by Laura Oppenheimer, The Oregonian
Saturday June 06, 2009, 12:00 PM
Golden Northwest Aluminum closed the smelter in 2000, crippled by rising power costs, and began demolition in 2007. All that's left is a few mounds of rebar and steel, waiting to be hauled. Resident cats outnumber May and his crew. And this time, everybody knows aluminum jobs won't return
But something strange is happening: As Oregon staggers through the worst recession in memory, The Dalles is doing OK.
Sure, unemployment climbed in the past year. Housing prices slid. On both counts, though, this town of 13,000 is coping better than the Portland area -- and better than most of the state.
Agriculture provides a solid base in the cherry-growing haven around The Dalles, and public and private investments create new opportunities.
The most visible symbol of change, a 3-year-old Google data center, gleams in the background of the aluminum plant.
Locals are equally excited about the new wind energy program at the community college. Several health care facilities are opening or expanding, and chains such as Shari's and Jack in the Box plant themselves here.
You won't find weekend crowds and fancy boutiques in the 1860s-era downtown -- as the chamber of commerce director puts it, "You don't have to pay $50 for a pair of tube socks" -- but you won't find many vacant storefronts, either. You can print business cards, bowl, get a haircut, browse Oregon's oldest bookstore or eat a croissant at an outpost of Portland's Petite Provence bakery.
The city is building a dock for boats and cruise ships; plazas and walkways will connect the water to downtown. A winemaker plans to retrofit an old flour mill, with hotel rooms in silos.
And, within a few months, the old aluminum property can be marketed to industrial companies. At 240 acres, it will be one of Oregon's largest available sites.
"I'm hoping when this is all done," May says, "we wind up with as many jobs as we had before."
The Dalles has always been a crossroads.
An hour-and-a-half drive east of Portland, the city was a major Native American trading post and an Oregon Trail campsite. It still makes a good layover, a place to fuel your car and belly.
Somewhere in the 20 miles between Hood River and The Dalles, the sun gets brighter and the landscape dustier. Politically, people split the difference between conservative eastern Oregon and the liberal Willamette Valley. (President Barack Obama eked out a majority last fall in Wasco County.)
But upheaval has dogged The Dalles. When the aluminum plant closed for two years in the mid-1980s, storefronts emptied and for-sale signs sprouted. Dan Durow, the community development director, calls that era "the economic hell." When the smelter got going again, so did The Dalles -- until aluminum died for good.
Community leaders say they've unleashed the city from aluminum, but the recession will be a good test.
It's premature to declare the city cured, says Dallas Fridley, the state's Columbia River Gorge-area economist. The government still provides about a quarter of nonfarm jobs in Wasco County. And, unlike the Portland area, The Dalles doesn't have private companies big enough to crash the economy with mass layoffs.
"If you're jumping off a 10-story building, you're going to get hurt," Fridley says. "If you're jumping off a one-story building, you might get a scratch."
By no means has The Dalles escaped economic gloom. Wasco County's unemployment nearly doubled in the past year, surpassing 10 percent. Still, that figure places the county among Oregon's strongest one-fourth.
Fewer homes are selling, and average prices dropped more than 6 percent in the past year -- a decline that real estate agents in Bend would kill for.
"Obviously, things have changed," says broker Bob McFadden, whose resume includes a long list of community boards and commissions. "But we're not nearly as bad as some other areas. We've worked hard to get ourselves that way."
The number of Wasco and Hood River County residents filing for unemployment has quadrupled since last spring. But that includes newcomers to the area, and no single company accounts for a large number of layoffs, state employment officials say.
During past recessions, aluminum workers without high school diplomas lost $50,000-a-year jobs, says employment specialist Eric Proffitt, who grew up in The Dalles. Some were former classmates, with no way to replace their income.
Now the crutch is gone. Proffitt and his co-workers host several classes a week for the newly jobless, helping update resumes and scout options.
"There is no aluminum industry to go back to," Proffitt says. "So where else can I transfer my skills?"
When Google discovered The Dalles several years ago -- drawn by reliable power and fiber connectivity, available land and a cooperative community -- people were quick to paint the company as savior or villain.
There was talk of a high-tech boom, and real estate values soared 50 percent in a year as speculators scooped up houses. During construction, the data center created jobs and filled hotels. But many natives bristled at Google's secretive approach: The project was known by a code name, and critics feared the company would simply import workers from its California headquarters.
The reality is more nuanced.
Home prices inched back down, and you won't find Facebook or Microsoft in The Dalles. Still, Google has become a powerful symbol of transformation.
As you pull up to the riverfront campus, you'll spot a Voldemort Industries sign, a self-effacing reference to the Harry Potter character known as "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Google officials say they learned from the backlash, and make a point to be transparent when they open data centers. They have also gotten involved in The Dalles. Workers volunteer at cleanups or Habitat for Humanity; a garden at the edge of the property is public; grants go to community groups. Last fall, Google hosted an open house at its cafeteria and visitor center.
This is where employees go for a massage (they get a one-hour credit on their birthdays) and daily free lunch, which might include vegan bean loaf or salmon with braised leeks, tomato and saffron. They can play foosball or raid the patio for dodge ball or bocce ball gear.
About 200 people work on campus, including contracted security, catering and housekeeping. Those inside the data center can't give details, except to say they're the mechanics who keep the Internet running.
