27 November 2006
76. Welcome to the Black Sheep Hash
Black Sheep H3 - 26 Novembeer 2006
Black Sheep. It’s called that for a reason. It’s the hash that winds up alienating itself from the rest of the hashing world through sheer difficulty. You don’t think so? We’ve had people go out and disappear. Others get to the end in tears. A few have even wound up in the hospital. I hared half of a 6-miler last month and almost checked myself in voluntarily. Think of BSH3 as the Southern Comfort Hash, but longer, and in the daylight so you can fuck with the pack more. You think I’m kidding? Go back to the BSH3 site and read some of the hash trashes. Or just read this one. The Black Sheep hash will humble you. Or leave you broken. You only like it if you’re a masochist. Here’s the story of 41 masochists (and a couple unsuspecting first-timers) who anxiously gathered on a warm day in late November.
Yes, I said warm. T-shirt weather, just five days from December. Approaching 70 degrees, and so fucking sunny that the clouds were actually scared to appear. Are you getting the visual? Good.
Now for the start. Food Depot, I-675, exit 2. If you lift your nose and sniff really, really hard, you can actually smell the swamp. You could see random hashers pointing in that direction, toward the other side of the Interstate, before we sent off the hares. Call it a spiritual pull, or even a physical pull, since it appeared we were all subconsciously drifting toward the east as we waited our five minutes. But hold on… the hares were going north. No. East. Head east, please. But we weren’t worried. We all knew it was coming. And when it did, we would be cumming too.
So north we went, merrily mumbling to ourselves about the impending shiggy fest. We were attempting to chase down Pussy Pilot and Bone Hole, who were laying their annual trail in the name of Saint Andrews. My phone was in my CamelBack and my GPS was strapped to my side. Why? Insurance. Because I know the power of the Sheep, and I learned my lesson long ago.
We were running on pavement for some unknown reason, and we soon figured out why. A YBF. So the FRB’s ran back to the rest of the pack, and in a large group effort, we found the next mark.
North again. This time we were paralleling the Interstate. It wasn’t too much later that we came upon our first quality check. There were four tunnels together heading east. (Yes grasshopper, head east.) Five of us gave it a shot, and came up empty. Nothing in the creek, or on either bank. Someone was halfway in the tunnel and turned around to yell that they had heard a whistle. So off we bolted. Due west.
Much of the shiggy here was of the easement and fire-road variety, with some horrific briars and a clear-cut development area thrown in for good measure. We finally crossed the interstate at Rex Road, near Adamson Middle School. Soon after, we popped out from under the canopy to a brilliantly placed check at the edge of a massive open area. Once near the middle, we surveyed our options in the warmth of the sun. To the east and over a barbed-wire fence was thick grass and a power cut. To the north was a housing development. To the west and south, close to were we came in, was more forest. We scattered for a tenth of a mile each way, and finally someone caught a mark. Due west.
This might have been the first creek. I can’t remember. It was good, and not as cold as I thought it would be. When we had to get out and run on land, we were hit with more briars. Some of us started bleeding. We got to a check and checked our cuts, then found trail over Double Bridge Road. There was more fast running here at the back of an industrial complex. This might have been where the really clean easement was, and it quickly got us to Ellenwood Road.
Somewhere between the YBF and Ellenwood Road we had two Scotch-stops. There might have been water. The Scotch was tasty. There was also an excellent area at a check where a creek ran right into a huge hill and split into several tunnels. We found trail in one of them and immediately went into water at least 2 1/2 feet deep. This water was freezing, and quite painful. Shrieks were heard and a good time was had by all. Oh, and there was one more interesting place somewhere along this part of trail: a place where we lost sight of one of our visitors from Boston. Amazon.Cum was making good time near the middle of the pack, and was last seen with her t-shirt off, running in her outerwear running bra (it’s probably called something else; sorry) and a pair of shorts. I only bring this up because she’s very tall, and especially with that many square-inches of skin showing, she’s not a person that is easily lost in a crowd. But from our later estimates, it was somewhere after the first Scotch stop that she disappeared.
