18 February 2009
104. Squid Urine
Black Sheep H3 - 15 Febeerary 09
Guess who's on the wagon? Your humble scribe needs to lose 10 pounds so dress clothes fit again. What does that mean for you? An astoundingly inaccurate hash trash that includes not only the normal Scribe Lies, but also a ton of inaccuracies that will leave you wishing I had never learned to type.
Sunday morning started crappy enough: cloudy, dreary and 50. By Sunday afternoon, it was sunny and maybe in the low-to-mid 60's. T-shirt r*nning weather in February. Nice.
The anal joint Black Sheep/Bear Creek hash started at Southwest Hospital and Medical Center, near where Cascade and Fairburn crash into each other. The title of the hospital suggests what quadrant of Atlanta that's in. We pulled in to one of the entrances and were greeted by a group of wild turkeys hanging out near one of the entrances. And they weren't too interested in fleeing at the sight of us. Maybe 10 females surrounded one very happy male, who was sticking out his chest in a display of power, pride and dominance.
20 seconds later, we pulled up to see the hares in the exact same stance. Oh crap. Hash history tells us that Squid Dick and Urine Development are capable of running Darksides, and do so willingly. Not only that, Squid had just volunteered to hare Friday's SoCo hash at the last minute. Did he have something to prove? What kind of torture were we in for? We would soon find out.
On Out. We scampered to the west end of the complex and due south on the other side of a long metal fence, which was keeping us from scaring anyone on the other side. Another little strip of shiggy brought us to Plainville Drive, where we jumped into the woods and hit an oil pipeline.
The second check was the beast. It was where the pipeline crossed an access road at Utoy Creek. First was a YBF to the south, then nothing. Sober, not hung over and still full of energy, I decided to take one for the team and venture east to look for marks. I was a full 3/10 of a mile away, at the top of a ridge on the access road when I heard a whistle to the north, inside the treeline. I looked back toward the check and it was obvious no one but me heard the whistle. I was tempted to jump into the woods and make a beeline toward the sound, but my conscience got the best of me. I ran back to the check, went backwards on trail just a little ways on the pipeline, and hopped into the woods there. East again. Skeptical people followed until the marks appeared. Well, they still followed after they saw marks, but they weren't skeptical anymore.
We crossed Fairburn Rd, some RR tracks and North Utoy Creek to another check. Continuing on forced us to follow TP up a very steep, rocky cliff. This was the first visual treat of the day, and there would be a few more before we were done.
Northward. To a spot where the evil hares decided to practically circle-jerk us, going under Benjamin Mays Rd, then crossing North Utoy Creek two more times, and back to Benjamin Mays Rd by trudging down the side of 285. We hit a crazy hill to get to the side of Mays High School, climbing a lung-busting 75 feet, then gradually back down another 100 feet to a power cut.
This is where things get a little hazy. Easements and some other random goodness brought us to this massive concrete graveyard. There was nothing as high as some of the mountains we've seen on previous trails, but the piles this time around were numerous and stretched for an impressive distance, with undergrowth all around. How freaking long had these things been here?
After two or three more creek crossings, we hit a spot were two sets of railroad tracks converged, and we squeezed between them to an access road, heading due north, next to and slightly below one set of tracks. A huge, ancient metal thing that looked like a giant yard-art cow greeted us as we returned to Utoy Creek. How high was it? 30 feet? It looked like something that maybe once pumped something from the d'erection of the tracks over toward the creek. Plug this in to Google Maps and you can see it from above:
N33 43.775 W84 30.955
But what the hell were those udder-looking things? And why am I asking so many questions? We crossed the creek to a long field of hamsterland to the end, right back to that tough second check, around a half mile from the start. Length of trail: one-half of a 10-mile Darkside. 10 miles divided by 2 hares = 5 miles. Yeah, that's pretty good Hash Math.
There was much drinking thanks to Ballerina, who drove down to the On-In to sell us more beer. Since Pussy Pilot blessed the hares, Bone Hole ran circle, and he had his hands full, trying to control about 50 sufficiently lubed hashers for a longish Trail Trial.
During our chance to opine, we learned one of the first-timers had hashed in Cairo, but had never experienced our type of shiggy before. Turns out desert running and forest running are just slightly different. Imagine that. He attempted to comment on the hamsterland, which he appeared to be fascinated with. He mentioned something about going through it for about 300 meters. Meters? Well, much was said about him trying to confuse us with his scary system of measurement, and he was instantly named 100 Peters. He then decided to continue talking about the hamsterland and how he had to bend over a lot, so he was instantly renamed Bent Over for 100 Peters. Someone suggested he better stop talking before he got more added to his name, because knowing his luck, he would have mentioned something even worse, like having a long, sharp briar scrape across his ass, and he would have been re-renamed Bending Over for 100 Peters Made My Ass Bloody or something equally horrific. And there's no good acronym for all that. Trust me.
Our hares did a great job, strategically connecting memorable pieces of shiggy so we could have plenty to gawk at during our journey to beer. Join us next time when Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter team up again. These ladies came through last year, and we all expect the same splendid outcum this time around.
