A Summer Series Laura Davis & Sarah Fox | Photo by Genna Caviness Welcome back to our summer series, where we’re spending time with the people who grow our food, care for the land, and keep Arizona’s farming traditions alive through hard work and purpose. In this issue, we visit Two Sisters’ Tomatoes, a small farm built on conviction. Laura and Sarah aren’t in it for appearances. They grow natural food, stand by their choices, and do the kind of hands-in-the-dirt work that speaks for itself. Two Sisters, One Farm: A Conversation with Laura and Sarah When Genna and I pulled up to their farm, the first thing we noticed were the tools. Left where they’d been dropped, still leaning against a wheelbarrow or poking out of rows mid-prep, they told the story of a long day and the kind of tired that only comes from real work under the Arizona sun. The beds were being shaped for the coming season, the ground tended with care and a bit of stubborn hope. Laura greeted us with a smile that said both “welcome” and “we’ve been busy.” Inside, Sarah was finishing up and joined us with an adorable baby on her hip like a final, joyful punctuation mark. It was immediately clear that this was a farm built on sweat, family, and the quiet kind of purpose you don’t find just anywhere. Some ventures begin with a blueprint, a business plan, or a seat at a boardroom table. Two Sisters’ Tomatoes started with a broken world, two stimulus checks, and a bit of dirt. Broken because the pandemic had just upended everything: jobs vanished, supply chains collapsed, grocery shelves went bare, and people suddenly realized how fragile the food system really was. For Laura and Sarah, it was a wake-up call. The world they thought was steady, wasn’t. Laura and Sarah, two sisters from Ohio, didn’t set out to become tomato farmers in Arizona’s Verde Valley. Sarah had been busy navigating check-ins and concierge calls in Sedona’s hospitality industry when COVID abruptly ended that chapter. Laura, whose Peace Corps assignment in Nepal was cut short, had spent her days teaching families how to grow kitchen gardens. Suddenly home, with unexpected free time and a global view of food, they looked at each other and asked, “Now what?” The universe replied with juicy, sun-warmed tomatoes and the wholesome satisfaction of working the land. “We just decided to go for it,” Laura said. “The broken supply chain made people realize they needed local food if they were to survive difficult times, and we saw a chance to be part of the solution, rooted in organic farming and the kind of food that does the body good.” They didn’t start with much. Just a few acres, a greenhouse, and the kind of dream that keeps you up at night. Grow real food, the right way, for people who care what’s on their plate. Today, their 2.5-acre farm is peaceful and purposeful. Nearly an acre is in active cultivation. The greenhouse is where they take chances. New crops, new methods, no guarantees. Just grit, sun, and a little faith. Now their beautiful, vine-ripened heirlooms sell out fast at farmers markets in Flagstaff, Camp Verde, Prescott, and Payson. “We try to be the first tomatoes to market in the Verde Valley,” Sarah added. “We plant early and take risks. Sometimes we lose crops to late frost, but being first matters. People are waiting.” Some customers want tomatoes for slicing and salads. Others buy by the case, choosing the ones that are extra ripe or slightly bruised because they’re perfect for canning or sauces. “We have local cooks and canners stock up,” Laura said. “That kind of loyalty is what keeps this little operation going.” They also have a growing circle of customers who bring them seeds from their family gardens. These are often heirloom, open-pollinated varieties that don’t show up in commercial seed catalogs. “We’re helping preserve not just the memories but the seeds themselves.” The sisters grow more than just tomatoes. Their seasonal lineup includes squash, lettuce, peppers, okra, and even artichokes, some of which have become wildly popular in floral arrangements. One of their helpers, a retired teacher from Ohio, now runs the small flower program, which has quietly become a surprise hit. “The artichokes, especially, have ended up in wedding bouquets,” Laura said. Farming with Integrity The sisters don’t sugarcoat their stance. They’re deeply concerned about the direction of industrial agriculture and the reliance on synthetic chemicals like glyphosate. In their view, growing food comes with a responsibility that shouldn’t be taken lightly. “People are trusting us with their food,” Laura said. “That should mean something.” At Two Sisters’ Tomatoes, it does. That trust shapes every decision they make. They’ve chosen not to use pesticides of any kind, not even those approved under organic certification. The reason is personal and practical. They drink the same water that runs through their irrigation lines. Their children play in the same soil where the crops are grown. Sarah knows it’s not always easy. They’ve lost crops to bugs and heat and bad timing, and there’s no safety net when you choose to farm this way. But she sees that as part of the trade. “We lose crops sometimes. But that’s part of the deal,” she said. “You give up some control, but you keep your integrity. You keep your health. You keep the ground cleaner than you found it.” This isn’t about perfection. It’s about staying aligned with their values, even when the stakes are high. They’re not trying to build an empire. They’re trying to grow food that’s good to feed your family. Their method isn’t the easy route. It means pulling weeds by hand, staying ahead of pests the old-fashioned way, and accepting that some seasons are stingier than others. But it also means their soil stays healthy, their water stays clean, and their customers never have to second-guess what’s in their food. It’s not just farming—it’s a promise. One rooted in safety, transparency, and respect for the land they work. Last year, they brought on a few local FFA girls to help with fieldwork. “They were sharp, motivated, and completely changed the vibe of the farm,” Laura said. “It felt good to bring young women into this space and show them what small-scale farming can be.” Local Produce vs. Store-Bought Produce There’s something different about biting into a tomato from a local farm. It’s not just the flavor, though that’s a big part of it. It’s the fact that the tomato was picked at its peak, likely that same morning, and hasn’t spent days in a truck or weeks in cold storage. It still tastes like the sun. Most grocery store produce, especially out of season, is picked too early so it can survive the long haul. It ripens in boxes or under fluorescent lights, which dulls both taste and nutritional value. You can tell the difference. Local farmers grow with the seasons. They stick to what thrives naturally in the soil and weather they know best. Grocery store shelves, on the other hand, are designed to look the same all year. Strawberries in January. Asparagus in October. That kind of consistency usually requires greenhouses, artificial light, chemical inputs, and a lot of water. It’s not just resource-heavy. It’s often flavor and nutritionally light. The distance food travels also matters more than we think. Local produce might come from ten miles down the road, often arriving within a day or two of harvest. Grocery store produce can come from hundreds or even thousands of miles away. It sits in transit, in warehouses, in storage. That long journey chips away at freshness and adds to the environmental cost. Then there’s shelf life. Commercial growers aim for produce that looks perfect and holds up under pressure. Uniform size, tough skin, long-lasting appeal. But that often comes at the expense of flavor and nutrition. Local growers don’t have to grow for shipping. They grow for taste, for variety, and for the people they feed in their own communities. When you buy local, you’re not just getting better food. You’re keeping your money in your community. You’re supporting small farms, families, and neighbors who are doing the work with care. You’re choosing a system built on connection, not convenience. So yes, local produce is fresher. It tastes better. It’s better for the land and the people on it. And once you’ve tried it, you won’t need a label to remind you. You’ll know. Not for Profit, But for Purpose Profit isn’t the end goal, at least not yet. “This is a hobby farm that pays for itself,” said Sarah. But the dream runs deeper. “We’re not trying to build an empire. We’re here to rebuild a broken connection between people and their food.” Their tomatoes are picked within a day of hitting the market. That freshness stands in stark contrast to the hard, flavorless supermarket versions. “When someone asks why store tomatoes are so bland, I want to say, ‘Because they’re styrofoam,’” Laura said. Both sisters still work other jobs to keep things going. But with loyal customers, including local canning legend Sara Bowyer from the Park, and growing demand for local food, the future looks promising. “We’re not in this to scale up or sell out,” Laura said. “We’re here to serve the community, connect people to their food, and grow what matters.” Get in Touch with Two Sisters’ Tomatoes If you want to experience food grown with care and purpose, reach out: 740-607-3033 • twosisterstomatoesaz@gmail.com • twosisterstomatoes.square.site

Windmill Mountain Ranch, Sedona, Arizona Welcome back to our summer series, where we’re spending time with the people who raise our beef, grow our produce, care for the land, and keep Arizona’s ranching and agriculture traditions alive. In this issue, we head to Windmill Mountain Ranch, where raising cattle isn’t just a way to make a living. It’s a way of life, a connection to the land, the animals, and the kind of work that built this country. Behind every steak sizzling on the grill and every hamburger landing on our plates, there’s a rancher carrying the weight of a country that’s forgetting how food really gets to the table. Across Arizona and the country, the people who raise and process real beef—ranchers and local butchers—are losing ground. Big packers have moved in, setting the price regardless of quality. Whether you raise the best beef in the state or cattle barely fit for market, it all gets tossed into the same system. They weigh it, pay it, and move on. It is an assembly line—built for speed, not care. And to keep that machine running, the rules keep tightening, squeezing out the independent ranchers and hometown butchers who once kept this country fed. And out on the land, the real pressures never let up. Water gets tighter. Costs climb. And through it all, the ranchers who are still standing don’t do it because it’s easy. They do it because it’s in their blood. Thanks for riding with us and standing with the ranchers who are still out here fighting for the land, cattle, and a better future. A Conversation with Becki Ross & her son Wyatt, Windmill Mountain Ranch At Windmill Mountain Ranch, raising cattle isn’t just a business. It’s a family tradition carried on by Dustin and Becki Ross and their two sons, Wyatt and Nate. Together, they raise beef the old-fashioned way—on open land, under wide skies, with hard work, care, and pride. Every steer, every pasture, and every decision reflects a family deeply rooted in the land they love and the life they’ve chosen to preserve. Today, Windmill Mountain Ranch helps feed around 4,000 families, raising beef the way it was meant to be: on open land, under wide skies, with the kind of care you can taste. The ranch spans 85 acres in Sedona, 117 acres on the mountain, and roughly 125,000 acres of grazing permits from the U.S. Forest Service. Alongside their beef cattle, the family also runs a working dairy—part of a tradition that dates back to the late 1940s. “We’ve been raising cattle the same way for decades,” Becki says. “The only thing that’s changed is how we sell it.” The family history is stitched deeply into the land itself. Dustin’s great-uncle and grandfather started the original Windmill Ranch, which once included Newman Park and the areas around Munds Park. After they passed away, the family made estate decisions that eventually split the ranch into two separate operations. Before the split, Becki and Dustin ran cattle along Fox Ranch Road, spending falls in Newman Park. “These are sentimental areas for us,” Becki says. “Every pasture, every trail, holds a memory.” Today, part of the original Windmill Ranch was sold to the Wright family—a name many in Munds Park will recognize. If you’ve ever seen cows wandering through the Park, chances are they’re Wright cattle. Though part of the original Windmill Ranch was sold off, Becki, Dustin, and their family stayed put—keeping their cattle, their land, and their way of doing things. A Different Approach Most cow-calf ranches sell their calves after weaning because they don’t have the space or setup to feed them out to finished weight. These operations are built for raising calves, not for full-scale feeding, so the cattle are moved to larger facilities that can handle the next phase. Windmill Mountain Ranch takes a different approach. They move their weaned cattle to their feeding operation in Gila Bend, where the animals are raised to finished weight. From there, they’re hauled to a local processing plant in Buckeye just 50 minutes up the road. The beef is then sold directly to consumers, restaurants, and local grocers. It’s an all-house operation. The cattle are raised, fed, and finished under their watchful care. “We’re working hard to sell locally in Arizona,” Wyatt says. “We’re mainly in Phoenix right now, but we would love to expand to Northern Arizona grocery stores and restaurants.” Still, despite all their effort, the reality is their herd is bigger than what they can sell through direct ranch-to-table sales. That means some cattle still have to go the commercial route—sold to giant packers like JBS that dominate the industry. Factory Beef: Faster, Cheaper, & Nothing Like It Should Be The beef that moves through major commercial packers is homogenized, a factory product designed for shelf life and visual appeal, not for flavor or quality. Many large plants use carbon monoxide gas during packaging to keep beef looking bright red in stores. It’s legal here in the U.S., even though the European Union bans the practice for being deceptive. The gas locks in color, making the meat look fresher than it really is, even when it’s past its prime. Ground beef often contains meat from hundreds or even a thousand different cows. That makes traceability difficult, and tracking the source can be a nightmare if there’s a recall. Labels like “Product of USA” are often slapped onto imported beef that was simply processed or packaged here, adding to the confusion. And it’s not just how the beef is packaged or blended, it’s how the cattle are raised. To speed up production, factory systems rely heavily on growth hormones, antibiotics, and high-energy feeds designed to fatten animals faster. It’s a race for weight, not for taste. Faster. Heavier. Cheaper. Everything that once made beef good, such as natural growth, regional character, and flavor, gets stripped out along the way. That’s where it all falls apart: true quality, local character, animal welfare, and honest food, all sacrificed in the race to go faster and cheaper. The Loss of the Local Butcher Shop It wasn’t always this way. Butchers used to be part of every town, family-run operations that knew the ranchers by name. Over the years, independent processors were regulated out of business, one by one. What’s left is a meatpacking system so consolidated, so centralized, that it squeezes small producers out of the market. The big four beef packers—JBS, Tyson, Cargill, and National Beef—control about 85% of the market. One of the biggest players is JBS USA, which operates a massive beef processing plant in Tolleson, Arizona. That facility alone can process up to 6,000 head of cattle in an eight-hour shift. The scale is staggering—and it has to be, because Americans eat a lot of beef and expect it cheap. But when you build for speed and volume, you lose everything that once made it good. Corners are cut, and quality is lost.  And when we traded thousands of local butcher shops for a handful of massive plants, we didn’t just lose quality, we lost food security. When COVID hit, that same JBS plant shut down for just one week, and suddenly, there was a beef shortage. Not because ranchers ran out of cattle. But because there wasn’t anywhere left to process them. Shutdowns like that can be devastating for producers like Windmill Mountain Ranch. Cattle still need to be fed, watered, and cared for daily. And when operating on tight margins, even an extra 10 to 15 days of delay can be a breaking point, especially for smaller ranches. It was a wake-up call. When processing is controlled by just a few major players, the whole system becomes fragile.  