Portland's Magical Fairy Land of 1905

A stroll about Portland Oregon's Northwest Industrial District is, today, very ordinary.  Rows of houses, nestled between various forms of Pacific Northwest flora, were neither created from too much wealth nor too little, they are, quite simply, forgettably average.  A squat, monolithic block of a building dominates one’s attention, if for only the reason that it is indeed, a squat, monolithic block of a building.  Industry and remnants of industry surround this box, and for the pedestrian, bicyclist, cyclist, motorist and the like, there is little reason to but pursue the most time-efficient and rational course of action and move quickly through.  It’s not as if the neighborhood is especially garish, or derelict, or any other of the adjectives used to describe the gray areas of a city, it is just that the words used to apply to the exact opposite; inviting, eclectic, up-and- coming, don’t apply in the least.

But with a stroll behind the box, a building which once housed the means of distribution for the Montgomery Ward company, the ground slopes down less than gently, and with a near guru-like mental removal of telephone poles, trees, freeways and the ever-belching squares of industry, it can be assumed, almost ascertained, that this point once commanded a very spectacular view. Glimpses of the Willamette River ringed by a verdant display upon the west hills, topped by the striated, fat cone that is Mt. St. Helens, all spread out within the valley below, make one wish that the scenery, much like a jigsaw puzzle, was not so difficult to piece together.

There are, however, photos; magnificent, turn-of-the-century snapshots that were anything but a snap. Between April and October of 1905, a photographer stood here, most likely wearing an excessively thick, much-too-warm woolen suit, possibly carrying an optical “Commodore” camera made of highly polished mahogany, equipped with a folding bed, double sliding front and a rack and pinion focusing mechanism, and diligently captured the scene, minus boxes, squares, buses and planes. Instead, this man caught the optimism of a generation, the hope of progress, and a city of fairy-tales. Gleaming white structures, constructed along the lines of the Spanish Renaissance style, flanked neo-Classical archways, meticulously tended landscapes, and fluted Doric columns sprouting forth “branches” heavy with globes of light. The photographs reveal a veritable fantasy-land, where elegant, parasol-twirling ladies walk hand in hand with bespectacled, gallant gentlemen; postured, proper, and filled with wonderment. They are on par with the most sublime and enchanting of dreams.

And there were a lot of dreams wrapped up in the city of Portland around this time.  It was a place of seemingly limitless resources, abundant beauty, and was the go-to point for all things northwest.  With little persuasion, Portland had the potential to entice thousands of settlers to her forested, virgin soil, situated at the conflux of the Willamette and Columbia Rivers.  Therefore, in the early years of the 19^th century, plans for the persuasion began, and by the cooperation of architects, landscape designers, investors, merchants, actors, musicians, acrobats, dancers, and dirigible captains….the Lewis and Clark Centennial Exposition was born.

Electricity was used in astounding manner, filling the night with hundreds of thousands of iridescent spots of brilliance. Even Mt. Hood, Oregon’s highest mountain, was not immune to the deliberate creation, and harness, of magic. A brochure advertising the Exposition made the near impossible boast that not only would “one hundred arc lights, equal in power to those used in street illumination…be distributed on the side of the mountain facing Portland, so that the whole mountainside will be brilliantly illuminated,” but that “great quantities of red lire will be utilized to produce another unique effect. When the red powder is burned it will give the peak the appearance of a mountain wrapped in flames. This latter effect has been produced on several occasions by the use of fifty pounds of red fire.” 

            Unsurprisingly, this promise, though ambitious, proved to be too daunting a task.  Given the constraints of electric power availability, not to mention the inherent danger of installing one hundred arc lights equidistant from one another upon a mountain face, the people of Portland were never to see such a grandiose sight.  The red lire, however, was ignited, but produced an effect of such dismal proportions that only those much closer to the mountain could notice anything different, and it can be assumed that much imagination was required to envision a mountain “wrapped in flames.” As aspiring as these illumination plans may have been, a local businessman wanted to go yet a “step” further, and erect and light two massive statues of both Lewis and Clark standing upon the mountain sides, separated by Hood’s peak.  An incredible goal yes, but that it was even minutely considered hints at the possibility that even this most impossible of dreams was not entirely out of reach. 

