Mount Hood Auto Stages: From Rugged Roads to Modern Highways

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.

Reliance Auto Stages at Welches

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.

Mount Hood Auto Stages
The Mount Hood Loop Highway at Alder Creek on The Road to Mount Hood

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.

Reliance Auto Stages Advertisement

Love Mount Hood History?

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

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

Burnt Lake Fire 1904: How the Lake Got Its Name

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
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.


Related Reading

Howard’s Hotel at Sharon Springs – A forgotten hotel from the same era, in Zigzag.
https://mounthoodhistory.com/zigzag/howards-hotel-sharon-springs/

The 1910 Mount Hood Fire – A massive blaze that followed just six years later.
https://mounthoodhistory.com/mount-hood/the-1910-mount-hood-fire/

History of Rhododendron, Oregon – The nearby town impacted by smoke and fire.
https://mounthoodhistory.com/mount-hood/rhododendron-oregon-history/

The Lil Toot Drive-In

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 – 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 …