The Bigfoot Chapel Hill Hash

As previously noted, the Hash House Harrier phenomenon arrived in North Carolina in the early 1980s. Hashers get together on a regular basis to choose one of their kind to be a “hare.” This hare will lay an intermittent trail marked with dollops of flour, and the remaining hashers—or “hounds”— attempt to follow this trail. At the end of the hash there is always food and drink—the famous hash après. Hashers are known by their quirky yet somehow appropriate hash nicknames, names they earn after proving what they are made of over the course of several hashes. This report, known as the Hash Trash in hashing circles, concerns a late summer hash course laid in Chapel Hill by a Scandinavian hash enthusiast with a charming accent and a couple of large pedal parts. No, Bigfoot ain’t from around here, folks. He mysteriously says he comes from somewhere in the west—Burlington or Graham or some other alluring and unpronounceable name. But I think he may really be from somewhere down east—I’m thinking Burgaw or Bug Hill. There are those stories the old folks tell about the legendary Bigfoot who stumbles out of the swamps of Robeson and Columbus Counties on misty winter nights to terrorize the locals. Coincidence, you say? Maybe so. Maybe so. All I know is that the Danish word for monsterhashlayer sounds awfully like “beegfute.” What’s that all about? So Bigfoot says to himself—I’ll lay this hash in Chapel Hill from my daughter’s pad and I won’t leave anything out except Finley Golf Course and the Dean Dome. Maybe a little voice echoed in Bigfoot’s head saying: “And you’ll do this in about five miles and about an hour, right?” But if he heard that voice, Bigfoot ignored it. Can’t leave out those woodsy bike trails off Estes Extension or the student houses and keg parties in residential Carrboro, Bigfoot’s fevered mind reasoned. And then there is Carr Mill Mall to be run through and the hash has to run right down main street in Carrboro. Then head on over to Chapel Hill and stop for a beer break at one of the pubs on Franklin Street. Okay, Mr. Foot, all that sounds good— and then we jog home, right? Well, what about running down Franklin Street for the sheer glory of it, Bigfoot whispers out loud. He’s nodding

his head as he talks to himself. And the opportunity to run all the way through NCNB Plaza (and look at ourselves in the hallway mirrors) and then burst through the glass doors leading to Franklin Street again—passing the line of chanting Hare Krishnas and stopping at the cross walk to sing a contrasting tune of past hashing heroism (possibly amusing said Hare Krishnas, but possibly not). Then on to those must-see symbols of the oldest state university—the Davie Poplar and the Old Well—where the photographer was taking pictures of the wedding couple with the best man looking on, and the dollops of flour led right between the newlyweds (I was sure there was a dollop squarely underneath the bride but we never did find out for sure). The best man smiled at our taunts but the bride was surly. Balmy looked at Feces and Feces said, “On-on!” Okay, that was fun, Mr. Foot, but when do we get to go home? Got to do the arboretum, says the evil Foot, then by Bill Friday’s house and past the old library, and (of course!) down the hill through the woods back to the Bolin Creek bike trail and the Bolin Creek express back to the après. Was it eight miles? Was it two hours? Was I a beat ‘Wurm? Certainly t’was. Oh, did I fail to mention the hare’s insistence on running part of the way with blue ribbons attaching staff and distaff hashers? Wow, now there’s a tradition that’s bound to catch on at hashes! So, Bigfoot did finally get us all back and Mrs. ‘Foot put on quite a spread at the Foothouse. We caroused on the back porch as the light faded from the sky. We razzed Micro for being porcine and lazy. We razzed Alden for not having a decent hash name. We razzed people we didn’t even know and razzed people who weren’t even there. We razzed the young friends of Bigfoot’s daughter, one of whom asked if Endangered Feces was Feces’ real name. We assured him it was. We razzed Bigfoot until the air grew misty and a cloud covered the moon and we remembered the old folks’ tales and hastily exited Bigfoot’s lair, looking over our shoulders with hearts beating rapidly, until we reached the safety of our cars and locked the doors. For more information on hashing see: • Tar Heel Hash House Harrier web page: http://pages.zdnet.com/commentateur/tarheelhashers • Sir Walter Hash House Harrier web page: http://www.swh3.com/