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Behind the folly of turf wars and the arcana of river law, a larger conflict was playing out, one rooted in a profound disagreement over how we think about nature and how we divide it.
(Photo: Justin Kaneps)
Behind the folly of turf wars and the arcana of river law, a larger conflict was playing out, one rooted in a profound disagreement over how we think about nature and how we divide it.
Behind the folly of turf wars and the arcana of river law, a larger conflict was playing out, one rooted in a profound disagreement over how we think about nature and how we divide it. (Justin Kaneps)

Published: 

Drawing a Line in the Sand Over River Rights

A four-year battle over a tiny patch of river beach in Northern California鈥攂etween two middle-aged guys with way too much time on their hands鈥攊llustrates the deep divide in how we perceive access rights to public lands

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This is a classic story of greed, nature, fear, change, large dogs, and violent golfing, but I didn鈥檛 know that when it began. Nor did I know that I鈥檇 get sucked into the thing myself. All I knew was John Harreld walking to the water鈥檚 edge on a summer morning in 2015 in Guerneville, California.

For neighbors in Harreld鈥檚 quiet river community, 90 minutes northwest of San Francisco, the image of the then 43-year-old starting his day in the sand had become a regular, if provocative, sight. Several times a week, he鈥檇 plant himself in a folding chair overlooking a gentle bend in the mellow Russian River. Sometimes a buddy joined him; other times he sat alone. The job was simple: Enjoy the beach. Sip coffee. Maybe spot an otter slithering up the lazy current. Most of all, do these things in clear view of the camera hidden in the trees.

The man who鈥檇 hung the camera believed that Harreld was trespassing. Harreld believed he was reclaiming land that belonged to the people. On a literal level, that鈥檚 all the two were fighting about: just 20 feet of gravelly beach.


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But at the heart of the fight swirled bigger and fundamentally contradictory ideas. Remarkably basic questions about America itself were woven through their dispute. There would be no bloodshed鈥攖he same could not be said elsewhere鈥攂ut the level of fury would nevertheless become shocking for the once friendly neighbors.

Harreld and his wife, Judith, live in a one-story home a short stroll from the river, with sunflowers and a tomato garden out front. He鈥檚 slim and youthful, with crinkly Paul Rudd eyes and a jovial, laid-back air. When he鈥檚 not working as a medical device analyst, he tends to be diving, rock climbing, investigating shipwrecks, or showing elaborate Lego creations he made in his home鈥檚 dedicated Lego studio. He鈥檚 a detail guy. One of these creations is a scale model of Chich茅n Itz谩 so meticulously accurate that when you shine a flashlight on the balustrade, it mimics the equinox effect at the actual temple.

John Harreld
John Harreld (Justin Kaneps)

On this June day, as he walked down the dirt path to the beach for morning sentry duty, he was pursuing his newest hobby: being the Rosa Parks of obscure riparian law.

Fifty yards or so above this quiet stretch of the river is a vacation home owned by Mark O鈥橣lynn, a lawyer from San Francisco. Nearly four years ago, O鈥橣lynn posted his first NO TRESPASSING sign. Like many property owners, he had come to equate public access with broken glass, poop in the bushes, and bad music blaring from drunk strangers鈥 speakers.

The problem, as Harreld saw it: the sign stood in flagrant violation of federal law. As he would explain to anyone who鈥檇 listen, the beach was subject to a public easement below a line called the ordinary high-water mark鈥攁 calculation roughly analogous to the average high tide. In 1981, the U.S. Supreme Court confirmed in that this easement trumps private ownership in navigable rivers.

As he walked down the dirt path to the beach for morning sentry duty, he was pursuing his newest hobby: being the Rosa Parks of obscure riparian law.

Navigability, in turn, is established by proving that the river has qualified as a 鈥渉ighway of commerce,鈥 used by ferries carrying tourists, say, or loggers floating felled trees downstream, both of which happened on the Russian River.

In other words, Harreld believed, that gravelly beach was everyone鈥檚 to enjoy, regardless of what signs were posted.

Harreld had known O鈥橣lynn socially. His house is a minute鈥檚 walk away, and Harreld and his wife had been over for dinner. When he saw the sign, he e-mailed Mark to ask if it was his. Indeed, Mark replied.

