JEFFERSON LIVES ONLY ON MAP OF DREAMS

CONTRA COSTA TIMES
Sunday Sept. 24, 2000

By Sandy Kleffman

There's a revolution brewing in the scenic hamlets and rural outposts near the California-Oregon border.

The signs are everywhere:

In 12-foot-high letters painted atop a hay barn boldly proclaiming a "State of Jefferson" to passersby along Interstate 5.

In the hardscrabble town of Happy Camp, where residents complain of betrayal by government officials.

In downtown Yreka, where the first thing shoppers see as they enter the Cooley and Pollard Hardware Store are State of Jefferson hats, T-shirts and suspenders.

The dream of seceding and forming a new state, dubbed Jefferson, refuses to die in this rugged, remote country.

It's an idea that has been around 150 years and has gained renewed intensity in recent months. The movement is partly tongue-in-cheek, partly dead-on serious.

It's born from a belief that folks here have been neglected and sidelined by politicians who cater to areas with more people, bigger political contributions and heftier clout.

Supporters say government officials with little knowledge of the area have imposed a host of regulations affecting everything from logging to fish protection, water rights and mountain lions that have harmed their economies, hindered their lifestyles and sent some communities into a tailspin.

"Up here it's a completely different world, and the laws that they make down there don't work here," said Gary Hulsey, owner of the Forest Lodge Motel in Happy Camp.

For more than a century, many people in this part of California and Oregon have maintained they have more in common with their neighbors on the other side of the border than with the urban centers of the Bay Area, Southern California and Portland, Ore.

This is scenic, largely unspoiled country where the Klamath River tumbles through golden fields and tree-studded canyons, where black bear and deer are a common sight, and where the intense blue sky rarely shows any signs of smog.

Siskiyou County, the heart of Jefferson activity these days, has just 44,200 people spread across 6,300 square miles. That's less than the population of Pleasanton in an area five times the size of Rhode Island.

Last year, the county's unemployment rate averaged 10.3 percent, nearly double the statewide average.

"Like in most of small town, rural America, things are hurting," said Mark Dean, executive director of the Yreka Chamber of Commerce.

Sharp restrictions on logging have forced many mills to close, turning some communities into near-ghost towns.

And restrictions on water rights, aimed at protecting fish habitat, have frustrated farmers to the point that in July, several of them proposed to sell 30,000 acres of prime land to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Reluctantly, they offered to abandon property their families owned for decades.

"They took our economy away and they're not replacing it with anything," Hulsey said.

Not all local folks are enamored of the Jefferson movement. Some argue that it has taken on a more political tone in recent years, with a decidedly anti-environmental spin.

"What started out being a rather fun kind of attention-getting situation has become a fairly polarizing movement that is pretty intolerant," said Carol Wright of the Klamath Forest Alliance, a grass-roots environmental organization.

Yet the movement is different things to different people. It has shifted over the years with the political tides.

It had its heyday in 1941, when residents couldn't get adequate roads to bring out the rich deposits of copper, chrome and manganese in the area. They noted with disdain that the state had no trouble finding money for a recreation center in Los Angeles while their trucks wallowed in mud and their economies suffered.

Fed up, they talked of seceding and forming their own state, naming it after Thomas Jefferson, author of the Declaration of Independence.

At one point, gun-toting miners barricaded a highway and secessionists held a torchlight parade through downtown Yreka, inaugurating their own governor.

But just as the movement gained steam and captured national attention, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, the United States entered World War II and the movement fizzled.

To help with the war effort, the federal government finally built that long-sought road to bring out minerals. Today, Highway 96 winds along the Klamath River west of Interstate 5 and is officially dubbed the State of Jefferson Scenic Byway.

Yet over the decades, memories of that spirited rebellion have remained strong.

Today, a host of companies use Jefferson as part of their name. Radio announcers forecast the weather for the State of Jefferson on Jefferson Public Radio in Ashland, Ore. There are State of Jefferson fairs and Jefferson entries in parades. A couple of years ago, supporters re-enacted the road blockade.

The Yreka Chamber of Commerce about as mainstream as you can get even has State of Jefferson brochures on its counter.

"We still like the Jeffersonian ideals and all," said Dean, executive director of the chamber. "I take it as a nice, historical story and a political state of mind, but not anything we think is going to come to fruition."

That doesn't stop some from trying. Through the decades, there have been numerous attempts to split up the Golden State. Some were initiated by Southern California residents who wanted to separate from the Bay Area and Sacramento.

The most recent proposal that made serious headway came in 1993. Then-Assemblyman Stan Statham, R-Oak Run, urged county supervisors to put the issue to an advisory vote. Voters in 27 counties approved of the idea.

He then introduced a bill calling for a statewide advisory vote on splitting California into three states. His measure passed the Assembly, but never emerged from the Senate Government Organization Committee.

Statham, now president of the California Broadcasters Association, says there is not a month that goes by when he doesn't receive a call from someone interested in the idea. California has become so unwieldy, he argues, that it is practically a "nation-state."

That makes it more difficult for people in northernmost California to be heard. Statham noted that when he served in the Legislature, he represented nine counties, including Siskiyou, that together were the size of South Carolina.

