a rock is born

Near the mouth of the Columbia River Gorge, a basalt monolith greets adventurers with a fascinating tale of its origin.

Beacon Rock is the second largest free-standing monolith in the northern hemisphere (at least depending on how you describe “monolith”). At 848 feet, the boulder ascends beyond the Space Needle, where it views green mosaics of fields and forest that blanket the canyon.

Many travelers may not know that the Beacon Rock they see today is a remnant of its former self. When asked to share its story, the boulder will describe that it was once a small, steep-sided volcano that lived among several of its kind.

As a massive, legless hunk of mineral, Beacon Rock had a lot of time on its plate. With nowhere to go, all there was to do was observe, the rock explained. It watched how gold light streaked colossal basalt hills during the day, gradually dissolving into cotton candy pink as the sun retreated and the land cooled. Herds of deer dominated open plains, and birds dotted the sky. This place wasn’t always so calm, Beacon Rock said, as it was once full of searing lava flows millions of years earlier.

In fact, about 17 million years ago, tectonic plates repeatedly shifted across the Pacific Northwest, transforming the Columbia River Gorge (then a flat plateau) into a highly volcanic landscape. Thick globs of molten rock oozed westward toward the Pacific Ocean, molding the shape that would eventually hold the Columbia River. These layers cooled and hardened, becoming thick layers of black rock. And they cracked. Soon, bright sun streaks slipped into fractured lines. But Beacon Rock didn’t think anything of the change to its light show, unknowing of the fact that the fissures marked the beginning of its inevitable transformation.

Life went on, and Beacon Rock matured. Though this process was more eventful than a teenager’s voice dropping an octave or discovering a cruel, bloody cycle. As Beacon Rock fondly recalled, the monolith (then a volcano) erupted – spewing basalt remnants of itself into the air. It listened to the sporadic pitter-patters of its earthen debris scraping across its surface, finding a new rhythm within its changed body.

Glacial water later drifted through surrounding valleys, pouring numerous stories onto Beacon Rock’s exterior through its hushed songs. The water described the Ice Age from million years earlier and how a massive ice sheet covered swaths of land from Alaska to western Montana. As the world warmed, the frozen expanse – or the Cordilleran Ice Sheet – slowly crept inside itself and crawled southward. Melting water spilled between icy cracks for thousands of years, which pooled into large lakes. In Montana, this trickle-turned-pour eventually became a 200-mile wide and 2,000-foot deep waterbody: Lake Missoula. The only thing retaining this pocket of frigid muddy water was a fragile dam of ice thinning. Buckling. Breaking.

And the force carrying Beacon Rock’s fate erupted into motion – interrupting the water’s pleasant tale.

Lake Missoula’s 550 cubic miles of glacial water exploded from the breached dam, rushing as swiftly as 60 miles per hour toward the Pacific Ocean. During this part of the story, Beacon Rock paused and quietly released a sigh. On its peak, tree branches rustled and grass scratched stone before Beacon Rock continued, describing the water’s impressive strength.

The lake drained for days as it released piercing torrents of water that cut into basalt walls across its 430-mile journey. Beacon Rock was no exception as its volcanic exterior splintered upon the water’s jolt and was stripped to its core. For 2,500 years, dozens of massive floods scoured the rolling basalt hills.

Each flood slowly carved a deeper path into the land, and Beacon Rock started to adapt. The monolith noticed how the air felt against its surface, mentally tracing its new shape. Soon, Beacon Rock grew a coat of moss, with trees later filling the boulder’s cracks from the ground to its top. Both wildlife and humans admired the free-standing monolith for its resilient stature. As with many natural sites along the Columbia River, Lewis and Clark wrote about Beacon Rock (or as they wrote, “Beaten Rock”) in their expedition journals. However, times weren’t as easy as one would assume they would be for a boulder.

At the turn of the 20th century, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers sought to destroy Beacon Rock to quarry its stone, which would serve as a jetty. Despite being a geologic marvel, its jagged face could ease the treacherous “graveyard of the Pacific” at the mouth of the Columbia River 140 miles away. Three caves on the boulder’s south face mark the beginning of this attempt, when the Corps began strategizing its rubble-fication. Yet Beacon Rock still stands, thanks largely to a legal spat between a quarry contractor and the railroad company.

But the monolith’s popularity as a public recreation area is thanks to Henry Biddle, a naturalist from the East Coast who purchased Beacon Rock for $1 in 1915 ($31.45 in 2025) to preserve it. The reason? Biddle acquired the land “simply and wholly that [he] might build a trail to its summit,” according to Washington State Parks.

This is more or less what Beacon Rock would share to those who stop and join the birds to say “hello.” At least, this has been my experience. Boulders tend to be theatrical, so there may be several stiff winds, rumbles and so forth.

-l.e.