oregon history Archives - Mount Hood History

Curtains in the Forest: Rhododendron Summer Theater

A Mountain Legacy Remembered

A Cultural Bloom in the Heart of the Forest

Just east of Portland, along the winding curves of Highway 26, sits Rhododendron, Oregon—a place not quite a town, but more than a roadside stop. Nestled in the folds of the Mount Hood National Forest, it’s a patchwork of tall trees, weathered cabins, and the kind of tight-knit community where everyone knows your dog’s name. In this scenic and soulful village, the Rhododendron Summer Theater took root. Though short-lived, the theater transformed Rhododendron into a vibrant cultural destination during the summer months.

A Village with Roots and Rhythm

For decades, Rhododendron served as a peaceful retreat from city life. By the late 1950s and early 1960s, the town had settled into a familiar seasonal rhythm: snow in the winter, hikers and vacationers in the summer. However, one thing was still missing—live theater. That changed when Mark Allen arrived with a bold idea.

Allen—producer, director, and actor—had years of experience in summer stock productions. While others only saw a ski shop, he envisioned a stage. More specifically, he saw potential in Joie Smit’s ski shop, a modest structure near the Log Lodge. Behind it stood a second unused building. Allen imagined it filled with laughter and light beneath a roof that could open to the stars.

The Theater with a Sky for a Ceiling

With help from locals and fellow performers, Allen transformed that back building into the Rhododendron Summer Theater. The venue was small, a bit unconventional, and absolutely alive with character. Most unforgettable was the convertible roof—a hand-cranked panel that allowed plays to unfold under the open sky or close quickly when mountain weather rolled in.

Right from the start, the community embraced the project. Residents from neighboring towns, Portland weekenders, and locals all played a part—whether as patrons, volunteers, or cast members. Among its most loyal supporters were Bill and Nancy Spencer, who owned the nearby Log Lodge. Not only did they encourage the project, but they also hosted actors and helped organize post-show gatherings. Their involvement gave the theater roots and a sense of place.

Thanks to their connections, the theater quickly earned its place in town life. It wasn’t just a novelty. Instead, it became a defining part of Rhododendron’s identity. Travelers might see a sign advertising the evening’s performance, then stop by the lodge for pie and updates on the cast.

Opening Night, 1961

The curtain rose on The Reluctant Debutante, a romantic comedy led by a cast of seven. The debut was a clear success. According to The Sunday Oregonian (July 2, 1961), a “capacity-plus” crowd filled the theater. All 165 reserved seats were taken, and at least 15 more guests grabbed folding chairs at the back.

It was a cool, cloudless night. The crew opened the roof so the audience could enjoy the show beneath the stars. That moment marked the beginning of the Rhododendron Summer Theater’s first full season.

The entire endeavor was built by the community. The Rhododendron Boosters Club organized funding through private donations and business sponsors. Even more notably, all labor was volunteered. After The Reluctant Debutante, the group followed up with a five-week run of The Moon Is Blue.

Curtain Call and Community

Each summer brought new shows and fresh energy. The company staged Neil Simon comedies, classics like Barefoot in the Park and The Seven Year Itch, and heartfelt dramas like Tunnel of Love. Auditions were held in Portland. Once selected, the actors lived in Rhododendron, quickly becoming familiar faces in the store, café, and along the trailheads.

Audiences sat close—shoulder to shoulder—often wrapped in blankets. Evenings buzzed with energy. Locals brought visiting family. Hikers stumbled into something delightful and stayed for the whole performance. For those few hours, Rhododendron became a mountaintop village of the arts.

From Rhododendron to Welches: The Final Act

By 1967, after six strong seasons, Mark Allen announced a change. The production company would relocate to Bowman’s Golf and Country Club in Welches, opening a new chapter as the Mount Hood Summer Theater. The new pavilion-style venue promised better amenities and long-term sustainability.

The seventh season opened on June 30, carrying forward the same spirit. However, it proved to be the final curtain. No further performances are recorded after that summer. Perhaps the mountain’s remoteness presented too many challenges. Then again, maybe the theater had simply fulfilled its purpose—bringing light, laughter, and community to the trees while it could.

A Legacy That Lingers

The theater building is gone now. The convertible roof no longer opens to the stars. Nevertheless, the memories remain vivid for those who were there.

They remember Joie Smith’s ski shop serving as the backstage entrance. They remember the warmth of the Spencers, and the buzz of opening nights. Most of all, they remember sitting in the woods, surrounded by friends and pine needles, as actors poured their hearts into each line.

The Rhododendron Summer Theater didn’t last forever—but it didn’t need to. Its brilliance endures in memory, woven into the story of the mountain.

Scandal in Cherryville: The Man Who Guarded a Grave

Death, Dispute, and a Grave Watch in the Foothills of Mount Hood

A Scandal in Cherryville : The Friel Drama of 1911

In the summer of 1911, the Friel case in Cherryville Oregon became one of the most disturbing stories ever told from the Mount Hood foothills. A suspicious death, a hurried marriage, a missing medicine bottle, and an armed grave watch pushed a grieving family to the brink of collapse. The newspapers followed it all with fascination, and more than a hundred years later, the story still echoes through the woods that surround Cherryville, although this scandal in Cherryville was almost forgotten.

