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Arizona Native Plants and the Urban Challenge Katherine Crewe

Landscape Journal: design, planning, and management of the land, Volume 32, Number 2, 2013, pp. 215-229 (Article)

Published by University of Wisconsin Press

For additional information about this article

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https://muse.jhu.edu/article/538785

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Arizona Native Plants and the Urban Challenge

Katherine Crewe

ABSTRACT This paper explores how Arizona landscape architects have promoted the use of Sonoran native plants in Phoenix, Tucson, and surrounding desert cities and examines their strategies to create ecologically minded communities in challenging surroundings. In promoting native plants, landscape architects have not only cre- ated a vernacular landscape for Arizona’s cities, but have helped find solutions to rising summer temperatures and excessive use of borrowed water. In their planning and design for native plants, they have integrated native plants into the diverse functions of cities, both societal and eco- logical, creating multifunctional landscapes. While these endeavors have widely entrenched native plant design as part of major urban initiatives in Arizona’s desert cities, they have also revealed radical obstacles for native plant designs. Landscape architects have had to find a place for native plant systems amidst the diverse sets of needs of arid cities, from city- wide infrastructure systems to commercial interests and popular preferences, and in light of an overall energy balance within a desert region. This encounter marks yet another chapter in the history of landscape architects’ work with native plants.

KEYWORDS native plants, urban ecosystems, multi- functional landscapes

Arizona’s landscape architects have been applauded in recent years for embracing a design vernacular rooted in the Sonoran desert ecology. In 1994, Mac Griswold and William Thompson noted the local native plants movement had “changed the way Phoenix looked at itself” (Griswold and Thompson 1994, 54), and in 1996 Frederick Steiner claimed professional leaders such as Christine Ten Eyck, Steve Martino, and Carol Shuler had “essentially redirected the profession” in Ari- zona (Leccese 1996, 81). The architectural critic John Meunier has since described a new Arizona “school of thought” that has enabled the City of Phoenix to fi nd its voice “after too many years of pretending to be the Mediterranean or California” (Meunier 2000, 32). In promoting native plants, landscape architects have not only created a vernacular landscape for Arizona’s cities, but have helped fi nd solutions to rising sum- mer temperatures and excessive use of borrowed water (Figures 1–4). Phoenix’s landscape irrigation costs alone account for an estimated 45 to 75 precent of the city’s total water consumption (Gober et al. 2010).

The problems have been daunting. From 2000 to 2010 the city of Phoenix grew by 28.9 precent and was rated among the nation’s top ten cities for growth (2010 Census). The Phoenix metropolitan area, which includes Mesa, Glendale, Chandler, and other highly populated cities, ranks as the 13th largest in the nation at 4,192,887. Tucson has 547,224. Fast growth is signi- fi ed by development patterns that are familiar to the Southwest but unfriendly to native ecosystems, such as major freeways, wide streets, and large parking lots. Heat island eff ects are high from expansive paving and ranch- style homes. As the Arizona landscape architect Steve Martino observed: “Even a native plant shrivels on a rooftop” (Leccese 1996, 85).

This paper explores how Arizona landscape architects have promoted the use of Sonoran native

216 Landscape Journal 32:2

Figure 1 Arizona desert landscape, Superstition Wilderness.

Figure 2 Maricopa County Courthouse, Phoenix.

Figure 3 Entrance, Phoenix Desert Gardens, 2012.

Crewe 217

plants in Phoenix, Tucson, and surrounding cities. I begin with a literature review on the wealth of land- scape architects’ discourse on the use of native plants in cities, which I see as an important background to present- day endeavors. In the following two sections, I look at their strategies to inspire a public love for the desert in challenging environments. In the fi rst section on “functional desert landscapes,” I explore their inte- gration of desert ecologies into the functional work- ings of a city, thus creating multifunctional landscapes which serve practical and social needs (Millenium Eco- system Assessment 2005). These have included physi- cal processes such as the frugal use of water, public canals, trails, and private home building, but also public social needs through a multitude of recreational areas (Fish Ewan 2001a). For all their success, how- ever, their eff orts have led to mixed encounters with prevailing jurisdictional systems and societal demands. I argue that the Arizona experience demonstrates a new kind of battleground for landscape architects as they promote ecologically enriching native landscapes in pressured city environments. On the one hand, native landscapes are increasingly viewed as pivotal

to sustainable urban living, given concerns about the unsustainability of conventional landscape practices. Yet they can at times evoke formidable opposition. In the fi nal section on collaborations for multifunctional landscapes, I consider the role of native landscapes as part of a total urban energy balance. In their study of landscape architects’ use of native plants in Utah, Hooper et al. identify the profession’s focus on eco- logical issues in recent decades, commenting that the fi eld has “emerged from a period of introspection to reformulate its understanding of the place of humans in nature” (2008, 127).

