Purposely Cast Away

Riding the Edge

I survived, mildly scathed, my adventures on this weekend’s hashing adventures. It has yet to be determined whether infection will set in among the hundreds of shallow slashes on my arms, but, from what I can tell, I’m in the clear. As a sad precursor to my tales in this entry, my steadfast compatriot, Mr. Brent Vickers, was unable to attend the famed Berserker, this made especially ironic since he helped set the course. Unfortunately, Brent has come down with some kind of illness that, albeit nonfatal, incapacitated him enough that he was forced to abstain. His symptoms include fever, a swollen lymph node, bumps in his mouth, and fatigue. A little break from work, a lot of sleep, and a hefty dose of Amoxicillin should hopefully do the trick.

In Brent’s place was my other comrade, Mr. Andy Wiewel (although being the brave soul he is, he probably would have attended, anyway). Although this was my first weekend of hashing, I had attended the much shorter, normal hash on Saturday. The berserker was Andy’s first. A bold lad his is, indeed, but we’ll get to the tales of that in due time.

Late afternoon Saturday (4pm, to be exact) was the rendezvous time for the first go. Brent and I drove down to the meeting place, a church (not by coincidence, I’m sure: those Christians among the group would probably want to say their final prayers from this point) in Agana Heights, about 20 minutes south of where I’m staying. There we encountered a slew of bizarre characters that definitely fall into their own category of adventure-seekers. Many were athletic (the cross country running physique), seasoned folks, most of whom were wearing t-shirts they acquired at various hashes around the world. There were also several who did not at first appear to be physically up to the task of running like maniacs through the woods, whether that be due to age or physical condition, let alone getting beyond a resting heart rate. One guy (though others were wearing them, this guy deserved it) was wearing a t-shirt reading, “XXXXL Fat Boy Athletics.” However, they all proved to be quite capable of doing just that, even if a bit slower than the rest. It is true that a lot of these activities have much to do with will and, to some extent, less to do with being in shape.

Not only did these people appear eccentric, but their nicknames were even stranger. Just as a few examples (I’ve censored out certain names for the sake of decency… you never know who’s reading this), there were Tampon, Who’s Your Daddy?, Hamhock, Sex, Bambi, Berserker (can you say “frequent hasher”?), Pink Torpedo, Needs Meat (okay, so maybe that shouldn’t have been included), Viagra, Chili Chili, and Saw Bones. All of these names have a story to go along with them, most of which I have yet to hear about. Lest I be scarred for life, maybe I should be kept in the dark.

From Agana, the caravan made way to the southern-most chunk of the island known as Inarajan. The course was set along the topographically varied property of one of the hashers, allowing unruly behavior to be all the more acceptable. We parked our cars along the main road and met up down an overgrown side street. Our first order was to “step inside the box,” which was basically a starting line. The hares, who I soon found are the ones who set the trail for the hounds, gave us a little themed introduction to the trail. On this particular occasion, the three hares were among the shortest of the group and, due to this, they decided to have a Wizard of Oz theme, in which they were members of the lollipop guild. They were dressed entirely in green, blue, and red, respectively, each with matching striped socks that looked as though they belonged on a circa-1980 basketball team. Before beginning, they each took a hit from a gas tank (as in, gaseous, not petroleum-based fuel) filled with what at first we thought was nitrous oxide, but ended up being, as was obvious when they began to sing (oh, yes), helium. And so it went: “We represent the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild, the lollipop guild, and…” Before that becomes too obnoxious, you get the idea.

The little munchkins were given a 5-minute head start, during which time Tampon, the overseer and fluorescent-hard-hat-wearing man, informed the FNGs (that is, F@%$ing New Guys) of the rules, which I won’t fully explain here since they have little relevance unless you’re actually running the event. Suffice to say, the hares lay down various markers indicating their path, many of which are meant to confuse. This often leads people off track until they see a marker telling them they need to turn back and try again. What fun! Often select members of the lead group will investigate different directions and find the correct path for others in the pack. Other than that, you’re just following the path and enjoying/bearing/loathing what befalls you along the way.

