PORTLAND — As far as government agencies go, soil and water conservation districts aren’t usually known as hotbeds of controversy.

But the East Multnomah Soil and Water Conservation District in Oregon’s Portland metropolitan area is hardly ordinary.

An electoral dispute involving the district recently brought about a change in state law, but other disagreements have stewed among its leaders and staff out of the public eye.

The district’s unique location has contributed to conflicts over its mission, but it’s a forerunner in dealing with problems similar organizations will also confront, said Joe Rossi, a farmer and board member.

“We see these issues first. We’re the bellwether,” Rossi said. “It’s a struggle already in an urban district to have an agricultural viewpoint expressed.”

Diverse district

Straddling Oregon’s most populous city and a heavily forested national scenic area, with a patchwork of farmland squeezed between, the district is nothing if not diverse.

It stretches from the picturesque Columbia Gorge, where federal scenic area protections restrict development, to the eastern portion of Portland, which generates millions of dollars in tax revenue for the district.

While other districts may only dream of East Multnomah’s $10 million annual budget, its financial resources have contributed to sharp disagreements over how the money should be spent — particularly whether its property transactions and farm incubator program are worthwhile or counterproductive.

“They don’t realize they’re incompetently managing the assets,” Rossi said of those investments. “We’re in Pretend Land, thinking we’re actually helping anybody.”

As the contrarian voice on the district’s board, Rossi tries to ensure the it doesn’t lose sight of its agricultural roots. Frustration with the district’s perceived lack of receptiveness has compelled Rossi to voice his concerns, he said.

“I can’t get my points across, most of the time,” he said. “My group doesn’t understand the people they’re serving.”

Beyond matters of dollars and cents, the district has dealt with different cultures and values that exemplify the urban-rural divide.

The district’s defenders claim it hasn’t lost sight of rural concerns, but is necessarily managed to protect soil and water in urban and suburban environments with different problems and aspirations. They point out most other board members are involved in farming in some capacity but don’t share Rossi’s criticisms.

New executive director

“The work is very impactful because we have a responsibility to work with every demographic,” said Kelley Beamer, who was hired as the district’s executive director earlier this year after previously running a state land trust coalition.

She’s the district’s third executive director in the past five years but disputes a predecessor’s description of the organization as difficult to manage.

“I feel like I’ve entered a very healthy work environment,” Beamer said.

Though members of the district’s board and the community hope she’ll be successful, some worry past struggles over authority will again stir to life. The worries spring from the organization’s progressive social stance, which some believe undermines discipline — particularly the training and policies that emphasize “diversity, equity and inclusion,” or DEI.

“If you try to set any kind of accountability standards, that’s oppressive,” said Jay Udelhoven, the executive director from 2014 to 2019. “I was finding it increasingly difficult to do my job with the DEI stuff. Everything I was doing was considered wrong or oppressive or racist.”

According to critics, “woke” and “politically correct” policies are vulnerable to manipulation by disgruntled or power-hungry employees who can destabilize the workplace. Udelhoven said the district hired a DEI consultant who exacerbated such tendencies.

“I think ultimately the goal was to disrupt the organization,” he said.

According to critics, people inside and outside an organization can exploit anxieties over racism, sexism and classism to promote their own agendas, distracting from its core mission or derailing it altogether.

The debate over DEI is hardly limited to the district, as many nonprofits, corporations and governments have implemented such training and encountered backlash from participants who think it damages morale.

“I think it’s an interesting and emblematic microcosm of what’s going on in the nation today,” Udelhoven said.

Proponents of DEI training argue it’s useful in raising awareness of racial and sexual bias among employees, helping to ward off insensitive comments and behaviors.

The economic disparities faced by people of color aren’t irrelevant to soil and water conservation, said Nancy Hamilton, who started as the district’s executive director in 2020 and retired last year.

For example, a direct line can be drawn between the dearth of trees within some of the district’s neighborhoods and heat-related deaths within its boundaries, Hamilton said.

“Our population is really unique, so how does the soil and water conservation district respond to such a diverse population?” she asked. “Climate, equity and soil and water health are peas in a pod. These things are not unrelated.”

