Trailheads Go Trippin’, Curse Cyclist, Befriend Sasquatch, And Hit Socks’ For Tasty Barbecue.

It was an action-packed hike in Trailheads Land this week. Trail Master Guy rallied Steve, Brad, and Patrick. George tapped out because he was at home waiting for the delivery of a new washer and dryer. Doesn’t sound too outdoorsy or manly, does it?

Roy didn’t make it because he was exhausted from living it up in Manhattan and the Hamptons (well, la-di-da). Again, not the stuff of rugged dudes who explore the wonders of nature.

But the show goes on, and we began our journey on the Haw Creek Trail in Cumming. Our boots last graced this ground in late December 2022. Read about that adventure here. In the summertime, this is a terrific hike with a good canopy for protection from the sun’s aggressive attacks. However, there were other hazards facing us: cyclists, who ride the trail.

Haw Creek Trail paths are narrow, and we were obediently obeying the hiker directional traffic signs this week. An aggressive cyclist came zipping down the trail heading for us, and almost ran into Fio. The bike man shouted that we were going the wrong way, which ignited our Trail Master’s temper.

“We are going the right way!” he shouted as the guy passed. “And you almost hit my dog, CENSORED.” 

The cyclist stopped, and a shouting match ensued. Brad, Steve, and Patrick observed and acted as judges, raising numerical signs to score debate points and style points for the artistic use of vulgar name-calling. The judges were proud to award their unanimous victory to their Trail Master as the cyclist pedaled on, claiming he’d been cheated and the judges “unfairly favored the dog guy.”

At this moment, we remembered a scary statistic stating that 60% of people on Georgia trails are armed. While we did dispute the veracity of this claim, it did cause us to wonder if we should push our luck. 

We marched on, keeping our eyes peeled for two-wheelers. We spied a deer in the distance, frozen in its tracks, listening to a podcast (“Bambi’s Brutal, Bloody Revenge”). We snapped pictures as the animal posed, then got bored with the silly humans and darted away.

Roy had also spotted a deer eating Swiss chard at his friend’s place in the Hamptons. She was not growing kale or heirloom white asparagus. The poor deer had to make do.

It was selfie time. (When is it not with this group?) We needed proof that we really hiked and didn’t go to the movies and eat tubs of popcorn instead. We saw our old pal Sasquatch, and he posed with us. Great guy, The Quatch, a real mensch. He told us to stay safe out there. “Keep an eye out for the cyclists!” he cautioned—too late, hair man.

Hiking onward, we came upon a ferocious bear that frightened Patrick. Fio kept her cool. “Hey, rummy,” she said. “The bear’s wooden. Are you afraid of splinters?” Yes, yes, he is.

The air was hot and thick, and we’d put in a good number of steps (80, maybe 90, easy). As we hiked, we discussed critically important subjects (anyone who knows us knows that’s a lie). While Trail Master was turning his head to make a salient point, a root leaped up from the ground, grabbed his boot, and tripped him. Down he went. 

Was Guy trying to infringe on Roy Tumbles’ turf? He’s our official tripper. More importantly, would Roy sue for infringement on his intellectual property and physical clumsiness?

Trail Master’s Apple Watch informed him he’d gone down. Duh, thanks, technology, where would we be without you?

Patrick immediately stretched out his hand to help the fallen Trail Master.

“No,” he said. “I want to sit and ascertain if there are any injuries.” Smart. That is the right thing to do, hikers. There’s no need to rush someone to their feet following a mishap. After a minute or so, as we began to dig a shallow grave, our fallen comrade decided he was good to go, and he rose majestically, leading us to the parking lot for a well-earned feeding.

We sped to Socks’ Love Barbecue in Cumming, one of our favorite spots. Guy organized a selfie in front of the smoker in the parking lot. This is where Pit Master/Owner Steve Hartsock makes magic happen with meat. There was so much heat that the camera wouldn't focus.

Trailheads went inside to order, and there was Mr. Socks himself, who’d later join us in conversation outside. He’s a peaceful man. Nice.

We sat at the picnic table we’d moved months ago from the hilly grass in the sun to the flat parking lot in the shade. We were grateful that our table was still there because we were too pooped for manual labor.

Socks’ serves some of the best beef brisket anywhere. It’s tender with a mild smoky flavor. Give it a generous squirt of the homemade barbecue sauce, and you’re in business, partner.

The pulled pork is no slouch either. It’s delicious and has earned the coveted Steve-approved status sought by every barbecue joint.

Guy loved his barbecued spareribs. They’re meaty, tasty, and mighty good-eatin', clean to the bone.

Brad enjoyed his Socks’ sausage of the day, a pepper-garlic link that ate right nice.

As for the sides, they’re all first rate. The slaw does cabbage heads proud.

The fried okra is tasty as can be. They’re morsels of battered veggie love.

The brisket chili is hearty with lots of smoky beef and beans in a savory, spicy tomato base. Put your spoon on automatic and go to town, babycakes. 

We finished our meals, cleaned up after ourselves, and bid farewell. Brad was off to Maine, and Guy was heading to Virginia. Steve and Patrick promised to keep Georgia in hiking shape. Or would they? Those guys are shifty.

It was a good day, and we were ready for the showers. Trailheads scattered into the hot breeze.

Rating: Four Ribs*

Socks’ Love Barbecue

1050 Buford Hwy. I 

Cumming, GA 30041

(470) 302-8383

sockslovebrands.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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