A New Series on Protecting Your Home Before, During, & After the Job This year in our seasonal home series, we’re pulling back the curtain on the hard lessons we learned after a major home project went sideways, despite doing everything we thought was right. Last issue, we shared how trusting glowing online review stars left us burned. This time, we’re talking about something homeowners trust even more: the permit. The contractor pulls the permit. The city stamps it approved. And the homeowner breathes easier, thinking the work was truly checked. We believed that too. Our HVAC system was permitted and signed off. On paper, everything looked right. It wasn’t. What we didn’t understand is that a permit and final sign-off are not proof the work was thoroughly inspected. They don’t guarantee every part of the job was examined, or that anyone verified the design and installation were sound. A permit inspection means the inspector signed off only on what was checked that day, and that depends on access. If the work is already covered up, hard to reach, or not left ready for inspection, those areas may never be looked at. Roof work is a perfect example. Inspectors don’t bring ladders; it’s up to the contractor or homeowner to provide safe access and keep the work exposed. Some jurisdictions even require it. In our case, no one ever went onto the roof to examine the ductwork installation. No one verified the insulation on the exposed rooftop ducts. No one evaluated whether the design itself made sense for our home. Yet the job received the county’s seal of approval. To this day, we’re not sure what was actually inspected, clearly not the parts that mattered most. Inspections are not full investigations. They’re often brief and focused only on specific items tied to the permit, not on how the finished work actually performs. Most homeowners assume “passed inspection” means the job was fully vetted. In reality, it may mean only that nothing obvious was flagged during a limited review. Those are not the same thing. That distinction became painfully clear when rain started leaking through our interior vents. What began as annoying drips turned into condensation dripping onto our kitchen table, and sometimes our heads that eventually required an independent environmental inspection. That inspection came back positive for mold. From our point of view, the question was simple: How did this pass inspection? The answer? The process doesn’t go deep enough to catch major design flaws or poor workmanship, especially when critical elements are hidden or hard to access. So what should homeowners do? Ask exactly what will be inspected, and what won’t. Ask whether the inspector will need access to the roof, attic, or other hard-to-reach areas. And ask one more important question: Is the inspection checking how the work actually performs, or just whether certain visible items meet code? If the answers are vague, don’t let it go. And if you can, be there. Watch what gets looked at, and just as importantly, notice what doesn’t. It may feel uncomfortable, but this is your home, your investment, and ultimately your problem if something goes wrong. The hard truth is this: “Approved” does not mean examined closely enough to catch serious issues. To Genna and me, the permitting process felt more like a tax than real protection. When the work is wrong, the homeowner is far more on their own than most people realize. In our next installment, we’ll walk through what happens when you turn to the Arizona Registrar of Contractors, and why many homeowners are surprised by what that process actually requires.

Tim Smith & His Daughter Zoe’s Vision for Munds Park’s Front Door Tim Smith & His Daughter Zoe When you pull off I-17 into Munds Park, you pass a stretch of land that looks, at first glance, like any other commercial edge along a highway. Gravel, trees, a wash cutting through it, and movement of earth that will soon reveal itself. For Tim Smith and his daughter Zoe, that 26-acre parcel west of Munds Park, south of soon to be Satchmo's Roadhouse BBQ, is not just another stretch of interstate frontage property. It is the land they have been quietly shaping, and the spot where they believe Munds Park could gain both practical storage and something it has never quite had: a shared, thoughtfully planned front porch. Tim bought the land around 1999. He has made a living as a builder and developer, and he likes to joke that floodplains have followed him from job to job. This one is no different. The maps have shifted twice since he closed on the ground, so every shovel of dirt is tested against charts and elevations. “It looks simple when you drive by,” he said, “but there is a lot going on under the surface.” The First Phase: RV & Toy Storage The only part of the long-term vision currently underway is an RV and toy storage facility at the back of the property. The plan is to start with open-air spaces, then add enclosed storage buildings as demand grows. Around 200 spaces are included in the initial layout, though that number may shift based on what the community needs. The Smiths hope to open the facility in early 2026 and will share updates through the Pinewood News. Reservations are already being accepted. See the ad on page 14 for contact information. The storage facility is not designed to be a field of exposed rigs. A seven-foot perimeter fence of corrugated metal and expanded wire surrounds the space, offering a clean, modern appearance. The entire facility will be gated, with keypad access, security cameras, and operating hours generally set from morning into early evening. Lighting is a frequent concern in a dark-sky community, and Tim has made it a priority from the start. The planned fixtures follow Flagstaff’s dark-sky standards, using low-mounted, amber-colored lights that reduce glare and limit skyglow. Only a small number of poles will be installed, just enough to ensure safety and visibility without flooding the area with light. The goal is to protect the night sky, not light up the forest. “We do not need to light this up like a shopping center,” he said. “We just need to see who is there and keep it safe at night.” When the Smiths first drew up the concept, they pictured Phoenix area residents storing their rigs here instead of dragging them up and down the hill every weekend. Early phone calls and inquiries have surprised them. “So far the interest seems to be right across the street,” Zoe said. “A lot of Munds Park residents are tired of losing their carport or garage to a fifth wheel all summer.” Some of the calls have come from owners of high-end diesel coaches who want a secure, screened home for their investment. Others are simply looking for a place to park an extra vehicle so the driveway is usable again. Tim believes that shift could quietly improve the look of Munds Park neighborhoods. “If we can move some of the bigger units out of side yards and shared driveways and into a lot that functions well, it cleans up the streets,” he said. “That feels like a win for everybody.” Respecting the Floodplain When construction equipment rolled in and trees started coming down, many in the community wondered what was happening along the wash. Tim says the changes were part of a calculated plan to follow floodplain regulations and improve water flow, not disrupt it. According to county flood rules, a landowner can raise ground in one area only if they remove the same amount of soil from another. This ensures the wash still has the capacity to carry stormwater during heavy rains. On this property, that meant digging out one section of the floodplain so another section, where the RV storage pad will go, could be built up without increasing flood risk. “It’s basically a trade,” Tim explained. “We remove material from one spot to deepen the channel, and that allows us to raise another area while keeping the water flow the same.” The elevated pad, he said, remains about a foot below the mapped flood level and should safely accommodate RVs without affecting nearby properties. As for the trees that were removed, Tim clarified that they were located outside the official flood zone and were cleared only as part of the necessary grading work. “I get why people are concerned when they see trees come out,” he said. “But in this case, it was done carefully and by the book. The goal is to manage water properly, not push it into someone else’s yard.” Exploring Options for a Shared Community Space Ask Tim what comes after the storage yard, and he doesn’t pull out a glossy master plan. He talks instead in sketches and “what ifs.” Standing on the open ground near the highway, Tim gestures toward a natural bowl formed by the wash and grading work, with a tree-lined slope rising behind it. “This could be an amphitheater one day,” he said. “Stage at the bottom, trees as the backdrop. Movies, music, community events. It’s already shaped for it.” Then the conversation turns to food. This year he planted his first real garden on the hill above, just to see what would happen. Pumpkins sprawled. Vegetables came in faster than his family could eat them. Friends went home with armloads. “I have never gardened in my life,” he admitted. “We still ended up with more than we needed. It felt like something we should offer the community.” The Smiths imagine a community garden where locals can reserve plots, share water, and grow food together. Nearby, the flat open space could host a farmers’ market with real parking, rather than vendors setting up in improvised lots. They are clear about one thing: they do not want to run the market themselves. “We know enough to know what we do not know,” Zoe said. “There are already people in the region who run true farmers’ markets with real produce and quality vendors. We would rather work with someone like that and focus on being good land stewards.” Over time, Tim can see the strip becoming a small-town center of sorts. A café that serves local food. A place for yoga classes. Shared paths that connect to the forest instead of random cuts through fences. “What Munds Park does not really have right now is a common meeting place that feels like the heart of town,” he said. “We have the room here to try to build something like that if people want it.” They are big fans of models that already exist nearby: a Rimrock shop that roasts its own coffee and stocks local eggs, produce, and prepared foods; Camp Verde farms that sell directly to families; and the growing number of restaurants in the region that focus on fresh, lighter meals. “Munds Park is full of people