DEI training

Critics argue DEI training actually deepens harmful divisions, often by vilifying white male employees, while aggravating workplace hostilities by infusing them with connotations of prejudice. Udelhoven said he was initially open-minded about the DEI training until it became clear the consultant didn’t countenance any inquiry or dissent.

“If you have to accept everything they say without question, that’s a cult,” he said.

The DEI training functioned as a lens that warped normal workplace interactions, especially those involving his supervisory duties, Udelhoven said.

When confronted with shortcomings in their job performance, employees could claim the criticism was motivated by Udelhoven’s deliberate or unconscious bias, he said.

“It’s considered a very white supremacist thing to do, to try to measure success,” Udelhoven said.

The dynamic precluded Udelhoven from correcting employees and ended making the district ungovernable, with DEI discussion subsuming the organization’s mission, he said.

“It became ever-present in everything,” Udelhoven said. “It almost became like, when are we going to do the conservation work?”

According to Hamilton, who replaced Udelhoven, morale among the district’s staff was low and “people basically had their heads down” when she arrived.

Years later, though, the turbulence that marked the end of Udelhoven’s tenure is “ancient history,” with the employees working well together and respecting authority, she said.

“I don’t think anybody wasn’t held accountable. I had some very tough conversations with members of staff,” Hamilton said. “I was hardly letting everybody do whatever they want. I ran a really tight ship.”

The district’s board voted in favor of the DEI training because the district cannot “put on blinders” and concentrate on rural issues while neglecting urban concerns, said Jasmine Zimmer-Stucky, a board member who’s employed by another natural resource nonprofit.

“They all deserve to have the same level of services from their government,” she said. “That means ensuring our staff knows how to connect with people of different backgrounds.”

Electoral dispute

Then there was a district electoral dispute that has already had statewide repercussions. In 2018, an African-American candidate was disqualified from running for a zone director position on the district’s board because she didn’t own or manage at least 10 acres within its boundaries, as required.

The implication of systemic discrimination garnered enough attention that legislators sought to scrap the acreage requirement statewide the following year. Though the initial proposal faltered, it was ultimately eliminated last year under a bill that applies to counties with more than 250,000 residents.

Only five of the state’s 36 counties surpass the population threshold, which was considered a necessary compromise. However, some supporters of the legislation considered the concession distasteful and made no bones about wanting to revisit the issue more broadly in the future. Eliminating the acreage requirement will likely deepen urban-rural conflicts in some districts, with urban priorities for DEI and similar issues dominating their agendas, Udelhoven said.

“You’re going to have people running for the board who don’t have experience in land management,” he said. “What you’ll likely see is a lot more urban programs. The gravitational pull is to do more of that and less of the rural stuff.”

Hamilton disagreed, saying the acreage requirement wasn’t realistic in districts with large metropolitan areas.

“It’s just not equitable. Who in the urban core has 10 acres of land?” she said.

Limiting the candidate pool to larger landowners precluded many scientists and others with natural resource experience from running, Hamilton said.

“It would be like saying you can’t run for the school district if you don’t have kids,” she said. “Be the stronger candidate. It’s just basic democracy to me. It’s not controversial at all.”

‘Buy, protect, sell’

Beyond matters of race and representation, critics say the district’s decision-making has been adversely affected by urban preconceptions about agriculture.

The organization has an idealized notion of a farm — small, devoted to organic methods, focused on food crops and preferably minority-owned — which it tries forcing on the local agricultural community, critics say.

They claim a prime example is the district’s program of acquiring and selling farmland. While the district owns a property, it sets up a conservation easement that restricts the parcel’s uses after it’s sold. The practice has come under fire from Rossi, Udelhoven and others, who claim the district is competing with farmers for scarce land — driving up agricultural land values.

“Because our entity has deep pockets, people want to come straight to us” when selling farmland, Rossi said.

Farmers who want to expand can’t compete against the district, he said.

“We’re really icing out the farmers we’re supposed to be helping,” Rossi said.

Defenders of the “buy, protect, sell” strategy argue it decreases farmland costs because the district sells the properties for less than it buys them for. The price difference represents the cost of the easement, which is held and enforced by the district.