There would be no more neighborly meals. Over the years that followed, a full-on cold war blossomed. Someone would run a shin-high line of wire across the path. One of Harreld鈥檚 allies would remove it. O鈥橣lynn would hang cameras in the trees. Someone would paint over the latest NO TRESPASSING sign.

And now, on this Thursday morning in 2015, Harreld and some friends approached the beach only to find the path blocked by 鈥渃ut bamboo, tree branches and matts of algae,鈥 according to the June 18 entry in a detailed journal he鈥檚 been keeping since the conflict started. The next day, the group began removing the makeshift barricade, and O鈥橣lynn ran out of his house.

What ensued borders on slapstick, with O鈥橣lynn, according to Harreld, 鈥減ulling the bamboo out of my hands, then dashing over to pull some out of my friend鈥檚 hands, then dashing back to me.鈥 (I don鈥檛 have O鈥橣lynn鈥檚 account; he won鈥檛 discuss the dispute in detail.) Soon two sheriff鈥檚 deputies arrived, but they declined to take action.

Perhaps at this point you鈥檙e marveling at the amount of free time that middle-aged white men have. I marveled, too. But as I got deeper into the dispute, I came to see that this picayune squabble wasn鈥檛 all that it seemed. Behind the folly of turf wars and the arcana of river law, a larger conflict was playing out, one rooted in a profound disagreement over how we think about nature and how we divide it.

All over the country, that disagreement has become a feature of the landscape. I wanted to see it up close鈥攁nd to see what happens when someone tries shifting the status quo in a small way. Like many rivers around the country, the Russian is full of vacation homes and resorts claiming private beaches, ordinary high-water mark be damned. It seemed some civil disobedience was in order鈥攐r, rather, civil obedience, if John Harreld was correct. So I gathered together three friends and some boats.


鈥淗ow do property owners feel about boaters landing on the beaches in front of their land?鈥 I asked the woman at the canoe-rental place in Forestville, the next town over from Guerneville. It was June 2017, the beginning of the season for her operation.

She cocked her head kindly, the way you do when talking to an idiot.

鈥淭丑别谤别鈥檚 mucho public beaches to enjoy,鈥 she said. 鈥淚 imagine canoeists wouldn鈥檛 want to go up on anyone鈥檚 private beach, would they?鈥

Au contraire. Remember 鈥淭he Swimmer,鈥 that where the lush decides to swim his way across all the pools in his county? That was my plan, except that instead of swimming pools, I would hit as many putatively private beaches along the Russian River as possible鈥攆irst on a ten-mile stretch with my buddies, then on another four miles or so during a handful of smaller excursions. Instead of whiskey, we鈥檇 be fueled by a cocktail of righteousness and florid legalese.

鈥淧ublic ownership of physically navigable rivers, including the land up to the ordinary high-water mark, pre-dates property deeds. What the property deed says or doesn鈥檛 say about the river is irrelevant.鈥 So reads a river-law primer on the National Organization for Rivers website. And as the Supreme Court ruled, private ownership of the beds and banks of navigable rivers is 鈥渁lways subject to the public right of navigation.鈥

My friends and I paddled into the gentle current to see if that felt true.

The modest little towns of the Russian River Valley鈥擣orestville, Rio Nido, Guerneville, Monte Rio鈥攁re wonderful and complex places, tight-knit blue-collar communities that mix unevenly with Bay Area weekenders. There鈥檚 an artsy scene and a gay scene and an ex-hippie scene and a homeless scene.

On the water, meanwhile, it鈥檚 pure Platonic river. From the languid sway of the bay laurel trees to the disco shimmer of the quaking aspens to the Dude-like serenity of the redwoods, a vague drugginess wafts over the place. The water beckons all types. One minute you鈥檙e chatting with a binocular-toting naturalist, the next with occupants of a 12-person raft built to look like a giant pizza. It鈥檚 a communal vibe, which makes the idea of an exclusive riverbank all the more jarring.

PRIVATE BEACH NO CANOES, a sign read. Yes canoes, we decided.

