Everything I wrote about Birdbrian after the last hash he hared was a lie. Stand-up guy, always comes through in a pinch, a river to his people, etc., etc., yadda yadda yadda. All lies. Turns out he’s a big ball of resentment and loathing, and he took it out on us by setting Monday night’s trail.

The venue for this travesty was the Fox and Fiddle on Laird. A perfectly nice bar, with tasty beer for those who would rather sit there and drink.

But no. After Birdbrian left to lay trail, we waited a few minutes and then set out after him. We ran rather pointlessly west around the corner from Laird before heading up to Eglinton. Along the way Doctor Zeus had to ask a fellow dog owner for a plastic bag in which to carry his droppings, which he claimed were the product of his dog Ocean. We crossed Eglinton, then ran up the alley behind it for a couple of blocks. Turning north again, we crossed the lawn beside a church, which turned into a path that led into the deep dark woods.

The inevitable water barrier appeared. Which, of course, needed to be crossed. The next obstacle was an extremely steep hill that demanded in places to be climbed on hands and knees. Many of the bimbos were especially good at this. At the top we skirted the soccer fields for an unexpected gift of flatness, then it was back into the woods again for a descent about as steep as the previous climb. Then through a bit of swamp at the bottom.

The pack had split into two by then, with the Lost Patrol of new boot Angela, Johnny Cockring, Backdoor Buzz, UPS and National Pornographic apparently wandering in circles in the wilderness. Just remember, the moss grows on the north side of the tree. Doctor Zeus was somewhere in the middle, being hauled through the underbrush by Ocean. Trail emerged in a parking lot and then led along the park road, though Wet Pussy insisted on getting another river crossing in there, because it’s good for his skin.

But there was another river crossing, under the bridge over Eglinton. By this point all good sense began to suggest that it was about time for a beer check, but in fact the hardest part of the trail was just about to begin.

We laboriously climbed the ravine slope on the network of trails the mountain bikers have carved out, sometimes on the narrow rickety bridges they’ve built. Towards the end there was a series of narrow switchbacks perched precariously on the cliff face, quite ingeniously, like something out of The Wages of Fear without the nitroglycerin. Closer to the top of the hill there was a lot more underbrush, helping to obscure yet more trails winding up to the miraculous BN! that heralded our salvation.

And there was the beer and chips, at the end of an industrial road. Time to relax and fondly reminisce about our lost comrades. Except by that point the mosquitoes were really coming out. They had developed a taste for human blood, but we would do. So it was less fun than you’d think to enjoy your beer and stand around gloating until the next wave showed up.

After about 15 minutes one could hear the vigorous swearing of Johnny Cockring as he trampled the undergrowth and parted tree trunks with his bare hands. Further rustling in the brush soon proved to be the latecomer Casket Case, heading straight up the hill because he don’t need no stinkin’ trails. He confirmed that a number of missing hashers were still alive and en route, including Half Wit, who was not actually in attendance, but was possibly an apparition induced, Yeti-like, by the rarified mountain air.

Of course by this point the creeping dark was making the trail hard to see, as well as producing hallucinations. But all the stragglers did eventually bash their way to the beer check, and there was even some beer left for them.

In some ways, the long walk to the bar through the post-apocalyptic industrial wasteland seemed like the toughest part of the trail. Not helped, of course, by those on foot having to watch Birdbrian’s vehicle, packed like a clown car, hurtle past with Wet Pussy at the wheel, leaning on the horn the whole way.

Our co-GMs Rose Eh and Johnny Cockring alternated the down downs like precisely meshed cogs grinding in harmony, smoothly balanced pistons pumping up and down, well-oiled gears spinning in the smooth, steady transmission of power, in a metaphor I don’t really care to think about.

After all of that, er, climaxed, who should show up but an extremely relaxed Flyer? She is one smart woman.