discussed at length.  Our fearless hares, mostly unaffected by the jeers and complaining of the hash up until this point, began to look battle-worn and weary (though still remarkably unaffected by entreaties to consider hash logic, and seemingly still committed to their philosophy of The Longer the Better).  “For too much rest itself becomes a pain”, they say.

As for the pack, we kept on puzzling to think how we could best save our own asses and those asses of our companions as darkness fell; we schemed and schemed, as one who knows that beer lay at the end of this journey and also that we are still very far from it.   PG proposed one route, Baster another, autohashing Dunga offered carriage to all who could stack themselves in his vehicle.  In the end we deemed that All the Plans At Once would be the best.  The hashers who endeavored on foot were at first in tight formation, taking on the challenges of the night (and again returning to the city proper of fair Ithaca) together.  The nature of the half minds quickly defeated many attempts at logical planning which occurred at the last Beer Near, and the pack split in several directions.

Concerns for the variety of challenges which lay before us were brought forth.  “Safety Third” was frequently invoked, as the hash negotiated traffic, hidden potholes, and the constant threat of The Man ruining our fun.  Eventually much of the pack made its way mostly back to On-In by way of and extended nighttime stroll down the railroad track.  Nearing the middle of this part of our journey, we came upon a figure making his way toward us down the tracks.  Seeing only the figure’s silhouette and fearing a minotaur, Nurse inquisitively eyed the subject and possibly also mumbled a greeting of sorts.  Brownie, being a good-natured and trusting sort, acknowledged the mysterious figure and bid him a good evening.  The figure, now plainly one of the aforementioned marginalized locals sporting a large pack, returned the greeting and observed that the hash made for a rarely seen number of people on the tracks in recent years.  The pack made its way along, slowly toward On-In, weary and wary, separated and travelling different paths.

Upon finding their way back to circle, it was immediately demanded that the hares be iced.  “Our fruitless labours mourn, and only rich in barren fame we return,” they lamented.  Virgins were brought into the fold of hashing.  Various offenses on and off trail were accounted for in the ritual consumption of Gispert’s beverage of choice.  And rest at last, where weary hashers do – on-after to Viva Taqueria where SOH4 and IH3 alike dined and drank and recounted tales of trails near and far.