To Set Foot Here, It Better Be a Hoof

As they often do, things turned heated awhile back in Orange Park Acres when the local church proposed doubling the size of its school, raising the ire of residents concerned about overdevelopment and increased traffic in the bucolic equestrian community.

“Stop the Salem School Expansion!” declared signs on street corners. Residents walked petitions throughout the community. Hundreds of neighbors on both sides of the issue packed Orange City Hall for a hearing.

And, as with any backyard squabble, there was an unspoken undercurrent: Some were still smarting over the church’s decision years earlier to take back land it had loaned to the community for an equestrian arena.

Never mind that nearly two-thirds of the school’s students came from within a two-mile radius of the school and that the church served as the community’s town hall and central gathering place. This was war.

Ultimately, the school at Salem Lutheran Church was expanded, but not before much blood was spilled -- politically, that is.

The episode typifies life in Orange Park Acres: a place where people are steadfastly determined to protect their country-suburban lifestyle, a place that is never lacking in controversy -- always, seemingly, horse-related.

“What makes Orange Park Acres special is the people that live out here want to maintain what we have,” said Bob Bennyhoff, resident and longtime editor of the local Foothills Sentry monthly newspaper.

“There hasn’t been an effort to citify the area,” Bennyhoff said. “We think we have out here as close to rural as you can get right in the middle of town.”

Burrowed in the wooded foothills of east Orange, the equestrian community is a mix of modest 1940s ranch homes and modern, million-dollar English Tudor estates -- representing the old-timers and new money that live side by side in a common quest for an out-of-the-way-yet-in-the-middle-of-it-all existence.

Bounded by Santiago Creek to the north, Villa Park Dam to the east, Chapman Avenue to the south and the El Modena hills to the west, the community of 4,000 -- partly unincorporated, partly within the city of Orange -- is just up the hill from convenience marts, grocery stores and gas stations, and freeway-close to shopping malls, stadiums and theme parks.

While a three-bedroom, two-bath home could be had for about $50,000 in the 1960s, that same house sells for about $400,000 today. The average entry fee runs about $1 million for a large home on a 1-acre lot. For about $2 million, you get a 10,000-square-foot mansion with guest house, tennis courts and, of course, stables.

Given that it’s tucked away, Orange Park Acres has less crime than the rest of Orange, said police Sgt. Dave Hill. But “it’s probably the only place where we have saddle and tack thefts.”

The winding, oak-lined roads of the secluded neighborhoods -- with countrified monikers such as Lazy Creek, Pheasant Run and High Horse Trails -- have an old-time feel, exemplifying the “Just fine the way things are” mantra of the community. Residents liken it to television’s Mayberry (assuming Sheriff Andy Griffith could handle the mortgage payments).

Citrus groves started disappearing more than half a century ago, but today nearly everyone in Orange Park Acres owns a horse. Some say the animals -- horses as well as pigs, chickens, goats, sheep, dogs and cats -- outnumber the people.

The voluntary neighborhood association -- the Orange Park Acres Assn. -- maintains 23 miles of city- and county-owned trails and jealously guards the 1,200-home community’s way of life.

The keys to preservation, residents say, are a steadfast resistance to divvying up the 1-acre lots for further development, and the master-planned trails, which connect to four regional parks.

The community also maintains a horse arena that draws enthusiasts from throughout Southern California.

That all adds up to a horse-friendly environment that attracts and retains like-minded people interested in preserving the unique atmosphere.

For a place that’s barely on the map, Orange Park Acres has weathered a long string of controversies, including a plan to extend the Garden Grove Freeway east, a proposed jail near Irvine Lake and efforts to expand John Wayne Airport, whose flights buzz overhead.

In 1976, residents unsuccessfully fought the development next door of Broadmoor Park, 200 attached homes on small lots that were deemed too “perfect” and “manicured” for Orange Park Acres.

The community did succeed, however, in blocking a plan in 1990 for overhead lights at Ridgeline Country Club, which would have allowed nighttime golfing, saying the longer hours of operation would add noise and traffic.

The Orange Park Acres Assn. also sued the local water district in 1999 to halt the sale and proposed development of the 526-acre Barham Ranch wildlife refuge into 600 high-end homes. With live oaks, coastal sage-scrub and two dozen rare and endangered bird species, the rugged, roller-coaster terrain has long been popular with riders.

And for decades the community has fought the Irvine Co., which recently scaled back development plans from 12,000 to 4,000 homes for its Santiago Hills II property bordering Orange Park Acres to the east.

“Orange Park Acres is nestled in the last open, uncharted area in Orange,” said Orange Mayor and Orange Park Acres resident Mark Murphy. “The community loves its lifestyle and works hard to maintain it, and it looks at whatever is happening around it to make sure that it doesn’t negatively impact Orange Park Acres.”

The horse haven was established in 1928 when ranchers divided their land into five- and 10-acre home lots and drilled deep wells near Santiago Creek. Orange, lemon and avocado orchards dominated the area in the early years, but the groves soon gave way to chicken ranches in the 1940s.

Subdivisions of the larger lots brought further development and sparked the formation of a homeowners association in the 1970s concerned with the loss of rural ambience.

About the same time, Orange began annexing portions of the neighborhood, leaving Orange Park Acres partly within city boundaries and partly in unincorporated county land. By the 1980s, the neighborhood group succeeded in persuading the city to adopt rules requiring 1-acre lots, permitting stables and allowing the neighborhood streets to remain free of lights, curbs, gutters and sidewalks.

The high point of the year is always the Fourth of July parade, which says “small town” like a Norman Rockwell painting in bold red, white and blue. A few thousand spectators line the 2 1/2-mile route, some setting up card tables to serve coffee and treats.

The “hokey little parade” has no beauty queens, marching bands or mechanical floats -- just kids on decorated bicycles, the local Boy Scout color guard, a few tractors pulling carts full of kids throwing candy, maybe a silly kazoo band, the occasional politician propped atop a vintage car and, of course, lots of horses.

“The women decorate their saddles all red, white and blue and put on their best get-ups and the men wash their tractors the day before,” said Richard Siebert, known around town as “Mr. Parade.”

At the end of the 90-minute affair, everybody goes to Salem Church -- yes, that Salem Church -- for lemonade and ice cream, a tradition since the event’s inception in 1965.

“Salem Church is still a good neighbor,” said Siebert, 59, a seven-time president of the neighborhood association. “They fought their battle and we fought our battle, and we lost. But when it’s over, it’s over. The community didn’t fall apart, and we’re still as strong as ever. Hopefully, it will always stay this way.”