My friends and I spent the first hour pulling up on every no-trespassing beach we could find, though knowing we were within our rights didn鈥檛 make it less awkward. Imagine learning that punching someone in the face was actually legal鈥攊t would still be sort of tough to feel OK about it. But not a soul came running out to scowl at us. 鈥淢aybe nobody will say anything to you. It鈥檇 be totally different if you were black or brown and sidled up on someone鈥檚 property,鈥 an African American friend had pointed out before the trip.

But by hour two, everything began to change. A broad gravel bar opened out into the river, cordoned off behind a length of rope and some buoys. PRIVATE BEACH NO CANOES, a sign read. Yes canoes, we decided. Three minutes later we were enjoying a fine game of bocce. Ten minutes after that came the first bellow.

A shirtless man in his sixties or seventies was standing on his deck 100 yards or so up from the river. He had a pair of binoculars trained on us and was yelling something I couldn鈥檛 quite hear.

鈥淲hat?鈥 I called.

鈥淚 said read the fucking sign in front of you!鈥

He was deeply tanned, with a leathery chest and long, thinning hair. He proceeded to unload. He was sick of people from God-knows-where marching all over his private oasis. As he yelled鈥攏ow on the lawn in front of me鈥擨 did my best to politely represent the law. It bounced off. 鈥淗ow would you feel if I hung out in your fucking backyard?鈥 he asked.

鈥淭here isn鈥檛 an easement on my backyard.鈥

He waved his hand. 鈥淚f someone breaks their leg on this beach, I鈥檓 liable,鈥 he said. I told him this wasn鈥檛 so鈥攖he state is liable, per the public easement.

鈥淵ou don鈥檛 get it,鈥 he replied. 鈥淚 pay taxes on this beach.鈥

鈥淓veryone does,鈥 I said gently.

It went on like this. I thought that if we could just keep talking, we鈥檇 find some common ground, even if we never agreed that his ground was common. He thought otherwise and told me to fuck off again before ultimately walking away.

Over the next few hours, at a dozen ostensibly private beaches, my friends and I would encounter better and worse. At one beach, a friendly young couple lolled on a pair of inner tubes a few feet from shore. They were renters in a small community that claimed this particular beach as its own, but as far as they were concerned, anyone could use it if they cleaned up their mess. Half a mile away, we ran into a group at another beach that had been claimed by a community association, the Odd Fellows Recreation Club. 鈥淵our law is wrong,鈥 one woman said when I explained my position. At another private club, a woman shook her head and told me, 鈥淚t鈥檚 always been this way and always will be.鈥

Throughout my journey, I heard a common refrain from homeowners: that they weren鈥檛 trying to keep neighbors away, just outsiders. The species of outsider varied. Sometimes they were oblivious city folk, sometimes trashy teens and their hip-hop. Other times they were from Santa Rosa鈥攕aid, occasionally, as code for Mexican. In each case, the alleged trespassing was ruining the river, disrespecting its traditions, polluting its beauty.

There鈥檚 a long history of racism and xenophobia wrapping themselves in the cloth of conservation, from Hitler to the early eugenics days of the Sierra Club; concepts like purity and cleanliness proved darkly malleable. I certainly don鈥檛 purport to know the hearts of anyone I spoke with. But the level of hostility toward interlopers was striking.

Two-thirds of the way into our trip, we came upon a pirate flag flapping above a small spit of sand. I hollered up a guileless hello to the two men standing nearby. In response, one disappeared into some trees. He returned with two large dogs, which he led down to us.

Clearly we were meant to be frightened away. But I wasn鈥檛 ready to leave, so I tried to de-escalate the situation with chatter: a mindless remark about dog breeds, then an explanation of what the hell we were doing there.

鈥淚 know about the goddamn high-water mark,鈥 the man spat at us.

All this time, his friend had been holding something. I saw now that it was a golf club. He stepped up to a makeshift tee and squared his shoulders. Before I could register it, he was winding up and blasting a ball in our direction.

He missed us by a good 15 feet. But now he was teeing up again, clobbering another poor Titleist at us. This one came close enough that we heard a ffffffttt as it shot over our heads. Five minutes after pulling up on this beach, we were hauling away at top speed. Already I was thinking about the next leg of my expedition, where the locals were said to be far less friendly.


One gray August morning in San Francisco, I climbed some stairs in a building in the Cow Hollow neighborhood to meet 聽Mark O鈥橣lynn in his small law office.

