Trail Master Announces Death March, We Hike A Slick Trail, And Chow Down At City Barbecue.

A leader must always be on guard for dissent among the troops. The undercurrent of grumbles can rise into a chorus of bellyaches, and soon there’s a mutiny. Before you know it, the leader becomes Commander Queeg (Bogie, baby) in The Caine Mutiny, wondering who stole the strawberries and his command.

This must be how Trail Master Guy felt as he returned from his vacation on Hilton Head Island and found his squad bickering over the Trailheads’ origin story (read about that brouhaha here) and discussing the possibility of expanding our dietary menu beyond barbecue to include burgers and pizza. Had the world gone mad?

Our good friend and sometimes hiker, BA, read the origin story account and claimed she is the Mother of our group, providing photographic proof that five-sixths of the Trailheads had assembled initially at one of her festive and fun agency parties. Her claim is under consideration, and the photos appear to be real.

Guy gathered the men he could–-Steve and Patrick, if you stretch the definition of men to its outer limits–-to hike the West Palisades Trail on a drizzly Thursday morning. Patrick showed off his fresh knee replacement scar compared to his other five-year-old scar. Thankfully, he kept his hip replacement scars in his pants.

Trail Master reviewed his pathetic troops and said, “You hike with the army you have, not the army you might want or wish to have at a later time.” He sure knows how to give a pep talk. Where were the rest of the Trailheads?

George was in Chicago, living it up with old pals and discussing the start of his podcast about the Olympics—watch out, Joe Rogan.

Brad was on Manhattan Island with $24 worth of beads, trinkets, and tools to see if he could negotiate a trade for the land. He’s focused on deal-making these days. Be on the lookout for the introduction of $$Brad crypto coin.

And Roy, silly Roy with his painful plantar fasciitis, returned from his trip to Scotland complaining about how much his feet hurt, but then played pickleball for two days, and said he couldn’t hike due to his “injuries.” 

“Besides,” Roy said. “It’s raining out there, and I could drown. It’s in my contract. No rain walking!” We reviewed the 3,284-page legal document, and he was right. He has a strict “no precipitation” clause.

We’re starting to think he doesn’t enjoy hiking very much. However, Roy mentioned he was free for lunch. The man is dedicated to the higher calling of his stomach.

Guy brought his Roy doll so he could be with us in spirit; of course, we had to listen to the doll’s endless whining, but we began our hike anyway.

The trail was as slick as eel spit, and the rocks and exposed roots were eager to take down careless feet. We tread carefully—a person could bust a hip out there. Even titanium ones. There were many trees down, which meant we had to stay alert for falling timber, like back in our lumberjacking days.

The trail was empty. Only Trailheads were brave or foolish enough to be out on this wet morning. We crossed the bridge, heading toward the majestic Chattahoochee River.

Patrick and his wife, Donna, recently put a contract on a plot of land to build a house within a five-minute walk of The Hooch in Peachtree Corners. You can see she’s thrilled about it. Patrick mentioned they might scrap the house idea and live in a van down by the river instead. He pleaded with his friends not to tell his wife about his penny-pinching plan. 

We posed for a selfie with the Hooch running as high as a hippie at Woodstock. 

Speaking of being high, we recently read a story about a couple of hikers in New York's Adirondack Mountains who frantically called authorities and reported that their friend had died while climbing a mountain. When forest rangers arrived, they quickly learned that the hikers were high on mushrooms and that their friend was alive. But wait, what’s that Trailheads saw off our trail–– a mushroom! Uh-oh.

We didn’t eat the ‘shroom. Trailheads never hike high, and we suggest you don’t, either. But if you discover a gummy bush, all bets are off.

The expedition continued until we reached a place that is legendary in Trailheads’ lore: the infamous Chigger Holler. Read about that fateful day here. The tragic incident left Steve with 27 chigger bites, making him itch as if he were wearing an all-wool bodysuit. Roy commemorated the event by designing and producing t-shirts. 

We didn’t enter the Holler and began walking back to the parking lot. Bad Boy Guy noticed a sign prohibiting parking or standing, so he had to snap a pic of us next to it. That man is either a rebel or a criminal.

Roy was told about our lunch plans for a return visit to City Barbecue in Sandy Springs, a dependable favorite of Trailheads. The lovely Amber was welcoming and took great care of us. Her smile is warmer than the sun.

Amber somehow recognized what life had done to our bodies and gave us the “Senior” discount. Age has its perks, kids. 

Roy suddenly appeared and placed his order. Not hiking had left the poor man famished. He searched high and low but found no barbecue in Scotland.

We mixed Arnold Palmers to our liking at the beverage station. (Even the Coke drinkers had Arnies since, sadly, they serve Pepsi products.) City Barbecue has fresh lemonade—the good stuff. 

Patrick tried a new menu item, the Not a Sloppy Joe sandwich, and it was superb. A toasted bun is heaped with pulled pork, pulled ribs, and brisket, all blended in a spicy-sweet Chipotle Peach BBQ sauce. Tangy dill pickle slices and crispy onion straws finish the picture of perfection. Don’t miss this flavor sensation. It's a barbecue buffet in a bun.

Guy and Steve enjoyed their pulled pork sandwiches. The City excels in smoked meats. Top your sandwich with any of the delicious homemade sauces, and you’ll be in hog heaven. Steve topped his sammy with what appeared to be a pint of coleslaw. He said it’s healthier that way.

Roy, our slaw expert, raves about City’s version of the classic. “It has the perfect balance of sweet and tangy, crispy, creamy, and delectable,” he says as he adjusts his tasting fork for attack mode. 

Roy ordered the Pitmaster Special. It’s a plate of pulled pork, a large serving of that wonderful slaw, and a mini-cornbread loaf. He saved the cornbread to complement his wife’s dinner. She likes his barbecue day.

The fried pickles are always a hit. City Barbecue makes pickles that could wake Rip Van Winkle’s taste buds. The flavorful slices are breaded and fried to a crispy brown. Amber made sure we got a couple of tubs of ranch dressing for dipping; she didn’t want us to miss out.

As Andy Taylor would say, “Um, um, Aunt Bea, I declare those are some mighty tasty fried pickles!” Opie would roll his eyes, tired of his old man’s hick act. Aunt Bea was famous for frying just about anything, and breading was practically a food group in Mayberry.

The fresh-cut fries are a great choice. Aunt Bea would approve (and bogart the basket). 

Also, make sure to try the City’s fried okra. Each nugget is a flavor bomb.

And because we’d earned it, Trailheads enjoyed the dessert of strawberry cobbler topped with fresh whipped cream. It was decadent and delicious.

We wrapped up, sat, and talked about all matters great and small. Then, Trail Master made a startling declaration. 

“Let’s keep hiking until we die,” he said.

We exchanged nervous glances and pondered whether we’d soon have to bring shovels on future hikes. Perhaps it was time to steal the strawberries.

Trailheads chose to call it a day and head home. 

Rating: Four Ribs*

City Barbecue

6649 Roswell Rd NE

Sandy Springs, GA 30328

(404) 902-6656

citybbq.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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