By contrast, Los Angeles County alone had 28 Assembly members. That gave them virtual veto power over anything northern-most California might propose.

In other areas of the state, however, Statham's proposal prompted as much laughter as it did serious debate. A columnist for the Sacramento Bee quipped:

"What's the state bird for Southern California? The traffic helicopter? And what about the property? Who gets San Francisco? Bakersfield? Jerry Brown?"

The movement received another kick-start several years ago when two local residents, Brian Helsaple and Brian Petersen, decided to form a state of Jefferson chamber. Today, motorists on Interstate 5 near Yreka may do a double take when they see official signs announcing the chamber is responsible for highway beautification in the area.

Helsaple and his nephew painted a barn roof along Interstate 5 to capture the attention of thousands of motorists who pass by on their way to Oregon.

"People see the name and pull into the gas stations and ask, What is this State of Jefferson thing?'" Helsaple said.

The two have created a Web site (www.jeffersonstate.com) and more than 100 people have signed up as members of the State of Jefferson Citizen's Committee, which according to its bylaws "promotes success, not secession. For now."

Petersen says he realizes Jefferson won't emerge any time soon. At this point, the chamber seeks merely to raise awareness about issues.

"I'm not going to go out and beat my head against the wall and petition the state Legislature yet," Petersen said. "We're still building our support, or else it would just be a flash in the pan. But ultimately, it would be good for our area."

Helsaple views the Jefferson chamber as a public relations effort to draw attention to the beauty of the area and lure more tourists.

He and Petersen sell Jefferson T-shirts, hats, note paper and suspenders.

A 55-year-old jack-of-all-trades, Helsaple lives in a self-made wooden house off of the Jefferson Scenic Byway near Seiad Valley.

Along the rutted, unpaved road to his house, he says, is a perfect example of the kind of government regulation that folks rail against.

Sticking out conspicuously from the weeds in a dirt parking area next to a small tasting room he built for his Seiad Valley Winery is a bright blue handicapped parking sign.

Few people were expected to visit the tasting room and none was expected to have trouble finding a parking spot. But building inspectors insisted he comply with a host of regulations to create a handicap-accessible bathroom and special parking spot.

"If you are Wal-Mart or if you are a little vegetable stand, it doesn't matter the same law applies," he said, shaking his head.

"I never saw a handicapped person in all the years (six) that I was open."

The issues keeping the Jefferson dream alive are most evident down the road a bit in Happy Camp, a former logging town on the banks of the Klamath River.

Surrounded by the steep mountains of the Klamath National Forest, Happy Camp is reeling from restrictions on logging imposed by the Endangered Species Act, which protects the spotted owl, and other measures aimed at preserving the environment.

Twenty-five years ago, the Klamath National Forest produced 220 million board-feet of timber a year. By 1987, the amount had plunged to 180 million. Thus far this year, almost nothing has been harvested. The total for 2000 will reach no more than about 30 million board-feet, said Ed Matthews, timber management officer for the Klamath National Forest.

Happy Camp's mills have closed, its population has dwindled to less than a thousand and the local high school is barely able to put together enough students to field a varsity football team.

But what really has folks riled is what they believe is a severe fire danger. They argue that because loggers are no longer allowed to remove dead wood from the forest, there is so much overgrowth and buildup of fuel that the slightest spark could create a disaster.

They know all too well about such dangers. On the walls of the Indian Creek Cafe are vivid photos of a 1987 fire that ravaged 268,000 acres. It produced so much smoke that residents of Happy Camp literally didn't see the sun for days.

It's easy to find support for Jefferson in Happy Camp.

One afternoon a few weeks ago, longtime resident Rick Crocker sat on the back of a pickup truck drinking a beer beside the river as the sun set. The only sounds were the gurgling of the Klamath River, the murmurs of other fishermen a few yards away and the crunch of rocks as people walked back and forth.

"When I grew up, everybody had jobs and money and cars and trucks and houses," he said with a sigh. "Now, you have trouble finding a job."

As he talked, Crocker stopped in mid-sentence to watch a flock of birds taking off, framed by the darkening forest. He has heard about the Jefferson state movement all of his life.

"I think it should have happened a long time ago."

Over at the Indian Creek Cafe, three buddies from Crescent City grabbed a bite to eat. They were in the area to hunt deer with bows.

"Our town is so in debt, they can barely do anything," said 23-year-old Silas Durham. "A lot of the wealth is down south. If you could control things up here, maybe more money would come to the area."

Kenny McCulley, owner of the McCulley Logging Co. in Happy Camp, said he hasn't logged "a stick" since 1997. Three years ago, he had 21 people working for him. Today, he occasionally has one or two. He ekes out a living by crushing rock.

His father started the company in 1953 with the slogan "Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow." Now, he said wryly, his slogan should be "Yesterday, Today and Maybe Tomorrow."

Matthews, the timber management officer for the Klamath Forest, said the federally adopted Northwest Forest Plan lists several species, including snails, slugs, salamanders and fungi, that federal employees are required to survey and figure out ways of protecting.