From Hotelkeeper to Accused Widower

John T. Friel had once operated the Cherryville Hotel on the Barlow Road to Mount Hood Oregon, and was well-known in the area. By 1911, he was a wealthy rancher living on his land with his wife Phoebe, who had been in failing health for years. In January of that year, a nurse named Luella Wilson arrived from Portland to care for Phoebe during what would be the last weeks of her life. On February 13, Phoebe died and was buried in the Cherryville Cemetery. Less than three months later, John Friel married the nurse.

Seven Children, One Loaded Rifle

That marriage triggered something fierce. Friel’s seven adult children—already uneasy about their stepmother—began to suspect foul play. They believed Phoebe’s death may not have been natural. They believed their new stepmother had married their father for his land and money. Most of all, they believed something had to be done.

John Friel disagreed. In fact, he made it physically impossible for anyone to disturb the grave. Armed with a rifle, he began standing guard at his late wife’s grave every night. He wrote to the sheriff that he feared someone might try to dig up the body in secret—or worse, inject poison into the corpse to frame him.

Scandal in Cherryville, Phoebe Friel Obituary

Accusations and Legal Threats

Meanwhile, his children pressed forward. Mrs. Thomas Kirby, one of Phoebe’s daughters, told reporters, “Five thousand injunctions will not prevent us from digging up the body and having the cause of death found.” The family claimed Luella Wilson wasn’t even a trained nurse but a housekeeper hired for general housework. They said she destroyed the bottle of medicine Phoebe had been taking. When they asked to see it, she claimed she had wrapped it up and misplaced it—then later, that she had smashed all the bottles in the house.

When the district attorney and coroner declined to act without funding, the family threatened to do it themselves. That’s when John Friel filed for a restraining order and began preparing a slander lawsuit against all seven of his children—and their spouses.

A Grave Is Opened, But the Case Closes

Eventually, the exhumation was approved. On August 16, Phoebe’s body was removed from the Cherryville Cemetery under official supervision. The coroner of Multnomah County and a Portland physician were present. Friel and Luella agreed to the examination, as long as it was lawful and properly overseen.

No charges were filed. No results were ever made public. If there was poison in Phoebe’s body, it was never proven. If there was a motive for murder, it never made it to court. The Friel case simply faded from the papers and slipped into memory.

Myrtle-Mabel-Ruth-and-Vincent-Friel-at-John-Tyler-Friels-Cherryville-Hotel-and-PO-circa-1908

A Story That Still Haunts the Mount Hood Corridor

Today, the town of Cherryville is no longer a town at all. The old hotel is gone. The cemetery is still there, quiet and mostly forgotten. But for those who come across the old newspaper articles, the Friel case remains one of the most bizarre and unsettling chapters in the story of the Mount Hood corridor.

A rifle. A grave. A family torn apart. And questions that have never been fully answered.

The_Oregonian_1911_08_16_7-friel-cherryville-exhumation

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Nettie Connett: The Woman Who Became a Legend

An unforgettable figure in the history of Sandy Oregon

A logger, moonshiner, midwife, and a mountain force—Nettie Connett lived by her own rules

In the timbered hills near Sandy, Oregon, few names live on like Nettie Connett. Born March 5, 1880, in Independence, Oregon, Nettie Loraine Connett would grow into one of the most unforgettable figures in Clackamas County history. From restaurant operator to logger, from convicted moonshiner to community benefactor, her life defied expectations at every turn.

By the age of 18, she had already left a failed marriage behind and moved to Portland with her newborn child and eighty dollars in her purse. She worked her way up from dairymaid to waitress, eventually running several restaurants and a hotel. But in 1910, she left the city behind for good.

Nettie Connett could handle an axe, a crosscut saw, or a team of logging horses as well as any man. Timber workers respected her strength, her business sense, and her refusal to be underestimated.

That year, she sold her hotel and moved to the Aims district near Bull Run. Nettie homesteaded 80 acres of timberland and threw herself into the work. Over the next forty years, she raised cattle, cut fence posts and telephone poles, sold timber, and logged saw logs for the mills. At one point, she held title to over 1,000 acres of land. Known for wearing men’s clothing—jeans, boots, a wool shirt, and a red hunting hat—she was rarely mistaken for anyone else.

Moonshine and a Federal Conviction

During the early 1920s, Prohibition-era agents raided her Bull Run property and uncovered one of the most elaborate illegal stills in Oregon. Hidden in a hand-dug cave, the setup included a piped-in water source concealed inside hollow logs. Nettie denied involvement, claiming the still had been built without her knowledge.

Even so, her hogs had been seen staggering around after eating the mash. A hired hand testified about the operation in detail, and Nettie became the first woman in Oregon convicted of moonshining. She was fined $500 and sentenced to six months in jail. Later, she faced a second indictment, but returned to her land unfazed. As she put it, “I worked, you know. I always worked.”

Bear Skins and Barstools

Despite—or maybe because of—her reputation, Nettie became a well-known figure in Sandy. She drove her green Studebaker pickup into town often, sometimes with a fresh kill in the back. Bears, bobcats, coyotes, and deer were regular prizes. Locals say she was often the first to return with a buck on opening day of hunting season.

Irene’s Tavern in Sandy served as her unofficial office. Most mornings, she would stop in for a beer or a 7-Up, joke with the loggers, and sometimes stand on her head on a barstool for a laugh. Nettie cursed like a logger and carried herself with absolute confidence. However, underneath that tough exterior, she cared deeply for others.

