With the Easter holidays reducing the pack somewhat, it was good to see a few unfamiliar faces turn up to Golden Jelly’s farm. Camel was the unexpected SP, while Seamus O’Pressed fronted up from England. There was even a visitor in the form of Fuk Rogers from Pittsburgh. Once numbers hit double figures the pack set off while Fartypants sacrificed his own run to drive out and locate Velcro Lips, hopelessly lost in the lawless NT dogroads, neck extending rabidly from her skylight.
As the pack set off uphill through the dragon fruit, Golden Balls employed his craft to short-cut the first hill and arrived at the check on the road just as Eunuch descended to it from the hill. Trail then went up a burnt hillside, contouring through the charcoal shiggy on steep rubbly ground. Coming down off the hill to a dry flash-flood creek, Eunuch pulled away, not to be seen again. The pack closed up in the obstacle course of the stream bed, negotiating rocks and climbing under or over branches: Stingray, GB, Walky Talky, Catch Of The Day, Seamus O’Pressed. Emerging to a track, GB found the way. One Eyed Jack materialised from nowhere to follow GB while Gunpowder Plod had fallen off the radar. As the pack approached an ancient wooden bridge, used since time immemorable by generations of toiling villagers and providing nurturing social links between brethren either side of the river, they witnessed the highly memorable sight of GB crashing through the wooden beam supporting his stupendous bulk and pitching headlong into the raging torrent below…
Well not quite. At this point, weaving through winding village paths and rural trails, the pack split up, with One Eyed Jack, Walky Talky and Catch of the Day pulling ahead and GB, Seamus O’Pressed and Fuk Rogers forming a solid trio in the rear. Stingray had been abandoned on a cunning trail dead-end. Markings led out to Lok Ma Chau Road, past the turning for the lookout and into the “forbidden zone”, opened up last summer and famously hashed first by the Northern on opening day.
Approaching a dog pack outside a house at the end of a road, we saw a friendly local keeping his dogs at bay as we passed by and went up steps to a graveyard. Trail led out of the graveyard and up through trees and then to scrubby hillside. Fuk Rogers, who had been anxious that there was some shiggy (‘It’s not a hash unless you come back blood and mud splattered”) gave a passable imitation of a bowling ball as she rolled down a steep descent. Again. As we ascended the ridge, Shenzhen spread out behind us like some Earthbound galactic star-formation zone, Stingray ambled past, muttering estuarinely about toilet paper leading nowhere. Then on the ridge, a miracle! Velcro Lips appeared in front of us like a vengeful Brienne of Tarth in fealty to the hare, who was bent on us doing her checkback. “Sod that for a game of soldiers,” said Seamus O’Pressed as the four hashers went down a cutting into waist high scrub. Down, down, winding around and suddenly there was the back gate into the farm and there was the pig sty and there was the beer, guarded by Camel, Fartypants and Luk Sup Gow.
Hashers were appearing from all sorts of wrong directions, but nobody died. Ale was quaffed, stories swapped, and some obscure ritual engaged in, but it didn’t matter. A fine trail by Golden Jelly and Camel.