Season of Woes : Federal Investigation Tops the List of Summer Disasters

Craig Underwood has a tough time remembering why he once dared to hope.

*

His hope was always cautious, always tempered--expressed in a half-sprung smile, as close to optimism as a farmer can come. But even that most tentative nudge toward hope now looks reckless.

For this summer has been utterly woeful.

Underwood and his partners--grower Jim Roberts and sales manager Minos Athanassiadis--are reeling. Their 60-acre investment, a rich field tucked just west of the Conejo Grade, has crumbled into calamity. After a hardscrabble fall, a break-even winter and a promising spring, it’s been a disastrous summer.

The corn crop lost money.

The neighbors threatened lawsuits.

And federal investigators cranked up a probe that could cost the partners their farm.

“I think I’m going to crawl into a hole,” Underwood said, his voice bleak on a bright summer day. “I want to disappear.”

The sons and grandsons of farmers, all three partners recognized the risks when they mortgaged other landholdings in the spring of 1993 to buy the tumbledown plot of Ventura County land dubbed Conejo Ranch.

Their venture seemed stubborn, even naive--they were launching a farm while, all around them, growers sought to unload land to wealthy developers.

Nationwide, about 2 million acres of farmland vanish each year. Ventura County, too, has succumbed to suburban sprawl: outlet malls, movie theaters and plaintive “For Sale” signs have sprouted on the fertile Oxnard Plain.

So the Conejo Ranch partners knew they were bucking a trend. They expected challenges. They expected setbacks.

But they never expected a federal probe.

*

Investigators from the Environmental Protection Agency suspect the partners may have destroyed a wetland when they bulldozed a thicket of wild plants in the summer of 1993 as they prepared to transform Conejo Ranch from a scraggly swamp into a tidy farm.

“We think wetlands may have been involved on this site, which means the farmers would have required a permit (to begin clear-cutting),” EPA attorney Jessica Kao said. “This particular site concerns us because it was a fairly good area for various kinds of wildlife.”

Indeed, when the partners bought the field outside Camarillo, taking out loans to cover the $420,000 price tag, they found several quails scurrying among the brush. They heard talk of a mountain lion skulking through the mesquite. And their mascot mutt, Lucy, emerged from an exploratory romp crawling with ticks.

Scattered about the field, several low-lying pockets sagged into quicksand-like pools of silty muck. “You could fish crawdads there,” Jim Roberts recalled.

Some of the moisture could be attributed to simple geography--Conejo Ranch sits in a flood plain and collects runoff from surrounding hills. The field also boasts an unusually high water table.

But Underwood thought most of the puddles had dribbled onto Conejo Ranch by accident.

In the late 1980s, he said, the culvert draining water from a nearby lemon grove had ruptured, diverting the flow toward Conejo Ranch. As the field had been abandoned nearly a decade earlier, no one bothered to repair the culvert or clear away the sprouting vegetation. So Conejo Ranch, soggy and untended, evolved into a swamp.

So what?

The land had been devoted to agriculture for more than a century: first as a cattle pasture and, later, as a vegetable farm. Clearly, Conejo Ranch was meant to be cultivated, the partners reasoned--even if they had to install an underground drainage system to suck moisture from the gooey soil.

No one ever imagined that the fertile 60-acre swath might be considered a wetland.

Someone probably should have.

*

Whether fed by an underground spring or a leaky air conditioner, any moist patch of ground can be classified as a wetland--as long as its plants, hydrology and soil meet certain scientific criteria. The Clean Water Act, which gives the government jurisdiction over wetlands, does not distinguish between natural and artificial swamps.

“Not to get too lyrical or mystical about it,” local environmentalist Neil Moyer explained, “but given half a chance, Mother Nature will reclaim (agriculture land for) wetlands.”

Because the partners razed the vegetation and churned the soil on Conejo Ranch last summer, EPA investigators have had trouble determining whether the field meets scientific standards that define wetlands.

Conejo Ranch could have been a teeming riparian habitat before the farmers moved in to tame it. On the other hand, it could have been simply a tumbledown, waterlogged lot.

EPA biologist Aaron Setran will have to make the call.

With all the zeal of investigators collecting blood samples in the O.J. Simpson case, Setran rooted through Conejo Ranch in late July, digging up spoonfuls of soil and shreds of roots.

Preserved in plastic bags in his San Francisco office, the samples will provide Setran with the clues that could determine Conejo Ranch’s fate.

