Camping in the mountains of North Georgia provides opportunity for a lot of low impact activities for senior citizens like me. I am no longer in search of an adrenalin rush.

We tried bike riding, and I almost died on the first hill leaving our campsite. My aspirations are a little more tame these days. I am in search of apples and fried pork skins.

This is why we pulled into the local market which sported several big signs out front. They script was written in big enough letters for people who wear tri-focal progressive lenses. Two signs, in particular, spoke to us.

“Boiled Peanuts”

“Fried Pork Skins”

I have been hearing about these specific pork skins for over a year now. You can guess from who.

“You have to have some of these pork skins.”

“They have the best pork skins I’ve ever eaten.”

“If I ever get up that way again and you’re with me, we’re stopping to buy some pork skins.”

I’ve had some darn good pork skins in my life. To me they are kind of like apple pie. Every now and then you come across one that should have been thrown out, but mostly, I’ll eat about any apple pie. Same thing with fried pork skins.

But Marion was serious about the skins.

We’re standing inside the open market roof. Everywhere we look there’s something either homemade or homegrown. Large tables. Each one divided by crop and color. Over in the corner is the pork skin table.

The quart bags are legion. Lemon Pepper. Garlic. BBQ. Flamin’ Hot. Salt & Vinegar. Cajun. Regular. Ranch. And the last one, Voodoo. This bag had all the flavors mixed together.

For days now, Marion has been taking pork skin orders from friends back home. She had a shopping list. By the time we were done, we left there with 12 of the quart bags of fried pork skins in a variety of flavors. One of the regular bags got a lot lighter on the way to the truck.

Even after we got in the truck I couldn’t stop. I had crumbs down the front of my shirt. My mouth was dry as sand and in desperate need of water. But I forged on toward the bottom of the garlic bag.

From there, the road took us to Mercier Orchards. You’ve been there. Going in that store is like being sucked down a vortex. Apple this and apple that is spinning around your head until you get dizzy. We left with, I don’t know, 82lbs of apples, one jar of apple sauce, and three dozen apple cider doughnuts.

The only reason I didn’t eat a fried pie is because I was munching on pork skins.

I tell you all this to say that by the time we got back to the campground I was feeling pretty guilty about my gluttonous aspirations for the day. All this food. All this snacking. All these pork skins. I could feel my very own personal aspiration turning soft.

So, we got out the caramel cream dip, slice up a few Topaz apples and ate the heck out of them at the picnic table next to the camper.

It was after this that I got tough on myself.

“Let’s go for a hike,” I said.

Marion was enthusiastic. She gathered up her backpack, walking stick, snacks, water, and personal firearm. I had on shorts and tennis shoes. She looked like we were heading out for a week. I was thinking, “take the trail up the hill and around the lake.” We’ll be back in 30 minutes.

“Where’s the map?” I asked.

The campground is 250 acres set in a valley against the Trackrock Mountains to the east. The hiking trail on the map is simple. It doesn’t wind through the 250 acres. It goes up and across the hillside above us. It comes out near the horse stables on the other side of the lake. One dotted line on the map.

How hard can it be?

Ten minutes into the hike I realize that the trail is circling back to the tent section of the campground.

“This isn’t right.” I’m talking out loud amongst the trees.

“What isn’t right?” Marion has good ears.

“We missed a right turn somewhere.”

“Well, what does the map say?”

Now for those of you non-hikers, here is where the hike went sideways a little bit. Some people need maps. Some don’t. Some see maps as a vital supplement to the hike. Some see it as a suggested guide which may or may not be followed. Which one you are will depend on how you view the remainder of this story.

“I don’t have the map.” Bingo. I am the non-map person on this hike.

“What do you mean you don’t have the map?” Yepper. My co-hiker is the pro-map person.

This piece of the conversation set the stage for the rest of the conversation that salt and peppered the remainder of the hike with remarks that could have been taken as snarky insults and gender-based slurs had we not been laughing hard enough that we had to pay particular attention to the fact that there was no private bathroom on the trail.

Not a problem for me. More of a problem for her.

“I asked you to put the map in my backpack when you finished with it.”

In my defense, I have no recollection of any such request. There was only one dotted line on the map marked “trail.” Only one turn to the right once you got a little way up the hill. Campground down the hill to the right. Mountaintop up the hill to the left.

I don’t need no stinking map.

One problem with amateur maps. They lie. And one problem with amateur trails. They are not marked.

Once we found the first right turn, which was about the size of a rabbit trail, I thought we had it made. Remember. One dotted line.

Trackrock also runs a horse stable. Horses make trails about anywhere they want. We came across about a half-dozen forks in the path, 7 or 8 cuts between trails, and three gravel roads to cabin areas that were not on the map.

At each junction of unmarked trail I heard these words repeated, “If we had the map, I bet we could figure this out.”

I kept pleading my case. “The map I saw would be no good on this crisscrossed mountain side.”

“Is that a house up the hill through the trees?” She is pointing out what she thinks might be a landmark. “I bet the map would tell us.”

It’s really not that difficult. Sun comes up in the east. Moss grows on the north facing tree bark. There’s a gravel road somewhere ahead. If we come to that, it goes back to the campground.

End of trail. We’re eating ice cream on the back porch of the camp office. The view is gorgeous toward the mountains. We had ourselves a good hike.

“You ready to walk back to the camper?” she asks.

“I don’t know. You think we can get there without a map?”

I couldn’t resist.