Whatcom Hills Rambling - 4 attempts to ride the watershed divide around Lake Whatcom
West Coast Jeff
My hometown in northwest Washington borders the north end of a 12-mile long, narrow, glacially carved lake. Lake Whatcom is surrounded by the Chuckanut Range, the dark, forested foothills of the North Cascades built of 50 to 60 million year old sandstone, siltstone, and coal, layered with palm and fern fossils, and rising from sea level to about 3,000 feet. Paved roads line the valleys, labyrinths of logging roads cover the hills, as do many miles of trails. It is possible to use this mix of roads and trails to circle Lake Whatcom along the watershed divide near the crests of the surrounding hills and ridges. There are numerous routes that could be followed and they take intimate local knowledge. Some require bushwhacking or trespassing. All require laborious route research, sustained, steep climbs and descents, and 60 to 80 miles to complete a loop. I attempted a loop on foot one March with a few other runners, but deep snow on the higher hills stopped us. 
In the spring of 2021, after two failed attempts, I finally linked together a complete loop on my Atlantis. A few years later I did another iteration of the route that I consider to be "more" complete. Recent land purchases by the county have opened up even more logging roads to public use that would allow even more of the loop to be completed on dirt rather than pavement and would avoid some trails that required me to carry my fully-loaded Atlantis down hill. I hope to get back to my hometown sometime to do this route once again in an even more complete form. I only took pictures on a phone for these rides, unfortunately. I've included a couple DSLR photos from other rides in the same places from over the years.
ATTEMPT ONE
March
From home in town I rode onto trails in the local forested park. From here I shot up onto the local mountain bike trail network where my basketed Atlantis always earns many silent stares from the mountain bike bros. Mountain biking is huge in my hometown. The trail network is nationally famous, people move here just to ride trails everyday (the Covid years saw a major influx of wealthy remote workers), and many people ride mountain bikes more expensive than a Rivendell. I always try to pass through this portion of woods as fast as possible.
I get out of the crowds near a high point on the hill by riding a stretch of gravel that metamorphoses from wide road to overgrown singletrack in about 100 feet, then spits you out on a trail dangling over west facing fir slopes and views of the Puget Sound. I stopped at a regular spot for a snack and a quick brew of coffee, then walked my bike down a slick, steep, rutted and narrow trail connecting to an active logging road system and pedaled a few miles to an old, overgrown trail near the northern summit of the mountain. It had been few years since I'd lived here and spent much time up in these hills. Back then, this trail saw much higher traffic, and I suspected it had become overgrown due to people taking an easier route to the summit. Fair enough, as I had to awkwardly carry my fully-loaded bike up some steep sections of the climb.
At the summit, views west to sun and sea and islands. Sunny days are rare during March in northwest Washington. When we get them, it is usually the first sun we've seen alongside above-freezing temps since October or so. At least that is how it used to be. That spring of '21 was especially odd. Starting in March, rain was rare and the temperatures were anomalously high. I took advantage of these days by leaving my tent at home.
From the north summit a connector road to the southern summit dips onto the shaded eastern side of the hill. If I took the gravel road 5 miles downhill I'd end up at the house where I grew up. Instead I turned at an intersection, climbed again toward the southern summit, but broke off into the woods on a poorly beaten trail to connect to a dead end logging road and a camp spot on a west facing cut.
The blurry photo below, from that camp spot, is maybe my favorite I've ever taken with a phone.
Remember it's spring 2021, so I just got my first Covid shot either that day or the day before, and over the course of deep blue, clear twilight, I feel a headache come on and become nauseous. I don't remember if I actually puked, but the next morning I was sick in the other way, as well as feeling incredibly sore and fatigued, so I decided to call it and turned home.
ATTEMPT TWO
April
Another summer-like, sunny day in what should still be the depths of wet, northwest spring. This time I take a variation on the regular route, swapping my home hill of Lookout Mountain for a detour west out and over Chuckanut Mountain, hanging right over Puget Sound. This adds little to no pavement to the route, even though the detour requires a ride through the city, because I can take the gravel interurban trail from near my door down to Fairhaven, past it to Larrabee State Park, and up into the hills.
