Nobody ever expects to see so many pine trees in Arizona. This is, after all, a state known for sand and sagebrush. Yet as far as you can see, conifers blend into a carpet of green. Camped by your airplane in a thicket of juniper and manzanita, you gaze at the same view that inspired Zane Grey as he churned out his novels beneath the nearby cliffs of the Mogollon (pronounced " muggy-on") Rim. This is Payson, Arizona, site of the Southwest's first formal airplane campground. Arizona now joins other Western states like California with its airplane campground in the foothills of the Sierras; Montana with stunning wilderness strips like Spotted Bear; Oregon's campgrounds along the Pacific; Washington's Copalis Beach State Airport, where it's legal to land on the beach; and, of course, the Idaho airplane campground network that set the standards for all the others.
But many of these back-country wilderness strips that leap off the pages of National Geographic were built as emergency strips back in the 1940s before the era of unending government regulations. Times change. And as you sit next to a crackling fire, on your campsite at Payson, who would have ever guessed that this austere campground development was the object of so much contention? After all, how difficult could it be to construct a campground at an airport?
The story began in the summer of 1990 when an Arizona man flew into an Idaho strip and found, to his surprise, that almost everyone there was from his home state. Convinced that Arizona could open its own airplane campground, he decided to speak at a long-range planning meeting conducted by the Arizona Department of Transportation to determine airport and road programs to be pursued over the next 15 years. If any plan would get funding, the crusty politicians who had heard it all would have to be impressed.
Even they were surprised when the pilot began with the unusual tactic of showing slides of his summer airplane vacation. "Why do we have to fly up to Idaho to camp," he asked, "when Arizona has miles of empty land and the largest stand of ponderosa pine in the world?"
The panel was impressed and came up with $75,000 for a 2-year feasibility study. Thus began a journey through a morass of government agencies and regulations.
First, an engineering firm was hired to inventory current and former airports and rate each on what kind of airplane campground it would make. But right away, options began to dwindle. American Indian land, which makes up more than one-quarter of Arizona, couldn't be used because reservations are sovereign nations. All the national parks and monuments had to be excluded. In fact, only 17 percent of Arizona is privately owned. There were also concerns that strips too close to the border could be used by drug runners.
Still, when the study ended in November 1991, 18 places were identified and ranked according to preference. Some would be new airport sites like Kinnickinnick Lake, in pine country near Flagstaff, or Alamo Lake, a desert lake perfect for winter use. Others favored by the panel, such as Sedona or Payson, were already airports and required only campground construction.
With $400,000 in funding ready to go for the first three facilities, the site that was thought to be potentially the most successful was the first choice — Sedona Airport. A bluff overlooking the red cliffs was a perfect spot, but problems soon emerged.
Almost before the ink had dried on the press releases, a deputy county attorney in Yavapai County advised the board of supervisors against making it only for pilots. "He said people in cars had to be able to use the facility or it couldn't go in," explained Gary Adams, director of the Arizona Department of Transportation's Division of Aeronautics. "We put a couple of years into that project in Sedona. We didn't think their opinion was compatible with what we were doing, so we had to look elsewhere."
Carlton Camp was one of the Yavapai County supervisors who voted against the plan, even though he's a pilot. "That property was so valuable we couldn't justify putting a campground there," he said. "There's a limited area up there … lots of activity, and we didn't think we needed any more."
Predictably, in Idaho the airport sites were also desired by campers in cars and recreational vehicles but were ruled off-limits to them. At one field, despite locked gates, the sheriff even had to arrest one man in a vehicle who wouldn't leave.
Why can't anybody use the facilities? Because nonfliers and their children don't understand the dangers of whirling propellers and high-speed airplanes.
Further, as Adams reasoned, "The campgrounds are built with aviation taxes and funds; public funds are not used. And in a case like Sedona, where there's a shortage of regular campsites, the pilots and their families would never be able to find an open campsite that their aviation fees paid to build. It's not fair."