Selling to big packers is the easiest option for ranchers, but not all of them want their beef going through that system. They want their hard work to mean more than just turning a profit. That matters too, of course, but they also want the community to enjoy their beef. Unfortunately, small local butchers, who take time with the animals and pride in their craft, face hurdles at every turn. While large plants have full-time USDA inspectors on site, small processors often struggle to get inspection time at all. And when they do, it can come with a large price tag. Fees pile up fast and become unmanageable for smaller operations. Wyatt explains, “It’s hard for small processors to survive. They get boxed out by rules and costs that were made for huge plants, not for people who want to slow down and do it right.” And when inspections happen, it’s not the slow, careful process you might imagine. In the biggest plants, cattle are checked at a speed of about fifteen seconds per animal. Six thousand cattle, eight hours, and barely a moment for real care. That’s not food safety.  “The USDA acts like it’s here to protect consumers,” Wyatt says. “But the more I learn, the more I realize it’s built to protect the big packers—and keep them big.” Why Bigger Isn’t Better We already talked about what happens when you trade thousands of local butcher shops for a handful of massive plants. You don’t just shut down local processors and lose quality; you lose food security. It only took a one-week shutdown at JBS during COVID to show how fragile the system really is.  That should have been a wake-up call. But here we are, still feeding a system that runs at a staggering pace, at the cost of everything that should matter. Today, cattle often travel hundreds of miles just to reach a slaughterhouse large enough to take them. Wyatt said it’s not unusual for them to be hauled across state lines, packed into trailers for up to 23 hours straight. That’s miles and long hours of stress for the cattle. Further, think about what it takes to run 6,000 head of cattle through a plant in just eight hours. That’s hundreds of animals per hour. Every hour. Moving, pushing, forcing. It’s not hard to figure out what gets lost when you move living beings through a system built for speed instead of care. Harvesting animals has always been part of how we survive. It’s not something to hide from; it’s essential to our survival. But somewhere along the way, we stopped treating harvesting animals with the respect it deserves. We can be humane and thoughtful, and we don’t have to race cattle through concrete tunnels and steel kill floors just to shave a few pennies off the price of a hamburger. Consumers can change this. Keep reading.  Why Stress Matters When cattle are stressed before processing, their bodies release a flood of hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. That stress makes the meat tougher, darker, and less flavorful. It’s one of the reasons low-stress handling matters—it protects the quality of the beef just as much as the breed or the feed. Wyatt explains, “When a cow begins to fear for their life, their pH levels will increase, affecting everything, including the taste of the meat.” I asked: how could a processing plant running 6,000 head in eight hours possibly prevent stress? Wyatt’s answer was simple. “They don’t. You’ve probably heard of grades like Prime, Choice, Select, and Commercial—but there’s also Cutter, and something called dark cutter beef.” Dark cutter happens when the animal’s too stressed. The meat turns a deep, ugly red—almost like liver—and everything that makes the meat taste good gets lost. Instead of the rich, buttery flavor you get from cattle raised with care, you’re left with beef that’s dry, flat, and sometimes metallic. Cutter beef, the USDA’s second-lowest grade, is what you get when stress takes over. The muscle tightens, the flavor fades, and the tenderness is gone before it reaches the grill. The more fear and exhaustion an animal endures, the worse the meat. That’s what the grading system is really tracking—not just marbling, not just age of the animal, but the toll of a system that pushes too hard, moves too fast, and forgets the life it’s taking—turning a gift into something barely fit to eat. At Windmill Mountain Ranch, it’s different. Their cattle travel less than an hour to a local processor. From the truck to the harvest floor, stress is kept to a minimum. “We don’t haul single animals,” Becki said. “There’s always a companion in the trailer. It keeps them calmer. It matters.” It’s not just genetics or feed that make good beef. It’s the handling. It’s the care. It’s the respect for the life you’re taking. Consumers can change this. Keep reading.  A Smarter Way to Buy Beef Real quality—the kind you can see, smell, and taste—starts and ends with knowing your rancher. Some ranchers, like Windmill Mountain Ranch, sidestep the factory system by selling beef the old-fashioned way: by the quarter, half, or whole animal. A quarter beef gives you about 100 pounds of take-home cuts, a half yields around 200 pounds, and a whole steer brings in close to 400 pounds of beef for your freezer. The beef is processed by a local butcher, packaged, labeled, and frozen, just like grocery store meat, but marked “NOT FOR SALE” because it didn’t pass through a USDA plant. You’re not buying random cuts out of the grocery cooler. You’re buying a share of a real animal from the rancher of your choice. At Windmill Mountain Ranch, they offer not only quarter, halves, and wholes, they also offer USDA-processed individual cuts for those who just want a few steaks at a time. Either way, your dollars stay closer to the land, and your beef comes with a name and a story, not a corporate logo. And when you buy local, you’re not just helping ranchers. You’re protecting real choice for yourself, too. “If I were selling to a grocery store in Sedona or Camp Verde and they wanted grass-fed beef, I could have a real conversation about making the switch,” Wyatt said. “And if there was ever a problem, they’d know exactly who to call. That’s safety—and it’s customer service.” When you step outside the factory system, even just a little, you help rebuild something real. And the beef? Phenomenal. Richer, cleaner, and a world away from the gas-flushed, store-bought cuts flashing fake color and a “Product of USA” sticker they didn’t earn. Stewardship, Respect, & Responsibility I first met Becki at the Verde Natural Resource Conservation District meeting in Camp Verde. I went looking for ranchers to interview, and left with a lot more. What I learned that day was hard to hear but too important to ignore. If we want local beef on our plates, it’s not enough to buy it. We have to protect the land that makes it possible. Ranchers lease land from the U.S. Forest Service, working alongside hikers, campers, OHV riders, and even hot air balloon tours. It’s public land, but it’s also working land, and too many people forget, or never learned, what that really means. When OHV riders leave marked trails, they tear up fragile soil. Erosion follows, sending silt into the water tanks and streams that ranchers and wildlife depend on. It’s the same slow damage now choking Bartlett Lake—a problem that didn’t begin with floods, but with footprints and tire tracks, one careless or unaware turn at a time. Further, when fences are cut so OHV riders can trespass, cattle roam into places they shouldn’t be. Fences in Munds Park? Cut those and the cattle can end up on the I-17—a horrible disaster waiting to happen. Every broken fence costs ranchers time, money, and sometimes, lives. And then there’s the uglier side. There have been cases where people have shot cattle for sport—left them bleeding out in the dirt, wasted and rotting under the sun. It’s not hunting. It’s not an accident. It’s cruelty. It’s theft. It’s a punch in the gut to ranchers. Every cow lost this way is more than money stolen. It’s a sad statement about our society, a sign that somewhere along the way, we lost our connection to nature and our respect for life. How to Be a Better Steward Know where you are. Use apps like OnX Hunt to tell the difference between public and private land. Respect boundaries—and remember that a fence is there for a reason. Stay on marked trails. Don’t cut across open land, trample meadows, or carve out your own path. Don’t break the living crust by going off trail. In the high desert, the “soil” isn’t just dirt. It’s a thin, living layer that holds moisture, prevents erosion, and anchors everything that grows. Break it, and the land starts slipping away. Camp only in designated areas. Pulling off into open spaces damages fragile ground and risks wildfires. Respect the work that’s been here long before you showed up. Fences, cattle, and backroads are not yours—they’re part of a system that feeds people. Respect it. If you love this land, show it. Ride like you mean it. Camp like you mean it. Leave it better than you found it. What the Ranchers Want You to Know At the end of our conversation, I asked Becki and Wyatt, “If there’s one thing you want people to take away from this story, what would it be?” They didn’t hesitate. “Know your farmer. Vote with your dollar.” If you want to see local meat in your stores, ask for it by name. And when they can’t deliver—and they won’t—walk away. Make a statement. Then turn to your local rancher and buy direct. You’ll pay a little more—but you’ll taste the difference. And honestly, it might make you a little mad. This is how food used to taste. This is how it should taste. Somewhere along the way, greed took the wheel, and we were left eating tires. This isn’t just about good food. It’s about survival. It’s about protecting food sovereignty. And if you’re waiting for the government to fix it, don’t. Change doesn’t start with them. It starts with us. Buy local. Support the land—and the people who live by it. What Makes Windmill Mountain Ranch Beef Different “When you buy direct from us, the beef comes from a single animal—it’s not mixed with meat from dozens of others or run through a factory system,” Wyatt explains. “We raise our cattle from calf to finished weight, then take them to a USDA-inspected facility for processing. The result? You can see the difference on the grill, and you can taste the difference. I had a chef from Christopher’s Steak House tell me it was the best beef he’d ever had. We’re focused on flavor—not just shelf appeal at the grocery store.” From left to right: Nate, Justin Stewart, Dawnie Stewart (matriarch), Wyatt, Becki, Dustin, Ty, Jacey, Hadley, Tammy, Denton Ross Meet the Family Behind Windmill Mountain Ranch Windmill Mountain Ranch is a true family effort. Dustin and Becki Ross work alongside their sons Wyatt and Nate, their wives Hailey and Regan, Dustin’s brother Denton and wife Tammy, and parents Justin and Dawnie. Full-time ranch manager Ethan Crockett and his family help keep daily operations running. Together, they form the heart and hands of a ranching tradition that’s generations strong.

A Conversation with Claudia Hauser, Hauser & Hauser Farms. Photo courtesy of  ©Morgan Heim Welcome to our summer series, exploring the people who grow our food, care for our land, and quietly hold up the foundation of our local economy: Arizona’s farmers and ranchers. Behind every neatly packaged item on the shelf is a farmer fighting to stay afloat. In Arizona, droughts drag on and subdivisions stretch across once-productive land, pushing ranchers and growers to the edge. The ones still standing are fueled by grit, stubbornness, and sheer will. But they can’t keep doing it alone. If you’ve been paying attention, you already know: all over the U.S., we’re losing vast amounts of farmland. Developers show up with deep pockets and bulldozers. Regulations stack up. Labor gets scarce. And then nature throws in a late freeze, a flood, or a wildfire—just to keep things interesting. In this series, you’ll hear from the ones still standing. The ones who’ve weathered droughts, debt, and red tape, and still show up at dawn. They’re not just worth listening to. They’re worth standing with. Thanks for showing up. A Conversation with Claudia Hauser, Hauser & Hauser Farms It’s mid-morning when I pull into Hauser & Hauser Farms. The air still holds a hint of chill. Tractors line the drive, pecan trees stand dormant, and the fields are being prepped for the season ahead. Come summer, this quiet stretch will buzz with life as locals line up for for what’s often called the best sweet corn in the state. For me, it’s the first time I’ve visited the farm. I’ve seen the Hauser name sweep through local Facebook groups, with neighbors taking orders for corn runs like it’s a gold rush. But I’d never met Claudia Hauser until now. I’d heard a lot about her—sharp, respected, the kind of woman who calls it straight and doesn’t waste time dressing it up. My kind of conversation. Claudia Hauser didn’t grow up on a farm but married into a family that worked the land for six generations. And after decades beside her husband Kevin, raising their kids through growing seasons, long harvest nights, and unpredictable weather, she’s as much a part of the land as the crops they pull from it. The Hauser family’s roots stretch back to Iowa, where Kevin’s grandfather farmed before heading west. In 1948, Kevin’s father, Dick Hauser, began raising and hauling citrus in North Phoenix. By the early 1970s, Kevin moved to Camp Verde. He began working the soil planting, expanding, and eventually farming in Paulden and California’s Central Valley, where he grew walnuts, oranges, and olives. For the Hauser’s, farming runs deep. It’s in their blood, their bones, and their way of life and they wouldn’t have it any other way. When Kevin passed away just over five years ago, it didn’t stop the work but it changed everything. Grief didn’t come with a pause button on the irrigation schedule. Zach, the oldest son, stepped in to take over the day-to-day management of the farm with no spotlight, just quiet resolve. Ben, their youngest son, was in law enforcement, building a life of his own when Kevin’s condition worsened. Claudia asked him to come home, there was no other way. Ben left his career, stepped into the rows with his brother, picked up what needed carrying, and never looked back. Just like the rest of the family, he showed up and that’s how they made it through. Claudia’s daughter, Emily, helps at the corn stand during the summer, and Zach’s wife, Sherry, is right there during the rush of corn season too. They’re part of the rhythm, part of the reason the farm keeps going. When it’s time to work, everyone works. They tend to three family-run farms across the Verde Valley. The pecan trees stretch across one farm like a cathedral, steady and familiar. The other two rotate between sweet corn, field corn, malt barley, alfalfa, and watermelons, following a three-year cycle to protect the soil. The rotation isn’t just good farming—it’s a promise. That this land will keep producing, that their grandchildren, eleven of them, will have something real to inherit. Not just a name, but a way of life. Midnight in the Fields When spring hits, the season doesn’t ease in. It launches full tilt. For the Hausers, that means 24-hour irrigation schedules. Water has to move from one row to the next without pause. Alarms ring at odd hours. Boots hit dirt before sunrise. There’s no such thing as “we’ll get to it later.” The fields don’t wait. Years ago, when Claudia’s husband Kevin ran the farm, the motto was simple: no excuses. Chop chop. Get it done. That didn’t change when he got sick and it didn’t change after he passed. But it did make Claudia and her sons stop and ask: Is there a better way to do this? Back then, Claudia would wake in the middle of the night, pull on her boots, grab a flashlight, and head out into the kind of dark that makes your ears do the seeing. Camp Verde doesn’t do streetlights, it’s a Dark Sky community. The stars show up. So do the wild things. She’d walk alone into acres of silence to move the water by hand. No apps, just the weight of rusted metal gates, soaked shoes, and the rush of water changing course because she told it to. “It scared the hell out of me,” she says now, laughing. “But the water had to move.” And so did she. Today, things look different. The pecan orchard runs on sprinklers. The other fields are managed by center pivots, giant steel arms that crawl across the land delivering water with