May the Hash Get a Piece
Guess who's on the wagon? Your humble scribe needs to lose 10 pounds so dress clothes fit again. What does that mean for you? An astoundingly inaccurate hash trash that includes not only the normal Scribe Lies, but also a ton of inaccuracies that will leave you wishing I had never learned to type.
Sunday morning started crappy enough: cloudy, dreary and 50. By Sunday afternoon, it was sunny and maybe in the low-to-mid 60's. T-shirt r*nning weather in February. Nice.
The anal joint Black Sheep/Bear Creek hash started at Southwest Hospital and Medical Center, near where Cascade and Fairburn crash into each other. The title of the hospital suggests what quadrant of Atlanta that's in. We pulled in to one of the entrances and were greeted by a group of wild turkeys hanging out near one of the entrances. And they weren't too interested in fleeing at the sight of us. Maybe 10 females surrounded one very happy male, who was sticking out his chest in a display of power, pride and dominance.
20 seconds later, we pulled up to see the hares in the exact same stance. Oh crap. Hash history tells us that Squid Dick and Urine Development are capable of running Darksides, and do so willingly. Not only that, Squid had just volunteered to hare Friday's SoCo hash at the last minute. Did he have something to prove? What kind of torture were we in for? We would soon find out.
On Out. We scampered to the west end of the complex and due south on the other side of a long metal fence, which was keeping us from scaring anyone on the other side. Another little strip of shiggy brought us to Plainville Drive, where we jumped into the woods and hit an oil pipeline.
The second check was the beast. It was where the pipeline crossed an access road at Utoy Creek. First was a YBF to the south, then nothing. Sober, not hung over and still full of energy, I decided to take one for the team and venture east to look for marks. I was a full 3/10 of a mile away, at the top of a ridge on the access road when I heard a whistle to the north, inside the treeline. I looked back toward the check and it was obvious no one but me heard the whistle. I was tempted to jump into the woods and make a beeline toward the sound, but my conscience got the best of me. I ran back to the check, went backwards on trail just a little ways on the pipeline, and hopped into the woods there. East again. Skeptical people followed until the marks appeared. Well, they still followed after they saw marks, but they weren't skeptical anymore.
We crossed Fairburn Rd, some RR tracks and North Utoy Creek to another check. Continuing on forced us to follow TP up a very steep, rocky cliff. This was the first visual treat of the day, and there would be a few more before we were done.
Northward. To a spot where the evil hares decided to practically circle-jerk us, going under Benjamin Mays Rd, then crossing North Utoy Creek two more times, and back to Benjamin Mays Rd by trudging down the side of 285. We hit a crazy hill to get to the side of Mays High School, climbing a lung-busting 75 feet, then gradually back down another 100 feet to a power cut.
This is where things get a little hazy. Easements and some other random goodness brought us to this massive concrete graveyard. There was nothing as high as some of the mountains we've seen on previous trails, but the piles this time around were numerous and stretched for an impressive distance, with undergrowth all around. How freaking long had these things been here?
After two or three more creek crossings, we hit a spot were two sets of railroad tracks converged, and we squeezed between them to an access road, heading due north, next to and slightly below one set of tracks. A huge, ancient metal thing that looked like a giant yard-art cow greeted us as we returned to Utoy Creek. How high was it? 30 feet? It looked like something that maybe once pumped something from the d'erection of the tracks over toward the creek. Plug this in to Google Maps and you can see it from above:
N33 43.775 W84 30.955
But what the hell were those udder-looking things? And why am I asking so many questions? We crossed the creek to a long field of hamsterland to the end, right back to that tough second check, around a half mile from the start. Length of trail: one-half of a 10-mile Darkside. 10 miles divided by 2 hares = 5 miles. Yeah, that's pretty good Hash Math.
There was much drinking thanks to Ballerina, who drove down to the On-In to sell us more beer. Since Pussy Pilot blessed the hares, Bone Hole ran circle, and he had his hands full, trying to control about 50 sufficiently lubed hashers for a longish Trail Trial.
During our chance to opine, we learned one of the first-timers had hashed in Cairo, but had never experienced our type of shiggy before. Turns out desert running and forest running are just slightly different. Imagine that. He attempted to comment on the hamsterland, which he appeared to be fascinated with. He mentioned something about going through it for about 300 meters. Meters? Well, much was said about him trying to confuse us with his scary system of measurement, and he was instantly named 100 Peters. He then decided to continue talking about the hamsterland and how he had to bend over a lot, so he was instantly renamed Bent Over for 100 Peters. Someone suggested he better stop talking before he got more added to his name, because knowing his luck, he would have mentioned something even worse, like having a long, sharp briar scrape across his ass, and he would have been re-renamed Bending Over for 100 Peters Made My Ass Bloody or something equally horrific. And there's no good acronym for all that. Trust me.
Our hares did a great job, strategically connecting memorable pieces of shiggy so we could have plenty to gawk at during our journey to beer. Join us next time when Blue Ball Special and Boner Rooter team up again. These ladies came through last year, and we all expect the same splendid outcum this time around.
May the Hash Get a Piece
# posted by L&F @ 4:42 AM 