They are doing that now for the 1.65 million acre Klamath Forest and this time-consuming process has virtually brought logging to a standstill.

Today, Happy Camp survives with a boost from the scores of tourists who pass through on rafting trips during the summer. But in the winter, "we just die," Hulsey said.

Other issues trigger strong feelings up and down the Klamath River.

It's still possible to see signs with a slash through the letters NMFS, expressing displeasure with the National Marine Fisheries Service.

Many folks here were upset two years ago when the agency proposed new regulations designed to protect the habitat for the coho salmon, whose numbers have dwindled.

Opponents said the regulations could have restricted what people were permitted to do on any property that fell within 300 feet of the river just about the entire town of Happy Camp does.

The agency has since abandoned the proposed 300-foot rule, and now restrictions will apply just to areas that are an essential part of the salmon habitat, said fishery biologist Dick Butler. But he was taken aback at the reaction they received to the proposal.

"There was quite a bit of misinformation and misunderstanding," he said.

Other local residents shook their heads at restrictions imposed on the killing of mountain lions, also known as cougars. Thats has resulted in a burgeoning population of the animals. Statewide, there were 2,000 of them in the 1970s. Now, the population is estimated at 4,000 to 6,000.

"We have people who are afraid to go out of their homes in Butte Valley because the cougar population is so heavy," said Marcia Armstrong, executive director of the Siskiyou County Farm Bureau.

Ron Parker, manager of the Cooley and Pollard Hardware store in downtown Yreka, argues that gun-control laws designed for urban centers aren't needed up here where drive-by shootings are virtually unheard of and many people have guns for self-protection.

"If you live 15 miles out in the sticks, you're on your own because the sheriff is not going to get there for 15 to 20 minutes," he said.

People from the Bay Area and Southern California, Parker added, "have no idea of what actually transpires in rural America."

Despite all of the activity surrounding the idea, few people in these parts believe there will be a state of Jefferson.

"I don't think it will ever make it," said Oregon state Rep. Steve Harper, R-Klamath Falls. "But it'd be fun. I'd be the governor of that one."

The idea persists, he said, because "the culture and value systems of these counties are slightly different" than the rest of California and Oregon. Portland doesn't have many potato farmers, for example.

James Rock, a retired Forest Service archaeologist who wrote a book on the movement, believes the area doesn't have the tax base to support a new state.

"We cost California more than we contribute as a county because there is nothing here that is making money," Rock said. "What would you have? You'd build another Appalachia."

The logistics would be tricky. The Oregon and California legislatures and the U.S. Congress would have to OK the move. There would be a host of issues to deal with _ from adopting a state constitution to setting up a Legislature, providing universities and colleges, and licensing and regulating doctors, lawyers and other professionals.

"You'd have to build a new state capitol," noted Clyde Macdonald, who wrote a report on the issue in 1994 when he worked for the Assembly Office of Research.

Not to mention that you'd have to find a way to squeeze a 51st star on the U.S. flag, noted Peter Detwiler, a staff consultant to the Senate Local Government Committee.

Some up here don't buy the arguments that have fueled the state of Jefferson dream.

Environmentalist Wright doesn't believe that local folks will take good care of the forests, fish and rivers if government simply got off their backs.

"If that were true, why are we losing species?" she asked.

"We haven't seen the willingness on the part of private timber companies to really look at and change their management techniques and their forestry techniques," she said.

One of the problems with the Jefferson movement, Wright argued, is that it prevents people from listening to other ideas about how things should be done.

"Many, many people come here with new ideas and progressive thoughts about business and the environment and they get shot down time after time," she said.

"This is a very, very beautiful, unique and special area," she said. "(Protecting) it takes all the best minds and collaboration. You can't isolate yourself from the world."

Others believe the outlook for the area isn't as dire as some make it seem.

The Siskiyou County Economic Development Council is working with local businesses to help them survive and thrive, and the area has a beauty and a slow-paced atmosphere that is very attractive to many city dwellers, noted business development assistant Brian Hoffman.

"Now, we're in a transitional economy," he said. "It's kind of lying in limbo. Which way do we go, what type of industries are going to be able to support this economy?"

But most agree the state of Jefferson dream won't die any time soon. Folks here will continue wearing their hats and T-shirts and talking wistfully of creating a new state.

"It's not practical, but the dream isn't going to go away," Rock said.

Helsaple expects the idea to survive until people are convinced they are being heard by politicians in Sacramento and Salem, Ore.

"You can yell and scream up here," he said, "but you're still just a voice in the wind."

A 51st state?

Congress can admit new states to the Union, but no state can be carved out of an existing one without approval of the state Legislature and Congress, the U.S. Constitution says. Beyond that, there are no laws that outline the procedure for splitting a state.

If such an effort were to occur in California today, lawmakers might decide to follow a precedent set in 1859, when Assemblyman Andrs Pico of Los Angeles introduced a bill to divide the state. Pico's measure passed and was signed into law by the governor. It required a two-thirds vote of approval from residents in Southern California. Nearly 75 percent of voters endorsed the idea, but the Civil War intervened and Congress never voted on the proposal.

SOURCE: Peter Detwiler, staff consultant Senate Local Government Committee