Trail Master Leads A “Discovery Hike” (Translation: He’s Lost), And We Feast At Community Q BBQ.

On a beautiful autumn morning, five committed Trailheads gathered at the fringes of Emory University. We weren’t there for no stinkin’ book learnin’; we were there to do a manly hike in Mother Nature’s ample bosom (she wears a push-up number), nestled between busy urban roads. We were hiking the Lullwater Loop, a repeat of an April hike you can read about here.

Roy was the only missing member; he retired his hiking boots last year, but not his fork, knife, and spoon. Even if he were a hiker, he would have been on the disabled list this week. Roy received a steroid shot in his knee, which, instead of relieving pain, caused sharp, constant pain. His medic said it was common. The condition is called a “Cortisone flare,” and the doc didn’t charge extra for it. Thanks, medical science.

In honor of Roy, Trail Master Guy, George, Patrick, Steve, and Brad made their way over a treacherous fallen tree. We know Roy would have refused such a difficult challenge and probably doubled back to wait in his car. “It’s an omen” he would say. He is a true indoorsman.

We descended the trail to the watering hole (that’s Old West talk for “the creek”), where Fio and Elvis frolicked. We tried to frolic but threw our backs out and quit. Cortisone, anyone?

George grabbed a nature shot as Guy snapped a pic of George. You can never have too many of those. They are collectibles.

Trailheads soldiered on. Dutifully.

We came to the pretty waterfall and decided to mar its beauty with a selfie. We nonchalantly say “pretty waterfall” but you have to remember this is right in the middle of the city. Crazy.

Not content with that, Guy led us under the bridge for another shot because he liked “the light.” Or maybe it brought back memories of his troll days spent living under bridges.

As we continued hiking, we merged onto the Emory campus paths. People walked dogs in packs, and the animals became territorial as we passed. Brad struggled to hold Elvis back from rumbling. Hell, Elvis barely finished obedience training, much less college, let alone fancy college. The big black beauty was dying to mix it up with the well-educated canines, but Trailheads are peaceniks, and we avoid conflict. Others call us, “chickens.” You say, “potato, and we say...”

We walked past the beautiful pond—see? Not too shabby, eh?

Although we had been hiking for a good while, and were ready to head back (we felt we’d earned lunch), Trail Master insisted we keep going.

“Does this path go to the parking lot?” Brad asked.

“I don’t know,” Trail Master said. “It’s a hike of discovery. We’ll find out. Let’s go!”

We followed him, like the frightened sailors on Christopher Columbus’s voyage to India, fearing they’d fall off the edge of the earth. Would Kyrie Irving follow Guy? Most certainly not.

The path led us to a suspension bridge. Guy took out his trusty spyglass.

“I suspect the structure might support us,” he said. “Move out!” he barked.

“Hey—barking’s my thing,” Elvis complained.

“Shut up, dog breath. Now march on, everyone, STAT!” Trail Master bellowed.

As we crossed, we whistled the theme from “The Bridge on the River Kwai.” We hoped no one had wired the bridge with explosives. We made it across safely. Our troops didn’t like the looks of our surroundings, so we returned, with Fio leading the pathetic assembly.

Onward and upward, we followed a trail. Then on and on and on some more. 

We’d entered a magical land where mushrooms grew as tall as trees. 

“Do you think we can eat these?” Patrick mumbled, his mouth full.

“Spit it out,” George said, slapping his back, as Patrick gushed gnawed shrooms like a Pez dispenser delivering a jackpot.

On and on and on we hiked.

“Think we’re getting close to the parking lot?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know,” Trail Master said. He stopped to check his iPhone map. Our location couldn’t be found. We had slipped off the edge of the earth. 

We saw a man and asked him where we were. He gave us directions to our parking lot.

Brad questioned him about his instructions as Guy checked his phone again. 

We were off, AGAIN, on Guy’s “Discovery Hike” (or magical mystery tour).

Patrick began singing “The Fool on the Hill” as George proclaimed, “I am the Walrus.” Brad flashed a peace sign and sang, “All You Need is Love.” We walked down the hill.

We came to a road and crossed it like participants in a game of Frogger. Fortunately, no one was splattered.

Immediately, a text was sent to Roy inviting him to join us for lunch––the best part of our hiking game––but he declined, saying he’d rather baby his pain. Patrick vowed to eat his pain (sure, he’d need some Tums afterward, but that’s what friends are for).

Roy discovered that Japanese folklore includes the Baku, a “pain-eating” holy chimerical beast with a bear’s body, an elephant’s trunk, and a tiger’s paws. The critter eats nightmares so the afflicted soul can rest. However, if the Baku is still hungry, it may devour not only a person’s pain but also their hopes, aspirations, and joys… leaving them empty. It’s not unlike the disclaimer on TV drug ads. What’re you going to do?

 We headed to Community Q BBQ for our feeding. 

This joint’s vibe and staff are chill, and we bellied up to the counter and ordered. Then we skedaddled outside and found there was no five-top to accommodate all of us. So, we split up. 

Community BBQ is dependably delicious. Brad says their pulled pork is among the best.

George loved his roasted chicken. The skin was crisp, coated with a savory glaze.

Steve and Guy tucked into their smoked chicken sandwiches like they’d just discovered the concept of eating.

And Patrick shared his sloppy joe with a watchful Elvis.

The sides were hits. Brunswick stew was suitably stewy.

The black-eyed peas were brimming with good luck, even though it wasn’t New Year’s Day.

The slaw was cabbage confetti in a delectable sauce.

Crispy fries were dusted with flavorful magic dust (or maybe Patrick was still tripping on his shrooms).

And Steve enjoyed his ridiculously healthy beet salad.

Patrick burped a bit of Roy’s pain. We sat back and returned to our lives, where a mystical beast would eat our disturbing thoughts as we napped.

Rating: Four Ribs*

Community Q BBQ

1361 Clairmont Rd

Decatur, GA 30033

(404) 633-2080

communityqbbq.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. nj Ounr 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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