Trouble in Paradise: Ashland’s Wildlife Problem

 

ASHLAND HAS A WILDLIFE PROBLEM.

When I was in New England a month ago, my phone kept buzzing with “cougar alerts” from the City of Ashland. Earlier in the summer, a mother bear and her two cubs had greeted visitors at the entrance to the famed Lithia Park, setting off glee and panic. The other day, as Tony and I drove to our morning rendezvous with Starbucks, four deer ambled across a downtown crosswalk, against the light.

What’s going on?

Folks who lived in Ashland in the 80s and 90s don’t recall so much mixing of “wild” and “tame.” But it’s become a fact of life here, like the summer smoke.

Oregon wildlife laws are clear: resident wildlife have rights. “After all, they were here first,” says Jim in a post on our neighborhood listserv. The regulations are more specific. When it comes to cougars (a.k.a. mountain lions), for example, they are free to roam and hunt at night, even in populated areas. There must be multiple sightings during daylight hours for it to be considered a threat to human safety.

Thus a 2 a.m. photo of a cougar consuming a deer carcass near a town elementary school—only a few blocks from our house—caused only a modest stir. The school’s principal said she didn’t worry about night time sightings. What if it were daytime?  “I’d stay inside…I think that would have a distinct effect,” she told a local reporter.

A morning stroll by a cougar on the downtown Southern Oregon University (SOU) campus raised more concern. An impromptu meeting between university personnel, the city, ODFW and a federal trapper resulted in a decision to shoot the cougar. By the time the police received the go ahead and secured a clear shot, though, the cougar had moved on.

This November, the Ashland Police Department launched a new wildlife tracking system, showing confirmed cougar and bear sightings, along with deer carcasses left by large predators. Citizens were invited to go into the system and enter sightings, including what the animal was doing, its reaction when it saw you, and whether the animal appeared aggressive.

Embedded in the tracking system was a realization: an adenovirus had been felling the weakest of the Ashland deer herd, luring cougars to town for an easy dinner.

What’s up with the bears?

Common wisdom is that the bears come to town for edible garbage, leftovers from bird feeders, and house explorations.

In May, an Ashland man came home and found a black bear foraging inside his kitchen. It had broken through a screen in the window, but willingly exited through the front door. A few days later, another Ashland resident woke to find a mama bear and three cubs in his garage. One cub managed to gain entry to an adjacent laundry room, where it gobbled cat food. The family captured the invasion on video. In June, a local woman spotted a bear cub in her garden the day after it was caught dipping its feet in her swimming pool. She chased it away using a bear whistle and a boat horn.

More disconcerting, a young mother described on the neighborhood listserv how she’d been awakened in the middle of the night by a large bear killing a small deer in her front yard. “I have a 3 1/2yr old—not much bigger than this baby—and granted my child is always long asleep during bear visiting hours, the bears are going to consume whatever creatures they can,” she wrote.

“If anyone KNOWS a biologist or wildlife rehabilitator or even a zoologist, please rally their assistance in what we can do to keep the bears away from our street,” she continued. “I want no human killing of the bears—I seek a humane solution.”

And then, well, there’s the deer. Ashland became a sanctuary for deer long before it offered protection to undocumented immigrants. For years, deer have walked the town’s sidewalks and streets, lounging on front lawns and enjoying the flowers and vegetables. When I first arrived and wanted to add to the inviting garden that came with our house, I searched for “deer resistant” plants. The nursery person warned that, here, few plants were truly deer resistant. She was right.

Over the years, the “town deer herd” has grown exponentially, drawn by a never-ending food supply and the kindness of two-footed strangers. No doubt, the encroachment of housing into the nearby forests and the loss of forage to drought push the deer out of the wild as much as the town pulls them in.

In 2015, Ashland‘s mayor hosted a standing-room only televised town hall, a “Deer Summit,” to address “aggressive deer and what can be done about it.” Deer had stalked the mayor, chased a family down the sidewalk, and even stampeded a senior citizen in her carport. (“It leapt and knocked me over,” she testified at the deer summit. “I had one hoof on my foot and one on my thigh. If it would’ve been my heart, or my guts, as I say, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.”)

