An actually true* account of the Cliffhanger trail at Hunter's Point.

 

 

 

Hunter's Point is a very odd place to run through-- lighting tends to be poor, there's sometimes a little bit of a decaying fish odor in the air, and everyone you see is going to look at you suspiciously. This was especially true of the group of guys in trucks who *were not* hashers despite me having made the mistake from a distance. I think they thought I was a prostitute with a particular focus on the exercise gear aesthetic.

 

 

 

But I digress. Because we were sort of out of the way, it was a smaller but not unsubstantial group, and we went out of the gates and into the foggy night with a bang. The thing about that part of Candlestick Recreation area is that you can only run in and out of the land mass through one narrower isthmus, so I suspect that some people *grumble grumble Cuming Mutha* may have shortcut a bit. It was too early in an SFH3 trail for a drink check, but part of hashing requires willful ignorance, so a lot of us took a loop on the peninsula.

 

 

 

Afterwards we were back on the streets and over the 'beach' -- the quotations are required for the large bits of broken glass and debris that made up a lot of the terrain. Give it a hundred years and the inevitable force of erosion, and it'll be something to envy. For us it was a lot of careful stepping and shortcutting until we made our way back to the street.

 

 

 

And there was the moment-- that fateful Turkey/Eagle split. If you chose Turkey, you would have been satisfied with a short romp through unexplored turf on an otherwise unremarkable night. Eagles had another thing coming. We ventured up onto Bay View hill, the road progressing from pavement to rocks to plain dirt. The brambles and weeds creeping closer and closer didn't much help matters, and all present were reminded why shiggy socks go knee high. Some enterprising shortcutters like Three Fingers and Just Doesn't Get It chose to go the high road, but I have heard their option required belay rope and crampons, so it wasn't to be recommended.

 

 

 

Now, I have had over a decade of scrambling on various SFH3 and other Bay Area shiggy, and I have to say what we encountered was the most technical route that had been laid before me. We mounted a series of three overhangs, each one progressively more difficult than the one before. By the time I was at the second, I was throwing my flashlight up to the next level and either Douchicorn or Five Angry Inches (or both) were dragging me up to join them. If there is one thing the hash is oddly good at, it's getting hashers through shiggy together. By god if we started going up that cliff, we were all going to the top. Cirque du So Lame's virgin was right along with us, and as a team we assembled ourselves on top of one terrace after another.

 

 

 

So there we were, progressing slowly ever upwards, when it lay smack dab in front of us, big and bold on the side of the hill. A large, carefully floured, exquisitely laid backcheck. You want to talk about the stages of grief? Because on that trail the pack went through them all. Denial? One by one we all trooped up to take a look at it, Brown Eye, The Perfect Woman, Fucker, Cunty Butler, Titty Boo Boo, Fuck Norris. Anger? You better believe that each and every one of us cursed Banana In Public's name. Bargaining? Maybe if Bloqueen just goes a little further it will all work out. Depression? I have never seen I Cunt Hear You's face so sad. And at long last, thwarted by the geological and botanical forces that had shaped Bay View Hill, we achieved acceptance and trooped (or slid) downwards back towards the Turkey Trail.

 

 

 

There is something exquisitely sad but poetically hash-like to force Eagles to give up and go back to the Turkey. On any other trail I would have thought it a neat trick, but on this trail I was too busy pulling those god damned thorns out of my socks. We regrouped around the beer van, where most of us drank our sorrows away while Cockagami mocked us for being stupid enough to do trail, period. We reconvened for circle and licked our wounds, named Just Tony 'Bierectional', and harassed Banana In Public for the hell he had put us through. And that, as they say, was that.

 

 

 

Oh yeah-- I'm pretty sure Cirque du So Lame married that virgin.

 

 

 

 

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

*For legal purposes all of this is completely made up and you cannot hold any of it against me. But this is pretty much what I recollect.