Dakota County: A natural approach to parks

As he steered his dust-caked four-wheel-drive Jeep gingerly along the wet, rutted roadway in rural Dakota County, Steve Olson took the precaution of keeping the two wheels on the passenger's side up on the dry grass alongside.

It meant that the vehicle was tilted severely -- and that the ride was jolting enough to turn a glass of ice cubes into a smoothie. But it also minimized the chances of sliding into the marsh to his left, and having to explain to some tow truck driver where on Earth he was.

Olson, whose family has owned this property north of Farmington for decades, is in the glacially slow process of selling it to Dakota County as the centerpiece of a major new regional park to be known as Vermillion Highlands. And he wanted to show off its centerpiece, a man-made lake created by his father and wryly dubbed "Lake Inferior."

"The name," he said, "started as a joke -- and stuck."

The land became available for public use when his mother died a few years ago, leaving her heirs to work out what to do with the family property: Split it up? Share it? Sell it?

That scenario is being played out all across the southern metro area these days. Scott County, after decades without buying any parkland, has acquired 700 acres in the past four years -- and is angling for more. Carver County, eyeing potential sites, is actively considering accelerating its acquisitions by decades, asking voters to raise taxes to do so.

Dakota's parks system may be "young, young, young," in the cheerfully self-deprecating words of the county's chief spokeswoman, Gail Plewacki. But its plans for growth, now in the final stages of development, are drawing strong praise from outsiders.

"Dakota County is getting it right," said Dan Wolter, of Eagan, a former aide to Gov. Tim Pawlenty who represents much of the northern part of the county on the Metropolitan Council.

"The old approach to parks," he said, "was more reactive: Someone donated a plot of land in their will. It was not so much strategic -- meaning finding important, well-located natural resources and protecting them. ... This is forward-looking thinking: As we grow, make sure we have 'x' amount of property for parks and trails. Around the country we see examples of where you have rapid growth and suddenly you realize the whole place is a Wal-Mart parking lot, so you throw up a 'park' somewhere."

Joshua Houdek, conservation organizer for Minnesota's chapter of the Sierra Club, agrees. "We like the plan a lot. It's a good example of sustainable and progressive thinking. It does a good job of stepping back, taking account of what their prized natural areas are, getting out ahead of development, protecting 'green infrastructure,' and connecting those green spaces with corridors and trails."

A sanctuary in the suburbs

From that point of view, the lake is not inferior at all, but the centerpiece of a parcel of several hundred acres of land, slowly accumulated by one family over decades. It's also strategically located between the University of Minnesota's vast natural holdings in Rosemount and land the state has been acquiring for a wildlife management area.

The three holdings adjoin one another, making the totality much more useful for wildlife than if they were separate.

The cost -- nearly $15 million -- is steep, which is one reason multiple agencies want to help foot the bill. Local lawmakers have asked the Legislature to provide several million dollars to help close the gap.

But one part of a new sensibility at work, experts agree, is that although the pricetag may seem high, it can gradually be recouped by the higher value of surrounding land, which leads to higher tax proceeds.

Mark Themig, parks program manager for Scott County, has already seen signs of that -- literally. In a Prior Lake subdivision alongside properties destined for use as regional parks, he saw signs boasting to buyers that they will have regional parkland right in their back yard.

Lake Inferior, in Empire Township, is a healthy distance away from the main body of civilization -- though cities like Rosemount and Farmington are creeping toward it.

For now it's the silent realm of deer and wild turkeys, whose tracks can be seen crossing the crackling layer of snow that covers the lake in the winter. Still standing, though now decidedly aging, are the two duck blinds that Olson's father built, one on each end of the lake.

"Ducks aren't stupid," Olson said, striding a couple of weeks ago across the still-frozen surface. "If the only place they hear shots is the other end of the lake, they find another place to land."

Breaking from the past

Olson, who now lives on the Maine coast, where he works in the marine industry, admits to conflicting emotions about surrendering this huge area -- both a childhood playground and a place he farmed as an adult -- to public ownership.

If the sale goes through, before too much longer, roads will slice through meadows and marshes. What are now locked gates will give way to signs welcoming anyone in. Children, taking this land for just another park, knowing nothing of the people connected with it, will race through land whose every bump in the ground, every ditch-drained lowland, carries memories.

If Olson is slightly wistful, recording it all with his camera before it begins to change, he says that, on the whole, he welcomes the coming change.

Standing in the middle of Lake Inferior, gesturing toward the low surrounding hills, he says:

"You can just imagine, can't you, where a developer would site all of the mansions around the lake?"

David Peterson • 952-882-9023