The Legend – and Mystery – of Pumpkin Ridge Pete
By Dirk Knudsen – Hillsboro Herald
This weekend is the North Plains Garlic Festival – and if you have not gone, you must experience the fun! They use the term Fun Stinks- but nothing about this 3-day wild party does. It is legendary, so get out there!
As the event gets going, we want to honor the work of local musician and songwriter Mitch Ward. Today, he posted a link to an 8-minute YouTube video featuring a song and photos that tell the story of one of the most colorful characters to walk the ancient soils and trails of the Tualatin Valley. Watch his video and you will learn the legend.
Here is what I know- or think I know. Some legend and some truth – I ask the family to correct me and weigh in below, but here goes:
They say it started back east, with a boy named Peter Paul Birkel. His grandfather taught him how to make a drink from yeast, and by the time Pete was a young man, he knew the craft of “white lightning” like the back of his weathered hands.
One youthful mistake — too much of his own brew — put him in a three-day coma. He lived, but those who knew him said he was never quite the same.
Pete’s life carried him west. In September of 1934, after the birth of his fourth son, he moved his family to the Oregon coast. He built a home and drew up plans for a good life. But the Great Depression was cruel. Work was scarce. The money dried up.
Pete battled his demons the only way he knew how — with a swig of his homemade liquor. One night he told his wife, “My darling, goodbye.” Then he drove off into the night. His children stood by as their mother wept.
He drifted for a time before finding his way into North Plains. His first stop was a tavern.
“A devil’s brew,” he demanded, “to quench my thirst.”
Tossing two silver dollars on the bar, he told the patrons, “This is my curse. Nothing to honor — just the cards I’ve been dealt.”
By the time he left that evening, the whole room knew they’d met a man wrestling with something heavier than any mountain.
Pete went up into the hills above town — the place we know today as Pumpkin Ridge — and stayed. For over two decades, he lived there alone. No running water. No electricity. No refrigerator. Just a hard, solitary life in a cabin tucked among the firs.
From his perch, Pete would sometimes shout to the wind, “Devil, come get me!” He sat in a hand-carved birch chair, swearing that once he’d raced the devil himself — and won.
Locals began calling him Pumpkin Ridge Pete.
For a quarter-century, he scratched out an existence. By the dim light of kerosene lamps, he sang to the heavens in the dead of night. From time to time, he’d walk into town or down to the Mountain Dale store, his sack of provisions slung over his shoulder. Weathered and gaunt, he looked older than his years.
Folks teased him, “Pete, Satan’s right on your heels.” He’d grin and reply, “Good — then he’ll know how it feels.”
The Disappearance
The last time anyone saw Pete alive, it was the late 1970s; he’d been in town and had tangled with three men — and, true to form, knocked them all down.
What happened next has been whispered about for decades.
A crude sign once hung in the local tavern — now the Rogue Brew Pub — written by someone claiming to be Pete’s “fourth son.” It accused those same three men of robbing Pete, shooting at his legs to make him dance, and then putting two bullets in his chest before dumping him somewhere in the hills.
The sheriff’s posse searched — fifty-two men combed the countryside — but found nothing. No grave. No body. No justice.
Some say Pete’s still out there, buried in a shallow grave in the hills above North Plains. Others swear they’ve seen him — a ghost of a man — wandering the backroads, slipping through the trees.
And there’s another possibility, one that hangs heavy for those of us who’ve been around long enough: that people alive today know exactly what happened that night. Folks who’ve kept their mouths shut for nearly fifty years. Maybe they were protecting family. Perhaps they were afraid. Or maybe they simply didn’t care what happened to a solitary old moonshiner.
The Legend Lives On
Pete’s cabin still stands, hidden deep in the woods. The wind still moves through those trees in a way that makes you stop and listen. Sometimes, when the cold winds blow, you might swear you hear singing — a man’s voice, rough but sure, carried down from the ridge.
Maybe it’s just the wind.
Maybe it’s just the story.
Or maybe — just maybe — Pumpkin Ridge Pete has never really left.
If you are in North Plains this weekend and have a cold beverage or two, give a little toast up to Ole Pete- and let’s hope someday the truth is known!
Lyrics and Music written by Mitch Ward of North Plains, Oregon-
I’ll tell you a story
about a man from back east
who learned from his granddad
to made drink from a yeast.A youthful lad
made a simple mistake
and a bit too much of the drink. Pete
did take
three days in a coma
induced by the gin.Peter was never the same man again.
It wasn’t a gun, a rope, or a knife.
It was his family’s white lightning that
changed Peter’s life.at the Pete’s fourth son was born
September 34.
He moved his family west to the Oregon
shore.He built a home.
Future plans had been drawn,
but prosperity was lost.
The depression was on.His family in need.
The thought too frightening.
Pete battled his demons with swig of
white lightning.Pete said to his wife,
“My darling, goodbye.”
He drove away in the night. The children
watch their mama cry.He drifted around
and into North Plains.
His first stop tavern
to lessen his pains.A devil’s brew he shouted
to quench my thirst.
Threw down two silver dollars and said,
“This is my curse.It is nothing to honor,
just the cards I’ve been dealt.
And when he left there that evening,
they all knew how he felt.He made for the mountain
high above town
to live all alone
with nobody around.No running water,
no power, no fridge.
Pete’s life was hard up there on pumpkin
bridge.Devil come get me.
He shout from his purge
a handcrafted chair
that he carved out of burge.The man who raced with the devil
and claimed to have beat
was forever since known as pumpkin rich
beat.A pumpkin rich Pete, you poor restless
soul.
We can still hear you sing
when cold winds blow.Pumpkin rich people been years since
you’ve gone.
Your story still told.
Your legend lives on.For a quarter century,
Pete lived on the hill,
drinking white lightning he made from
his steel.He’d sing to the heavens
in the dead of the night.
Pour his heart out by kerosene light.Routinely Pete would visit Mountain Dale
store
to pick up provisions
in the skins that he wore.His sack full of grub
slung over his shoulder.
This poor weathered man
now looked even older.Folks would shout, “Pete,
Satan’s right on your heels.”
And Pete would say, “Good.” Then he I’ll
know how it feels.On foot down the mountain
to May’s brother’s store,
back up through the valley,
Pete walked into lore.A pumpkin rich pee, you poor restless
soul,
we can still hear you sing.
When cold winds blow,
pumpkin rich Pete, been years since
you’ve gone,
your story still told.
Your legend lives on.The last time Pete
was seen in town,
three men took him on,
but he knocked them all down.Some say those three men caught up with
OP
shooting rifles and pistols at the
drunken man’s feet.Not giving poor Pete
The gentleman’s chance.
They kept up the arms slot,
making him dance.One slug in his leg,
then two in his chest.
Laid pumpkin ridge pee to his eternal
rest.Sheriff and Posi
of 52 men
search for poor Pete
and the grave he is in.Though Pete was not seen
or heard from again,
the devil they say knows what valley
he’s in.Reports of a hermit
looking weathered and beat
would prompt folks to say why that lens
just stole Pete.A ghost of a man
some would surmise
was pumpkin rich Pete
picking up his supplies.His cabin still stands
though hidden by trees.
The spirit still walks
and speaks in the breeze.The legend lives on.
His story still told
by Peter’s fort son to the young and the
old.The legendary born
with a rhythm and beat
is told by the forson
a pumpkin rich pee.Pumpkin rich Pete. You poor restless
soul.
We can still hear you sing.
BONUS CONTENT- The full walk through of Pumpkin Ridge Pete’s amazing encampment-
