Trailheads were a rudderless ship this week, with Trail Master Guy absent on the road. The world had wondered if the gang of misfits would attempt a hike anyway since Trail Master says they’d be hopelessly lost without his “eternal wisdom and the wealth of wilderness smarts stored in my large noggin.” His head is oversized, but we’re unsure what’s in there.
Patrick assumed the heavy mantle of Trail Master and called for an easy hike at Murphy Candler Park in Brookhaven. He was protecting himself as he continues getting his new knee in shape. Roy tapped out due to a nasty bout of plantar fasciitis.
“I can’t hike or play pickleball,” Roy whined to the group.
“So what? Neither can we,” the rest of us replied. But we gave him a pass, and he reminded us he’d be healthy enough to hobble to the dining table.
He went to the orthopedist that morning, and the doctor asked, “What’s your pain on a level of one to ten?”
Roy looked at her oddly and asked if ten was a toe stubbed on the foot of the bed or cutting your arm off with a chainsaw because those are two very different things. She stared at him with disbelief. After an awkward two-minute silence, he said, “Seven.”
Steve, Brad, and George rallied with Patrick, and the crew walked along the beautiful lake as turtles popped their heads above the water and said, “Damn, those guys are moving slow!” Turtles tend to be very judgmental.
Soon, Brad and Elvis led the troops. It was a slow-moving coup against acting Trail Master Patrick, who fretted Brad might lead them off the face of the Earth. Patrick is a flat-earther, constantly paranoid about falling off the edge. Actually, it was Elvis taking the point—he likes being in the lead. The big dog has watched all those old Tarzan movies where the last people in the line get plucked off one by one, and he wasn't about to let that happen to him.
The men continued their journey and met people walking their dogs. Elvis got a few new phone numbers along the way. We met a man with a fancy dog breed, and when he spoke, we detected a foreign accent. We asked if he was from these parts, and he said, “No, I’m originally from the United Kingdom.”
Soon, we began talking about international affairs, and the conversation quickly devolved into differing opinions. As the debate raged, a United Nations team parachuted in, and peace talks commenced. We wore headphones so we could hear the translations. Détente was finally achieved, and a ceasefire was negotiated just as George logged into Signal to call an airstrike.
We signed a non-aggression pact and went our separate ways. Trailheads learned a valuable lesson: Keep our yaps shut on the trail. Talk to the dogs. Not the people. Dogs rarely talk back.
As we hiked along, we went deeper along the trail, into parts we swore we had never explored before, despite having hiked here many times. Mutineers began questioning Trail Master Guy’s geographical prowess. Had he been shortchanging us all these years?
Brad thrust his fist into the air and shouted, “I’ve discovered new lands. I am the best Trail Master! Call me Magellan.” The other hikers rolled their eyes and hurried along. Had a monster been born? And wasn’t Patrick our substitute Trail Master? It was another case of power corrupting. Could we get the U.N. Peacekeeping Team back on short notice?
Along the path, a stinky fog descended to the trail. We saw a working crew laying down fresh asphalt on a nearby neighborhood street.
“I love the smell of asphalt in the morning,” Lt. Col. Steve said. He’s always quoting Apocalypse Now. On cue, he played “The Ride of the Valkyries” on his phone. He grinned.
Patrick mentioned that his 50th high school reunion was in late April. George recalled attending his and said, “You won’t believe how people have deteriorated. But one guy at mine, who’s a cop, was in great shape. I was the second-best specimen.”
We thought Second Best Specimen would make a fabulous Trailheads t-shirt. Stay tuned.
The hike wrapped up at the baseball fields across the street. Since it was the first day of the 2025 baseball season, Steve, Brad, and George sat in spectator seats and cheered their imaginary team. They hooted and hollered.
“Hey, come on, ref!” shouted Steve. “Open your eyes!”
We stared at him. “Ref?”
“Oh, yeah. I meant, ump.”
We began to wonder if Steve was a foreign agent.
Patrick stared longingly at the green field of dreams. He often bores us with his endless stories of playing with the Columbus Clippers in Ohio, the Yankees' Triple-A franchise.
“Hal Weskins was my manager back then,” he claims. “And Skip used to tell me, 'Scooter,
you’ve got more heart than this whole damn team, kid. But, son, you can’t run every single into a triple. Your wheels will eventually give out.' Sure enough, the old man was right. I’ve had to replace all my hips and knees. But it was worth it. I did come within a whisker of making the show.” Tears welled in Patrick’s eyes, as his voice cracks with emotion. “I coulda been a contender. I could have been somebody instead of a bum, which is what I am.” He sniffles, wiping his nose with a sleeve.
Although no one believed him, we began to sob and console ‘Scooter.’ Then, we headed to lunch at Dixie Q in Brookhaven. Read about our last visit here. Roy joined us; the man is totally committed–-to food. He claimed his hunger level was an “eight.”
This joint’s interior is comfortable, and its patio is spacious. Liam greeted us and was our server. He’s a sweetheart and took good care of the Trailheads.
We sat and immediately ordered some of their famous homemade chips and a dozen wings, half extra crispy and half “regular” because George isn’t a fan of crispness.
The chips are beautiful. They’re crisp and crunchy, dusted with an excellent blend of punchy spices that tantalize your taste buds.
When the wings arrived, we couldn’t tell much difference between the two versions, but both were tasty and quickly inhaled.
Rib Master George ordered ribs and sausage. He liked his bones and gnawed away. “But they’re a little dry,” he said. George always says that about his ribs. We’re starting to suspect he’s not a fan of fire.
Dixie Q’s pulled pork is legit. Several of us got it on plates and in a bun. It’s tender and gets better with a good squirt of sauces–the Original and the Hot & Spicy—which kick out the jams.
The brisket here is also flavorful, and they are not shy with their portions.
The sausage was also good. Go ahead and try a link on for size. George said it was spicy.
Dixie Q does a terrific job with its sides. The Brussels Sprouts are not to be missed. The little green balls are fried crisp and adorned with a tasty, sweet sauce. Who knew eating quasi-healthy could taste so good?
The slaw is cool and creamy. Shovel it in your pie hole.
Dixie Q's cornbread is homemade, peppered with whole kernels, and loaded with flavor.
The collards are full of meaty goodness, which is precisely what you want from a green vegetable.
When we finished, we sat around, talked, laughed, and began nodding off to Nap Land. Liam woke us and said they needed the table. So, we paid our bill and scattered to the winds.
Later that day, Trail Master Guy sent a picture and a message bragging that he led his wife Patty and Fio hiking on Kings Mountain in North Carolina. He obviously fears for his job.
Perhaps next week, he’ll return and lead us off the world’s edge.
Rating: Four Ribs*
Dixie Q
2524 Caldwell Rd NE
Atlanta, GA 30319
(404) 228-1502
*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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