Why Riders Say Woolley Fest Could Redefine Freeride’s Future in America

Rows of corn and cauliflower sit under heavy fog, the sun barely beginning to cut through the Skagit River’s dawn ritual. Hand-painted roadside signs vend pickles, preserves, and paintings. It’s quiet now, but in a few days, it will be loud. Fifty riders from all over the world and hundreds of fans. A quick bit of flow, a road gap, a 45-foot skipper, a massive ramp, a hip, one of the biggest dirt jumps I’ve ever seen—Woolley Fest 2025. 

It's Wednesday of a week-long ramp into the finale, the inaugural public day at The Lookout. The riders are finding their rhythm near Clear Lake, just outside the city of Sedro-Woolley, WA (pop. 12,421). A 30-minute drive south of Bellingham and its well-publicized bike scene, it’s a lot quieter down here, but the area has been home to a low-key freeride culture for decades.

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At the top of the course, Alesio Tonoli plays heavy metal softly on his iPhone and packs a berm with Chelsea Kimball. The August sun wins its battle with the fog. Wildfire haze hangs in the foothills, and the North Cascades are barely visible to the east. Soon, all the riders will grab a shovel. Clemens Kaudela will hop into the excavator and help the Shire Built crew tune up that new dirt jump at the end of the line. Woolley Fest is an all-hands-on-deck affair—an international gathering that remains a fully DIY event. 

It's hard to believe this is all thanks to a group of riders in their early 20s. Under the banner of Hesh MTB LLC, Talus Turk, Ryan McNulty, Cole Goodnight, Torsenn Brown, and accomplices have been hustling for over a year to bring a true freeride spectacle to the Pacific Northwest. For now, they’ll dig then ride, together.

Woolley Fest began as an act of faith. Heavily funded out of pocket by the Hesh crew, they leaned into ticket sales to recoup the six-figure costs of an event of this magnitude. Landowner Zack Goodwin brought in an excavator to clear space for up to 800 folks to watch. The week prior to the event, they’d sold 200 tickets. But by Saturday’s public spectacle, they’re up to 600. 

At 2 pm, many of those fans have arrived. The athletes sit behind a folding table, signing autographs. Ryan McNulty attends to last-minute details in the media tent. “The community is supporting us beyond expectations,” he says. “Having this group of riders out here and so many spectators is amazing—we weren’t sure we’d get here. Having that support for the future, knowing we can do this, is huge for us—it’s insane, really. It’s been a zero-pressure session all week; riders can ride when they want, whatever you want to do.”

Now, even though the pressure is on behind the scenes, it feels the same as it has all week, for the riders at least. They’ll wait for the wind to settle, rake, water, and rip.

The first riders drop around 5pm. With a breeze out of the southwest, they take their time easing into bigger tricks, shuttling back for another round until they feel satisfied. As the wind softens, the airs get bigger. From spectator parking and shuttle drivers to on-site medical staff and dozens of volunteers helping with operations and media, it runs impossibly smooth for a first-year, community-driven event. There’s nothing left to do for Ryan and Talus but drop in themselves.

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As the sun sets and a few folks send a last lap in front of a diminishing crowd, Hannah Bergemann watches beside the ramp. She was the first of several women to complete a full pull of the course, and says the ramp was the most air she’s ever caught (which is something coming from someone who recently hit a 90-foot gap at Hardline). “I was so scared leading up to hitting that jump the first time, but the boys killed it on the build, and I just trusted it, and it works great,” she says. “You’re in the air for three-plus seconds—it was a crazy feeling. I was so stoked to get comfortable enough to just do laps and enjoy it.”

On her last lap, when most of the media had already packed up their bags, Hannah threw a sui on the last jump, exemplary of that comfort. After hitting the big ramp, a 40-plus-foot dirt jump somehow felt playful. 

It’s down by that last jump where Talus and Cole hold court at dusk, raffling off a pair of bikes from Transition and Canyon, shutting it down before the party ramps up at nearby Evelyn’s Tavern. Talus is still in his riding gear, dusty and sweaty and satisfied. He has a lot of logistics ahead of him—get the remaining spectators off the hill safely and efficiently, and get all the riders get on their way home the next day. Still, he sits for a moment to reflect. 

“Everyone was all on the same page—the riders, the event staff, and the spectators are so down with what we’re doing,” Talus says. “All the athletes are such good people and good riders. It’s a surreal experience having them here—these are my idols, and now they’re here in Washington, riding with me and my friends. Riding up on the shuttles, seeing the spectators’ reaction and stoke… they’ve never seen something like this. I’m completely blown away. I’ve always dreamed of doing this, and now it’s a dream come true.”