Trail Master Tries Killing Us, We Survive And Prank Brad, Then Feast At Herb’s Rib Shack.

Incredibly, five of six Trailheads rallied this week. The only one missing was Roy, who listed enough ailments to keep the Mayo Clinic busy. Despite his endless list of reasons why he couldn’t hike, none of them affected his design abilities, so he created a new Trailheads tee. Nor did his maladies affect his digestive tract, and he joined us for lunch. The man is dedicated. And smart.

On this hike, Trail Master had a gleam in his eyes. It was the sinister look of revenge, the vindictive gaze of one who wants to settle a score and deliver some serious comeuppances. More on that later.

Guy, George, Brad, Steve, and Patrick met at the Sweetwater Creek Trails, which we last hiked in late October last year–read all about it here. Before we began, an excited Elvis marked Steve with some of his drool (usually it’s the other way around).

Now we were ready to begin. Trail Master Guy selected The Red Trail. Fortunately, Trailheads had worn their Red Trail Garanimals hiking clothes and boots, and were ready for action.

If you’ve never hiked Sweetwater Creek, you should ask yourself, "Why not?" This is one of the most beautiful hikes in the metro area. If you go, be forewarned, you’d better watch your step. The trail has many roots and stones that can be perilous to unaware feet–– and even aware ones. The roots are especially sneaky. They'll grab you at any time and take you down.

Almost immediately, Guy encountered some dog people, and curious Fio and Elvis checked out the pup. This dog has a back disc condition and wears a special brace/harness so it can be carried like a briefcase if necessary. How sad is that? While the dog was in good spirits, Fio and Elvis checked to make sure their health insurance was up to date.

We moved along and came to the ruins of the factory that once made Confederate Uniforms for soldiers. While many of the troops were hoping for something in a houndstooth or a slimming black, this factory only made gray uniforms.

“Gray is not my color,” Emmitt Grounder wrote to his mother in an 1863 letter. “It washes out my complexion and makes my butt look big as a bushel. When I see those Yankee boys in their stylish blue duds, I envy them something fierce. They’re so much more fashionable. Stylish even. But I reckon ol’ Robert E. Lee don’t give two hoots or a holler about my opinion, so I’m stuck in these drab gray unflattering rags until I meet my Maker. Truly, dear Mother, war is hell. And should I survive, as God is my witness, I’ll never wear gray again!”

Unfortunately for Emmett, the forces of the United States were trained to shoot at gray. Anything gray.

The ruins are beautiful, and of course, we had to get a group shot, because that’s what the people want. The pictures make nice gifts and targets.

We saw a sign informing us the trail was not for lightweights, but we continued on the path to truth and barbecue. It's what we do.

Soon, we met a lovely couple named Rob and Lynn, originally from Wales, United Kingdom, who have been Douglasville residents since 2013. They still had their U.K. accents and said they had visited all 50 states. None of us had done that. Why do foreigners get all the fun? We asked which state was their favorite. Guess what they said? No. Not that one. You have 49 more guesses.

Okay, enough games. Their favorite state is Idaho. They raved about its beauty. We mentioned that we were impressed with its potatoes, flaunting our incredible wealth of tuber knowledge. We talked some more, snapped a selfie, and moved on down the line. 

The crew was getting hungry, and we had told Roy to meet us for lunch at 12:30. It was time to double back. In typical Trailheads fashion, we requested the fastest route back to the parking lot, so Trail Master looked at his trusty AllTrails app. 

“There’s a trail down by the creek,” Guy said. “That’ll be quickest.”

It sounded good to the lazy troops. Trail Master led us.

Before long, we discovered there was precious little trail. The route was clambering along rocks, scaling up and down, negotiating tree roots and fallen timber. In other words, WE HAD STEPPED INTO A SERIOUS BIG BOY HIKE!

We immediately began to suspect Trail Master was trying to kill us. Once we’d fallen, it’d be easy to shove our bodies into the water, and then there would be more barbecue for him. He had led us like sheep to the slaughter, thinking we would never survive the dangerous hike.

It was a devious plan, but Guy didn’t realize we are rugged creatures. Trailheads are the byproduct of hearty lumberjacks mating with sexy Nanny goats. There are stories about us in the European folk tale books that Steve publishes, although most have been removed from libraries south of the Mason-Dixon line. Nonetheless, we are genetic miracles of endurance and toughness, much to the chagrin of our Trail Master.

Amazingly, all five of us made the hazardous journey without injury. Brad was talking to George as they waited for us to finish. Then Brad joined Guy, and the men continued down the path. Brad had left his iPhone on the bench. 

“Let’s not tell him,” George, his best friend, said.

“But he’ll be worried sick,” soft-hearted Patrick said. “I’ll just run it down to him lickety-split.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, punk," George snapped (he's a bad boy, that one). "Let’s see how long it takes for him to realize he doesn't have his phone.”

“Oh, I get it. You want to pull a prank.” Patrick has always been dimwitted. “I’ll get a picture of Brad’s face when he realizes he’s lost his phone.”

“Now, you’re talking,” George said, giving a sinister laugh, twirling his handlebar mustache (which only appears when he has a cunning plan).

We finished the trail, and it dawned on Brad that his phone was missing. 

“I’ll call you,” George said. He dialed Brad’s number, and the phone in his pocket buzzed. Brad had the ringer off.

“I’ve got to go back and find it,” Brad said. He began walking away.

“Just buy a new one,” George shouted.

“That costs $1,000!”

We had the fish hooked. George showed him his phone, and Brad laughed (while secretly wanting to beat us to a bloody pulp).

Aren’t we the pranksters?

We were off to Herb’s Rib Shack in Mableton. Read about our last visit here.

Herb smokes some of the best ribs anywhere, and when you see his line of big black smokers out front, you know he means business. 

Pop inside, and you’ll get a free rib tip sample. These meaty morsels are power-packed with flavor. Herb’s no fool; he knows after one bite he’s got you.

The décor is comfortable, and the people are friendly. 

We ordered at the counter and waited for the kitchen to prepare our grub, and grabbed an outdoor table by a speaker blaring music. We got our lunches and dug in like men who had never eaten before.

There’s no sense dilly-dallying over the side dishes–they’re sides, okay? But Herb has the meats and smokes them to perfection. 

The ribs are incredible. We guarantee these will be some of the tastiest meaty bones you’ve ever enjoyed. Herb isn’t shy with his spices, and the bark has a peppery bite you’ll savor.

The rib tips are the same story on a smaller scale. Gnaw your way to nirvana.

Those guys who ordered sausage were very happy.

“This is great,” Brad. “Some of the best I’ve had.” The man knows his links much better than the whereabouts of his phone.

We ate and talked, and suddenly, like a genie, Herb appeared. We raved about his cooking. He thanked us for coming, and we basked in the warmth of his aura.

Trailheads sat with full-bellied happiness, like cats enjoying a bath of sunshine.

In the distance, we saw the Pit Master tending to his smokers, and we knew that one part of this crazy world was as it should be. There'd be more ribs for the world to devour.

As we rode away, we took pride in surviving a treacherous hike. We’d celebrate with showers and naps.

We had spoiled the plans of Trail Master, now wearing an eyepatch to enhance his evil image. Scary, right?

Rating: Four Ribs*

Herb’s Rib Shack

1420 Veterans Memorial Hwy SW

Mableton, GA 30126

(678) 927-7015

herbsribshack.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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