Generations of deer had roamed Ashland’s streets, summit participants acknowledged.  What had changed, they agreed, was that the deer had lost their fear of humans. The deer had turned the town’s generosity—handouts of edibles and laissez-faire attitudes—to their advantage.

“When deer don’t fear people, they come closer and don’t look at them as a threat and flee,” local wildlife biologist Mark Vargas explained. Instead of turning tail, a doe with fawns may go on the attack. In the breeding season, a family pet on a leash may unnerve an ornery buck.

Solutions aren’t simple, a report from the Oregonian noted. Birth control would be “absolutely impossible in a community like Ashland,” biologist Vargas explained. And a cull would require killing 40 to 60 deer a year, something that’s unlikely to gain political support from Ashland leaders or bureaucratic approval from the state.

“Are you serious?” said Stromberg, the mayor, when asked about an organized kill. “Have you ever been to Ashland?”

City officials did give residents permission to install 8-foot-high deer fences, and they reaffirmed a $475 fine for anyone who feeds deer. (No fines to date, though—just warnings.)

State biologist Mark Vargas had the last word, advising Ashland residents to toughen up around deer. (Note: An average of 55 deer a year are killed by motorists in Ashland.)

“Don’t befriend them,” he said. “Don’t let them know you’re a nice guy.”

The deer in our backyard, happily, have been courteous to a fault, except for the garden forays. They tolerate our cats and vice versa. Are we nice guys?

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Democracy in Action: Left and Right in Oregon

I HAVE ALWAYS VOTED  straight Democratic, starting with George McGovern in the 1972 Presidential Election. Living in Rhode Island, which the Democratic Party has dominated since the Great Depression, I didn’t give it a lot of thought, though I often wrestled out loud over presidential primary candidates. State ballot measures almost always concerned bonds, which I invariably approved; Rhode Island does not allow the initiative and referendum process that, for better or worse, channels grassroots democracy in other states.

In Southern Oregon—I quickly learned when I saw campaign signs decorating front lawns six months ahead of the November elections—politics are lively, if not inescapable. Passions run deep, from the governorship and gun control down to races for municipal court judge and county sheriff.  I figured I needed a crash course on Oregon’s political landscape before the 2018 midterms, and in the two weeks since the election, I’ve been parsing the results.

Putting on a journalist’s hat, here’s what I learned, including the importance of digging into the divisions that mark most elections.

Halloween, Ashland Style

 

“THERE WILL BE NO OFFICIAL CARAVAN of goblins, ghouls and every other costume imaginable this Halloween in Ashland,” the local Mail Tribune announced in September 2011, under the headline, “Ashland cancels popular Halloween parade.” For years, the city’s annual parade had drawn thousands of onlookers.

According to the parade’s sponsor, The Ashland Chamber of Commerce, rowdy adult participants caused the cancellation. “The type of feedback that the Chamber of Commerce was getting from parents was that their kids weren’t having any fun in the parade … that children felt intimidated,” explained the Chamber’s marketing director.

Although the parade rules were clear—participants’ costumes could not include any nudity, profanity, lewdness, illegal drugs, violence, obscenity, racism or offensive content—too many of the costumes were not “appropriate for a family audience,” the Chamber said.

“Our only true intention is to provide kids in Ashland with the best Halloween experience possible” the marketing director told the Mail Tribune.

A week later, the Chamber announced it would reinstate the parade after being bombarded with letters and phone calls from sad or angry parents and children.

“We were surprised to find out how many people loved the parade, especially how many children loved it,” the Chamber’s Executive director said. “It was so great to see the community respond like it did.”

This year’s Halloween parade unfolded on a drizzly Thursday afternoon. “Don’t miss it!” my new friends here in Ashland told me. I didn’t.