In the quest for another site, the state agency was also hamstrung by an unusual Arizona statute. According to state law, the Division of Aeronautics can operate and maintain only one airport in the state, the Grand Canyon Airport. So the Division was powerless to just go anywhere to open a campground on its own. It had to find a sponsor.
And officials believed that sponsor would be at their next choice, Alamo Lake, in the western Arizona outback, run by Arizona State Parks. Certainly it offered a remote spot where nobody would be bothered — except, they would find out, a family of nesting eagles that lived nearby and needed to be protected.
By now, Adams and his crew were feeling like Charles Lindbergh in the middle of the Atlantic — all alone. "We've been disappointed at the lack of interest from agencies," the aeronautical chief said. "Maybe they were worried about airplane noise and disturbing the peace and quiet in these places. But under normal use, an airplane would be no noisier than a Jeep going by. We were still going to try and do this first class."
They next turned to an airstrip called the Grapevine, a favorite of Arizona pilots. But liability and maintenance concerns doomed that choice.
Meanwhile, hearing that Sedona would not have the campground, airport planners at a small mountain community called Payson anxiously approached Adams at a meeting and sketched on a napkin what their facility might look like. Helping to spearhead the Payson proposal were people like Peter Paige, who had been operations officer for London's Heathrow Airport, where he honed his skills of dealing with government entities. Paige was Payson's airport operations manager. In addition, the Arizona Pilots Association threw its weight behind the Payson project.
And like the perfect recipe, all the ingredients were there: Payson would be the sponsor. The community would even buy the entire airport from the forest service, which leased the land. And there would be heated showers and flush toilets, campgrounds in the pines adjacent to a tiedown area, and gobs of recreation nearby in the fabled canyons that Zane Grey immortalized. For those who like some civilization with their camping, there was even an Indian casino just outside of town.
And the plan paid off. The Southwest's first formal airplane campground was under construction with only two more interruptions. First came a federal judge's decision to ban all timber cutting, to preserve the habitat of the spotted owl. When that was lifted, Indian ruins were discovered, necessitating a 6-month archeological study. Finally, on Saturday, April 26, Arizona's first recreational airport at Payson was dedicated.
"We've begun with 12 [camping] sites," said LaRon Garrett, Payson town engineer, who gave final approval to the campground design. "And we have the option of developing more sites on another 10 acres if the program flies." Each campsite looks similar to a forest service campground, with solid picnic tables and fire rings accessed by a paved walkway to make transportation of gear easier. Camping pilots will pay overnight fees similar to those charged at forest service campgrounds. Campground space for individuals is a on a first-come, first-served basis, while reservations are taken for clubs and groups. Although the $200,000 budgeted for the facility may seem high, Adams defended the amount, which he said included money for regular airport improvements.
As the dust settles and campfires are lit in Payson, will state aviation officials dare try to open another one? "We may not do anything more for several years," Adams admitted. "We need to get some data on how popular the system will be. Then, hopefully, we'll open others. I still like the Grapevine strip, and even Kearny, Arizona. Their airport was washed out in a flood, but when it's rebuilt, I think it has excellent potential to be a recreational field with a park, country club, and river nearby."
What advice does Adams have for pilots in other states who want to try this? "Do it!" he exclaims. "I think we will be able to prove the program is worthwhile and fills a need. Realize there will be hurdles to go over, but you have to be unstoppable."
And there's another benefit. These recreational strips serve as a way to increase the use of many airports and preserve them, since, on average, about 50 airports close each year.
So who knows? Many desert dwellers who dread the tough 2-hour drive to the cool mountain country may find the idea of flying to a campsite in 20 minutes irresistible. Perhaps others will follow through on a dream and learn to fly. The folks at the Division of Aeronautics are betting that they will.
Preston Westmoreland, an FAA safety counselor, has served on a committee overseeing the design and implementation of Arizona's Recreational Airport System. For information on Payson's recreational airfield, call 520/474-2005.
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