“THE ROAD IS LONG, WITH MANY A WINDING TURN”
AS PROMISED ABOVE, SWAMPY TOOK THE HASH THE HARD WAY AT FOREST WAY
Something like forty equipped with mattresses, they had given their sleeping bags the evening off, managed to make it past the Elderly Gate Keeper at the Out-of-Control Wild Dog Reserve, before he locked them all in for the Evening. It was amazing the number of Hashmen who said the aged gate keeper who collected a Dollar off them, looked so much like Swampy, the Hare for the evening.
Equally amazing was the number who remembered the last Run on the site, and kept reminding Major Disaster about something or another. At his age he needs reminding of most things. But he couldn’t remember what it was they were trying to remind him about.
With Fry-A-Duck’s Haggis Lament paying off, at least for this week, the Pack were able to toil up a dry track as the Run got under way. The Way In was the Way Out for the first part of the run, with plenty of ankle-breaking areas under foot for the unwary who may have taken time off to admire the local views. Of which there were many. Once off the beaten track, the Run took a downward trajectory, which provided ominous portents for the Run Home much later. It was generally acknowledged that the going was challenging for Walkers and Runners alike. That is apart from Darwin, who was striding out near the front of the Pack as usual. What do they put in his drink before they tuck him in of a night time ?
Once the Walkers and the Runners parted company, the going for either Group didn’t get any easier. As anticipated, a long climb lay in wait for both parties. The Runners were presented with two horrendous climbs out of the valley, apart from the fortunate few with Petit Merde. Armed with local knowledge, he spared them the climb and check back, with a diabolically cunningly similar climb on the reverse side. Even an old sea dog like Wally Grout got taken in by the clever “wind shift”. He toiled up to near the top only to be turned back by the “Check Back”, which in actual fact could have taken him to the top. If only he knew. If only.
An even worse fate befell Absolutely Last Chance Louie. Having diligently struck out from a Check to lead the Way, as a President should, he had the misfortunate to encounter a Swampy “Avant” Run, complete with admittedly tired looking paper but discernible arrows which lured on the unsuspecting ALCL to his eventual doom. Only much later when he staggered onto an expanse of sand besprinkled with very non-Hash footprints pointing in the opposite direction did he realise his error. In utter dismay. Alone. Deep in the bush. Far from home with only the chirp of a few birds settling down for the night for company. An Absolutely Lost Conned Louie. Much, much later he arrived at a near drained Bucket.
But there was good news. Not only for Lost Conned Louie but the fortunate many who sat down to a succulent feast of roast lamb, mash potatoes and a gravy worth dying for. The Catering Committee had done it again !
Much later, in a very friendly gesture, Jock the Sock took the forgetful Major Disaster to one side to jog his memory or should that be “Jag” his memory. It was on this very spot he mentioned, some months previously, MajorD’s Jaguar had to be towed away, JS was wondering whether he could expect a re-enactment. MD was not at all impressed by the Jock’s concern. He wandered off to climb into the car of his lift muttering about The Sock’s ulterior motive “He is just after elderly Jags” he said to no one in particular. “He gives them a loving, rejuvenating touch, and then flogs them off to one of his female admirers. Smart. The cunning bugger has got that friendly persuasive look you know,” he muttered, with an envious note in his voice.
And so we proceed on to even more diabolical doings.
Our Canuck Correspondent, who not only assisted Tickers to set The Dragon Night Run, he also cunningly extracted this alarming piece of news from one of the Moochers concerning Bunny Trapper’s recent death defying escape in New Zealand. He managed to record a full Report for The Hash Circular last Monday just before The Moocher slid under the table. The Trapper had managed to elude the Global Media at the Sydney airport, and for obvious reasons which you will soon learn, hushed up the story. So this is by way of an “Exclusive”. CC says that it was kept out of the NZ papers because it wasn’t the season for All Black or sheep stories.
The Trapper, extremely well-known in veterinarian circles, had been invited to an exclusive conference in Queenstown, New Zealand. During the course of the evening, Cloudy Bay, gradually became Clouded Evening and finally Shrouded Night for the Trapper, as the NZ top drop got the better of him. So much so, that when he awoke the following morning his plane had left for Sydney several hours previously.
“No Worries” said one of the Vets, (or the NZ equivalent of “No Worries”). “I have to fly half a dozen pedigree sheep up to me farm at Ashburton,” he explained. “I am taking one of me mates in a two-seater Cessna, I am sure we will be able to squeeze you in amongst the Woolies.”
“I say that is awfully decent of you,” replied Bunny. So off the three of them trooped to the airport, where the single engine Cessna 162 complete with six Woolies awaited them. Just as they loaded Bunny on board they dumped a parachute into his nervous hands. “Just for Regulations you know”, they reassured him.
Bloody Oath, it was a tight squeeze. The NZs, parachute, the Woolies and all. At least I am near the exit door to get out real quick when we reach Ashburton, thought Bunny.
Well, it was just north of a little place called Hakataramea on the Waitaki River, that Bunny first noticed the single prop engine was smoking. Just slightly but definitely smoking. It immediately took his mind off the sheep but didn’t seem to concern the Pilot and his Co. “I say” asked Bunny eventually,” is the engine smoking ? “. “No mate, just a patch of passing cloud,” he was told. But a few miles further on, it more than just smoking. “I’ll never see Rhonda, the Dog or the Hash again’, cried Bunny. “What are we going to do ?” he asked as calmly as he could.
“Looks like we’ll have to jump for it,” answered the Vet/Pilot, “lucky you brought your parachute. Just in case. Stick it on but don’t pull the release ring until you jump,” he instructed Bunny. The sheep behind him seem to be getting anxious, so Bunny, being an animal lover at heart, asked “what about the sheep ?”
“Fuck the Sheep” answered the Pilot. “Jeez, do you think we’ve got time,” enquired the Co-Pilot. They were still debating the subject when Bunny pushed open the door and jumped !
As he floated down, he watched the Cessna gliding off into the distance. Still smoking, maintaining a steady altitude but rocking slightly. With the ground coming up rapidly he lost sight of the plane and its occupants. Somehow he managed to land safely in a sheep paddock, grabbed a lift from a passing lorry loaded with sheep which took him to Timaru. And Home.
To this day, he has no idea what eventually happened to the Pilot, the Co-Pilot or the pedigree sheep. There are some questions you just don’t asked in New Zealand.
“The Hash Menu on Monday was promoting ‘Marinated Leg of Lamb’ ! Oh, spare me please.” said Bunny.
AND SO WE PROCEED TO NEXT WEEK…