This particular course certainly ended up being the most appropriate for someone around 3 feet tall. Any brush that was cut was only removed to about that level, so, in the forested areas, you were either crouching down or crawling to get through. As is the case when it has been raining so consistently, it was also incredibly muddy, which lead to numerous slippery spots. We crashed through the woods at either a jog for fast walk, with occasional interspersions of running, as we made our way. One of the best parts, for me, anyway, came towards the end. The course lead down a very steep, slick hill that was covered in bamboo. Much butt sliding and grabbing at underbrush was had by all. At the bottom of this hill, we were plunged into a river. Although this river may very well have contained Leptospirosis (a nasty little disease caused by a bacteria found in many water bodies at the island’s southern end), the cool water was refreshing and sufficient to remove most of the mud I had collected along the way.

After exiting the river, the trail lead for about 100 additional meters and, well, that was it. It was over before it began (only about half an hour). Needless to say, that was much shorter than I was expecting. In addition to being concise, no one succeeded in catching the hares this time. Of course, that’s not saying much given their stature in relation to the course. Also, when you get a 5-minute head start on a thirty-minute course that you know better than your taller counterparts, you’re kind of assured a win. But that’s neither here nor there.

Once finished, everyone gathered around the “On-Home” as it’s called for a bonfire, refreshments, and revelry. Much beer and other drink were had by all, but this was especially true for the hares. For, as I quickly learned, “If one hare drinks, ALL hares drink!” And thus it was repeated about 500 times during the closing ceremony that never seemed to end. Yes, the strange ritual, lead by none other than Tampon, he of the bright helmet, honored, embarrassed, or otherwise chastised pretty much every person in the large group surrounding the fire. The hares got the full brunt of this.

The most entertaining aspect of this process was that the ceremonial drinking was conducted out of a metal bedpan. Each time a person was called upon to speak, their shoulders were draped with the official Agana Hash sash, they poured a can of beer into the bedpan, and they drank down as much as they could in one gulp, pouring any remaining beer behind their body or on top of their head. As was expected, myself, along with the other FNGs were called up for a sort of induction. We were required to say our name, where we were from, who made us come (ahem), what we thought of the hash, and either sing a song or tell a joke. If we did not comply, we would be forced to “pull down [our] pants and expose [our] penis[es] to the ladies.” Now, both the ladies and men would be “exposed” to such an unimpressive site (this being especially true if one is in front of a large group of strangers in wearing wet pants), so there’s a lot of incentive to come up with something funny to say.

I chose the former route, stating, only when asked, of course, my name, where I was from, who made me come (my response to this being the standard “your mom”), that I thought the hash was short and muddy, but good (which brought many a boo-hiss from all but the hares), and sang a chunk of Monty Python’s “Bruce’s Philosphers Song.” This seemed to go over all right, especially given that I was not forced to remove any clothing.

Soon after this, but long before the rites ended, Haldre, Brent, and I left for greener pastures, namely dry clothes, dinner, and a movie, not necessarily in that order. We went to Blockbuster and finally decided upon “Lost in Translation,” which none of us had seen, but about which we had heard a lot of praise. I’ve been wanting to see that movie for a few months and luckily Brent remembered to look for it. The only problem was, they were all out. Feeling thoroughly dismayed, Brent continued half-heartedly looking for something else. In a rare instance of properly-firing nerve endings, I thought to head up to the front desk and see if they had a copy amongst their recently returned selections. Upon initial inspection, the Blockbuster employee at my service found nothing, but, with additional encouragement (i.e., strangulation), he found a copy. Eureka! All was right with the universe and we finished off the evening in good spirits, our minds and bodies sated.

Not so bright and early the next morning, I was up making cookies like a madman. We’re not talking ordinary cookies, either. These were monster cookies the size of a salad plate (or about 7’’ in diameter). I had made some prior to the hash the day before, but the double batch of dough proved insufficient. By the time I was through cooking the second double batch, I had about two dozen cookies of that size. ‘Nuff for the berserker, ‘nuff said.