She loaned money to friends without asking for repayment. In mountain cabins, she delivered babies as a midwife. She even co-founded the Nettie Connett Medical Care Foundation with Dr. Walter Noehren to support health care for the elderly. Nettie donated $500 of her own money to help start the fund.

A Mountain Life, Remembered

Even into her eighties, Nettie insisted on driving herself. But in 1964, she pulled out onto Proctor Boulevard and collided with a logging truck. After five months in a Portland nursing home, she passed away on October 19, 1964, at the age of 84.

Nettie was buried at Cliffside Cemetery in Sandy. She was survived by her son W.R. Dempsey, one grandchild, two great-grandchildren, and a sister. By the time of her death, her name had already become local legend.

Today, Sandy honors her with Nettie Connett Drive. It’s a fitting tribute for a woman who lived boldly and left her mark. As one local said, “When the Lord made her, he just threw away the mold.”

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The Legendary Mrs. Pierce: She Killed a Bear With Her Hoe

A Strong Mountain Woman

Pioneer Grit And An Unforgettable Bear Story

I’ve spent a lot of time talking with old-timers and the family members of folks who’ve lived up here in the Mountain Community for years. In one or two conversations, I’d heard tell of a woman who gained local notoriety for killing a bear that invaded her space with a garden hoe. That’s right—a woman killed a bear with a hoe. At the time, I didn’t know much more about her—but I would later learn that her name was Mrs. Eliza A. Pierce, and her story is the stuff of mountain legend. Around here, she’s best remembered as the legendary Mrs. Pierce.

The Legendary Mrs. Pierce and Her Mountain Homestead

The Legendary Mrs. Pierce was no ordinary pioneer. In the early 1900s, she made her home at the junction of the Sandy and Zigzag Rivers near Mount Hood, Oregon. At over 60 years old, she arrived with almost nothing but determination and a 10-acre tract of untamed land in the area known as Sharon Springs.

What followed is hard to imagine. She built her own home, leveled her cabin site with a wheelbarrow, and filled it with earth carried from the upper slope of her property. She constructed a stone foundation by hand, built fences from cedar logs she split herself, and laid out a productive farm with strawberries, potatoes, pigs, goats, and a garden full of flowers—including 125 rose bushes she carefully watered with buckets hauled from a spring.

In later years, she added a springhouse, a chicken coop, and even a plank sidewalk to make water-carrying easier. She engineered drainage channels to redirect flooding and built a potato house to store her harvests through the mountain winters. Her efforts transformed the landscape, and by all accounts, she did every bit of it herself.

A Bear, a Hoe, and a Moment That Became Legend

One spring morning, a black bear chased her neighbor, Mr. Hutchinson, from his nearby cabin. The bear wandered into Mrs. Pierce’s yard while she worked in her garden. Without a rifle nearby, she grabbed her hoe and stood her ground—fighting off and killing the bear before help arrived.

The Legendary Mrs. Pierce didn’t just survive that encounter—she became famous for it. The story was reported in multiple Oregon newspapers. One article even joked that the old standard of “a good dog and a trusty rifle” was no longer necessary, since “everyone can afford a hoe, and bears are plentiful.”

Grit, Heart, and Generosity

Even without the bear story, Mrs. Pierce was remarkable. She lived alone not out of necessity, but by choice. Though she had adult children and money invested in Portland, she stayed on her land because she loved the forest and the work. She said she was “in love with nature” and wanted to do things for herself.

Neighbors admired her independence, but also her generosity. When someone fell ill nearby, she’d be the one to bring remedies. When others were in trouble, she offered help. In one instance, two young men offered to carry her heavy sack of supplies a mile from the road. She accepted the help—but later remarked, only half-jokingly, that she could’ve spanked both of them.

Mrs. Pierce also crafted and sold fine baskets and paintings. And in the quietest, most touching detail of all, she grew flowers to take to her late husband’s grave—making time for tenderness even in the hardest of lives.

Sharon Springs and the Changing Mountain

The land around Mrs. Pierce’s homestead was once part of the Sharon Springs tract, originally owned by W.R. McGarry. She was one of many who purchased land in this area and transformed it into something livable. Other settlers followed—among them Archibald and Nettie Howard, who built the nearby Mount Hood Hotel, and summer residents like the Vanes and the Baileys.

While others relied on hired help to develop their properties, Mrs. Pierce did the work with her own hands. Her land rose in value because of what she built, not what she bought. At one time, her 10-acre tract was valued at $25 per acre. Within a few years, land in the area was selling for $100 or more.

Why The Legendary Mrs. Pierce Still Matters

Even in her own time, The Legendary Mrs. Pierce was admired across Oregon. A 1912 newspaper feature titled “Woman’s Will vs. Nature’s Wilderness” told her story in poetic detail—describing her farm as a triumph of willpower over wildness. Her life was a blend of hard labor and quiet dignity, built not for show, but for survival and meaning.

She didn’t just live in the Mount Hood wilderness—she mastered it. She dug it, planted it, protected it, and made it her own. When we think of pioneers, we often think of names on roads or plaques. But Mrs. Pierce left something just as lasting: a story of what it means to be strong, self-reliant, and deeply rooted in place.

Today, her name might not be on any maps. But ask around long enough, and someone will remember. The woman who killed a bear with a hoe.