who hike, bike, and want to feel good,” Zoe said. “The land here could support that kind of lifestyle in a practical way.” Respecting the Land & Setting Boundaries Owning a wide-open parcel next to the woods comes with its own troubles. Over the years, drivers of off-road vehicles have cut locks, sliced fences, and even driven over gates to reach the forest illegally. They tear up the ground and let cattle out. They break things because they want a shortcut. That history shapes how the Smiths think about their space. If they add gardens or markets, they will likely create pedestrian entrances or turnstiles to keep vehicles out. “We want people to enjoy this place,” Zoe said, “but we have to protect it too. There is a balance between open and overrun.” Shared Easement, Shared Frustrations There is an old easement running in front of the Chevron, Agee’s (now no longer in business), and neighboring parcels. You cannot talk about this land without touching it. According to documents Tim has reviewed with his attorney, a 50 to 60-foot-wide ingress and egress easement was created decades ago to guarantee access across the frontage to several parcels and to public utilities. It runs parallel to the highway and includes the strip where Agee’s and Chevron customers often park. For many years, that easement functioned quietly in the background. As businesses grew busier and Munds Park saw more visitors, the same strip began filling with cars and trucks. When Tim leased part of his land to a construction company during the interstate project, their heavy rigs sometimes could not get through. Utility vehicles faced the same squeeze. From Tim’s point of view, that turned a legal access question into a safety concern. He says he asked that parking be pulled back, that “no parking” signs be posted along the easement, and that he even offered to lease a portion of his own property as a fenced seasonal parking area for Agee’s and their customers. The offer, he says, was declined by the property’s owner, representative. Meanwhile, petitions have circulated in the community in support of continued parking near the restaurant, and many residents understandably worry about what changes to that strip could mean for a local business they enjoy. As of this writing, the legal questions about how the easement can be used and by whom are being handled by attorneys. The Smiths say their goal is to secure clear access for their land, their tenants, and utility providers, while leaving room for nearby businesses to find workable parking solutions on land outside the access corridor. Looking Ahead For now, what is actually happening on the ground is straightforward. RV and toy storage will come first. Munds Park residents will have one more option to store their rig currently occupying the carport. The rest is still a conversation. Community gardens. A farmers’ market with real parking. Maybe an amphitheater. Maybe a handful of small local businesses. None of it moves forward without partners and neighbors. None of it works without people who want open space, good food, and a place to gather. “This place has a lot of potential,” Zoe said. “If we do it right, it can become something that serves the whole community. A place for people to come together, enjoy good food, connect with neighbors, and enjoy themselves. That is our hope.”

A New Series on Protecting Your Home Before, During, & After the Job This year, we’re skipping the usual seasonal home maintenance checklist. We are launching a summer series for homeowners on how to choose the right contractor or home service company, spot warning signs sooner, understand the permitting process, and know what to do when a project starts to go wrong, because we got burned even after what we believed was a thorough vetting process. This series comes from more than a year of costly, stressful firsthand experience. Genna and I purchased a fixer-upper in Rimrock, and it needs a great deal of work. Whenever possible, we choose our own advertisers to help care for our home. As our readers know, we vet our advertisers. We check reviews, verify licenses, and do a first round of screening so readers can make a more informed first cut. That is why what happened next hit so hard. A longtime advertiser, with hundreds of Google reviews and a 4.9 rating, seemed like someone we could trust completely to handle an important job. We thought we had done our homework. What followed proved that homework alone is not always enough. After more than a year of problems, Genna and I kept asking ourselves the same question: How does this company have such strong Google reviews? That is when we really started asking questions, and we learned a great deal. We learned so much from that experience that we believe it can help others avoid the same kind of trouble. We are not interested in publicly attacking any one company. The company involved no longer advertises with us, so our readers do not need to worry about choosing them through Pinewood News. What matters now is using what we learned to help readers ask better questions, spot warning signs sooner, and protect themselves before a bad hire turns into a major financial, legal, and emotional mess. We have heard this story too many times. A repair goes wrong, the contractor points fingers or rushes in with a fix that only makes the problem worse, and before long the project is a mess. Costs pile up. Stress takes over. The peace you should feel in your own home starts to disappear. That is not a small inconvenience when the work involves your roof, your wiring, your plumbing, your heating and cooling, or anything else tied to the safety and value of your home. Our mistake cost us both. So we are breaking this series into the questions that matter most: How much should you trust online reviews? What should you know during the permitting process that most homeowners are never told? What happens when you need to file a complaint with the Arizona Registrar of Contractors? When is it time to stop waiting and call a lawyer? And what should homeowners know when a locally owned business is bought up by investment groups but still trades on its old name? Investment groups often keep the trusted name long after the original owners are gone or no longer in control. Independent owners are often proud of what they’ve built and focused on doing the work right, not just ringing the cash register. We are starting this series with the first thing most people do before hiring anyone: checking Google reviews. And yes, reviews matter. But the stars can lie, and they should never be the only thing you trust. A high rating can be useful, but it is not proof that a company is the right fit for your job. A near-perfect score, especially with a very large number of reviews, should make you slow down and look closer. No company is perfect. Even good businesses run into delays, miscommunication, and unhappy customers. The smarter move is to read beyond the stars and look for the real story. Start with the newest reviews, then read the lowest-rated ones. Look for patterns, not just one-off complaints. If a company has a sudden wave of glowing five-star reviews posted close together, especially after long quiet stretches, that can be a sign of a review push rather than a natural flow of customer feedback. Watch for vague praise that sounds more like ad copy than a real customer experience. If review after review says the same thing in slightly different words, names the same employee in a scripted way, or sounds overly polished and generic, slow down. Real customers usually mention specifics: what was done, what went wrong, how long it took, what it cost, or how the company handled a problem. If a review feels off, it is also worth clicking on the reviewer’s profile to make sure it appears to be real. If the account is new or based in a town that does not make sense for a local job, take a closer look. If you see a cluster of brand-new accounts posting vague reviews, that can be a sign the review activity is being manipulated. And yes, paid reviews can be part of that picture. Sometimes that means fake reviews bought outright. Sometimes it is more subtle: a marketing campaign pushing hard for five-star ratings, incentives for positive reviews, or employees being rewarded for collecting them. That does not mean every review is fake. It does mean the rating itself may be less meaningful than it looks. Also pay attention to how the company responds. A thoughtful response that addresses the actual complaint can be a good sign. A canned response repeated over and over is not. If serious complaints get polished public replies but no real substance, that can tell you as much as the reviews themselves. The safest approach is to treat reviews as a starting point, not a green light. Before hiring anyone for major work on your home, especially anything involving your roof, structure, or mechanical systems, verify that the company is licensed where required, properly insured, and bonded when applicable. Ask for proof. Check the license for yourself. Make sure the name on the paperwork matches the name of the business you are hiring. Ask who will actually be doing the work. Get the scope in writing. For smaller routine tasks, the level of risk may be lower. But the moment the work can damage your home, create liability, or affect safety, those protections matter. Yes, hiring a licensed, bonded, and insured company may cost more up front, but this is your home. It is better to pay for proper protection now than to pay dearly for mistakes later. This series is built around one simple idea: the best time to protect yourself is before the work begins. In the weeks ahead, we will walk through the warning signs, the paperwork, the agencies, and the practical steps that can help you make better decisions before you hire and know what to do if things go wrong after the fact. Because in a place like Munds Park, your home is not just a structure. It is your retreat, your investment, and, for some, a legacy. And if someone is going to work on it, they had better earn that trust. Note to our readers: We do a first round of vetting for our advertisers. That includes checking reviews, verifying licenses, and looking at the public-facing information available to us so readers can make a more informed first cut. We value businesses that have earned strong customer feedback over time. But when it comes to major work on your home, no review, ad, or screening process should be the only factor in your decision. Always do your own due diligence before hiring anyone.

