"Karen, that sign is on my property. Remove it now." "Touch that sign and I'll have you arrested for vandalism," she threatened. I tried calling my lawyer, Tom Bradley, but got his voicemail saying he was on vacation until Wednesday. Two other attorneys I contacted had no weekend availability.
The timing was perfect. Suspiciously perfect. "Timing is everything, Mr. Morrison," Karen said with that same smirk. While we argued, the assessors continued measuring my fence line with professional equipment.
I retrieved my grandfather's original survey from 1967, yellowed with age, but still legally binding. According to the survey, my fence was actually three feet inside my property line, nowhere near any encroachment. "This survey is outdated," the lead assessor said dismissively. "We have an updated survey from 2022 showing clear encroachment."
"Updated by who?" I demanded. "I never authorized any survey of my land." "The HOA commissioned a professional survey to resolve the boundary dispute," Karen said smoothly.
That's when my neighbor Bill Hendricks pulled up in his old Ford pickup, dust trailing behind him like a banner of war. Bill was 73 years old and had been surveying land for the county before he retired. If anyone knew where my fence belonged, it was Bill. "Jake, I tried calling you," Bill said, climbing out of his truck with the stiffness of a man who'd worked with his hands his whole life.
"These people were here yesterday, too, measuring and taking pictures." "Sir, this is private HOA business," Karen said coldly. Bill laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Lady, I've lived here 40 years. That fence hasn't moved an inch since Jake's grandfather built it."
Several neighbors had started emerging from the subdivision, drawn by the commotion. Some looked supportive of Karen. Others seemed uncomfortable with the whole situation. Mrs. Patterson, whose dog I'd rescued from my cattle pond twice, avoided making eye contact.
Two neighbors I didn't recognize started taking videos with their phones. "Please document everything," Karen told them. "We need evidence of his obstruction." That's when Deputy Santos provided the first piece of good news I'd heard all morning. "Ma'am, under Colorado law, adverse possession requires 18 years of continuous occupation.
If this fence has been here for 58 years, well before your subdivision existed, then Mr. Morrison's original property deed would take precedence over any newer HOA covenants." The legal principle was simple. Prior existing use supersedes subsequent covenant restrictions. My grandfather's fence had legal priority over Karen's power trip. But Karen wasn't backing down.
We'll see what the emergency board meeting decides this afternoon. At 2:00 sharp, Karen called an emergency HOA board meeting at her house. Despite being the property owner most affected by their decisions, I wasn't invited. I showed up anyway.
This is a private meeting, Karen said when I knocked on her front door. You're not an HOA member. I'm the property owner you're trying to steal from, I replied. I have a right to defend myself.
The board consisted of five people. Karen as president, Dr. Richard Stanton as vice president, Jennifer Walsh as secretary, Marcus Chen as treasurer, and Patricia Vance as member at large. What I discovered later was that Jennifer Walsh worked for Karen's real estate company, and Dr. Stanton had invested $50,000 in Karen's business. The fix was in from the start.
I presented my evidence methodically. The original 1967 property deed with survey, continuous tax payment records, and my grandfather's handwritten notes documenting the fence installation. "These are old documents," Karen dismissed. "Current law applies." According to whose survey?
I demanded. I never agreed to any survey of my property. Karen produced her professional survey dated March 2022, signed by someone named Robert Kumar from Mountain West Land Services. I'd never heard of either the company or the surveyor.
"I want to contact this surveyor directly," I said. "That's not necessary. The survey is certified," Karen replied quickly. Dr. Stanton read from the HOA covenant.
Any encroachment onto common area constitutes abandonment of property rights. According to their interpretation, I had constructively abandoned the disputed strip of land, which then reverted to HOA authority. Jennifer Walsh produced meeting minutes from 2021, claiming I had been properly notified and failed to respond. I had never received any notification about meetings regarding my property.
"Maybe we should postpone until legal counsel reviews everything," suggested Marcus Chen, the treasurer, who looked increasingly uncomfortable. I've already contacted Secure Shield Security for the auction, Karen announced. Given Mr. Morrison's hostile behavior, we need professional security. "You're hiring security to help you steal my land?" I asked.
Patricia Vance, the only board member who seemed to have a conscience, spoke up. "Karen, maybe we should reconsider this whole thing," Patricia said. "We're proceeding as planned," Karen cut her off. That's when I learned about Colorado Revised Statute 3833.3116.
HOAs cannot claim ownership of property through covenant violations alone. Actual abandonment requires clear intent and physical vacation of property. I had continuously occupied, maintained, and paid taxes on my entire property for decades. The smoking gun came when I demanded to see all correspondence they claimed to have sent me.
Karen produced emails sent to the wrong address. My actual email was different. They had the wrong address. "Typographical errors don't invalidate proper notice," Karen argued.
"You never verified my contact information," I pointed out. "How was that proper notice?" Bill Hendricks, who had followed me to the meeting, confirmed he'd never seen any surveyors on my property. "I check on Jake's place every day.
I would have noticed strangers with measuring equipment." "Are you a licensed surveyor?" Dr. Stanton asked.
"Retired county surveyor, still licensed," Bill replied. "And that fence is exactly where it's always been." When the vote came, it was predetermined. Karen, Dr. Stanton, and Jennifer Walsh voted yes to proceed with the auction. Marcus Chen abstained and Patricia Vance voted no.
The motion passed 3-1-1. "You're about to make a serious legal error," I warned them. "We'll see about that," Karen replied. Sunday morning brought an even bigger shock.
Karen was hosting a pre-auction viewing of my property. Three potential buyers showed up to tour the ranch I had inherited from my grandfather, led by Karen herself, pointing out development potential. I sat on my front porch with my morning coffee, watching strangers walk around my land like they owned it. Every time potential buyers approached the house, I stood up and introduced myself politely.
"Hi, I'm Jake Morrison. I own this ranch. Are you interested in buying stolen property?" The first buyer, a Denver developer in an expensive suit, left immediately after talking to me. The second buyer, a young couple, seemed torn between Karen's sales pitch and my warnings.
The third was a real estate investor who started asking Karen detailed questions about title insurance. "Ma'am, I'll need to see clear title before I consider bidding," the investor said. Karen struggled to answer his technical questions, finally saying, "All legal documentation will be provided at the auction." My neighbor across the street, Tommy Martinez, had been filming everything from his bedroom window. Tommy was 23 years old and ran a YouTube channel called Rural Real Talk with 47,000 subscribers.