Historically, landscape architects in the United States have always been concerned about native plants and ecosystems. This has been part of their commit- ment to environmental stewardship since the 1880s (Newton 1971). However, their work has most readily focused on wilderness planning, highway remedia- tion, and various other kinds of ecosystem restora- tion. Nevertheless, key examples stand out in the profession’s history where native plants have inspired novel approaches to city design and function. Jen- sen’s prairie landscapes for the Chicago park system

Figure 4 Entrance, Phoenix Art Museum, 2012.

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in the early 1900s are probably the best documented (Christy 1976; Grese 1992; Griswold and Thompson 1994). Scattered examples may also be found in Texas and California cities (Smooty 2004; Byrd 1999), or in the work of Ralph Cornell in California from the 1930s. Since the 1970s there has been an explosion of design projects integrating native plantings with urban design. This urban shift is increasingly relevant as we address the need for multifunctional landscapes which combine human and natural ecosystems (Millenium Ecosystem Assessment 2005).

This study draws on a range of sources. Land- scape Architecture magazine has proved an important resource for this study, chronicling professionals’ work on native plants since the 1920s. The journal refl ects shifting priorities over time, revealing for instance a scarcity of articles on desert landscapes from the early decades, a growth of habitat restoration from the 1930s, and a wealth of urban projects since the 1970s. The Landscape Journal off ers theoretical and histori- cal perspectives on native plants, while scholarly works by historians such as Robert Grese (1992) and Judith Major (1998) provide depth. Finally, I also turn to the growing literature on urban and landscape ecology, which has increasingly included work by landscape architects (for example Nassauer 1994, 1998; Gobster 1999; Musacchio 2009) and today assumes pressing relevance for desert cities (see also Martin 2008; Miller 2009; Grimm and Redman 2004).

NATIVE PLANTS AND CITIES: A LITERATURE REVIEW The broad range of discussion among landscape archi- tects about native plant design provides a background for today’s work in urban native landscapes. For the most part, early landscape architects in the United States believed native plants in cities had power to inspire. From the 1800s, the pioneer Andrew Jackson Downing advocated American natives for people’s homes, claiming they brought patriotic pride in the new land (Grese 1992; Major 1998). Since the 1850s, Frederick Law Olmsted Sr. created essentially “North American” forests to bring health and psychological wellbeing to tired city dwellers (Grese 1992, 87), while in Chicago Jensen wrote that his adaptations of prairie forests and clearings would nurture self- knowledge and enrichment (Christy 1976; Grese 1992).

Discourse on native landscapes has broadened in scope and application over time. In the 1970s, Ian McHarg and Jonathan Sutton argued that settlement amidst piney native wetlands in The Woodlands, Texas, could involve the public in an ecological experi- ment about their environment (McHarg and Sutton 1975), while John Binckerhoff Jackson (1961) advo- cated that Southwesterners use sparse native plant- ings along with fruit trees to recall earlier Spanish and Native American lifestyles. In Israel in the 1950s (referred to in Landscape Architecture magazine), native plants were prized as a link with biblical his- tory (Miller 1958; Halprin et al. 1962), while Roberto Burle Marx’s indigenous gardens in Rio would conjure a lost prehistoric world (Marx 1954). Then again, we fi nd many discussions about urban planting design that integrate a surrounding region, for example the campus designs of Ralph Cornell and Theodore Payne in Los Angeles (Pessman 1961; Cornell 1961; Morrison 1975). Perhaps following the earlier work of Jensen, Miller, and Simonds, others have created urban forms that mimic native surroundings (Grese 1992). One notes Halprin’s compositions of mountain spruce and boulders for Seattle’s Freeway Park, or Hargreaves Associates’s convoluted grass- covered landforms at Crissy Field which integrate urban recreation with San Francisco’s windy Presidio. A comparable example might be Seattle’s Olympic Sculpture Park, by Charles Anderson/Weiss Manfredi.