I used Ellenwood Road as a place to stop the narrative for good reason: we had reached the Mother Lode. Right north of Ellenwood Road, between Grant Road and the railroad tracks was the awfulest of awful swamps. We got to the edge and thought it was going to be easy because there was no water to be seen; only dead trees and dry grass. Oh, fuck me running, we were wrong. Step. Grass. Step. Grass. Step. Thigh-deep in mud. Two feet of mud. And it continued. And continued. Every step was a crap-shoot. You either stepped on semi-solid grass and sank to your ankles, or dropped to a point where you were suddenly covered up to your thigh and could barely get your self back out. I heard screaming up ahead. People were spread out over the entire area, struggling to free themselves from the mire. It looked like a war zone in some of Hollywood’s best movies.
Boner Rooter was to my right, and was swearing. She wasn’t panicked, but she was definitely having problems. “Are you OK?” I asked her. “Yeah… actually maybe no… I just can’t… get… out…” She had a hold of something with her hands and very slowly and with much effort, extracted one of her legs. It was wild. I trudged ahead a few yards. To my left was Bobber from Jacksonville. He wasn’t moving at all. I thought he was cramping, and if you’ve never experienced it, intense cramping in a swamp can be horrifically stressful. He was clinging to something, partially bent over and immersed in mud. I couldn’t see anything below his knees. “Are you OK?” I asked him. “Yeah, I’m just resting.” Holy shit. I moved on. I found out later that Boner Rooter got stuck again, and asked the muscular Bobber for help. All he could do was be honest. He shook his head and admitted, “I can’t help you.” We were getting beaten, but we weren’t beat. The tree line appeared a while later and we were moving again.
It was somewhere around this area where we picked up toilet paper from Friday’s SoCo. I’m not really sure how it worked out, but no matter which trail you were on, you ended at the same place. So our ending had two BN’s and two ON-IN’s. Both trails had been very well marked. According to a couple people, the trails merged at some point, and that place was VERY well marked.
We all came in filthy. Even the Slack Sheep folk had found a nasty pile of mud somewhere. Boner Rooter was a few minutes behind me and it looked like she had just fallen down the side of a mountain. To her credit, she cleaned up really well. The Colonel had tell-tale marks where some briars had raked across his face. Pussy Pilot was close to looking like he got into a knife fight. Something had torn through both of my wrists, and they were on fire. The reward for our efforts? Two Crabs brought a fantastic side of pork, and there was beer and orange food everywhere. Sani opened a huge bottle of wine and poured some in a Diet Sprite can. Her stealthy consumption.
Amazon.Cum was a no-show at the end, and wasn’t at the start. So Pussy Pilot dropped off her companion, Nice Snatch, at the approximate point where she disappeared. Another search party would take off after circle. But it was during circle that the two of them finally showed up in his car. He found an open spot in circle and squeezed in, looking pretty good considering he had done some of trail twice. She, on the other hand, did not look so well. Actually, she looked like she was really cold, and about ready to cry or scream at someone. Gentri quickly handed her some Scotch in hopes of making her feel as happy as the rest of us; not only because we were celebrating another excellent hash, but because we were genuinely glad that we were all finally together. We never really got their story, because as soon as circle was over, they drove off. Someone had said the two of them had shown up at the SoCo a couple days ago and gave up on trail. They actually experienced some of what SoCo had to offer and turned around to go home. That’s fair. But the ironic part is that they came back for more… not just to another Atlanta hash, and not just to another Atlanta shiggy hash, but to another Atlanta shiggy hash in the exact same area.
Black Sheep can be hell. If you don't think so, you might have lost your perspective because you do this all the time. There are many hashes in the rest of the country that aren’t this tough. Also, I did this trail today after a month-and-a-half reprieve from hashing. As of late, I am constantly immersed in the corporate world. Some of these people don’t even like stepping on the grass in their own front yard. That pansy shit sucks, and makes us look like deviants. Sometimes I'm doing a rather difficult part of trail and think to myself, "My God, I'm doing something really memorable here." Some corporate people might even call a day like this a highlight of their life. The gawkers at work who see the cuts on my arms and neck either think I’m into some really rough stuff, or that my significant other beats the shit out of me. Either way, they think I’m doing something way out of the ordinary. And I am. Sane people don’t purposely dive into a swamp when they hear screams up ahead. We’re all insane.
It’s it great?
