Take off and tuck in
The unfulfilled promise of edible trails
It’s the morning after Thanksgiving, which means that you’re probably midway through processing the cannon ball of meat, bread, and root vegetables that’s currently rolling its way through your digestive tract. This might be a moment of humility, or it may be the start of an even more gluttonous and indulgent weekend. One of the many jokes from Friends which has transcended television involves a rather unique Thanksgiving leftover sandwich. As Ross explains, you put “an extra slice of gravy soaked bread in the middle” of the sandwich—an innovation that he calls “The Moistmaker.” Over the last decade, my family has made several attempts at bringing this sandwich to life, after the feast. No matter how much turkey and mash I’ve asorbed, the thought of a leftovers sandwich with a nice, fat, dripping Moistmaker in the middle gets me hot.
But maybe you’ve got bigger ideas for how to keep the gravy train running through the weekend. Say, a trip that ends at a shop counter, where you can hear the clattering of pans and the spatter of cooking oil from a kitchen. Or perhaps you’ve heard about the Massachusetts Ice Cream Trail—a new, just-launched trail for which I received many press releases earlier this year. Officially “opened” back in July, the Mass. Ice Cream Trail connects over 100 ice cream shops between the Berkshires and Cape Cod. It’s a sweet, creamy idea; a journey through a land of rainbow sprinkles, chocolate chunks, nut deposits, and whirlpool-like caramel swirls. There’s just one problem. The Mass. Ice Cream Trail is not actually a trail. It’s map of ice cream stands that you can drive to.
I suppose this makes sense, in a sad way. Driving is still the most common means of mobility in America. So if you’re managing a state agriculture or tourism department, and you want to create an intentional traveler’s route that highlights a local delicacy, it might make sense to create a driveable atlas of places where one can experience this delicacy. The Mass. Ice Cream Trail was most likely inspired by the Vermont Maple Creemee Trail and the NH Beer Trail. But what I can’t stomach or get past is the gross misappropriation of the word “trail.” Not because it’s an inaccurate descriptor, but because of the alluring possibility that’s lost when we call something like this a trail.
Imagine, if you will, a trail of ice cream shops that you could walk or bike. How would it feel to wake up one morning and decide, “I’m going to visit a sequence of ice cream shops today, over the course of a 7-10 mile hike, and I’m going to eat something from each one.” A bit scary, right? But enticing too—especially when you remember that the act of walking or gently cycling can help your stomach digest all that ice cream. When you go to Paris or Rome and you watch people strolling along the canals with cups of gelato, they’re on an excursion that’s partially edible. If we wanted to, we could create walkable and edible trails in the northeast that offer this savory brand of exploration.
Consider pizza—not the arugula-festooned kind you eat with a fork and knife, but the greasier, nourishing pies that you order by the slice, from mom and pop shops with names like Hank’s King of Pizza. In New England, there are thousands of these pizza shops scattered across cities and towns. Even in the scope of a single town, there are often multiple options for a reheated slice of pepperoni pie. A couple of years ago, on a windy day in March, I decided that I was going to eat four slices of pizza from four different shops in Jamaica Plain (the neighborhood of Boston that I call home.) And since the shops were located in different parts of the neighborhood, getting to each one would require a bit of urban hiking. I could fill in the gaps by wandering quieter residential streets, crossing through parks and greenways, and maybe even taking a shortcut through an alleyway. As I set off on this localized odyssey, I thought, What if this walk was a trail? The Miles Howard Memorial Pizza Trail? I’m not sure where the “memorial” part came from, but it was the first trail name that popped into my head.
And sometimes that’s all it takes to start at edible trail. A tasty idea that can sizzle.
On that note, let’s apply this idea to another major city—Philadelphia, the land of the cheesesteak. While these mythically meaty and gooey subs are available throughout the city, a lot of the action takes place in South Philly, where labyrinthine streets and row homes are the backbone of the cityscape. 98% of Philly visitors head for Pat’s or Geno’s, two neighboring cheesesteak competitors that most Philly natives know as overhyped and overpriced mediocrities. (Geno’s has its own satellite franchise at the city airport, which is almost always the kiss of death.) But what if there was a Philly Cheesesteak Trail that started at the intersection where Pat’s and Geno’s are located, before burrowing through the maze of side streets to visit lesser known and higher quality cheesesteak outposts like Cosmi’s Deli or Ricci’s Hoagies? Not only would this trail allow you to enjoy a small mountain of cheesesteaks, but it would also be this walkable gateway from navigating Philly as a tourist to experiencing it as a local. And as you made your way through the tightest streets, noting scenic details like the little tin roofs that extend over many of the row house front doors, or the taller trees that have erupted out of the sidewalk in places, you might even begin to fall in love.