Dennis Tran Has Big Plans for Saigon North Where passion meets precision. Chef Dennis Tran at work. I have to say, after talking to Dennis on the phone to set up this interview, I already knew I was going to like him. At one point, he said with a smile in his voice, “We are looking to bring much love, peace, and happiness,” and I fell in love a little right then. I learned it wasn’t a line. It was just who he is. When we met in person, that happy and positive energy came through. He greeted us with a huge smile, and it was clear how much this new chapter means to him. He’s excited to bring his food to the Park, and even more excited to build something that brings people together. Genna and I visited him and his wife, Jenny, at Saigon Kitchen in Surprise. He gave us the full tour—the kitchen, the walk-in freezer, the bathrooms—every corner spotless. He takes pride in that, and he should. And the food? Incredible. He served us his mother’s crispy egg rolls with minced pork, shaken beef platter, Saigon garlic noodles, chicken broth, and more. It was way too much to eat in one sitting, so we packed it up and stopped for ice on the way home to keep it cold. That should tell you everything. We also got to see Dennis with his staff, most of whom are kids who grew up eating at the restaurant. Their parents were regulars, and now they’re behind the counter. Watching him with them felt more like a big brother checking in than a boss managing a shift. It was genuine, and it was moving. I am confident that Munds Park will fall in love, too. Now, on to the interview. Dennis Tran grew up surrounded by the warmth of a kitchen and the steady rhythm of a family that loved to cook. His parents shared a deep appreciation for food, and that passion shaped him early on. His mother owned and operated a Vietnamese restaurant in San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter, right on 4th and Broadway, across from the Grand Hotel. Some of the dishes on his current menu are tributes to his mother’s recipes, like her crispy egg rolls with minced pork and a signature hot sauce for those who like it spicy. Her influence runs deep, not just in the food but in Dennis himself. Dennis learned to cook by doing. As a kid in his mother’s kitchen, he soaked up more than recipes—he learned hustle, hospitality, and how to feed people from the heart. That hands-on experience became the foundation of his love for good food and people. He’s a self-taught chef whose skills were forged through experience, not a classroom. Growing up in his mother’s kitchen, he learned by doing and developed an instinct for flavor that can’t be taught. Inspired by his parents and driven by a deep love for the craft, Dennis built his life around food. That life, however, was moving fast. At the time, Dennis was working nonstop and rarely home. He knew it was time to start a family. He told his wife Jenny, “Wherever you want to move, we’ll move.” Her brother lived in Surprise, so they went to check it out. The town had a family-oriented feel, the kind of place where they could plant roots and build a life. They quickly fell in love with the community, and it’s been part of their story ever since. Back in 2007, Surprise was nothing like it is today. It was mostly farmland, with fields of corn, orange groves, and watermelons stretched for miles. Dennis and Jenny watched the town slowly evolve. By late 2009, Dennis had an idea. He told Jenny, “You know what? I think this city needs a good place to eat.” He began researching the area, asking himself and community leaders if Surprise would welcome something new, like Asian cuisine. After much thought and research, in 2010, they decided to go for it. Opening from scratch was brutal. Banks won’t touch restaurant startups—too risky. “They wait until you survive the first three years,” Dennis says. “Then your name starts to mean something.” Construction began that year, but progress was slow. The City of Surprise was backed up with permits, and Dennis refused to cut corners. He was committed to doing everything the right way. After months of patience and persistence, the restaurant opened its doors in July 2010. At first, the community was mostly retirees who were used to more traditional fare—“meat and potatoes,” as Dennis puts it. Asian flavors were unfamiliar to many. So he met the challenge head-on: personally delivering dishes to tables, introducing the food himself, and asking for honest feedback. “Try it. See if you like it. Tell me what you think.” That simple gesture helped build trust and relationships. Word spread. Year by year, more people came—not just for the food, but for the warm, welcoming atmosphere. Guests came from Sun City, Sun Village, even as far as Goodyear. Wine groups gathered for happy hour. Golf leagues and baseball teams held regular meetups. The restaurant became a local hub. Running a restaurant isn’t glamorous. It’s long hours, constant pressure, and hard work. Ten to fifteen-hour days are standard. As Dennis puts it, “If your heart’s not in it, it shows.” Today, Dennis still walks the floor, checks every dish, and greets regulars by name. He hasn’t forgotten where it all began: a small kitchen in San Diego, watching his mother cook with care and purpose. That same spirit lives in every plate he serves. For Dennis, food isn’t just a business. It’s how he honors his roots and connects with people through good food made with love and packed with flavor. A Taste of Saigon in the Mountains So what brought Dennis and his family to Munds Park? It started with a longtime family friend, his real estate broker, who had built a home in Munds Park nearly twenty years ago. For years, he and his wife kept inviting Dennis, Jenny, and Dennis’s brother to come visit. But life was busy, and they never made the time. Then, one summer, they finally did. And that was it. It was love at first sight. The peace. The trees. The community. It was everything they didn’t know they were missing. Dennis remembers the moment clearly: “My wife looked at me, I looked at her, and I asked my two boys, ‘What do you think about being here?’ They said, ‘We love it!’” Munds Park offered just the right balance. It was close enough to Surprise to stay connected, but far enough to feel like a true getaway. The boys love to ski. Jenny does too. At first, they considered Flagstaff, but it felt too crowded and too much like a city. Munds Park had the quiet, peace, and beauty. It was exactly what they were looking for. They bought a home and completely remodeled it. The family was happy. Dennis hadn’t planned on opening a second restaurant—until something caught his eye. One day, while driving around the Park, Dennis spotted the for sale sign at Martino’s. He looked at Jenny and said, “Honey, maybe we should open a restaurant here.” And just like that, the seed was planted. It wasn’t part of the plan, but it felt right. Over time, Dennis and the property owners, Dee and Bill Spain, not only struck a deal to purchase the old Martino’s restaurant, they also became fast friends. Before Dennis can officially bring his vision to life in Munds Park, there’s one critical piece still pending: the liquor license. “We’re still on a contingency for that,” he says. “To be honest, if the liquor license doesn’t come through, the deal’s done. It’s that important, especially up here.” The ability to serve beer, wine, and cocktails is essential to the restaurant’s concept and experience. However, there is no real concern that the license won’t come through. In the meantime, the work has already begun. Dennis is already gearing up for a full renovation. Inside and out, everything will be transformed—fresh paint, new floors, updated fixtures, and comfortable seating throughout. The kitchen will be fully opened up, giving guests a clear view of the team at work and the care they put into keeping everything spotless. The exterior will also get a major refresh to match the warmth and quality found inside. Jenny has a special vision for the exterior. She wants to create a lush, welcoming