In person, O鈥橣lynn calls to mind a football coach鈥攃lose-cropped hair, stern but courteous bearing, minimal chitchat. He wouldn鈥檛 let me record our conversation, so I scribbled notes while he discussed the nuances of public-trust doctrine, the history of California statehood, and the like. In 2015 that he doesn鈥檛 object to the idea of a public easement. He told me he believes that his particular property is exempt, having originally been sold before the California Constitution provided for that easement in 1879鈥攊n other words, he claims he was grandfathered in.

It became clear that O鈥橣lynn felt like the victim in the saga. He just wanted his nice river home, without having to deal with trash and skinny-dippers and other people鈥檚 music.

O鈥橣lynn framed his argument in granular legal terms, but it鈥檚 not hard to imagine鈥攐r sympathize with鈥攖he underlying sentiment: the world gives you years of peaceful picnics here on this sand, and then suddenly someone wants to flip the script on you.

鈥淚n much of the country, you don鈥檛 have national forests or state parks鈥攔ivers are some of the only recreational places,鈥 said Eric Leaper, executive director at the National Organization for Rivers, a 40-year-old group dedicated to defending public rights on rivers. But they鈥檙e also a finite resource, he added, and people get territorial.

That鈥檚 what happened one afternoon in July 2013, on Missouri鈥檚 Meramec River. As with the Russian, summer brings a steady stream of canoeists, rafters, and inner tubers to the river, and tension between boaters and locals was running high. A landowner named James Crocker fell into an argument with a man named Paul Dart Jr. Dart was canoeing down the river with friends when they stopped on a gravel bar that Crocker believed was his. The two men yelled, Dart claimed it was his right to be there, and Crocker pulled out a nine-millimeter pistol. He . Later it would come out that they were more than 100 yards from Crocker鈥檚 property.

Dart鈥檚 death drew support to the cause, and within the niche community of public-access enthusiasts, Crocker鈥檚 ultimate murder conviction played as vindication. For while federal law may be plain, getting states to honor it鈥攐r even know it鈥攊s another matter. A parallel legal universe exists at the local level, with this sheriff tolerating a length of barbed wire across a river and that state thumbing its nose at the Supreme Court ruling. In Colorado, for instance, courts have essentially ruled that merely letting rivers flow across their land is basically all that property owners owe the public.

The public-access folks have certainly had victories. In a significant ruling last November, the Utah Supreme Court upheld the right of anglers and others to use the banks and beds along a stretch of the Weber River.

Cullen Battle, a retired private attorney in Salt Lake City, represented the Utah Stream Access Coalition in the Weber River suit. A lifelong fly-fisherman, Battle has watched states cede untold acreage to the property-rights movement.

鈥淭he public attitude used to be that rivers are public highways. But in the 1950s it started to change,鈥 Battle told me. Land-owners started claiming rivers and riverbanks as private property鈥攁nd, particularly in the western states, they started to get away with it. Defending public access requires expensive legal efforts and a deciphering of 19th-century court rulings that, as Battle says, 鈥渋s like interpreting scripture.鈥 More often than not, communities simply defer to those NO TRESPASSING signs. 鈥淚f you keep saying it over and over again,鈥 he said, 鈥減eople start believing you.鈥


A millennium and a half ago, the Roman emperor Justinian declared that the public鈥檚 access to all navigable waterways was inalienable. 鈥淏y the law of nature these things are common to all mankind; the air, running water, the sea, and consequently the shores of the sea,鈥 the Code of Justinian states. It paved the way for the public-trust doctrine, a guiding principle compelling governments to hold the most vital natural resources for the collective good. To this day, 鈥渘avigable in fact鈥 rivers remain the property of all. But not everyone reads their Byzantine legal texts anymore. And so it鈥檚 a short leap to coating your PRIVATE PROPERTY signs with lubricating oil, as Harreld alleged he observed on one occasion, thereby making them harder to remove.

