Lost Trail Master Gets All Philosophical, Fio Preaches, And We Devour Owens And Hull.

For this week’s adventure, Trail Master chose a site that General Sherman and his troops visited during their march to Atlanta, Cascade Springs Nature Preserve in the southwestern part of the city. While Sherman had brave men eager to march toward victory, Guy could only gather Steve, Brad, and Patrick—three guys eager to complain about everything.

“This trail looks dusty–my boots will get ruined.”

“Why do we always hike outdoors? Let’s try Perimeter Mall or Lennox, then we can hit the Apple Store.”

“I think I’m perspiring. Can we go home now? This is too much like work.”

It was almost like absent Roy was there, but the other boys picked up the slack for his bitching and moaning.

George was at his high school reunion in Pennsylvania. Because he’s a glutton for punishment, he even chaired the event. Coincidentally, George was voted Most Likely To Organize High School Reunions. We were surprised to learn they’d moved beyond one-room schoolhouses back in George’s day.

Roy was in Santa Fe with his wife, Karlenne, who was attending a painting workshop. The foolish Trailhead attempted hiking solo and blew out his kneecap. He managed to limp his way back to the car, drive to CVS for a knee brace and Advil, and ice his injury.

Medical Science will attend to him when he returns to Atlanta. This could be his most extreme reason yet not to hike. Patrick said he had a couple of spare excuses lying around if needed.

 We gathered in the parking lot of Cascade Springs Nature Preserve and met Taryn, a friendly woman who is the Arboricultural Manager for the City of Atlanta Parks and Recreation. We assumed she was like Leslie Knope in the series Parks and Recreation, so we looked for Ron Swanson because he makes us laugh. 

Taryn explained she supervises a team that measures, maps, and maintains Atlanta’s parks and trails, which sounded like a lot of work, and we were afraid she might enlist us to help (DANGER, DANGER, DANGER!). We’re glad to have people like Taryn working hard to maintain our trails, so we grabbed a selfie with her and sped along.

Cascade Springs Nature Preserve is a beautiful hike featuring Utoy Creek and impressive rock formations. Read about our last expedition here. On our first visit, we were puzzled to find fresh fruits and Godiva Chocolates on the rocks.

We later learned these were offerings left for the ancestral spirits by people who believe in Santeria, an Afro-Cuban religion. Yes, we felt guilty eating the gifts, but we were hungry. And the fresh pineapple was excellent.

Trail Master led his troops along wooden paths and dusty trails to Utoy Creek. Unfortunately, there were no offerings this time, not even a lousy apple. We left disappointed and hungry.

We climbed the hill, and our heart rates increased. Trailheads began to suspect we were getting exercise. While many of us wanted to take a break and maybe call Uber Eats, Trail Master drove us like cattle on the Chisholm Trail. 

“Get along,” he yelled.

We looked at the sharp spurs on his hiking boots, and got along.

He led us along narrow paths through vegetation that might harbor chiggers, ticks, wolves, and rhinos. Soon, we reached the end of the trail.

“We’re lost,” Brad said.

Trail Master stared. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we are. You took a wrong turn.”

Guy lit his pipe and took a philosophical pose. “There are no wrong turns on a hike. I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“Admit it. We’re lost.”

“I know exactly where we are,” Trail Master said as he referred to his AllTrails map on his phone. “And there are no wrong turns.”

“Um-hm,” Brad said. “Seems like we’re lost.”

Then Trail Master went all Caine on Brad.

“Not knowing where you are and being lost are two very different things, grasshopper. Follow me.”

We fell in line like lost sheep behind our stalwart shepherd, and he led us to a formation of massive rocks. Patrick thought it’d be funny to pick one up and throw it at someone, but he couldn’t budge the boulder.

So, we took a selfie instead.

Mr. Hunger attacked us, and we began our “I’m hungry” whines again. Guy said we’d head back to the parking lot, but “we’ll take the long way.” We thought, ‘What kind of a cruel maniac is he?’

We encountered a group of young women searching for the waterfalls. We directed them to turn around and follow the path, “But lower your expectations. It’s more of a trickle than a falls.”