precision. No more midnight hikes with a wrench in hand. Now, they run the system from a phone, adjusting water flow based on what’s planted—alfalfa gets one rate, corn another. Just tap and go. The tech didn’t just bring convenience. It brought sanity and sustainability. They use less water, less labor, and save money. But without support from the Nature Conservancy, none of it would’ve been possible. Center Pivot systems are priced far out of reach for most family farms. “They gave us options we could never have afforded on our own. No farmer can,” Claudia says. She still gets up early, 3 or 4 a.m., but now it’s to hit the gym. After that, it’s time for bookkeeping, then pruning pecan trees, a part of the job she loves. Just her, the fresh air, and her music. “I’m an introvert,” she says. “Give me a field and a playlist, and I’m good.” The family runs the farm from sunup to sundown. There’s equipment to maintain, rows to plant, crops to rotate, and a hundred quiet tasks that keep the land alive. But these days, that’s not the hardest part. The real fight? It’s the slow, steady squeeze of land, rules, and water rights slowly closing in from every side. Not All Growth Is Progress Claudia Hauser has seen it coming for years. Her late husband did too. Kevin was talking about the loss of farmland two decades ago, long before anyone else was paying attention. Now, people are finally starting to get it. Farms are being swallowed by development at a pace that makes your head spin—and your dinner plate look a little more fragile. Yes, people need homes. But they also need food. You can’t build on every acre and still expect a harvest. “When you’re a farmer through and through,” Claudia says, “and you’re not about to give it up—not going to sell out—you’d think the land would be enough to hold your ground.” But development doesn’t ask permission. It just rolls in and dares you to stop it. That’s already happened to farms in the Valley, where the city crept up and swallowed the edges. Where subdivisions butted right up against farmland and made it impossible to maneuver a tractor without worrying about traffic or lawsuits. Claudia worries the same fate is creeping toward Camp Verde. Their three farms are spread across the Verde Valley and getting from one to the next means driving big equipment down city roads that weren’t built for farm equipment. “You try moving a combine through town traffic,” she says. “You can’t.” Losing space to work is only part of the problem development brings. As the city creeps closer, so do the problems. The Hauser’s have faced break-ins, vandalism, and theft—most of it, Claudia says, from people high on drugs. They’ve lost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Now, every field is wired with surveillance. Not because they wanted to live that way. Because they had to. To make matters worse, Claudia sat through a community meeting in Chino Valley and heard what no farmer wants to hear: Yavapai County is the next big growth corridor, and Camp Verde’s got a target on it. You don’t slap a bullseye on a town that grows your food and call it progress. That’s not progress. That’s planned destruction neatly packaged in a pantsuit and PowerPoint. It made her sick. Bone-deep sick. Here’s the thing, urban sprawl doesn’t just squeeze farmers out. It cuts into food supply, history, wildlife, water, and the very reason people move to rural places in the first place. Then the new folks show up and want to reshape it all. “We live out here because we like the open spaces, the wildlife, and the quiet,” Claudia says. “Not to mention, this is where we grow your food. If you can’t survive without a five-minute grocery run, don’t move to where we grow the groceries.” Her advice for city transplants dreaming of a Costco, a Trader Joe’s, and another thousand rooftops? Move to where those things already exist. Don’t roll into a farm town and try to fix what was never broken. It’s not just okay—it’s essential—to leave farmland, farmland. Farmers can fight for their land, lock the gates, and still find themselves back in the ring year after year. Thanks to the Nature Conservancy, all three Hauser farms are protected by conservation easements. The development rights are gone—permanently. These are forever farms. Most farms aren’t so lucky. But even that hasn’t kept the battles off Claudia’s doorstep. Yavapai County tried to hike her property taxes, arguing the land was worth more without development rights. What? She had to hire an attorney and work with a state senator to draft a bill protecting conservation easements from over-taxation. Let that sink in. She gave up development rights to save the land—and they tried to punish her for it. “I learned fast,” Claudia says. “Politics has nothing to do with doing what’s right. The county assessor and treasurer fought our efforts like they had skin in the game. They didn’t. I pulled the bill. It was never about land. It was always about money.” Water Wars Brenda Hauser, Claudia’s mother-in-law, stood in front of a room full of suits in 2003 and said the one thing they didn’t want to hear: Stop draining the farms to fill your swimming pools. She didn’t come to beg. She came to warn. At the time, Brenda was Mayor of Camp Verde and a representative for multiple watershed groups. But more importantly, she was a farmer. She understood what was at stake—not just for her family, but for every Arizonan who eats. She told lawmakers, “We’re not growing hubcaps—we’re growing food.” Farms were already being wiped out at breakneck speed, and every meeting about a new golf course or subdivision started the same way: dry up the farms. Never mind that irrigated fields send water back to the aquifer. Housing tracts don’t. Pools don’t. More than half a million acres were already gone in the West by then. And now? Try twelve million. Between 2015 and 2022, the U.S. lost approximately 12.4 million acres of farmland averaging nearly 1.8 million acres per year. In Arizona, from 2017 to 2022, the number of farms decreased by 2,376, a 12% reduction, and the state lost about 600,000 acres of farmland. The trend Brenda sounded the alarm about has only intensified. Subdivisions continue to receive “100-year water supply” designations, certifications meant to prove a development has enough water to last a century, even as surrounding wells go dry. And despite being home to one of the most fragile water supplies in the country, Arizona still lacks the legislative tools to require developers to consider the long-term impact on local agriculture and water tables. In other states, Kentucky, Iowa, and North and South Dakota, agriculture is recognized as vital infrastructure. Farmers are offered technical assistance and financial support to diversify and thrive. Brenda challenged Arizona’s leaders to do the same. Her story wasn’t just a warning. It was a reminder that agriculture is not just about food—it’s about sovereignty, sustainability, and survival. If Arizona wants to protect its future, it must begin by valuing the people and the land that feeds it. Brenda saw it coming. Claudia’s living it. And Claudia doesn’t sugarcoat things. “This is a fight,” she says. “A lifelong one. People will die over water.” That’s not a metaphor. Her husband had guns pulled on him for tearing out illegal siphons. He’s had to call for police escorts. They’ve been threatened with tire irons and pitchforks for protecting the waterways that keep their farm alive. Why? Because some folks think if a ditch runs past their backyard, they own it. Claudia pays nearly $20,000 a year for water. Others steal it. And when the Hausers try to stop them? “It’s like the Hatfields and McCoys out here,” she says. “You want water for more golf courses, pools, and urban sprawl in the desert? Great. Then stop eating.” The Cost of Control Before Claudia and Kevin secured conservation easements to protect their land in Camp Verde, they had a backup plan. They purchased a couple of farms in California’s San Joaquin Valley. Just in case they were ever forced out of Arizona. They had no idea what they were walking into. “When we farmed in California in 2006, everything was fine until it wasn’t,” Claudia says. “Then came the Delta smelt.” In 2007, a federal judge ruled that water operations in the Central Valley were violating the Endangered Species Act by threatening a two-inch fish called the Delta smelt. In 2008, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service doubled down—ordering massive restrictions on agricultural water pumping to protect the species’ habitat. Never mind that studies showed shutting off the water wouldn’t make a difference. They did it anyway. “That was the biggest bunch of shit made up by environmentalists I’ve ever seen,” Claudia says. “They cut the water off to save a fish no one’s even heard of. We had no water left to farm. None.” She and Kevin watched crops die. “And now? I can’t sell that farm,” she says. “Can’t wait to get the hell out of California. It’s insane.” The California story didn’t stop there. In 2014, Governor Jerry Brown signed the Sustainable Groundwater Management Act, SIGMA, forcing farmers to dry up parts of their own land in the name of aquifer preservation. “Government got bigger, pencil pushers multiplied, and here they came—checking on us, regulating us, telling us how to run a farm they’ve never stepped foot on or any farm for that matter,” Claudia says. “They call it sustainability. I call it bullshit.” And it’s not just water. Last year, the federal government tried phasing out diesel engines, an effort Claudia describes as another foot on farmers’ necks. “If you want food, you need diesel. Period,” she says. “I read the bill. They buried California and Colorado regulatory language in the footnotes—two of the most impossible states to farm in. You can’t keep tying farmers’ hands and expect full plates. Leave us out of the conversation long enough, and eventually, there’s nothing left to talk about—except what’s missing at dinner. “So much happened while we were working,” Claudia says. “Farmers were busy feeding people. Meanwhile, bureaucrats were in boardrooms making decisions that affect our ability to produce food for our communities.” The worst part? It’s by design. “Bureaucrats need problems to stay relevant. Even if it’s exaggerated, or total bullshit, it keeps them employed and us fighting to survive.” One bill, in particular, sends Claudia to the moon: Ag to Urban Water. She calls it what it is—“selling out.” The farmer gives up the water rights, the land goes dry, and the pavement follows. First, it’s a water deal. Then it’s a subdivision. That’s how farms disappear, one siphoned acre at a time. “They call that progress? I call it a bunch of crap,” she says. “Golf or food. Pick one.” Claudia’s not opposed to environmental care. She wants clean water and air. Who doesn’t? But she wants common sense, too. “This isn’t hard,” she says. “You want to help the water table? Thin the forests. Shut down the water parks. Stop building subdivisions with a pool every five feet. But taking water from farmers? That’s madness.” When asked whether she sees the tide turning and whether leaders like RFK Jr. might offer hope. She lays it out plain. “He’s a litigator. That’s how he made his money. I get nervous about the extremism,” she says. “I know he cares about the earth and I respect that. But he needs to sit down with farmers. Protecting the planet shouldn’t mean starving the people. And no, I don’t see regulations getting better.” Dispelling the Myths Farmers are not just fighting bad policy; they are fighting bad press. There’s a lot of noise out there about farming, especially on social media. Scroll through a few reels and you’ll find claims that all corn is genetically modified, that the only real corn seeds come from Mexico, or that American farmers are out spraying chemicals in hazmat suits like it’s a scene from a sci-fi movie. Claudia rolls her eyes. “Our seeds aren’t GMO,” she says. “They come from a small supplier down in southern Arizona. And nobody out here is suited up in hazmat suits to spray their fields. That’s total crap. It’s fear-driven propaganda. The goal is to make agriculture look irresponsible when the truth is just the opposite.” Take chemicals, for example. Claudia doesn’t dodge the topic—she’s pro-chemical. “People hear that word and freak out,” Claudia says. “But everything in this world is made of chemicals except for light, heat, and sound. Your kitchen table is chemicals. Your drinking water is chemicals. You and I? Chemicals.” It’s not about whether something is a chemical. It’s about the dose, the purpose, and how it’s used. Glyphosate, often cited as a boogeyman in agriculture, is one of the most misunderstood tools in the shed. While lawsuits and headlines have painted it as a health hazard, Claudia points out that major regulatory agencies around the world, including the EPA and EFSA, continue to say it’s safe when used as directed. “And that’s how we use it,” she says. “If we don’t keep weeds off the fields, we lose the crop. But we use just enough, no more. We’re training every year. We follow best practices. And with GPS-guided equipment, we’re more precise than ever.” Over-spraying? That’s for amateurs. “Your average homeowner buys a bottle of Roundup and sprays it like it’s Febreze,” she says. “Farmers? We don’t do that. We can’t afford to. This stuff is expensive. And accuracy isn’t just good science—it’s good business.” Technology has helped tremendously, Claudia says. Today’s tractors are smart. Sprayers are dialed in. Fertilizer and weedkillers are applied with pinpoint precision. Every pass across a field is measured, mapped, and monitored. That’s the part people don’t see on social media because it doesn’t fit the narrative. “Spraying chemicals isn’t reckless,” she says. “It’s calculated. It’s responsible. And most of all—it’s necessary.” Nearly a century ago, farmers got it wrong. Over-farming in the 1930s helped trigger the Dust Bowl and scarred the land for a generation. But they learned. They adapted. And today, no one understands stewardship better than a farmer. “You want to talk about taking care of the land? Look at a farmer,” Claudia says. “We don’t strip it bare. We rotate crops to protect the soil. We monitor moisture, adjust inputs, and plant cover crops. We do it because if we don’t take care of this land, we don’t eat. And neither do you.” The truth is, no one has more riding on the health of the land than the people who work it. Farmers test their soil, check their water usage, and walk their fields. They keep pollinators in mind. They map out their spraying so that beneficial bugs don’t get wiped out. They understand how weather patterns shift and how pests adapt. They make decisions day by day, field by field because there’s no reset button when something goes wrong. And while the rest of the world talks about sustainability in boardrooms and branded campaigns, farmers live it, quietly, constantly. Help a Farmer. Taste the Difference. When you buy direct from a farmer, you’re doing more than filling your basket—you’re backing the hands that feed your community. It takes a little planning, sure, but once you’ve had strawberries that smell like summer and taste like sunshine, you’ll never go back.Or corn so fresh it snaps in your hands and needs nothing but a pinch of salt. That’s not just food. That’s timing, care, and flavor the way nature intended. And here’s the beautiful thing: fresher fruits and vegetables don’t just taste better, they’re better for you. The shorter the time between harvest and plate, the more nutrients your body actually gets. And lucky for all of us, the season’s just getting started. We’re kicking off the farm stand season with Hauser & Hauser Farms—but they’re just the beginning. All summer, we’ll be sharing local growers and ranchers you can support directly. No middleman. No mystery. Just real food from real people. So take notes. Make a list. Stock your fridge with intention. How to Get the Goods from Hauser & Hauser Farms If you’re already a fan, this is just your seasonal reminder. But if you’re new around here, listen up—and maybe go ahead and stick this page on the fridge. Hauser & Hauser Farms is where you get the real stuff: sweet corn so good it barely needs butter. Juicy watermelons, local honey, and whatever else the fields feel like giving. They keep their updates flowing on Facebook and Instagram, so give them a follow to stay in the loop. Facebook: @HauserandHauserFarms Instagram: @HauserandHauser 652 N Montezuma Castle Hwy, Camp Verde, AZ 928-567-2142 www.hauserandhauserfarms.com Season: Late June through mid-August (Weather-permitting, of course—Mother Nature’s the real boss out here.)

