The road to the resolution
The council chamber was the last stop of a journey that began on the mountainside. Scottsdale’s early-1980s annexations had swept the McDowell foothills into the city, and by 1990 development was visibly climbing the bajadas — graded pads appearing higher each season, the leading edge of the luxury-golf push north. The range itself was no park: it was a checkerboard of private holdings and Arizona State Trust land, the latter legally required to be sold or leased for the benefit of schools, generally to the highest bidder. Left alone, the mountains’ fate was luxury lots with a view of each other.
In 1991 a band of residents — hikers, scientists, retirees with stubborn streaks — founded the McDowell Sonoran Land Trust to argue for a different ending. Their pitch reframed the range as the city’s shared infrastructure: skyline, watershed, wildlife corridor, and the scenery underwriting every resort rate and home price in town. Polling showed the town overwhelmingly agreed. By the fall of 1994 the question was not whether Scottsdale wanted its mountains kept, but whether city government would commit to keeping them.
On October 3, it did. Resolution No. 4103 established the Preserve on paper — deliberately incomplete, because the plan was ownership rather than zoning. A zoning map can be amended by any future council; land the city owns is settled. Ownership, though, takes money no resolution can conjure.
What followed
The funding question went to the voters, who answered on May 23, 1995 by approving a dedicated 0.2% sales tax running thirty years — and again in 2004 with a further 0.15%. The purchases were real market transactions, not condemnations: ranch parcels, failed subdivisions, and State Trust sections bid away from developers at auction. Acre by acre the Preserve grew past 10,000, then 20,000, ultimately beyond 30,000 acres — about one-third of the entire city, the largest urban preserve in the United States, managed with an army of volunteer stewards descended from the original Trust. In 2018, Prop 420 locked the door, requiring a public vote for any change.
The resolution’s genius was its modesty. It promised nothing it could not deliver; it created the vessel and trusted the voters to fill it, which they did for decades. The rest of the year sits at 1994, and the campaign’s full story runs through the 1990s chapter.