SEDONA — DeAnna Bindley is standing by a dirt road, a baseball cap shielding her eyes from the midday sun, waiting for the thing she hates most in the world.
"You can hear that, right?" she says, staring into the juniper trees.
The noise is barely perceptible. The kind of faraway sound you might catch — just — if you stop talking, hold completely still, and cock your ear in the right direction.
But Bindley is primed to recognize the unmistakable growl of her approaching nemesis.
She lives next to the road, in a newly-built home with a cool concrete interior and floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal sweeping views of Bear Mountain outside Sedona.
Bindley and her husband are among the 10,000 people who live permanently by Sedona's famous red rocks. She has no beef with her fellow residents. It's the three million other people who visit each year to gawk and engage in one of their favorite activities: renting off-highway vehicles.
Designed to tackle tough terrain, the little vehicles, known as OHVs, have become ubiquitous in Sedona. Tourists rent them and roar past local traffic, kick up dust on dirt roads, and, sometimes, spin donuts on forest land. To say Bindley and many of her neighbors are fed up is an understatement.
OHVs are ruining her life. And there’s one just around the corner.
"Let's get out of the way and see what he does," she says, marching back from the road and obscuring herself behind a nearby post.
The faint sound is now a distinct
vroom, growing louder. Bindley knows exactly what is coming.
"He's going to rip around the corner," she says. Then he will spot the barrage of signs she has placed along her property stating the speed limit is 10 mph, and — maybe, probably, hopefully — slow down. (The signs are on private land, Bindley says, and perfectly legal.)
But once he gets past the signs, he'll accelerate. Eventually, the engine noise will fade. The ballooning dust will slowly dissipate. Her irritation will linger, possibly forever.
By now, the noise is everywhere, the rural peace replaced by a fitful mechanical whine reverberating through the low scrubby forest. As it crescendos, Bindley's tormentor finally comes into view.
The OHV is Polaris brand, an angular black and white buggy with a roll cage and shock suspension to handle the bumpy terrain. A man is at the wheel, and a couple of kids sporting helmets and goggles are riding behind. A tall flagpole suggests it has been rented from one of the several companies in town.
Like clockwork, the driver screams around the corner, slows as he passes Bindley's house, and then hits the gas, disappearing into the forest as a dust cloud rises up behind him.
Bindley eyes the particles with disgust. "Just imagine that 300 times a day," she says. She can still hear the OHV. And though the driver doesn't know it, she can see him, too.
"The little son of a gun doesn't know there's a camera there," she says. "So I'll catch his little ass on my camera."
Amid the red rocks, a vortex of controversy swirls
It wasn't always this way in beautiful Sedona.
Once upon a time, residents lived in relative harmony with the tour vehicles ferrying visitors from one red rock to another. But in about 2010, the first company specializing in rental OHVs opened.
Since then, it's fair to say, things have escalated.
Tourism is a $1 billion industry in the central Arizona city, which sits west of Interstate 17 between Phoenix and Flagstaff, nestled within the Coconino National Forest.
The reason why is obvious. Sedona's red rocks are like tapestries, their rich colors brought to life each day by the rising and setting of the sun. The ancient sandstone was formed more than 300 million years ago under the shifting seas of the supercontinent Pangaea. Over millennia, the elements carved out the dramatic buttes and spires that stand today.
The city has gone to lengths to protect this natural beauty. Ordinances prohibit building that imposes on the landscape, though opinions differ on how successful the preservation has been. Sedona is home to the only McDonald's on the planet where the famous golden arches are turquoise, in a bid to better blend with the surroundings. (The branding oddity is now itself a tourist destination.)
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The city is also a hub for New Agers, flush with crystal stores and home to a handful of energy vortexes, where ethereal forces that aid healing and meditation are believed — by some — to swirl.
A decidedly more negative energy has been swirling around Sedona regarding the very earthly issue of OHVs.
It's a category that includes everything from four-wheel drive trucks and SUVs to quad and dirt bikes to the side-by-side all-terrain vehicles that are now a fixture in the area.
OHVs are so popular because they are a "fun, unique way to experience nature," says Matt Eberhart, the OHV coordinator for Arizona State Parks. "They allow you to access some of the most beautiful places in our state and in our country that you wouldn't likely be able to access by foot." In particular, he adds, OHVs allow people with mobility issues to get out and about in nature.
In the years before COVID-19, Sedona's infrastructure was already struggling to keep pace with tourism's rapid growth. Residents who lived along routes to popular OHV trails were unhappy about traffic volume and noise, and worried about the environmental consequences of dust.
Then the pandemic hit, and even more people fled their homes for the outdoors.