landscape, the kind of garden that makes you want to stay awhile. The whole space will feel warm, peaceful, and alive. The layout will include a cozy lounge, a spacious dining area, and beautiful outdoor seating. Central heating and air conditioning will be added too, ensuring guests are comfortable year-round so they can relax and enjoy. Dennis is aiming to open before the Fourth of July 2026, but his target is mid-June. Either way, he’s not rushing. He plans to start with a soft opening to train staff thoroughly and dial in every detail before fully launching. When it comes to staffing, he’s staying true to his values. Unlike many restaurateurs, Dennis won’t be bringing staff from his Surprise location. He wants to hire locally—teenagers, college students, and people from the community who are eager to learn. “I actually prefer people with no experience,” he says. “That way, they learn everything my way, from scratch.” Every sauce and every recipe will be his own. He plans to personally oversee all food prep and cooking to ensure the kind of consistency that built his reputation. “When I train people myself, they understand how I want things done. That’s what keeps the food right.” Operating seasonally? Not a problem. Some might worry about operating only part of the year, but Dennis sees it as a perfect balance. “I’m not too worried about being open six to eight months out of the year,” he says. “Winter in Surprise is our peak season, with all the winter visitors. Summer slows down there, but that’s when Munds Park is at its busiest. It balances out perfectly.” This seasonal rhythm also gives him the rare opportunity to be fully present in both locations. “Even though I have a kitchen manager, a chef, a sous chef, and a prep team, I still like to be there during peak season. I want to make sure the food stays consistent and the quality never slips.” Right now, the plan is for the Munds Park restaurant to operate from April through the end of December. And yes, he’s already thinking about the parking situation. Dennis knows parking will be a challenge, especially during busy weekends. While he’ll have access to his own lot and the neighboring Coldwell Banker spaces after 5 p.m., he’s also exploring long-term options. One possibility is the nearby Woody’s property, owned by the Shuster family, which he hopes might be available for overflow parking. “It could really benefit the whole area,” Dennis says. “A clean, well-maintained space would be an improvement until the land is developed.” Bold Flavors, Thoughtful Choices The menu honors Vietnamese tradition, with bold flavors and a fresh, modern flair. From pho and crisp salads to crowd favorites like Saigon Garlic Noodles and the signature Shaken Beef Platter—a sizzling dish of stir-fried filet mignon with caramelized onions and Jasmine rice—Saigon Kitchen is known for bold flavors and quality ingredients. Healthy dining options in Munds Park are limited, especially for those who are mindful about what they eat. Whether it’s due to a special diet, food allergies, or simply a preference for lighter, healthier meals, many people are looking for choices that feel good and taste great too. When I mentioned this, Dennis nodded. He hears it all the time. “We get that a lot,” he said. “In Surprise, we serve a large senior community and a lot of athletes, too. Some guests are managing health conditions, and others just want to eat clean. The athletes usually go for high-protein meals. We’ve also got people who need low-sodium, gluten-free, vegetarian, or allergy-friendly options. We’re happy to accommodate.” “Our food is healthy anyway,” he added. “But we’ll always do what we can to meet someone’s needs. Just let the staff know, and we’ll take good care of you.” For Dennis, it’s not just about serving great food. It’s about making sure everyone can enjoy it. He’s also thinking beyond the menu. The new restaurant in Munds Park will be more than just a place to eat. Dennis is planning a full calendar of community-friendly events, all open to the public. He’s excited to host wine tastings paired with chef-curated menus, whiskey and tequila dinners paired with chef-curated menus, live music, catering for private events, and Sip & Paint nights. No memberships. No exclusivity. Just good food, good people, and a space where everyone is welcome. At the core of everything Dennis does, whether in Surprise or Munds Park, is community. He’s built a business where customers become friends, and their kids grow up to join the team. He’s kept his mother’s recipes alive while building his own. And there’s always a place at the table. If you haven’t visited Sigon Kitchen, we encourage you to do so. You won’t be disappointed. Ask for Dennis, and say hello from Munds Park! 4071 W Bell Rd, Surprise, AZ 85374 Menu: saigonkitchenaz.com

One Couple’s Backyard Turned Battleground This story originally ran in the September 5, 2025 issue of the Pinewood News. It was supposed to be a peaceful morning. A rare Friday off together. Clayton and Chris Wooley sat under their backyard gazebo, sipping coffee and enjoying the stillness. Their dog, Freckles, an Australian Shepherd, was tied securely nearby, and their brand-new puppy, also a cattle dog, just two days home, was leashed to a chair close to Chris. For Clayton and Chris, this was sacred time. Calm. Safe. Until it wasn’t. Out of nowhere, the peace was shattered. A low rumble of barking cut through the morning stillness. Then, chaos. Three pit bulls came charging from a neighboring yard. No collars. No leashes. No warning. Freckles, doing what any protective dog would do, darted toward the threat, her lead stretching to its limit, snapping her off her feet. She landed hard on her back, stunned. Immediately, the dogs were on her. “They went for her throat,” Clayton recalls. “I’ve seen a pit bull attack before. I knew what was about to happen. They were trying to kill her.” He dove into the frenzy, fists swinging, shoving the snarling jaws away from Freckles’ exposed neck, screaming for help, but no one came. Then a fourth dog rushed in. Now Clayton was facing four large dogs with only his bare hands and raw desperation. While Clayton is fighting off a massive dog attack, four Jack Russell Terriers appeared and began biting Clayton’s ankles before swarming Chris. Eight dogs in total. Eight unleashed animals, attacking in a wave of chaos and violence. Meanwhile, on the other side of the yard, Chris was fighting to protect their new puppy, who had become tangled in her leash. With no way to free her, Chris threw herself on top of the tiny dog, using her own body as a shield while the Jack Russells clawed and bit at her, trying to get to the puppy underneath. By sheer instinct and adrenaline, Clayton managed to unhook Freckles and drag her to safety inside the house. When he came back out, bloodied and breathless, one of the dog owners, an aggressive and belligerent man, confronted him. The man grabbed Clayton’s shoulders, and began yelling at him. Still shaken, Clayton swept his hands off and said, “Don’t touch me!”, putting him on notice.  