When major amounts of snow fall on Manhattan, the whole place goes fuzzy. People lose their edge and stop thinking clearly. The Gods let you know who's in charge, the fates laugh in your face and even the most hearty hashers are forced to deal with whatever the higher powers have in store.

That said, this day as Mayor Guiliani cursed the Port Authority for their inability to remove snow during the worst and only blizzard to hit NYC in four years, the MTA came through with flying colors, transporting me from my Brooklyn digs to Chambers Street faster than it might during a normal morning rush hour and giving me ample time to score a cappuccino and a window seat at the nearby Starbucks, all the while spying who would even be able to make it to the start of this challenging run.

First were Lesley, Peter and Crofty, who immediately sought out shelter in the subway station, followed by Scot, Mickey Mouth and Yi Shan. Then Crazy Bob showed up, clearly suffering from the bad karma coming back to kick him after he left me high and dry as co-hare last winter in a much less severe Friday night snowstorm. Looking for hashers and finding none, I waved him in and learned that Danny was out caught in a snowdrift somewhere while doing his best to set the trail in copious amounts of Kool-Aid mixed with flour. Before long, a good group of about a dozen had braved the elements and we headed out on trail.

For whatever reason I found myself ill-prepared for the running portion of this day, opting to trade in my sneakers for a twenty-pound pair of snow boots and was quickly dusted by the pack in no time. Lesley held back for me and we enjoyed an incredibly well-marked trail without checks which meandered from the court houses down to the Seaport, around to the Staten Island Ferry, through Battery Park City, the World Financial Center and then back over to Reade Street.

Upon entering the on-in, a most appropriate venue with a working fireplace and domestic pitchers for a mere $5, I was immediately accosted by Melissa, who had called me earlier in the day for the start location. Seems she thought I told her Christopher Street - not Chambers. Seems she then called her friend Sarah with the details, and Sarah made it to the real start. Seems like we clearly had our first official fuzzy-thinking NYC victim of the day as Melissa described in detail how she cursed my existence while seeking refuge in a Greenwich Village police station. Seems only appropriate that she'd earn the plunger, but then again, maybe that awful trail she set with Dave several weeks ago also had something to do with her current situation (NEVER mess with the Scribe, folks.).

Anyway, with nothing better to do than drink our faces off, we got into the task at hand whole-heartedly. This included (and my apologies if I leave anyone out, it's the snow talking…) Pat Cuff, Scot, Crofty, Roy, Hardy, Peter, Lesley, Melissa, Mickey Mouth, Yi Shan, Sarah from DownUnder, Sarah from UpAbove, Bob, Bob's Cousin, Devo and Basil. Of course, some of the usual civilian suspects showed up, but they know who they are and rumor has it that they're developing a new group…Hashers Who Don't Hash. (Although unconfirmed, apparently even t-shirts are in development.) Of the impressive contingent, there were plenty of down-downs, including the hares, Melissa (as mentioned) and Devo, but unfortunately the inclement weather ruined my notes and smeared all tell-tale signs of other offenses (no, I swear it wasn't the booze, I swear.)

Over the course of the evening we reveled in tales of way-back-when in THE STORM of 1996, which shut down the city, but never the NYC Hash (NEVER). I looked back in our archives and found the write-up to fill in the gaps…January 7, 1996. The trail was set by Basil, but was so poorly marked that Roy, Crofty and Peter decided to "mark it on their own" -- Dog's Bullock's style. After reminiscing, Peter continued to make some history of his own when he spotted some damsels in distress trying to pry their convertible BMW out of a nearby parking garage. Peter was all too willing to help, then took the Beemer for a spin around the block, leaving the girls standing in the middle of the street in shock, but the girls took it in stride and came in out of the cold to join us for a round.

Eventually, (as I recall we were closing in on around 10 p.m. by now - that's six full hours of drinking!) the hard-core crew decided to descend upon Rose's Turn in the Village to sing show tunes. Still nearly ten strong, we decided to split up into little groups and re-gathered at the site - not before the Gods would drop-kick me on my ass for attempting to throw a snowball at an unknowing passerby. By the time I reached Rose's Turn, I could barely speak, let alone sing (which is probably a good thing - I've been thrown out of these types of places in the past) and was the first (of the last) to head for home. Reports from the field say that only a very few of us actually even know how or when we got home - or how we were able to cook late night snacks without killing ourselves and our neighbors. My guess? Snow angels. 0_;-)

On-out.