Owens Valley Wary of Thorns in Olive Branch

High on a bluff overlooking the Owens Valley, Mark Schlenz gazed out over a serene landscape born of seismic upheavals, pulverizing glaciers, sudden storms and Los Angeles politics.

“So much beauty, so much strife,” sighed Schlenz, a local author and the director of the Eastern Sierra Land Trust.

The valley has been a colony of sorts since the early 1900s, when Los Angeles officials quietly began acquiring most of the land and water rights and, eventually, pumped so much water south via the Los Angeles Aqueduct that the valley became a de facto desert.

Now that Los Angeles Mayor James K. Hahn is proposing a conservation easement that would forever ban development on about 500 square miles that is owned by the city’s Department of Water and Power, many residents are again suspicious of their landlord’s motives.

Most insist they have no desire to see the place developed. Yet, they can’t help but wonder if the mayor’s proposal is designed mainly to improve his standing with urban environmentalists in an election year.

Nancy Masters, president of a civic club, calls the valley her backyard. Cleaning the windows of a roadside display of patriotic gifts in the tiny town of Independence, she summed up fears heard throughout the Owens Valley about Hahn’s proposal.

“We are all for conserving this area, for agriculture, bird-watching, fishing. Nobody wants suburbanization,” Masters said. “But the worry is that a conservancy will somehow manage to restrict access to all but people from Los Angeles with ultralight backpacks, flashy four-wheel-drive trucks and expensive fly rods.”

At stake is a place of stunning contrasts: bone-dry plains flanked by lava flows and long-dormant volcanoes, meadows resplendent with wild iris, rust-streaked hills, alfalfa fields and cattle ranches, and the remnants of old gold- and salt-mining operations.

Squeezed between the conical peaks of the Sierra Nevada and the less lofty White Mountains, the Owens Valley is dotted with hamlets such as Olancha, Independence and Big Pine that add to the impression of the northbound traveler along U.S. 395 that one is heading backward in time.

The Los Angeles Aqueduct is hard to spot amid the sage, but its effects are evident in the choking dust clouds rising off the dry Owens Lake bed and in scattered marshlands that have reverted to rabbit brush. A sympathetic newspaper once referred to the beast that stole the water as the “aqua duck.” It was bombed several times during the 1920s.

Hahn sees his proposal for a conservation easement as a long-overdue olive branch that would freeze-frame the beauty of the surrounding landscape along a 112-mile stretch of 395, from near Olancha to well north of Bishop.

It would ensure that the land remained in perpetuity what it has been for the better part of a century: an agricultural and recreational commons known for its exceptional fishing, hunting, rock-climbing, cross-country skiing and hiking opportunities and a wildlife corridor for mule deer, tule elk and migratory waterfowl. Its 320,000 acres would embrace 50 miles of lake frontage and 565 miles of rivers and streams.

The pastoral splendor of the Owens Valley is the unintended consequence of a downstate water policy that made it all but impossible for the valley’s early farmers and ranchers to make a living.

Yet, despite the fact that many of them departed, a local economy took root, and today it is heavily dependent on the land. Alter its status, people say, and the economy could suffer.

Inyo County officials worry that Hahn’s proposed conservation easement could do just that: devalue the land and reduce the taxes they collect from it. City officials in Bishop fear they would be unable to expand their tiny airport. The Paiute and Shoshone tribes have long eyed the land as a potential site for desperately needed new housing.

“The potential impact on taxes is a huge issue in Inyo County, an enormous rural region of only 18,000 people,” said Inyo County Administrator Rene Mendez. “The city [of Los Angeles] is our largest taxpayer. Our total annual budget is $30 million, and those taxes comprise a large portion of our discretionary revenue.”

In the meantime, he added, “I’ve heard a lot of talk about the proposed conservation easement, but I’ve yet to see anything in writing. To say we trust our partners in Los Angeles would not be a true statement. I’m sure the feelings are mutual.”

Local cattle ranchers are concerned that management plans could be written by environmentalists to limit century-old grazing privileges. Fishermen fear the plan might limit access to rivers and streams, and conservationists argue that the valley does not afford enough protection for elk, fish, migratory birds and other wildlife.

Hahn announced his plan for the valley last week, and since then he has been telephoning local leaders to try to reassure them that a conservation easement would be in their best interests. He has promised to meet with them and tour the area in the near future. Hahn also has been soliciting support from fellow California Democrats, including U.S. Sens. Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer.

Schlenz, who says he has walked every mile of the valley, said the mayor has his work cut out for him.

“Now the real work begins: bringing all the stakeholders to the table -- fishermen, ranchers, business owners, mountain climbers, environmentalists and DWP officials,” Schlenz said. “Without local participation, the proposal will dissolve in more conflict and dissent.

“But we have no choice. There’s a point at which the land becomes more valuable than the water. This may be our last opportunity to secure the open-space treasure that a century of chance has given.”

Indeed, if California’s population of 36 million people doubles, as expected, over the next two decades, the valley’s open space will be coveted by home builders and resort developers. Demand for new homes, fueled by the renaissance of the Mammoth Lakes ski resort to the north, has already sparked a rush to build homes on the valley’s handful of privately owned parcels. That, in turn, has triggered nasty squabbles between builders and environmentalists.

One development of 120 homes, for example, is slated to go up on former ranchland just north of Bishop that has been used for centuries by migrating mule deer.

Anglers grouse that a cluster of about 100 homes that recently sprang up near the DWP’s Crowley Lake reservoir has destroyed the solitude of a favorite fishing destination.

One day last week, as heavy metal music blasted from a portable radio, Crowley Lake developer Lance Johnson stood on the foundation of a 2,900-square-foot home on a lot of two-thirds of an acre he hopes to sell for $840,000 and proclaimed, “Growth is good for jobs and the economy. People who don’t like it ought to move to Montana.”

Nearly all of Johnson’s homes are being sold to residents of nearby Mammoth Lakes, a four-square-mile community where property values are skyrocketing because there is no more room to grow.

“One of these days, when the DWP needs something real bad,” Johnson said with a smile, “it’ll be happy to swap this land for development. That’s how things work.”

Then, too, if Hahn’s proposal becomes a reality, property values in this landlocked little community will soar. “Shhhhh,” Johnson said. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Crowley Lake fly-fishing guide Tom Loe said Hahn’s call for a permanent moratorium on growth in this area “is exactly what we need.”

Swabbing the deck of his 24-foot fishing boat, Loe shook his head in dismay at the nearby development and said, “There’s too much building going on. Housing developments are popping up all over the place. And there’s talk of expanding Mammoth Lakes Airport to accommodate airliners. Can you imagine the screams of 757s putting on their thrusters several times a day just to bring in a few hundred more people a day into this area? That would be a tragedy.”

Retired fireman Don Vinson would not argue with that. Just moments after reeling in the largest trout he’d ever caught -- a fat 24-inch rainbow hooked with a night crawler -- Vinson took a long, admiring look at the lake -- framed by rolling brown hills and towering, ice-capped peaks -- and said, “What Mayor Hahn is talking about is a good thing. This scenery can’t be beat, and it’s easy to get to. It should stay that way.”