The man had the audacity to say it was Clayton’s fault. That Freckles, a leashed dog in her own backyard, had “started it.” That lie was only the beginning. They claimed they only had five dogs, and there were eight. Chris and Clayton did the right thing by calling Animal Control. Officers took statements, confirmed the dogs were illegally off leash, and ordered a ten-day quarantine for one pit bull. But so far, there have been no citations. The incident remains under investigation. Clayton was bitten in the face, with a punctured nose and aggravated spinal injuries. Chris suffered bruises and scrapes. Freckles was bitten in the jaw, and their puppy, only two days home, was left traumatized. Now the family is burdened with emergency room bills, veterinary costs, and ongoing medical care. The Off-Leash Culture That’s Putting Everyone at Risk This is not just about one attack. It is about a culture in Munds Park that looks the other way. This place is a haven for dogs, and that’s a beautiful thing. But it is also known for owners who let their dogs roam off leash, don’t supervise them, and allow them to slip out of yards and into danger. Story after story surfaces about people being rushed, bitten, or knocked down on walks. Facebook feeds are full of posts about loose dogs, and yet people scroll past them like it is normal. It is not. Clayton and Chris did everything right. Their dogs were restrained. They were in their own yard. And still, they were attacked. This didn’t happen in isolation. It happened in a community where far too many people stay silent, where calling it in is treated like tattling, and where reckless dog owners keep getting away with it. If your dog roams or escapes and you fail to fix it, you are putting people and pets in danger. Posting about a loose dog on Facebook is a start, but it is not enough. If you do not call it in, Animal Control has no way of knowing what is happening in the Park, and they cannot do anything about it. And if the owner never sees the Facebook post, then what? You still have a loose dog, and nothing gets resolved. Call it in. Speak up. Hold people accountable. That is how we make this stop. How to Protect Yourself, Your Children & Your Pets After an attack like this, the question becomes unavoidable: how do you protect yourself, your pets, and your peace of mind in a community where dogs are often off leash? Some residents in Munds Park have started carrying pepper spray, tasers, or even firearms while walking their dogs. The fear is real. However, it is essential to understand what is actually legal, effective, and safe in Arizona before anyone makes a terrible situation worse. Under Arizona law, you are only legally allowed to use deadly force, such as a firearm, if a person’s life is in immediate danger. Pets, under state law, are considered property. That means shooting a dog because it is attacking your dog could land you in criminal or civil court. You might think you are doing the right thing, but the law may not be on your side. Pepper spray and tasers might seem like safer options, but they come with their own risks. Pepper spray can blow back in your face, especially with wind. It does not always stop a dog and can actually make aggressive dogs more frantic. Tasers are even less reliable. Most do not penetrate thick fur, and if you miss, you may just provoke the dog further. Legally, using these tools on someone else’s dog, even in defense, could still lead to claims of property damage or even animal cruelty. The law is vague, and there are no clear protections in place for defending your pet with these methods. So what are your options? Report every incident. Always. According to Coconino County, every dog roaming at large should be reported. A dog should never be roaming without a human. Posting a photo on Facebook might help identify the owner, but that is not enough. Call Animal Control. You have no idea what you might be preventing—a future attack, an injured animal, or a child in danger. You could even be saving that dog’s life. Making the call is not just smart. It is the right thing to do. If you or your animal is attacked or rushed, call Animal Control immediately. Do not hesitate. And if you are actively being attacked, like in the case of Clayton and Chris, call 911 as soon as possible. That will dispatch law enforcement, Animal Control, and medical responders. It takes time for help to reach Munds Park, so call quickly. This is why these services exist. This is what our tax dollars support. Use them. Have important numbers saved in your phone, and you can always find them in the back of the Pinewood News. For your convenience, we’ve listed them here, plug them in your phone now while its on your mind. Coconino County Animal Management: (928) 679-8756 Sheriff’s non-emergency dispatch: (928) 774-4523 Even the non-emergency line goes through dispatch and can trigger a response. Use non-lethal tools that work. Carrying an air horn, a loud whistle, or a sturdy walking stick might sound simple, but they are highly effective. These tools can startle a charging dog, create space, and give you time to get away without escalating the danger or risking legal trouble. Know how to act. Experts recommend avoiding eye contact with an aggressive dog, turning your body sideways, and speaking in a calm, firm voice. Do not scream or run. That can trigger the dog further. If a dog approaches, use your stick to create a barrier or your horn to surprise and stop it. Push for enforcement. The laws to prevent attacks like the one Clayton and Chris experienced already exist. What is missing is accountability. The more reports that come in, the more pressure there is on the county to act. When people stay silent, dangerous behavior goes unchecked. Authorities cannot act on what they do not know. Every report matters. This is about more than one family’s trauma. It is about public safety and the right to feel safe in your own community. Take action. Make the call. And help protect others by doing what the county is asking every resident to do. Call. A Note from the Editor This was a follow-up article that ran in the September 19, 2025, issue. A few hours after our September 5 issue went live with a story about a Munds Park couple whose dog was attacked in their backyard, my phone rang. It was Wendy, owner of the other dogs involved. She was furious. Said we got it wrong. Wendy asked why I didn’t bother to get her side of the story. Fair question. And to be transparent, it didn’t even cross my mind. That’s Journalism 101. I missed it. I know Clayton and Chris Wooley, and I know they’re trusted in the community. When I interviewed Clayton, I had no reason to doubt him. I saw the blood on his face in the photo taken right after the attack. I saw the puncture wound on his nose when he came to my office. I saw his hands shake as he showed me the video. I believe Clayton. I believe he was scared. I believe he was hurt. And I believe he did his best to recall what happened in the middle of chaos. Some of his details, like the number of dogs, don’t match up with the county’s report. Maybe that’s stress. Maybe it’s just what happens when adrenaline takes over. But the heart of what he said, that unleashed dogs came into his yard and things went sideways, that holds up. And that’s the story we were telling. This wasn’t a neighbor dispute story. It was a leash law story. And in Munds Park, it’s one we’ve told too many times. Still, Wendy has her version. I didn’t ask for it the first time, so I’m sharing it now. Not because it changes the outcome, but because she deserves to be heard. Here’s what she wants you to know. Wendy says she owns five dogs, not eight, as Clayton told both Pinewood News and Coconino County Animal Services. She admits all five were off-leash. According to her, she was moving them from her RV to her back patio when Freckles, Clayton’s dog, tied to a lead that was too long, crossed just over the property line and started barking. Her dogs, which she describes as well-trained, reacted to what they saw as a threat. She says only one pit bull engaged, a Jack Russell was roaming, and the rest were restrained before they could join in. She also says there’s no way to know which dog bit Clayton, suggesting Freckles might’ve done it himself in the chaos. But here’s the thing. That bite, no matter who delivered it, wouldn’t have happened if the dogs were leashed. Her version conflicts with Clayton’s. Both differ from the Animal Services report. The investigator reviewed the video and noted three of Wendy’s dogs were on the Wooleys’ property, not two as she claimed and not eight as Clayton reported. Wendy says we sensationalized the story, that it wasn’t “a pack of dogs.” But again, three off-leash dogs in your yard? Most people would call that a pack. Especially if you’re the ones standing in the middle of it. She also believes the whole incident was the Wooleys’ fault. That it could have been avoided if Freckles hadn’t barked or crossed the