A nemesis was perhaps the last thing I expected to acquire during my lifetime. First of all, I’m not a superhero, and secondly, in general, I like most people (or, at least, tolerate them).

Yet, there I stood, straddling my mountain bike, less than midway up Rattlesnake Hill, with the realization that I had met my nemesis. The sun shone; the temperature was perfect. But I was beaten by Rattlesnake, a sandy, rocky climb—the most difficult section of the High Country Pathway (Michigan’s only IMBA-designated Epic Trail).

Already in my granny gear, I pedaled as slow as I could without actually coming to a stop. My legs screamed; my stomach rumbled. I stood up on my pedals, hoping to find a remnant of strength. Instead, I found a boulder covering part of the skinny singletrack. My bike wobbled, and I lost my balance. Rattlesnake Hill had won.

Despite frequent encounters, Rattlesnake trounced me every time. And I always felt humbled, not only because of its rugged invincibility but also due to its raw beauty, particularly in the fall. From Rattlesnake’s overlook, trees decorate the horizon like paint-dipped brushes with dabs of yellow, burgundy, and orange. My favorites, however, are the delicate, slender ones that sport iridescent yellows and greens—so ethereal, as if they come from another world.

Although I failed to conquer Rattlesnake, it is actually one of the things I love about northern Michigan mountain biking. There is a uniqueness amongst the rolling hills, twisting singletrack, and dense forest.

Once, while mountain biking the Boyne Highlands trails—a ski/golf resort near Harbor Springs—literally thousands of large black beetles scurried across the singletrack searching for partners. The bacchanalian free-for-all lasted all afternoon.

On top of that, tiny, paratrooping green worms (inchworms?) landed on us continuously. They dropped from the trees—a very dense canopy with pink and white trillium covering the forest floor—and every time we stopped, we had to brush at least a half-dozen or so off our clothes.

And it isn’t only warm weather that brings out the magic of northern Michigan mountain biking. While we wait for snow to arrive and ski season to begin, Keith and I continue to pedal across the dirt trails, two-tracks, and forest roads that crisscross rural Michigan, creating an endless, at least in my imagination, network of intertwined forests, lakes, and rolling hills.

On one ride, a cold wind also decided to join us as we biked through a naked forest of skeleton trees, their branches splayed wide as if hoping for an embrace, or fallen across the trail, waiting to jam into our derailleurs. Keith and I were utterly alone, not seeing another person and only the occasional cottage, as we cycled in the Huron-Manistee National Forest. Leaves crunched under our tires, and the sky melted into the earth, making it hard to tell where one began and the other ended. The world opened up, no longer hiding behind spring and summer’s foliage or winter’s snowy cloak.

It’s a time for details, for examining minutiae. It’s a reminder that even during the bleakest days there is always beauty—a flash of a blue jay’s wing or white-tailed deer dashing across an open field.

And as I climbed the last hill before making the long descent back to our truck, I had a sudden rush of gratitude—for a chilly day spent in the woods and for the happy memories that often play through my mind on long bike rides, when the silence of the forest allows one to really think.