Blog note: This article refers to a San Luis Obispo County 2020 grand jury report.
Oceano Dunes, three miles south of Pismo, is the only California state park where vehicles can be driven on the beach.
Tucked into an otherwise quiet bend south of
Pismo Beach, Oceano Dunes may be California’s most dangerous state park. Towns
near the park, which draws more than a million trucks and dirt bikes a year,
are besieged with air pollution, crime and accidents — even a mass shooting
last year.
Dave
Congalton always turns right at the beach.
The
local radio host, who has lived near Oceano Dunes for 33 years, leads an
informal group of hikers and beach walkers. His pack usually heads north, away
from the tumult of off-road vehicles that descend on the state park.
One
morning a few years ago, Congalton and his group paused at their usual starting
place and decided to take a chance: They turned left.
“We
lasted 10 minutes,” Congalton said. “We
turned around and left. It was noisy and congested and the smell was
overwhelming. We called it Bizarro Beach.”
In
March, the cacophony at Oceano Dunes was put on mute when twin orders spurred
by the coronavirus pandemic and protection of rare nesting shorebirds closed
the state park to off-roaders for seven months.
Congalton
saw an opportunity to explore a stretch of his local beach that had always been
so unwelcoming: crossing the park’s Sand Highway, which funnels racing
off-roaders into the dunes, was like walking through a demolition derby.
“Once
the ban kicked in, I was there two mornings a week,” he said. “It was a beach
again. We’d take morning walks, there were no crowds… I’m hearing the waves,
I’m hearing the birds. I’m hearing the quiet.”
Anywhere
else, it might have been just another day at the beach. But the peaceful scene
this summer was anything but typical at Oceano Dunes State Vehicular Recreation
Area.
The
conflict over the state park has cleaved communities in an otherwise bucolic
part of the Central Coast known as the Five Cities, where people are entrenched
on opposite sides of not just a recreational divide, but also their visions of
the future of the region’s poorest communities.
Oceano
Dunes is one of only nine state parks in California established expressly for
motorized recreation. During normal operations, the park is visited by about
1.5 million visitors a year, with thousands of all-terrain vehicles a day
motoring across 3,600 acres of sand. Its beach is more the province of dune
buggies and monster trucks than a haven for sun and surf worshippers.
The
towns that are gateways to Oceano Dunes may get some economic benefit but they
also bear the brunt of everything else the park’s off-roaders generate: choking
dust and air pollution, violent crimes, thousands of emergency calls and hundreds
of accidents every year.
Tucked
into an otherwise quiet bend south of Pismo Beach, Oceano Dunes may be the most
dangerous state park in California. Last year alone, there was a mass shooting
at the park, six deaths from accidents and hundreds of injuries. Park rangers
made 49 felony arrests, including some for gang-related activity, assault and
rape, in 2018.
While
the vast majority of off-roaders are law abiding and courteous while visiting
the park, powerful engines, vacation enthusiasm and alcohol sometimes combust
to create a potent brew.
The calm before and after
the storm
Biologists
have long contemplated what the delicate dune system would look like if the
vehicles vanished. They found out this summer during the shutdown: Nature
caught its breath, birds and other wildlife reclaimed their habitat and local
residents rediscovered the recreational gem at their doorstep.
Even
Central Coast natives who had previously only entered the park from behind the
wheel of a souped-up vehicle are reveling in the transformation.
“It’s
been a pleasant surprise for me,” said Jeanette Trompeter, who grew up riding
off-road vehicles in the dunes.
On
a recent summer day Trompeter rode bikes with friends on the broad,
nearly-empty beach.
“I
have been here, but always in a truck. I’ve never walked the dunes. It’s like
I’m seeing it for the first time. What an amazing place.”
The
brief experiment is now over. The park began a phased reopening on Oct. 30,
starting with access for 1,000 vehicles daily during restricted hours.
