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Virtually every state has acted. Only a handful, notably Vermont, Hawaii and Oregon, have comprehensive laws to guide development. Others have been galvanized into piecemeal action by clear and present dangers to their environment and economy. Montana has passed legislation requiring strip miners to repair the ravaged earth after they peel it away. California, Minnesota and Illinois have adopted tax incentives to encourage farmers to stay on the land—and developers off it. Texas, Connecticut, Delaware and other states have enacted laws to protect their threatened coastlines. Even the Rocky Mountain states, where open land still seems limitless, are beginning to work on tough new restrictions on developers. In Nevada, reports a top state planner, "everyone said, 'You'll never get the cow counties to go along.' Well, the cow counties are pushing us. They have the most to lose, and they know it."
When the states have not moved fast enough, citizens have goaded local governments into devising ways to slow growth or stop it cold. Their solutions are often adopted in overly great haste to get at the root causes of the problems. But they are nonetheless remarkable for their disregard of venerable traditions, of some powerful interest groups. Examples:
Harpswell, Me., an unspoiled lobstering town (pop. 2,500) some 30 miles northeast of Portland, has always subscribed to the theory that property rights reside solely with property owners. Indeed, a 1970 effort by newcomers (mostly well-heeled retirees) to set up a town planning board was squelched in a town meeting. As Lifelong Resident Tom Leeman put it, "A planning board is like a cancer. It starts small, and the first thing you know, it's got you so you can't breathe." But last year, when plans for two large vacation-home subdivisions in Harpswell were announced, the sleepy village awoke to the 20th century. The townspeople passed an 18-month moratorium on all development, hoping that the pause would give them time to protect Harpswell's future. As a first step, they set up a planning board.
Boca Raton, Fla., an affluent (four polo fields) city north of Miami, sized up its rate of growth and realized, to the dismay of residents, that its population, now 47,000, would eventually reach 250,000. As a result, Boca Raton amended the city charter to allow no more than 40,000 housing units within city borders (each containing an average of 2.5 people).
After the population limit of around 100,000 is reached, no more building permits will be granted—ever.