How STR Investors Are Turning Neighborhoods into Cash Cows & Stealing the American Dream of Home Ownership Arizona mayors advocating for local control of STRs: (L-R) Don Dent (Williams), Steve Otto (Payson), Alex Barber (Jerome), Cal Sheehy (Lake Havasu City), Darren Coldwell (Page), Scott Jablow (Sedona), Ann Shaw (Cottonwood), Phil Goode (Prescott). As the editor and publisher of the Pinewood News, I’ve become something of a reluctant warrior in the ongoing saga of short-term rentals (STRs). My battle cry has been for rules that respect the ledger of communal life, not just the profit and loss statements of STR proprietors. Through the trenches of Munds Park, armed with heartbreaking stories of our readers and research, I worked to shine a light on the dark underbelly of the STR impact. In 2022, my involvement reached a turning point. I took the issue straight to the Pinewood Property Owners Association (PPOA), hoping for leadership, for action. Instead, they sidestepped the controversy, favoring projects that were easier, safer. They have donors. They didn’t want to rock the boat. That’s politics. I understand. But the reality was unavoidable. Munds Park is unincorporated—no mayor, no central authority, no strong unified voice. There was no cavalry coming. Just a small town, drifting, while outside forces reshaped it into something almost unrecognizable to those who have called the Park home for decades, some for generations. Conceding to this reality, I dropped my pen on the subject. The silence from Munds Park was its own kind of statement—loud in its quiet, firm in its indifference. No outcry, no real effort to change course. There were voices of opposition, but not enough, and not loud enough. In the absence of real resistance, the fight for STR caps and regulations with teeth had little hope of gaining ground, not from Munds Park anyway. Then came a call from Mayor Scott Jablow of Sedona, asking me to cover a Mayor’s Forum on the statewide impact of STRs, urging me to bring our community into the conversation. I had stepped back from the issue, but the issue hadn’t stepped back from Arizona. It had only grown—spreading into every corner of the state, stretching resources thin, forcing impossible choices. What was once a mounting concern had become a crisis, not just in the charming small towns that dot the map, but in Phoenix and Scottsdale, where even big-city resilience couldn’t hold back the tide. This piece explores the pivotal dialogues from the Mayors Forum and argues for repealing the infamous Senate Bill 1350—dubbed ‘The Airbnb Bill.’ It is, in essence, a heartfelt appeal from our mayors to return regulatory authority to local hands so they can safeguard and shape the future and character of their communities. A Brief History of the Airbnb Bill Back in 2016, Arizona legislators, enchanted by the promise of booming tourism and the sharing economy, ushered in Senate Bill 1350. Platforms like Airbnb and VRBO were booming, and homeowners found the allure of easy money renting out their abodes irresistible. The legislature, eager to hitch a ride on this economic bandwagon, passed the bill with promises of prosperity. But with dollar signs dancing in their eyes, they ignored the question every legislator should ask: What will the unintended consequences be? The law was a triple threat: It centralized control at the state level, stripping cities and towns of the power to tailor STR regulations to their local culture. It prohibited local bans on STRs, no matter the level of disruption they caused. It confined local regulatory powers to the narrow lanes of health and safety—leaving communities to grapple helplessly with the fallout from noise, overcrowding, and the transformation of homes into commercial ventures. SB1350 threw open the gates, and the flood came fast. Investors saw opportunity, turning neighborhoods into commodities and homes into profit centers. The character of communities began to shift, and the fallout was immediate. A Series of Neutered Fixes As STRs began to overrun neighborhoods, public outcry surged. Residents decried the invasion of noise, overflowing trash, and traffic and longed for the days when they had actual neighbors. As local pleas for control reached a crescendo, lawmakers scrambled to respond, cobbling together a patchwork of benign solutions—bills that merely nibbled at the edges of the problem. Enforcing noise and nuisance ordinances—Sure, when the police aren’t otherwise occupied with trivialities like, you know, saving lives. Because in the grand hierarchy of civic emergencies, it seems a raucous Airbnb ranks just below a five-alarm fire. Requiring STR operators to register for accountability. Mandating contact details for lodging complaints. Slapping fines on violators in hopes of deterring the worst offenders. Despite some legislative tweaks, the core issue remains untouched. The state’s attempts at compromise have been just that—compromises, not solutions. Arizona’s mayors have had enough. They are not asking for favors. They are demanding the authority to govern their own communities. Mayors Speak Out: The Damage Runs Deep Local leaders from Williams to Bisbee did not mince words at the Mayor’s Forum on the Impact of Short-Term Rentals. The damage is real. The state’s one-size-fits-all approach has failed. It is time for the state to step aside and let communities govern themselves. But even if local control were restored today, every mayor agreed: the scars left by STRs will not fade quickly. Recovery will take years—maybe decades. Each mayor took the mic to advocate for their residents, pressing the Arizona Legislature to give cities back the power to protect their own. They acknowledged the usual complaints—noise, trash, parking. But those were surface issues. Their real concern was deeper: the long-term erosion of their communities, the slow unraveling of what once made their towns feel like home. Here, we’ll unpack their most pressing concerns, one by one. STRs Cash In, Families & Essential Workers Get Pushed Out Every mayor at the forum agreed: STRs aren’t just a nuisance—they’re a crisis. Investors are hoarding homes, artificially inflating prices, and leaving critical workers with nowhere to live. The hardest-hit towns—Bisbee, Jerome, Sedona, and Williams—aren’t just fighting to preserve their charm. They’re fighting to keep their teachers, firefighters, and nurses from becoming casualties of a rigged housing market. They’re fighting for their seniors, their disabled, their disadvantaged. They’re fighting for their people. With Sedona’s median home price teetering on $1 million—pushed ever higher by investors treating neighborhoods like stock portfolios—it’s no surprise that critical workers—those who care for our children, our health, and our safety—can’t find a place to live. One teacher, eager to join Sedona’s school district, ended up sleeping in her car in the forest while trying to find something affordable. She searched, she waited, and in the end, she left. Sedona’s lawmakers attempted a stopgap measure—allowing displaced workers to sleep in a designated parking lot overnight. The locals shot it down. Meanwhile, Sedona’s mayor is searching for answers, grasping for anything that might keep businesses, schools, and emergency services from crumbling under the weight of a workforce that simply has nowhere to live. Bisbee Mayor Ken Budge wasn’t at the meeting, but Sedona Mayor Scott Jablow delivered his message plainly: “The working class has collapsed under the pressure of STRs.” In Bisbee, schools struggle to hire, hospitals struggle to staff, and first responders are stretched thin. The workers are gone, because the housing is gone. Jablow laid it out: “Residents expect hospitals to be staffed, doctors to be there when they’re sick, teachers to show up for their kids, and first responders to answer in a crisis—and yet we don’t have them. We need property rights for all.” Jerome Mayor Alex Barber told a similar story. Jerome is a town built on volunteerism. Firefighters, EMTs, local board members—people who step up, not for money, but because they love their community. But as housing disappears, so do the people who keep the town running. Jerome’s numbers tell the story: The town has 126 residences, but 26 are now STRs—20% of the total housing stock. That’s a big hit for a small town. 52% are owned by those living outside of Jerome, and 20% of those are owners who live outside of the state of Arizona. A typical home has 2.3 residents. An STR? Seven. Seven guests cycling in and out, overwhelming water, sewer, and systems never built for a town of revolving doors. “The impact is devastating,” says Mayor Alex Barber. “STRs have crushed the town of Jerome—a national historic landmark.” And the problem keeps growing. Almost weekly, a new STR pops up. Every single mayor reported the same struggle. The jobs are there, but the people who fill them are disappearing. Teachers, firefighters, nurses—the foundation of any community—are being priced out, replaced by short-term visitors who leave nothing behind but their footprints. When a home does go up for sale, investors move in, inflating prices and locking out the very people towns and cities need to survive. Lake Havasu City Mayor Cal Sheehy echoed the same frustrations: “We have people who accept positions in Lake Havasu and then have to rescind them because they can’t find housing. We have teachers who can’t find homes. We’re facing the same crisis as Sedona.” Cities and towns are stuck: either they pay an impossible premium to keep workers local or watch them burn hours on brutal commutes. The rest are left scrambling for whatever housing they can find—overpriced, subpar, or nonexistent. Our legislators aren’t listening—to their mayors or the people they were elected to serve. Hard not to wonder if lobbyists have their ear and their wallets. What else explains their refusal to act while families, their children and critical workers are shut out of the housing market? Instead, they’ve left mayors scrambling, pitching last-ditch ideas like parking lots and tiny homes made of ticky-tack. That’s not a plan. It’s an admission of failure. I get it. Mayors are desperate. They need a fix, and they need it now. But let’s be honest—Americans deserve more than a glorified parking spot. They deserve real homes, real neighborhoods, a real stake in their communities. They deserve a shot at the American Dream. And while lawmakers stall, investors—corporate and otherwise—are snatching it away, one overpriced STR at a time. Let’s be clear: this isn’t about a family renting out their cabin for a few weekends a year or someone with a guest home. That was the spirit of the Airbnb bill. What’s happening now is a land grab—by corporations and small investors alike. Residential neighborhoods are being gutted, homes turned into cash machines, and real communities are disappearing in real time. It’s not just STRs devouring the American Dream—Wall Street-owned rental homes are doing their part too. This map of Maricopa County illustrates the extent of the impact. Blue = Wall Street-owned Rental Homes (Only about 6K of the +/- 71K are shown on this map). Red = Non-owner-occupied STRs (Only about 3,500 of the +/- 35,000 are shown here).  STRs Are Gutting Our Schools & Our Kids Are Paying the Price The damage caused by STRs isn’t just about party houses and parking battles. It’s about schools. Fewer families, fewer kids, less funding. Investors are swallowing up homes that could have housed local families, and Arizona’s classrooms are feeling the fallout. Try recruiting teachers when they can’t afford to live in the towns they serve. Sedona Mayor Scott Jablow put it bluntly: “We have plenty of teachers who want to educate our children, but they simply can’t afford to live here. We can’t pay them enough to keep up with housing prices artificially inflated by over-investment in STRs. Now, as families leave, our school budgets suffer.” In Oak Creek’s school district, kindergarten enrollment has dropped 12% in just five years. The numbers don’t lie: fewer students mean less funding—about $5,000 per child, gone. Schools consolidate, teachers are stretched thin, and students get less attention. And it’s not just Sedona. “When I was growing up in Jerome, and when my daughter was growing up in Jerome, we had over 100 kids living in town. Now? Maybe 15 kids are lucky enough to grow up in Jerome,” says Jerome Mayor Alex Barber. The ripple effect is brutal. The Clarkdale-Jerome School District is losing students, losing money, and forced to make impossible choices. This isn’t a fluke—it’s happening across Arizona. Cave Creek Unified is on the verge of shutting down two more schools. In July 2024, Paradise Valley Unified voted to close three by year’s end. STRs aren’t just driving up housing prices. They’re gutting communities. No affordable housing - families leave - school enrollment drops - school budgets shrink - schools shut down. Arizona lawmakers may not see the connection, but local leaders do. They’re watching their communities, their teachers, and their schools disappear. Editor’s Note: While charter schools have played a role in declining public school enrollment, STRs are a major factor. In the hardest-hit areas, even charter schools are seeing drops in attendance.  The STR Crisis Is Pushing People Onto the Streets Number of individuals experiencing homelessness in Arizona, 2012-2023, based on the Arizona Department of Economic Security SFY 2023 Annual Report. As of January 2023, 14,237 Arizona residents were estimated to be experiencing homelessness, reflecting a 29% increase from the January 2020 estimate of 10,979. When Sedona Mayor Scott Jablow shared the data linking the rise in homelessness to Arizona’s Airbnb law, it was a jaw-dropper. Sure, correlation doesn’t always mean causation, but you don’t need to be a statistician to see the logic. If people can’t afford housing, where do they go? For young people entering the workforce, the struggle to find affordable housing isn’t just a minor inconvenience—it’s a full-blown crisis. For low-income residents, it’s not just about struggling anymore—it’s about survival. And for those who aren’t already on the streets, they’re holding on by a thread. While homelessness has many contributing factors, what’s happening in Williams is impossible to ignore. Williams Mayor Don Dent is watching it all unfold. With a population of about 1,500 homes, 225 are now STRs, a staggering 15% of the housing stock. 80% of those homes? Not owned by locals. These aren’t families renting out a vacation home—they’re outsiders looking to cash in. Williams used to have a strong Section 8 housing program that helped low-income families, seniors, and disabled residents afford homes. But when leases expired, things changed. Landlords didn’t renew—they sold to investors or converted their properties into STRs. Now? There are only 17 HUD vouchers in use. That’s a 66% drop in low-income housing. The irony? Williams has been designated a failing city by HUD because it’s using less than half the funding it qualifies for. Yet, the town is still required to subsidize those unused vouchers, even though there’s no place left for people to live. They can’t even afford a housing director to manage this crisis. Mayor Dent is now trying to transfer unused vouchers to Flagstaff, hoping they can use them. “If we don’t cap STRs, we’re done,” says Dent. “Every month, more and more pop up. There’s no end in sight, and it’s just going to get worse.” Williams is losing affordable housing faster than it can replace it, and those who need it most are getting pushed out. Now, STR Investors Are Coming for Mobile Home Parks If you thought STRs were just pushing out middle class families, think again. They’re now targeting mobile home parks—the last affordable housing option left. “Mobile home parks are the next thing the Goldwater Institute is coming after,” said Mayor Scott Jablow. Sedona used to have two private mobile home parks. Not anymore. The owners, backed by the Goldwater Institute, are suing Sedona to turn those parks into STR clusters. And it’s not just Sedona. Prescott is seeing the same thing. Mobile home parks have been the last hope for many low-income residents—the only place they could afford to own a home. Now, those residents are being told to pack up and leave. STRs May be Costing Arizona Seats in Congress At the mayor’s forum, Senator Mark Finchem dropped a bombshell: Arizona’s rapid home-building—55,000 new units a year—isn’t solving the housing crisis. Why? He suggests it’s because investors are buying up these homes for short-term rentals instead of giving local families a place to live. The result? Arizona’s population isn’t growing the way it appears, and that’s possibly costing the state seats in Congress. Here’s how it works: more homes mean more people. More people mean a bigger population count for the census. And a bigger population should lead to more seats in Congress. But if a large chunk of those homes are sitting empty as short-term rentals—when the census counts most—then Arizona’s true population growth isn’t what it seems. Finchem warns this could cost Arizona one or two seats in Congress. STRs aren’t just changing neighborhoods—they could be changing Arizona’s political power. So, while the construction cranes keep rising, the real question isn’t how many homes we’re building—it’s who’s actually living in them. Mayors Agree—STRs Need Local Control Every mayor at the forum voiced the same concerns—just to varying degrees. None of them oppose STRs outright. What they oppose is not having the power to cap or regulate them in a way that makes sense for their communities. They’re not against homeowners renting out their places when they’re away. What they do oppose are large-scale investment companies and even small-scale operators who own multiple properties, effectively turning residential neighborhoods into commercial enterprises. The needs of each town are different. Lake Havasu depends on tourism and accepts STRs as part of its economy—but even they are overwhelmed by the sheer volume. Jerome, the third most visited town in Arizona, doesn’t need STRs at all. They’re so popular they don’t even advertise for tourism. Sedona wants caps, striving to balance its natural beauty with sustainable tourism while still ensuring its residents can live there peacefully. Property Rights? Whatever. Let’s be clear about one thing: this is not about property rights. It’s about common sense and the fundamental responsibility we have to each other. Your property rights don’t give you the right to trample on your neighbors’ lives or turn your community into a transient zone for profit. Our communities are built on stability—the ability for people to live where they work, raise their children in neighborhoods with people who care, and maintain the integrity of their homes. What’s happening now is a disruption—one that no one should tolerate. Property rights have limits. I can’t just set up a mobile home on my property, no matter how badly my kids need a place to live. In Phoenix, I couldn’t build a mother-in-law suite for my elderly father, despite the clear need. I can’t buy property and set up a liquor store wherever I see fit. There are restrictions, and there are reasons for them. I can’t build a fence taller than six feet, and I can’t add a second story to my house without jumping through bureaucratic hoops. And yet somehow, my neighbor can turn their home into a 24/7 mini-hotel, sacrificing community stability for financial gain. This is not a property rights issue—this is about using the system to disrupt everything we hold dear in our neighborhoods. Every citizen contributes—through taxes—to support the schools, healthcare, and first responders who are the backbone of our society. Our legislators have a duty to ensure these services remain strong. They shouldn’t be undermined by greed. Let’s stop pretending. This isn’t about property rights. It’s about responsibility. The right to own property doesn’t give you the right to disrupt your neighbors’ lives or the community fabric for personal gain. Property rights should never come at the cost of other people’s security, peace, and stability. We all know this to be true. If you’re an STR owner pushing the limits, deep down, you know this is wrong. How could you not? Munds Park: A Town Caught Between Two Worlds This graph shows the number of known short-term rentals (STRs) in Munds Park today. District 3, our district, ranks 8th out of 30 districts, with 2,789 STRs in the area. So, where does Munds Park fit into the conversation on short-term rentals? The numbers tell part of the story. About 275 cabins are now being used as STRs, making up about 8.7% of the town’s housing. Official records list 234 STRs, but according to the county, 10% are flying under the radar. It’s true: Munds Park has become a target for investors looking to cash in. We have corporations here, right now, buying up property. To be honest, if any town was made for STRs, it’s Munds Park. No schools, no hospitals—just a peaceful retreat for those looking to escape the hustle. It’s always been a place for second home owners for quiet getaways—city dwellers seeking respite and retirees savoring the dream they worked hard to achieve. It was built around that sense of calm, the kind you can’t find in the busyness of life beyond the forest walls. But slowly, that balance is beginning to shift. The streets that used to echo with the gentle hum of golf carts are now busy with the roar of OHVs speeding through the streets. The forest that once felt like home to locals is now being worn thin by strangers who don’t always care for it like those who live here do. The quiet is being drowned out. And for the people who’ve called this place home, it feels like something irreplaceable is slipping away. Munds Park has always been more than a spot on a map. It’s a place for connection, for quiet moments, for community. And that’s what’s at stake. For now, it’s still a great place—but if the trends continue, the peace that defined it could fade, replaced by a different rhythm. The future of Munds Park rests with its people. The question is simple: Do you want it to remain a peaceful escape, or is it time for something new? Editor’s Note: While this article presents the editor’s perspective, the reporting on the mayors’ stances and the accompanying research are based on factual reporting. The views expressed by the mayors represent their firsthand accounts and positions on the impact of STRs in their communities. Want to dig in further? Here is more information: https://neighborsnotnightmares.com/

Unseasonably low amounts of snow this year come with concerns of increased wildfire threat.  In recent years, several homeowners across Munds Park have found themselves in the unsettling position of receiving cancellation notices from their insurance providers, and these cancellations don’t appear to be slowing any time soon.  For those affected, securing a new policy can feel like an uphill battle—but it’s not impossible. Fortunately, there are steps you can take to ensure you’re not left unprotected. Why Insurance Policies Are Canceled Homeowners insurance policies are often canceled or not renewed when insurers determine that a property is too high-risk, such as in areas vulnerable to wildfires. Insurance companies factor in the likelihood of a property being damaged by fire, as well as the cost of rebuilding or repairing it if a fire does occur. If an insurer deems the risk too high or no longer economically viable, they may choose to drop the policy. Steps to Take After a Cancellation If your homeowners insurance is canceled due to wildfire risk, there are steps you can take to secure coverage. While it may feel overwhelming, persistence and preparation can help you navigate the process. 1. Understand the Reasons for the Cancellation Before you start looking for a new policy, make sure you understand the specific reasons for your insurance cancellation. Many insurers provide a cancellation notice with details about why the policy was dropped. It could be related to your home’s proximity to high-risk wildfire zones or insufficient mitigation efforts. Understanding these reasons will help you identify what needs to be addressed before seeking a new policy. For example, if your insurer canceled coverage due to lack of defensible space around your property, you might need to clear brush and trees to reduce the risk of fire spreading to your home. 2. Take Mitigation Measures Many insurance companies are more likely to offer policies to homeowners who take proactive steps to reduce fire risks. Common measures include: Installing fire-resistant roofing and siding. Clearing brush, dead plants, and debris from around your home. Creating defensible space by trimming trees and shrubs. Using non-combustible materials for decks, fences, and other structures. Taking these steps not only increases your chances of finding new insurance but can also reduce your premiums once you are covered. 4. Look for Specialized Insurers In response to increasing wildfire risks, several insurance companies now offer specialized policies that focus on properties in fire-prone areas. These insurers are more familiar with the challenges of covering homes in wildfire zones and may offer more flexible coverage options, even for homeowners who have had their insurance canceled. Many of these carriers gained experience in high-risk markets in hurricane-prone areas of the country prior to moving west. 5. Work with an Insurance Broker If you’re struggling to find new insurance on your own, working with an insurance broker who specializes in high-risk areas may help you navigate the options available. Brokers have access to multiple insurers and can help you find the best possible coverage based on your specific needs. An experienced broker can also help you understand the various factors that impact your premiums and provide guidance on steps you can take to improve your chances of being approved for coverage.   Specifically, brokers located in Northern Arizona as opposed to more Southern parts of the state may prove to be more knowledgeable and experienced with the very specialized market. 6. Consider Excess & Surplus Lines If you are unable to secure standard homeowners insurance, you might want to explore “excess and surplus” (E&S) lines insurance. E&S insurers are not bound by the same regulations as traditional insurance companies and often provide coverage to homeowners who do not meet the underwriting standards of standard insurers. While these policies can be more expensive, they may be the only option for high-risk properties. Stay Persistent & Stay Prepared While it’s undoubtedly challenging to face the loss of homeowners insurance in a wildfire-prone area, there are steps you can take to protect your home and property. Understanding the cancellation reasons, implementing fire mitigation strategies, and seeking specialized insurers or programs can increase your chances of getting coverage again. As the wildfire risk continues to evolve, the key to staying protected lies in preparedness, persistence, and being proactive in seeking out the right insurance policy for your home. With the right approach, homeowners in Northern Arizona can safeguard their homes and their financial futures, even in the face of growing wildfire threats. For more information on wildfire prevention and insurance options in Northern Arizona, visit https://www.nfpa.org/education-and-research/wildfire or consult with an insurance agent familiar with the local Munds Park area.

