PRINCETON HHH HASH #728.4


Date:    August 11th, 1999
Weather:  Parchingly Hot
Time:    1 hour and 15 or so
Set by:  Throatwarbler Mangrove and Microwarbler
Venue:   Mojave Desert Annex off of 206
Hashers: Juicy, Hand Solo, Uranus Williams, Rubberalan, Llloda, Shwaa,
WeePee, Grant, Bob, Jennifer, Tabletoes, Tropical Depression, Discomfort,
Natural Born Lesbian 


                        Descriptions, Polemics, and Lies:


Throatwarbler of Arabia


I was passing the evening in the conservatory of "The Club" one evening,
enjoying my prime location in a comfortable leather chair near the
fireplace, yet with a delightful view through the picture window of the
setting sun basking Hyde Park in that gentle twilight glow that warms my
heart nearly as much as the fine brandy I was enjoying with my decent but
certainly not great Nicaraguan cigar.  The glow of the evening colors
distracted me enough from my perusal of the late edition of the Financial
Times, such that I could not help but overhear the boisterous Colonel
Rambeaux recount some Club newcomer with another one of his overblown tales
of his service with the Raja in India, and some trek across barren reaches
of the Himalayan steps, without either food, water or compass and his
troops' ragtag flight back to Delhi.  


In spite of myself, the Colonel's tall tale caused me to reminisce of my
days serving with the Throatwarbler in the Mojave Desert Annex in the last
drought filled days of the century, when it seemed as if the apocalypse
truly was soon to be upon us.  Ah yes, I remember it well, as if it were
yesterday, or at least the day before, the arduous parching trek we took
across the barren, arid terrain, when our small company had to reach the
X-Point where our cache of supplies had been dropped.  


We had been patrolling the bush for several weeks, in the midst of the
longest drought in memory, and had been undersupplied from the start, such
that the cache was our only hope for survival.  Our reconnoitering had taken
us of late from the far reaches of a swamp-like delta to a wild-goose-like
chase through bramble and thorn tinderboxes searching for an unconfirmed
sighting of the reptilian fancier.  We had lost a few comrades in our recent
treks, such as the aged one, who took temporary leave to go eclipse hunting
with the native Scotians and the deepthroated one, last seen taken captive
by the tribe of octogenarians.  Yet, our stalwart company was pushing ever
onward, while not knowing when a reprieve from the oppressive heat would be
at hand.


And so it was that hot dog-dayed August evening, knowing that our supplies
were short, our legs and lungs tired, and yet we moved on, en masse, wiping
the blinding sweat from our eyes, ripping our clothes from our backs in the
heat and searching for signs to direct us toward the cache.  Through a
village of bewildered locals we went, obviously wondering what kind of mad
dogs or Englishmen would be out on such a day.  Not wanting to alarm the
locals, we dipped into the underbrush and on we went, moving ever forward,
yet without knowing how far hence we had to go.  Through the sun spackled
fields we continued, fields that at one time had been filled with a
cornucopius display of bounty, yet that were now contributing to the ever
expanding reaches of the great desert.  


And finally into a maze-like series of dry washes, that from my youth I
remembered had once flowed with water like trumpets from heaven, washing the
countryside with a deep green Irish glow like that rarely is seen outside
the enchanted emerald isle.  Oh what a sad sight I remember, as this once
lush countryside of impassable swamps and streams was reduced to the smell
of decaying, dried out carcasses, swarms of insects striving to feed on our
blood, and a parchness that can only recall a week-old scone.  So we
followed the dusty streambeds and scorched earth like I had not seen since
my days with the conservation corps in the days of the dustbowl.  Our bodies
bloodied and scratched, our clothes tattered, and our energy waning in the
final hours of summer we walked and tried to run, only to enjoy a joyous
feeling of elation like never experienced before or since as we arrived at
the cache.  Like drunken, belching sailors we laughed and replenished our
tired souls with food and drink.  Ah those days serving with the Warbler now
seem so far away.  So tired we were then, and yet, it was like we never more
alive.



 PHHH 728.4