OPB senior political reporter Jeff Mapes spent more than a year researching, reporting and producing 鈥淕rowing Oregon,鈥� a six-part podcast and web series looking at the evolution of Oregon鈥檚 unique approach to growth and the impact it has on our lives today. . In Part 1 . In Part 2, we told the story of how Oregon leaders managed to write In Part 3, we told the story of how.
One August evening in 1989, Meeky Blizzard, her husband Dave and two of their children were headed to their rural home not far from Beaverton, Oregon.
As they crested a nearby hill, they could see smoke and flames in the distance. They joked that it probably involved neighbors embroiled in a property dispute.
But as they drove closer, they realized it was their land. Flames shot up through the Douglas Firs that surrounded their home. The road was in flames, fire trucks were everywhere. They feared the worst.
鈥淲hen we came home we thought, 鈥楨verything鈥檚 gone,鈥欌�� Blizzard said.
They lost two barns and a small cabin, four motorcycles and two cars. The windshield literally melted off one.
But they were also lucky. Thanks to a recent rain that dampened the ground, the fire didn鈥檛 spread to their house. Even their goats and other animals survived.
Fire investigators found clear signs of arson. Somebody had poured fuel on the barn floor, set it on fire and slipped away. Police never found out who did it.
But Blizzard believes she knows why.
鈥淎ll we can figure is that someone did that to dissuade me from my political action,鈥� she said. 鈥淲e鈥檇 never had anybody want to harm us before.鈥�
Blizzard had become the leading face of political opposition to a proposed freeway that would have run along the fringes of Washington County鈥檚 suburban fringe.
Known as the Westside Bypass, the 20-mile freeway was ardently sought by the county鈥檚 business and political leaders.
But their freeway-building vision clashed with Oregon鈥檚 pioneering new growth management system 鈥� those rules about where and how land could be developed.
That fire at Blizzard鈥檚 rural home highlighted the bitterness over the proposed freeway. The battle wound up having an impact that spread far beyond this one stretch of road.
It put a new focus on how to make suburbs less dependent on cars. And it led to new rules under Oregon鈥檚 growth management system that affect how we live and travel throughout Oregon.
Freeways equaled freedom, to some
After Oregon adopted its new growth management system in the 1970s, the highway builders had little reason to think it would be anything but business as usual for them. In the early years of the system, the big fights focused more on protecting farmlands and development rules for housing.
The nation was continuing to expand the interstate freeway system 鈥� work that began in the 1910s but picked up its true champion under President Dwight Eisenhower in the 1950s 鈥� still the largest public works project in American history.
In the 1960s and 1970s, most of the big metropolitan areas of the country were building beltways. This was the time of 鈥渨hite flight,鈥� when the suburbs grew rapidly and many Black residents were left to grapple with decaying urban neighborhoods.
Beltways were sold as a way to literally cruise above it all, or as General Motors once put it in a promotional film, they鈥檙e fulfilling 鈥渢he American Dream of freedom on wheels鈥�.traveling on time-saving super-highways.鈥�
The idea was that these beltways would help long-distance travelers avoid the congestion of the center city. They鈥檇 make it easier to get to all those new jobs and homes cropping up in the suburbs.
By the early 1980s, half of a beltway 鈥� 鈥� was built through the Portland area鈥檚 east-side suburbs and up into Washington. And a lot of influential people wanted to complete the circle around the entire Metro area.
Highway planners had shelves full of proposals for the western half of a beltway. One idea from 1988 attracted the support of both Washington and Oregon officials. It called for a third freeway bridge over the Columbia River that would ultimately connect to the proposed Westside Bypass.
鈥淭his serves the same purpose as Interstate 205 does on the eastside,鈥� one Washington County planning official told The Oregonian that year. 鈥淚t gets congestion out of the main routes.鈥�
That plan also called for running this new freeway through the middle of Portland鈥檚 Forest Park and building a new bridge to take it over the Willamette River.
So a full beltway was the grand plan lurking somewhere in the background. However, in the late 1980s, just one section of the loop had been turned into a 鈥� if you鈥檒l pardon the pun 鈥� concrete freeway proposal.
That鈥檚 the Westside Bypass. It would start at Interstate 5 near Tualatin and run on the edge of suburbia to Hillsboro and the Sunset Freeway.
Back then, Meeky Blizzard was working as a freelance technical editor while raising her family and tending goats on nearly five acres next to the Tualatin River.
