Article taken from the
Santa Barbara News Press
Published with permission
Gaviota
coast at crossroads: Part Three
Ebby Landing: Family dairy farms on reserve going out of business
By MELINDA
BURNS
NEWS-PRESS SENIOR WRITER
3/18/03
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The Skagit Indians mulched and burned this land for root crops as early as 1300. In the mid-19th century, white settlers cultivated potatoes and wheat. And today, while strip malls, car dealerships and condos proliferate in island cities to the north and south, the rich soil of Ebey's (pronounced "EE-beez") Landing supports dairy farms and fields of cabbage, squash, lavender and alfalfa.
It's what the National Park Service calls a "working landscape," as worthy of protection as the granite cliffs of Yosemite or the giant Sequoia groves.
Ebey's Landing National Historical Reserve was created by Congress in 1978 on Whidbey Island, a 90-minute drive and a short ferry ride from Seattle. The intention, Congress said, was to "preserve and protect a rural community which provides an unbroken historic record" in Puget Sound, dating from the 19th century.
"It's not a Williamsburg, Va., where the residents wear costumes and you freeze things in time," said Marshall Bronson, who runs a bed-and-breakfast in a Victorian home in Coupeville, a seaside town of 1,700 people within the reserve boundaries. Mr. Bronson serves on the nine-member volunteer trust board that oversees the reserve.
"There are no fake historical buildings," he said. "We are trying to preserve this rural farming heritage. But it doesn't mean you use privies."
Farmers still plow the original land claim of Col. Isaac Ebey, who, in 1850, wrote his brother in Oregon that he had found "a paradise of nature" on the island prairie. And here, on the bluffs of the wild and windswept shore, stands the cabin where Col. Ebey was beheaded seven years later by Indians seeking revenge: a chief for a chief.
From its inception, Ebey's Landing was heralded as a new kind of American national park, one in which most of the land would remain in private hands. It was modeled on the "greenline parks" established in the English countryside after World War II.
At Ebey's Landing, the Park Service keeps a low profile, purchasing development rights from willing sellers, and occupying only one seat on the trust board. Seven of the other board members represent Island County and the town of Coupeville; the state parks department has one seat. The reserve manager -- the only full-time employee -- is hired by the board.
Ninety percent of the 17,000-acre reserve is privately owned, and the Park Service wants it to stay that way. The descendants of some of the original 19th-century settlers are still plowing the land. The bowl-shaped prairie, ringed with forested hillocks called "wood lots," looks much as it must have 150 years ago, against a dramatic backdrop of the snowcapped Olympic range. Brambly hedgerows of currant, elderberry and grape, used by the settlers as fences, still define property boundaries.
Since 1978, the National Park Service has spent $9 million buying land and $3 million buying development rights, with a focus on saving Ebey's Prairie in the heart of the reserve. In 2000, the agency spent $3 million to buy a large dairy farm that went bankrupt, but plans to sell the land back to a farmer or trade it for development rights.
"We do not have the capacity to run farms," Mr. Bronson said. "We'd like to get the property back on the tax rolls."
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The board's chronic problem is a shortage of money and staff. In 1978, Congress appropriated $5 million for development rights at Ebey's Landing and then, for 20 years, provided nothing. These days, even when an appropriation is made, it may be taken away. Last month, the trust lost $1 million to congressional budget cuts.
Dozens of farmers with land in the reserve are eager to sell their development rights to the Park Service, but there is no money to buy them. Meanwhile, farmland values are increasing by 8 percent every year, and the pressure to develop the land is mounting.
Last month, the Washington Department of Natural Resources allowed a landowner at the gateway to the prairie on Highway 20 to clear-cut 29 acres for timber sales. And at the southern end of the reserve, the county recently approved plans by Seattle Pacific University to fell five acres of Douglas fir to expand a conference center. The forest there has never been logged.
About 150 homes have been built in the reserve since it was founded, and there is a potential for dozens more. Most of the farmland is zoned for one home per five acres.
Thus, a sense of urgency pervades the reserve's small offices on a hill next to the cemetery where Col. Ebey lies buried.
"We are losing the generation of people who are still enthused about the formation of the park," Mr. Bronson said. "The older landowners remember the place as it was and want to keep it that way. The second or third generation ... doesn't have the attachment for the land. They live in the city. They only want money out of the estate."
Without a larger staff and a funding stream of at least $1 million per year from Congress, the reserve could lose the scenic farmland around the prairies, the weathered barns that dot the landscape, and the forested knolls, Mr. Bronson said.
"We will not survive," he said. "It's not all saved. We've got to make it work."
FAMILY DAIRY FAILS
Out of 18 dairies on the island in the 1980s only three are left, and two of them are in the reserve.
Local farmers and board members alike have been shaken in recent years by the bankruptcy of the 150-year-old Engle Farms, the largest dairy on Whidbey Island. The Engles, whose former property lies in Ebey's Prairie, had expanded their herd to 1,000 cows. They had a yearly payroll of $600,000.
Les Engle, 59, sold his cows to the bank and his land to the Park Service, and is now mostly out of debt. He's just scraping by, leasing back the family farm to grow hay and raise heifers. It's true that he over-expanded, Mr. Engle said, but drought, frost, sick animals, high interest rates and the death of his parents also played a part.
"Mentally, you kind of lose it," he said. "Now it's a matter of trying to figure out how to hang on as far as you can."