For Further Reading

If you’re interested in the people and places that shaped the Mount Hood corridor during Mrs. Pierce’s time, here are a few more stories from the archive:

Howard’s Hotel at Sharon Springs
Learn about the short-lived hotel that once stood near Mrs. Pierce’s land along the Sandy River.
The Rhododendron Inn
Another historic stop along the Mount Hood Highway, with ties to early settlers in the Zigzag area.
Tawney’s Mountain Home
A popular early resort not far from where Mrs. Pierce farmed and built her homestead.
The Modern Barlow Trail Road
A look at the historic immigrant route that evolved into the highway passing just below Sharon Springs.
One of Mrs Pierces neighbors
Dr William DeVany – Mt Hood’s Buffalo Bill

Henry and Fred Steiner Deaths in the Mount Hood Forest

A Loss on The Mountain: The Deaths of Henry and Fred Steiner

Tragedy Beneath the Tall Trees

Henry Steiner was known throughout the Mount Hood region as a master builder of log homes. He and his wife, Mollie, raised their family in Brightwood, where Henry built dozens of rustic cabins that still stand today. His sons, including Fred, learned the trade from him and often worked alongside him. The Henry and Fred Steiner deaths in 1953 would mark one of the darkest moments in the community’s history, but by then, the “Steiner cabin” had already become a local hallmark of hand-built timber construction—steep-roofed, river-stone anchored, and shaped by hand rather than machine.

In the spring of 1953, the Henry and Fred Steiner deaths cast a long shadow over the Mount Hood community. Henry, a master cabin builder, vanished into the forest near Brightwood. Days later, his son Fred—who had traveled north from California to help find him—drowned in the river during the search. Their story is one of family, legacy, and quiet tragedy in the same forests where the cabins they built still stand.

The Disappearance of Henry Steiner

On Tuesday, April 7, 75-year-old Henry Steiner vanished from the wooded land near his home in Brightwood, Oregon. Though elderly, he remained active and independent. At first it was thought that he left to simply walk the forest trails he knew so well. When he failed to return, concern grew quickly.

State police, Clackamas County deputies, U.S. Forest Service crews, and Brightwood locals mounted a widespread search across the steep, forested terrain near Mount Hood. By Thursday, they had ruled out the possibility that he had taken a bus to visit family. All signs pointed to something having gone wrong in the woods.

Fred Steiner’s Search and Sacrifice

Fred Arthur Steiner, age 39, was working as a logger in Eureka, California when he learned of his father’s disappearance. He returned home to Brightwood to help with the search.

On Saturday, April 11, Fred set out with his brothers to search along the Sandy and Salmon Rivers. He entered the fast-moving water in a rubber life raft, with a rope attached to shore for safety. As he reached the confluence near Salmon River, the raft overturned in the rough current.

Fred could not swim, and despite the rope, he was swept downstream nearly a mile. Witnesses, including his brother John Steiner and brother-in-law Pat Carey, could do nothing. Cliff Finnell of Brightwood recovered Fred from the water after roughly 20 minutes. The Sandy Fire Department tried to revive him using an inhalator. He was rushed to Providence Hospital in Portland, where he was pronounced dead on arrival.

Discovery of Henry Steiner’s Body

Three weeks later, on Sunday, April 26, Henry Steiner’s body was discovered along Hackett Creek, about 1½ miles northeast of Brightwood. Two people—Otto Laur of Brightwood and Lynn Fuller of Portland—were inspecting Fuller’s summer cabin when they came across the scene.

Henry had apparently sat down to rest on a stump, perhaps fatigued or disoriented, and fallen backward. His cane was still propped against the stump when his body was found. The Clackamas County Coroner, Ray Rilance, reported no sign of foul play. The cause of death was assumed to be a heart attack. His body was taken to the Holman, Hankins & Rilance Funeral Home in Oregon City.

Remembering the Henry and Fred Steiner Deaths

Henry Steiner was more than a builder—he was an artist in wood and stone. His cabins, known today as Steiner Cabins, grace the slopes of Mount Hood with steep-pitched roofs, peeled-logs, arched doorways, Sunray decoration above the front door, and basalt fireplaces pulled from local creeks or built by local stonemason George Pinner. He blended Old World technique with Northwest sensibility.

Fred, a logger by trade, shared his father’s connection to the forest and deep sense of family. He died doing what many hope they would have the strength to do—trying to bring a loved one home.

The Henry and Fred Steiner deaths marked one of the most tragic chapters in the history of the Mount Hood corridor. But the cabins still stand, warmed by fires in hearths they built, nestled in groves they once walked. And in those woods, their legacy quietly remains.

Mount Hood Auto Stages: From Rugged Roads to Modern Highways

The Rise and Fall of Primitive Travel on the Old Barlow Road

The Early Days of the Mount Hood Auto Stages

In the early 20th century, long before travelers zipped up Highway 26 to the ski lifts and resorts of Mount Hood, the trip to the mountain was rugged and uncertain. The road, built on the bones of the old Barlow Trail, was steep, narrow, and either muddy or dusty depending on the season. For those without their own means of transportation—and even for those who did—reliable travel meant trusting the early Mount Hood auto stages and their legendary drivers who knew every twist, rut, and washout of the mountain road.