By June 2015, the beach war was boiling over. Complaints on both sides were lodged with the county鈥檚 permit office, the California State Lands Commission, the sheriff, and just about anyone with a dot-gov e-mail address. At one point, according to Harreld, O鈥橣lynn erected a robust cinder-block and lumber bench in the middle of the beach trail, attaching to it a CERTIFIED WILDLIFE HABITAT sign鈥斺渢he kind anyone can order online,鈥 Harreld noted. Harreld attached his own sign, which declared O鈥橣lynn鈥檚 sign false and unlawful. This was promptly taken down鈥攁nd then replaced again by evening. The next day, Harreld received a cease and desist notice from O鈥橣lynn.

And that was all in three days. For the better part of two years, each side hoped the California State Lands Commission would step in and issue a ruling to end the madness.

Harreld concedes that convenience had stoked his indignation as much as anything鈥攊n an era when the guys with the power are off in Washington, he said, above the law, here was one right down the street. But then a funny thing happened: his actual concern for the river caught up with his theatrical defense of it.

鈥淚t got under my skin,鈥 Harreld said. 鈥淎ll those hours of measuring tides, taking photos, sitting in the sand鈥擨 found that I really loved it.鈥

According to Don McEnhill, executive director of a local nonprofit called , that is precisely why the public should care about squabbles like this one. From access comes stewardship.

鈥淚f people don鈥檛 use the river, they won鈥檛 care about it, and it turns into a toilet,鈥 he said.

In the property-rights movement, McEnhill sees owners as people who 鈥渨ant to intimidate, harass, and bully the public into vacating their rights.鈥 He said the Russian River situation was open and shut. 鈥淏eaches are unequivocally in the public domain, and the state and federal Supreme Court have said so.鈥


When I told Harreld about the final stop on my occupy-the-beaches experiment, he insisted on coming. We set off in kayaks on a hot morning in Guerneville, heading west toward Monte Rio. We portaged around a dam and wound past a small island, and soon the only sound was the purling beneath our paddles and starlings nipping around dementedly against a Simpsons blue sky. 聽

Suddenly I felt a surge of sympathy for Team Homeowner. Beneath their anger was a simple human truth: when you鈥檝e got something good, it鈥檚 hard to let go. On an ever dirtying planet, these folks had the fortune to occupy a lovely sliver. Maybe McEnhill is right and sharing that sliver will invest the public in keeping it clean. But maybe you give the beaches to the people and the people toss Budweiser cans onto them.

Doesn鈥檛 matter, Harreld said as we paddled鈥攖he law is the law. So we zeroed in on a spot a couple of miles downstream from O鈥橣lynn鈥檚 beach. For more than a century, the exclusive Bohemian Club has held its annual encampment here, on a 2,700-acre parcel along the river. The event is both a groovy arts mixer and a highly secretive gathering for establishment elites; every Republican president since Coolidge has reportedly shown up, alongside your Kissingers and Rockefellers and corporate executives. The exclusive nature of it has led countless journalists and activists to try sneaking past the intense security.

The club鈥檚 intense security apparatus is legendary. I鈥檇 heard rumors of snipers in the trees, the Secret Service lurking about, and trespassers being hauled straight to jail.

I didn鈥檛 want to sneak in. I just wanted to throw a Frisbee on their pretty beach.

We arrived to find a stretch of rocky sand, with a dock and a bullpen-like shade structure at the end. We pulled up and sat in the baking sun. The club鈥檚 intense security apparatus is legendary. I鈥檇 heard rumors of snipers in the trees, the Secret Service lurking about, and trespassers being hauled straight to jail. Be careful, the community-services officer from the sheriff鈥檚 office had told me. You don鈥檛 want to get on one of their lists.

I was contemplating all this when a big and vaguely Wilford Brimley鈥搃sh man emerged from the woods.

鈥淭ime to be on your way, boys,鈥 he said. He wore khakis, a gray mustache, and what appeared to be a security badge around his neck.

I replied that we intended to stay a while longer, per the public easement, but had no intention of going beyond鈥

鈥淚 don鈥檛 care about high-water marks,鈥 he said bluntly. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 your name?鈥

I told him, and he smirked. 鈥淗ere to write one of your articles?鈥

Had the sheriff鈥檚 office told them who I was? Did the establishment elites have even greater snooping technology than I had imagined possible?