May the Hash Get a Really Kick-Ass Piece
Black Sheep. It’s called that for a reason. It’s the hash that winds up alienating itself from the rest of the hashing world through sheer difficulty. You don’t think so? We’ve had people go out and disappear. Others get to the end in tears. A few have even wound up in the hospital. I hared half of a 6-miler last month and almost checked myself in voluntarily. Think of BSH3 as the Southern Comfort Hash, but longer, and in the daylight so you can fuck with the pack more. You think I’m kidding? Go back to the BSH3 site and read some of the hash trashes. Or just read this one. The Black Sheep hash will humble you. Or leave you broken. You only like it if you’re a masochist. Here’s the story of 41 masochists (and a couple unsuspecting first-timers) who anxiously gathered on a warm day in late November.
Yes, I said warm. T-shirt weather, just five days from December. Approaching 70 degrees, and so fucking sunny that the clouds were actually scared to appear. Are you getting the visual? Good.
Now for the start. Food Depot, I-675, exit 2. If you lift your nose and sniff really, really hard, you can actually smell the swamp. You could see random hashers pointing in that direction, toward the other side of the Interstate, before we sent off the hares. Call it a spiritual pull, or even a physical pull, since it appeared we were all subconsciously drifting toward the east as we waited our five minutes. But hold on… the hares were going north. No. East. Head east, please. But we weren’t worried. We all knew it was coming. And when it did, we would be cumming too.
So north we went, merrily mumbling to ourselves about the impending shiggy fest. We were attempting to chase down Pussy Pilot and Bone Hole, who were laying their annual trail in the name of Saint Andrews. My phone was in my CamelBack and my GPS was strapped to my side. Why? Insurance. Because I know the power of the Sheep, and I learned my lesson long ago.
We were running on pavement for some unknown reason, and we soon figured out why. A YBF. So the FRB’s ran back to the rest of the pack, and in a large group effort, we found the next mark.
North again. This time we were paralleling the Interstate. It wasn’t too much later that we came upon our first quality check. There were four tunnels together heading east. (Yes grasshopper, head east.) Five of us gave it a shot, and came up empty. Nothing in the creek, or on either bank. Someone was halfway in the tunnel and turned around to yell that they had heard a whistle. So off we bolted. Due west.
Much of the shiggy here was of the easement and fire-road variety, with some horrific briars and a clear-cut development area thrown in for good measure. We finally crossed the interstate at Rex Road, near Adamson Middle School. Soon after, we popped out from under the canopy to a brilliantly placed check at the edge of a massive open area. Once near the middle, we surveyed our options in the warmth of the sun. To the east and over a barbed-wire fence was thick grass and a power cut. To the north was a housing development. To the west and south, close to were we came in, was more forest. We scattered for a tenth of a mile each way, and finally someone caught a mark. Due west.
This might have been the first creek. I can’t remember. It was good, and not as cold as I thought it would be. When we had to get out and run on land, we were hit with more briars. Some of us started bleeding. We got to a check and checked our cuts, then found trail over Double Bridge Road. There was more fast running here at the back of an industrial complex. This might have been where the really clean easement was, and it quickly got us to Ellenwood Road.
Somewhere between the YBF and Ellenwood Road we had two Scotch-stops. There might have been water. The Scotch was tasty. There was also an excellent area at a check where a creek ran right into a huge hill and split into several tunnels. We found trail in one of them and immediately went into water at least 2 1/2 feet deep. This water was freezing, and quite painful. Shrieks were heard and a good time was had by all. Oh, and there was one more interesting place somewhere along this part of trail: a place where we lost sight of one of our visitors from Boston. Amazon.Cum was making good time near the middle of the pack, and was last seen with her t-shirt off, running in her outerwear running bra (it’s probably called something else; sorry) and a pair of shorts. I only bring this up because she’s very tall, and especially with that many square-inches of skin showing, she’s not a person that is easily lost in a crowd. But from our later estimates, it was somewhere after the first Scotch stop that she disappeared.