Mr. Engle served on the original committee that set up the reserve at Ebey's Landing. He's asked the trust board to give him a five-year lease to his old farm.
"They have yet to get a good dialogue going," Mr. Engle said. "Why can't they make a decision?"
Meanwhile, the economic malaise has spread even to the most successful farms at Ebey's Landing, forcing the trust board to consider promoting cheese processing, milk bottling or meatpacking to help farmers survive.
"Never, ever, did I think I would be considering meatpacking as a way to preserve cultural landscapes," said Rob Harbour, the reserve manager. "But it's not that much of a leap. For the past 10 years, I've been concerned with the number of acres preserved. But if you don't have some form of working agriculture preserved, you haven't done your job."
In the 1980s, Roger Sherman was one of the first farmers at Ebey's Landing to benefit from the sale of his development rights to the Park Service. He and his brother traded their rights to more than 50 homes for 270 acres of prairie land that belonged to the government. The transaction doubled the size of their farm.
"It's doubtful, if we hadn't done it, that we'd still be in farming," said Mr. Sherman, who is now 68. "It made our farm more efficient."
Mr. Sherman's son and niece are now buying the 700-acre family farm, and they lease another 500 acres. They grow corn, alfalfa, grass, wheat and barley to feed their cows, which produce 5,000 gallons of milk per day. But milk from much bigger dairies in Idaho and California is flooding the market. The price is so low, farmers can't cover their costs.
"In order to stay in business, you have to have some kind of gimmick," Mr. Sherman said. "We don't really have one. The kids are just working themselves to death."
In his retirement, Mr. Sherman is plagued with doubts about selling those development rights, 25 years ago. His grandchildren, he said, probably won't want to farm.
"We've all had a lot of second thoughts," Mr. Sherman said. "We gave away a tremendous value to protect the farmland. We chose a style of life, and we were trying to choose a lifestyle for the generations. Yet it's possible our grandchildren will cuss us. What do you do with a farm in a historic reserve that nobody in his right mind would buy?"
North of the Sherman farm, across Penn Cove, the Muzzall family wonders how much longer the milk trucks from the mainland will want to make the trip to their dairy. The Muzzalls have recently been talking to the Park Service about selling the development rights to their historic farm.
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Ron Muzzall, 40, has no intention of selling the farm, but he is looking for ways to branch out. His teenage daughter, Jennifer, loves animals and wants to be a farmer. With an eye to her future, Mr. Muzzall has helped form a cooperative that slaughters grass-fed beef, pork and lamb and sells it locally, without going through a middleman.
The Muzzalls also raise cabbage for seed, as do the Shermans. The cabbage seed from Ebey's Landing is exported all over the world.
Newcomers to farming in the reserve are coming up with innovative ideas, too.
Joyce Peterson, an occupational therapist, and her husband Fran Einterz, a retired social service administrator, recently bought a 140-acre farm in the prairie to save it from being converted to housing.
"The developers were circling," Ms. Peterson said. "We knew we couldn't live with ourselves if we allowed it to happen."
Ms. Peterson and Mr. Einterz then sold the Park Service their development rights. They fixed up the 1908 farm homestead on the land and are renting it for $250 per night. It sleeps up to 10 people and is largely booked for the coming summer.
"People love to have their weddings where there are cows and chickens walking across," Ms. Peterson said.
Sara Richards, a former computer programmer and mental health therapist, grows lavender on her farm in the reserve and makes it into handmade creams, soaps, lotions, air fresheners and jelly. She is planting a labyrinth of lavender that she hopes tourists will visit.
"It's part of my mission to share the beauty, it's so gorgeous," Ms. Richards said, gazing down the gently sloping fields to the Strait of Juan de Fuca. "It's going to take ingenuity and creative thinking to make farming work. These days, it means combining agriculture with tourism."
TRIP TO THE COUNTRY
One million people visit Ebey's Landing every summer, eager to get a glimpse of what rural America looked like a century ago. They flock to the Saturday farmers market for fresh vegetables, baked goods and handmade aprons. They come for the mussels festival in March, water festival in May, loganberry festival in July, arts and crafts festival in August and "HarvestFest" in October, featuring the "scarecrow corridor," apple pie contest and squash toss.
At Christmastime, Coupeville residents decorate their historic facades with fir and hemlock cuttings, and there is a "parade of lights" by boat to the wharf.
Visitors can also take a driving tour of the town's 48 historic buildings, many of them constructed by 19th century sea captains in the days when Penn Cove was a bigger seaport than Seattle.
The Park Service presence at Ebey's Landing is visible only in a handful of "waysides," or pullouts along the road with interpretive signs. Outside the state parks, there are only six miles of public trails.
"We make a big distinction between visual access and physical access to the farmland," Mr. Harbour said. "You can view it, but don't assume you can walk all over it. People are living here, and they were living here before we established this park. They're not on display."
Ebey's Landing may be the only national park with a town, mayor, town council and planning commission within its boundaries. Most of the residents of Coupeville are retirees. The streets still have a "Sleepy Hollow" look, despite the recent opening of a wine and cheese shop near the waterfront.
"Virtually everyone has appreciated that we've kept this pristine land all around us," said Mayor Nancy Conard. "The reserve saved the prairie. If that place had not been protected, it would have been just eaten up."