Soon after I finished my baking (just call me Betty), I gathered up my newly purchased “rocket” Camelbak (small and stealthy), Powerbars, gloves, flashlight, shoes, and, let’s not forget, pants. Leaving Brent on his death bed, I headed over to Andy’s place where he was at the ready, swimming trunks and all. Let’s say it would have been a painful day for Andy, in more ways that one, if he only worn those. So, I had brought along with me an extra pair of outdoor-type-person (i.e., awesome) pants and thin, long-sleeved shirt for him to wear. Needless to say, he looked extremely snazzy. It would have been smart to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt myself (rather than the short-sleever I was wearing), but l was fairly unaware of that particular danger until it was too late.

We met up at the same location and again proceeded down to the southern part of the island. The crew was smaller this time, consisting of almost 20 people rather than the 40 or more from the day before. Most of these people were the die-hards, or wanna-be die-hards (myself included), who apparently like pain… a lot. Running tights, energy bars, and “personal hydration systems” abounded. We were ready to take on the world… or at least kill ourselves with overexertion for no particular reason.

This is probably a good time to briefly discuss the landscape of southern Guam. Being a small tropical island with no recent (in geologic time) volcanic activity of any significance, there aren’t really any mountains, per say. There are what amount to big hills (the highest of which is about 1300 feet), but nothing comparable to many places in the states to which many of you reading this are probably accustomed. This being said, many of the large hills/small mountains around here are incredibly steep. In many places they’re practically vertical and, unless you have climbing gear and a distinct love of heights, not physically possible from a hiking perspective. It was during this hash that we climbed up some of the very steep, but not vertical, sections of numerous large hills. For, in my case, a total of four hours.

For the berserker, the hares (in this case Haldre was one of two) are given a 15-minute head start. Though this may seem like a large chunk of time, it’s not really that much with so much difficult terrain to cover. This is especially true when you have some really determined guys on your tail that can run like antelope, maneuver over treacherous terrain like mountain goats, and climb like orangutans for hours. Maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but when you’re taking baby steps down a steep, muddied, knife-edge hilltop (or just sliding on your ass) while one of these guys flies by you as if there’s more than enough traction (traction that, in fact, does not exist), it’s not so far-fetched.

Although a major chunk of the group was what seemed to be several miles ahead of me from early on, I was still with a good group of folks for the first half of the journey. Myself, Andy, Berserker, and a young lad named Mica were all trucking along the hilltops, where we had views of some of the island’s most beautiful spots. Around the top of the first hill, rain began coming down in sheets. It was incredibly windy, too, but it felt fantastic. At that height, many of the mountain tops were cloaked in low clouds, reminding me some places I saw in Maui and Puerto Rico. Rain and wind were a blessing for the most part, but the major drawback came in effect on the trails. They were muddy and incredibly slippery the entire way. Still, that made some descents that much easier in that you could slide down with a fair amount of speed. I became proficient at the sitting butt/foot slide. Picture, if you will, sitting down with your legs outstretched in front of you. Tuck one leg up near your body, placing a lot of your weight on that foot. Keep the other leg out in front (to stop you from smashing into rocks) and steer with your arms. It’s a lot of fun and pretty efficient if you distribute your weight correctly.

After the first mountain, I was by myself for a chunk of time, meandering through a thicket of bamboo in a swampy lowland area, which lead me to a river. I saw some flagging along the river, but I wasn’t sure exactly which way to go (the markers were both upstream and downstream from me). I went downstream for a bit and crossed over to the opposite hillside (also incredibly steep and covered in bamboo). I hacked around, looking for flagging for a bit, having thought I saw where people had gone before me. After a few minutes, the other three lads came up behind, catching the current downstream. I soon joined them and had a blast on what was for a little while a natural waterslide. We got back on track for another long climb uphill, which was covered entirely in sawgrass. This lovely plant is what became responsible for slashing my arms to bits over the course of the hash. It was omnipresent, thick, and tall. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too bad while you were in the thick of things (thanks to exhaustion and adrenaline), just a bitch once the journey was over.

