The National Weather Service warned us. It issued a “Heat Advisory.” In our world, that meant we’d be victims of heat strokes, spontaneous combustion, or become human fountains, sweating excessively about the brow and armpits.
But like dedicated postal carriers, despite whatever Mother Nature dishes, we would go on our appointed rounds exploring on the path to truth and barbecue. Are we heroes? Perhaps. The best hikers ever? We chuckle at that distinction and humbly say, “We’re certainly in the top three, but let’s allow history to decide where we rank.” We won’t spike our hiking sticks before crossing the goal line. Why do we delusionally speak of such outrageous things? It’s got to be the heat.
Roy was running late on this muggy morning. His upstairs AC unit heard about the heat advisory and went kaput, leaking water over the drip pan. His upstairs bedroom ceiling became a waterfall befitting a National Park designation.
Roy did his best to contain the flooding by replicating Mickey Mouse in Fantasia with a mop bucket and determination. He said a new AC unit would be installed the next day, so he had the morning free to hike.
But since he’s especially prone to the dangers of heat, Roy keeps his upstairs thermostat at a cool 66 degrees year-round. It’s a miracle his upstairs AC unit provided twenty years of dependable service.
Georgia Power saw the energy drain Roy made and built the Vogtle Electric Generating Plant to supply the juice necessary to keep his sweat at bay. Of course, they are billing him accordingly.
Roy and Patrick have pasty, virtually transparent skin that burns like rice paper in the sun. Yet these two rugged men rallied with Guy and Brad and hit the Charleston Park Trails, which we last hiked in late August 2023 (read about that gripping yarn here, where bad boy Guy led us into the forbidden “no trespassing” zone).
George is still in Paris, hobnobbing with the athletic elites at the Olympic Games. He shares pictures and dispatches as we read with envy and lace our boots before entering the gates of Georgia Hell in August. Our globetrotting friend assures us he will promote Hot Hiking as an Olympic sport in the future.
Steve was enjoying time with his wife, son, and girlfriend in the north Georgia mountains, where Mother Nature sets her thermostat at least 10 degrees cooler. Wait a second. We must run that sentence through the GrammerMaster Plus 2000™ to ensure that "girlfriend" refers to his son's girlfriend and doesn't create a marital issue for Steve.
The comma appears to be in the correct position. Well now continue, avoiding a scandal. The young ones were visiting from Austin, Texas, where, apparently, they also occasionally endure a little heat. Hm, Texas gets hot? Who knew?
With four Trailheads, Elvis and Fio, we gathered for a selfie by our exclusive parking lot. We like it when a park recognizes and respects us enough to cordon off private parking. It’s appreciated, Charleston Park.
We hiked into the woods, commanding the trees to provide a canopy of shade from our brutal solar overload. If you’ve never hiked Charleston Park Trail, give it a go.
The lake is beautiful, the woods are lush, and the elevations are enough to induce exercise and increased heart rates. But please watch your step.
The path is strewn with exposed roots waiting to take down unaware hikers. Patrick almost succumbed, hiking in the number two position. He tripped and fell forward toward the giggling ground, but ever-alert Trail Master Guy put out his fatherly protective arm and caught the clumsy buffoon’s fall.
Patrick said he was forever in his debt for saving his life, so Guy began a shopping spree on his phone, asking for his credit card number. Roy was jealous and sulked for the remainder of the journey. He is "Roy Tumbles" and doesn't appreciate others trying to claim his title.
The heat was oppressive, and the humidity was as thick as a Neanderthal’s skull. Onward, we marched, sweating and whining about when we could turn back because “our tummies are hungee-hungee.” Trail Master grabbed each of us, slapping our wet faces and barking like Gunnery Sergeant Hartman in Full Metal Jacket.
“Toughen up, marshmallows!” he yelled. You will not laugh, you will not cry, you will march in formation. This trail isn’t going to hike itself. We’re on a mission––now MOVE!”
We didn’t know what he was talking about but continued following anyway, scared he might erupt again. Quietly, we schemed and plotted to cut this thing short—determined it was necessary in saving our lives. We were sweating.
Trailheads went up and down the hills, passing other hikers with their dogs. Elvis and Fio introduced themselves, and the dogs swapped business cards, saying, “I’ll give you a ring sometime, and maybe we can hang.”