Harreld and I spent the next few minutes trying to discuss the matter with him. We were calm and friendly. At one point, I invited him to throw the Frisbee with us. But inside, something had flipped in me. It didn鈥檛 make sense. Nobody else was using the beach. Why not let others on it? If they made a mess, sure, fine them or whatever, but otherwise, who cares?

Evidently, the security guy. He told us he鈥檇 be calling the sheriff to arrest us if we didn鈥檛 leave immediately.

Harreld said he鈥檇 happily chat with the sheriff, and for the next two hours we skipped stones, swam, and waited. The sheriff never came鈥攖he sheriff鈥檚 department later told me that it had received no calls鈥攁nd at last we climbed into our boats and paddled back to where we鈥檇 begun: O鈥橣lynn鈥檚 beach.

Harreld and I parted ways, and I got in my car, deflated. How far we鈥檇 drifted from old Justinian鈥檚 vision. I could think of only one thing to do: go to a different beach, an emphatically public one where I could find at least a semblance of harmony.

It was late on a Sunday afternoon when I arrived, but the sand was still packed鈥攄udes grilling, teens lounging, parents urging kids to accept one more smear of sunscreen. I wandered from one end to the other. And then: there it was.

鈥淗ey! Private beach!鈥

I recognized the growl instantly. It was the shirtless man I鈥檇 encountered on the first leg of my journey, shirtless again, drinking beer with friends under a scattering of umbrellas. Apparently I鈥檇 strayed into the private section.

The friends were in their sixties and seventies. 鈥淪weet Melissa鈥 was playing from a radio; it was someone鈥檚 birthday. The shirtless man and his friends didn鈥檛 want me there, but they deigned to let me stay a moment so they could vent about all the changes to the river and the country in general. 鈥淚t鈥檚 just too many people,鈥 he said. 鈥淚t didn鈥檛 use to be. Then they started coming.鈥 He shot me a meaningful look. Later I asked for everyone鈥檚 contact info, for fact-checking purposes.

鈥淚f you think I鈥檓 giving you my information, you鈥檙e out of your mind,鈥 one of them said.

鈥淔ake news!鈥 shouted another. 鈥淵ou鈥檙e all fake news!鈥

As I walked away, I found myself thinking about that last comment more than anything. In a weird way, it felt as true as anything I鈥檇 bumped up against on the river. O鈥橣lynn, Harreld, the Bohemian Club, these guys, me鈥攆or everyone, the river was a realm of competing narratives. As in the fake-news paradigm, truth has become subjective and reality is shaped accordingly. For some this is the place to fight back against interlopers and bad manners. For others it鈥檚 a venue for fighting greed. Legal confusion, meanwhile, hovers over it all.

鈥淎ll it takes is a guy with a NO TRESPASSING sign, and if you don鈥檛 know better, that鈥檚 the law,鈥 said Dave Steindorf, executive director of the river-stewardship nonprofit American Whitewater. 鈥淭he sheriffs often act as the local private-security force for property owners. Without the public knowing it, our access to rivers gets eroded.鈥

The exclusive Bohemian Grove, whose security is legendary.
The exclusive Bohemian Grove, whose security is legendary. (Justin Kaneps)

Last year the California State Lands Commission issued a report declaring that the area up to O鈥橣lynn鈥檚 grass lies below the ordinary high-water mark and therefore is public-trust land. Harreld was right: nobody can block the public from enjoying the river. The bench barricade, ironically, had already been swept away by high water during winter flooding.

Triumphant after the ruling, Harreld spoke of O鈥橣lynn with a new note of grace. He was sympathetic about finding a solution to the litter problem. And regarding the security cameras, he suggested using them to prosecute anyone who might pollute the beach, rather than to deter people from going there in the first place. 鈥淚 would 100 percent support this,鈥 Harreld said. O鈥橣lynn still declines to speak in detail about the case.

As of this writing, a new sign, lovingly handmade, stands by the water: HELP RESTORE THE RIPARIAN COORIDOR鈥擯LEASE LAUNCH WATERCRAFT UP RIVER.聽

Update:聽(November聽6, 2020) Two years after this story was published, the California State Lands Commission changed its determination of the ordinary high-water mark. It now rests below the beach in question, meaning the beach is not currently considered public-trust land. A representative from the Commission emphasized that these marks are ambulatory and subject to move in the future.