As I keep mentioning, I’m from Florida. But what is more relevant for this entry is that I grew up in a trailer (and later, a house) in the woods. So when I was younger I was surrounded by trees and spent a lot of time among them– going on walks, sitting on giant rocks, crossing railroad tracks, and getting lost, tripping, ripping your shirt, and worrying your mother to death.

To say it was a culture shock when we moved the The Suburbs a decade and change ago was an understatement. There were houses where trees should have been, and the trees that were around seemed very spread out. I had to go to an honest-to-goodness nature preserve for my woodsy walks, and that is something I take advantage of. In addition, due to lack of a transit system and a steady set of wheels, I was used to walking everywhere.

I was drawn to the isolated patches of surviving wood, and the creeks running parallel to the highway. And the more I used the sidewalks, the more likely I’d wander off them. I forage for blackberries, green onions, and chives whenever they were in season. I explored some of the city on my feet, starting with the concrete, through the bush, along a creek, and back to a sidewalk again.

Hashing is a mixture of athleticism and sociability, hedonism and hard work; a refreshing break from the nine-to-five routine. Hashing is an exhilaratingly fun combination of r*nning, orienteering, and partying, where bands of Harriers and Harriettes chase Hares on eight-to-ten kilometer-long trails through town, country, jungle, and desert, all in search of exercise, camaraderie, and good times.

About Hashing

Last year I began hashing with my nesting partner; a combination of my pestering and his desire to share a hobby with me. I kept hearing amusing and frankly, fun stories from him and I wanted to experience it for myself. It was also a way to get my homebody out of the house (read: exercise), and to satisfy my “be more social” goal that was set back by COVID’s beginning. It felt very much like my ambling about in my college and early-post college days, minus the cheap beer.

Yeah, there is beer (if you want it)! The cheap stuff, because there needs to be a lot of it! And on the path, there are marks we could follow to the next stop (or get punk’d, if the hare is a jerk), and we drink another beer. Some of us run (and we make fun of them), but most of us walk (and we also make fun of them), but we all have a good time. Oh, and remember when I said “fun”? I meant debauchery. We sing rowdy songs. We (with consent!) slap each other’s butts. We sing a lot of vulgar songs, with cursing and naughty words. We also like to party, to the point where pants sometimes go missing.

It’s been a little over a year now since I began hashing. I saw interesting out-of-the-way sights, met some pretty cool people, and had a fun time doing all of that.

Hash House Harriers have different “kennels” around the world; the foundation is the same but each kennel have their own traditions and marks! One tradition is being bestowed a “Hash Name,” but how you get one differs from kennel to kennel. For our local group, you have to hare your own trail first. After being talked about, pestered, and interrogated, whoever is on your trail that day will decide on a name based on your answers and what they know from hanging out with you.

Oh. And the names tend to be Not Safe for Work (remember the debauchery and rowdiness). And you gotta hate it at least a little bit. I am excited to do my naming trail today. I am the normal amount of socially anxious/nervous, and (said in jest) utterly terrified of what bullshit name they’re gonna stick me with!

On Out, shitlords!