Lightships and Lighthouses

by Frederick Arthur Ambrose Talbot

While the Northern Pacific Ocean is the loneliest stretch of salt water in the world, yet it possesses one or two busy corners. Prominent among the latter is that where it washes the shores of the United States around the entrance to the mighty Columbia River. The estuary is wide, and, although navigation is handicapped by a bar, it is well protected. But coming up from the south there is a stretch of terribly forbidding coastline, with the cliffs at places towering 1,500 feet or more into the air and dropping sheer into the water. Rock-slides are of frequent occurrence, and the beach is littered with heavy falls from above. Here and there protuberances rise from the sea, formed of rock sufficiently dense and hard to withstand more effectively the process of erosion, only to constitute fearful menaces to navigation. Often the mainland is completely obscured, either by streaks of mist or heavy clouds of smoke produced by forest fires, which in the dry season rage with great violence. A ship caught within the toils of this stern coast has no possible chance of escape, while the crew would find it difficult to get ashore, inasmuch as at places there is not a single landing-place within a distance of twenty miles.

Owing to the coast being frequently blotted from view, and to the fact that this stretch of sea is swept by furious storms, the plight of the mariner making to or from the Columbia River became exceedingly precarious. The worst tragedy of these waters was enacted on the dark and stormy night of January 3, 1881, when the sailing-ship Lupata lost her way and went to pieces on the rocks off Tillamook Head.

Under these circumstances it is not surprising that an outcry arose for protection along this lonely reach of Oregon’s jagged shoreline. The authorities responded to the agitation by the promise to erect a lighthouse, once they should have decided the site, which was the really perplexing question. In the first instance it was thought that its location upon the mainland would suffice, but a survey betrayed the futility of such a choice. The light would be too elevated to be of any service; for the greater part of its time it would be rendered invisible by land fogs. Then, again, it would mean cutting a road for a distance of twenty miles through heavy, undulating country and primeval forest to gain the point, as the verdant sea of green timber extends to the very brink of the cliffs.

After prolonged consideration, it was decided to erect the light upon the Tillamook Rock. This is a hard mass of basalt, rising boldly from the water to a height of 120 feet, which, when viewed from one side, presented the appearance of a clenched fist. It stands about a mile off the mainland, twenty miles south of the Columbia River mouth, and drops plumb into the sea, where the lead gives readings ranging from 96 to 240 feet. The whole area of the rock is less than one acre, and it is split almost in two; another isolated knot of basalt, upon which the seas break heavily when a storm is raging, rears its shaggy head into the air near by at low-tide. The only possible landing-point is on the east side, where there is a beach sloping upwards sharply from the water to the crest. When the ocean is roused the sight certainly is terrifying. The waves fall with shivering force upon the base of the rock, to rush up its ragged sides and sweep right over its crest in a dense curtain of angrily frothing water and whipping spray.

Despite its fearsome character, this rock constituted the most serviceable situation for a light, for the reason that, being a mile from the shore, it was free from land fogs and clouds. The decision of the authorities depended upon three factors only—that a landing could be made, the rock occupied, and the requisite building materials unloaded. The introduction of such a saving clause was politic, because at first it seemed as if the rock would defy the gaining of a foothold. The ghastly failure attending the survey, as described in a previous chapter, brought public opinion into dead opposition to the project, and many fearsome stories were circulated sedulously up and down the coast and among the towns fringing the Columbia River concerning the perils, hardships, and terrible death-roll, which would attend any attempt to place a beacon on this rock.

After the disaster the authorities pressed forward the enterprise with greater vigour than ever, so as to get work well under way before public opinion would be able to make its influence felt upon the unsophisticated minds of workmen required to carry out the undertaking. A daring, determined, and energetic leader was secured in Mr. A. Ballantyne, and he was deputed to rally a force of eight or more highly skilled quarrymen with whom to proceed to Astoria, where the land headquarters were to be established. He was informed that upon arrival at this point he would find everything in readiness for his immediate departure to the rock, with all essentials to enable him to commence work at once and to provide quarters for the workmen, who would be compelled to suffer isolation and a certain amount of discomfort for weeks at a time. It was impossible to take more than a handful of men at first, owing to the difficulty of landing provisions.

Mr. Ballantyne started off with his small picked force, reached Astoria on September 24, 1879, and there suffered his first check. The autumn gales had sprung up, rendering approach to the rock absolutely hopeless. There was no alternative; he must wait until the weather moderated. As this might be a question of a few hours, days, or perhaps a week or two, the chief grew anxious concerning his force. If the men, having nothing to do, wandered idly about the town, making acquaintance with all and sundry and listening to gossip, then they could not fail to be impressed with the extraordinary stories concerning dangers, hardships, perils, and adventures; would conclude that the Tillamook was a “hoodoo” rock; and would desert him promptly. To guard against this contingency, the quarrymen were hurried off and temporarily housed in the old light-keeper’s dwelling at the Cape Disappointment light, some miles away on the northern portal of the estuary, where they were safe from pernicious influences.

THE TILLAMOOK ROCK LIGHT STATION FROM THE SOUTH.

Rising from the sea one mile off the Oregon Coast, it was for years a terrible danger spot. The light of 160,000 candle-power, 132 feet above high water, is visible for 18 miles.