“I’m
glad I had the opportunity to see it like it was,” Congalton said, “but I’m sad
because I saw what it could be like.”
During
the closure, there was no cease fire between the two sister state agencies that
remain locked in a battle over the park’s future.
The
Coastal Commission says off-road recreation is incompatible with state law and
harmful to the health and safety of nearby communities and wildlife. After
decades of no resolution, the commission in June issued a cease and desist
order ordering the parks agency to stop harming imperiled birds because it
violates the Coastal Act. In contrast, park officials have signaled they not
only intend to continue to allow motorized recreation, but to expand riding
into new areas of the park.
Playground or
battleground?
Forty
years of acrimony has left a hard crust on the town of Oceano, which is right
next to the park. Often called the gateway to the dunes, some residents say the
town is more of a doormat, a place visitors roar through on their way to the
sand.
“We
get the trash, we get the noise and we get the traffic, and we don’t get the
use of the beach,” said Bonnie Ernst, an activist with the Oceano Beach
Community Association.
Oceano
residents have to cope with the vehicle accidents and crime in the park, and
whatever misbehavior seeps into town. Through county taxes, they fund some
emergency response within the park. They pay for daily removal of tons of sand
banked against their curbs or blown into their homes through a breach carved
into the dunes to allow vehicles to access the beach. And they breathe in the
clouds of dust, which on some days cloak the area in the nation’s worst
particle pollution.
Oceano
is an unincorporated coastal community of about 7,800 people, mostly Latino,
and about one in five of its residents lives below the federal poverty line.
The town, less affluent than its neighbors and with lower property values, has
no pricey beachfront hotels or trendy restaurants. Off-roaders sometimes
patronize local businesses — equipment rental companies and tow truck operators
that line Pier Avenue, a bleak asphalt path to the park gates.
The
park’s economic benefit to San Luis Obispo County has been estimated at $243
million a year, although that study, funded by the state parks agency, has been
criticized by an academic researcher for overstating the impact.
The
battle over the public land has at times turned nasty. Some off-roaders have
lashed out on social media, calling the town a “ghetto,” making lurid comments
about anti-off-road activists and even sending death threats. Some off-road
groups have flown Confederate flags during rallies.
“I
think it has a lot to do with the fact that we are 60% Latino. We are working
class people who barely have any free time,” said Allene Villa, who lives in
Oceano. “We have one small little community park, this beach could be our
recreational area, but we can’t use it safely. It’s like a freeway.”
But
the vitriol has flowed both ways. Lovers of motorized recreation have been
demeaned as rednecks, thugs and, in what they consider the ultimate California
put-down, “white trash from the Central Valley.” Off-roading has been derided
alternatively as a low-class pastime or the province of entitled out-of-towners
whose idea of camping is bedding down in a $100,000 fifth-wheel outfitted with
a flat screen TV and full kitchen with granite countertops.
It’s
an age-old battle to claim the virtuous recreational high ground: Hikers versus
mountain bikers, sailboats versus motorboats, cross-country skiers versus
snowmobilers. Exploring a beach under human power versus astride a motorized
machine.
This
has little to do with the dunes and more to do with the form of recreation,”
said Amy Granat, managing director of the California Off-Road Vehicle
Association.
“We
don’t close down I-5 because some people speed. We allow for idiots and give
out tickets. We understand that there is going to be a (reckless) component.
The reality is that every form of recreation has an impact on the ground.”
Living with plumes of dust
When
Linda Adams and her husband were looking for somewhere to retire in 2008, their
number one priority was to live in a community with clean air. They scoured the
internet to gauge its air quality the way some prospective home buyers check
out school districts.
Adams,
72, a lifelong asthmatic, had vacationed along the Central Coast and enjoyed
the fresh sea breezes. The couple bought a house in Nipomo and settled into
what looked to be a perfect planned community. They golfed and enjoyed walking
their three dogs.