To reach a decision, Setran will scrutinize the dirt for classic signs of wetlands: clay particles, orange streaks of oxidized iron, root specks from riparian plants. He will also pore over aerial photos of the site before and after the partners began farming. And he will review, again, the site’s long history.

Setran plans to announce his conclusions by the end of September.

The verdict should wrap up the investigation. It could also launch the recrimination.

*

The harshest outcome: a criminal trial. The EPA could file a complaint accusing the partners of knowingly destroying a wetland, a violation of the federal Clean Water Act. If the partners resist the EPA, the agency could levy an “administrative penalty” of up to $125,000, plus criminal penalties of $50,000 a day and civil penalties of $25,000 a day.

No investigator expects such severe punishment.

But the next, lesser, level of penalties would hit the farmers nearly as hard: The government could force them to pull out the Conejo Ranch crops and restore the field to its natural state.

The EPA would boot out the existing crops only if scientists were certain the parcel could bloom into a thriving riparian ecosystem. A duck pond or two wouldn’t do the trick.

The land’s long history as a cattle-trampled, tractor-tilled farm also works in the growers’ favor. Far from pristine, the soil “may not have had as high a value” as an untouched swamp, even in its heyday, said biologist Cat Brown of the U. S. Fish & Wildlife Service. “So the penalty, if one is assessed, may not be as steep,” she added.

Instead of directing the farmers to abandon their field, the EPA might order them to pay penance by enhancing a wetland elsewhere in Ventura County. “We need to determine what’s good for the environment and what’s equitable under the circumstances,” EPA attorney Kao said.

“There’s no reason to require them to spend an obscene amount of money (restoring the field) if we’re not going to get an environment of the quality we’re looking for,” Kao said.

Such talk reassures the partners--somewhat. “I have to believe it will work out,” Jim Roberts said, with conviction born of desperation.

But farmers who have tangled with the EPA warn that wetlands problems rarely just work out.

“A wetlands designation is like getting your property declared a national park, as far as future use and property values go,” Fresno County rancher Shawn Stevenson said.

The government’s jurisdiction over wetlands nettles the powerful national farm lobby--primarily because growers complain that bone-dry earth is sometimes labeled a protected “water of the United States,” based on analysis of plant roots or soil composition.

And once a government scientist declares a parcel wetlands, farmers say, the designation is hard to shake.

“We’ve brought soil scientists, professors, anyone we could possibly tackle to come look at our land (and judge whether it’s a wetland),” said Rhode Island farmer Bill Stamp. “The thing is, (the government) has the dollars--your tax dollars--and the time. They go after who they want, when they want.”

Stamp, who’s trying to clear his former cornfield of a decade-old wetland designation, added: “I still salute the flag. But I’ll tell you, I think twice.”

*

While farmers ensnared in wetland disputes tend to paint the government ecologists as sinister, land-grabbing foes, environmentalists praise the EPA for guarding rare habitat.

“This area’s wetland status . . . predated its use in agriculture by a millennium,” said Greg Helms of the Environmental Defense Center in Santa Barbara.

With up to 360,000 acres of wetlands falling to plows or pavement each year, environmentalists seek to protect every remaining riparian chunk.

“When a wetland’s destroyed, you lose not only the wetland, but an incredible accumulation of biological diversity. And you lose not just individual animals, but whole lineages,” explained Mark Holmgren, a curator at UC Santa Barbara’s vertebrate museum.

Underwood can understand the argument. But he’s still bewildered about its application on his ranch.

“We’re losing so many wetlands, and once they’re paved over, you can’t get them back, so I suppose they have to investigate,” he said. “They have to protect our habitat. But in our case, there was really nothing to protect.”

The farmers’ battle with the EPA sags under the weight of an age-old conflict: agriculture versus the environment. Their second agony of the summer, a protracted fight over their compost heap, could be summed up with equally stark polarity: agriculture versus the suburbs.

*

The problem flared in early August, when residents of eastern Camarillo caught a gut-churning whiff of the decaying compost heap stashed at the far end of Conejo Ranch.

A cornucopia of half-rotted vegetables piled high along 300-foot rows, the compost heap resembled a macabre banquet, a feast for a giant with a taste for decaying fiber.

More to the point, it stunk.

Even from a mile away, residents of Camarillo’s Leisure Village and Fairfield neighborhoods could smell the tangy, musky, caustic fumes. At times, the odor turned vaguely chemical, with a tinge of burned plastic.

