So there I was, Saturday morning, June 15th, the sun barely dragging itself over the horizon, and me, somehow already vertical despite my better judgment. Snuggles says I’m the only person she knows who voluntarily ruins perfectly good weekends by waking up at ungodly hours. She’s probably right.
But this wasn’t just any morning. This was “Bill Time” day.
See, “Bill Time” isn’t something you explain to normal people. They don’t get it. My buddy Chad once asked what “Bill Time” meant, and I just stared at him until he changed the subject. Some things are sacred, you know? Kinda like how I don’t need to explain why my bike’s named Hendrix. If you know, you know.
I grabbed Hendrix (that’s my bike, purple frame, attitude problem) and wheeled him out from our campervan where we’d spent the night. We had a date with Wagon Wheel Ridge, and he wasn’t about to let me sleep in. That bike has more motivation than my college guidance counselor ever did. Named him Hendrix for, y’know, obvious reasons. If you don’t get it, I’m not explaining it to you.
The trail was quiet when we arrived. Just the way I like it. No weekend warriors, no fitness influencers documenting their “authentic outdoor experience” for their followers. Just me, Hendrix, and about forty-seven million trees.
The first mile of Wagon Wheel is always deceptive. All smooth and friendly-like, lulling you into a false sense of security. “Oh, this isn’t so bad,” your brain says. Your brain is a liar. Your brain has forgotten about the section locals call “Regret Junction.”
I propped Hendrix against a pine tree to catch my breath about halfway up. He gleamed there in the dappled morning light, judgmental as ever. The purple frame almost seemed to pulse with impatience.
“Gimme a minute,” I muttered to him. “Some of us have to do the actual pedaling, you know.”
A chipmunk watched our exchange with obvious disdain. Wildlife critics, I swear.
That’s when I noticed it, bear grass in full bloom. Like little white explosions all over the hillside. They looked sorta alien, these feathery white spikes standing tall against the green backdrop. Nature’s fireworks, but in slow motion and without the noise complaints from neighbors.
The thing about “Bill Time” is that it exists in a weird space between torture and therapy. Every push of the pedal on those uphill stretches feels like punishment for crimes I don’t remember committing. But then there’s that moment… that perfect, fleeting moment… when you reach a ridge and the world just opens up beneath you. The valley stretching out like it’s showing off, the mountains doing their whole majestic thing in the distance. And suddenly the burning lungs and screaming thighs make a twisted kind of sense.
I snapped a quick pic of Hendrix on the trail (he’s vain like that, loves the attention) and continued on. The path ahead curved through the pines, an invitation and a challenge all wrapped into one dusty ribbon.
The trails from Lee Creek Campground, where we’d spent the night, offered a different vibe than my usual Wagon Wheel routes. I spent a good hour just riding and taking in the scenery before the clouds started gathering in the distance.
Made it to the overlook just as the sky started doing that thing. You know, that ominous “I’m-about-to-dump-buckets-on-you” thing. Dark clouds rolling in over the distant ridges like they were late for an appointment. The mountains looked almost blue-green under the shadow, layer after layer fading into the mist.
I sat on this massive rock outcropping, fishing a squished protein bar from my pocket. Half melted, wrapper stuck to it in that special way that means you’re eating paper today whether you planned to or not. Worth it though. The view was… well, it was one of those moments where you feel simultaneously tiny and enormous. Like you’re just a speck but somehow taking in this whole world at once. That kinda thing makes my brain hurt if I think about it too long.
“Welp,” I announced to no one in particular, “looks like Mother Nature’s calling it.” No arguing with those clouds. Even I’m not that stubborn. Okay, I am that stubborn, but I forgot to pack my rain gear, so wisdom prevailed for once.
Just me and Hendrix, figuring it out one ridge at a time.
Just like that, Bill Time was over. The timer in my head dinged, the meditation bell of impending precipitation. Packed it in and headed back down to camp, Hendrix bouncing over roots and rocks like he was showing off. (He totally was.)
Back at camp, I tucked Hendrix safely in the campervan as Mo was already up and about, lacing up hiking boots with that determined look. The one that says “I’m going to climb something today and enjoy every sweaty minute of it.” Sometimes I think we work as a couple because we have the same brand of strange… just different flavors.
“Good ride?” Mo asked, not looking up from a particularly stubborn bootlace.
“Mmm,” I answered, eloquent as always. Sometimes the best Bill Time leaves you with fewer words, not more.
Mo nodded like I’d delivered some profound statement. “Figured. You’ve got that post-ride face.”
“What face?”
