Grueling Hash

[Martin Hash]

My last name’s Hash, it’s a natural my kids all do hashing, an international fraternity with the moniker,“drinkers with a running problem.” Hashers go all around the world, in fact, my son, Haven, lives in Peru, and he invited us to help him set up a trail for the weekend, called a “hare.” Sure, that’s perfect time to spend together, so my wife, Gwynne, and I went with him.

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We took an hour trip in a van to outside of Lima with a dozen other Hashers, all there to help map out trails. Haven said 9 hashers from Oregon were would be there for the weekend event. They were a dedicated group that was hashing throughout South America. Now, I don’t know if that had anything to do with the trail we were marking or not but, Jesus Christ, I’ve had less grueling root canals. My guess is the local hashers wanted to leave the impression that the Peruvians still practice their Incan heritage of living on verticals mountainsides and are descended from mountain goats.



At 3 sweating, scrabbling hours in, I could see the resort we started from in the distance. Whew, I thought, finally done, then Haven said they were planning on making the trail even higher up the mountain, bypassing the resort, and going back to the beach for a second time. I couldn’t even see the ocean and I was on the top of a mountain. I looked over to Gwynne, knowingly. “Your mom and me are going to hightail it back for a beer from here,” I told Haven. Even then we still had at least an hour ahead of us. He said he’d see us later... 3 hours and 4 beers later as it turned out. My legs hurt, my shoes were filled will grit, I had blisters and sunburn. Then it was all explained to me: my newly-married, Heath, a heavy-duty hasher, had texted Haven to say he knew the folks from Oregon. “Hey, those guys cancelled out of my wedding Hash to go down there. You make sure you show them a good time, if you know what I’m sayin.”

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