In May of 1985, my job was troubleshooting the most difficult cases for my county’s child protection program, which I’d helped found a few years earlier. A respected expert in my field, I lunched with attorneys, probation officers, and judges. Both of my teenage children were about to enter college and I owned a marijuana farm in Oregon, just across the California state line. 

Although I liked my work, I now hated the agency I worked for. But I was well paid and, with looming college expenses, I felt trapped. I knew two social workers who were earning more with their weekend marijuana growing than they did at work, so why not? My buddy Mike and I bought 75 acres near Cave Junction and started “developing” it. We figured we’d do it long enough to put those college expenses aside, at which time we’d be freer to leave our depressing jobs. 

To this day, I don’t know what changed for me. I went to bed on a Monday evening feeling optimistic. At 2am Tuesday, I woke up to visions of being arrested at work, led past my peers in handcuffs, my reputation, license, and career gone forever, along with my house and, probably, Niki who had never really liked the idea. 

I called Mike to share my sudden awakening. He didn’t see it that way but, with some urging from his wife, he agreed to consult Robert Cogan, a good friend and respected dope lawyer. Bob listened respectfully while we detailed our plan and its progress. (By now, we had 200 beautiful young plants in the ground). When we finished, Bob said, “I want you to drive up there immediately, and pull and burn every plant.” 

Then he told us the mistakes we’d made. We’d put title to the land in our own names. We’d bought our topsoil, hoses, pumps (one of which had already been stolen), and deer fencing less than 30 miles away. We were strangers in a town where we stood out like sore thumbs. Local authorities and their federal friends, Bob assured us, were just waiting for our plants to mature. Because we had crossed state lines, we would be taken straight to San Francisco to face federal charges. He finished with, “…and there will be nothing I can do for you.”

We rushed off to buy kerosene and at 2am on Wednesday, feeling sad, stupid, and relieved, I drove home while listening to Kenny Rogers on my 8-track. “You gotta know when to hold’em, know when to fold’em, … etc.” Disaster averted!

I had another, similar awakening two weeks ago while I was working on Age-Friendly Carbondale’s (AFC) Highway 133 Report, but this time the fear isn’t for myself and my family. It’s for the town I’ve come to love, because 133 is changing Carbondale as dramatically as that farm could have damaged my life.

Half a thousand respondents told us (AFC) that they want to walk and bike more, but they’re afraid of the Highway 133 corridor. They’re afraid to have their children walk or bike along it unaccompanied and they’re terrified for them to cross. They said that traffic moves too fast, that there aren’t enough marked crossings and that even the existing crossings don’t feel safe. Our most vulnerable population, people who rely on wheelchairs for their mobility, told us they “jaywalk” at Nieslanik to avoid traveling the extra distance to marked crossings that are inadequate for them anyway.

We wanted growth, and with good reason. We knew there’d be downsides, but rather than making the hard decisions needed to minimize those, we approved one development after another without installing the requisite infrastructure. 

We glossed over obvious problems with comforting buzzwords like “smart growth” and “preserving small-town character.” Several reports and some residents told us what we needed to plan for but, like Mike and me, we were too intent on what we wanted to let that get in our way, and like our wives, the nay-sayers didn’t shout and pout and cry loud enough and long enough to break through.

So, here we are, afraid to let our children near the highway that should have been, and still can be, a boulevard. There are planned improvements in the works, but they are slow in coming and they appear insufficient to restore our rapidly-fading small-town character.

So, once again, I woke up terrified. But this time, it will take more than a night’s work and 20 gallons of kerosene to undo the harm. In keeping with this urgency, for the next eight to 10 weeks The Sopris Sun will publish weekly specifics about each problem our respondents pointed to, and our recommendations for addressing those problems. Look for these segments beginning next week. Until then, you can read our complete report and watch the video recording of our presentation to the Bicycle-Pedestrian Commission at www.bit.ly/133-presentation 

Mature Content is a monthly feature from Age-Friendly Carbondale.