line. Let’s be honest. Dogs don’t know where property lines start or stop. That’s the whole point of a leash. You don’t know what’s going to set a dog off. No matter how “well-trained” or “friendly” they are, if they’re off-leash, you’re rolling the dice. And sometimes that gamble ends in a backyard fight, a trip to urgent care, and a visit from Animal Control. In Munds Park, this is not new. I hear from readers all the time—people with scars, people afraid to walk their dogs. Go to a town hall. You’ll hear the same stories. It’s time we stop pretending this isn’t a pattern and shine some light on the problem. Was It Biased? Wendy said the article was one-sided. That it showed bias. What I showed was my intent. I was telling a story about what happens when dogs aren’t leashed. That was the point. It’s like covering a robbery. You don’t need the robber’s side to explain why robbery is a problem. The story speaks for itself. But this wasn’t a straight incident report. It was a feature. It was bold. And in a small community like this, I should have gotten Wendy’s perspective. Not because it would have changed the outcome, but because her family is part of this community. Out of respect, I should have asked. I won’t make that mistake again. I also want to address the perception of bias in the paper. It’s a fair question, and I’ve heard it before. The truth is, I have strong views on certain issues — leash laws, short-term rentals, respect for the land, and the right to free speech. Those views show up in my writing. That’s not bias. That’s transparency. Bias is when you distort the facts to make a point. Transparency is being clear about where you stand while still reporting the facts fairly. The facts aren’t negotiable. I work hard to get them right. And when I don’t, I correct it. Readers call me out. That’s part of the deal. Not everyone’s going to agree with me, and that’s fine. I’m not here to echo every viewpoint. I’m here to share what’s happening in our community, call attention to what matters, and make sure people feel heard — even when they disagree. We read every email. We print every correction. And if you think we got something wrong or missed the mark, you’ll always have a way to say so in these pages. Our readers can reach us at Hello@ThePinewoodNews.com . AGAIN - Another Dog Attack Reportedin Munds Park Since our last issue, a second serious dog attack has been reported in Munds Park. According to witnesses, three large dogs escaped from a residence and attacked a smaller dog being walked by its owner. The owner was knocked to the ground during the incident, and the dog sustained multiple puncture wounds and a possible leg injury requiring further veterinary evaluation. The incident was reported to 911, and Animal Control responded. The dogs have since been located and placed under quarantine. According to Animal Control, the case will result in a court appearance and fines. This was the second reported incident involving the same dogs in recent weeks. During the first incident on August 28, the dogs reportedly escaped and attacked two leashed dogs that happened to be passing by with separate owners. Leash Laws in Coconino County In Public (Including Federal Lands): Dogs must be on a leash no longer than 6 feet, held by a responsible person. Running at large is prohibited. On Private Property (Not Your Own): Dogs are not allowed on private property without the owner’s permission. This is considered “at large” under county ordinance. On Your Own Property: Dogs must be secured within a suitable enclosure. If no fence or enclosure is available, they must be restrained by a rope or chain at least 10 feet long to prevent them from leaving the property. At Parks and Schools (Arizona State Law): Dogs must be on a leash, in a cage, in a vehicle, or otherwise confined. Exceptions apply only for certain events like licensed kennel club shows or school programs. Where Off-Leash May Be Allowed Your own fenced property Designated off-leash dog parks During official events like field trials or obedience training When assisting in legal hunting or herding (must still be under control) Note: In some areas of Coconino National Forest, leash rules may be enforced on a complaint basis, but this is not guaranteed. Leashing is still the default expectation. Violations can result in citations, especially if your dog leaves your property, gets into a fight, or causes injury.

Cpl. Raymond Byrne, U.S. Marine Corps; later Sgt., U.S. Army. Each November, the Pinewood News chooses a local veteran to honor for their service. Over the years, Genna and I have felt deep gratitude for every veteran we’ve highlighted, their sacrifices and stories never fail to touch us. But this year’s profile is something different altogether. This veteran’s grace and humility stayed with us long after the interview ended. We hope our readers find their story as meaningful as we did. Ray Byrne had intended to go to college. He’d earned a football scholarship that covered everything except books, a golden ticket for a young man from modest means. One morning, he headed toward campus to begin that new chapter. But something stopped him in the turn lane. Call it a gut check. Call it grace. He looked toward the campus, then straightened the wheel and drove straight to the recruiter’s office. “I want to join the Marines,” he said. “And I want to leave as soon as possible. Just not before November 15th.” The recruiter, accustomed to impulsive young men, studied him carefully. “Law looking for you? Girl pregnant?” “Neither,” Ray said. “I just know myself. If I go to college, I’ll screw it up.” Ray laughs now when he tells that story. He wasn’t book smart, he admits, not at the time. He was a young man who enjoyed a good time and found trouble more often than he should have. But in that moment, the quiet voice telling him to pause revealed a different kind of intelligence. It showed wisdom. Ray knew what kind of man he didn’t want to become. He asked to leave after November 15th because he had deer tags. He figured he’d squeeze in one more hunt. The Corps shipped him out on December 2nd. Learning to Lead Ray made it through boot camp and trained in North Carolina. Then he requested a post in Okinawa with the Third Marine Division, not a choice many made willingly. “Every Marine ends up in Okinawa,” he said. “I figured it was smarter to go early rather than late. I didn’t have a wife or children. Nothing was holding me back.” It was another act of quiet wisdom. While he prepared for military life overseas, unbeknownst to him, he had twins on the way. In Okinawa, they sized up his frame and sent him to the armory. Ray had trained as a motor vehicle operator, but the Marines put you where you’re needed. His master sergeant had different plans, Ray would run the motor pool. The work demanded precision. No computers. No networks. Everything depended on paper, process, and memory. Stacks of manuals replaced the convenience of a search bar, and every answer had to be earned. His supervisor challenged him constantly, testing what he knew and pushing him to learn what he didn’t. Once, he asked, “What’s the only vehicle in the military you can’t fire on under the Geneva Convention?” Ray didn’t know. So he dug through manuals, page after page, until he found the answer — the ambulance. It was a simple challenge, but it taught Ray how to dig for information and solve problems without anyone handing him the solution. His work didn’t go unnoticed. After two years managing the motor pool overseas, Ray returned to Camp Pendleton and checked in with the 1st Marine Regiment. They put him in charge again. He’d already managed four times the equipment overseas—if he could handle that, they figured, he could handle anything. Even giving orders to Marines who outranked him. Ray understood the difference between rank and respect. “With senior guys, I’d ask for help instead of barking at them,” he said. “No hard feelings. With the younger ones, I kept it simple: get it done. Got the same result.” This practical, ego-free