Much climbing past, including some tricky places though triphasia, until I saw before me a pile of soiled chord. I was crawling under some shrubbery at the time and at first thought it was some junk left by a previous hasher. Upon following said chord, I reached an interesting section involving a brief vertical incline of wet rock, over which this now obviously rope was placed. Suddenly, and unequivocally, I knew what I had to do. CLIMB! It wasn’t far to climb, but it was tricky, especially when you’re tired and there’s a precipitous drop-off right next to you. I looped the rope around my hand and, after a few changes in footing, yanked myself up.

By this point, let’s just say I was pooped. And it wasn’t even half over. Yeah! The following section was by far the most difficult for me because it involved climbing up a muddy section of hill where there was no way to stand up and little ability to gain any footing at all. Basically, I had to pull myself up the hill with my arms one lunge at a time. Finally, I was at the top and took the only break of the journey, namely to remove the collected gravel (much of which was from the river) from my shoes. Taking Billy Joel’s advice, I remembered my second wind, ate a Powerbar, and proceeded down one of the most level areas of the trail.

From about this point on, I was alone and, given that this is already quite the epic, I’ll summarize more concisely from here (probably much to your relief). The rest of the way was a series of ups and downs over mountains, about three from what I remember (with various hills in between), all accompanied by spectacular views. During the time I was along this upper, somewhat flat section, the clouds had partially cleared away and the sun was beginning to set. The sunset was blocked by clouds for most of its descent to the horizon, but you could still see the orange light poking through. There was also a clear view of the ocean from several sides and, along with the quiet and breeze, it was the most peaceful place I’ve been since arriving.

Around 40 minutes later the lights went out and my headlamp came on. There’s nothing quite like the experience of climbing up slippery slopes in the dark, looking for small pieces of flagging or paper (much of which has been tread upon several times) to find your way. The crescent moon, accompanied closely by Venus right now, was pretty spectacular, but it was the only thing I could really see by that point. At the top of the final major peak, the highest one, I believe, I discovered something amazing. Gold, you say? The remains of a caveman? Nope. A cane toad. And a gigantic one at that. This was literally right at the summit. Why was there a toad up there?! I have no clue, but I was surprised… and honestly impressed.

I muddled through and, around 8:30pm, I made it to a road. I had run out of water about two-thirds of the way in, so by this time I was hankerin’ a drink big time. One of the diehards, by the nickname Knave, had caught up with me towards the end (the only reason he was behind me was because he had taken a major detour, thinking he saw one of the hares… he quickly passed me), but we met up again along the road and somehow made it back to the vehicles. We were less than a mile from them, which, after all the hiking I had done, wasn’t a bad jog. We picked up Knave’s truck and went back to fetch Andy, Berserk, and Mica. Another hasher was waiting at the cars and soon after a load of the front-runners arrived in a car. We quickly learned that where we had come out was nowhere close to the actual end of the hash. By miles.

Apparently, somewhere about halfway through, we took a wrong turn, missed an “on-back” (meaning “turn around, moron”), ended up seeing markers that, unbeknownst to us since it was dark and we were coming from a different direction, were from the first portion of the trail, and arriving close, but not quite, back where we had started. In actuality, it wasn’t a huge difference in distance. On a map, our path was much shorter, however, it was much steeper for basically the entire way. Those that followed the real path had it much easier in terms of topography. Whatever the case, it was certainly a lot of fun. I just feel responsible for the screw up since I was calling back to let the other 3 know where to head. I guess I don’t feel too badly since Berserk, a far more experienced hasher, figured we were on target, And, yes, this is all a lame justification for the fact that I screwed up. You can see right through my paltry excuses!

Well, folks, it’s time for me to hit the hay. It’s late here on Guam, I need to wake up early for field work, and I’m sure you have better things to do than read this posting. Let me just say that this whole berserk experience was a hell of a lot of fun and, once I recover a bit, I’m probably going to do it again. Yes, I’m insane. Also, lasagna, after you have been jogging over rugged terrain for several hours, is one of the best things you could eat. Although, I suppose that really goes for anything slightly palatable.

Posted by Isaac at February 24, 2004 1:15 AM