Somewhere in that magical time between the last murmurs of conversation and the first rays of Sunday creeping over Lake Michigan, the weight of the Hunt finally hit. GASH – and Scav generally – isn’t something people get to be a part of every day. Standing on the back fire escape, sucking down one last cigarette in the desperate push to make it to morning, I looked in through the doors and saw the evening’s skeleton crew, working quietly alongside one another. It was a perfect kind of peace. The sun was just beginning to bloom over the lake, the arm seats on the couches were all occupied by dozing team members, and my friends – my family – passed the time in serene silence.
Scav happens but once a year – and for those of us on GASH, that’s not even a certainty. Every year, life comes creeping in under the door, nibbling away at our time, our will, our endurance. The excuses multiply. Each of us will have a “last Scav” somewhere down the road. I don’t know where we’ll all be in twenty years, but I am so glad we’re all here, now.
Mama Shaq, Mama Shaq, Shaq's your mom, that's a fact 