When the Rivers Rose: Remembering the Christmas Flood of 1964

In late December 1964, as the Mountain was preparing for Christmas, the weather in the upper Sandy River valley began to shift quickly. A warm Chinook wind swept into the region, accompanied by days of heavy rain, melting a deep early-winter snowpack, while frozen ground prevented the water from soaking in. Creeks rose first, then the rivers. By the time people realized how serious it was, the water was already moving fast and carrying things with it — logs, boulders, and entire sections of riverbank. It was reported that Government Camp received 16 inches of rain in four days.

The Sandy River and its tributaries, including the Zigzag, Still Creek, and the Salmon River, pushed beyond their channels, reshaping the course of the river in a matter of hours. The river roared as it made its way down through the mountain communities. Those who were there remember the sound of the rushing water and the low thunder of rocks and timber rolling downstream as the water continued to climb.

Schools were dismissed early as conditions worsened. Children crossed the bridge over the Zigzag River at Rhododendron, which was already shifting beneath their feet, escorted carefully as the river surged below. Families gathered what they could carry, moving belongings to higher ground or leaving altogether as the water rose faster than expected.

For Rhododendron, the flood became a crisis when bridges began to fail. The Still Creek Bridge east of town started to pull away from its banks, while the Zigzag River bridge collapsed completely, along with the swinging footbridge that crossed the river just upstream. Farther west, the river continued its destructive path. The Sandy River Bridge at Brightwood, which was under construction at the time, was heavily damaged as homes and logs slammed into it while trying to pass beneath. Bridges over Alder Creek and Wildcat Creek were also destroyed, along with homes that lined the banks. Even Marmot Road washed out. With Highway 26 and side roads severed in multiple places, Rhododendron was suddenly isolated. There was no simple way in or out.

With roads cut and access limited, the community rallied. Welches school became an emergency center, sheltering stranded residents and students who could not get home. Food was shared, people slept where they could, and neighbors looked after one another while the river continued to tear through the valley. For children, it was confusing and frightening, but also communal — and probably a little bit fun — spending those long winter nights together, sleeping in the school gym while the world outside changed.

In the absence of a functioning bridge over the Zigzag River, a temporary solution was improvised. Local ski legend and capable mountain woman Joie Smith helped rig an overhead cable across the river, suspending a boatswain’s seat beneath it. Using this makeshift crossing, people and essential supplies were ferried back and forth across the flood-swollen water. For a time, it was the only practical connection between Rhododendron and the outside world.

When the water finally receded in early January, what remained was a landscape few recognized. Riverbanks had shifted, channels had moved, and familiar places were simply gone. Cleanup began almost immediately, but progress was slow. Heavy equipment appeared in the river itself, pushing massive boulders and logs in an effort to guide the water back into a more stable channel. It was painstaking work, done in cold conditions, with no guarantee that the river would cooperate.

Just weeks later, heavy rains returned: in late January, 1965, they brought another rise in water levels and renewed flooding. While less destructive than the Christmas flood, it delayed repairs and reminded already weary locals how fragile recovery could be.

For those who lived through it, the Christmas Flood of 1964 is often remembered less as a single event than as a long winter of disruption and loss. Roads, bridges, homes, and routines were all altered. More than sixty years later, the rivers still carry those memories — etched into the bends of the channel and in the stories passed down by those who remember when the water rose and changed their world forever.