This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2007, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
BOULDER - Stephanie Flake can see from the front porch of the old Redwing Ranch homestead the three apple trees her parents planted by the fence back in the 1960s, when they were newlywed Brigham Young University students.
It's a place where, for decades, her family has gathered in the fall to press tart, sweet cider. It's a place that almost turned into a subdivision after her grandfather died a few years ago.
A neighboring landowner who heard about the proposal for "ranchettes" came to the rescue, though. He bought all 276 acres, then turned around and sold a conservation easement to the ranch so that it can remain a ranch forever.
"It's a very special place," said Flake, gazing over the vast carpet of spring grass. "This was really a refuge for me and my siblings. It's sacred ground. To see it be developed, it would have broken my heart."
Few people in town would disagree with her. Protecting the ranches and the vast expanses of wild land around it is something Boulderites, as townspeople call themselves, generally agree on, whether they're old-timers or new.
They openly discuss how they want the place to stay the same - to hold on to its enchanting, end-of-the-Earth character - even as change plods up Highway 12 and settles in.
So it might not be a surprise that the recent transformation of the Redwing Ranch into the new Boulder Creek Canyon Ranch stirred up the community's uneasiness with change. Even change that helps protect the status quo.
One time, tepee-dwelling hippies caused an uproar. Another, it was the camp for troubled kids. The battle over allowing a liquor license went on nearly a decade. Then, a month ago, a flap arose over the ranch easement, what it meant for local water and the community's control of its own destiny.
John Austin got involved when he heard a gated community might sprout next door.
He had spent part of every year in Boulder since he was 16, when his family bought a cottage "downtown" on Highway 12 and next door to the Flakes' ranch. He would ride, hunt, fish, hike and - when he could - work for local ranchers.
"I wish I could assure that my old friends and their offspring would be in Boulder forever, but the economics have changed and so has the world," says Austin, 62, an Oakland, Calif., health-care executive.
As visitors have gawked over Hell's Backbone along one of the nation's most famous scenic highways, Boulder has been "discovered" and land prices have shot up. That means newer-generation Boulderites often find it more sensible to sell family land for ranchettes than to ranch it.
Austin and his wife, Jacqui Smalley, took a second mortgage on their California home to buy the neighboring ranch before it could be subdivided. They began talking with Utah Open Lands and the Nature Conservancy about a conservation easement.
The final cost? Nearly $2 million, arranged by the Nature Conservancy of Utah, which wants to protect Boulder Mountain's largest watershed and those who depend on it, ranchers included.
Now the state and federal governments hold the deed. Flake is allowed to live in the old house, and the Nature Conservancy, the nation's largest land trust, is raising money to keep the ranch running.
The contract bars development on the ranch. It also requires the mile of Boulder Creek that runs through the ranch to be treated like the vital resource it is.
"The result is a permanent, protected ranch and a preservation of ranching in the valley," says Austin. "No one can guarantee that people won't move away or that ranches can be profitable, but we can assure that the opportunity to ranch will remain."
Boulder Mayor Bill Muse applauds how things turned out on Boulder Creek. A semi-retired racehorse trainer from Heber City, he says putting a ranch into a trust is a personal choice, a choice not right for everyone, including himself.
"That comes down to the individual," he says.
"Our stocks and our bonds are our ranches and our water and our grounds."
Muse's town has about 250 residents, every one of whom depends on the local water company, of which he serves as president. To him, the Nature Conservancy inadvertently triggered the latest upset by naming its recent effort "The Boulder Watershed Project."
"We want to know what that means," he says. "When you mention water, what is your intention? Don't mess with our water."
The town has fought for years to stop more of Boulder Creek from being diverted to fish and wildlife, he said. To him and other ranchers, it's clear if that happened, local irrigators would suffer and the hydroelectric plant that serves the community would need to be subsidized by more than $500,000 in coal-fired power a year.
Watermaster Loch Wade challenged the Nature Conservancy plans, fearful they might interfere with ranch allocations. Some people assailed him verbally and even threatened him physically.
Then Muse invited him and the conservation group, the largest land trust in the nation, to speak with the Town Council last month.
Wade says he feels more comfortable since the Nature Conservancy has publicly assured Boulder that the easements are not a water grab in disguise.
"I'm still not convinced," he says. "But I'm going to believe the best and keep my eyes open at the same time."
Amanda Smith, who helped craft the Boulder Creek Canyon deal for the Nature Conservancy, says water is key to conserving Boulder's important agricultural and biological resources.
"We're not going to be for a solution that puts people out of business to get water for species."
Back at the ranch, things barely look like they've changed in the century the town has been settled. Gracing the fertile, green valley floor are two 100-year-old barns, one for the growing herd of criollo horses Austin has imported from Chile and one for the organic beef cattle now being raised there.
Abbe Rae Sparks, 26, the horse manager, points to the bald eagle nest as she leads the animals into the canyon for exercise. She points to the faint "Moqui" steps worn into the sandstone canyon walls where ancient Indians scrambled up and down.
A longtime English-style competition rider, Sparks is excited about being part of an experiment that weaves together the heritage of the Mormon pioneers who established the town, the Buddhists who run the posh resort and the organic restaurant "downtown," and everyone in between.
"I feel quite honored to be working at the ranch," Sparks says, wearing a rasta cap and down vest. "It's a special place in itself."
Sean Outzen, 30, the cattle manager, is a journeyman blacksmith who misses the days when he had time to ride rodeo broncs. He has managed a herd five times as big back in his hometown of Monroe, in Sevier County.
"I was laughed at coming up here to work organic," says Outzen, who believes organic ranching may be the best way for small ranchers to survive in the current environment and, with a bit of luck and lots of hard work, to thrive.
"I'm no hippie up here smokin' dope and sayin' I hope those cows grow," he says. "If I wasn't making a profit, I might as well drive a potato chip truck."
In the end, everyone wants Boulder to stay Boulder, as one resident puts it.
Says Austin, "We're all trying to do the right thing."