The Sooke Hash will definitely "go down" in the anus of Hash History as one of our best ever hashes. The weather was perfect; sunny, warm and sparkling clear. The venue was the Sooke Potholes; one of the loveliest places on the island.
Most of us actually showed up on time, unheard of behaviour for Hashers. Plumber's Mate was waiting for Stoolie who had run out of flour and gone back out. For a while there it looked like Stoolie was going to be the BLAB at his own hash. He arrived 45 min. after the start time, bloody and shaken after having fallen, cut his leg, hit his head and been stung in same by a wasp. Not an auspicious beginning. Finally, an hour after the start time we began; Stoolie having put the fear of imminent death into our hearts regarding the perils of the trail.
As we ambled out of the parking lot Kitty Licker pulled in. We now thought he was the BLAB. He had run out of gas ( never believe the gas gauge on British cars). Fortunately he had his bike strapped on the back of the car and so had ridden off to purchase a jerry can. The runners went off up the Galloping Goose trail.
Being among the walkers I cannot describe what transpired during the next hour. Deflowered ( recently returned from China) Grog and I were waiting at Skipping Stone beach for the rest of the Hash runners to make their way down from the upper beach. Suddenly a figure came into view.
It was Double Hump, a full 2 hours late; now our third BLAB of the day. I am amazed he found us. We amused ourselves swimming, sunning and skipping stones. Double Hump turned out to be a master at this art.
Finally I heard dim noises off in the distance. Looking down the canyon I spied a curious sight; little balls floating down the river. I put my glasses back on. The balls turned into heads. There they were; The Aqua Hashers, swimming down the river. By the time they made it to Skipping Stone Beach many of them had been in the water for an hour. They were a pitiful sight. Testy's foot was frozen and she had difficulty walking on it . The skinny runner types all had hypothermia. Stroke Alone was the worst. His hands had the pallor of one long departed from this earth.
Stoolie wisely decided at this point to abort the rest of the trail ( the tough part ) and head directly to the beer check. Of course that meant crossing the river again ( where Grog dutifully fell in, having managed to stay dry up to that point). Then an enervating climb up the hill to the Beer Check. What's this?? Not enough beer to go around. High Beams selflessly gave me her beer which I shared with Grog. Then back down the hill, across the river ( where I noted exceptional pillow lava formations) and on to religion.
During religion there were many accusations and recognitions. Plumber's Mate and Beaver Fever did a down-down for alcohol abuse. Stoolie was of course reviled for having set such a splendiferous Hash and various others drank for no apparent reason. It was after seven as we finished religion; having arrived to start at two-thirty. All in all, a great way to spend the day.
Slow Cooker