The Tillamook Rock Lighthouse has watched over the Oregon coast for more than 100 years. Famous photos chronicle its erection and years of service in the tumultuous Pacific. Storm upon storm has broken gigantic waves against the structure, which was completed in 1881. Now the lighthouse is privately owned and functions as a columbarium, an eerie final resting place for the ashes of the deceased.

While Terrible Tilly, as the lighthouse is affectionately referred to, has become an icon of Cannon Beach, many people, tourists especially, do not know the sordid history of the beautiful landmark.

The need for a lighthouse near Tillamook Head was clear, but the building of a lighthouse on the Head itself proved problematic.

The construction of a wagon road at least 20 miles long would have been required in order to transport building materials, and then the road would have to be maintained, a costly expense. The most problematic prospect of all, however, was that the Head and the road itself would often be obscured by fog.

Even though Tillamook Rock was a mile offshore and had no nearby land access, the site was chosen because the lighthouse would be below the traditional fog line. In June of 1878, $50,000 was appropriated for the construction of the lighthouse, and a tumultuous construction began.

Terrible Tilly was classified as one of the three most isolated locations of the Lighthouse establishment, according to Bert and Margie Webber in their book “Terrible Tilly.” The rock itself was difficult to land on, and examining parties who were sent to inspect the rock before building had a horrible time setting foot on the rock in the first place.

In 1879, H.S. Wheeler, who had been selected as superintendent of construction, sailed with the Corwin and made the first landing on the rock, albeit a risky one.

The sea was running too rough to land instruments for an official survey, wrote the Webbers, but he was successful in jumping to the rock where he made basic measurements with a pocket tape.

An official survey would, of course, have to be conducted before building could begin, and master mason John R. Trewavas from Portland was commissioned to do the work. Unfortunately for Trewavas, the inhospitable rock took his life before he could begin the job.

Mr. Trewavas missed his footing by slipping on the wet rock and was instantly swept into the churning water. The sailor, Cherry, jumped into the sea in a rescue attempt. . . but Trewavas was pulled down by the current and not seen again, wrote the Webbers.

The public was in an uproar over Trewavas death, and swift work was necessary to keep the momentum going on construction of the lighthouse.

One month after Trewavas untimely demise, four men were able to successfully land on the rock with hammers, drills, iron ring-bolts, a stove and food. The weather was less than pleasurable, and more men would need to be landed in order to begin proper construction.   

The problem of landing on the rock had to be solved. The Corwin attempted to find a better way to transport materials and men to the rock, and anchored the ship to a buoy about 300 feet away. A traveler (a buggy and pulley system) was rigged and ropes were stretched to a fixed point on the rock.

Men were able to safely gain access to the rock by loading themselves on the traveler and being pulled across by other workers.

At no time in history has a workable method been found for landing men or supplies directly on the rock from a boat or ship of any size, wrote the Webbers.

The lighthouse was finally ready to be manned in March of 1881, and was staffed until 1957, when a lighted buoy replaced the dioptric lens and operating mechanism atop the tower. After years of storms and costly rescues, the lighthouse was decommissioned.

The crew barely lashed to the rock before the first storm hit and clung to life by the slimmest of margins, said Sam Churchill, noting a 1934 storm. Tons of water, broken glass, rocks, dead fish, seaweed, and barnacles came pouring down the throat of the tower, flooding the interior, and forcing men to climb the rafters to keep heads above water.

When Oswald Allik, the final lighthouse keeper, shut down the lighthouse on Sept.10, 1957, just about 53 years ago, he wrote these words in the visitors register:Farewell Tillamook Rock Lighthouse, an era has ended with this final entry and without sentiment. I return thee to the elements. . . Through howling gale, thick fog, and driving rain your beacon has been a star of hope and your fog horn a voice of encouragement. . . For 77 years you have beamed your light across desolate acres of ocean. Keepers have come and gone: men have lived and died, but you were faithful to the end. May your sunset years be good years.