RV park expansions ignite land use disputes: Towns clash over camping evolution

Once upon a time, “camping” meant a tent and fire ring, and “campground” meant a bunch of tents and fire rings, plus—possibly—a communal bathhouse and swimming lake. Oh, there might be some car campers, sleeping in the back of a station wagon rather than on the ground. But campgrounds were relatively unobtrusive and mostly unobjectionable, close to nature and accessible to even the most limited budget.

Time passed. Campgrounds started accommodating small travel trailers and pickup campers, putting in 20-amp and 30-amp electrical connections, then adding water hookups and, eventually, sewer connections. Cable television followed, then wi-fi. Sites grew larger, to match the growing size of fifth wheels and motorcoaches, and 30-amp connections were upgraded to 50 amps. Campgrounds were now repositioned as RV parks, and they started getting a whole lot bigger—the better to cover their growing capital requirements.

Nor was that all. Camping sites were supplemented by basic cabins for those without an RV, then by ever-larger lodges, complete with kitchens and bathrooms and various appliances, including large-screen TVs. Campground amenities likewise exploded. Swimming lakes evolved into swimming pools, water parks and lazy rivers; playgrounds, climbing walls, mini-golf courses, jumping pillows, pickleball courts and fitness centers proliferated; and guided activities, golf cart rentals, laser tag, concerts and outdoor movies all became part of a growing menu of distractions.

Glamping mania

More recently, glamping mania has gripped the industry. Safari tents on platforms, mock Conestoga wagons, yurts and teepees in regions that never saw the originals, treehouses—whatever “unique” accommodation can be offered to justify nightly rates starting at $200 and ranging up to 10 times that amount—are becoming ever more commonplace. Plus, of course, the kind of top-drawer amenities one associates with that kind of spending: wine bars, yoga and meditation sessions, post-and-beam common lounges, spa services, farmers markets, even upscale shopping.

And yet, it’s all “camping.” Despite the enormous social and economic chasm that lies between camping as we knew it 60 years ago and as it is today, the rate of change has been so rapid that the creaky mechanisms of land-use planning and zoning regulation have barely taken notice, much less kept up. Mr. or Mrs. Developer rolls into town with grand plans for a resort “campground” that will cost millions to build, sprawl across dozens of acres, suck up untold acre-feet of groundwater and clog local roads with battalions of over-sized vehicles, and the town burghers are hearing “campground” and envisioning idyllic sylvan retreats—and if they’re not, they’re still stuck with working with regulations drafted in an age when that was the norm.

Anti-campground sentiment

No wonder, then, that anti-campground sentiment has been percolating with growing intensity in recent years. The sequence of events is almost always the same. Monied interests get the ear of elected officials, whom they win over with sugar-plum visions of what their project will mean for the local economy and tax base. The project’s details are disclosed to the community, usually with the enthusiastic endorsement of its wined-and-dined political leadership. And then the questions begin, and the local costs of what’s being proposed start coming out, and all of a sudden comes the realization that what’s in those PowerPoint presentations is not a mere “campground” but a full-blown town.

The resulting backlash is entirely predictable, and successful at derailing the monied interests often enough that you’d think they’d take a hint and slink away. But deep pockets often have deep reservoirs of patience. The Kentucky Bluegrass Experience Resort, a $40 million proposal that would include 818 RV sites, 155 cottages, 15 spots for employee accommodations and 37 rustic tent sites, has been banging around for more than three years as local residents throw every conceivable roadblock in its way—yet it persists. KOA’s announced proposal two years ago for a property straddling a main approach road to Yosemite National Park, with a 400-site KOA resort on one side and an 80-90 site Terramor glampground on the other, has yet to be submitted in a formal application, leaving locals twisting in the wind—even as they take the opportunity to get more organized.