In the heart of Munds Park, where neighbors feel more like family, there’s one event that always brings folks together—the Munds Park Community Church annual Soup’er Bowl. Fom left to right: Diane Deam, 2nd place winner & Karen Zintack, 1st place winner Last month marked the 9th edition of this fun tradition, a free event where the only price of admission is an appetite for good food and good company. It’s a simple recipe for joy: homemade soups, hearty laughs, and a table big enough for everyone. Cooks from every corner of the community brought their best pots to the table—each one simmering with a whole lot of love. From bold and spicy bowls to rich and hearty creations guaranteed to “stick to your ribs,” there was something to surprise every palate. And, of course, the crowd had the final say—tasting, savoring, and voting on their favorites. But in true Munds Park fashion, the real prize wasn’t a ribbon or a title. It was the laughter around the table, the swapping of recipes, and the joy of sharing something homemade—from the heart. And because good flavors—and good neighbors—are meant to be shared, we’re delighted to feature this year’s 1st and 2nd place winners right here in the paper. Enjoy! Creamy Chicken Parmesan Soup From the kitchen of Karen Zintak, 1st Place Winner Creamy Chicken Parmesan Soup Ingredients List 2.5 lbs. chicken breast, diced 2 Tbsp. olive oil 1 medium onion, diced 4-5 cloves garlic, minced 8 cups chicken broth 2-3 Tbsp. Better Than Bullion chicken paste 2 cans petite diced tomatoes 2 tsp. Italian seasoning 2 tsp. garlic powder 2 tsp. onion powder 1 tsp. salt 1 tsp. pepper 2 cups heavy cream 1 cup Parmesan cheese, grated 2 cups small shell pasta, dry Directions Cook Chicken: In a large skillet, heat 2 Tbsp. olive oil over medium heat. Add diced chicken breast, diced onion, and minced garlic. Cook until the chicken is browned and cooked through. Prepare Soup Base: In a large pot, combine chicken broth and Better Than Bullion chicken paste. Heat over medium heat until the paste dissolves completely. Add petite diced tomatoes, Italian seasoning, garlic powder, onion powder, salt, and pepper. Stir in heavy cream and parmesan cheese. Woodcutter’s Soup From the kitchen of Diane Deam, 2nd Place Winner Woodcutter’s Soup Ingredients: 2 cups chopped cooked chicken breast 8 cups chicken broth 1 onion, chopped 3 carrots, chopped 3 celery stalks, chopped 2 bell peppers, chopped 1 teaspoon seasoned salt ½ teaspoon pepper 1 teaspoon red pepper flakes 1 teaspoon Italian seasoning 1 cube of butter ¾ cup of rice (I used minute rice) Directions In a large soup pot, combine the chicken broth, cooked chicken, onion, carrots, celery, and bell peppers. Stir in the seasoned salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, and Italian seasoning. Add the cube of butter for richness. Pour in the rice (minute rice works perfectly for this recipe). Bring the mixture to a gentle boil over medium heat. Reduce the heat to low and let the soup simmer for about 1 hour, stirring occasionally to keep the flavors mingling. Taste and adjust seasoning if needed.

Sean Golliher Sean Golliher: Bold Plans and Controversial Past Meet Sean Golliher, a fourth-generation Arizonan and avid outdoorsman. Sean's decision to run for office was catalyzed by his deep concerns over national policies and their local implications. "Witnessing the disastrous effects of policies under Biden and Katie Hobbs, I felt compelled to bring a conservative balance back to our local government," Sean explains. He aims to address what he sees as critical issues: excessive taxation, an overextended government, and initiatives like the Green New Deal, which he argues push towards global governance and create significant environmental waste—issues he became acutely aware of while studying and following the World Economic Forum. As a staunch MAGA Republican, Sean is also deeply focused on national security concerns, particularly the risks posed by open borders. "The influx of military-aged men through our borders presents a significant security threat that cannot be ignored," he asserts. Sean Golliher, 50, describes himself as "semi-retired" and has been on worker’s compensation since March 2014. His career includes a significant stint as a Department of Homeland Security program advisor, where he assessed programs and operations under the Secure Border Initiative. In 1997, Golliher was discharged from U.S. Air Force basic training due to an injury. He went on to earn an engineering degree from Arizona State University in 2004, followed by master’s degrees in management and business administration from Northern Arizona University in 2007 and the Thunderbird School of Global Management in 2013. Fiscal Responsibility When asked about the soaring cost of living in Munds Park and Flagstaff, and why the County is proposing four additional property tax hikes instead of cutting expenditures, Sean was direct. "The County must operate within its means. We need to streamline our budget by eliminating wasteful and ideological spending, as well as unnecessary duplication of efforts," Sean explained, emphasizing that essential services like police, fire, and infrastructure must be prioritized and properly funded. Curious about how Sean plans to tackle the entrenched spending habits that span both sides of the aisle, I inquired about his strategy. "If I can't stop it through logical arguments, I plan to use every budgetary tactic available to delay and minimize unnecessary spending. Understanding and navigating bureaucratic maneuvers is crucial, and I aim to counteract them effectively," he shared. Sean also expressed hope for a shift in the County’s political landscape, stressing the importance of electing more fiscal conservatives to promote responsible governance. "I want to keep the tax rate flat and look for ways to reduce taxes once the budget is balanced," Sean states. The Housing Crisis In discussing the displacement of the working class in Sedona and Munds Park from forest camps to makeshift living arrangements, Sean suggests a mix of old-school grit and Silicon Valley savvy to remedy this. "Why not farm the land and the cloud?" Sean muses, proposing an economic renaissance from farming to tech to manufacturing. "With today's tech, factories could practically fit in a broom closet. It's time we stop relying on tourism dollars and reduce the effects of over-tourism on our natural landscapes." Flagstaff, already known for its observatories and astronaut training programs, could also be a hub for space jobs. "Space jobs in Flagstaff? Not so far out," Sean adds. However, the question remains: Where will these workers live without affordable housing? Sean criticizes the County's current strategy of exploring high-occupancy housing solutions. "We don’t want to just stuff as many people as we can into a room. Our people deserve to live in single-family homes where they can raise families and lead fulfilling lives," he argues. To tackle the housing shortage, Sean advocates for a multifaceted approach. "We have to bring in diverse jobs to grow the economy so people can earn decent wages. Simultaneously, we need to open up more land for residential development to build these homes," he concludes, outlining a plan to create a sustainable living environment that supports both the current and future residents of Northern Arizona. Police & Security When Chief Deputy Bret Axlund spoke at the Community Watch meeting, revealing that cartel activity is prevalent in Flagstaff and a growing concern, I asked Sean what he would do to assist our law enforcement. Sean says he's been watching past Supervisory meetings on YouTube and hadn't seen much about extra resources for the Sheriff's Department or the issues with the cartels. "I saw a presentation from the County Supervisor's office, and the main topic was how to keep people from being incarcerated. When you see the County Attorney's office more worried about keeping criminals out of incarceration, chances are good the sheriff's office isn't being supported as they should." "I come from a law enforcement family, and I want to at least triple our force. For safety reasons, I want two deputies per patrol car. I will work hard to ensure our sheriff's office has what they need," Sean adds. He also has a bold idea to leverage the Civil Defense Act. His plan involves creating Civil Defense Response Teams, modeled after the original founding patriots. He envisions gathering retired officers, first responders, military personnel, and ordinary citizens to train together like a town militia, preparing for terrorist attacks and major disasters. Recent statistics show an almost six-month response time from the federal government, underscoring the need for such a proactive, community-based approach.        Fire & Flood Mitigation We discussed the topic of flooding in Northern Arizona, and Sean has a unique approach to solving this issue, too. He believes the solution is relatively simple: use hydroseeding in areas with burn scars that tend to flood and have mudslides. He thinks planting grass seeds, berry bush seeds, wildflowers, and anything else that grows fast and is native to the area would be a good, cost-effective, and pretty solution. He states that he's a "problem solver," and some solutions don't require months of pondering, surmising, and measuring outcomes. "Just give nature a push." When I mentioned that after 12 years of research, the County re-drew the flood zones in Munds Park, issuing new maps that placed homes and businesses within these zones. The community was given 90 days to contest the maps, but only if they could provide engineering or scientific studies to support their claims—effectively shutting the community down from responding. Additionally, residents are concerned about the accuracy of these maps and the potential impact on property values and insurance rates. Moreover, if the maps are accurate, the County has no solutions to keep Munds Park safe in case of a 100-year flood. What do you think? Sean responds, "Well, they didn't do their job, and personally, that sounds kind of fishy to me. They want to force you out and do land grabs. They don't want these communities; they want you out," comparing the situation to the dystopian future depicted in the video game Cyberpunk. (If you don't know what Cyberpunk is, don't feel bad—I had to Google it.) Sean continued, saying they want tiny, micro-cities with gigantic megaplexes reaching far into the sky, with thousands of people living in a single building. "They want it to be like China, with 15-minute cities that require government approval to travel from one 15-minute city to another." They also want to make tourism a thing of the past. I asked who "they were," and he said the World Economic Forum and the Green New Agenda. It's too high a carbon footprint. You don't need to travel when you can do it virtually wherever you want. As you can tell, Sean is a far-out, out-of-the-box, conspiracy kind of guy. I frankly enjoyed our conversation and his energy. Whether he's a good candidate for District 3 Supervisor—that's for the voters to decide. After the Interview On July 4, 2024, reporter Joseph K Giddens for The Sedona Red Rock News wrote an article about the three candidates for the District 3 seat. I was surprised to learn that on August 28, 2016, Golliher drove through several traffic barricades in Nogales, causing Border Patrol agents to scatter to avoid being hit. Authorities found 27.8 grams of methamphetamine in his vehicle, along with drug paraphernalia and two handguns. After being convicted of two felonies and completing five years of probation, Golliher's right to vote was restored. He claims he was incapacitated by a drug administered by an unknown person and maintains that he was not a habitual user, despite the incriminating evidence. Adam Hess Disappoints as District 3 Supervisor Adam Hess Editor's Opinion Adam Hess, appointed as District 3 Supervisor after Matt Ryan's retirement, is now seeking a full term. Ryan, a Democrat who served for 27 years, was known for his active engagement—a standard Hess has yet to meet. At a recent Munds Park town hall focused on the sensitive issue of updated floodplain maps, Adam Hess appeared clearly unprepared. Community members, eager for insights, found Hess more a bystander than a representative ready to address their concerns. His claim that he was there to "learn" was particularly baffling given that he had been well-informed through email threads detailing the community's issues prior to the meeting. I extended Hess the benefit of the doubt due to his newness in the role and requested a follow-up to address the community’s questions. Hess promised to take action, stating, "I'll get with my team and get you some answers." Since then—silence. At a subsequent Community Watch meeting, I again confronted Adam about his lack of follow-up, not only with me but also with other community members. Once more, an associate answered on his behalf and Hess remained silent. I have sent Adam Hess three emails inviting him to an interview to address the Munds Park community directly, but he has not responded. In contrast, all other District 3 candidates have participated in interviews. Even high-profile figures like Kari Lake and Katie Hobbs have dedicated time to our small yet important community—not Adam. In contrast, Matt Ryan was consistently available. He may not have always enjoyed my questions, but he never dodged a call or an email, always responding promptly—an approach that was greatly appreciated. Munds Park deserves a representative who is present, prepared, listens, and actively engages with the community. We need someone who truly embodies accountability, both in title and in action. Tammy Ontiveros: A Deep-Rooted Advocate for Coconino County Tammy Ontiveros Background & Personal History Meet Tammy Ontiveros, whose deep roots in Coconino County and extensive experience make her a strong candidate for the District 3 seat. Born in Cottonwood and raised in Flagstaff and the Verde Valley, she comes from a family of ranchers in Red Lake—her great-grandparents, grandparents, and mother worked the land for generations, giving Tammy an intimate knowledge of Northern Arizona.   For nearly three decades, Tammy has owned and operated a Chevron and Shell gas station and a water hauling business along Highway 64, the lifeline to the Grand Canyon, demonstrating her business savvy and resilience.   Tammy’s commitment to her community doesn’t stop at business. For 14 years, she’s been a fixture on the Coconino County Planning and Zoning Commission, now serving her fourth year as chair. This isn't just a title; it’s her proving ground for understanding land use and development—skills she believes are crucial for her district.   My interview with Tammy stretched over three hours. Time flew as we discussed pressing issues such as law enforcement, healthcare, land use, taxation, emergency planning, and fire and flood mitigation. We covered more topics than I have ink for, but here are the highlights.   Taxes Tammy Ontiveros isn't clueless about the high cost of living in Northern Arizona; she lives it. When I asked her how she’d protect our wallets from government overspending, she didn’t flinch.   "You have to be a fiscal conservative to survive as a business owner," she said, bluntly. There is a basic equation: Your outgo has to be equal to or less than your income. In business, there are ways to bring in more capital, but the County's way to increase revenue is by raising taxes."   I challenged her, suggesting the County should trim its budget instead of hiking taxes. Ontiveros agreed, noting that in business, you find ways to cut the fat. “This should be the same for government. If there’s fat to trim, I will propose cuts,” she asserted. When asked about dealing with pro-tax colleagues, Ontiveros emphasized her willingness to stand her ground. "We’re not always going to see things the same way... there will be disagreements. I’ve made decisions that have put me in a lonely place, but if it’s the right decision, I will not back down. I have no problem being accountable. However, I want to be clear that I will always be respectful when working through disagreements; that is paramount to how I operate."   Short Term Rentals Short-term rentals are a contentious issue. Ontiveros reviewed the latest ordinance with me, stating, "The ordinance is a great first step, but we need more. I'm ready to work with state representatives to push for meaningful changes."   As a side note, I have spoken to Matt Ryan many times about short-term rentals, and his response was always, 'There is nothing we can do.' Hearing Tammy say she’s willing to reach out and work with representatives is refreshing.   Protecting the Land With deep roots in Northern Arizona and extensive experience on the Planning and Zoning Commission, Tammy has a unique perspective on land protection. She has opposed developments like the Newman RV Park and a project between the turn-off to Forest Highlands and Violet's that threatened a picturesque meadow, demonstrating her commitment to preserving the essence of Northern Arizona.   Munds Park will appreciate this: Tammy's philosophy for rural areas is clear: If you move to a rural area, you must do your due diligence. Things are different from city life. Rural areas are slower, a little inconvenient, and lack city amenities—embrace the existing conditions and resist the urge to reshape the area to fit your preferences. You don't want to lose the unique appeal of these communities by introducing urban elements. Tammy states, "I live the rural life, and I am the best person to represent them."   The Housing Crises Everyone is well aware of the housing crisis, and that our workforce is being pushed out from living close to where they work, with some even resorting to living in the forest in their campers. This is a heartbreaking situation. I mentioned to Tammy the County's idea for high-occupancy housing and that people don't want to live in cramped, ticky-tacky boxes. They want to buy a home—the American dream.   Tammy responded, "I wish I could tell you I have the solution. What I can say is that the County is currently updating its comprehensive plan, a process that occurs every ten years, with the previous update in 2015. This plan involves focus groups throughout the county, including Munds Park, to address affordable housing. Although there's no one-size-fits-all solution, the plan aims to create a mixture of housing options. One potential solution being considered is re-zoning to allow more units to be built on properties, provided they fit within the community. This approach aims to increase housing availability while ensuring compatibility with the surrounding community."   Emergency Preparedness We discussed the concerns of some Mundsies regarding the difficulty of escaping Munds Park during a catastrophic wildfire or flood, given that there is essentially only one exit route. At present, the primary evacuation path is a single road leading to I-17. While there are some forest trails, their usability depends on the location of the fire. Additionally, the RV Park situated across I-17 with a huge number of RVs with trailers that can occupy the space of three vehicles, will hinder evacuation for others. I asked Tammy what solutions she would propose for this dangerous predicament.   Tammy couldn't address this issue without more details but suggested that we bring the question to Coconino County's Emergency Preparedness Department to address at the next Community Watch meeting. We spoke with Len Friedland, the meeting's organizer, to have this question formally addressed.   What are your top priorities? When asked about her top priorities, Ontiveros emphasized it’s about the community’s needs, not her own. "My priorities are shaped by the voices of the people I serve." She listed wildfire management, flood management, and promoting safe and healthy communities as key community concerns.   Tammy adds, … “this district is geographically and demographically diverse, ranging from ranching and rural communities that haul water to uptown Sedona and all the communities in between and beyond. Listening to and representing these varied needs is paramount to my job as a District Supervisor.”   Growing up in the rural reaches of Northern Arizona, she understands the nuances of rural life—values that are deeply embedded in District 3’s identity. Ontiveros promises to leverage her extensive knowledge and experience to maintain the natural beauty of the region while navigating the complexities of development and community planning.   As voters in Coconino County prepare to make their choice for District 3, Tammy Ontiveros presents a candidate whose roots in the area are as deep as her commitment to its future. Her blend of local heritage, business acumen, and planning expertise offers a comprehensive portfolio for a role that demands both respect for tradition and a clear vision for progress. Voters will have to consider these qualities as they decide who is best suited to address the diverse needs of the district.

