Hash House Harriers

I had heard about the HHH at various times and places in my travels, but never had the chance to check out an actual "Hash" until last Saturday. The premise appeals; a gathering that involves some type of remote hiking/running adventure cummulating in beer drinking and Barbecue. Other sailors were going too and transportation to the start point was available for a reasonable 20EC dollars. So, with the torrential rains that poured down most of the morning dissipating, we piled into Cuddy's taxi and headed up to Petite Etang, in St. David's parish

The van climbed higher and higher into the mountains, past small farms and clusters of houses until we caught sight of a giant inflatable brown Carib beer bottle poking up through the trees. A sizable clearing opened up revealing the staging area for the event. Plenty of parking, two shade tents for the bar and food service area, a generator keeping the beers cold, and a sign-in table. Today's event was a celebration of the 600th Hash for the Greneda chapter. Grab a commemorative T-shirt before they're all gone, an organizer advised us, and don't forget to sign-in: Hounds sign on the one sheet and Virgins on the other one. Virgins? Hounds? 600 Hashes? What kind of parallel universe had we stumbled upon I wondered?

Once the membership had assembled, Rudolf Hoschtialek the Hashmaster, took to the podium. Ok, he actually climbed into the back of a nearby pick-up truck and began to shout through his cupped hand while holding a Carib in the other. Club business was handled first with the thanking of members, the presentation of plaques, the bestowing of nicknames and then the particulars of this Hash were outlined. Participants could choose from one of three trails; the ironman trail that involved climbing up the valley we were currently in, heading along the ridge line and then descending down through the rainforest to reach back to the start; the runner's track that followed a similar path with what sounded like a less rigorous decent; and the walker's route which stayed in the valley, but promised an exciting stream crossing. He assured all hounds and virgins that most of the razor grass had been cut down along the trails, but to be careful of the slippery mud filled slopes. He reminded us again that everyone had to sign-in and then sign-out as they returned. That way they would know if they had lost anyone. It was unclear what if any action would be taken if this proved to be the case.

Gaging from the mob of people surrounding the pick-up truck and by quickly glancing at the sign-in sheets, I'd guess that there were around 200 people . Off everyone went as the start was announced. Some running others strolling - Roy and I were a bit stunned by the sheer number of people. Hiking for us isn't usually a group activity. We followed near the end of the line up - and at squeeze points we really did have to line up to pass through. The overwhelming feature of the trek turned out to be the mud. Rich, dark brown, slippery mud. Sometimes ankle deep. Sometimes threatening to suck the Keens right off my feet. Natually slippery slopes mean falling and sliding. Soon not just the feet and legs are mud covered. Hands and arms and especially backsides get a coating too.



I learned that this is the delight of these HHHers. They love the ordeal of the muddy mess. Once back at the sign-in point the swilling of the Caribs and the munching on Barbque begins. A fellow sailor told me this was his third Hash and each event had been a mud fest. Wet - muddy - unexpectedly fun.