Singletrack & Trout in the North Cascades
Words by Jann Eberharter | Photography by Cameron Karsten
Summer arrived late in Washington state this year. Usually by June it’s nothing but sun in the forecast, with temps peaking in the mid-80s. But 2020, by all accounts, has been anything but normal. So, when the misty mornings and favonian gray days extended beyond the summer solstice, a twinge of confusion hung in the air.
The mountains held their snow. The rivers steadily surged. Together, this forecast spelled uncertainty for plans that had been months in the making. At the epitome of the Coronavirus lockdown, some two weeks into our stay-at-home order, we’d hatched a plan to get away from it all and search for some semblance of “normal” in the mountains.
The North Cascades have earned the nickname “the American Alps” for good reason. Aside from the volcanos, only a few peaks in the range hit the 9,000-foot mark, and they slowly descend in height as they trickle outward. While not record-setting in their prowess, the range’s rugged and raw landscape is not to be taken lightly. These mountains have cast spells on many, from long-forgotten miners searching for gold to the likes of beatnik poet Jack Kerouac, and the venerated king of dirtbags and mountaineer extraordinaire Fred Beckey. More than a few lives have been dedicated to these fractious peaks.
Needing a reprieve now more than ever, it was into this madness we would go. However, everything about our planned escape was an experiment. I had never done a multi-day motorcycle trip before, for one. On top of that, both I and my good friend Boe Trosset were within the first year of getting acquainted with our 650s, but eager nonetheless—we didn’t just want to ride, we wanted to fish. From our perspective, these dual-sport beasts are insanely fun to twist the throttle on, but they’re also the perfect tools to access trout-occupied waters.
The idea was to leave from our respective backdoors in Bellingham, Washington, ride Highway 20 through the heart of the glorious North Cascades, head south on the Washington Backcountry Discovery Route (WABDR) and end up somewhere near Highway 2, before cruising home, all while fishing at every stop possible. The WABDR is spliced together with old logging roads and two-track traverses that navigate the whole state from north to south. It provides both an established thoroughfare frequented by off-roaders and cyclists, and endless opportunities to get creative with routes. Lucky for us, for every peak in the North Cascades, there’s a river-filled valley to match.
Departure day seemed to line up perfectly with the first week of actual summer. The temps were prime for riding, and the weather had been just nice enough for the past two weeks that we suspected the rivers were finally calming down after such an extended spring melt. By 9 a.m., our crew was assembled with the arrival of photographer, Cameron Karsten, who would be following behind in his Tacoma. Unbeknownst to us, he also happens to be a veritable trout whisperer, thanks to countless hours spent chasing the world’s best anglers around the world.
Our original plan was to do the trip unsupported, so true to that ethos, Boe and I decided to keep all our gear on the bikes. We certainly weren’t opposed to a support vehicle—especially when Cam pulled two six-packs out of the cooler the following evening—but we were also excited to be as self-sufficient as possible.
My bike tops out at 65 miles per hour—or maybe that’s where I top out. Either way, it’s a pretty comfortable cruising speed that turns the world into a euphoric blur. We connected the backroads of the Skagit Valley to Highway 20, which is the lone way through the Cascades this far north. The highway follows the Skagit River, which has a lifetime’s worth of fishing itself, but our sights were set on the smaller creeks of the East Side.
With every mile farther east, the mountains seemed to rise around us. We passed by the steely blue waters of Diablo and Ross lakes, and beneath the Early Winter Spires, their snow still slowly melting in the summer heat. It was the hottest part of the day as we descended into the Methow Valley and the small town of Winthrop. The tiny Western-themed town would be teeming with tourists normally, and even in the midst of a pandemic, it was far from dead.
The Methow River cruises right through town. It’s known for its fish, no doubt, but also it features mellow whitewater and meandering scenery as it makes its way to the Columbia. Within hours of leaving home, we were in fish paradise. Not even a full day into our trip and we’re buzzing with excitement about that fact that it was actually working. Donning waders and assembling rods, we took to the waters in search of a reprieve from the triple-digit temperature. Twenty minutes later, Cameron had the first fish of the trip. “Where’s your fat uncle?” he asked the fish. That’s who we were really looking for.
This valley was home to the Methow Tribe for thousands of years before it was unjustly taken from them in 1879 through a transfer of land that was done without their consent. The river once had bountiful populations of steelhead, spring Chinook and bull trout—all of which are now protected under the Endangered Species Act. After decades of over-harvesting, habitat loss and the introduction of hatchery fish, there are multiple restoration and recovery efforts under way to help these fish thrive once again.
Darkness began to surround us as we rolled out of our sleeping bags on the edge of a beautiful stretch of water some 20 miles south of town. A big chunk of concrete served as a perch above the hole, letting us cast into the black abyss, wait for a tug, and then set the hook with a loud “Yeowww!” The fish were hungry enough that we kept serving up an all-you-can-eat buffet of stimulators and chubby Chernobyls, prolonging our own dinner late into the evening.