Uncle Sam wants more money! Attention, Coconino County property owners! Our representatives are proposing an additional $154 annual increase in property taxes. While these taxes aim to cover essential county expenses, it's important to consider if there might be more efficient ways to manage our community's needs. With rising costs and economic uncertainties, every dollar counts. Your voice is crucial in this discussion. Read their proposals below and Join the virtual public hearings. Share your thoughts on the proposed tax increase. Let’s explore all options, including potential spending cuts, to ensure a balanced and fair approach for everyone. Participate and contribute to this important conversation about our community’s future. Notice of Proposed Coconino County Primary Property Tax Increase Notice:  Coconino County plans to raise its primary property taxes by $217,699 or 2.0% over last year's level. Impact:  On a $100,000 home, this will increase the primary property tax to $49.44 (up from $48.47). Exclusions:  This increase does not include new construction or changes from voter-approved bond levies or budget overrides. Public Hearing: Date:  Tuesday, June 25, 2024 Time:  6:00 PM Location:  Online via Zoom Join:   Zoom Link  or call 877-853-5247 (Toll-Free) Webinar ID:  830 8098 8145 Coconino County Flood Control District Secondary Property Tax Increase Notice:  The Flood Control District plans to raise its secondary property taxes by $418,985 or 4.25% over last year's level. Impact:  On a $100,000 home, this will increase the secondary property tax to $50.00 (up from $47.96). Exclusions:  This increase does not include new construction or changes from voter-approved bond levies. Public Hearing: Date:  Tuesday, June 25, 2024 Time:  6:00 PM Location:  Online via Zoom Join:   Zoom Link  or call 877-853-5247 (Toll-Free) Webinar ID:  830 8098 8145 Coconino County Library District Secondary Property Tax Increase Notice:  The Library District plans to raise its secondary property taxes by $648,609 or 10.84% over last year's level. Impact:  On a $100,000 home, this will increase the secondary property tax to $29.56 (up from $26.67). Exclusions:  This increase does not include new construction or changes from voter-approved bond levies. Public Hearing: Date:  Tuesday, June 25, 2024 Time:  6:00 PM Location:  Online via Zoom Join:   Zoom Link  or call 877-853-5247 (Toll-Free) Webinar ID:  830 8098 8145 Coconino County Public Health Services District Secondary Property Tax Increase Notice:  The Public Health Services District plans to raise its secondary property taxes by $181,790 or 3.35% over last year's level. Impact:  On a $100,000 home, this will increase the secondary property tax to $25.00 (up from $24.19). Exclusions:  This increase does not include new construction or changes from voter-approved bond levies. Public Hearing: Date:  Tuesday, June 25, 2024 Time:  6:00 PM Location:  Online via Zoom Join:   Zoom Link  or call 877-853-5247 (Toll-Free) Webinar ID:  830 8098 8145 #CoconinoCounty #PublicHearing #YourVoiceMatters #CommunityAction

Each November, the Pinewood News proudly dedicates its pages to honoring Munds Park veterans, paying tribute to those who have served with courage and commitment. This year, we’re especially honored to feature Rick Van Deurzen, who recently received the Bronze Star Medal with a “V” device—an award bestowed for extraordinary valor in combat—right here in Munds Park. Representative Eli Crane, from Arizona’s 2nd Congressional District, presented Rick with this prestigious medal, making the ceremony a memorable and heartfelt moment for our community. Before the event, I had the privilege of sitting down with Rick and his dog Alice, where he shared the story of his service and the courageous acts that led to this significant recognition. Knowing Rick was a Vietnam veteran, I asked him whether he had been drafted or enlisted. “I had just turned 18,” he replied. “I was getting into trouble, up to no good. It was either keep on that path or go into the Army to learn discipline and a skill. So, I enlisted.” Rick served as the squad leader for 1st Platoon, Company C, 8th Engineer Battalion. He trained at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where he first learned the fundamentals of explosives. After completing Basic and Advanced Infantry training, he went straight to Vietnam as a combat engineer specializing in demolitions. “I got to blow things up,” he said with a slight grin. “I disposed of traps and anything else they needed destroyed. If a plane went down or any strategic American equipment was at risk of capture, I’d demolish it to prevent the enemy from reverse-engineering it and learning our secrets. I’d even clear landing zones for helicopters to come in. Blowing things up was a great way to blow off steam—something I had plenty of as a young man.” As I began to interview Rick, my thoughts were shadowed by my own family’s past. My brother was drafted into the Vietnam War, and even though I was young at the time, the war’s mental toll on my brother was painfully evident and stays with me to this day. In desperation, he shot himself in the leg, hoping for a way out, but they simply patched him up and sent him back to the front lines. To cope, he turned to heroin and returned home with mental scars that never healed. With this personal history in mind and aware that Rick had mentally survived the war, I asked him how he managed to stay grounded and maintain hope throughout such a harrowing time. Rick described the stark reality of their missions: staying focused was a matter of life and death—a relentless intensity that was difficult to sustain but essential to master. Back at base camp, the pressure eased. “We’d go straight to the bar,” he recounted. “We’d down a few beers and smoke some doobies—that was our only way out.” Others did more, but I refrained from the hard stuff. “Nights were tough and hard to cope with,” Rick remembers. “Our camp was right in the middle of a rubber tree plantation, and the Viet Cong frequently attacked from the cover of those trees. “When rockets or mortars hit, they’d explode above us, raining metal down all night. Whenever possible, I’d volunteer for night missions. It was safer out there, and I didn’t have to deal with the brass. Oddly, I felt free and safe—it was another way of coping with the relentless reality of war. Curious if he held onto any good memories from his time in Vietnam, I watched as his expression soften. “One Christmas, they brought in a jeep trailer packed with iced beer—the first time in a year we’d had anything cold. We all gathered around that trailer, the frost on the bottles reminding us of home. We downed those cold brews, laughing, swapping stories, just chewing the fat. For a little while, the war faded away. It was a good time.” When I asked how Vietnam had shaped his life, he reflected. “It was when I grew up,” he said. “You’re fighting to stay alive, and none of us thought we’d make it out of there. I was wild before I joined—one of eight kids, a latchkey kid. We beat each other up all the time. I did what I wanted, when I wanted. In the service, I learned to listen, to be part of a team, to have my brothers’ backs, not just my own. When I finally put the bottle down and built my life with Gail, I was able to put those skills to work.” Rick served for three years, but when he came home, he faced a new battle. “We were hated. Called baby killers. Some soldiers were even spit on. The moment we stepped off the plane in California, protesters were there, waiting to tear us down, to make us feel even smaller than we already did. When I flew home to Wisconsin, they told us to hide our uniforms to avoid the backlash and the scorn.” After all he’d been through, I asked him how it felt to come home to that kind of reception. His answer was another heartbreak. “When I got to my hometown, I sat at the airport for three hours, waiting for someone to come get me. I have eight brothers and sisters, but none of my family came,” he said softly. “Finally, my sister showed up. No welcome home. Nothing.” He went on to tell me about how his own family treated him. Each story revealed a new layer of hurt, the kind that stays with you, heavy and raw. I asked him how he managed to get through that kind of rejection, carrying everything he endured alone. “I drank,” he said. “I drank to get drunk, to fight. That went on for over ten years, drinking and tearing things up until I moved to Arizona and met the love of my life and turned things around.” I asked him how he met his wife, Gail. “I was living in Wisconsin, knowing I had to change or I’d die. So I moved to Arizona to be with my older brother, and we opened a small repair business. I went to drop off a bill at a realtor’s office, our client, and that’s when Gail saw me. She turned to her mother and said, “I’m going to marry that man! She had never met me, but she knew I belonged to her.” Forty-two years later, we’re still together. When I asked if he’d ever considered putting his experiences on paper, he paused. “Sometimes I think about it,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure anyone could handle reading it—not even me. Some things are better left where they are.” Yet, even after all he endured, he looked back with a surprising sense of gratitude. “Even with all that, it was the best thing that happened to me. It made me who I am. It was a long journey, but I’m happy with who I’ve become, my life with my wife, my kids. I’d do it all again.” At last, I asked what he’d want today’s generation to understand about the Vietnam era. He didn’t hesitate. “They need to know it was a war,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Not a conflict. A war.” He let that sink in, then continued, “Every young person should serve two years after high school. Go to boot camp, get trained. It would teach them discipline, honor, and what it truly means to be an American.” When I turned the conversation to the battle that earned him his medal, he shifted a bit, the humility in his eyes unmistakable. Soft-spoken and reserved, Rick seemed almost reluctant to take any credit for the heroic actions that had set him apart. “Well, a Cobra Helicopter had gone down—a gunship. My job was to head out during the night, gather up all the ammunition and equipment, and blow it up so the enemy couldn’t get anything useful,” he began, his tone matter-of-fact but soft. After finishing the job, he returned to Bù Đốp Camp, about three miles from the Cambodian border. “I joined my buddies in trenches just down from the line of rubber trees,” he said. “Those trees were owned by the French, so they were off-limits. If the Americans damaged the trees in battle, we’d have to pay the French. The Viet Cong knew it and used them for cover, shooting at us from the safety of that tree line.” Life in the trenches was intense. “Whenever anyone lifted their head, a sniper was waiting,” he continued, his words plain but heavy with meaning. That morning, on September 10, 1969, the situation turned critical. Mortars, rockets, and gunfire came down from a much larger Viet Cong force. Rick paused, taking a moment before going on. A soldier further down the trench had raised his head, trying to spot movement. A mortar exploded just in front of him, hitting him with shrapnel. “I saw him go down,” Rick said quietly. The soldier’s screams cut through everything else. Without a second thought, Rick rushed over, grabbed him, and pulled him toward the medical bunker. Mortars kept pounding around them, bullets slicing through the air. He got his comrade to safety and returned to the front line to battle the enemy. Through Rick’s swift and selfless actions under fire, the wounded soldier received the critical medical attention he needed—saving his life. “I don’t see that I did anything heroic,” Rick said. “I just did what any brother would do. Out there, we had each other’s backs.” Rick had assumed the soldier he saved hadn’t survived. But about 20 years later, Mark Piasecki—the man Rick had saved—managed to find him. The unit distributed a newsletter to keep the troops in touch and announce upcoming reunions. Mark saw Rick’s name in one issue and decided to give him a call. As fate would have it, Rick was in town, and they reconnected. The bond they forged on the battlefield turned into a lifelong friendship, proving that some ties, once made, are unbreakable. Mark firmly believed Rick deserved recognition and wanted him to receive the Bronze Star. Rick had been in line for a Purple Heart, but his medical documents were lost when the helicopter carrying them was shot down, taking his chance for the medals with it. In the days before digital records, once documents were destroyed, they were gone for good. Mark, John Burnie another brother in arms, Rick’s wife Gail, and their daughters were determined to ensure Rick’s bravery would not go unrecognized. Following years of persistent letters and phone calls, Rick was awarded the Bronze Star Medal with a “V” device right here in Munds Park, in our hometown church packed with family, friends, and neighbors—a true testament to his character and his love of country and community. As the ceremony concluded and the crowd’s applause faded into a respectful celebration, the Bronze Star pinned to his chest was not just a medal; it was a symbol of courage and sacrifice—a late acknowledgment of a young soldier’s valor in the face of unimaginable challenges. The gravity of this moment served as a profound reminder of the harsh realities Rick had faced during his service. Mark Piasecki—the man Rick had saved—stood right here in Munds Park, side by side with Rick, to celebrate this day. I had the honor of meeting him, and I asked what he did after leaving the hospital. Mark’s answer was simple, yet profound. “I went back to the war,” he said, “to be with my brothers.” In that moment, it was clear that the ties forged in battle run deep. They’re bonds that last a lifetime, bringing two men together again—one who saved a life and one whose life was given back to him. And today, in the peace of Munds Park, they stood together, a testament to courage, sacrifice, and brotherhood that not even time could diminish. As we celebrate Rick’s story, we are reminded of all those who have served with honor and bravery. This Veterans Day, we offer our deepest gratitude to every veteran—those who have worn the uniform, stood watch, and sacrificed in ways most of us can only imagine. We honor your courage, your dedication, and the freedoms you’ve safeguarded for us all. Today and always, we thank you.

