I am too lazy to update the web side but back end is up to date.
| Hash Details | |
|---|---|
| Hash Number: | 568 |
| What: | Hockessin Hash #568 |
| When: | July 27, 2005 |
| Where: | Rittenhouse Park, Newark, DE |
| Hares: | Gayblade Miss Pissylvania | Message |
| What: Hockessin Hash #568, Miss Pissy's Pool Party When: Wednesday, July 27, 2005 at 6:30pm Where: Rittenhouse Park, Newark, DE Who: Gay Blade & Miss Pissylvania Why: For the next couple of days, we're supposed to be having the hottest days of the year so far. Luckily, our thoughtful and kind hares have apparently arranged for a post-hash pool party type of thang. So bring whatever you like to go swimming in (and Rosebutt, you will need something more than your b-day suit). Instructions: This is an A&B -- bring your bathing suit in your dry bag (or just wear it on the hash!). Despite the name of one of the aforementioned hares, please, no pissing in the pool. D'erections: From I-95, take exit 1/Rte 896 North towards Newark. Get in the right lane. You are going left at the next traffic light, but there is no left turn, instead there is a jug handle. So, just past the second traffic light make a right at the jug handle onto West Chestnut hill Road - (If you miss the jug handle, go to the next left, make a u-turn, and wave to Butthead as he prepares for his fashionably late arrival). -- go 1/4 mile up the hill and make a right into Rittenhouse Park -- follow the entrance through the woods -- Park and Hash --- | Hashers |
| Hash Trash | |
| Fooling with Mother Nature Hash #568 July 27, 2005 Hockessin Hash House Harriers The sky was darkening and threatening clouds were swirling. The twelfth straight day of 90 degree temperature was drawing to a close as the Slobbering Pack, stinking from all the usual moist body parts, converged upon Newark’s Rittenhouse Park. A promised evening swimming pool party apres swelled the crowd to such a state that a single City Park could not contain us. Hares Miss Pissylvania and Gay Blade pulled a small train of overflow Hashmobiles over to a wooded parcel of land near the confluence of the Persimmon Run and the Christina Creek. Aha! A Swim Club peeked through the trees. From the Club came the enticing sounds of kids laughing, cannonballs ker-splashing, witty & sophisticated adult conversation, tinkling martini glasses. All were simply a frustrating foreshadow of things which were not to be. We piled into the Hare’s vehicles for the quick jaunt back to our trailhead. Clouds got darker and tree branches began to twitch rapidly in all directions. There was a big blow abrewing, so we hurried out onto trail. Immediately we tippy-toe traversed the boulder strewn River Styx, known locally as the Christina Creek. Mossy stones may make groovy chairs but they make shitty stepping stones. When slippery river stones are combined with relative humidity of 112%, a few welcome cooling slips into the drink were bound to, and indeed did occur. There, on the opposite bank hidden amongst a bit of shiggy – a Falsie Mark! The hounds recrossed the stream, returned to the point of origin, picked up the trail, moved downstream a mere half hundred meters, and were force marched again through that goddamn stream! Then, as the grizzly bear just coming to terms with his homosexuality says, we were “Out of the woods and into the Streets” of Newark. Lots of concrete sidewalks, asphalt parking lots, flexible hot-mix bituminous pavement – then a tour of the University of Delaware playing fields. Eventually a beer stop and a massive display of both hell and heaven on earth. Mother Nature, capricious lady/whore that she is, sent a cold, painful and drenching rainstorm down upon our heads, whilst simultaneously throwing multiple forks of blazing hot, screaming white lightning crashing across the sky. The foolish among us huddled beneath an open SUV hatchback, while the slightly more foolish gathered ‘neath the faux shelter of a towering Spruce tree. As the storm abated, we raised our aluminum cans high to toast our fortunate survival of this discharge of atmospheric ions. It was at this point that a decision had to be made, for it was likely that the Hares’ well laid trail had been blown and washed away for good. Should we continue to stay on trail, or should we cut our losses and run for home? What path others took I do not know. What adventures others may have slogged through I will leave to others to tell. But as for the misadventure which befell Skidmarks and Bunion Butt after the storm, I feel more than qualified to describe, as I am quite familiar with both of these Hashers. Through a series a small and nearly imperceptible mistakes in judgement, they found themselves LOST IN THE WOODS! Streams which only hours before could be forded with two giant steps were now sporting Class IV whitewater. Attempts to cross such torrents often result in next day’s newspaper headlines describing the search changing from a rescue to a recovery operation. Stumbling around in the dark, shiggy clawing at their ankles, they finally climbed out of the Evil Forest into an Industrial Park. Bearings caught and co-ordinates established, the two stumble bums slogged the three asphalt miles to their cars. They re-established contact with the Hares to say that all had ended well. Soaking wet, bloodied and thoroughly humbled, they slinked back home to lick their wounds. But hey. I heard the apres was great. | |
| Files: | |
| Fooling with Mother Nature.doc | |