Olinger Stages to Mount Hood. — Olinger Stages to Mount Hood

The Route to the Mountain

Before the 1880s, travelers followed the original Barlow Trail, carved out by immigrant wagon trains in the 1840s to the 1860’s. This immigrant trail came from Central Oregon and passed over Mount Hood’s southern shoulder. The route took travelers through the area that we know today on the south side of Mount Hood. Coming down from the mountain the route followed the north side of the Zigzag River and then crossed the Sandy River to the north side and through what we now know as Marmot. This remained the primary route until settlement increased east of Sandy.

In the 1880s, a new south side road connected Sandy to Government Camp by following the south bank of the Sandy River. This alternative offered gentler grades, primitive but useful bridges creating more reliable access. Consequently, it soon became the main road to and from the mountain. Meanwhile, the Marmot Road continued as a scenic alternate, especially for travelers heading to Aschoff’s Mountain Home.

The primary route—used by both stagecoaches and auto stages—passed through Sandy, Cherryville, Brightwood, Welches, Zigzag, Rhododendron, and Government Camp. Notable stops included the Cherryville Hotel, Welch’s Hotel, Tawney’s and the Rhododendron Inn, and others.

Mount Hood Auto Stages - Rhododendron Inn — The Rhododendron Inn

The Stage Lines and Their Drivers

Initially, travelers relied on horse-drawn stages operated by local residents. Joe Meinig and Walter Ziegler were among the best-known drivers in those early days. However, as the road improved and mountain tourism grew, motorized stages entered the picture.

By the 1910s, auto stages had largely replaced horse-drawn wagons. Bob Elliott, a Sandy garage owner, led the way with one of the first regular lines to Government Camp. His rugged fleet of Pierce-Arrows, Cadillacs, and White touring cars came equipped with chains, spare tires, and tools for inevitable roadside repairs.

One of the most prominent operations was Reliance Mount Hood Stages. They offered daily trips from Portland’s eastside waterfront and coordinated with nearly every lodging stop along the route. Their Touring Cars became a familiar sight climbing the dusty grades to Rhododendron and beyond.

Among the legendary drivers was Dr. Ivan M. Wooley. His memoir, Off to Mt. Hood – An Auto Biography Of The Old Road, preserves vivid recollections of the people, places, and perils of early auto stage travel. His storytelling has given us one of the richest surviving records of this vanished era.

Ivan Woolley Stuck on the Road to Mount Hood

Hard Roads and Gritty Travel

Despite the switch from horses to horsepower, travel remained difficult. The roads were merely widened wagon paths. On steep hills like Laurel Hill and McIntyre Hill, passengers often had to walk. The latter, near Brightwood, posed such a challenge that hotelier John McIntyre charged motorists a fee to haul their cars up the grade with his horses. Eventually, widening the road, regrading the hills and decreasing the grades helped. Still, early autos struggled.

Drivers had to wear many hats: mechanic, navigator, and even peacemaker. They fixed broken axles, crossed flooded creeks, and comforted uneasy passengers. Some vehicles towed freight. Others had canvas tops for sun and rain. The trip could last all day, but for many, that was part of the fun.

Mount Hood Auto Stages — Broke down in Government Camp

Mountain Tourism and the Resorts That Made It Possible

The auto stages helped turn Mount Hood into a major Oregon destination. Easier access drew tourists eager to escape city heat or enjoy snowy slopes. Resorts like Welch’s Ranch, Arrah Wanna Lodge, Tawney’s Mountain Home, and the Rhododendron Inn thrived. They offered lodging, camping, hearty meals, hunting, fishing, hiking, dances and community bonfires. Most worked directly with stage lines, ensuring guests could be dropped off at their doorsteps. Back then, the journey, the lodging, and the scenery created a complete experience.

The Automobile Takes Over

By the mid-1920s, personal automobiles had changed everything. Tourists no longer needed to reserve stage seats. They could drive, stop where they pleased, and enjoy more freedom. Ironically, the new Mount Hood Loop Highway—built to improve access—also ended the era of the auto stage. Independence had arrived.

The End of the Line for The Mount Hood Auto Stages

In 1923, the Mount Hood Loop Highway was completed, dramatically altering travel to the mountain. With the addition of a road to Hood River on the east side, the full loop was in place.

As roads improved and cars became more dependable, scheduled auto stages became obsolete. Tourists drove themselves, and although the mountain resorts endured, the days of colorful drivers and mechanical struggles quietly faded away.

Love Mount Hood History?

Discover more local stories, rare photos, and forgotten places:

Historic Photos
Mount Hood Pioneers
Welches & Rhododendron
Barlow Road Stories
Lost Resorts & Landmarks

Follow the trails. Meet the people. Uncover the past.

Burnt Lake Fire 1904: How the Lake Got Its Name

The Burnt Lake Fire of 1904 Still Leaves a Mark

If you’ve ever taken the trail up to Burnt Lake on the west side of Mount Hood, you’ve probably noticed the open ridges and the snags along the way—scarred trees that stand like ghosts among the newer growth. The Burnt Lake Fire of 1904 swept through this area, leaving damage so severe that the lake was named for it. Though the forest has mostly grown back, signs of that fire still linger, more than 120 years later.

Where Is Burnt Lake?