“In the long run, it makes land more affordable,” said Laura Masterson, a farmer and board member. “I don’t know how it could be more transparent. The farmers who have used the process think it’s great.”

Not only does the farmer who buys the parcel save money, improving his or her financial situation, but the easement can be customized while ensuring the land perpetually remains in agriculture, according to defenders.

“The more restrictions, the more we pay for the easement. The more restrictive, the less farmers pay to purchase the property,” said Matt Shipkey, the district’s land legacy program manager.

That reasoning doesn’t persuade Rossi, who alleges the demand for such easement-laden farmland tracts is greatly diminished, as they’re too constrained to meet many farmers’ needs. For instance, he said, the district is “fixated” on minimizing dwelling sizes or preventing home construction on the farm parcels, which impedes or rules out normal housing mortgages.

The buyers must instead apply for agricultural mortgages that require bigger down payments and other financial obstacles, he said.

“The district’s actions have the unintended consequences of making the problem worse for farmers,” Rossi said. “Any time you restrict the property, the less the farmer is able to make the payments.”

Instead of reselling the properties on the open market, the district essentially steers them toward growers who fit its narrow parameters, according to critics.

“They’re picking winners and losers,” said a farmer who otherwise has a positive relationship with the district and did not want to be named.

The farmer said the easement strategy fails to achieve the district’s goal of preserving farmland on a bigger scale, as the easement-laden parcels will eventually become islands in a sea of urbanization.

“The problem is it will still be surrounded by development, and no farmers can farm in something like that,” the grower said.

Beamer, the district’s current executive director, said the strategy strengthens the area’s network of farms and agricultural infrastructure, helping prevent rapid conversion to urban uses.

“We want to create a viable agricultural base to support the East Multnomah farm community,” she said. “We know these lands are vital for the watershed and supporting our farmers and soil health.”

Only about 680 farms with a median size of 9 acres are left in the entirety of Multnomah County, of which the district serves the eastern portion. Fewer than 12% of the county’s farms generate $100,000 in revenues.

Incubator criticism

Rossi said the district’s agricultural business incubator, Headwaters Farm, offers more evidence of its preference for a certain type of operation.

With resources devoted to running the incubator, the district could make more of an impact by sending aspiring farmers to Oregon State University to learn about agriculture, he said.

The incubator isn’t operated in a way that would actually teach people what it takes to run a farm in the real world, Rossi said. “We are setting them up for failure.”

Beginning farmers who are selected to cultivate plots within the 60-acre incubator must use organic practices, which is meant to avert conflicts and improve environmental outcomes.

While it’s not a requirement, most participants are dedicated to growing food crops, largely owing to the space available and marketing opportunities in Portland. The plots are commonly abandoned by season’s end and overrun by weeds, Rossi said. “Even the weeds are not healthy, to be honest with you.”

Meanwhile, the district invests in equipment such as a new electric tractor that wouldn’t be feasible for beginning farmers with tight budgets, he said.

“We’re not giving them the guidance or expertise to manage it well,” Rossi said. “It’s like a rich guy buying his son everything, when he doesn’t know how to use it.”

Rowan Steele, the Headwaters Farm program manager, said “there’s definitely some level of attrition” among participants, but about 85% of the five-year program’s graduates remains in agriculture.

Roughly one of four or five people who are chosen for the incubator drop out before their five years are done, Steele said. “A majority of those farmers are finding it’s not for them in the first year or two.”

The incubator, which currently has 11 farmers enrolled, teaches participants the importance of building market niches and “right-sizing” their operations to keep labor and other costs down, he said.

“It’s common for people to come in and want to go too big and I try to rein that in from the start,” Steele said.

While the district always wants to improve the incubator, it’s proud of those graduates who’ve found their legs in a tough industry, said Laura Masterson, a farmer and board member. Startup companies that participate in regular business incubators don’t all flourish either, she said.

“When you run a business incubator, not everybody who comes into the program is going to be successful,” Masterson said. “It’s easy to focus on what’s wrong, but there are plenty of good farmers who have succeeded there.”