Monument Peak...History Unveiled

The rugged profile of Monument Peak is a familiar detail to any Salem resident who has scanned the eastern horizon on a clear day. The ridgeline with its square notch appears to the right of Mt. Jefferson when viewed from the Salem area, rising out of the Cascade foothills, created between the peak and a unique formation known as The Palisades.

In the 1860’s, a solitary wagon road defiantly ascended the steep slopes of Monument Peak, passing by the towering landmark and crossing the ridgeline at an elevation of 4000 ft. to enter the basin of the Middle Santiam.

This road was the primary access for gold miners at Quartzville between 1863 and 1892, who traveled to Gates (then called Gatesville) to obtain supplies.

Today, nothing remains of Quartzville, once a town of over a thousand people, but the elusive mother lode still beckons to prospectors. The Quartzville Recreation Corridor, where a 12-mile section of Quartzville Creek has been reserved for recreational gold mining, can be reached off the north end of Green Peter Reservoir on Quartzville Road.

My wife and I turned off the North Santiam Highway at Gates, crossing over the Santiam River and passing by an airstrip. Monument Peak Road divided an area of farmland, entering a forest that rose like a dark wall, disappearing into the misty heights. The roadway climbed relentlessly, an adrenaline-pumping, ear-popping ride, slanting across the base of cliffs near the peak that loomed overhead like a gateway in the sky. The old wagon tread is still a part of this network of logging roads, a piece of history dating back to Oregon’s pioneer days.

A light snowfall swirled about us as we looked out at the Willamette Valley from Monument Peak. The icy crystals rolled in waves on each blast of the wind, like a shimmering veil before the distant patchwork of farmland. The forest lightly held the scent of pine above the freshness of the fallen snow that surrounded us on this old wagon road. In this evocative theatre of history, scenes from the past played out before us as the curtain of time rolled back, complete with the sound of horse-drawn wagons that echo in lost canyons.

Here, near the top of Monument Peak, not much has changed in a hundred and forty years. There are still the pastel colors of the valley that fade into the distance, and there are dreams, of things like gold that lie at the end of the rainbow.

J.D. Adams: j1mcm0s@earthlink.net