Location Location Location (Dec 2008 column)

   We have it on the authority of Thoreau that the best zoning laws are those which zone least. And after nearly a century of modern zoning practice, that concept has at last caught on with our nation’s land use planners and in our collective thinking. After all, it took the aggressive zoning of the last century to give us certain absurdities we now take for granted, like swaths of family homes whose residents can't reasonably leave the neighborhood without a car. Or equally vast commercial areas without a single human resident, equally unnavigable by foot.
   Before the era of zoning laws, development was largely unrestricted with regard to use and density, and accordingly, it was dominated by the kind of mixed-use model that land use planners around the country are now working to restore. If you want a community to feel organic, there’s nothing like letting it grow organically. Unless you listen carefully nowadays, you might be led to believe that the new zoning schemes showing up around the country are the product of a new generation of policy prodigies. In fact, the new schemes are in essence just a thoughtful relaxation of past over-regulation. Planning policy is not creating dense mixed-use development, it is finally allowing it. We weren't too dumb all along to want organic communities, it's just that they were illegal.
   A migration back to urban areas is already in full swing in many of our large and mid-sized cities; we’re now beginning to embrace that trend in small cities and towns like those that define the Rogue Valley. Communities like ours have the best opportunity to become the sort that will thrive in the future. We exist on a reasonable scale and we're still connected to the land that surrounds us. We have farms and public venues and first-class recreation and enough good water, if we use it responsibly. We can make many of our own commodities and accommodate most of our own waste, if we create it responsibly.
   Let me pause to say that if you are committed to rural living in our valley, by all means carry on. But in that case, your contribution to the livability of our valley should be through becoming truly committed to that life, and not trying to simulate suburban living in a rural setting. Rural life may mean having chickens or a productive garden. It may mean working or exercising at home. It will certainly mean combining or sharing automobile trips into town. Remember that denser development in urban areas is vital for preserving rural areas.
   Our valley's future will be determined by our decisions about what we eat, how we work, and where we recreate—but no choice is more powerful than where we live within our valley. If there is a move in your near future, you have a chance to lead the way. In the next decade our small cities can experience the same redevelopment patterns of larger re-urbanizing cities and benefit from a resulting quality of life not surpassed anywhere. Don’t doubt that property values will follow. But we’re being reminded powerfully that property values giveth and property values taketh away. Let's instead make our decisions based on livability, which will in turn create value.
   When zoning laws don't restrict unduly, developers will build what we demand. And they'll be building a lot; estimates from the state indicate that Jackson County will need to double its residential and commercial buildings before 2030. Let's demand—that is, let's rent and buy—the right things. Namely, housing mixed with the kind of commercial services we use in an average week. Homes near parks and grocery stores and our jobs. Offices served by public transit. And more than anything else, let's demand that our investment in public transportation infrastructure prioritize the best modes of travel, walking and cycling, above all others. One way to demand these values in our future development is to buy or live in a part of town designated a "Transit Oriented Development," or TOD. Municipalities across the Rogue Valley are designating areas as TODs, where new development will encourage organic mixed use and require improved accessibility by foot, wheelchair, stroller, and bicycle. Ask your real estate agent to show you homes in the TODs first.
   Oregon's land use planners have always been ahead of the curve, and our decisions make land use planners of us all. There's little question that the ability to live well close to home will be a great asset in the near future. As for me, I'm planning now.

No Car — Will Travel (Nov 2008 column)

   Ever since our car broke down in February during our move from Kentucky, my wife and I have been threatening to shed it entirely. Though we're both favorable to the idea, our conversations about it have centered mainly on objections. Do we tell Mom and Dad to get a taxi from the airport? Can we bike home with three sheets of plywood for the shed? No spontaneous midnight movie trips? But of all the things we would lose in giving up our car, the hardest to swallow might be the quick one-night getaway. The refreshment we both find in a brief escape from daily distraction is something it's hard to imagine going without. And for us, that kind of escape has been nearly synonymous with our car.
   After some weeks of casual brainstorming on car-free getaways, two ideas were at the top of our list: the “S24O” and the “Long Walk Home.” We decided to try them both.
   The S24O is a bright idea from Grant Peterson, one of the country's more sensible and stylish bicycle builders. He spells out the concept in an Adventure Cyclist article subtitled “Bicycle camping for the time challenged.” The term is an abbreviation of sub-24-hour overnight, and the idea is a quick human-powered getaway that doesn't interfere with your schedule, even midweek. We planned ours for a Wednesday night after work. After dinner, we threw our sleeping bags on the bikes and headed for the hills. One hour later—one hour!—we had sent a black bear loping away through the trees and were sitting on our bags watching the moon rise over mountains. There was no evidence of humanity in sight. We fell asleep that night under the Milky Way and woke in time to cruise down the hill, shower up, and head to work with a sweet and lingering sense of wildness about the day.
   We thought up the Long Walk Home as a way to expand our options beyond bike camping. In all honesty, spooking the black bear out of our S24O campsite hadn't made falling asleep particularly easy. I've always thought an inn-to-inn walking trip through some idyllic old world landscape sounded quite tolerable, and the Long Walk Home grew loosely out of that idea. I've not historically been a champion walker—my impatience and inveterate multitasking are not easily compatible with the pace. But when I strip down my to-do list to one thing for a whole day (Saturday: Walk home.), I find I love the simplicity. To extend our range, we caught a Friday afternoon bus to Ashland. The bed and breakfast had stacks of interesting books, and a hot meal got us started on the right foot in the morning. Our route home followed railroad tracks and back roads, and we were rewarded with an abundance of warm blackberries and firm pears gleaned from harvested orchards.
   One thing I noticed about walking a route I normally bike or drive is that there's no obstacle to stopping when I'm on foot. Even on my bike, I seldom brake to explore something right beside the road; but during our walk, we paused to watch goats, smell flowers, read signs, and wash the blackberry stains from our fingers in cool water. We arrived home Saturday evening before sunset, after hours of unhurried conversation, with hearty appetites and the very clear feeling that we'd found the escape we wanted. That feeling was richer for having come home under our own power, without a gas tank to fill or a trunk to unload.
   We haven't decided to get rid of our car. Before our car-free getaways, I thought if they went well it would be easier to imagine living without the Honda. They went very well, but the fact is, the closer I've come in my mind to the idea of having no car, the more radical it seems. What I can say, however, is that after these outings and several months of commuting to work by bike and bus, I feel different about our car. Though I feel less attached to it, I actually appreciate it more than I did before. I'm aware of it as a tool, and I'm aware too of my ability to move and explore and arrive without it.
   Thanks go to the Medford Sneak Preview for offering me a place to share our explorations with you in the coming months.