I have just returned from a long awaited visit to my birthplace. Far and away to the northwest, nearly hanging off the jagged edge of the continental US, sits my hometown of Bellingham. It curves around the blue green restless waters of Bellingham Bay in eclectic absurdity. The old 1890’s brick red firehouse, now a museum, sits on a cliff above Old Town. It contrasts gently with the more recent downtown structures. Streets and avenues sprout from the hills that surround it, converging in odd confusion at the shore’s edge. Far above, snowy Mt. Baker broods over the town from some 10000 feet above sea level. Unless of course it’s hiding behind those huge rainclouds that empty out on a regular basis, keeping the inhabitants damp and chilly through bonechilling winter days.
This ragged northwest edge of our country has a personality all its own. Had you been born there, as I was, you might have considered developing gills. I grew up in a cloud, praying fervently the night before a picnic for the rain to stop. That’s how much precipitation we get there, especially during the long dark days of winter. But then the sun breaks through and the world is radiant.
Why do I love Whatcom County? Where do I begin? The air is heavy year round with that evocative fragrance, a blend of evergreens, sea breezes and something unknown, found only in the Pacific Northwest. Towering Mt. Baker, all 10,000 plus feet of her, offers the hiker views of the top of the world from endless alpine meadows. From Baker’s three glaciers spring the beginnings of the Nooksack River, tumbling down into the valley, its nourishing snowmelt creating some of the richest soil in the world. On the road that takes you close to the mountain, you can take a side road to Nooksack Falls, where the three branches of the river converge into one mighty torrent that plummets almost vertically down the mountainside. Stay behind the fence. Several people have ignored the warning signs and fallen to their deaths in that icy cascade.
Driving north late at night toward Bellingham, I breathe in the familiar and pervasive scent of water; the mountain streams, the rivers, the lakes and bays and inlets, the rainclouds gathering behind the hills or over the sound, an abundance of water. Water everywhere, pulsing through the land, shaping it. I visualize the slate blue-green San Juan islands floating dreamily off the coast to the west. In daylight, they seem close enough to touch, but tonight I have to content myself with imagining them. I do catch a glimpse of Mt. Baker, however, towering off to the east, its shiny covering of ice and snow glistening in starlight. Soon the Samish hills will enfold me as I thread my way through them, headed for the town curling around the edge of the bay where my life began. There is no other place on earth like this place I call home.