Is the evidence in the trees?
Bindley and her husband bought the land where their house now sits in 2019 and started building right away. They were excited to swap Chandler for the Coconino forest.
"I'm not an idiot. I'm a realtor," Bindley says, as she navigates her Jeep down a dirt road in west Sedona. "I knew there was traffic. I thought, 'This is going to be real irritating.’"
"But then when COVID hit and this place just got tore up, I thought, 'OK, this is unsustainable.’"
As she drives down the popular OHV track, Bindley points out trees struggling under a blanket of red dust and estimates how long before they die.
"This one here within about three years will be absolutely dead," she says, passing by one tree.
Another one: "This big, beautiful thing right here will be dead in about two years."
And another: "That tree right there is so gorgeous. And within about seven years it'll be dead. I'm supposed to be okay with that. I'm just not!"
Bindley says she was "kind of elected" by her neighbors to lead the crusade against OHVs.
"I had to stop working when I started doing this, because this is a 24-hour-a-day job," she says.
"We're currently working at the city, county, state and federal levels. I am constantly doing research, I'm constantly connecting the do—" she cuts herself off. "Look at that tree and how absolutely covered it is."
Bindley pulls over. "We're going to do a little science experiment," she says, getting out of the car and walking over to the tree. She peels off a piece of bark and rubs it between her fingers to show how much dust streams out.
Traffic counts, radar guns, video cameras
This demonstration is a regular stop on the tour down Forest Service Road 152C, a tour Bindley gives to pretty much anyone who will listen. State Sen. Wendy Rogers has ridden in her Jeep, she says, as has U.S. Rep. Tom O'Halleran, who lost his re-election bid in November.
Bindley's email signature includes a quote attributed to the anthropologist Margaret Mead: "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
OHVs are the first thing she thinks about when she wakes up in the morning; the last thing on her mind before she drifts off to sleep.
And although she has a problem with all of it — the sheer number of OHVs, the environmental effects, the traffic — there's one thing that really gets her going, that sets her off emotionally.
The noise.
"If I had to pick one thing that was the most devastating and that if I could get rid of first, it would be the noise," she admits. "I would take breathing toxic dust over the noise.
"It destroys my heart and soul. And whatever little tiny speck of peace I may have had at that moment was completely ripped out of my heart as an OHV screams down the road."
But Bindley knows she can't just bring emotion to the table. So she has spent years collecting proof.
She's done traffic studies, counting how many OHVs pass through certain areas on certain days. She wields a radar gun to measure their speed. A decibel meter to measure their noise. An encyclopedic knowledge of relevant state and federal laws and regulations.
She also has deployed two game cameras along the Forest Service road, which she shows The Republic after extracting a promise to not reveal their location. "It's perfectly legal," she adds, unprompted. "I'm not doing anything illegal."
She posts the footage captured by the motion-activated cameras on her YouTube channel, Save Bear Mountain. It hosts numerous videos of OHVs speeding and doing donuts, particularly in one area by Diamondback Gulch that became a hotspot for thrillseekers.
"That donut activity was just crazy," Bindley says. The area was cordoned off after several rollovers, some of which required ambulance or helicopter evacuations, and several of which were caught on camera by Bindley, sometimes in the same spot, on the same day.
"I think I have three videos that feature a twofer," Bindley says.
In another video, Bindley's neighbor and fellow OHV campaigner Becki Ross confronts a group driving rental OHVs off-trail in a prohibited area.
"You're doing something illegal," she tells them.
"We're innocent," one of them protests back. "We thought that this is all free, fair game, you know, honestly."
Safe passengers, riders:Free class teaches kids OHV safety
Demands for limits are ‘complicated’
Everyone involved in Sedona's OHV issue agrees it is complicated.
"I mean, with everything there's passion, right?" Eberhart says, when asked about the tenor of the debate. "There's been passionate conversation. I would not say that it's been heated or angry."
For all the passion, there is no easy fix.
According to a 2019 report, it has been almost a decade since residents first approached the city to complain about the explosion in OHV rentals.
In recent years, numerous agencies, officials, groups and businesses have been drawn into the dispute, from the Forest Service to the city to the OHV rental companies to nonprofits to residents like Bindley. Partnerships and grants and studies have been thrown at the issue, but still many residents are unhappy.
There are two things at the top of Bindley's wish list: a limited entry permit system for OHVs in certain areas of the Coconino National Forest, and an enforceable speed limit of 15 mph.
In short, fewer OHVs, making less noise and kicking up less dust. That's what is needed to save the forest and quell resident complaints, she says.
The Forest Service says these demands are complicated.
