GFH3 Run #1,681; 26 Jan 2013

Thirty-four of us (including a host and three hares) got the time right and showed up at 11am in... drum roll, please... flourish of trumpets... make it a kettle drum... GREAT FALLS!  And while we didn't have the sense to start a pool on the number of people who will bang on the Ole Fud's door at 3pm, I'm going to guess three.  And what a hash they missed!  The eagles spent two hours in the not-very snowy woods trying to find pink flour that was melting away with the snow on which it had been dropped, and trying not to crack an ankle as they skidded over wet rocks, wet leaves, and well-packed slush.  But they had a nice bit of sunshine in which to do so, and above-freezing temps, albeit not by much.

The turkeys (and this group is mostly turkeys -- no further comment, please)  were out for over 90 minutes, and the walkers for an hour or more.  The walkers, incidentally, seemed to split up into about a half-dozen splinter groups, and when there are only about eight of you in the first place, that's quite an achievement.

The trail was set by Air Horn, Phoenix Rising and Zipperhead -- each working separately.  So you can understand a) why the trail was relatively lengthy, and b) why the hares weren't sure whether the turkey trail saved runners about a quarter mile or closer to two miles, or something more, less or in between.  Also why there was, perhaps, some sort of an incidente officiele whose details we'd sooner not know...  There was also a great deal of shortcutting, including by our FRB, Valiant.  The eagles you can probably guess, but if you want hints:  Suck, Squeeze, Something... the Not-calm Mechanic... Longa, Schlonga... Difficult Strider...

Valiant explains how, by skillfully not following the trail much at all, he was able to finish the run about 30 minutes before anyone else.

Back in the garage, we had hot soup and bread and cheese and chips and stuff.  You know the expression, "Hunger is the best seasoning"?  Well, it's not true.  Whatever Felicity used in the black-bean soup is the best seasoning.  And the promise of a tour of the trains-and-tracks wing of the Fud estate sharpens the appetite nicely, too.

I read the roll, given the absence of both the Mufti (romantically vacationing on a warm island) and the associate Mufti (undergoing an intensive cheering and smack-talking regimen in preparation for the Big Game).  I have crowned (be-fezzed?) myself the assistant associate Mufti on the spine-chillingly meaningful occasion of my being entrusted with the official roll for the first time ever.  Hip, hip.

Don't I look authoritative?

INDY helped out with the photos; here they are.