September 18, 1999 - Useless Kodiak Kamp Hash
And Useless he was, because our Kamp Kodiak Kommandant got us lost two days in a row. The first time at least the distant lake gave a glimmer of hope, but the second day found us dangerously disoriented, with crazed hashers going around in circles in never-ending woods, every person claiming to know from which direction the wind blew and no end in sight. It was decided then that we would cannibalize Two-Jugs first, him being the meatiest and/or fattiest, and us women weren't so much worried, since on land and since the dark ages it has been well established that men of the opposite sex are contemplated last. And here is where Saltlick got her name - ask Roadkill how - even though she insists not being a hasher, and Clod left her in the kitchen to brown the hash and hash the brownies. So another Saturday night, and we ain’t got nobody, but at least we’re all mellowed with good gruel and hash fuel, and led in choir by two of the Beatles cousins in the star-spangled velvety night. Next day our musty mycologist, phylogenetically classifying every toadstool and champignon in his path, plucked his own breakfast, but was the only one partaking of this delicacy, the rest of us awaiting doomsday results, but none came, and on top of that it was the first time that the Oakville hashers had to declare the hashbrew undrinkable, a sad day in time, but soon forgotten by a sunny day and a canoe.