Some contended the stench could wake them from a dead slumber. Others blamed it for scratchy throats or stuffed-up noses. Still others spoke of gripping nausea. They dreaded evenings, when the fumes would wrap around their houses, sneaking in any window or door left ajar.

Simply put, Camarillo resident Andrew Harman said, “It’s horrendous.”

The smell haunted Underwood too. With every complaint, he despaired anew.

“We don’t want to be bad neighbors,” he said, miserably. “And we don’t want to jeopardize composting in this county.”

In fact, few farmers in Ventura County compost on the same scale.

Underwood Ranches hauls lemon peels and avocado pits from local packinghouses to several fields across Ventura County. The partners then add their own processing plant’s waste--limp carrots, brittle corn husks, wilted radishes.

Finally, they toss in shredded paper, sprinkling purple, green and white shards on the weirdly vibrant piles.

The system has proved both cost-effective and environment-friendly over the years.

The packinghouses save big bucks, because Underwood Ranches charges only a tenth of the standard fee for dumping trash in a landfill.

The farmers cut costs by reducing their dependence on commercial fertilizer. And taxpayers get the satisfaction of knowing that several hundred tons of waste are diverted from space-crunched landfills each day.

*

But that win-win-win equation can crumble abruptly if the compost heap’s biochemical balance falters. That’s what happened on Conejo Ranch this summer.

Somehow, the oxygen pockets in the compost heap collapsed, leaving only anaerobic bacteria to gnaw away at the waste. Unable to fully break down the material, anaerobic bacteria exhale vinegar, alcohol and hydrogen sulfide after every meal.

These are the same anaerobic bacteria that cause foul smells to accumulate in clogged-up sink drains and human bowels. So you can imagine the stench when billions of the stinky critters invade an enormous compost heap.

“You have to take a bath when you get home, that’s for sure,” field worker Agustin Garcia said with a wry smile after working amid the stench for six hours straight.

To cut the fumes, Underwood tried covering the compost piles with plastic tarp. That didn’t work. An attempt to balance the biochemical stew by adding shredded paper also flopped. And even when Underwood delivered gifts of fresh produce, he failed to pacify the neighbors.

“We want it gone,” Harman fumed, after rounding up 80 anti-compost signatures and threatening a lawsuit. “This has got to stop.”

Underwood had hoped to leave the pile on Conejo Ranch through Thanksgiving, at least, until the waste decomposed enough to be spread as fertilizer. But he could not stomach the complaints. At a cost of $7,000, he hauled the pile to another of his fields, this one a parcel off Pleasant Valley Road with no neighbors nearby.

Gloomy, Underwood announced: “We raised the white flag and we’re turning our tails in defeat.”

To make moods even worse, the corn crop was losing money all summer long. The farmers had gambled big on corn this year, increasing their plantings five-fold. Now the chance of a payoff was slim.

“This has been the worst year in 20 or more,” Underwood said. “Most people cannot remember such a depressed market lasting so long. It started in November and it’s still going.”

The dismal prices dragged down business even though the partners have finally, after three years of research, perfected machines to harvest and process their Somis Creek brand corn.

No longer do workers trudge through the humid fields, hands scuffed by rough husks, throats dry from swirling pollen. Technology, speedy and efficient, has taken over the drudgery.

Crashing through the field, attacking each row in turn, the harvester performs with violent precision.

The mighty machine grabs each stalk, plucks out the corn and hurls the ears through a stocky conveyor belt, spewing stray leaves like a frustrated gambler scattering a deck of cards.

Miraculously unbruised, the corn bumps down a metal chute and drops into a plastic bin hauled by a second tractor.

Partner Jim Roberts won’t say publicly how much money he saves with the contraption. Trade secret, he says with a grin. But the harvester demands only two workers at a time, and they charge through each row pretty quickly, driving their tractors side by side in clumsy choreography.

*

Once the ears are harvested, they’re shuttled to Underwood Ranches’ cooler, where they chill in a refrigerated room. Next, they shoot through the corn processor. In a few noisy seconds, corn ears are stripped, trimmed, packaged and wrapped as they jostle through a series of conveyor belts.

Backed by the harvester and processor--$80,000 worth of innovation--the farmers at Underwood Ranches had hoped to command a sizable share of the corn market. As hounds Roy and Lucy snuffled underfoot, the partners gathered in an airless kitchenette last spring to discuss their prospects.

Relaxing their characteristic caution just a smidgen, they spoke almost hopefully. They dreamed of a bumper year.