Burnt Lake sits in the Mount Hood National Forest, just east of Rhododendron. The trail climbs through a mix of Douglas fir, hemlock, and alder before reaching a quiet alpine basin with a view of Mount Hood reflected in the water. It’s a peaceful place now. However, in 1904, fire transformed the scene in a matter of days.

Burnt Lake Fire 1904 – Photo Cheryl Hill – www.cherylhill.net

How the Burnt Lake Fire of 1904 Started

On August 25, 1904, according to newspaper accounts, a man named Henry Harmand was burning brush near the Zigzag River. The fire quickly spread beyond his control. Based on land records and name variations common at the time, it’s likely that Henry Harmand was actually Heinrich “Henry” Haman, a homesteader who had settled in the area that would later become the townsite of Rhododendron.

That summer brought hot, dry conditions, and strong east winds fanned the flames. Once the fire reached thick timber, it moved fast. It tore across the slopes above Rhododendron, swept through the Burnt Lake Basin, and pushed toward Mount Hood and the trails to Lost Lake and Bull Run, Lolo Pass today.

Smoke and Flame Across Mount Hood’s West Side

Eyewitnesses saw a “wall of flame” rising up the ridges. Meanwhile, thick smoke drifted down into Government Camp and Sandy, where locals said they could hardly see. There were no fire crews in those days—only settlers, a few hikers, and travelers on horseback. Because of this, there was no way to stop it. The fire burned for days.

By August 28, 1904, the Oregon Daily Journal and Sunday Oregonian reported that the blaze still raged across the western slope of Mount Hood. The fire had destroyed stands of old-growth forest. Trails vanished under ash and smoke. Charred trees marked the fire’s path from Zigzag Creek to Zigzag Ridge and then toward Burnt Lake.

How Burnt Lake Got Its Name

After the fire, people began referring to the lake as Burnt Lake, a name that stuck. The name became part of local memory—and part of the map. Even today, hikers still pass the reminders. Dead snags are still found along the trail. The ridgeline above the lake opens to the sky where the canopy hasn’t fully returned. If you pay attention, you can still see the shape of the fire in the land. The Burnt Lake Fire of 1904 changed more than the trees—it gave a name to the place itself.

The Legacy of the Burnt Lake Fire 1904

The Burnt Lake Fire of 1904 was one of the first major wildfires recorded on Mount Hood’s west side. It reshaped the forest, scarred the ridges, and gave a name to one of the area’s most scenic lakes. Today, Burnt Lake still reflects Mount Hood—but also a story that burned its way into the history of this mountain.

The Lil Toot Drive-In

Wimpy’s Lil Toot Drive-In: A Lost Piece of Kelso, Oregon’s History

A Once-Popular Stop on the Mount Hood Highway

During the time when Orient Drive served as the main highway to Mount Hood, Clarence “Wimpy” Eri operated Wimpy’s Lil Toot Drive-In in Kelso, Oregon. The small drive-in, located across from the Kelso Store, became a popular stop for travelers heading to the mountain. Locals also frequented the spot, enjoying a quick meal and friendly service.

For years, the old highway route directed steady traffic through Kelso, keeping businesses like Wimpy’s thriving. The drive-in benefited from visitors who wanted a convenient place to grab food before continuing their journey. However, the construction of modern Highway 26 in the mid-1960s redirected traffic away from the town. With fewer customers, many small businesses, including Wimpy’s Lil Toot Drive-In, struggled to survive and eventually closed.

A Personal Connection to Wimpy’s Lil Toot

Kelso, Oregon, sits just west of Sandy, between Sandy and Boring. While many remember Wimpy’s Lil Toot Drive-In as a favorite roadside stop, others have a more personal connection to it.

One local recalls eating there many times as a young boy, as Clarence “Wimpy” Eri was a relative. The drive-in stood at the west side intersection of Kelso Road and Orient Drive, directly across from the Kelso Store. Families and travelers enjoyed the convenience of a small-town diner along what was once the primary route to Mount Hood.

A Lost Landmark of the Past

Although Wimpy’s Lil Toot Drive-In no longer stands, its memory remains part of Kelso’s history. The intersection of Kelso Road and Orient Drive, where it once stood, still echoes the past, reminding us of a time when small roadside diners thrived along the highway to Mount Hood.

This small, family-run business was one of many that once lined the old highway, catering to travelers who needed a break before heading further up the mountain. Today, while the landscape has changed, memories of places like Wimpy’s Lil Toot Drive-In live on through stories and those who remember stopping there for a meal.

Wimpy’s Lil Toot Drive-In: A Lost Piece of Kelso, Oregon’s History

Steven Mitchell – Husband of the Hills

Steven Mitchell, Mount Hood History

Steven Mitchell was legend on Mount Hood in his times, as well as his son Arlie, who was the last tollgate keeper at the Rhododendron Tollgate of the old Barlow Trail Road. Lige Coalman, who was raised by Steven, was also a legendary mountain man on Mount Hood in his own right.

Steven Mitchell – Portland Oregonian Sept 12 1920

“Steve Mitchell – Husband of the Hills

Man of the mountains

Whose Life Near Mount Hood Is a Story Book of Many Treasures

By Earl C. Brownlee

For 60 years Steve Mitchell, husband of the hills, has been fleeing, terrified, from civilization.

Yet the dreaded ogre as pacing at his heels again, debauching the icy waters of his streams of melted snow, defacing the majesty of his brilliant autumn hills, slaughtering the game that gave him his meat and heaping its insults upon injuries suffered at its hands.