Labor Day isn’t just another day off—it’s a tribute to the sturdy backbone of America, born from the sweat of the Industrial Revolution. This holiday honors not just work, but the workers who battle against stark disparities that fill our history books. As we approach Labor Day, let’s shift our focus from past accolades to the present challenges. In this issue, we engage directly with the small business owners in our community—our unsung heroes and the real muscle behind our economy—to discover how they are coping with today’s economic turbulence. Oscar Hollaway: Navigating Raising Costs Meet Oscar Hollaway—perhaps you already have. In Munds Park, he’s not just a name; he’s a staple. Since 2005, Oscar has planted his roots deep into the soil of small businesses with ventures like Dirt Works Excavating and Hollaway Water Works.  Sitting across from him, you can’t help but notice a certain sturdiness about the man—a resilience woven through with adaptability that’s as palpable as the Arizona heat. “So, Oscar, how’s business these days?” I venture, hopeful for words of prosperity. Leaning back, a cigar in hand, he says, “In all my years working in Munds Park, my phone never stopped ringing—seven days a week, a two-month backlog of work was the norm,” he recalls. But now, the workload has shifted. “Now, I’m looking at a week, maybe a week and a half’s worth of jobs lined up.” Curiosity piqued, I dig a little deeper. “More competitors on the scene, or are folks just tightening their belts?” “No,” he says. “There’s always been competition. It’s not the competition throttling my workload but a more discerning and tight-fisted consumer base. ‘The people with money still spend,’ he notes, ‘but everyone else is waiting for steadier days.’” The financial ground under Oscar’s feet has shifted dramatically. Five years ago, a substantial investment in equipment cost him $250,000—a figure that would now hover between $300,000 and $350,000. The overheads are stark: insurance and property costs have quadrupled, his fuel expenses have soared from $19K - $22K to over $35,000 annually, and the price tags on essentials like tractor tracks have more than doubled. “Even the truck I bought for $90,000 in 2019 just cost me $120,000 for its latest counterpart. That’s a 30% hike right there,” he says, a tinge of disbelief in his tone. When asked if he was starting out today, would he take the gamble? “Not a chance,” he says, underscoring the unpredictability of our economy nibbling away at his entrepreneurial spirit. Oscar has two boys, one 22 and the other 28. “Do you feel the American Dream is within their reach?” I asked him. “Both are on different paths, doing well, and own homes,” Oscar replied. “However, homeownership would never have happened without substantial financial support from my wife and me.” He added with quiet conviction, “The dream’s alive, but it’s asking more of us, demanding more sweat, more grit.” Debi Bright: The Shifting Grounds of Homeownership In Munds Park, if you’re discussing real estate, Debi Bright is likely part of the conversation. With 30 years of experience and a reputation that precedes her, Debi is an integral part of this community. Naturally, I sought her perspective on the market, the future, and the American dream of homeownership. Sitting down with Debi in her office, surrounded by stacks of property files, our conversation naturally gravitated toward the transformations she has witnessed as a self-employed realtor. “I remember the days when buying a home was as simple as signing a single document,” she begins with a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “Now, it’s mountains of paperwork. My files just keep growing, and so does the workload.” Debi explains that this isn’t just about more paper; it’s about the increasing complexities of regulations that have made real estate transactions laborious and expensive. “I’m dealing with a 70-80% heavier workload, mostly due to bureaucracy and red tape. It’s extremely costly, and honestly, it feels like self-employed individuals like us are just getting squashed. The requirements keep escalating.” It’s not just the regulations—everyday expenses have also skyrocketed, affecting lifestyle and savings. “I love going to the grocery store...how about you?” Debi asks sarcastically. “I check out, and I’m like, ‘What on earth?’ It’s just Dan and me, and I walk out with a few morsels for $100! We recently went through a drive-through for lunch and paid $52.” How can people afford this? The combination of regulations, inflation, high interest rates, and difficulty obtaining loans deeply affect realtors and our buyers. My father, an architect with many connections in real estate, always said, “Realtors are your canary in the coal mine. Ask how they are doing, and you’ll be the first to know the economy’s direction.” Naturally, I turned to Debi to gauge the market. “The market is holding,” Debi states, “But oddly, homes priced at $800,000 and above sell fairly quickly, while those under $700,000 move sluggishly.” She notes that cash buyers currently dominate, especially in our second-home community. However, those requiring financing are hesitant due to rising interest rates. The trend of more expensive homes selling faster is contrary to the usual market behavior. I ask, “Do you think the American Dream of owning a home is still reachable for first-time home buyers?” Debi believes it is, but not in Northern Arizona. Buyers with modest incomes will be hard-pressed to find land in desirable areas. Debi added, “I always think about the kids who were raised in these areas. Most who graduate from high school or college know full well they will never be able to live in their communities unless they get help from their parents or inherit their childhood home. This means families are separated, and kids can’t easily be part of the community where they were raised. The same is true for our workforce; they are pushed out to the outskirts and expected to drive in.” I mentioned a conversation I had with a firefighter from the Pinewood Fire Department who told me the same thing. He lives in Flagstaff and is disheartened that their kids cannot afford a home in the town where they were raised and where their community is. Debi explained, “It’s going to get worse in our area... there’s only so much land. Even the new builds in Flagstaff start at $800K and up. For a first-time home buyer, that’s just impossible.” Mike Felton: The Trades Are Shifting Mike Felton, the hardworking owner of Goodfellas Junk Removal, has been a familiar face in Munds Park since 2019. Everyone knows Mike! Curious about how he’s managing, I asked Mike about his current situation, considering he has equipment and fuel costs, labor needs, and the same financial pressures we all face. How is he coping? Mike shares, “I’m hit with the same inflation as everyone else. I travel to the landfill several times a week, spending about $120 per tank on fuel prices. My workers need more money to survive, and insurance costs keep climbing. As his business expands, Mike is confronted with increasing demands for licensing and insurance, which are essential for operating legally but are burdensome financially and time-consuming. “The soaring costs of insurance are insane, and the licensing process seems more about revenue for the county or state than a genuine evaluation of our capabilities. Despite the supposed credibility these licenses afford us, the tests required are trivial and do not truly reflect our proficiency or dedication to our work. Essentially, licensing has turned into nothing more than a tax on small businesses, a fee that ensures compliance without ensuring quality service to our customers,” Mike states. When it comes to finding workers, Mike says, “Finding workers isn’t too tough, but it feels like I’m just training them to eventually go out on their own. There’s a noticeable lack of loyalty; the turnover is high. The work isn’t easy either. I do have a reliable group now—about five or six strong guys I regularly call on. These guys are solid workers holding down full-time jobs. They pick up jobs with me to supplement their income, trying to keep up with the rising cost of living. It’s a reflection of how tough our economy is, especially for those in service roles who do so much for public safety yet find it hard to get by.” Mike concluded with a frank insight into the nature of the job. “Anyone who joins us needs to be tough. It’s physically demanding work, and not everyone’s cut out for it. But it’s honest, and it pays, especially when it’s hard to make ends meet.” Looking ahead, the future seems uncertain for folks like Mike in the trades. Big investment firms are scooping up single-family homes, monopolizing the housing and rental markets, which means they’re also centralizing services. These companies tend to stick with just one or two contractors for everything—roofing, landscaping, handyman work, junk removal—you name it. It’s just not cost-effective for them to shop around or hire different businesses for different jobs. This trend will squeeze out small tradesmen and gig workers. And for renters? They get no say in who fixes their homes. These big investment firms will turn to the ‘Walmart’ of home maintenance, where local flavor is in short supply. Mike says, “The future is scary. Even if you follow the perfect plan, the government can jump in with regulations or game-changing laws that trash all your best-laid plans. Andy Keenan: The American Dream—Still Within Reach for Those Ready to Sacrifice Andy Keenan, owner and operator of Skyline Trash, is a well-known figure in Munds Park. It’s hard to find anyone here who isn’t familiar with Andy and his fiery personality. Over the years, Andy and I have engaged in many spirited discussions about the state of our economy and shared plenty of political banter, often lounging in my office, delighting in being as politically incorrect as possible. But today, I needed to have a serious conversation with him. I wanted to know, “Andy, how is business going?” “For us, business is going well, except inflation is giving us a hard time with the skyrocketing fuel costs and the overall rise in expenses on EVERYTHING,” Andy explains. “Part prices have jumped by 20-30%, and labor costs are up too. We’ve had to increase our employees’ pay just so they can manage the high cost of living.” He continues, “We recently invested about $350K in trucks, which now cost 30-50% more than they would have just 3-4 years ago. The price of a new garbage truck has skyrocketed to about half a million dollars. Fortunately, supply chain issues for used trucks have eased a bit, thanks to California’s strict EPA regulations that ban diesel trucks in favor of natural gas or CNG models. The trucks they ban are in great working condition, and ironically, this has worked to our advantage.” I asked about staff, “How about staff? Are you able to find good hires for your team?” Hiring help in Flagstaff isn’t easy. Andy lays it out plainly, “It’s tough all around. When fast food workers are nearly making $20 an hour, skilled workers are demanding even more. It’s driving up our costs dramatically.” He points out that drivers’ pay, in particular, has surged by nearly 70%, a direct result of the increased minimum wage and overall inflation. Regarding healthcare, Andy’s solution is straightforward: “Most of our crew’s spouses already have coverage, so we’ve managed to sidestep offering it directly. There was a time we provided insurance, but then we figured it’s cheaper to just pay them extra to buy their own through the Marketplace.” He reflects on the changes brought by healthcare reform, “You heard all those warnings about Obamacare pushing small businesses to drop coverage? Well, they weren’t wrong.” For his own family, healthcare costs remain a burden, “Even with insurance through my wife’s work, we’re shelling out two grand a month. It’s brutal.” Insurance woes extend beyond healthcare for Andy. “Our equipment insurance rates have jumped 30-40% in the last few years. For Andy, managing these rising costs is a constant challenge, balancing the need to pay competitive wages with maintaining his business’s profitability in a tough economic climate. I asked Andy about the American Dream. With a blended family of seven adult children and a nephew under their care, Andy has diverse insights into whether young adults today can realistically aspire to own homes or businesses. “It depends on which kid you talk to,” Andy says. “The kids who really want to succeed will make it, no doubt. I don’t think there’s a problem with the American Dream itself; the problem is with the dreamers. When we were young, we knew what it took to achieve the American Dream. It was about hard work, sacrifice, and commitment—values that seem scarce in today’s culture of instant gratification.” Andy openly criticizes the unrealistic lifestyle expectations of many young people today: “Some of our kids expect to start life with the same comforts they had at home, not recognizing the sacrifices it took to get there. In that respect, we’ve failed to teach our kids the value of living within their means. They’ve grown up a bit spoiled, expecting to start where we left off without the grit it took us to get here.” On the topic of living costs, Andy is skeptical that financial barriers alone are to blame for feelings of defeat among the youth. “It’s about choices,” Andy states. “If people choose a lifestyle they can’t afford, they’re going to feel the pressure. When I was starting out, I lived with roommates, drove a beater, and lived off peanut butter sandwiches. We didn’t stretch beyond our means. Today’s generation sees a high cost of living, but wages in places like Flagstaff are also higher. They’re making close to $20 an hour flipping burgers, buying new cars right out of high school, and racking up credit card debt. You can’t live beyond your means and expect not to be hindered financially.” Reflecting on the past, I suggested that the 1950s and 60s seemed more conducive to the American Dream, where one income could sustain a family with a house, two cars, healthcare, a pension, and a college education for the kids. Andy responded, “Back then, people lived more modestly. They had vegetable gardens, ate out only for special occasions, repaired instead of replaced, and saved more than they spent. Today, the constant spending on non-essentials eats away at savings.” “The dream is alive, but it demands sweat and sacrifice. It’s tough, no doubt about it—but remember, nobody ever said that achieving the American Dream was supposed to be easy. Life is hard, but that’s no excuse.” As Labor Day approaches, it’s important to reflect on the hard work and dedication we all bring to our jobs, whether we’re running small businesses, working in trades, or keeping our homes and communities thriving. Despite the challenges of rising costs, government regulations, and economic uncertainty, we keep showing up, pushing forward, and making things happen. Labor Day isn’t just a day off—it’s a celebration of the strength and resilience that each of us embodies as we navigate these turbulent times. We’re not just workers; we are the backbone of our community, ensuring that the American Dream remains alive, even when the path is tough. So, as we gather with friends and family this Labor Day, let’s not only celebrate the holiday but also the strength and unity that bind us together. It’s a time to support one another, to lift each other up, and to continue doing what it takes to keep our country strong. Together, through our hard work and commitment, we’re contributing to a better future and ensuring that the American Dream remains within reach for all.

