Hashers,

For those of you who rejected the cool spruce forests at 10,000ft in
favor of festering in the lowlands, here's a recap of the festivities
over the weekend following July 4.

Deep and Cum Silent made an early foray into the hills west of Frasier
on Thursday night.  There was much talk of scouting trails, but once the
keg was tapped - approximately 90 seconds after the key was out of the
ignition - the evening dissolved into foam.  Due in part to drenching
showers earlier in the evening, temps dipped rather low Thursday night,
a rather novel departure from the searing heat and drought a few scant
miles to the east.

#62

Friday brought sunny skies and cool temps, and trails were scouted. 
Pukahontas arrived mid-afternoon, and was followed by a handful of
others.  The hares, ever slaves to hash time, set off to lay #62 about
20 minutes past 7.  Despite the tardy start, several more hashers showed
up to join the pursuit, which led through a maze of ATV tracks and deep,
forested, cow-shit-infested shiggy.  The hares bivouaced and split up
just ahead of a planned recrossing of trail, but a chorus of "on-on"s
lit a fire under Deep's considerable ass, and he bolted.  His co-hare
found him well down an old road a few minutes later, and they managed to
elude the pack just long enough to circle back to the start, where foam
awaited them in the form of a poorly equalized pony keg.  More hashers
arrived, bringing the total to about a dozen, and down-downs ensued.

Though we had thought to set up a tent across the road in the only other
suitable camping locale directly adjacent to our tent city, the sheer
volume of our out of tune wailing surely drove off all wildlife and
pissed off the campers a few hundred meters away.  A job well done. 
There were no virgins, but plenty of returners, and much ale was
swilled.  Eventually the lantern was snuffed and folks crawled into
their tents, where they passed out for a few precious hours before
Jurassic Park was brutally reenacted by 100 cows moving through the
woods at 5am.  The 5 dogs in camp went wild, but not as wild as Cum
Silent, who let loose a stream of profanity that would make a hasher
blush.  He chucked rocks at a small enclave of about 7 cows, who, also
faced with the nipping of Glad-he-had and Darwin (unnamed), turned about
face and went back whence they came.  The other 93 cows plowed
perilously close to Shoefucker's tent, though, unperturbed, he noted
their presence and returned to his beery slumber.

#63

Saturday dawned warm and sunny, and breakfasts varying from nuts and
twigs to saffron-seasoned eggs and sausage to a big fucking steak were
happily chowed upon.  Half-cocked proved himself the consumate epicurean
with his replete camping kitchen, while Blowsis proved himself the
consumate mooch, firing up his skillet, then "borrowing" eggs after the
fact.  Eventually, a rather sick Deep and a painfully hungover Cum
Silent dragged their sorry asses out of their sleeping bags and set
about stashing supplies for the day's somewhat more involved trail. 
Sometime in early afternoon, they actually got around to haring proper,
and the rest of the pack followed in close pursuit.

Trail wound up an old road out of camp, and jumped up a short but steep
embankment that defied Blowsis' pathetic attempts at scaling. 
Shoefucker followed the hares' route around this minor obstacle, and
watched with contempt as Two Holes shot off on a shortcut.  By all
account, Two Holes comported himself rather well, and managed to avoid a
series of deep shiggy switchbacks to another logging road.  He fell for
a CB-that-wasn't, but sniffed out a turn-on-powder and happened across
the beer check just a few minutes behind the hares.  The rest of the
pack and their dogs, minus Darwin (unnamed), who decided to return to
camp to hang with the very pregnant Cummy Pinko, arrived shortly after,
and enjoyed a view of Byers Peak while swilling the pride of the
Rockies.

The hares took off again, down the ridgeline through deep shiggy.  The
trail doubled back on itself once it intersected a logging road, then
dropped through a meadow on the strength of a dastardly TOP.  It turned
to the left again, following an old, overgrown, and fairly cool road
along the grade once more, then dipped down the hillside with a CB. 
Long bad trails then flanked true trail down across another meadow at
road #3, but the meadow meander eventually returned to the road, where
one of the larger TT arrows ever to grace a Flatlander path brought the
pack down a steep pitch and across a stream.  Trail then turned and
flirted with a nice patch of woods before crossing a riparian meadow to
the base of what was without a doubt the most appreciated feature of the
trail - a steep ascent of the steep hill we descended at last year's
camping hash.  Lungs about to burst and blood pressure dangerously high
(and that was just me), composure was recovered, and the trail led
harmlessly back around the base of the hill to camp.

Down-downs ensued, in seated, comfy fashion.  An initially lackluster
effort gave way to a rousing circle with no repeats from the evening
before.  Well, no unpunished repeats.  The small group laid into what
was left of the keg with ferocity, but even with the arrival of Oral B,
and her distracting "cans of beer", the damned thing put up one hell of
a fight.  After a bit of firearms play, and continued partying, Deep
eventually gave in to his hacking and congestion and tried to get some
sleep, while Shoefucker and Oral B led a valliant effort which left the
keg within a half gallon of drained.  We sent the remnants home with him
the next day.  After packing up and moving out, 6 of us stopped at
Sharkey's in Frasier for a tasty breakfast, then it was up and over the
hill, and back to the infernal baked wastelands of suburban
Boulder/Denver.

On-on,
Deep