RV parks objected to

But it’s not just megaprojects that are being challenged, as local residents increasingly realize that even a modestly sized RV park can be as disruptive to their way of life as any other industry. The Pickens County, SC, planning commission last month rejected a proposed campground that would have had a mere 25 RV sites, apparently in response to neighbors’ concerns about safety and property values. A 130-site campground proposed for Fife Lake, MI, got shot down a couple of weeks ago by the village council following widespread opposition centered on its potential noise, pollution and other environmental impacts—not to mention that when full, its population would exceed that of the village itself.

Other towns, hamstrung by a lack of appropriate regulations allowing them to reject a poorly conceived campground, give developers a green light—only to have local landowners take them to court. A proposed new RV park in Greene County, TN, is being blocked by a lawsuit that also names the county and its regional planning commission as defendants, with the plaintiff arguing that the county’s approval is based on an inappropriate agricultural zoning designation. “They are not a campground, they are an RV site, which is very different,” one of the lawsuit backers told a local TV station. “The infrastructure in the area would not be able to support the large vehicles, campers and RVs that would be required to go down the main road that the campground is on, which is very narrow.”

Agriculturally zones areas

The outdated inclusion of campgrounds as permitted uses in agriculturally zoned areas is widespread—and, increasingly, recognized as unsuited for the massive recreational vehicles that are becoming commonplace. That is causing a small but growing number of jurisdictions to put a pause on campground approvals while they reevaluate. In upstate New York, for example, the town of Ovid has scheduled an April 10 hearing on the advisability of imposing a one-year moratorium on the development of new or expanded campgrounds. The nearby town of Newfield already adopted such a moratorium a couple of months ago, and the town of Oneonta, while rejecting a moratorium on a 2-2 vote, is pushing ahead with a series of proposed amendments to the town code that would affect future campground developments.

Whether today’s “campgrounds” are compatible with agricultural areas of narrow roads, possibly limited aquifers and soils with questionable septic capacity are not the only issues planning officials are starting to question. There’s also the increasingly hazy distinction between campgrounds with row upon row of cabins, RV park models and tiny homes, and a conventional subdivision. The latter typically has numerous zoning constraints, as well as construction and inspection requirements; the former, very few or none. The upshot is that savvy developers will apply for campground approval when their actual goal is to build a vacation-home resort, indistinguishable from a conventional resort other than for the (skirted and invisible) wheels under its dwellings.

“Campgrounds” to be occupied by park models

That’s the sleight-of-hand confronting the residents of the Animas Valley in southwest Colorado, where Roberts Resort Development is plunging ahead with plans to build a “campground” with as many as 277 sites, up to 140 of them—the number fluctuates—to be occupied by park models. The park models will be for sale, and if sales are brisk, the developer has said he will want to convert even more of the RV sites to park models. The 277 sites on approximately 30 acres will create a housing density roughly 18 times that of the surrounding area. Yet despite these obvious similarities to a trailer park or to conventional suburbia, the valley’s land use plan arguably embraces the fiction that this is merely a campground or RV park, and therefore a “minor” special use, for which approval by the county’s commissioners is not needed.

Sham nature of proposal

Local residents, livid over the blatantly sham nature of this proposal, have thrown up enough protests to at least slow it down, with the developer’s required paperwork now delayed by months. Whether they’ll ultimately succeed in derailing it altogether, or whether the Roberts interests have deep enough pockets to ride out the storm, remains to be seen. But this kind of grassroots opposition will only become more common as developers keep piling into this corner of the commercial real estate market, and as they take advantage of outmoded zoning regulations replete with loopholes big enough to drive a 45-foot Prevost through. The irony? The more those developers provoke such a response, the more the whole RVing and camping thing will lose its luster, to their own detriment.

For the most part, it’s not “camping” anymore. It’s often not even RVing. But whatever it is, it needs a new vocabulary, a new understanding of its many permutations, and a far more nuanced regulatory framework.

Andy Zipser is the author of Renting Dirt, the story of his family’s experiences owning and operating a Virginia RV park, and of Turning Dirt, a step-by-step guide for finding, buying and operating an RV park and campground. Both books are available through bookstores or at Amazon.com.

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