Then
the spring winds came, dust plumes coming off Oceano Dunes barreled toward
their subdivision, at least a dozen miles away. Adams grew short of breath and
her chest was tight. Her usual medications weren’t enough; she had to reach for
a “rescue inhaler.”
The
couple adapted. They bought an expensive air conditioning system with HEPA
filters. She checked online air quality monitors before planning her days,
especially in the summer, which is high season for off-roading.
“I
know people in our community who have never had problems before are now having
them. We’ve had quite a few friends who moved because of this,” she said.
Adams,
a retired psychologist, is familiar with the common retort from off-roaders: If
you don’t like it here, why don’t you move?
“To
that I say, ‘Respiration before recreation.’
It’s more important to breathe than to ride dune buggies.”
A San Luis Obispo grand jury concluded that the dust kicked up
by more than a million annual visitors at the dunes poses a significant health
risk to local residents.
Local
air-quality officials say Adams and other townspeople are breathing air that
violates federal health standards in part because of the off-roading.
The
region sometimes records the nation’s worst air quality for PM10, coarse
particles linked to asthma attacks and other respiratory problems, according to
the San Luis Obispo County Air Pollution Control District. Its air violates
state health standards dozens of times a year, said Karl Tupper, a senior air
quality scientist with the district.
For
instance, airborne particles in Nipomo — where Adams lives — exceeded the
health limits 51 times in 2019 and 91 times the year before that, he said. That
means they breathe unhealthful air an average of once or twice every week.
After
years of missed deadlines to clear the air, the air district issued a
dust-abatement order to the state parks department in 2017. It was the first
step in a stipulated order to reduce dust emissions from the park by 50% by
2023. In October, the agency authorized the park to figure out dust-control
measures, such as fencing, and install them on 90 acres of dunes by next
spring.
The
conflict over the dust touched off a scientific arms race. The park spent
nearly a half-million dollars to study whether marine algae, not off-roading,
is the culprit.
Also,
researchers at Scripps Institution of Oceanography, commissioned by the parks
department, analyzed air samples collected in April and May, when the park was
closed to vehicles. They found, in part, that the particles are more likely
from natural sources than dune riding. Local air regulators questioned the
results.
To
some, the argument that there’s lots of sand and dust at the beach is silly,
like complaining about leaves falling in a forest.
“It’s
windy. It’s sandy. We live on sand,” said Lyndi Love-Haning, who moved to
Nipomo in part to enjoy off-roading at Oceano Dunes. “If you already have
pulmonary issues and you move to a sandy coastal environment, it’s probably not
a good idea in the first place.”
Vitriol and violence
Cynthia
Replogle moved to Oceano three years ago, feeling lucky to be able to afford a
home so close to the ocean. But the first time she took her dog for a walk on
the beach she was taken aback by the streams of vehicles on the sand.
“I
had no idea that was even a thing,” she said.
Replogle
was elected to the board of the unincorporated town’s Community Services
District and joined a local group concerned about the damage to the dunes, the
wildlife and the safety of Oceano.
Cynthia
Replogle moved to the area three years ago and quickly become a target after
becoming involved in local efforts to protect the dunes. Photo by Brittany App
for CalMatters
Cynthia
Replogle moved to the area three years ago and quickly become a target after
becoming involved in local efforts to protect the dunes. Photo by Brittany App
for CalMatters
Clear
about her progressive views, Replogle quickly became a target in the area’s
culture wars. Her home address was published online. Some threatened to hack
her accounts. She was attacked on social media by local and even national
off-road enthusiasts. Some threatened to run her over, kill her and rape her.
Replogle,
55, used to jog along an isolated stretch of a creek. Now she doesn’t feel
comfortable doing so, and she’s beefed up her home security system.
The
park’s rowdiness is well-documented.
The
county grand jury investigated the impact on the county from providing services
to the park, estimating that there were 5,800 emergency calls each year. In
2018 park rangers issued 1,000 citations, according to park officials. Last
year, 237 vehicle accidents occurred in the park, including 44 that caused
severe injuries.