I used Ellenwood Road as a place to stop the narrative for good reason: we had reached the Mother Lode. Right north of Ellenwood Road, between Grant Road and the railroad tracks was the awfulest of awful swamps. We got to the edge and thought it was going to be easy because there was no water to be seen; only dead trees and dry grass. Oh, fuck me running, we were wrong. Step. Grass. Step. Grass. Step. Thigh-deep in mud. Two feet of mud. And it continued. And continued. Every step was a crap-shoot. You either stepped on semi-solid grass and sank to your ankles, or dropped to a point where you were suddenly covered up to your thigh and could barely get your self back out. I heard screaming up ahead. People were spread out over the entire area, struggling to free themselves from the mire. It looked like a war zone in some of Hollywood’s best movies.
Boner Rooter was to my right, and was swearing. She wasn’t panicked, but she was definitely having problems. “Are you OK?” I asked her. “Yeah… actually maybe no… I just can’t… get… out…” She had a hold of something with her hands and very slowly and with much effort, extracted one of her legs. It was wild. I trudged ahead a few yards. To my left was Bobber from Jacksonville. He wasn’t moving at all. I thought he was cramping, and if you’ve never experienced it, intense cramping in a swamp can be horrifically stressful. He was clinging to something, partially bent over and immersed in mud. I couldn’t see anything below his knees. “Are you OK?” I asked him. “Yeah, I’m just resting.” Holy shit. I moved on. I found out later that Boner Rooter got stuck again, and asked the muscular Bobber for help. All he could do was be honest. He shook his head and admitted, “I can’t help you.” We were getting beaten, but we weren’t beat. The tree line appeared a while later and we were moving again.
It was somewhere around this area where we picked up toilet paper from Friday’s SoCo. I’m not really sure how it worked out, but no matter which trail you were on, you ended at the same place. So our ending had two BN’s and two ON-IN’s. Both trails had been very well marked. According to a couple people, the trails merged at some point, and that place was VERY well marked.
We all came in filthy. Even the Slack Sheep folk had found a nasty pile of mud somewhere. Boner Rooter was a few minutes behind me and it looked like she had just fallen down the side of a mountain. To her credit, she cleaned up really well. The Colonel had tell-tale marks where some briars had raked across his face. Pussy Pilot was close to looking like he got into a knife fight. Something had torn through both of my wrists, and they were on fire. The reward for our efforts? Two Crabs brought a fantastic side of pork, and there was beer and orange food everywhere. Sani opened a huge bottle of wine and poured some in a Diet Sprite can. Her stealthy consumption.
Amazon.Cum was a no-show at the end, and wasn’t at the start. So Pussy Pilot dropped off her companion, Nice Snatch, at the approximate point where she disappeared. Another search party would take off after circle. But it was during circle that the two of them finally showed up in his car. He found an open spot in circle and squeezed in, looking pretty good considering he had done some of trail twice. She, on the other hand, did not look so well. Actually, she looked like she was really cold, and about ready to cry or scream at someone. Gentri quickly handed her some Scotch in hopes of making her feel as happy as the rest of us; not only because we were celebrating another excellent hash, but because we were genuinely glad that we were all finally together. We never really got their story, because as soon as circle was over, they drove off. Someone had said the two of them had shown up at the SoCo a couple days ago and gave up on trail. They actually experienced some of what SoCo had to offer and turned around to go home. That’s fair. But the ironic part is that they came back for more… not just to another Atlanta hash, and not just to another Atlanta shiggy hash, but to another Atlanta shiggy hash in the exact same area.
Black Sheep can be hell. If you don't think so, you might have lost your perspective because you do this all the time. There are many hashes in the rest of the country that aren’t this tough. Also, I did this trail today after a month-and-a-half reprieve from hashing. As of late, I am constantly immersed in the corporate world. Some of these people don’t even like stepping on the grass in their own front yard. That pansy shit sucks, and makes us look like deviants. Sometimes I'm doing a rather difficult part of trail and think to myself, "My God, I'm doing something really memorable here." Some corporate people might even call a day like this a highlight of their life. The gawkers at work who see the cuts on my arms and neck either think I’m into some really rough stuff, or that my significant other beats the shit out of me. Either way, they think I’m doing something way out of the ordinary. And I am. Sane people don’t purposely dive into a swamp when they hear screams up ahead. We’re all insane.
It’s it great?
May the Hash Get a Really Kick-Ass Piece
# posted by L&F @ 12:48 AM 
