29 October 2008
98. The Mini Stone Mountain
Black Sheep H3 - 12 Octobeer 08
Sunday afternoon. Time to hash. We jumped into our motorized horse and sped off. Or tried to. We hit every light on the way to I-20, and then hit the departing church crowds on the way to the start, which was at an elementary school south of Lithonia. We pulled up at 1:58. And my cute little hashwear wasn’t even clinging to me yet.
I threw on briar-repelling clothes and forcefully misted myself with deet-laden bug spray just in time to see PP send off the hares with a Cum In Dubitante… and Poonshine and Wild Irish Hose scampered away. The canines of the pack were absolutely beside themselves at the thought of a chase, and there were some human hounds that were pretty pumped too: the weather was spectacular, and the turnout was impressive.
I hadn’t checked a map and had no idea what was around. On-Out. We followed the first clumps of flour out of the parking lot and crossed Klondike Road to a huge, clear-cut area and a check. We looked around and knew we were screwed. Roads in every direction, a creek and two strips of hamsterland forest to look through. 360 degrees of possibilites. We finally heard repeated whistles on the other side of the creek and fought our way through a briary mess to follow the sounds. The first blobs of flour we ran into were actually on South Goddard. Did we just do all that nasty briar-fighting for nothing?
There was more shiggy across the street, and I didn't know it at the time, but we were crossing into Arabia Mountain State Park. Visually orgasmic terrain greeted us as we wound our way up the rock moutain ridges all the way to the top. Most humans in the pack were walking because of the steep rise in elevation. The view at the top was spectacular. We made our way back down and dove under the canopy and hit South Goddard Road again... realizing we had been circle-jerked. 7/10 of a mile of road rage followed, and a patch of forest in Klondike Park.
Check. Most of the hounds milled about waiting, while a few of the more daring ventured out. Boner and I went west on Browns Mill and found flour way down the street. Broken Bit and I pulled away and ran into Urine Development who had boxed and snared. There was another 8/10 of a mile of road rage here and the three of us stayed FRB for a while as we half-sprinted up the hills of a power cut and across the stomach-deep waters of the South River. At some point we crossed into the remnants of the Southerness Golf Club.
There were easements scattered around, and this is where I finally crapped out. A few hares blew by me and I trotted across another power cut or some overgrown former clearing. Trail disappeared here and I followed Little Easy's helpful shouts way off in the distance to some more flour at an old golf cart path. A hare arrow led us up this huge, grassy Hill of Death to the On-In at a sheltered clubhouse-type thing with pieces of Alexander’s Lake within view through the trees. We were just east of Panola Mountain State Park. Real trail: 5.9 miles. GPS: 7.05 miles.
We hung out. We drank. We circled up. Wild Irish Hose knew the drill, and took the random criticism quietly, like an obedient Black Sheep hare should. Poonshine, on the other hand, made sure he was heard constantly, and set the record for being the loudest hare on the ice in recent memory. Another one for the record books: from what I heard, this was actually the first Black Sheep circle ever to be busted up early by the cops. Not bad for doing almost 500 of these things. Apparently we were still on park property here, between Arabia and Panola parks, and alcohol isn’t allowed, even by a group as responsible as ourselves. And we had more beers in view than there are commas in this paragraph. So we had to leave. Now. We quickly packed up with the park cop standing there waiting with his arms crossed. Like clowns at a circus, we managed to squeeze into all the available cars and got back to the start, where the drinking continued. From park property to school property. Nice. Some Sheepers left, some drank even more and left, and some went off to various on-afters.
Recap of the recap: Trail was long and there was road rage, but looking back, those were easily overlooked considering the massive amounts of different kinds of shiggy we saw. Think of it this way… there are a gazillion people in metro Atlanta, and so many of them will never see anything as cool as the Mini Stone Mountain. And for us, it was just another great day of hashing.
May the Hash Get a Piece
Sunday afternoon. Time to hash. We jumped into our motorized horse and sped off. Or tried to. We hit every light on the way to I-20, and then hit the departing church crowds on the way to the start, which was at an elementary school south of Lithonia. We pulled up at 1:58. And my cute little hashwear wasn’t even clinging to me yet.
I threw on briar-repelling clothes and forcefully misted myself with deet-laden bug spray just in time to see PP send off the hares with a Cum In Dubitante… and Poonshine and Wild Irish Hose scampered away. The canines of the pack were absolutely beside themselves at the thought of a chase, and there were some human hounds that were pretty pumped too: the weather was spectacular, and the turnout was impressive.
I hadn’t checked a map and had no idea what was around. On-Out. We followed the first clumps of flour out of the parking lot and crossed Klondike Road to a huge, clear-cut area and a check. We looked around and knew we were screwed. Roads in every direction, a creek and two strips of hamsterland forest to look through. 360 degrees of possibilites. We finally heard repeated whistles on the other side of the creek and fought our way through a briary mess to follow the sounds. The first blobs of flour we ran into were actually on South Goddard. Did we just do all that nasty briar-fighting for nothing?
There was more shiggy across the street, and I didn't know it at the time, but we were crossing into Arabia Mountain State Park. Visually orgasmic terrain greeted us as we wound our way up the rock moutain ridges all the way to the top. Most humans in the pack were walking because of the steep rise in elevation. The view at the top was spectacular. We made our way back down and dove under the canopy and hit South Goddard Road again... realizing we had been circle-jerked. 7/10 of a mile of road rage followed, and a patch of forest in Klondike Park.
Check. Most of the hounds milled about waiting, while a few of the more daring ventured out. Boner and I went west on Browns Mill and found flour way down the street. Broken Bit and I pulled away and ran into Urine Development who had boxed and snared. There was another 8/10 of a mile of road rage here and the three of us stayed FRB for a while as we half-sprinted up the hills of a power cut and across the stomach-deep waters of the South River. At some point we crossed into the remnants of the Southerness Golf Club.
There were easements scattered around, and this is where I finally crapped out. A few hares blew by me and I trotted across another power cut or some overgrown former clearing. Trail disappeared here and I followed Little Easy's helpful shouts way off in the distance to some more flour at an old golf cart path. A hare arrow led us up this huge, grassy Hill of Death to the On-In at a sheltered clubhouse-type thing with pieces of Alexander’s Lake within view through the trees. We were just east of Panola Mountain State Park. Real trail: 5.9 miles. GPS: 7.05 miles.
We hung out. We drank. We circled up. Wild Irish Hose knew the drill, and took the random criticism quietly, like an obedient Black Sheep hare should. Poonshine, on the other hand, made sure he was heard constantly, and set the record for being the loudest hare on the ice in recent memory. Another one for the record books: from what I heard, this was actually the first Black Sheep circle ever to be busted up early by the cops. Not bad for doing almost 500 of these things. Apparently we were still on park property here, between Arabia and Panola parks, and alcohol isn’t allowed, even by a group as responsible as ourselves. And we had more beers in view than there are commas in this paragraph. So we had to leave. Now. We quickly packed up with the park cop standing there waiting with his arms crossed. Like clowns at a circus, we managed to squeeze into all the available cars and got back to the start, where the drinking continued. From park property to school property. Nice. Some Sheepers left, some drank even more and left, and some went off to various on-afters.
Recap of the recap: Trail was long and there was road rage, but looking back, those were easily overlooked considering the massive amounts of different kinds of shiggy we saw. Think of it this way… there are a gazillion people in metro Atlanta, and so many of them will never see anything as cool as the Mini Stone Mountain. And for us, it was just another great day of hashing.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 9:48 PM 