Camden Lindsay, a 30-year-old project manager, oversaw technology at a cherry operation before he joined Google.
"The experience I got working for Orchard View Farms was really the experience I needed to get this job," he says.
Blair Ellsworth, who grew up in Hood River, worked a cherry harvest and a pear harvest after graduating from college in 2005. Meanwhile, he hunted for more permanent employment.
"I was expecting to get a job in Portland. That's where I was focusing most of my effort," Ellsworth says -- until he heard about Google.
Hiring locally is a priority, says data center manager Dave Karlson, former technology director for the local education service district.
Managers persuaded Google's human resources department to advertise in the town newspaper, not just the company Web site. Karlson knew they'd reach people with a built-in advantage.
"We can teach you the technical stuff," he says. "We can't teach you to live in the gorge."
A couple of years ago, Susan Wolff saw The Dalles' future roll down Interstate 84 on trucks carrying wind turbines.
"I grew up on a ranch, so I knew people would have to install this equipment and maintain it," says Wolff, chief academic officer at Columbia Gorge Community College. "I had no idea it would be to this extent."
The futuristic green energy industry came to the gorge for one of its oldest, most fundamental assets: whipping winds. Wheat farms began to sprout 400-foot towers with white blades that slice the sky, generating power for hundreds of thousands of homes.
Research showed that, by 2011, companies would need 360 trained technicians within a 50-mile radius of The Dalles. Desperate to take advantage, college leaders launched one of the nation's first renewable-energy training programs with a pilot class in early 2007.
The discipline was so new, no textbooks existed. Wolff and the makeshift faculty attended conferences, asked questions of wind executives, watched turbines rise in the countryside. One teacher spent a summer working at a wind farm. "We were just sponges," Wolff says.
A full-fledged program launched that fall, allowing students to earn a one-year certificate or two-year associate's degree. A grant recently doubled enrollment from 36 to 72.
There's no such thing as a typical wind energy scholar. Some are fresh out of high school; others are middle-aged, abandoning longtime careers.
Students finishing their first year include an Alaskan field biologist who wants to help solve the state's energy crisis; a commercial fisherman looking for more consistent work; and a former AmeriCorps volunteer who's passionate about green power. Jeff Fothergill was working as a millwright in his hometown of Sandy until, at his dad's urging, he enrolled in the renewable-energy program.
"I knew it was the future. There was high demand, back then," he says. "So here I am."
Despite bright prospects, many students struggled to find jobs and internships this year. Companies are being cautious until the economy rebounds.
Fritz Ellett, who grew up in The Dalles, has lived through a couple of recessions. He returned in his 30s to run the family Christmas tree farm, but he's not convinced agriculture will see him through to retirement.
Studying wind energy seemed natural, Ellett says. He didn't have to move, and he saw similarities to his current job.
"As a farmer, you work on things all the time, whether it's mechanical, electrical or whatever. I enjoy stuff like that," he says. "Beyond that, being at the ground level of a new and expanding industry is exciting."
After a summer internship at PGE's Biglow Canyon Wind Farm, Ellett will decide whether to return to school for a second year. Either way, he sees wind as a long-term opportunity for him -- and his hometown.
The college works hard to diversify The Dalles' economy, says Wolff, the academic officer. An 8-year-old nursing program, for example, gives the community another way to move beyond aluminum.
"It's a little bit of an attitude this time," Wolff says. "We're refusing to go into a recession."
Even as the economy lurches, progress plows ahead.
City Hall is being renovated, and construction begins this fall on a $3.5 million river dock for cruise ships and boats. City officials have cobbled more than half the money and hope to win grants for the rest. Ditto for an $8 million plan to open downtown to the waterfront in the next couple of years.
"There's a lot of talk about economic stimulus projects," says Nolan Young, city manager. "We're doing our own."
Several national chains have expanded, set up shop or set sights on The Dalles. Wal-Mart will build a Supercenter on old aluminum land, if the development survives land-use appeals.
Plans are under way for a pub and a brewery downtown, and road work this summer will clear the way for Quenett Winery to move into the historic Sunshine Mill -- along with a cheesemaker and other gourmet entrepreneurs. Silo hotel rooms will overlook the river.
Google snagged headlines, "but there's a lot more going on," says Durow, the community development director.
All this activity will bring new neighbors to Tim Schechtel at the east end of downtown. He and his wife, Erin, knew they would be pioneers two years ago when they moved Erin Glenn Wines into a 140-year-old building commissioned as a U.S. Mint.
After a $1.5 million rehab, The Mint sports handsome wood floors and a reclaimed-timber bar. A chalkboard quotes Thomas Jefferson: "Good wine is a necessity of life." Weekend nights, musical acts from a ukulele orchestra to a Celtic band perform on the production floor while a chef whips up soup, panini and cheese plates.
Distribution sales declined with the economy, Schechtel says. So he focuses on growing his wine club, drawing crowds to The Mint and promoting Erin Glenn around the Northwest.
Schechtel lobbies local restaurants to serve wines from the gorge. People might forget details, he says, but they'll develop a connection to the area.
"You have an opportunity to tell them all the cool things about this place. That's what you're selling."
The city's scrappiness and sense of place won over Dana Schmidling, who started last year as chamber of commerce director. Though she was a big-city person, Schmidling jumped at the chance to be part of this transformation.
"I looked at The Dalles and thought, boy, they're sitting right on the edge," she says. "And they're positioned to make the leap."