PGE chemist Bob Kaseweter and his family spend a sunny Sunday afternoon in spring feeling the earth tremble at the Timberline turnaround below Mount St. Helens. Taking photos of their visit, Kaseweter’s parents hold up a sign welcoming their new granddaughter, the bulging side of the mountain visible in the background.

With help from former teacher John Eliot Allen — a Portland State professor emeritus overseeing scientific access permits — Kaseweter had secured permit number 3 to monitor a homemade seismometer at his cabin near Spirit Lake Lodge, 4.5 miles north of the volcano.

The same day, he and his fiancée, Beverly Wetherald, installed the instrument’s sensor, timer, chart recorder, and batteries by hand. Through their viewfinders, the mountain was so close they could almost touch it.

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“This is why you shouldn't go through closed gates, even if they aren't locked. We had camped at Harts Pass and drove to Early Winters to see what the new highway was all about. There was a gate, but the road beyond looked like nice gravel.

The gate wasn't locked, and no one was around, so we went through. The road got a little rougher.

We stopped for lunch, (picture) and decided to proceed. Then we went over a pass and the downward slope was a muckslide. So we were committed and continued. The road grew narrower, eventually to a jeep trail. There were holes in the ground with wires going somewhere.

A tanker had rolled downhill and was stuck in the trees. We continued, with me on the hood moving rocks so that our non-Jeep wouldn't scrape. I missed one, and the gas began to drain from the tank. We continued. Eventually the road widened to gravel again and the gate was closed but not locked. We found a gas station with a lift at closing time and after being told we couldn't have gone over the road, because it wasn't built, the mechanic put the car on the lift and fixed the gash in the gas tank. The mechanic changed his mind. This is why you shouldn't go through closed gates. Although, I'm glad I did. This was a long time ago and I don't remember whether it was '70 or '71. I was behind the camera, those in the picture are no longer with us.”

The Broughton Flume, located at the Hood River junction on the Columbia River at the Washington/Oregon border, was an engineering marvel of its time. From its inception in 1923 until its closing in 1986, it held the title of the world's fastest and longest water flume, a record that stood for over six decades. This impressive structure played a significant role in the development of the region and in the history of water transportation.

Designed by the Broughton Lumber Company, the flume was initially built to carry logs from the rugged forests near Mount Hood down to the river. The Columbia River, a major waterway, served as the perfect location for the flume, which utilized the natural gravity of the landscape to transport timber efficiently. The flume stretched over 8 miles, winding its way through dense forests, steep terrains, and rugged landscapes. Its ability to transport logs at high speeds helped revolutionize the logging industry in the Pacific Northwest.

The Broughton Flume was a technological feat of its time, designed to handle large volumes of logs, which were sent down the waterway at speeds of up to 30 miles per hour. The structure was composed of wooden slats and was supported by a network of trestles that spanned deep ravines and steep slopes.

The flume was powered entirely by gravity, with no mechanical pumps or engines. The logs would slide down the flume into the Columbia River, where they were then floated to sawmills for processing.

Despite its critical role in the logging industry, the Broughton Flume was not without challenges. The constant wear and tear from the powerful water currents and the harsh weather conditions of the region meant that the flume required frequent maintenance and repairs. However, the ingenuity behind its design allowed it to remain in operation for over 60 years, during which it became a vital part of the local economy.