She first heard about the Westside bypass from a nearby winery owner. The exact route of the freeway and how close it would get to her property wasn鈥檛 clear. But she didn鈥檛 like the idea of a huge corridor of asphalt and concrete tearing through the countryside.
鈥淧eople said, 鈥榊ou can鈥檛 fight city hall,鈥欌�� Blizzard recalled. 鈥淎nd I said, 鈥榃ell, maybe not, but I鈥檓 too young to roll over and say, there鈥檚 nothing I can do.鈥欌��
To her, the project seemed ill-conceived.
鈥淔irst of all, it was outside the urban growth boundary,鈥� she said, 鈥渁nd it would cut through a lot of prime farmland in Washington County.鈥�
She wasn鈥檛 impressed by the traffic analysis showing time savings. She suspected local officials were more interested in opening up additional land for development as the county鈥檚 tech industry boomed.
鈥淭hey eyed all this open land between Tualatin and Hillsboro,鈥� Blizzard said, 鈥渁s potentially vacant and as available for housing.鈥�
Westside Bypass boosters insisted they didn鈥檛 want to enable more suburban sprawl.
鈥淭his facility is not intended, nor will it be designed to encourage new development outside of the urban growth boundary,鈥� then-Washington County Chairwomen Bonnie Hays said at the time. She talked about limiting the freeway entrances and exits as the road went through farmland.
The first serious opposition to the freeway came from , the watchdog group that pushed for strong growth controls. The nonprofit launched a legal battle against the freeway. Robert Liberty, a lawyer for 1000 Friends, said it was Blizzard who argued for 鈥� and launched 鈥� a grassroots organizing effort.
Liberty called Blizzard 鈥渁 hippie from Maine鈥� who blossomed in her new role.
鈥淪he had some good instincts about dealing with people,鈥� he said. 鈥淭he woman met the moment, you could say.鈥�
Blizzard recruited Portland activists who had successfully fought against , which would have destroyed hundreds of homes in the city. Out in the suburbs, she set up booths at fairs and farmer鈥檚 markets. And she talked to any civic group that would listen.
She was particularly struck by the former Californians who frequently approached her.
Blizzard said they鈥檇 talk about how often they were promised back in the Golden State that just one more freeway would end congestion. The freeway would get built and congestion wouldn鈥檛 end. 鈥淭hey said, 鈥榃e don鈥檛 want that to happen here, so we鈥檙e with you,鈥欌�� Blizzard recalled.
That鈥檚 a folksy way to describe the concept of . Experts use the term to describe the main problem that accompanies highway expansion. More road space leads to more driving and more car-dependent development, several studies have shown. In the end, the result is more congestion.
Blizzard frequently found herself at the same forums arguing these and other points with Mary Tobias, who headed a local economic development group. 鈥淚 enjoy her,鈥� Tobias told The Oregonian in 1989. 鈥淏ut I do not appreciate the obstructionism.鈥�
Supporters would invariably paint critics like Blizzard as stubborn opponents of progress. Why couldn鈥檛 they see the need for new roads? After all, the rapid expansion of the highway network brought us growth and prosperity for decades. Washington County 鈥� with Nike and Intel and other big firms 鈥� was rapidly turning into the state鈥檚 primary economic engine, and people and goods needed to get around.
Stopping the bypass is 鈥済oing to cause gridlock, headaches and problems for the state,鈥� said Bill Moshofsky, who headed a group critical of the state growth controls. 鈥淲e want flexibility and realistic growth.鈥�
Critics, seeing the bypass as another driver of urban sprawl, leaned heavily on Oregon鈥檚 growth management system to press their legal case.
1000 Friends filed lawsuits arguing that Washington County and Metro 鈥� the Portland area鈥檚 regional government 鈥� couldn鈥檛 move forward on the bypass without first showing that it didn鈥檛 conflict with the growth system鈥檚 goals.
Keith Bartholomew was then a young attorney who worked on the case for 1000 Friends. The lawsuits, he said, were aimed at forcing transportation and county officials to think more broadly, not just blindly follow traffic projections.
鈥淭hey鈥檙e assuming that 鈥� more or less 鈥� what we have seen for the past 20 years is going to extend itself for the next 20 years,鈥� Bartholomew said. 鈥淎nd that鈥檚 where we started to ask questions鈥f we don鈥檛 like what we鈥檝e done for the past 20 years, then why would we plan on continuing it?鈥�
1000 Friends won the first round in court. That sent shivers through the freeway builders.
Retired Portland State University planning professor Ethan Seltzer was once a Metro staffer. He remembers a meeting with a top Oregon Department of Transportation official as participants argued at length over just how the growth system would affect the bypass.
