Last Sunday afternoon 12 hashers joined Delivery Boy’s family at “ze Froese Kompound” for an evening of running, drinking, eating, and ensuing frivolity. What was billed as a high-class European affair quickly devolved into a redneck outing more befitting its location—Lexington County.

If the creek don’t rise…

As most of us know from living in South Carolina for some time now, the culture of the south is not very time-conscious; any plan or appointment is implicitly or explicitly amended with the words “…if the creek don’t rise,” giving the promisor an out in the likely event that the agreed-upon action does not occur on time. I say all this in explanation of why we didn’t run the shiggilicious trail I had scouted on Wednesday. Besides thick brambles that would have given everyone, especially Wandering Dick, cool scars to be proud of, it had a precarious tree-over-the-creek crossing, mud, swamps, middle-of-nowhere beverage stops, dirt roads, trailer parks, pickup trucks, and shot guns (cue the Deliverance theme.) Alas, it rained from Friday to Saturday, and the creek did indeed rise to the point that the log over the creek was underwater, and what would have been a sloppy wet & muddy hash, would have turned into a swimming hash!

“I’m a member of a country club…” – Travis Tritt

So, my next best plan was to go through the prestigious Indian River Golf Course and the new Lake Francis development. After what I thought an ingenious, long, downhill false trail (no word from the FRB who checked it out,) the hashers arrived at my brother’s house (and the father of NNDana – virgin who ran with use last summer.) Where I had left a humble cooler of beer, he had—in suburban dad fashion—turned it into a backyard party complete with tours of his basement bar: The Skidwood Lounge, where the NASCAR race was playing and the Busch Lite was flowing. The next portion of the trail took hashers along the 15^th fairway where they undoubtedly caused more than one golfer to shank his ball in to the woods. Here another rain-swollen creek was crossed, but on the relative safety of a golf cart path.

“Last time I saw a mouth like that, it had a hook in it.” – Al Czervik

You’d assume that golf courses are immaculately maintained from every angle, but from the perspective of the greens keeper’s maintenance shed—the site of the second beverage stop—the hasher were treated to a view of the gritty underbelly of golf industry. Bill Murray’s character in Caddy Shack has nothing on Indian River’s Matt the greens keeper, who supposed he’s never quite had a party like this, and is said to have commented on the “pretty mouth” of certain hashers. After admiring the rusted old equipment scattered around his workplace, it was “on on” and time to scare some more golfers and avoid angry white ball “accidentally” pitched toward this menacing distraction that we call the Columbian Hash House Harriers. After another devious uphill false trail, the hasher crossed the Lake Francis dam, went up and down a hill, and finally “on in.”

The ensuing hoopla

One by one, the hounds found their way back—lead, of course by Run Like Raptor—in search of more refreshments. Interestingly, our lakeside gathering had a strange effect on the female hashers, as nearly every one of them stripped to their sports bras and jumped into the cold, muddy water. Off My Meds got a strange but not unfamiliar gleam in his eye, ran to his car, and returned with his fly rod. Then my brother, NNSimon, opened the hot tub, and I realized I need grab a hold of the situation and called the circle together before everybody wandered off doing their own thing (incidentally, WD was present but on the injured-reserved list.) I certainly do not have the same gravitas that our esteemed RA, Bashful, exhibits and was only able acknowledge the virgins, punish the most egregious trail violations, and half-heartedly lead a few hash choruses. Returnees NNDaniel and NNJeremy escaped with impunity, but anyone indicating any connection the previous day’s “R” event in Charleston (including yours truly) had to pay for their sins with a down-down.

My mother’s turkey & gravy, and most of the rest of the pot-luck was inhaled in record time. To the best of my recollection the rest of the evening was spent in the hot tub drinking all of my father’s beer and some of his best liquor, Killepitsch—what a host! The hot tub was filled with up to 11 bodies at once, starting with impressive sex ratio, but eventually dwindling down to NNAdrienne and 10 dudes—a veritable sausage party!

One by one, the hashers slipped away, evaded the Lexington County Sheriff patrol, and found their way back across the river.

In attendance:

Betty Kaboose

Wandering Dick

KBF

Chips A Ho

PH32D

Fowl Finger

Muffy

Runs Like Raptor

Nantucket SleighRide

Potty Mouth (new hasher from Okinawa Hash?)

NNAdrienne

NNJeremy

NNDaniel

...and at least 2 other virgins who didn't sign in.