Public information officer Brady Smith says there is one limited entry permit system already in place in the Coconino forest, at Soldier Pass. Such systems don't necessarily reduce demand, he said, and often just result in people crowding other areas.
Smith says striking a balance between public access and land management is crucial, and generally limited entry is seen as a last resort. He also notes that any limits or restrictions on OHVs traveling on forest roads would have to be applied to all traffic in the area, as Arizona law allows most OHVs to be designated as street-legal vehicles.
Bindley is suspicious that the Forest Service receives 3% of revenue from all guided tours in the Coconino Forest, which goes back into managing the land. (This does not include people who rent OHVs and drive themselves around.) She believes it means they have little incentive to try to reduce motorized recreation, even if it's damaging the forest.
Smith says there's no conflict of interest. "Our first responsibility is taking care of the public land we have been given stewardship over."
It is true, he says, that roadside trees have been dying in greater numbers along Forest Service Road 152C since 2020.
The cause, according to the Forest Service, is something of a perfect storm. The pandemic drove visitors to the park just as the drought hit peak dust. The dust coated the already stressed trees and built up because there was too little rain to wash it from branches and leaves.
The Forest Service thought it might be a speeding issue, but a 2021 road study found 85% of vehicles were going at or very close to 25 mph, Smith says. He adds that dust on forest roads is generated by all users, OHV renters and residents, and has simply been made worse by the drought. "This is something we cannot control."
Bindley says residents are a fraction of the traffic and drive carefully to avoid kicking up dust.
In 2021, the Red Rock OHV Conservation Crew formed. The group, convened by the Sedona Chamber of Commerce and Tourism, is composed of local OHV tour and rental companies and Tread Lightly, a nonprofit aimed at promoting responsible motorized recreation.
Participating businesses donate 1% of sales revenue to Tread Lightly, which spends the money on trail maintenance, driver education and signage in Sedona. It was the conservation crew that blocked off the donut hotspot at Diamondback Gulch.
The group has been a success so far, says Matt Caldwell, the executive director of Tread Lightly. He says businesses are putting money and time on the line, and want to work with the community.
Caldwell declines to say if there are simply too many OHVs in Sedona, saying more traffic studies are needed. He does think more can be done.
"The economic impact of OHV in Sedona is substantial and I think it brings value to the city,” he says. “But we also want to make sure that we're minimizing impact for everybody that's choosing to live and recreate in Sedona."
Is it possible for Sedona residents and OHVs to live in harmony?
Eberhart thinks so. He's been riding OHVs since he was a teenager and believes education — in which he has a degree — is the key.
He says 15 of the 22 rental companies in the greater Sedona area have agreed to show all renters a five-minute video about responsible OHV driving before they head out to enjoy Sedona. The video features some of Bindley's donut footage.
"There's bad apples," Eberhart says. "But I think the vast majority of OHV users that we have want to do it right."
Sometimes, ‘I can’t take it anymore’
Bindley is less confident. She and Becki Ross, who runs a cattle ranch in the area, were recently appointed to the Arizona OHV Study Committee, created this year by the Legislature to address off-roading issues across the state.
She is pleased to be on the committee, but unsure if it will make a difference.
"I don't know. I wish I knew," she says. "But it feels like we're starting over."
"Even though we've done years of data collection and videos and all of the dead trees. We've got letters from the Forest Service admitting that the dust is killing the trees. And not a single thing is being done about it."
Though there have been changes — the donut spot cordoned off by the conservation crew is slowly returning to health, the Forest Service has introduced a new designated dispersed camping system in west Sedona, and Eberhart thinks driver education campaigns are making a difference — the wins feel few and far between for Bindley.
Some days, when the growl of an OHV resonates through her spacious home, despair takes over.
"I cry. Sure. You betcha," she says. "There are days where I'll drink vodka at 3 in the afternoon, like, 'I can't take it anymore!'"
Does she regret building where she did?
"I honestly do not," she says. "No. No."
"I really believe, with everything in me, that we're going to bring reasonable management to the area."
Bindley, a Christian, sees her campaign as a calling. Maybe God needs her help to stop Sedona from being destroyed.
"He's like, you need to solve this," she says.
And by mid-December, things were looking up for Bindley. She had received a promising update from the Forest Service on a long-running bid to reopen a road that would reroute traffic away from her and some of her neighbor’s homes. And another working group had sprung up, this time with professional facilitators to bring together residents, businesses, and various state and federal agencies.
“Maybe," she said in an email, "there is a light at the end of the tunnel!”
Reach the reporter at lane.sainty@arizonarepublic.com. Follow her on Twitter @lanesainty.
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