“That face like you just had a conversation with the universe and it actually answered back for once.”
Huh. Maybe that’s what Bill Time really is. Just the universe picking up the phone when I call.
I watched Mo getting all geared up, and something in me wasn’t quite ready to call it a day. Like my soul still had some wandering left to do.
“Can I go?” I asked, surprising even myself. Normally post-ride Bill is strictly a horizontal-on-the-nearest-flat-surface kinda guy.
Mo looked up, eyebrows doing that surprised thing. “Seriously? You never want to hike after riding.”
“Yeah well, today’s weird I guess.” I shrugged, already digging through my bag for socks that didn’t smell like I’d been marinating them in old cheese.
And just like that, we were exploring the rock formations in the area. These massive stone sculptures that looked like some giant kid had been stacking blocks and then wandered off mid-play.
Mo climbed up on this one boulder that jutted out dramatically, striking a pose like the world’s most outdoorsy superhero. Not gonna lie, it was pretty epic… the way the mountains layered out behind, all misty and mysterious. I snapped a pic, thinking how different it was seeing the same view with company versus alone.
I found my own rock to conquer, this weird, layered thing that kinda resembled a stack of pancakes if pancakes weighed several tons and could crush you. Placed my hand against the cool stone and felt the rough texture against my palm. Strange how something so solid could also feel so alive.
That’s when I noticed the bear grass in full bloom all around us. Like little white explosions everywhere. They looked sorta alien, these feathery white spikes standing tall against the green backdrop. Nature’s fireworks, but in slow motion and without the noise complaints from neighbors. I stopped to snap a pic of a particularly impressive specimen. A macro photographer, I am not, but even I could appreciate these bizarre botanical fireworks.
“You should see your face now,” Mo called over, grinning.
“What’s it saying this time?” I shouted back.
“That you’re wondering why we don’t do this more often.”
Mo wasn’t wrong. (Mo’s rarely wrong, which is both wonderful and incredibly annoying, depending on the day.)
Bill Time is sacred, that solo communion with trails and trees and my own weird thoughts. But there’s something to this too. Call it Mo-and-Bill Time. Different flavor, same kind of magic.
The clouds kept gathering, darker now, but somehow less threatening. Like they were just settling in to watch us play among the rocks. Maybe planning to join the party later with some dramatic lightning effects.
I struck my own ridiculous pose by this massive boulder, feeling slightly foolish and completely alive. Mo laughed, that full-belly laugh that always makes me feel like I’ve won some kind of cosmic lottery.
“Think the universe answers the phone when we call together too?” I asked later, as we picked our way back down.
“Oh for sure,” Mo said, jumping down from a ledge with that easy grace I’ve always envied. “It just speaks in stereo instead of mono.”
The clouds finally made good on their threats, opening up with a vengeance. One minute dry, next minute… biblical. We bolted down the trail like someone had lit our shoes on fire.
I reached the van first, yanking the door open and diving in. Turned around, all ready to laugh at Mo’s equally drenched state, but… no Mo.
Wait, what?
Squinted through the rain-blurred windshield. There she was, maybe thirty yards back, CROUCHED DOWN on the trail. In the rain. On purpose. Like some kind of rain-loving wilderness gremlin.
“What the—” I muttered, debating whether to go back out into the downpour or just start honking. But then I got it.
She was taking pictures. Of course she was. Close-ups of some plant with raindrops beading up on it like tiny crystal marbles. The rain plastering her hair to her head, probably soaking through to places that would be uncomfortable for the next three hours, and she’s completely oblivious… just totally zeroed in on these perfect little water droplets clinging to fuzzy green leaves.
That’s Mo. Always stopping for the tiny miracles I’m too busy charging ahead to notice.
I watched her through the raindrop-streaked window, feeling this weird tug in my chest. Somewhere between exasperation and… I dunno, something bigger that I’m not poetic enough to name.
She eventually jogged to the van, grinning like she’d discovered buried treasure instead of just getting soaked for plant photography.
“You’re insane,” I told her as she dripped all over the passenger seat.
“You’re missing out,” she countered, showing me the close-up on her phone. And damn if she wasn’t right. Those droplets looked like something from another planet… all perfect spheres catching light in ways that seemed impossible.
Some days you get exactly the Bill Time you need. And some days, it turns out what you need is someone who’ll stand in the rain to remind you to look closer.
Go figure.
Disclaimer: This post benefited from the use of Perplexity for research and fact-checking, Claude for proofreading and structural input, and Gemini for fact-checking prompt development. The author remains solely responsible for the final content and its accuracy.
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