Finally, Seltzer said, the official 鈥渟lams his hand on the table and says, 鈥楪oddammit, doesn鈥檛 anyone want to build anything anymore?鈥欌��
Opponents were interested in building something 鈥� a different kind of suburb.
Building better
By 1990, the Westside Bypass was in limbo. The legal fight continued as the state transportation department conducted a new study of the project.
1000 Friends decided it was time to take a different tack. Filing lawsuits wasn鈥檛 enough.
鈥淭his needed to be not just about stopping something destructive,鈥� Bartholomew said, 鈥渂ut helping articulate something positive, and to help promote that.鈥�
In other words, how do you accommodate growth in a way that doesn鈥檛 have everyone in their car all the time?
鈥淭here鈥檚 gotta be,鈥� said Bartholomew, 鈥渁 better way to build a suburb.鈥�
That鈥檚 what 1000 Friends set out to attempt. They raised more than $1 million to hire experts from around the country to figure out how they could literally re-make Washington County so that people would be less reliant on driving.
Bartholomew said nobody had ever done quite what they set out to do. They called their study 鈥淢aking the Land Use Transportation Air Quality Connection,鈥� or LUTRAQ for short.
The wound up proposing some pretty big changes. It called for dense developments around the light rail line then under construction from downtown Portland to Hillsboro. The experts assembled by 1000 Friends wanted fewer cul-de-sacs in subdivisions so that neighborhoods would better connect with each other. It was part of making walking and bicycling more attractive.
They also took aim at the very foundation of suburban living: free parking. They suggested that solo commuters pay for their parking spaces at work.
Essentially, they wanted suburbs to look more like real cities.
The experts developed sophisticated computer programs showing how their approach would affect traffic. They鈥檇 look at what would happen if you doubled the population around rail stations Or made it financially more attractive to carpool. And so on.
Bartholomew said the computer simulations showed even better results than its advocates expected.
鈥淵ou find out there鈥檚 no need for a freeway,鈥� he said. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 have to spend that money. You don鈥檛 have to plow up that land or pave it over. You just need to build better.鈥�
LUTRAQ attracted a lot of buzz 鈥� and a national award 鈥� in planning circles. LUTRAQ was also winning favor among a growing number of Portland area politicians.
As a result, the Westside bypass was deflating like an old balloon. Federal funding looked more doubtful than ever. Then-Governor Barbara Roberts weighed in against it in the early 1990s. That may have been the project鈥檚 final blow.
I asked Roberts about this recently. As it happened, a former 1000 Friends attorney, Bob Stacey, had been one of her aides. I asked her if he had her ear on what to do with the Westside Bypass.
鈥淥n this one, he had not only my ear, but my arm and my leg and everything else,鈥� she shot back.
Eventually, the state transportation department and Metro came up with alternative plans that included a series of other road projects. Bartholomew and Blizzard watched from an empty hearing room as Metro formally buried the bypass in 1997.
The bypass 鈥渄idn鈥檛 end with a bang,鈥� said Batholomew, 鈥渋t ended with a whimper. And then we went out and had a beer.鈥�
Blizzard said they probably would not have been able to stop the bypass without Oregon鈥檚 growth controls. The new system gave opponents the legal underpinnings they needed.
A new standard for roads
Oregon鈥檚 original growth planning goals called for a balanced transportation system that shouldn鈥檛 rely too heavily on cars. This was during the Arab oil embargo, and everybody was worried about gas shortages. But by the 1980s, oil was cheap and plentiful. Nobody paid much attention to this goal.
The fight over the Westside Bypass changed that.
State officials realized they needed some firm rules to guide local governments in their transportation planning. A big part of that was encouraging compact development that would reduce motor vehicle use.
鈥淭hey came up with state policies that actually had nothing to do with a bypass,鈥� Blizzard said, 鈥渂ut the bypass forced the issue.鈥�
The new was adopted in 1991. It encouraged bicycling, walking and transit. Compact development should be more common, and local streets should be better connected with each other.
Most prominently, the rule said that urban areas should cut their vehicle travel by 10% over the next 20 years 鈥� and eventually by 20%.
Bob Cortright, who helped write the transportation rule for the Oregon Department of Land Conservation and Development, said that localities complained that the 20% cut was too hard to meet. So they revised the rule to call for only a 5% reduction. Even that smaller goal proved elusive.