The moment I reached the parade’s gathering spot, two huge inflatable dinosaurs approached me on their hind legs and offered me candy corn. Across the street, a seven-foot tall Count Dracula stood motionless; on close examination, I thought I saw him breathe. A cabal of chatting witches nearby asked, “What’s the scariest thing in the world?” Given the crowd, you may have guessed the answer: “Donald Trump!”

A dog dressed as a pirate got tangled in a stroller ferrying a princess. (Reportedly, 30 million Americans spent an estimated $480 million on Halloween costumes for their pets in 2018, with the pumpkin, the hot dog, and the bumble bee top picks.)

As the parade through Ashland’s downtown wound to a close, a five-ish-year-old boy wearing a stegosaurus on his bottom half waddled by.

“That’s the parade, Tonto,” he said.

 

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Our Willows: In Memoriam

WILLOWS ARE SHORT-LIVED TREES. From my desk, I see a large redwood tree, 25 feet from our house, that may live 2,000 years (barring the end of the planet). The tall birch tree, whose white trunks fill our living room window, may last well into the 22nd century, unless it succumbs to the bronze birch borer. Willow trees, on average, live …

Small Films on the Big Screen in Klamath Falls

“Are you game?” my best friend Kathy asked, wondering if I would accompany her to the Klamath Independent Film Festival (KIFF) in Klamath Falls, a 65-mile drive through the mountains east of Ashland.  Her short doc, The Road Between Us, was on the program. “You lead and I’ll follow,” I said. Over two days, Kathy and I would watch three …

How Can I Be of Help?

IN THIS CORNER OF THE UNIVERSE, the sensibility is just, plain different. “Is that part of your job description?” I asked the cashier at Bi-Mart, our go-to, employee-owned discount store down the hill from us. “Yes Ma’am,” she answered. I was checking out when a woman approached the cashier. She had come back for a receipt for purchases she had …

Growers Market and Community

I DON’T KNOW which my mother liked better: Brahms or fresh corn and peas. Farm stands and farmers markets were her holy grail, even if it meant driving 15 miles for three fresh tomatoes picked that day. I learned how to tell if an ear of corn was sweet and tender long before I knew how to make a bed.

The first Tuesday after Tony and I landed in Ashland, we headed to the weekly Rogue Valley Growers Market, a mile from our house. It was early April and asparagus, kale, and ramps were the stars. Foraging on his own, Tony found a cache of shiitake mushrooms that joined risotto on the dinner table. I discovered Early Purple Sprouting broccoli, a delicacy whose season came and went in a snap.

As spring ceded to summer, the weekly bounty grew larger and more colorful. Tony and the mushroom man became good friends and I got to know Red Russian kale and Mustard spinach. In mid-July, the smoke and heat dimmed the market and the festive spirit that brought neighbors together. The moment the smoke cleared and the heat abated, the market sprang back. Tables filled with tomatoes, eggplant, and pears shared the runway with humanely raised beef, goats milk, honey and more. Locally sourced tacos and empanadas vanished by noon.

The Rogue Valley Growers Market is one of almost 8,000 farmers markets nationwide, the fastest growing segment of the food marketplace. The Greenmarket Tony and I frequented in Brooklyn’s Grand Army Plaza, stocked by large farms in New Jersey and Long Island, was all about fresh produce—but not community. With over 80 vendors, the Ashland market aims for more: to create a public square around local, organic food and food artisans.

These are small farmers—in a state where 97 percent of the farms and ranches are family-owned and 1,100 farms have been operated in the same family for over 100 years; where agriculture is a top economic driver; where 80 percent of the Oregon’s agricultural production leaves the state and 40 percent leaves the country. Mirroring national trends, the average age of a farmer in Oregon has risen from 50 in 1982 to 60 in 2012. In the next two decades, two-thirds of agriculture property will be transferred from its current owners to someone new, with no guarantee the land will remain as farmland.

Earlier this week, I interviewed several farmers on my weekly trip to the Growers Market. They were eager to talk between helping customers.

“As farmers, our challenges vary from year to year,” Josh Cohen of Barking Moon Farm explained. “We don’t get to pick our challenges.”

