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Two Years of Measure 37: Oregon's Property Wrongs

“Heeeere boys! Heeeere boys!” calls Susie Kunzman to a group of her male alpacas, grazing on a pine-covered hillside near her home in rural Clackamas County, Oregon, about 30 miles east of Portland. She moves them to a safer area, then directs a group of day-laborers felling dead trees and clearing brush on the 22-acre property.

The calendar reads Saturday, but it’s a workday for Kunzman; such is farm life. But she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Susie Kunzman and her husband Wayne love their quiet rural life. They bought the property two years ago to grow their alpaca farm, now with 35 animals which by themselves have an estimated worth of $350,000. But all that could change if a proposed 80-acre gravel mine goes in just over the Kunzman’s fence line. Her neighbors, Charles and Wanda Daugherty, now hold an approved Measure 37 claim that allows the quarry and makes it easier to obtain permits. The county could not pay the Daughertys for loss of use, so under Measure 37 it was forced to approve their claim.

“We’ve never figured out how anybody bases their claim,” Kunzman says. “I think Measure 37 is a feel-good measure with no substance.”

Kunzman, who voted against Measure 37, thinks the law was couched as a way to help the rural landowner, but had too-few details about how government would pay compensation in exchange for denying claims. Now she and about 40 of her neighbors are worried about the constant noise of rock crushing, truck traffic, and blasting. They’re also concerned about potential harm done to the underground aquifers that feed Teasel Creek, the water source for Kunzman’s animals and her neighbor’s well. Kunzman and several neighbors protested at the county hearing that ultimately approved the claim. Several commissioners understood their fears, but without the funds to pay the Daughertys compensation, officials had little choice but to approve the quarry.

“It’s perfect for alpacas,” she says of the high ground of her farm.

But as she nears the fence line, Kunzman's mood turns sour. She stops, looks over the fence. Blasting and noise from crushing, she says, could stress the alpacas, animals that are easily spooked. She explains that stress to an alpaca is reflected in the strength and quality of their hair, which for her equates to lost revenue. She wonders who will pay her for lost value from the effects of the mine, especially when it comes time to sell her property.

“What is government but your own self?” she says. “Who do you think was going to compensate for this—the Queen of England?”

She keeps a copy of a land appraisal that shows the Daugherty property’s “highest and best use” as “a ranch estate with rental and timber income.” The appraisal was commissioned by the Daughertys themselves. Kunzman also holds a copy of a document that shows the Daugherty property classified as a Century Farm, a historical designation that she feels was overlooked. The Daugherty property has been in the family since 1864, and Charles Daugherty says that generating income from the quarry ensures that future generations of the family will be able to afford to keep it so. He assured the county that all regulations would be followed.

Kunzman’s advice to other states considering similar property measures: take time developing it.

But perhaps her neighbor, Renee Ross, summed up the community’s sentiment best when she recently told a reporter, “I hope other states don’t do this.”