But even in cases when food is the sole fixation of a trail—when the walking or biking is just a means to an end—the act of physically moving from place to place can add an extra layer of pleasure to an elaborate dining experience. Ever notice how many Thai restaurants there are in American cities and towns, even in backcountry regions like the White Mountains? The abundance of options for satay skewers and pad see ew is the result of a Thai government program that supports the proliferation of Thai cuisine as a means of PR—meaning, the government offers material and logistical resources for Thai entrepreneurs looking to open a restaurant in a place like the U.S. It’s a brilliant strategy, and it got me thinking about a different approach to having a Thai feast on a special occasion. Rather than plunking down at one restaurant and ordering six or seven dishes to share, you could embark on the Thai-athlon Trail and order each dish from a different Thai restaurant. The short walk or ride from one joint to the next would heighten the sense of anticipation for the next course, in the same way that off-and-on foreplay can keep a hedonistic night exciting and unpredictable. And this way, no journey on the Thai-athlon Trail would ever be the same as the last. There would be infinite possibilities for mixing things up and keeping the senses guessing—not unlike crossing into the Alpine Zone of the Presidential Range and thinking, “What does the Mount Washington weather have in store for me today?”
It sure would be nice if the people tasked with drawing commerce to our towns and cities embraced this idea of creating edible trails that are actually trails. But the good news is that we don’t have to wait for local officials to have a lightbulb moment. We can start “building” these edible trails ourselves. We can map them, taste them, and bring some friends on return visits. So if you’re going into Thanksgiving weekend with unfulfilled cravings, ask yourself, “Could this food be the foundation of a trail? Is there enough of this food, in the vicnity, to create a trail as a form of tribute?” If so, then put on your shoes, loosen your belt, and please let me know what you end up tucking into.
Now that Thankgiving is in the rearview, a darker chapter of consumption has begun. Black Friday is upon us, and if you’re reading this newsletter while standing in a line with hundreds of shoppers outside of a Best Buy or a Staples, you have my sympathy. As many of you know, I used to approach the winter shopping season by publishing the Mind The Moss Gear Expo, in which I recommended low-cost hiking tools that you won’t usually find on gear lists from magazines like Outside or Backpacker. Stuff like trash bag liners that can be used as emergency gaiters, boxed soups that make surprisingly good trail lunches, or windproof umbrellas that can make urban hiking in rainy conditions a lot less grueling. Last year’s Expo was the last, because I had run out of gear to recommend to readers, and I really don’t want to propagate the idea that being a hiker means constantly buying lots of new shit. But I’d also like to offer something in 2024, as an alternative to the inevitable roundups of expensive fleeces, backpacks, and thermal underwear. And what I’d love to learn more about is what kind of unusual gear YOU’RE throwing in your backpack these days! It can be something practical like a poncho that doubles as a tarp. It may be an overlooked source of hike fuel like a crunchy Korean snack that can be found at an H-Mart. Or it could have more spiritual utility—like a framed photo of John Waters that you like to keep in your bag.
In any event, if you have any piece of beloved unorthodox hiking gear that you’d like to recommend to Mind The Moss readers, please reply to this email and tell me more!
I’m thinking of leading a Bike JC (Jersey City) snack tour. Bodegas etc.
I keep my father’s ancient EMS bucket hat in my backpack. I put my foraged mushrooms in it. Mushrooms don’t like plastic. I also wear it. It reminds me of my father who died 7 years ago and was my first hiking partner.
I had never really thought about this criminal misuse of "trail", but I now roil with righteous indignation.
Also, in my scumbag youth, I organized the "Clam Tours" (like Grand Tours of cycling) by bike: The Tour de Clam (to Woodman's), the Giro d'Clam (to Tony's Wollaston), and the Vuelta a Clam (Captain Marden's in Wellesley), and you have just reminded me of those find memories.
Also also give yourself some credit for your weird foods of Providence trail, I did parts of that and it was epic.
Finally, I wish I were cool enough to have/remember some gear suggestions. The only one that occurs to me is the big Stasher bag I carry with my on my urban adventures, so if I go to a new bakery I can get something to eat AND a second item to carry around for several hours, growing increasingly smushed and greasy as time passes. The scone I bought in Beacon Hill before taking the Downeaster to Portland and walking to Cape Elizabeth was unrecognizable but I still ate it and it was still great.