Last Sunday, I was at Hooters.
Yes, THAT Hooters.
Trust me, it’s not a place I ever aspired to be.
How I got there is a circuitous story, one involving three friends, a cascading creek and a winding dirt road through Cherokee National Forest.
It began innocently enough.
Stan (not his real name because he’s a bit embarrassed about what comes next), Russ (his real moniker; he’s unflappable) and I had planned to ride bicycles from the base of Little Citigo Creek most of the way up to Indian Boundary Lake.