leadership stayed with him long after he left the Corps. Building a Life When his time in the Marines ended, Ray entered law enforcement. He started as a detention officer in Coconino County, then became a deputy. But the job, though honorable, couldn’t support a family with three children. Ray needed more. He turned to construction and joined the Army National Guard at Camp Navajo to supplement his income. “One weekend a month, two weeks a year,” he said. “And I loved it.” Eventually, Ray founded America Roofing in the Valley, a business his sons still run today. But it wasn’t just shingles and contracts. Ray understood the value of service. As both a veteran and a first responder, he knew what those roles demanded. So his business gave back—discounts, support, honor. “We always helped where we could,” Ray said. “It was the right thing to do.” Ray Byrne never claimed to be a scholar. But in every moment that mattered, he showed wisdom. From that split-second turn away from college to years of managing men and missions with quiet command, Ray built a life on grit, instinct, and deep respect for duty. That’s the kind of man worth honoring. The kind who kept his word, carried his weight, and never forgot where he came from. A New Mission Ray retired young and handed the business to his sons. Now he spends his days in the woods on a quiet stretch of Mormon Mountain. “I never thought I’d have a cabin here,” he said. “My dad hates when I bring this up, but it speaks to where we came from, and I’m proud of it.” His father grew up in a house with dirt floors and tar paper walls. The house burned down, and they lost Ray’s great-uncle Franklin. After the fire, the family moved into a home with concrete floors and block walls. It wasn’t much, but it was more. “My parents had five kids to feed. Money was always tight. So owning a cabin in the woods feels like a miracle, and I don’t take it for granted.” With the gift of time and land he never expected to own, Ray began asking what should come next. He’d been blessed. It was time to give back, he thought, not through a donation but through work that carried meaning. Ray started looking for the right organization. He did his homework. There were plenty of veteran programs, but he wanted one that invested its money in the mission, not overhead. That’s when he found the Arizona Elk Society and their Heroes Rising program. Volunteers ran it. Donations went straight to the mission. One program in particular caught his attention: Guiding Our Heroes on a Hunt, designed to reconnect veterans with hunting and the wild places of Arizona. “I love the forest. I love to hunt. I love being out in nature,” Ray said. “It was a perfect fit.” Since 2019, Ray and his volunteer crew have been taking veterans on hunts. “It’s hard work and exhausting”, Ray says. Every year, he hits a wall. He’s tired. He asks himself why he’s doing this. But each year, something happens that gives him the answer—a moment, a conversation, a quiet reminder of why it matters. Stories from the Mountain “Some of these vets show up with more challenges than I’ve ever seen,” Ray said. “And to be honest, it helps me just as much as it helps them.” One of the toughest cases was a Navy SEAL from Vietnam. Sixty-eight confirmed kills. Trained as a master chef in Italy. Played for the Miami Dolphins. Now he has dementia, he’s missing a leg, and he’s legally blind. “Around here, we call him Blind Bob,” Ray said. “And we say it with nothing but respect. That’s the kind of man I want to see succeed. But I remember thinking, how am I going to make this work?” Ray remembers Blind Bob vividly. “We called it divine intervention,” Ray says. “And I’m not exaggerating. The first day they took him out, they spotted five bucks. Ray quietly pointed them out, clear as day, just 50 yards away. But Bob couldn’t see a thing. The light wasn’t right. They went back to camp empty-handed. The next morning, Ray asked him, “Bob, what can I do to make this easier for you? How can I help?” Bob thought for a long moment. Then he said, “If you could find a deer standing in the open, in the sun, with the light just right... I think I could see it.” Ray nodded, but inside he was already mourning the moment. This is impossible, Ray thought. That kind of shot doesn’t happen. Not like that. Not on command. So Ray did the only thing he could, “God, I need a hookup here,” he said, half pleading, half hoping. But that afternoon, something shifted. A deer stepped into an opening. Standing in full sun. Perfect light. Perfect distance. Ray whispered, “I’ll be damned.” They used a special scope synced to a phone so the team could guide Bob by watching the sight on screen. It took coordination, patience, and trust. Bob pulled the trigger. The shot landed. And the mountain, once again, gave something back. There’s no trophy on Bob’s wall. There’s no memory he’ll hold onto for long. But for a second, everything came together, and Blind Bob got to be a hunter again. And for those who were there, it didn’t feel like chance. It felt like grace. Then there’s Nick and Vinny. Nick carries a weight of PTSD, survivor’s guilt, the things that cling to you after war even when you scrub yourself raw trying to get clean. He had a buddy named Vinny, who also suffered from PTSD, and hadn’t left his house in five years. Five. Years. Somehow, Nick convinced him to come on a hunt. Vinny didn’t carry a gun. He wasn’t ready for that. He came to be with Nick, and for now, that was enough. But once Vinny got into the mountains, once he breathed the air and felt the brotherhood around him, something shifted. He didn’t want to leave. Six months later, Nick and Vinny came back for a weekend. Four months after that, when Ray was gearing up for Blind Bob’s deer hunt and needed help, he called them both. They said yes. Then Nick and his family came down with COVID and had to cancel, but Vinny came anyway. The same man who hadn’t stepped outside his home in half a decade drove up the mountain alone. He got out of his truck, smiling. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “What’s that?” Ray asked. “I got a job.” Then he paused. “And I got baptized!” Vinny never came for the hunt. He came for a friend. But something about the mountains, the air, the people, and the silence cracked through the walls he’d built around himself. He found purpose again. He found God. And that’s why Ray does this. That’s what keeps him going when the season wears him down. That’s what the mountain does sometimes. It doesn’t just hand you a deer or a good story. It hands you a mirror. A moment. A second chance. And Ray—he keeps going. Keeps hauling gear and hope and sorrow up the hill. Not for glory. Not even for healing, really. Just for the chance that someone might come down changed. The General Who Never Wore Stars Six years ago, a man named Dan came to enjoy the land and hunt. He and Ray have been good friends ever since. When Dan joined our interview, the depth of what Ray’s mission means became impossible to miss. “What Ray and his family are doing is incredible,” Dan said. “They opened their home to help us enjoy the outdoors and hunting. They’re sharing what they have with those who sacrificed their minds and bodies in service to our country. I am one of them, and I can’t tell you how much this program means to me.” Dan started college studying marine biology. But over time, he felt called to something different. He attended a missionary conference, and the advice he received surprised him: become a nurse. “I remember thinking I was pretty big to be a nurse at six-foot-seven,” he said. “But I felt led to follow that path.” He attended nursing school at the University of Washington, spent a year in critical care, then worked as a paramedic nurse in Seattle. It wasn’t what he’d originally planned, but it turned out to be exactly where he was meant to be. At 38, while volunteering with FEMA after the Northridge earthquake, members of an Air Force evacuation crew approached him. They were launching a new program and wanted him to