And
crime numbers are trending up, according to the grand jury report.
Last
year was especially deadly: Six people were killed in vehicle accidents at the
park. A gunman opened fire with a semi-automatic weapon, injuring five people
at an unpermitted beach concert in May of 2019 attended by about 1,000 people.
“Obviously,
we want the state parks experience to be as safe for everyone as possible,”
said Mark Gold, executive director of the California Ocean Protection Council,
who is trying to negotiate a truce between the two state agencies.
“I
don’t think you are going to find anywhere (else in the state park system)
where there’s six deaths a year,” he said. “We have to do better. It’s a
priority.”
Granat,
with the state off-roading association, said the parks department needs to beef
up its enforcement of Oceano’s safety rules.
“The
rules are only as good as the enforcement,” said Granat, who helped create the
off-road regulations. “The (riding) community wants increased rangers,
increased education and increased accountability at the park. We want a return
to the family atmosphere that used to exist at the park.”
A cash cow for the state?
The
parks department’s unwavering fidelity to off-roading may be traced to its
unique source of funding. Unlike California’s nearly 300 other parks, the nine
set aside for vehicles are funded almost entirely by off-road receipts: license
fees from the vehicles, entrance fees from the parks and a portion of gas taxes
that everyone pays at the pump.
That
money is deposited in the state’s Off-Highway Vehicle Trust Fund, which
provides off-road areas with much more operational funding than other parks
even though they have fewer visitors.
For
example, Oceano Dunes had about a third of the visitors as the state’s most
popular park and five times the budget in 2017-18. California’s most-visited
state park in that period was Old Town San Diego State Historic Park, with more
than 4 million visitors and annual expenditures of $1,274,284. By comparison,
Oceano Dunes, with 1.3 million visitors, was, by far, the best-funded of the
top ten parks, with $6,373,326 in annual expenditures.
California’s
Resources Secretary Wade Crowfoot is adamant that the fund “is not a cash cow
for the department.”
But
the specificity of the source of funding gives off-roaders a sense of
ownership. Kitten Chapman, a recreational riding advocate, scolded the Coastal
Commission recently: “Off-roaders continue to pay for this land and you
continue to take it away from us.”
A line in the sand
Bits
of California history have traipsed across these dunes. The Northern Chumash
Tribe settled here. Then the 20th Century ushered in a free-for-all on the
beach: Cars and motorcycles raced around. In the 1920s, a ragtag group of
mystics, hermits and artists settled in the area. Calling themselves the
Dunites, the group sought to create a utopia and erected a community of
ramshackle cabins.
A
Don’t Tread on Me attitude lingers in the region. Jennifer Andrade, testifying
at a recent Coastal Commission hearing, spoke for many who say they will not
accept limits to motorized recreation at Oceano, foreshadowing a potential standoff
in the sand.
“We
the people are ready to storm our beaches, set up shop and claim back the land
in protest,” she told the Commission. “Are you ready to arrest thousands of
us?”
Granat
disavowed threats of violence, but acknowledged the “visceral hate” emanating
from all sides. Even as she seeks to lower the temperature, Granat vowed to
fight any attempt to limit or end dune riding at the park.
“Will
we look at legal options? Absolutely. Will we take advantage of anything
available to us to fight for the rights of off roaders? Absolutely,” she said.
Love-Haning
said it’s not too late for the community to heal.
“We
can find common ground,” she said. “What that means for the future of the park,
I’m not sure.”
Armando
Quintero, who was appointed director of the state parks agency in August, isn’t
sure, either. He said some of that bitterness has been directed his way: He has
an email folder packed with more than 4,000 missives on the topic from both
sides.
“It’s
taken so long to fester,” Quintero said, “it’s going to take a long time to
reconcile.”
Cal
Matters
BY JULIE CART
NOVEMBER 24, 2020
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