Each year, the Pinewood Property Owners’ Association honors a community member whose contributions resonate far beyond ordinary involvement. These are the individuals who don’t just live in Munds Park; they enrich it, crafting a legacy of generosity and engagement that defines the spirit of our community. The hallmark of those I interview, who have dedicated their lives to our community, is a profound sense of commitment—often found among the older generation. They are the ones who were raised not just to survive but to serve. They don’t merely write checks; they are the first to roll up their sleeves, sharing their most valuable asset—their time—with others. This ethos is the signature of Munds Park, a tradition of active, caring stewardship that transforms our slice of the Coconino National Forest into a community in the truest sense. As new generations make their homes among these storied pines, we hold a collective hope: that they too will grasp this mantle, continuing to nurture the independent, vibrant spirit that makes Munds Park a place where community means more than just proximity—it means looking out for one another. Tom Eade: A Pillar of Munds Park Community In Munds Park, one name that resounds with warmth and respect is Tom Eade. Known for his amiable presence and profound contributions, Tom has been a cornerstone of volunteer efforts here since his retirement 23 years ago. His involvement with organizations such as the Pinewood Property Owners’ Association, the Pinewood Fire Department Auxiliary, and the Munds Park Trail Stewards is driven by a heartfelt commitment to enhancing the place he cherishes as home—a commitment that has earned him his second Citizen’s Award from the PPOA. Tom’s journey to Munds Park began post-graduation from UofA, leading to an unexpected settlement here instead of Colorado, owing to high costs. “A friend suggested Munds Park,” Tom recalls. “Zelle, my wife and his Mother, explored the area, quickly fell for its charm, and didn’t hesitate to purchase our first home here.” This decision sparked a lasting bond with the community. Quick to connect with his new neighbors, Tom found camaraderie and community through shared outdoor activities. “Fishing and hunting brought many of us together,” he notes. It was Dale Meranda, then president of the PPOA, who saw Tom’s potential and warmly nicknamed him ‘Kid’ for his relatively early retirement. Dale’s friendly persuasion led Tom to embrace volunteer work as part of his daily life in Munds Park. Throughout his years with the PPOA, Tom has been instrumental in various initiatives, from beautifying the firehouse with a new planter box to managing the welcome signage at the entrance of Munds Park. His collaboration with Bill Spain in the tree planting initiative, despite mixed results and opinions, underscores his dedication. “We faced challenges, but succeeded in planting over a hundred trees,” Tom admits. The project he takes most pride in is setting up flag stakes along Pinewood Boulevard for the American flag—an effort that infuses our community’s main street with a visible display of American spirit. His commitment extends through the rhythm of the seasons, marking holidays like the 4th of July and Labor Day with community-enriching projects, from flag placements to parade preparations. His service also includes a stint on the board of the Pinewood Sanitary District and collaborative county projects with local government officials, aimed at infrastructural improvements. The Munds Park Trail Stewards hold a special place in Tom’s heart. Even after the loss of his wife last year, Tom chose to maintain his involvement with MUTS, finding solace in the natural beauty and the camaraderie of the group. “Stepping back from other commitments, I find peace working on the trails,” he shares. Tom’s narrative is deeply intertwined with a legacy of service, influenced by a childhood spent in a military family that traversed the globe. “Living a life shaped by my father’s Air Force career instilled a robust sense of duty,” he reflects. His service continued through his own Marine Corps stint during the Vietnam War, a period marked by trials and deep reflections on commitment and community contribution. Today, Tom sees the essence of his efforts as part of a broader generational ethos of service. Yet, he acknowledges challenges, particularly the cultural shift with newer generations and the impact of short-term rentals on community cohesion. “The STRs are a pressing issue, as they often disrupt the local community fabric,” he states, expressing a need for more centralized advocacy to preserve the community’s integrity. Discussing the future, Tom highlights the ongoing need for volunteerism. “It’s crucial for continuity in community efforts,” he asserts, suggesting that even small contributions can lead to significant communal benefits. “Engaging in just a couple of events can foster a greater sense of community and personal satisfaction.” As he now focuses on caring for his aging relatives, Tom’s story is a poignant reminder of the enduring power of community ties and personal dedication. His ongoing commitment serves as an inspiration, urging others to contribute to the well-being of their own communities. The Quiet Strength of Karen Tucker Karen Tucker is the kind of person whose smile lights up a room and whose energy keeps Munds Park running. You might not know her by name just yet, but her friendly smile and warm greetings are a staple in town. Her week is packed with hard work, spread across three local spots. Whether she’s greeting you with your mail at The Outpost, ringing up your late-night snacks at Chevron, or dishing up some BBQ at Agee’s, Karen is everywhere. From Monday to Wednesday at The Outpost, she’s there with a smile. Tuesday nights, she’s the last one to lock up at Chevron. Come Thursday, you’ll spot her at Agee’s, and then it’s back to Chevron for those 12-hour long weekend shifts Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Seven days a week, her dedication is as unwavering as her cheer—she’s a true cornerstone of our community. When I asked Karen why she works so tirelessly, I braced myself for an answer I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear. “Karen, why do you work so hard?” I asked, hoping for a light-hearted reply about staying busy. Her answer, though simple, carried the weight of reality: she needs to make ends meet. “It’s necessary,” Karen shared, shrugging off the heaviness of the fact. “I do enjoy the extra pocket money, and honestly, I like to keep busy.” Curious about her life outside of work, I asked, “With the extra money, do you find time to enjoy it?” Her response was straightforward. “Not really, I don’t do much outside of work,” she admitted. Despite the demanding hours, Karen still dreams of simpler pleasures. “I’d love to go to church on Sundays, play dime BINGO, or catch a play by the Pinewood Players—I hear they’re quite funny. But my 12-hour weekend shifts at Chevron make that tough.” So, what does she do with any scrap of free time? “I catch up on sleep,” she said with a giggle, a testament to her resilience and the quiet strength it takes to keep smiling through such a packed work schedule. I had heard about Karen’s kindness beyond her work, so I asked her to share more about it. “Karen, I’ve heard that with the little free time you have, you help a neighbor. Can you tell me about that?” “Yes,” she replied warmly. “I have a 95-year-old neighbor and friend who’s lived in the Park for over forty years. She needs a little help with getting her groceries, mail, and packages, so I do that for her every Wednesday. I really enjoy it,” Karen shared with genuine affection. “We touch base about every three days and have wonderful conversations.” Extraordinary. Working tirelessly seven days a week to pay the bills, Karen unselfishly gives away the little free time she has to help a neighbor in need. This reminded me of my article about Pastor Steve and Sara and their philosophy of the six front doors. Karen may miss church, but it is already deep inside of her—she embodies the spirit of compassion in everything she does. I wondered where Karen got her tireless work ethic, the kind that keeps her moving with a genuine smile for everyone she meets. She attributes it to her upbringing, which was shaped by values from both her parents. “I’m old school,” Karen explained. “My father taught me the value of hard work, and my mother instilled in me the importance of kindness.” She noted that work ethic seems less common among the younger generations but values it deeply as a personal lesson. Karen has called Munds Park her full-time home for nine years, having bought her house in 1999 after her father passed away. “We used to visit every season as a family,” she recalled. Both she and her sister were drawn to the welcoming atmosphere and the community spirit. “We especially loved the winters here, cozying up with a hot toddy by the fire,” she shared with fondness. Karen added that she doesn’t have many moments like that anymore, although she hopes to in the future. Karen’s connection to Munds Park runs deep, even though her demanding schedule limits her leisure time. “This community is so caring it keeps me strong,” she said, appreciating the neighborly gestures that define local life. For example, when someone heads to Flagstaff, they often offer to pick up items for others. “That’s just about every single person I know up here,” Karen noted, contrasting it with her upbringing in Buckeye. “It’s unique to Munds Park.” Karen also finds joy in the stories of the people she meets, a contrast to her younger days. “I missed out on listening to my parents and grandparents tell about the old times,” she admitted. “But today, as I meet people and customers, I get to hear their stories. Everyone has a story to tell, and I love listening to them.” This newfound appreciation for history has grown over the years, and she now values the tales of past generations and their journeys. Karen, known for her warm smile, kind words, and helpful attitude, radiates such positivity that Genna couldn’t help but ask: “With all the sunshine pouring out of you, is there ever a situation where you just want to punch someone in the taco?” Karen laughed and said, “No,” still laughing, “I really can’t say there’s anyone I want to punch! I just feel sorry when people get frustrated and lash out. I try to help them instead.” Genna followed up by telling Karen that everyone she comes into contact with seems to fall in love with her. “You always have time for someone, you always seem to care, and you make people’s hearts smile,” Genna observed. Then, she asked, “How does it make you feel inside, knowing all these people love you, so much so that they gave you the Citizen Award?” Karen’s response was heartfelt. “I feel fantastic,” she said. “I’ve got to tell you, when I heard I got the award, I was puzzled. I didn’t die; I’m not sick or ill, so I didn’t understand why I was nominated. But it makes me feel very proud.” For the final question, Genna asked, “When do you get to retire?” Karen’s reply was straightforward and resolute. “I’m not planning to,” she said. “I’m 72 now, and as long as I can keep going, I will. I’ll retire when I die.” Karen Tucker’s life in Munds Park is a testament to the power of kindness. Each day, she exemplifies the profound impact one person can have by simply being present and compassionate. With a smile as steady as her tenatious work ethic, Karen shows us that true community spirit is woven through countless small, caring acts. Her genuine connections, reminds us all that compassion is often found in the everyday—lifting spirits, easing burdens, and reinforcing the bonds that make a community feel like home.

Open ‘6 Front Doors’ to Unity & Community Spirit In selecting a Grand Marshal, we honor those who embody the heart of our community—individuals who exemplify what it means to be a good neighbor and rolling up their sleeves to support those around them. This year, Pastor Steve Bowyer and his wife Sara epitomize this spirit, and thus chosen as Grand Marshals for their unwavering dedication to our community. When Steve and Sara arrived in Munds Park in 2015, they aimed to go beyond their roles as pastor and pastor’s wife. They wanted to actively engage with the community, warmly welcoming everyone, regardless of their religious beliefs. Steve and Sara immersed themselves in volunteerism, becoming integral members of various community organizations. They are both active members of the Pinewood Fire Auxiliary, where Sara previously served as Vice President, and Steve currently serves as President of the Board. Their dedication to this role reflects their belief in the Auxiliary’s essential support for our Fire Department and the broader community. Further, Steve serves as Chaplain for the Pinewood Fire Department, attending all District Board Meetings and providing support during challenging times. He is also a member of the Munds Park Business Alliance, where he fosters growth and mutual support among local business owners. In addition to their community service, Steve and Sara fostered inclusivity within the church, organizing gatherings that welcome everyone in Munds Park, regardless of church affiliation. Their events start with a lively LUAU each summer, featuring good food, games, and a warm atmosphere of friendship. They host two movie nights each summer—one under the stars in July and another indoors in August—offering popcorn and water, while guests bring their own chairs and blankets. Another enjoyable activity is the Rough Riders Club, a group of locals who explore Coconino forest trails in their side-by-sides, enjoying the ride and connection and of course, all are welcome. A standout event is the annual Soup’er Bowl, held on the eve of the Super Bowl, where neighbors come together to savor and vote on an array of homemade soups. Categories for the winning soups include the spiciest, heartiest, most likely to pack on pounds, and more. They also host a Thanksgiving feast complete with all the trimmings, warmly welcoming those in the Park who may find themselves alone during the holiday or simply wish to give thanks in the company of friends. As the season winds down, Oktoberfest brings together residents for brats, sauerkraut, fire pits, s’mores, and celebrating the season. Every event organized by the Munds Park Community Church is a gift to the community, made possible by the church and its generous supporters. Naturally, the church offers enriching experiences tailored to its congregation, including Bible Studies, fellowship gatherings for both men and women, Vacation bible school for the kids, and church services that resonate with today’s seekers. The church doubles as a Red Cross shelter, offering warmth during severe snowstorms and a place to charge devices during extended power outages. Steve highlights the shelter as a testament to the importance of community involvement. “During a severe snowstorm, how do we notify people that we’re open?” Steve poses. “Friends call friends,” he explains. “Community events are crucial—not just for the church but the entire community. When someone faces hardship, they won’t reach out to a stranger. So, when the power goes out in winter, the snow piles up, and it gets bitterly cold indoors, it’s friends who check in on each other.” These community events aim to foster relationships and build friendships, creating bonds between neighbors. Steve believes this is essential for a strong and healthy community. Sara highlighted that the Munds Park Community Church embraced Steve’s unique approach, which he calls the ‘6 front doors’. This philosophy reflects Steve’s belief that community begins at one’s doorstep and extends to the neighbors around you. Steve strives to be a pastor who leads by example with integrity and a genuine desire to connect people to Jesus and each other. While skilled in guiding Christians on a deeper spiritual journey, he pondered how to foster connections with those who did not share his faith. Surrounded by Christians—family, friends, and church members—he sought to form genuine friendships outside his circle of believers. During his time in Granger, Indiana, while contemplating Acts 17:26—”... and he determined the times set for them and the exact places where they should live”—Steve reflected on the divine purpose of his location. “God decides when and where you live; there’s meaning in your exact location,” he said. One day, while retrieving the mail, he stood at the mailbox and noticed he could see 6 front doors. This moment sparked a profound realization: each door represented a responsibility. “The first door was my own. My integrity, character, and care for my wife and children were my first responsibility. Then I saw my neighbors and the houses across the street—placed here by God for a reason, regardless of their faith.” This is where the story begins. Steve saw this as a responsibility and an opportunity to build community across religious divides. Thus began the journey of bringing neighbors together and forging bonds that strengthen communities—starting with the 6 front doors of his neighborhood. Steve and Sara began by fostering connections—talking to neighbors over the fence, inviting them over for coffee, grilling burgers together, and simply being friendly. These acts of neighborly kindness revealed shared interests that strengthened bonds, highlighting that authentic connections are essential for nurturing strong communities. Steve and Sara brought their ‘6 front doors’ philosophy to the church and quickly realized that Munds Park’s community was already living it. Neighbors hosted block parties, happy hours, and regular get-togethers, providing a fertile ground for Sara and Steve to expand this philosophy within their fellowship. “Church isn’t just a building across the highway; it’s wherever people gather,” Steve emphasizes. As the church and its members became more involved in Munds Park community activities, the perception of ‘church people’ shifted—from judgmental and distant to kind and friendly—as it should be. Sara acknowledges the challenges of their philosophy, saying, “It requires vulnerability to reach out to neighbors you don’t know. It’s easy to come home from work, close the door, and retreat into comfort. But true community involvement is messy—it means embracing relationships with all their complexities.” Steve adds, “Engaging with neighbors is both easy because they’re right there and difficult because they’re right there.” However, bringing the community together and supporting each other is a gift that knows no bounds and is well worth the effort. Sara concludes, “Often, churches turn inward, inadvertently excluding those who seek warmth and connection. We choose to focus outward—no hidden agendas. While we hope our actions reflect Jesus’s love, our primary goal is simply friendship.” Editor’s Note As the editor of Pinewood News, I have the privilege of meeting with community members who share their stories. I’ve had the experience of being deeply moved by two individuals who recounted their personal hardships. Neither were church members, yet both spoke of how Steve and Sara profoundly impacted their lives. It wasn’t through church affiliation but through genuine, compassionate support during a difficult time that left a lasting impression. Today, both count themselves as part of the church community, and they are deeply thankful for Steve and Sara’s empathetic generosity. Their heartwarming stories deepened my esteem for Sara and Steve. I’d like to share something personal with you. As most of you know, Genna and I are gay and have been married for over 30 years. We remember a time when we couldn’t easily share this information. Today is different, but it is still a challenge because the gay community likes to push the limits of acceptance, and pastors and their wives can be extra sticky territory for us—not with Steve and Sara. They know who we are, and never once have they judged us, tried to convert us, or even bring us into the church and wash us of our sins. They simply were kind people we enjoy being around. Genna considers Sara a good friend, and Sara has helped Genna through some difficult times. When I learned I needed open-heart surgery and couldn’t travel back to Munds Park, it was Sara who dropped everything to drive Genna to Phoenix to be with me. Not only that, the church lent a financial hand, knowing we were struggling at that time—we’re not even members of the church. We are forever thankful for their help. Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me that Steve is a pastor and Sara is a pastor’s wife. Those titles alone don’t guarantee genuine kindness and love—it’s their actions that truly define them. They demonstrate immense kindness and acceptance toward anyone who crosses their path. Normally, I wouldn’t share something so personal, but I believe it’s important to share the love and support Steve and Sara extend to us and those around them. We can all use a good story to uplift our spirits now and then. One last note. As you know, Genna and I recently moved to Rimrock, and our neighbors are all new to us. We’ve connected with one couple on the block, but the guy across the road? He drinks too much, doesn’t work, and seems a bit odd. Naturally, I judged him for all these things. I hadn’t seen him the past few weeks and wondered where he was, but I never crossed the street to check on him. However, while writing this article, I thought about my neighbor and Steve’s words. When I took a break from writing, I decided to check on him. It turns out our neighbor is a veteran who flew cargo planes for the Air Force and is a carpenter by trade. Somewhere along his journey, he lost his way. He hasn’t been around lately because he is sick and on the verge of eviction. He lacks the resources to sell his last remaining possessions. He has a beautiful dog, loved by everyone on the block. I know this because I watch neighbors who walk by have treats at the ready just for Jazzy. He broke down in tears as he told me he would have to surrender his only companion. As I listened to him, Sara’s words about how getting to know your neighbors can be messy ran through my mind. What a can of worms this was. I silently cursed Steve for planting this idea in my head. But when the conversation ended, my heart swelled. I went home and told Genna, “We’re up—it’s time to lend a hand.” Love thy neighbor, 1 door at a time.