Knowledge of native plants has not always meant fi delity to pristine ecosystems. In fact, earlier landscape architects had a history of waiving concerns about spe- cies purity. While Olmsted stipulated “American” trees of stately character for urban parks, he distinguished little between natives and adaptable exotics when it came to plant survival (Grese 1992). For all his knowl- edge of prairie habitats, Jensen paid little attention to plant succession, was known to combine ecosystems and promote non- natives to survive urban stress (Grese 1992). More recently, Michael Van Valkenburgh has admitted to compromising his short- grass prairie design for the General Mills Headquarters in Minneapolis, given stress from concrete and pollution: “We become ‘very impure’” (Griswold and Thompson 1994, 48).

Groening and Wolschke- Bulmahn’s attack on the “fascistic” exclusivity of the native plants movement (1992) gave rise to vigorous debate among landscape architects on species purity. While some defended the

Crewe 219

need to protect ecosystems from exotics (Sorvig 1994; Stein and Mox 1992), others have criticized eff orts to maintain species purity as unrealistic, futile and at times inappropriate (for example, Tradici 2005; Miller 2009).

William Byrd (1999) and Darrel Morrison (1999) trace a rejection of the horticultural arts (and native plantings) during the early 20th Century when land- scape architects pursued Beaux Arts styles and profes- sional status. The authors trace subsequent decades of sporadic interest among individual practitioners, and consider the “surge” of horticultural interest since the 1970s as being relatively novel. Examples of what they call an “explosion of plant power” to reshape cities: include Oehme van Sweden Associates’s plant massings in Washington DC (Golwitzer 1985; Sherp 1993; Brady and Delplace 2003), praire restorations in the Midwest (Brady and Delplace 2003; Martin 2009), and a range of ambitious horticultural projects throughout the US. Since the 1980s the landscape urbanism movement has featured native plantings for regenerating urban indus- trial sites, notably in the Highline in New York City, Freshkills in Staten Island, and the competition win- ning design scheme for Downsview Park in Toronto (Mostafavi and Najle 2003; Bouras 2010).

Much discussion has evolved around public mis- givings over the appearance of native plants, often considered to look weedy and unkempt. The cultural commentator Michael Pollan, for instance, complains of native plant projects that resemble vacant lots (1994); Hooper, Endter- Wada, and Johnson raise con- cerns among professionals about the capacity of native plants to serve the urban functions expected of widely used exotics (2008). This issue of public acceptance has drawn its own range of discussions over the years. Ann Whiston Spirn’s Granite Garden (1985) pioneered the idea that city infrastructures depend on both natural and engineered wildlife habitats for drainage systems and air quality (see also Hough 1995). Robert Thayer has advocated the importance of designed wilder- ness landscapes for educating the public as to “a new aesthetic of shagginess and seasonality” that accom- modates ecological diversity (1998, 121). Joan Nas- sauer has stressed the need for designers to recognize public tastes since these aff ect lifestyle choices which may determine the success of ecological projects; she recommends manicuring, or “cues of care” around wilderness plantings in suburban settings (Nassauer

1995, 167). Paul Gobster draws attention to the mul- tiple local perspectives over wilderness areas, often emanating from deep economic, personal, and political concerns (Gobster 1999; Gobster and Hull 2000).

These discources about native plants contribute to a professional body of knowledge, whether they concern practical matters of plant selection, plant adaptation and species purity, or about broader consid- erations as to their potential value and impact in cities.

SUBJUGATING THE DESERT Of all the unfamiliar environments confronting North European pioneers in the US, the Sonoran Desert must have appeared the most threatening. Historical reports from army expeditions, miners, and stray travelers since the 1840s reveal acute fear and discomfort with the desert. All felt threatened by the heat, snakes, and cactus, most found it barren and hostile. Even though lone explorers praised the scenic beauty of the rocks and mountains, as did a landscape painter traveling with the army in 1846, few wished to live there (Gold- smith 2006). Reluctant to annex the so- called Arizona Territory, the US government considered it more trouble than it was worth. In 1852 the statesman Dan- iel Webster asked Congress: “What do we want with this vast worthless area—this region of savages and wild beasts, of shifting sands and whirlwinds of dust, of cactus and prairie dogs?” (Goldsmith 2006, 53)