Raising robust crops without pesticides and fertilizer is not one of these challenges, though smoke-filled summers bring new adversaries. Nor is dirt, grit, and long hours. The days when rosy-eyed city slickers saw a future in farming have passed. Twenty-four percent of all Oregon farmers in 2012 were beginning farmers, down from 32 percent ten years earlier. Finding and retaining workers—legal or illegal—willing to work long hours in isolated areas has always been a challenge; immigration raids only add fuel to the fire.

“For us, the toughest challenge has actually been scale,” said Josh, who started Barking Moon Farm with his wife, Melissa, 13 years ago, he with a degree in environmental studies and she in agriculture. The prevailing paradigm for new farmers is “get big or get out,” Josh said. He has taken a different tack. “We maxed our acreage [10 acres] in our fifth year, but it didn’t pay off financially. We decided to flip the paradigm and half our acreage.” Profits climbed.

Like fellow farmers who worry that hot, smoke-filled summers are here to stay, Josh has invested in cold weather crops. (Barking Moon grows over 50 varieties of herbs, grains, vegetables, and fruit.) “Winter is now our biggest quarter,” he said.  He is riding a year-round, eat-local groundswell: names of small Oregon farms, like Barking Moon, now appear on local restaurant menus and in grocery stores, and families “subscribe” to weekly boxes of produce from community supported agriculture (CSA). Every school district in the state has a local farm-to-school program.

At Fry Family Farms, in business since 1990 and comprising 100 acres spread throughout the Rogue Valley (making it the largest local farm), diversification has been key. “People are hungry to know more about where their food comes from,” said Sianna Flowers who works for Suzi and Steve Fry. “But few will pay what it actually costs to produce the best fruit and vegetables. We make it up in other ways.”

Like Barking Moon Farm, Fry Family Farms counts on restaurants, schools, and CSA for revenue. It recently started a farm store, open every day year-round, which includes products and goods from other local growers. It has a processing kitchen that turns produce into jams, pies, and more. It runs a wholesale cut-flower farm (70 percent of cut flowers in the US are imported).

“Farming never rests,” Sianna said as she rang up mustard greens for a customer. Two of the Fry’s five young daughters have returned to work at the family farm. Sianna dreams of becoming a journalist. “What authors do you like?” she asked me, adding, “I really like Joan Didion.”

Lanita Witt and her partner Suzanne Willow have operated Willow-Witt Ranch since 1985. At their stall at the Growers Market, larger than most, there’s pork and goat meat for sale—also raw milk herd shares­—along with eggs and a range of vegetables. Lanita, age 68, dispenses recipes along with produce and news. Visitors to Willow-Witt Ranch, 445 pristine acres at 5,000 feet, will find restored wetlands and forests, accommodations for farm stays, education programs, and wildlife, in addition to a model organic farm and ranch.

Witt’s parents were both children of South Texas farmers, displaced by the Great Depression. Until 2016, Lanita was a practicing ob-gyn physician along with a farmer-rancher. She now works two days a week in a clinic for the poor, a three-hour drive from Ashland. “It’s tough to work the land without a second job,” she said. These days, she’s hoping for a third:  Jackson County Commissioner.

Food activist and author Michael Pollan says that farmers markets are more than places to buy food. “They’re important parts of the community. I meet my neighbors there, and I meet farmers,” he writes. He cites a recent study in which participants reported having ten times as many conversations at the farmers market than they did at the supermarket.

At the Rogue Valley Growers Market, civility is palpable. When I asked Josh Cohen about migrant workers, he quickly corrected me: “I prefer to call them Latino workers. They’re our neighbors.”

Farmers markets nationwide welcome shoppers with food stamps (today known as SNAP). At the Rogue Valley market, single mothers with young children inspect the tomatoes alongside Prius owners. When I asked May, with a toddler in a stroller and an infant in a sling, what brought her to the Growers Market, she replied, “Healthy food for my babies.” She paused. “And respect.”

 

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