For the price of admission (fifty cents for adults, twenty-five cents for children) visitors to the fairgrounds were treated to an enchanted escape from reality.  With no detail overlooked, attendees were ensured an event boasting perfectly manicured gardens,  awe-inspiring buildings of red and white, and exhibits ranging from the enlightened (marble statuary from Italy, for instance) to the controversial (baby incubators).  Of the more provocative exhibits was a re-creation of a village of the Filipino Igorot Tribe, located, appropriately within the U.S. Government building.  Visitors were shocked, dismayed, or merely fascinated with the tribal display (employing actual Filipinos), which invited the viewer into to a world of scantily-dressed “savages,” dancing to the unsophisticated banging of drums, and feasting upon meals of dog.  Propaganda played a large role in the creation of this exhibit.  Having recently acquired territory in the Philippines, the U.S Government was doing its best to justify an unpopular military endeavor by further educating citizens on the assumed backwardness of primitive man.  The message was clear: We are civilized, these people are not, and they need our help.  It appears that even fairy-tale cities were not immune to the political realities of the day.

            Beyond exhibits and the overambitious ignition of Mt. Hood, fairgoers were treated to events of a much smaller, yet equally interesting scale.  The dirigible, a sort of miniature zeppelin minus an internal frame, was of particular interest to the people of 1905.  A September 2^nd race between the “City of Portland” and the more solidly designed “Gelatine” was the first such race to have been held for the people of Portland.  High winds on the day of the race however, led “Gelatine” captain G.P. Tomlinson to wisely withdraw.  “City of Portland” captain though, the fearless Lincoln Beachey, was undaunted.  At eighteen years of age, Beachey had little reservations concerning the obvious danger in maneuvering a floating bag of gas on an extremely blustery day, and the result was anything but shocking.  Immediately after becoming airborne, Beachey’s dirigible was swept across the Willamette River, coming to rest in the branches of a large tree within a neighboring district.  Beachey’s craft was destroyed, the tree tearing a large hole in his beloved “City of Portland.”  Unfortunately, Beachey’s daredevil acts of bravado eventually caught up with him. The so-called “Boy Aeronaut” was killed in a world fair in San Francisco ten years later, doing what he loved, flying high above a crowd of bewildered spectators.  

Though the exposition ended in October of 1905, citizens had evidently grown attached to these fairgrounds, and prior to its destruction, in February of 1906, Portlanders were treated to one last foray within the exposition.  With no vendors, exhibits or floating dirigibles, the event still boasted a record-high attendance, as visitors meandered throughout the veritable ghost-town and conjured up memories of Turkish dancers, Italian opera singers and exquisite works of art.  An article in the Oregonian succinctly describes the mood of the day: “The playground of the many nations in their lighter moods, is a ruin... The sole survivor of the "Dream City's" amusement is a friendless yellow dog loitering along the cosmopolitan thoroughfare where millions laughed and were happy, and who was fed by many hands before the lights went out. Now the deserted mongrel, hungry and sorrowful, haunts the empty, forsaken ruins where folly was, but where now desolation and hunger stalk."

            From June to October of 1905, the Lewis and Clark Exposition attracted nearly three million visitors, generated a profit of $85,000, and almost doubled the population of Portland from 161,000 to 270,000 permanent inhabitants.  Having accomplished these goals, the fair was considered a stunning success, especially considering that world’s fairs rarely generated profit.  But the exposition, with its vermillion-colored domes, equestrian statues and international displays of wealth, was never intended to be a permanent fixture.  The regal, ivory buildings, appearing so fixed and unshakeable, were purposely constructed with a convenient end in mind.  The lathe and plaster structures came down with a fair amount of ease, the lake was filled in, and by March all that was left of the fairy city was a flat, unoccupied stretch of vacancy.