I see some fine views of Mt. Baker, our local volcano, and a pair of runners on an overgrown, cobble strewn trail I walked my bike down who said "Hey! Taking the Riv for a Ess-Two-Four-Oh?". Sweating–do you know how weird this is–SWEATING in Bellingham in April. Get lost a bit on the backside of Chuckanut, find Lake Samish, ride some pavement across the freeway, down to Anderson Mountain. This is the highest peak on the route. Upward a couple miles until it's getting dark and I take some spur road into plantation forest to camp for the night.
Next morning, the buzz of two-stroke engines. Blue smoke, the smell of burning oil. I ride logging roads up and up, slowly chugging along with my loaded basket. At a high roadside quarry with a good view, two dirtbikes parked and two guys in hi-vis hoodies stand by a roaring fire. "Whoa! You rode that thing all the way up here!? Hell yeah man!" Pedal until the gravel turns to snow, then keep going.
Anderson has turned me away a few times on runs and bike rides. I'd never actually traversed the mountain before this ride, unlike all the other mountains I cross on this route, which I knew inside and out. In the past, I hadn't been able to find reliable maps of the logging roads, which change, so I'm following the Pacific Northwest Trail, which I assume to be the most direct. I was wrong. All the peaks in the Chuckanut Range are ridges, this is a product of the geology: thick layers of sandstone turned up at angles, so the layers form long linear troughs and berms. This route runs along the summit ridge of Anderson Mountain for a few miles before descending the other side halfway on trails, the rest on logging roads. Great fun in summer, I'm sure, but despite the unseasonable warmth, the trail along the summit ridge is still covered in up to a meter of snow. I spent hours post-holing and trying to carry my heavy bike. I know Rivendell sees itself as being beyond the foolishness of weightsaving for racing, but at times like these I wish I only had one top tube, or maybe only one book with me.
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I wore running shoes, which stayed soaked for 5 or 6 hours as I slogged through the rotten spring snow with my Atlantis. I couldn't stop thinking about that guy who raced the Alaska Mountain Wilderness Classic one summer, tromping through rotten snow in running shoes for 8 hours, feet feeling just fine, and subsequently had to have ALL of his toes amputated due to frostbite.
Then it was 3,000 feet down to the valley floor. The single track descent was gloriously snow free, bathed in sun, and empty of hikers. It twisted and plummeted through the forest until it regained an old logging road grade, now back in a few inches of snow. This eventually deposited me onto a steep logging road, the type of steep where you want to squeeze your brakes the whole way down. My rim brakes were jammed with mud and snow and I still descended just fine…I guess disc brakes aren't that essential after all.
To finish the loop I would have to climb 2,600 back up to traverse Stewart Mountain, over which I could take a few different routes home. But lugging my bike through the snow had taken far more time and energy than I had anticipated. I was pooped, it was mid-afternoon already, and I had to be at work the next morning. So I took paved roads home, again failing to finish a loop.
ATTEMPT THREE
May
I packed my bike Friday morning with all of my camping gear, rode to work as usual, then biked up into the hills from there. I made it up near the southern summit of Lookout Mountain, my home mountain, the lower slopes of which I grew up on. I used to run up this same logging road everyday. It rained, finally, gloriously, and the next morning I had coffee and breakfast at my favorite western overlook (pictured above, from my March attempt).