We fished the same stretch the next morning and were handsomely rewarded for bailing from the coziness of our down bags much earlier than we would have normally. Apparently, the chubby uncles feast at dawn. Then, after a quick session of coffee, tea and oatmeal on the riverbank, it was back on the bikes and bound for dirt.
Peeling off Highway 20, we were immediately thrust into a welcoming world of sand, sagebrush and switchbacks. The WABDR made its way up to Sawtooth Ridge, peaking out at more than 6,200 feet, with 360-degree views of the surrounding Okanagan National Forest and Lake Chelan. The latter was our destination for the afternoon.
Turns out, it’s pretty easy to underestimate 60 miles of dirt road. We rolled into Chelan tired, hungry and slightly behind schedule—although, admittedly, we didn’t truly have one. Between bites of sandwich and gulps of beer, we amended our plans. We decided we’d skip the next section of the route—another 50-plus miles that would surely take us far longer than we expected—and take Highway 97 toward the Entiat River instead.
The flat came out of nowhere, as they usually do. One minute we were turning around in a gravel parking lot, the next, Boe was swerving to the side of the road, his rear tire looking pretty damn sad. On closer inspection, after he’d already placed two patches, it was apparent a nail had pretty much shredded the tire as he rolled to a stop.
With our options fading along with the daylight, we opted to swap his DR for the dirt bike on the back of Cam’s truck and raced up the road wanting to simply get to our destination. But it wasn’t in our ability to call the day’s mishaps done. With our headlights illuminating the way and impatience factoring into our speed, both Boe and I saw the branch at the last minute and were barely able to swerve out of the way. Cam’s truck, however, took the broken-off treetop to the headlight like a javelin in what he recalled as an explosion of wood splinters. By the time we made it to camp, we were exhausted and ready for the day to be over.
In 2018, the Cougar Creek Fire rolled through the Upper Entiat valley, evacuating residents and burning some 42,000 acres. Firefighters spent more than a month working to contain the burn. When all was said and done, the region’s landscape was drastically altered. Two years later, the valley’s soil resembles ash, and where lush evergreens once stood, charred trunks stand like toothpicks, just waiting to fall over.
With Boe en route to Wenatchee to get a new tube, Cam and I explored the Entiat. We had our sights set on fishy-looking holes and subtle seams within the water’s topography. To our surprise, the road ended at the Entiat River Trailhead—which happened to be opened to motorized vehicles. Unsure of what we might be getting ourselves into, Cam and I opted to walk the trail until it met the river and explore from there.
When we all met up at the campsite mid-day, we were ecstatic to tell Boe about not only the fishing, but the singletrack. With all three bikes fully functioning and all three of us fully frothing, we blasted onto the trail to see where it would take us. Perfectly contouring the hillside and paralleling the river, the trail’s sandy soil was ripe for roosting. It was comfortably wide with minimal tech, perfect for the dual-sports. When the trail crossed the river and got a little spicy, we hiked into Myrtle Lake, casting for cutthroat and brookies before returning to the Entiat and fishing the crystal-clear pools of its upper canyon.
By this time in the trip, I had nearly forgotten about the troubling state of our current events. It’s funny how fast that can happen. When trout are the only thing on the mind, friends the only people near and a cell signal non-existent, being completely present is the only option. As the fire dwindled into embers that night and the Milky Way shimmered overhead, it felt like all was right in the world.
But alas, these dust-laden dreams cannot last forever. Our cruise over the next stretch of the WABDR the next day did, however, prolong them. Cruising back down the Entiat, we flipped the bird to the remnants of the tree that busted Cam’s bumper before turning west in the small town of Ardenvoir. This time, in the Wenatchee National Forest, we followed the WABDR up Roaring Ridge before peeling off the route toward Lake Wenatchee. This way, we’d minimize our time on the highway and avoid the crowds of Leavenworth.
Yet the crowds found us as we rolled through Plain, where swim-trunk-clad families toting superfluously large float tubes overflowed from the lake. Here, we said goodbye to Cam, who’d be splitting south to head home. Boe and I still had fish on the mind. We merged onto Highway 2 just as it crested Stevens Pass, the definitive indication that we were back on the west side.
Turning up the Beckler River, we wet the lines for a few minutes, but to no avail. Back on dirt, things felt a little more removed from reality once again, but this time it was a Friday afternoon, and we were far from the only ones trying to escape into the woods. Twelve hours after we’d left the Entiat that morning, we finally found a spot to crash for the night on the bank of the North Fork of the Skykomish River.
After five days of nothing but riding and fishing, I was far from ready to give up this exhilarating lifestyle. But as we walked the riffles of the North Fork that next morning, I felt oddly content, knowing we had achieved exactly what we’d set out to do. We had nothing left to prove. That’s when I looked downstream and saw Boe knee-deep in the river, his rod bent nearly in two with what was certainly a fat uncle on the other end of the line.