Thirty million dollars’ worth of Utah real estate is now officially protected as farmland, thanks to Thayne and Cari Tagge’s decision to place their orchard property into an agricultural conservation easement through their own irrevocable will.

In a state where the Wasatch Front is rapidly filling with concrete, high-density housing, and big-box developments, the Tagges’ choice bucks a trend that has wiped out generations of Utah family farms. “Cash or crops?” is the question most landowners face — and the cash is tempting. With land prices hitting up ot $100,000 an acre in some areas, many second- and third-generation farmers are selling out. But Tagge, with his “famous Tagge fruit,” has chosen to protect his land for future generations.

“When people talk about the highest and best use of land, there is no doubt that my peach orchards here are the highest and best use,” says Tagge. “This is a very special place for growing some of the best peaches in the world, and that should be preserved.”

Tagge’s fruit — particularly his Brigham City peaches — has become a staple at farmers markets and fruit stands from Salt Lake to Logan. His peaches thrive in the microclimate above Willard Bay. The orchards stretch along the hillsides of Perry and Brigham City, where cooler spring temperatures are tempered by lake-effect winds, and where rocky soil layered beneath pioneer-era aqueducts provides ideal drainage and mineral content.

“We rarely freeze here,” Tagge explains. “And when they freeze below, a lot of times we are fine.” That microclimate makes this land irreplaceable for stone fruit cultivation.

Tagge and his wife bought their first piece of orchard land in 1997 for $9,000 an acre. He was a newcomer to farming, and the retiring owner, Paul Samita — who was dealing with a broken ankle and complications from diabetes — agreed to teach him everything he knew. “The deal was, he would help me out for a year, teach me all he knew, and then I’d take it from there. And he did that,” Tagge says.

What began as a leap of faith has since become one of Utah’s most recognizable agricultural success stories. But as we ride with Tagge through his orchards and fruit stands, it’s clear that the fight to keep farmland intact is far from over.

“There used to be more orchards here,” Tagge says, pointing to rows of new townhomes and subdivisions. “That guy just decided to give up. He wanted too much, so I couldn’t get it. They’re done now.”

One development after another lines the once-rural Highway 89 corridor — nicknamed “Utah’s Fruit Highway.” Tagge sees the writing on the wall, but he’s not giving up. Instead, he’s expanding. “I just bought a couple of additional parcels,” he says. “I’m trying to buy from people who want to preserve their land rather than bury it under asphalt.”

To ensure long-term preservation, Tagge placed his land in a legacy trust, which prevents it from being sold. His children are now involved in the farm, with the agreement that it stays agricultural — no matter how high the offers get.

“I ask people: What’s the highest and best use for this land?” he says. “There aren’t many places left where you can grow peaches like this. The frost line, the elevation, the lake effect — it all matters. You can’t replicate this somewhere else.”

Beyond peaches, Tagge grows everything from garlic to onions to sugar snap peas, using sustainable practices like drip irrigation and solar-powered water pumps. The system he installed with help from the USDA’s Farm Service Agency draws clean water from Pineview Reservoir and filters it through rock and sand before distributing it underground to his crops — even across Highway 89, thanks to a pipe UDOT approved him to run beneath the road.

“Everything here is on drip,” he says. “Even across the street. We’ve got clean water, efficient systems — it’s all dialed in.”

Yet despite this forward-thinking infrastructure, Tagge worries about the future of farming in Utah. Knowledge is disappearing, he says. The old-timers are retiring or dying, and much of what they knew is never written down.

“Even my wife doesn’t know the variety of tomatoes I grow,” he laughs. “She can call the guy after I die to find out. It took me ten years to figure it out.”

He jokes, but the concern is real. “You can read books and get a degree,” he says, “but it’s a school of hard knocks. You only learn by doing. And unless you’re up for it, how are you going to figure it out?”

His hope is that, by preserving the land, there will still be a chance for someone — maybe one of his children, maybe someone else — to learn. To walk the rows. To talk to the soil. To grow food the old-fashioned way, with wisdom passed down through conversations, not spreadsheets.

Tagge’s decision may seem nostalgic to some. But in a world grappling with food insecurity, climate change, and vanishing local farms, it may prove visionary.

“Some of the best fruit in the country grows near lakes,” he says. “Michigan, California, Montana. That’s no accident. And we’ve got it here too. We just have to keep it.”

For Tagge, the highest and best use of his land isn’t luxury condos. It’s peaches.

Feature Image: Thayne and Cari Tagge, owners of Tagge’s Famous Fruit and Veggie Farms. Photo by Bryan Butterfield, as well as additional photos.