The dusty road before his cabin door, an artery that helped to carve from the wilderness of woods, is leading multitudes of folk through the most wonderfully romantic section of the land of the last frontier.

And from end to end of the timber bordered highway of delightful vistas there is nothing or no one so romantic as Steve himself; Steve Mitchell, as old as the mountains he loves so well-the last of a sterling generation of brave men who revered the quiet grandeur of the hills above all other things.

Far from the paths of man’s progress Steve Mitchell many years ago sought the realm of heart’s desire. To achieve his goal this man of the mountains first cut his way as a workman over what became, by dint of labors like his, Portland’s Hawthorne avenue. With the street completed, civilization advanced and Steve Mitchell fled to far places again, cutting roadways as he went, into dark forests the circled Mount Hood.

There he found his glorious freedom and there he has remained, while time has etched its wrinkles on his face and has woven a mantle of white for his brow.

Meanwhile, he has reared and sacrificed to man’s estate four splendid sons and two accomplished daughters, among whom are those who have forsaken the ways of their grizzled father and have found success in the hated city.

“Confounded thunder buses” roll by his forest-bound home in ceaseless numbers nowadays as Steve Mitchell peers peacefully into the future for a spot where the profits and pleasures of men cannot be encroached.

In the ‘60s Steve Mitchell looked into the west from his home in Iowa. He kept faith with the vision and from a point near Cleveland, Ohio, he started the pilgrimage.

“And I’ve been tinkering aling ever since,” he says, as he declares he has other distances to gain.

Briefly, his tinkering was centered in mines of gold in California, but in 1866 he came to Oregon. He helped build streets through the timber and then built roads to and through Sandy to the mountains.

About the man and his life many tales are told, but none more truthfully nor well then Steve can tell them. There’s the story of his gold claim to entrance the mountain novice.

It is said that far back on the Salmon River, concealed for nearly half a century against the prying eyes of friends and enemy, Mitchell has a gold mine.. There, the story has it, he chips great nuggets from a rocky wall whenever he’s in need of funds and brings them to the counting house. The claim is a priceless treasure, we are told, that would yield the cost of every comfort if its owner chose.

“Bah!” Steve Mitchell will exclaim if you inquire into the story. “There are more lies in these hills than there wever were cougars.

“Liars, thunder buses and a new kind of man-animal with a whooping sort of holler are the torments of civilization. There’s too much civilization in the world.
“If you write articles tell about these man-animals who have come into the hills to pollute God’s creeks by washing their unworthy feet in them and tearing the quiet night with their whooping hollering. They’re ornery-worse than a cougar, and a couple of ‘em aint very far away.”

Folks don’t know the mountains, Steve Mitchell says, and can’t love their dim trails and rocky peaks as he does. Wedded to their wonders, Mitchell has learned their lore as the schoolboy learns from books; in them he has built his home and in them he will find his grave.

In the interim, though, there has been a lifetime of marvelous days, attended with thrills at times, yet always mandatory in their hold upon the heart of this fine fellow.

Steve was bent over a kitchen stove, when by inquisitiveness born of long acquaintance, he was interrupted, and his story elicited by many questions. Upon the stove a frying pan, containing a stewing portion of carrots, simmered as Steve jammed more firewood into the blaze that was heating his dinner.

He hauled forth a shaggy, yet sadly worn pipe for himself and from his seat on the end of a wood box, fanned romance by his talk.

Nineteen fording places in the river back of Steve Mitchell’s cabin mark the old Barlow trail, pathway of the pioneers who first crossed the Cascades around the base of Mount Hood. Mitchell can point out each ford and can tell of the days when he trod the still fresh trail of those empire builders who preceded him.

He will show from his front door the vast, timbered hill where, within his mountain lifetime, has grown a forest. When Mitchell selected his mountainous home there was no sign of woods save the blackened bulk of great trees destroyed by an ancient fire.

He has seen those hills yield heavy timber, where, within the scope of his own memory, there was but a charred reminder of a once deep forest. Over their denuded slopes he has watched by the hour while his dogs ran deer that he might have food, he lolled in their shade times unnumbered as he hauled from their roaring streams great trout to appease the mountaineer’s keen appetite. He has tracked the bear to favorite berry fields and his gun has brought the mountain lion hurtling from his tree.

He has held communion with the lords of nature’s great open spaces, and he has studies their secrets until they are his lexicon-his primer and his Bible.

From it all he has learned both hospitality and hate. He hates civilization; yet he is hospitable to a degree unlimited.

As he spread his Sunday dinner a demand to partake with him declined, he proferred (sic) a piece of his “bachelor pie” that would bring envy to the most dainty housewife. Its flaky crust enough to belittle a salaried chef, the pie he had manufactured, with filling of raisins, was a delicious morsel the he insisted must be followed by a generous slab of light loaf cake he had just drawn from the oven.

“And now,” he jocularly said, “you can stay overnight if it rains real hard.”

“Folks from the towns are taking all the fish from the creeks are we’d have a mess for breakfast too. No, ‘planted’ fish do not restock the streams. Does a hen lay all her eggs in one day, once she gets started? Neither do fish, if they’re left to their natural means, and scientific methods can’t change nature’s way.