As always in dog culture, people ask, "What's your dog's name?" but never ask for yours. It's a dog thing. There was a lady on one hike who asked if we liked our bellies rubbed. She scared us (and we complained she didn’t have treats).
Our whining finally caused Trail Master to heed the call for an early hike, and we headed back toward the cars. But first, we got a selfie with our pal, Sasquatch (who has clown-size shoes). He comes in peace.
We stopped by the beautiful lake so the dogs could chase the sticks we threw in the water. They went to fetch and take a cooling swim (no backstrokes, though; they only seem to know how to doggy paddle—not an Olympic event).
A friendly woman named Katherine came by with her dog, Barley. The pup went in for a fur wash, and we chatted with her and gave Katherine a sticker. If you are reading this, it was a pleasure meeting you and Barley, and we look forward to seeing you again in the great outdoors.
Drenched and spent from heat, those of us with the foresight to bring a dry shirt swapped them out, and we headed to lunch at one of our favorite joints, Socks’ Love Barbecue in Cumming (we last visited in February, read about that adventure here). And honestly, we can't eat here enough.
The place's interior is comfortable, but we would not be sitting in the comfortable air conditioning because we were keeping dogs company. There were picnic tables outside roasting in the glaring sun.
Trail Master devised a plan to haul one of the tables down into a shady parking spot. Brad and Roy feigned back and shoulder injuries, so he-men Guy and Patrick hoisted the heavy table and muled it into the shade.
We went inside to order, and Brad waited with the curious dogs for our return.
The daily special was a smoked brisket cheeseburger. Socks’ Love Barbecue smokes some of the best meats in the business. What’s Pit Master Steve Hartsock’s secret? He’s not telling, and he has a boot clamped on his smoker, so you can’t steal his intellectual property. Check and mate, evil thieves.
We placed our orders and took a picture with our pal Kea working the counter; she’s always a delight. She calls us "Baby," and we dig that as a bunch of old men. We grabbed our food to sit and eat. One good thing about a heat advisory is your food doesn't get cold.
Guy and Roy both had the cheeseburgers and liked them. The meat was juicy, smoky, and satisfying, and the cheese was gooey and delectable. The burgers were cooked medium-ish with cucumbers and come-back sauce. They were winners.
Patrick had the chopped brisket sandwich and liberally doused it with Socks’ exceptional barbecue sauce. When he was done, it looked more like a sauce sandwich with chopped brisket. Socks’ serves its sandwiches on Martin Potato Buns, the best in the business, but they are not toasted (our clear preference for absorbing juices while retaining stability). There were no complaints, however, as we scarfed our sammies.
Brad had the sliced brisket with a link of the sausage du jour––pepper and garlic. Socks’ brisket is second to none, and the man knows how to make a tasty link. We are huge fans of his jalapeno and cheese sausages, but Brad had no complaints about the pepper and garlic version. He and Guy put in sausage orders to go.
As for the sides, the fried okra received rave reviews for its crunchiness and nutritional value.
“This has got to be full of vitamins, right?” Roy asked.
“Absolutely––essential vitamins and minerals,” Guy responded, popping a few battered and fried morsels into his gob.
Roy loves Socks’ slaw: it’s cool, crispy, crunchy, creamy and dreamy.
Brad raved about his cowboy beans. “The flavor’s incredible,” he cooed. "I feel like I'm sitting here eating in my chaps!" Everyone at the table stopped for a second, mid-bite, before returning to their feasts.
Patrick loved his creamed corn. It’s spiced perfectly and is the kind of dish any husk would gladly surrender its children to.
As we finished our meals, Steven “Socks’” Hartsock came to personally deliver the to-go orders. Brad had ten links, and Guy got five. Socks sat with us and gave us a tour of his many tattoos.
Although we were impressed, none of us were game to be inked. We had discussed inking on the trail, and we're all afraid of committing to one thing and falling out of love with it two days later. Fio has a tattoo. She asked for "Doodle Girl" in a heart shape, but Guy had the artist give her a boring identifying number instead.
We had a pleasant conversation, bid our good buddy Steve farewell, cleared the table, and headed off into the noonday sun. We had survived a summer hike. Perhaps we really should be competing in the Olympics…
Rating: Four Ribs*
Socks' Love Barbecue
1050 Buford Hwy.
Cumming, GA 30041
(470) 302-8383
*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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