Trailheads Offer A Movable Feast For Chiggers, Spiders, And Snakes, Roam Aimlessly, And Chow Down At Fat Matt’s Rib Shack.

A worried world heaved a collective sigh of relief as Trail Master Guy assembled an almost-full crew to hike this week.

Hiking fans everywhere wondered what happened to the gang since their last dispatch was three weeks ago.

“I was worried sick,” reports Emma Halfred of Moline, IL. “I’m a Trailheads groupie, and I prayed that nothing happened to them. Their zany exploits are the joy in my life. I hike vicariously in their boots.”

We feel you, Emma.

“The Trailheads chaps are quite entertaining, aren’t they?” asked Sir Alston Pennyharbor of Knightsbridge, England. “They bring to mind those long-haired Beatles blokes from the 1960s, however, without their musical talent or phenomenal success.”

Aye, guvnor, right you are!

The past couple of weeks, Trail Master Guy led hikes with random Trailheads members, but they weren’t worthy of being chronicled. They were silent steps.

But this week, Guy, George, Brad, Roy, and Patrick gathered to slop along the muddy paths of Zonolite Park Trail in the city. Read about our last visit here. Steve was absent because he’s a do-gooder and was helping a relative recovering from surgery.

While not a doctor, Steve has read many books with doctor characters, watched The Pitt on HBO Max, and was a surgical master at Hasbro’s “Operation” game as a kid. He’s a natural.

A factory that manufactured asbestos for insulation once stood where Zonolite Park is. But in 2001, volunteers from the Southfork Conservancy removed 27,000 tons of contaminated soil, cut paths, and restored bushes and trees native to the area. While none of the volunteers were Trailheads, we enjoyed the fruits of their labor. We hope they wore protective gear and didn’t leave any asbestos behind.

Before we began, Roy, Elvis, and Brad posed inside a wooden frame– they’re hams, what else could they do? Brad suggested that Roy should retouch himself and Elvis out of the shot and recenter him in the center frame. He thought it would make for a better composition. Elvis snorted and immediately got on his phone to call his agent. 

The paths here are narrow, and signs warn that there are snakes. Roy said there’s an old tale that baby copperheads are the most dangerous since they bite and don’t let go.

Patrick wondered how he’d get dressed with a baby copperhead on each leg. Would he have to slit the backside of his pants? Would this become a new fashion statement? He’d brand them as Snake Slacks— “Slither into a pair.” 

An empty bench was soon occupied by Brad and George, who manspread freely while we discreetly threw up in the bushes. Something is wrong with those guys.

Zonolite Park is not a long trail, and we meandered our way hither and yon, but all paths led to the South Fork of Peachtree Creek. The slick vegetation and elevation were more than we cared to negotiate, so we backtracked like cowards and wept into our sleeves. 

Because it has been rainy, the growth was lush, and there were many spider webs; the eight-leggers had been spinning like Pelotons on amphetamines and caffeine. Trail Master used a stick like a machete, hacking his way through the webs. We followed behind so the spiders could jump onto us and lay eggs in our ears. The circle of life is a beautiful thing.

Along the way, we encountered dog people, which meant conversations with Guy as Fio and Elvis checked out the pet and swapped phone numbers. Patrick and Roy set up a card table and played Canasta until all the dog chatter was finished.

Throughout the hike, Brad reminded us he had a conference call at one p.m. This meant every 14 steps, someone asked, “Are we done–is it lunchtime? Maybe we should do brunch so Brad’s not late.”

We hiked all the trails and vectored our way onto asphalt, walking to see a large parking lot where the Moonshadow Saloon once stood.

Some Trailheads grew misty-eyed as they recalled the many musical acts they’d seen there: Emmylou Harris, Taj Mahal, R.E.M., Doc Watson, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Otto Heimlich’s Oompah Psychedelic Collective, and Eddie Cantor. 

Trailheads walked back into Zonolite Park and made our way through the overgrown area where we knew chiggers and baby copperheads lay in wait for their early lunch. We saw butterflies and bumble bees enjoying the nectar of the beautiful flowers, and while it looked appetizing, we prefer smoked meats.

Everyone’s alarm went off, except Guy’s. It was officially lunchtime, and we zipped to Fat Matt’s Rib Shack, the legendary barbecue joint on Piedmont Ave. Matt Harper opened this place in 1990. While he was not obese at the time, maybe he wished he would grow into the name. Read about our last visit here.

This place hosts blues musicians in the evening, and the walls show colorful murals of bluesmen plying their trade. 

We bellied up to the counter, and the friendly woman gave us a 10,000-watt smile. We placed our orders, grabbed beverages, and headed to the outdoor patio out front.

The ribs are the main attraction here. Although they’re not baby backs, the spareribs are on the lean side and as tender as an Everly Brothers’ harmony. The homemade barbecue sauce is killer. It has a nice subtle heat with a tangy vinegary pop. Pour it on, paint those ribs, and eat your way to the bone. Then eat the bone and make toothpicks. Um, um, good.

The chicken is also tasty. The bird is meaty, shellacked with sauce, and roasted to perfection. Hunker over your platter and sing, bye-bye, birdie! (That was for Ann-Margret fans, and who isn’t?).

The collard greens are Southern through and through. Eat your way to good health and a drawl.

The baked beans are good enough to attract cowboys with hungry eyes and tin plates and spoons in hand. Eat them fast, pardner, those guys got six-shooters and trigger fingers.

And the slaw does the noble cabbage right proud. It’s the perfect chaser to take the heat down a notch or two.

We finished up. The friendliest man in the world, Lonnie, came by to grab our empty plates. We had a nice chat with him, and he appreciated folks who like their barbecue, which we obviously did. 

We finished in time for Brad to scurry home for his precious conference call. We inspected our legs for chiggers and baby snakes hanging on for dear life. It made quite a scene on Piedmont Avenue, and the Fat Matt’s people asked us to please leave before we caused a wreck. That’s the price of being sex symbols.

Trailheads were clear–for now. A good day all the way around. Until the itching starts.

Rating: Four Ribs*

Fat Matt’s Rib Shack

811 Piedmont Ave NE, Atlanta, GA 30324

(404) 607-1622

fatmattsribshack.net

*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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