Dear Flatlander wankers,

Since most of you elected to skip the camping hash this
year, forcing the hapless DH3 folks to pick up the slack,
allow me to inflict a recap of last weekend's festivities.

2Holes and Deep arrived at the cow-infested saddle up the
Crooked Creek Rd west of Fraser in mid-afternoon to find a
devious Spermes already sniffing out trail.  Since no trail
had been planned yet, much less laid, the hares went about
finding a choice campsite, unconcerned.  And a choice
campsite they found, sporting not one, but two functional
shitters, facing each other for the social evacuative
experience.  The trio erected camp, and managed to make the
best of a faulty tap while awaiting the ragtag pack that
arrived in ones and twos over the course of the evening.

The defective hares, sharing a blown-out ankle and herniated
disk between them, dead-hared a beauty of a Full Moon trail,
spending over an hour on the combination scout/lay.  A bevy
of CB7s and Turns-on-Powder awaited an enthusiastic pack,
which set out around sunset.  The roving beer check, in the
form of shortcutting, walking hares with beery Nalgenes, was
popular.  The dozen or so trail-following hashers chewed
through the trail, returning to the camp finish in a tidy 30
minutes or so, where they set about drinking and singing,
which is the tradition at such events.

Down-downs raged into the night, picking up momentum with
every straggler and latecomer, and fueled primarily by
Dogknocker and Shoefucker's frequent and well-earned visits
to the center of the circle.  The final count reached 18
just as the circle collapsed into a late night (?) of
alcohol abuse and charades.

The next morning, the pack cleared out in search of brown
trout, deep mud or aspirin, while the hares waddled through
the forest for 2 1/2 hours, depositing over 20lbs of flour
there.  The pack gathered itself and set out at the crack of
2pm, while the hares supped and scratched their respective
genitalia.  The trail led up and over a series of old
logging roads, its CB7s and long bad trails keeping the pack
tightly knit, but evidently not slowing them down much at
all, for when the beer finally made it to the beer check,
the pack was already there, surly and thirsty. 
Nevertheless, beer was downed, and when a long-cutting Split
Enz, who decided to traverse the previous night's trail,
arrived, the hounds set off with a chorus of lusty howls
(that may have just been Magically Delicious).  The hares
watched as the pack slogged through a beaver-infested fen,
then up a Flatlander-friendly hill, then to the end of a
long YBF back up the valley.  As Podiaphile short-cutted up
and over a less-friendly hill, the others turned the corner
in the right direction, and the hares beat it to the
finish.  The trail led up a vegetation-choked gully, past a
carcass or two, through a scenic meadow and up to a saddle
featuring a 6-way DP, each bad trail long and marked. 
Nonplussed by this obstacle, everyone barrelled down the
hill to the finish, where a single warm Killians was their
reward.  Twin pickups provided a comfortable, smooth ride
back to the start and more beer, and they even waited for
Short Dick, who arrived as they were pulling out.

Down-downs ensued, as they are want to, with ice block
broken in by the ample ass of Deep, who won the award in a
head to head boat race with Spermes.  Let no one forget that
for 2 hashes in a row, Spermes neglected to carry the award
on trail.  His time will come.  No songs were repeated, and
Sinbad managed to show remarkable restraint, not launching
into too many epics with so many part-time Flatlander DH3
types keeping circle together.  Little Head, whose bodily
symphony was much maligned by those who foolishly chose to
sleep near him all weekend, managed to repeat a half dozen
songs he had missed the night before, and drank for each,
while Shoe, Dog and MD carved ass grooves in the block, the
better for sluicing sloppy droppings.  The circle was broken
with the keg floated and unsavory cans drained.

On-afters continued a few feet away, thanks to a cooler of
alt alcoholic bev, Purple Passion and Oral's emergency car
case of Rolling Rock.  Little Head played Marcel Marceau
while cigars were distributed and the usual shit talked. 
Half-Cocked provided some auxiliary brew, which was enough
to keep the hash partying late into the early evening, when
Pyro and Spitz went off to the Taj to shag, a few of the
less hearty rolled their cars down the road, and the rest of
the drunk fuckers passed out.

Sunday featured a fine breakfast feast at Sharkey's in
Fraser for many, as is the custom, then a jaunt back over
the hill to the low country.

Next hash is this Friday, damnit, hared by someone,
somewhere in the greater Boulder/Denver metro area.

On-on,
Deep