“The same civilization that has ‘fished out’ the streams has frightened the few remaining animals back into the mountains, where these confounded thunder buses can’t chug and sputter and roar their dusty way through night and day.

“Between thunder buses and these man-animals down the road one can’t even sleep anymore.

“Civilization is coming too close and I’m about to move back with the deer and the bear and the fish. There are no neighbors there to let their people starve on their doorstep. There is no whopping holler at midnight, but the call of the mountain winds and the cougar’s cry.”

Steve Mitchell’s comfortable little cabin sits beside the road 10 miles west of Government camp, and for many miles around there is hardly a foot of ground that this main of the mountains has not trod and whose charms he has not sought.

He is known to the folk who live in the hills, but to those who come from “civilized” places his is but one of the modest homes that may be found in the wilderness.

His, though, is a home in every sense, for he lives in it in summer and winter, through snow and sunshine. Only upon “occasions” does he venture from his mountain haven and such occasions are all to frequent if they occur more than once in a decade. The sturdy sons who remain in the family drop in now and then to visit with their father or to spend an idle day under his roof. But his wife who saw his early happiness in the hills has been called to “civilization.” She lives at Sandy, where, Steve declares, he has no business. Two splendid daughters hold worthy positions in centers of “civilization”.

Three sons remain of the four reared in the Mitchell family. Lige Coalman, famous Mount Hood guide and forest ranger, whose knowledge of the timbered wilds founded on training at Steve Mitchell’s hands, was reared as a son by this mountaineer and his wife. But Coalman, too, has quit the mountains for the profits of a farm.

When the world war opened the four stalwart Mitchell boys, each loyally attentive to their father and each a convert to the nature-loving, out-of-doors creed of their forebear, were prepared with strong bodies, capable hands and a will for the fray. Mountaineers, each of them, the four enlisted for service. Two were members of the marine corp, one chose navy and the fourth wore an army uniform. The first three were overseas fighting men. Arlie, a strapping young chap wonderfully versed in mountain lore, made 11 round trips over the Atlantic as a member of the nation’s naval forces and did eight months of shore duty overseas, where he visited almost every important city on the continent and in the British Isles.

“I hadn’t been out of the mountains much before,” he says, “and I never want to be again.

The sons who were marines, members of the mow historic fifth regiment, were also initiated to the ultra-modern delights of the world’s capitals, but they gleefully returned to the mountains of their childhood and resumed to their work in the forests.

One of these, a boy respected by every mountaineer who met him, fought through all the hot campaigns in which the American marines mouled war history in France, before he returned to the wooded, romantic land of his choice.

Again in the mountains, held fast by their appeal, this youth, just a year ago, gave his life to the protection of his playground when fire swept through the forest almost within sight of his father’s cabin.

With the same strength and courage that he fought his battle overseas, Steve’s son fought the blaze that would denude his homeland. Nor did he care a whit for the danger that surrounded him when a great fir, rocked upon its fire gnawed base, crashed down upon him.

That was an “occasion,” a day of sorrow for Steve Mitchell. He was drawn to the city-hated Portland-to hear the funeral dirge. And he vows he will never return.

The lonesome trails of the mysterious mountains have felt the footfall of Steve Mitchell. He will not profane the joys the hills have given him by the belated association with the world beyond his forest bound home. “

Mount Hood – Wikipedia

Mount Hood, called Wy’east by the Multnomah tribe, is a potentially active stratovolcano in the Cascade Volcanic Arc. It was formed by a subduction zone on the …

Chief Tommy Thompson: Guardian of Celilo Falls and the Salmon People

Chief Tommy Thompson: The Last Salmon Chief of Celilo Falls

Honoring the Last Salmon Chief of the Columbia River

Chief Tommy Kuni Thompson, a revered leader of the Wyam people, served as the salmon chief of Celilo Village for over eight decades. Born along the Columbia River in the mid-19th century, Thompson dedicated his life to preserving Indigenous fishing rights and cultural traditions at Celilo Falls—a vital fishing and trading hub for Native communities for thousands of years.

Early Life and Leadership

Thompson assumed the role of salmon chief around 1900, following the death of his uncle, Chief Stocketly. As salmon chief, or láwat, he oversaw the annual first-salmon ceremony, regulated fishing seasons, and enforced spiritual practices integral to the Waashat religion. His leadership ensured the sustainable harvest of salmon, a cornerstone of the Wyam’s diet and culture.

Guardian of Celilo Falls

Celilo Falls, known as Wyam in the Sahaptin language, was more than a fishing site—it was a sacred place where tribes gathered to fish, trade, and hold ceremonies. Thompson staunchly defended this site against external threats. He opposed the construction of The Dalles Dam, which ultimately submerged Celilo Falls in 1957, displacing communities and disrupting traditional fishing practices.

Legacy and Final Years

Even in his later years, Thompson remained a vocal advocate for his people. At the age of 102, he attended the final Feast of the First Salmon at Celilo Village, offering a poignant farewell to the falls. He passed away in 1959, two years after the inundation of Celilo Falls. His unwavering commitment to his community and cultural heritage continues to inspire future generations.

Honoring Chief Thompson

Chief Tommy Thompson’s life exemplifies resilience and dedication to cultural preservation. His efforts ensured that the traditions and rights of the Wyam people remained recognized and respected. Today, his legacy lives on through the continued advocacy for Indigenous rights and the remembrance of Celilo Falls’ significance.