鈥淭his should be the big red 鈥榳rong way鈥� sign on the freeway,鈥� said Cortright, 鈥渢elling us that we鈥檙e not getting there.鈥�
Still, the state鈥檚 urban growth boundaries have helped keep down travel distances. In the Portland region, for instance, people on average drive about 23% fewer miles than residents of other large U.S. metro areas, according to 2019 figures from the Federal Highway Administration. In addition, the state and Metro are continuing other efforts to reduce driving 鈥� and to speed the shift to electric cars.
But what about that big LUTRAQ study that long ago showed how to get people out of cars?
A lot of it never happened or at least hasn鈥檛 happened yet. There are no required commuter parking fees. It鈥檚 a mixed record on denser development and connectivity between neighborhoods.
And most of all 鈥� like in so much of Oregon 鈥� people still depend on cars the vast majority of the time. Washington County officials say their latest numbers show that about 86% of trips in the county are by auto.
Even before the pandemic, ridership on the two light rail lines that go through Washington County was trending down. TriMet ridership figures showed that ridership peaked in 2012, with about 7.6 million passengers boarding a train in Washington County.
By 2019, the last year before the pandemic, ridership had dropped to about 6.6 million. WES, a separate commuter rail line between Beaverton and Wilsonville, has seen particularly anemic ridership. And all of this was happening while the county鈥檚 population continued to grow.
Rich Vial, a former GOP state legislator from Washington County, said getting people out of cars is a pipe dream.
鈥淭he more trains we get and the more places they go,鈥� he said, 鈥渋t seems like the fewer people are riding them.鈥�
Vial sponsored his own bill in the Legislature in 2017 to of the Westside Bypass. He wanted to allow local governments to set up tollway authorities that could build their own roads. He hoped that could produce a tolled freeway that would break off west of Interstate 5 in northern Marion County, run through Washington County and then up into Washington state before reconnecting with I-5.
Vial also got the bill introduced in 2019, after he was out of the Legislature. Both times, it went nowhere.
For all of that, it鈥檚 not as if Washington County has abandoned drivers. The state and county have put hundreds of millions of dollars into expanding the local road system. And in 2017, the Legislature committed the money to widen Highway 217. That鈥檚 the county鈥檚 frequently congested north-south freeway.
The suburbs are changing. But it鈥檚 a mixed picture. Whether in Beaverton or the outskirts of Bend, you can find new developments that promote walking and bicycling. But I can also show you miles of overloaded boulevards passing one strip mall after another.
Retrofitting a suburb, it turns out, is hard. Blizzard said it鈥檚 easy to get discouraged. But then she will see a subdivision with a wide variety of homes surrounding a park. Or new shops placed so they are an easy walk from nearby homes.
鈥淭here鈥檚 some wonderful development,鈥� she said, 鈥渓ittle pieces of it here and there. Not as much as certainly, I would like.鈥�
Blizzard still lives on her rural property 鈥� although the urban growth boundary has crept closer.
She and her husband long ago built a new barn to replace the ones that burned down. Five of the big fir trees were so damaged they had to be removed. But their property is still a wooded oasis. As we walk out the back of her house, we overlook the Tualatin River. A federal wildlife refuge is across the water. She said her land may someday become part of the refuge.
The fight over the Westside Bypass changed her life. She wound up working for Earl Blumenauer, both when he was a Portland city commissioner and then when he went to Congress.
Blumenauer sent her to more conferences on transportation and compact development than she can remember. It made Blizzard ponder about spending most of her adult life on that rural land. But this is home.
One irony, she said, was that she did more driving when she was fighting the Westside Bypass 鈥渢han I鈥檇 ever done in my life.鈥�
She鈥檚 since tried to reduce her impact on the road. In that new barn, she shows me a pair of small motorcycles.
鈥淭he one on the right is mine,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 got my motorcycle endorsement at age 73.鈥�
When she received her DMV photo, the worker looked at her age. And then he cracked, 鈥溾�橳his is great, what did you get 鈥� a Harley hog?鈥�
鈥淚 said, 鈥榃ell, it鈥檚 actually more like a piglet.鈥欌��
Her piglet, she added, is great for going to the grandkids鈥� soccer games.
Next week: How a little old lady nearly gutted Oregon鈥檚 growth rules. Property rights activists nearly derailed Oregon鈥檚 growth management system in the early 2000s. And no one was more prominent 鈥� or colorful 鈥� than Dorothy English.
The Growing Oregon audio story is available through the podcast feed.
Copyright 2022 Oregon Public Broadcasting. To see more, visit .
