The group circled up for chalk talk. Marks were explained with the usual mix of confidence and questionable accuracy. Arrows, checks, - simple in theory, but destined to confuse at least half the pack once beer entered the equation. Nods all around suggested understanding.

Trail kicked off smoothly, surprisingly so. The hares must’ve been feeling generous, because the path was well marked and almost suspiciously easy to follow. No one got properly lost, no backtracking, just a steady progression with the occasional shout of “On-On!” echoing ahead.

The first beer stop arrived without drama. A quick regroup, some laughs, and a few well-earned drinks. Spirits were high, legs were warm, and Just Doug dog was jumping on everyone in sight. Then came the second beer stop—the real turning point. Out came the Fireball and Jägermeister, accompanied by Seagram’s Ice like some kind of chaotic holy trinity. Shots were consumed with enthusiasm.

By the time everyone staggered back toward the finish, the stories were already forming. But nothing topped the crowning achievement of the night: Disco Ass earning the coveted “Hash Shit” award. Not metaphorically, not figuratively—literally. A mid-trail incident that would not soon be forgotten, discussed in admiration. It takes a certain commitment to the cause to secure that title, and Disco Ass delivered a shit on trail.

As the night wound down, people gravitated towards the on-after, High Hat.

On-On.

Perhaps this is hash trash, which hasn't been written in lo so many years, but I feel I owe the walkers somewhat of an explanation. My valiant cohoare Strap On and I laid out a wonderful trail through lower Carondelet. It was well scouted and planned to a T. The early part of trail had the Eagles and Turkeys/Walkers meeting up at a very well-secured chruchyard overlooking the Mississippi River and Arsenal Island where a Puke Halt was left. We messed up by putting the PH in a very dark corner of the lot, which was missed by both groups. Our bad. Puke Halt to be leveraged at a future trail.

Continuing south and down to lower elevation, the hares laid a true trail arrow out of the alley, through an abandoned building and out the front door. As we laid said true trail arrow, there was a dude hanging out by his car in the alley and we didn't really acknowledge him as we passed and laid the directional mark. A short time later, the Eagles passed through and found their way. But sometime after that, apparently the alley man saw our true trail arrow, and decided to lay his own true trail arrow with his own chalk in a totally different direction. When the Turkeys/Walkers then came thru, they were pointed to a totally wrong direction and lost their way. Fatliner, a runner, earlier shouted out to the dude as he passed, "nice night for a run" to which dude responded, "at least there's beer at the end." Makes me think our trail hijacker had some history of hashing and has his eye on fucking up our trail this fine evening.

The runners eventually found the beer stop at Alaska Park, where we were graced with a fistfight between a couple of unhoused gentlemen, and where also Wet Spot retrieved a porch-pirated box of Asian food. She honorably decided to reclaim said food and will be returning the box to its original address somewhere in deep south county. Great work, Wet Spot!

The remainder of trail had the pack heading north on the closed section of I-55, back down to the Carondelet Greenway only to face some light harassment from a few more unhoused folks trying to enjoy their bonfire in solitude under the Loughborough overpass. Meanwhile the Turkey/Walkers adjourned to the Little Bar for a rousing game of Thunderstruck with the bartender before craniuming back to circle.

A religious ceremony was expertly conducted by Triple D, who awarded Fake Bake hash shit for dismissing himself to the commode exactly when he faced an extended turn in Thunderstruck at the Little Bar. A good night was had by all on the warmest evening of this January week. God speed to all with the incoming deluge of frozen shit. See you Saturday.

Yours in Gispert,

Disco Ass