“If you're one of those people always behind the eight ball, taking too many risks – well, hang gliding isn't about that,” said Greg Berger, the only, as far as I know, certified hang glider instructor in Prescott. “It isn't an adrenalin sport.”

If strapping on a wing and throwing yourself off a cliff isn't about adrenaline, then what is hang gliding about? Partially, it's about dreaming. You know when you sleep at night and you sometimes have those dreams where you run with your arms outspread and suddenly you're flying?

“That's something universal with all hang gliding pilots, that flying dream,” Greg said.

RIH photo/Art Merrill

Speed? No adrenaline here, either. Recreational hang gliders do bicycle speeds, around 20 to 30 miles per hour, though you could eventually graduate to an adrenal 70mph high performance glider, and many people do. But speed really only becomes a factor when it's time to land, and less is better.

“You want to be flying at slow speed, slow enough to run or walk, when you hit the ground,” Greg said.

A student makes a landing approach after launching from a tow cable. These flights often last only a few minutes, unless you can find a good thermal. RIH photo/Art Merrill

Despite helping to draft a proposed new law managing off-highway vehicles, OHV users are on a track of their own.

With nearly a quarter million quads and dirt bikes already churning through Arizona’s outdoor spaces, a coalition of off-highway vehicle users, working with 16 government agencies, is seeking even greater access for their machines. They want to achieve it through a “Copper Sticker” law that taxes off-highway vehicles (OHVs) and uses the money to open and develop more OHV trails.

Nearly 1/4 million OHV's and dirt bikes roam through Arizona's open spaces. RIH photo/Erica Ryberg

To hear a short audio version of this story, click here.

Here's the original story, Paradise Subdivided.

In mid-November, during the preliminary phase of developing the Dalke property into a another housing subdivision, bulldozers scraping away the scrub oak and manzanita uncovered a significant archaeological find – what one witness called “an entire village,” replete with human remains. While hikers and explorers have been finding archaeological artifacts on the property for more than a century, this major discovery, combined with an anonymous offer of $2.5 million, sparked new hope that the Dalke might yet become a public park.

Heavy equipment pauses on a new road cut close to the Dalke petroglyph rocks

On a stormy day in late October, the last stragglers trespassed on what has been for decades an unofficial Prescott park. They braved blasting zones and the sound of machines pulverizing granite to dust.

Entering a trailhead, a hiker asked me if they had started working on the housing development yet. A few steps later, we passed a sign that read, “Warning Construction Blasting Zone No Trespassing”. The sound of trucks backing up pierced the forest.

An eye on the city council: Meredith Marder sued the city council for failing to buy enough open space.

“This is an exquisite property,” she said. "You can see why it should have been open space.” When the trail disappeared under construction debris, it finally dawned on her. The Dalke property was no more.

“Oh my god,” she said. “They’re doing it.” 

The Dalke property, a wayward, boulder-strewn patch of West Prescott, has been a lightning rod for public outcry and a thorn in the side of the city council, some of whose members felt that preserving the park would pander to special interests. 

In June, the City’s treatment of the Dalke motivated a lawsuit. The plaintiff, Prescott College graduate Meredith Marder, had already worked for years to preserve the Dalke property as open space. Her suit charged that the mayor and council reneged on open space promises in a ballot initiative that collects a one percent sales tax for roads and open space.