The route crosses some private logging land here, and back then the owner (a local mountain biker, operating a local company) was happy to allow walkers and bikers to use this stretch of road connecting trails to the north and south. I believe the land has since sold and I am not sure of the status. The worst part of the route is here, on the southern ridge of Lookout Mountain, where the trail through county park land has been turned into one long, narrow, deep ditch by motor bikes a few years ago. It used to be a fun ride. Not sure if the trail has been repaired since I last "rode" it in 2023. From Lookout Mountain to Anderson by road. Then up Anderson and, this time, taking a trail descent from well below the summit. Because of this variation I don't feel this was a full completion of the route. To me, the route should always take the highest elevation option, sticking as close to summit ridges as possible. But I descend to the lake and accidentally end up on some private land–a campground owned by the school district that I camped at in grade school–and then out to my routine turn-around for road rides. .jpg?part=0.2&view=1)
The stump next to the bike was a tree until just a year or two before this photo. I used to take a picture of my bike leaning on this tree whenever I would ride down here. This photo was an attempt to keep the tradition.
A retired couple, new to the area, chatted with me for a few minutes. They asked where I was riding and from there asked some questions about the hills and the general area. I got to indulge in sharing my lifetime of knowledge of my home land. I had spent the last few years before this living in Alaska and I was about to move away to California, so it was deeply satisfying to do this trip as an expression of my long relationship with this place, and then to chat to some newcomers, excited to get to know this land, was both meaningful and validating.
So: back on the highway to the logging road that heads up Stewart Mountain with the gate and the big, bold, "NO BICYCLES" sign. I've always wanted to take a photo of my bike by the sign but it is right by the highway and I have always been too nervous about breaking rules. Logging trucks don't use this road (they have another access a few miles north), and whenever I have seen work trucks for the powerline company that uses this gate, they don't care that I am riding my bike here. The road passes through about a half mile of private land, non-residential, and then exists on a right of way on a mix of state and county land.
I stop to brew a cup of coffee halfway up the climb. Climb another mile, pushing my bike the whole way, up to something like 2,500 feet, then follow the road along a broad summit ridge, half a mile wide, where the forest has been leveled to make way for transmission lines. This opens up the view east to Mt. Baker and the Twin Sisters range, a picturesque and geologically unique saw blade of orange rock and receding glaciers.
I'm standing under the powerlines, near an old rusting car crumbling in the blackberry bushes that was already ancient and overgrown when I first came up here, 15 years ago, exploring with a friend in high school. From this artificial prairie, logging roads spider in all directions and I know where some lead and I'm not sure about others. One road, heading east, the direction I don't want to go right now, was covered in deadfall for 3 solid miles the last time I ran it. It turned my Saturday morning run over the mountain and back into an all-day obstacle course.
It's later in the day than I had hoped to be at this point, so I head west, taking the immediate descent through county park land to a paved road that snakes along the steep, cliffy lake shore. I could have ridden logging roads north, staying on the high ridge another 5 miles or so, riding over all the summits of Stewart Mountain (Stewart, Haner, Bigfoot) before descending northwest on shoddily built mountain bike trails (the route I will take in another 2 and a half years) or northeast on logging roads that cross through private land (I'll attempt this from the other direction 2 or 3 years later, only to have the landowner stop me and ask me to leave, though FYI this section is now open the the public).
I reach the pavement and pedal home.
ATTEMPT FOUR
In fall of 2023 I moved back to Bellingham for the winter after finishing grad school in California and a season of geological field work in Alaska. It's the first week of October and it's wildly warm and I throw everything on my bike to do the loop, again. I cross over Lookout Mountain this time, ride through the mountain bike trail network of Galbraith, get up onto new logging roads in the fresh clear cut, the old trails I used to know now gone, run into a few people on mountain bikes with electric motors, try to take an old connector trail and end up bushwhacking over deadfall, lifting my heavy bike over every tree and branch, get back on the road, run into the e-bikers again, camp in the valley between Lookout and Anderson, wake up in dew, run out of water, cross Anderson, snow free this time, push my bike up Stewart again, camp in warm breeze high on a west slope, wake to steaming cougar scat on the road 50 feet from my sleeping bag, then ride the whole ridge north and descend on steep, hand made, unsanctioned single track. These types of trails are ones I have to walk my bike down, and a couple mountain bikers walking their bikes up and greet me, in chipper tones "Ah! Great day to take your bike out for a walk!"