 "As if." We're sure they thought.

Onward we marched and met a young man wearing a T-shirt we admired. His name is Trey, visiting from Alabama. We asked him if the barbecue joint on the shirt had good food.

“I dunno,” he said. “I bought this shirt in the bargain bin of a store.” We assume he was not aware of Giorgi Armani’s recent death. Or, maybe he was?

We tried squelching our disappointment because his shirt made us either uncomfortable or hungrier.

We continued down the trail, as Fio got an inspired gleam in her eyes as heavenly light appeared. She saw a small stage and mounted it. We sat in amazement as she spoke in tongues and called us “Foolish humans” and “insufferable companions.” We could do nothing but raise our arms in agreement as she preached to the choir. Would we have to bring offerings of fruits, vegetables, and high-end chocolates to avoid her vengeful wrath? She didn’t say, but we’ll be looking for chew treats and dog toys for her.

We returned to Owens and Hull Grand Champion BBQ in Mableton. Read about our last visit here.

Outside, Pit Master Tyler was feeding Georgia oak firewood into the belly of the red beast, a 500-gallon offset smoker.

Inside, the joint was packed with the longest line we’ve seen in ages. Since the place is closed Monday through Wednesday, we figured everyone was saving their appetite for great barbecue to pig out on Thursday. Steve got in line, and we handed him our orders as we crossed the floor to order some tasty beers from Reformation Brewery (the businesses are connected).

Brad and Guy sipped crisp, refreshing pilsners, while Patrick enjoyed an Altoona Pass hazy IPA because he was craving “a canopy of Amarillo and Citra hops for notes of sweet fruit, melon, and grapefruit.” He was still thinking about the fruits they had found as offerings at Utoy Creek. 

The people who work at Owens and Hull are very kind and friendly. Jonathan, the head caterer, brought water and dog ice cream treats for Elvis and Fio. The dogs conspired to run away and be with him instead of the goofy hikers.

Our food arrived and we dug in like Caterpillar excavators. One side of the table enjoyed the Thursday special, Smoked Burgers made with ½ pound ground brisket, American cheese, smoked onion jam, and special sauce heaped between a Martin’s Potato Bun. Jonathan told us it takes 10 hours to smoke the burgers that are finished on Big Green Eggs. Guy and Brad cooed like content pigeons as they greedily ate.

On the other side of the table, Steve and Patrick devoured the Pulled Pork Sandwich with a combo of vinegar and Alabama white sauce. Steve topped his with some slaw, and the men ate like hungry NFL players (sans athletic talent).

Steve said the coleslaw was some of the best he’s ever had.

And Brad loved his Collard Greens. 

“The veggie is simple, and excellent,” he declared, striking a Plato pose (obviously influenced by Guy’s philosophical stance earlier).

As we finished eating, a wonderful woman named Addie came to clear the table and to give Elvis some good loving. The dog looked like he was ready to dump Brad for her tender touch.

Trailheads left the building satisfied, and Guy took Fio to inspect the Chattahoochee. It was still wet and still flowing — all good in Waterville. 

We hit the road, with Patrick in his new Corolla hybrid. It was a fun day.

Rating: Four Ribs*

Owens and Hull Grand Champion BBQ

6255 Riverview Rd SE 

Building 4000 STE 100 

Smyrna, GA 30126

(404) 467-4427

gcbbq.com

*About Our Barbecue Rating System

Trailheads do not claim to be food experts, epicureans, or sophisticated palates. We are hungry hikers who attack a selected barbecue venue and ravage our way through whatever smoked fare and fixings they're dishing out. Our reviews feature what we believe are the highlights of the menu we sampled. So our intent is not to trash talk the saintly folks who tend to smoldering smokers on hot, humid summer days. They are sacrificing themselves in the noble art of smoking meats and feeding the drooling masses. Many are independent entrepreneurs who are the backbone of this humming American economy. Now that you know our standards, you may wonder why every barbecue place gets a four-ribs rating. The answer is easy: our group has acclaimed designers, and they think the ribs graphic looks cool. Who are we to argue? Enjoy.

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