Instead, they got the dreadful summer that’s just now wrapping up.

The first inklings of trouble came in mid-June, when the Conejo Ranch corn began to “silk,” sending out sticky, slender yellow-brown hairs.

From afar, the field seemed a flawless golden carpet, framed by a snaggletooth row of eucalyptus trees, a shrub-blotted mountain and the distant glint of cars winding along the Conejo Grade. Up close, the rows of furry tassels beckoned alluringly, proud pennants of a ripening crop.

Majestic. But misleading.

Craig Underwood knew, just from looking, that the corn wouldn’t ripen in time for the critical opening-season week leading up to Fourth of July. Sure enough, the stubborn plants--whose growth was retarded by a spell of cloudy weather--matured after the holiday. By then, people had eaten their fill of corn. The market had gone bust.

*

With no buyers in sight, the partners didn’t even bother sending their harvester to Conejo Ranch. They left nearly three acres at the field’s northwest corner for the birds, the white and yellow kernels swelling slowly inside snug green husks.

“It’s tough on us,” Athanassiadis said, “to have to leave super-sweet corn for ducks.”

Disappointment turned to downright dejection days later, when the produce buyer for a major supermarket decided not to stock the Underwood Ranches’ corn, although he had once discussed purchasing $3,000 worth of corn a day. Another deal also fell through, costing the partners about $4,500 a day.

“Talk is cheap,” Athanassiadis said grimly.

Later, he added: “We’ve got what literally feels like a noose around our necks to sell the product.”

An unexpected contract with the Trader Joe’s chain of upscale groceries looked like a potential savior in early August. But that deal soon soured, as Trader Joe buyers decided they would not stock any product with foam packaging--including Somis Creek corn.

Stuck with more corn than they could sell, the farmers donated bushels to a local food bank. They tossed fat, juicy ears on their ill-fated compost heap. And they left another patch of bursting-ripe corn to wither in the field. All told, they wrote off more than $12,000 worth of harvested corn. They didn’t even bother to tally the value of the stalks abandoned to the birds.

As the summer ground on, Athanassiadis looked at the ledger books with mounting dismay--knowing that a run of red ink would crimp his plans to introduce two new products this fall.

He had planned on pushing Rainbow Radishes, a six-ounce bag of salad-ready radishes in vibrant hues of purple, pink, red and white. He had also hoped to unveil creamy spring potatoes, small and round with flaky, tender skin.

*

But without seed money from the corn crop, he’d have to put everything on hold.

“We basically have to see how much money we have in the bank at the end of the season--it’s frustrating,” Athanassiadis said, poking at the tan and purple potato label he had been tinkering with for months.

“You get going, then you have to stop, then you go again, then you stop. To the extent that we have good ideas, our business will succeed. But to the extent that we have limited money, we’re held back on our good ideas. It hurts.”

Because they grow sweet corn through Christmas--long after other farmers have switched to vegetables--the partners do have a shot at recouping some of their summer losses with strong end-of-season sales.

But with all that’s gone wrong this summer, they’re hesitant to hope.

History of the Field

The Environmental Protection Agency is investigating whether Craig Underwood and his partners may have destroyed a wetland when they started farming Conejo Ranch in the summer of 1993. The partners contend the 60-acre field, which is zoned for agricultural use, never harbored a wetland.

Throughout the 19th Century, the land now called Conejo Ranch served as pasture for beef cattle. Adolfo Camarillo owned the parcel during his lifetime, from 1888 to 1958, and let his cows range through the tall grass. Several pools on the land attracted wildfowl.

After Camarillo’s death, the land was sold to a developer. A plan to build 250 homes there was rejected by the city of Camarillo. So the land was rented to local ranchers, who grew vegetables throughout the 1970s.

A great flood in 1979 wiped out the row crops, and the land lay idle for a few years. In the early 1980s, ranchers brought back cattle to graze on the wild grasses.

By the mid-1980s, the cattle had been removed, and the 60-acre parcel lay fallow. Willow trees, mesquite brush and other scrubby plants soon covered the swamp like expanse. A family of mountain lions prowled through the land, and quails nested among the brambles.

The Underwood Ranches partners bought the land in the spring of 1993. After checking with the state Department of Fish and Game and the Ventura County Flood Control District, they cleared the brush with bulldozers and installed an underground system to drain excess water. They then leveled the soil and planted mixed greens. Over the summer, they grew sweet corn and built a compost heap. They plan a fall crop of carrots.