Some of this might have been avoided if Leland Stanford had listened to Frederick Law Olmsted.
In 1886, Olmsted, the architect best known for his design of Central Park in New York City and commissioned by Stanford to develop a campus blueprint, had sized up the senator's sprawling ranch and determined that the ideal spot to locate the University was in the gentle folds of the Foothills that overlook San Francisco Bay. It was an ideal setting, Olmsted said, presenting "a fine, characteristic California" view. Stanford didn't like it, favoring the open plain below as a site for the campus center, and he got his way.
More than 100 years later, the oak-dotted meadows that Olmsted coveted haven't changed much. The only encroachments are the radio telescope--now affectionately known as "the Dish"--erected in 1962 to conduct atmospheric studies, a civil engineering field station, a solar observatory and facilities for student radio station KZSU.
In the past few years, the Dish area has become a de facto public park, attracting as many as 1,000 visitors a day. A network of ad hoc trails had appeared, including the popular "cardiac hill," so named by runners who appreciated its lung-busting slope. Its more pejorative nickname was "the scar." A broad ribbon of hard-packed dirt, it was representative of several Foothills trails that damaged habitat areas and promoted erosion, says Charles Carter, an architect in the University's planning office. Carter was a member of a working group charged with implementing a new management program for the Dish area launched last May. The program was immediately controversial, particularly since it was introduced just as debate about Foothills preservation swirled around the GUP process.
The existing service road that meandered through the hills and along the ridge line was repaved to form a four-mile "recreation route" for hikers and joggers. Dogs were banned. Unarmed security guards were placed at both entrances to the Dish area to help enforce the new regulations.
Opponents interpreted the aggressive enforcement procedures as evidence that the University wanted to reduce Foothills traffic and make it easier to one day close them off altogether. "They're trying to reduce the number of people who use the Dish. That means fewer people will fall in love with the area," says Peter Drekmeier, director of the Stanford Open Space Alliance.
A ridiculous charge, according to Carter. "Our intent is to get people used to the rules and complying with them," he says. "Unfortunately, the moment there's nobody there [to enforce the rules], people go off the trail.
"Another bit of mythology is that Stanford never tried to close those trails [in previous years]," Carter says. "When we first put up gates in the late '80s we designated trails for people to use and put up signs indicating areas that were closed for restoration. People ignored them. The signs would get removed and people would walk around in re-seeded areas."
The use of the Foothills as a public recreation area has a short history. They were completely off-limits until 1971, when they were made available only to persons with a Stanford id. Even then, people who wanted to hike in the Foothills had to either climb the fence or negotiate a cattle gate to get in, Carter says.
Gradually, as local road traffic and congestion increased, the Foothills' lure grew stronger. By the late '80s, the Dish had become a popular destination for residents throughout the mid-Peninsula who used it for hiking, jogging and walking their dogs.
In 1987, the University created easily accessible entrances and erected signs spelling out a few rules--dogs on leashes, marked routes only--but made little effort to enforce them. Acting on the advice of conservation biologist Alan Launer, '81, ms '82, the University last spring decided that it had to clamp down if it was going to take seriously its environmental stewardship of the area.
It was the right thing to do, according to Philippe Cohen, director of Stanford's Jasper Ridge Biological Preserve. "You can't have unfettered recreational access and pretend that we are preserving something native," he says.