join. So he did. Dan joined the Air Force Reserve as an AirEvac nurse. Dan was selected with about 70 others to help launch a program that would address a brutal reality: throughout all our wars, the most severely wounded were left behind. There was no way to get them out safely or alive. The system simply didn’t exist. That changed with the Critical Care Air Transport Team, or CCATT. Think of an ICU at 30,000 feet. A doctor, a critical care nurse, and a respiratory therapist working together to stabilize severely injured warfighters during flights to hospitals in Germany, the San Antonio Burn Unit, or wherever care was waiting. Each CCATT mission could last up to 30 hours. They could carry up to four critical patients, though sometimes injuries were so severe they could only take one. The walking wounded rode up front. Dan and his team worked in the back, managing every breath, every heartbeat. “As soon as dustoff (medevac by chopper) called us, we moved,” Dan said. “We usually arrived within two hours of the incident. After emergency surgery at the MASH unit, we took over—put them on ventilators, drips, whatever was needed, and got them out.” The job took a toll. Dan shattered his spine while offloading a patient from a transport plane. He’d just spent 14 hours monitoring critical care in the air. When they landed, he and two Marines prepared to transfer 700 pounds of patient and gear onto a K-loader—an unstable scissor lift designed for cargo, not people. “I kept yelling, ‘Watch the rollers, watch the rollers,’” Dan said. When one Marine slipped, the stretcher twisted. Dan turned instinctively to steady it and protect the patient. In that instant, his spine shattered. Injured and in blinding pain, Dan helped load the patient onto the transport. As they boarded, the doctor looked at him and said, “You still have to care for the patient.” So he did. With no feeling in his legs and pain searing through his back, Dan kept going. That wasn’t his only injury. He’s a tall man moving fast in tight quarters. Twice, he stood up too quickly on the plane and was knocked unconscious, suffering traumatic brain injuries both times. He lost much of his hearing. He shattered his wrist, which had to be surgically rebuilt. And then there was the smoke. Dan was exposed to toxic burn pits filled with discarded munitions, including depleted uranium. The smoke drifted through the base and into their lungs. He now lives with diabetes, pancreatic disease, and a list of chronic illnesses with no family history. He knows exactly where they came from. And still, the worst wounds may be the ones that don’t show. Dan’s PTSD is severe. He remembers every patient. He still sees them in his nightmares. “This is why I need Ray,” Dan said. “He helps me face these challenges every year. It’s an amazing thing he’s done.” Dan had hunted his whole life. “I figured I was done,” he said. “That part of my life was over. But I wasn’t ready to let it go.” The Arizona Elk Society and Ray changed that. “I retired as a Lieutenant Colonel,” Dan said. “That meant something to me. But Ray—Ray’s like a general. You don’t have to wear stars to lead men. You just have to show up when it counts.” Left to right: Scott L, Dan B, Rob O, Bob B, John B: Kneeling: Chris A, Ray B The Table in the Woods To understand what Ray has built, you have to know the setting. Ray and his wife Kim have a separate living space beyond their main cabin, nestled among the pines on Mormon Mountain. The land is still and peaceful. Inside stands a long, solid wood table capable of seating a dozen men. Great windows run floor to ceiling, letting filtered light pour in from the forest. The walls are timber. Everything about the space whispers the same thing: You are welcome here. You may lay down what you carry. Around that table, the men speak in the language of soldiers. No one needs to translate. No one asks for clarification. They can just be. “We’re brothers,” Dan said. “We understand each other.” What he didn’t say outright, but what was deeply felt, is that there are things which, once experienced, separate a man from the world he once knew. Only those who have endured similar things can understand the weight soldiers carry—the losses, the guilt, the grief. Here, that weight can rest on the table like another guest. And unlike elsewhere, it’s not asked to leave. This is the power of Ray’s place. For combat veterans who’ve returned to a world that cannot comprehend what they carry, the table, the mountain, the hunt, the men—it all matters. Here, at last, they speak. And more importantly, they’re heard. “Kim is the backbone of this mission”, Ray explains. “She’s the one who makes it all happen, taking care of every detail—from having cleaning wipes ready for eyeglasses to putting out incredible meals. Nobody goes hungry. In fact, it’s probably the only hunting trip where people gain weight.” Most hunts involve tents and outhouses. Ray’s camp offers something more: a warm cabin, a bed, a table, and a place to let go. But the veterans don’t come for the extras. They come for the hunt. For each other. “Every day I think about coming here,” Dan said. “Not about what’s wrong in my life. I think about the five days I get to spend with Ray. The five days I get with my cousin Scott, who believes in this so much he flies up just to be here with me and the guys.” Ray’s goal is simple. “Give them a place where they can be comfortable,” he said. “Where they don’t have to carry everything all the time. If they can get to that point, where they can let it go, even just for a while, then we’ve done what we came here to do.” This isn’t just a hunting trip. It’s healing. It’s hope. It’s a lifeline. And you can feel it: something greater is at work here. Lt. Col. Dan Berg  Air Force Hall of Fame Inductee: 21,000 Lives Saved By 2013, when Lt. Col. Dan Berg was inducted into the Air Force Hall of Fame, the program he helped launch had saved over 21,000 lives. Before the Critical Care Air Transport Team (CCATT), the most severely wounded warriors were left behind. There was no way to evacuate them safely. Throughout all our wars, that brutal reality remained unchanged until CCATT. Dan was one of about 70 selected to build the solution: an ICU at 30,000 feet. A doctor, critical care nurse, and respiratory therapist working together to stabilize the critically injured during flights that could last 30 hours. Dan personally managed more than 21,000 trauma transports, including 104 critically wounded during 46 alert missions in Afghanistan and Iraq. Flying primarily in C-141 aircraft, he responded within two hours of dustoff calls, taking over after emergency surgery to get warriors to definitive care. His most striking statistic? He has never lost a patient in transport. How You Can Help Ray and the vets go through the same draw process as every other hunter in Arizona. They don’t get special treatment. Every tag has to be applied for, and most years, it’s a mix of luck and generosity. Hunters who pull a tag and want to donate it can do so through the Arizona Elk Society. They accept tags for elk, deer, ram, even buffalo. Once the tags are donated, the Elk Society reaches out to people like Ray, who run hunts for veterans across the state. If you’re a hunter and you pull a tag for Zone 6A, you can donate it to Ray’s program through the Arizona Elk Society. It’s a way to give back — one tag, one vet, one life-changing experience at a time. A Note of Thanks from Ray None of this would be possible without the incredible people who give their time, year after year, expecting nothing in return. Every single person listed here is a volunteer. The non-family members have devoted hundreds of hours to scouting and spending time with hunters in the field. Their generosity and dedication mean everything to this mission—and to me. Family Kim Byrne Robert “Bob” Byrne John Byrne Kevin Byrne Mario Perez Colleen Perez Volunteers Chris Adams Anthony French Lucas Longtine Tanner Bunch Hayden Jacobs Sam Pesuti

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.