The Viewfinder: Summit the Cat

By Gary Randall For The Mountain Times

At 11,249 feet atop Oregon’s highest peak, the Mount Hood “Summit House” fire lookout was built. In the summer of 1915, legendary mountaineer and U.S. Forest Service ranger Elijah “Lige” Coalman, with little help, hauled nearly ten tons of lumber up steep, snow-bound slopes - first by mule to Crater Rock, then by hand the rest of the way - to build a rugged cabin with a cupola perched above the clouds. 

Life at the summit was usually far from idyllic. Frigid winds, snow squalls, and altitude chills battered anyone daring to live above the clouds. Yet as summer came, climbers flocked to the summit - some for first-time glory and others who climbed frequently. Groups were normal and usually made the event a party. Weddings weren’t uncommon. 

In 1932, a new chapter began when Ranger Mac Hall took control of the summit post. Unlike one of his hermit-like predecessors who took the job thinking that it would be the loneliest job in Oregon, and lamented about the constant line of climbers, “I came up here for peace and quiet. I get neither. It’s like this nearly every day - and Sundays are terrible.” 

Instead, Hall was outgoing, welcoming, and brought a furry companion: Summit, a tiny black kitten that Hall picked up at a store near the Zigzag Ranger Station on his way to the mountain.

Summit, barely weaned, rode up the mountain tucked inside Hall’s wool shirt. He thrived at the peak, growing quickly thanks to condensed milk, kibble, handouts and the cool, thin air. His coat was astoundingly thick and apparently with an undercoat, like an Arctic dog, a visitor observed. Just like Hall, Summit adapted to the cabin filled with climbers. 

Summit became a fixture, curious and brave - once confronting an unfamiliar dog at the cabin. The kitten puffed up, leapt around, “dabbed at the dog’s flank,” and danced off in excitement. It was clear: the summit belonged to Summit, the apex predator of mischief and whiskered curiosity. 

When the season ended, Summit had grown too large to ride in Hall’s shirt. He descended in a sack and was returned to his Zigzag home - reportedly still curious and unphased from his high-altitude adventure.

The Summit House itself, though, had a short lifespan. Constants of wind, snow, and severe storms deteriorated the fragile cabin. Staffing halted in 1934, and by the early ’40s it collapsed into ruin. When it slipped off the edge of the summit in 1941, it took with it a remarkable chapter in Mount Hood’s history.

Still, the Summit House legacy lives on: of early fire detection, trailblazing logistics, personal accomplishments, and a gentle kitten. The Summit House story reminds us that history isn’t only about lofty structures - sometimes it’s also about the small souls who can make high places feel like home.