Sunday, 25th of May
Hash
N+313 – A Beautiful Disaster
What a
trail. What a gloriously shitty, thorns-up-your-butt kind of trail. Just
Laura’s very first solo haring, and wow—what a debut! We tried really hard to
find a flaw in it. We squinted. We second-guessed. We blamed the flour. But
nope—turns out, the only thing shitty about it... was everything, and we
loved it.
Let’s break it down:
·
The trail? Shitty.
·
The waterfall? Extra shitty.
·
The
high grass and bushes? So shitty, it was practically a botanical war crime.·
There
was only one complaint from one brave (or foolish) Hasher: apparently, there
was another trail out of the waterfall that we could have taken.
But did we? Of course not. We’re Hashers. We retraced our steps like confused
goats until we stumbled onto the new one. As for the complainer—well, it wasn’t
his trail, and we all know the Hash rulebook is mostly fictional anyway.
The pack
was small but mighty at 15:00. Just Dileep made a dramatic entrance just as we
were heading out—timing so perfect it was almost suspicious. The trail started
innocently along a road, luring us into a false sense of security, before
yeeting us into a bushy dirt path straight out of a survival show. A brief
uphill grunt, then into a waterfall park that was… there. It existed. That’s
about all we can say.
After a
quick hydration/photo/breath-catching stop, we backtracked (again, because
navigation is optional) and plowed through grass tall enough to hide a small
car, then over some barbed wire because trespassing is just another word for
freedom.
Soon we
hit the beer stop—a magical place known to locals as “a supermarket.” Cold beer
was chugged, dignity was lost, and then we headed back to the start.
The
circle was short and sweet—like a cheap romance. Some returning Hashers graced
us with their presence, bringing along a seasoned UK Hasher who last ran in 2004
in Asia. That’s right, 2004. He regaled us with tales of the Hash back
when GPS meant “Going Purely on Stupidity.” Much laughter was had, most of it
at each other.
And now,
brace yourselves: the next Hash is the legendary BH3 Weekend Away in Alto
Paraíso—a majestic, mystical place where the trails are tougher, the beers
are colder, and the complaints are louder. It’s going to be one gloriously
shitty blast.
See
you there. On-On!
Ah, Mother’s
Day—that sacred Sunday when good Hashers should be at home brushing their
mums’ hair, faking sobriety, and desperately Googling “last-minute gift ideas
that don’t scream regret.” But plot twist! Instead of staying home like decent
people, 16 fearless weirdos crawled out of their hangovers and showed up
to the last Hash, ready to run, drink, and mildly terrify innocent bystanders.
And now,
we bring you:
The Next Hash, hared by dynamic duo Just Laura and Just Nina, a
wholesome mother-daughter team who’ve bonded over their mutual desire to ruin
your afternoon.
They’ve
promised a truly garbage trail, complete with hills, dirt paths, and a
waterfall no one asked for. Pack your enthusiasm (or don’t), and whatever you
do, leave your fancy shoes at home unless you enjoy crying over suede.
🗺️ The Trail:
📍 Start: Parking lot at Borracharia
do Erisvan, SHIN CA3, Lago Norte (yes, a tire shop—don’t question it)
🏃♂️ Runners: 7–9 km of “Am I
training or just trying to escape my life choices?”
🚶♀️ Walkers: 5 km of “This
counts as cardio if we gossip fast enough.”
🍻 What to Expect (Besides Regret):
🎭 Chalk Talk: A quick
tutorial on trail markings, traditions, and why we do this to ourselves.
(Spoiler: no one knows.)
🍺 Beer Stop: Because Gatorade is for
amateurs and beer is nature’s electrolyte.
🎉 Circle: The sacred ceremony of shaming,
shouting, and singing songs that would get us fired from any real job.
🌦 Weather Forecast?
Brasília says: “Challenge accepted.”
Prepare for:
• Sun so
hot your SPF gets scared
• Rain that feels like a personal attack
• Mud in places you didn’t know had crevices
• A drunk Hasher trying to climb a tree (again)
• A trail so twisty even Google Maps goes, “nah, bro”
• Sudden existential dread (it’s tradition)
Bring sunscreen,
a poncho, spare socks, and a therapist’s number—just in
case.
So dust
off your sneakers, hydrate like you mean it (with beer), and emotionally steel
yourself for an afternoon of chaos, carbs, and questionable decisions.
You
weren’t born ready, but you were born weird—and that’s more important.
On On! 🧃💀🪩🍺
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