WHERE EAGLES DARE
Once we made the decision to build rather than to buy, we proceeded with the next step of our seemingly interminable quest: finding a suitable lot. During our initial search for a home, we had noticed a lot for sale in an area three miles east of town called Chaparral Highlands. Densely vegetated with oak, manzanita, piñon, and a dozen varieties of juniper, it also boasted a good dose of our one botanical non-negotiable: ponderosa pine trees. Our first drive through the area we had to brake for a little family of elk meandering across the road—always a good sign.
They say God works in mysterious ways. So does the stock market. Case in point: as a result of the Great Recession of 2008, millions of Americans lost their jobs, homes, and retirement accounts. At the same time, exploiters, speculators, and down-right scoundrels reaped huge profits from those losses. Which brings us to the lot in question. By the spring of 2012, Lot 17 in Chaparral Highlands, once valued at $150,000, had become a bank-owned property on sale for $38,000. In lay terms, it was a steal, a shameless land grab, a deal we simply couldn’t refuse, the “down-right scoundrel” label notwithstanding. Or as they say in some quarters, all’s fair in love, war, and real estate.
Except there was one problem. It was a sloping lot. Not just a gradual little bunny slope but a good old alpine triple-black-diamond, climbing 30 feet in less than 100, which meant four things: a long, steep driveway; lots of excavation; lots of concrete; and--cha-ching!—lots more in construction costs. Initially this was a deal-breaker. After shoveling snow from our sloping driveway in Flagstaff for 28 winters, we were determined to buy a nice, flat lot that would translate into an easy build, easy access, quick and easy snow removal, easy easy easy. Ah, but how fickle is the human spirit! Frailty, thy name is Dream House (or Affordable Dream House)!
The very day we eliminated Lot 17 from contention, we met with our designer Bill Easton. When we off-handedly mentioned the lot and its laundry list of negatives to Bill, his eyes lit up.
“Yes, but the view!” he exclaimed. “What a view!”
And he was right. Absolutely one hundred percent correct. We would have a sweeping panoramic view that would catch both sunrise and sunset as well as CypressPeak and the Granite Dells.
Bill pooh-poohed the long driveway, the extensive excavation, the mother-lode of concrete. “Trifles,” he said.
By the time we left his office we were wavering. After conferring with our realtor, we were sold. “Location, location, location,” he said, quoting the old adage. “You can change just about anything in a house—give the kitchen a make-over, add a room, expand a room, build a Jacuzzi or a pool or a bowling alley or a flying trapeze, but there’s one thing you can never change: the view.”
We put an offer on the lot that afternoon. I’d like to add, and we haven’t looked back. However, another party made an offer the same day, so the bank asked us both to submit our “best and final offer” by 5:00 PM. We had no idea what the other party had offered originally—it could have been low-balled at $20,000 or the asking price of $38,000. Should we offer $40,000 and cross our fingers or $50,000 and seal the deal?
The answer came down to two questions: (1) how badly did we want that lot? and (2) if we didn’t buy this lot, which one would you buy and how much (more) would it cost?
There was another lot just east of Lot 17 selling for $38,000, but it was lower and flatter and didn’t have the view.
We offered $48,000. We got the lot. And there was lots of excavation. Lots of cut and fill. Lots of rocks—big rocks that had to be extracted from the bowels of our granite-packed half-acre by gigantic machines that looked and sounded like digitally enhanced prehistoric beasts. Lots of digging and leveling. And the driveway was (and remains) steep. And long. We will need to add a ski lift to get from the mail box to the front door. But what a view! What a spectacular view!