For the US government in the mid- 19th Century, annexation would depend on Anglo- style settlement to support schools, administration, roads, and irrigated farming. Moreover, a solid white presence would help settle Arizona’s Indian reservations such as the Salt River and Gila River Indian Communities. After the Gadsden Purchase of 1853, mining and cattle ranching fl ourished, and boomtowns followed the emerging rail- roads. The Desert Land Act of 1877 and the National Reclamation Act of 1902 helped irrigate extensive areas throughout Arizona, and after 1911 the Roosevelt Dam provided for the growth of oranges, cotton, dates, and other exotics in Phoenix’s Valley of the Sun (Bender- Lamb 1983). Phoenix rapidly matured as a commercial and administrative center, following older US city mod- els (Luckingham 1984, 1989), while competition with California encouraged oasis- style tropical resorts and hotels around Phoenix and Tucson (Goldstein 1989).

Pioneering attitudes towards the Sonoran des- ert landscape have all arguably contributed to its

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Figure 5 Outdoor Theatre by Ten Eyck Associates, Phoenix Desert Botanical Gardens, 2012

Figure 6 Sculpture, Phoenix Art Museum, 2012.

Figure 7 View of Papago Peak, Phoenix Desert Botanical Gardens, 2012.

Crewe 221

degradation. Whether settlers believed the land was barren waste to be mined, farmed, or urbanized, or whether they valued desert scenery as a tourist amenity, they showed little regard for its preservation (Goldsmith 2005; Grimm and Redman 2004). Urban settlement in Arizona has followed standard US pat- terns, often in defi ance of local water supplies and natural desert drainage patterns. Business- friendly growth policies have encouraged lifestyles familiar to the wetter parts of the US, including large residential lots, lawns, and extravagant water use (Ewan, Fish Ewan, and Burke 2004).

Like many Southwestern states, Arizona is noted for impressive wilderness protection coupled with rampant urban development. Arizona can claim its share of signifi cant national parks and national monuments, some specifi cally aimed to protect native vegetation, such as the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, Saguaro National Park, or the Chirica- hua National Monument. The state has a record of protecting disturbed desert along highways (Wright 2007), while the cities of Phoenix and Tucson are well served by adjacent preserves such as the Tres Rios Wetlands, South Mountain Park, Papago Park, and the Sonoran Preserve (Ewan, Fish Ewan, and Burke 2004; Wright 2007; Ingley 1999).

POPULARIZING A DESERT VERNACULAR Establishing a desert plant vernacular for Arizona cities has involved a number of distinct endeavors. This has meant identifying and propagating Sonoran plants that could survive in urban conditions, a mis- sion undertaken by active nurserymen and horticultur- alists from the early 1940s (Ewan and Fish Ewan 2002). Finding suitable plants often necessitated ventures into remote parts of the Sonoran Desert ecosystem, while propagation of native species could involve experimen- tal simulations of extreme desert conditions. Com- mercial trade marking brought its own woes, given the need to accommodate public tastes while protect- ing native species (Ewan and Fish Ewan 2002). Pio- neer planters were apparently motivated by the belief that native species would survive the heat better than exotics. Many were frustrated at public ignorance of the local ecosystem, and perceptions of the desert as a wasteland “where anything that replaces it is an improvement” (Griswold and Thompson 1994, 48).

Making the urban public love desert native plants has long been a major challenge. This is a common experience for landscape architects, apparently. From a Cyprus military base in 1961, the landscape archi- tect Cliff ord Tandy described the “peculiar habits” of desert vegetation in the struggle for survival:

. . . among these are the reduction of transpiration area by dropping, rolling or folding leaves, or by reducing them in size, number, or by dissection, even by the reduction of leaves to minute scales. . . . Then there is the formation of leathery or hairy surfaces and succulent thickening of leaf and stem; the loss of color and the formation of waxy layers on stems and leaves. All these tricks of course make the plants less visually attractive and less suitable for cultivated planting (1961, 32).

As if in anticipation of public tastes, Arizona’s landscape architects have highlighted these very “pecu- liarities” of desert plants in their designs. Many have found opportunity in secluded settings such as walled private gardens, hospitals, or campus nooks and walk- ways, which may alleviate the physical stress while allowing a striking visual focus on plants. Through a host of familiar garden design strategies, landscape architects such as Ten Eyck and Martino have used lighting, sun patterns, and shade to accentuate plants against walls, capture the texture of desert trees, and to display the fi ligreed desert light. Widely publicized in design magazines and journals, these memorable walled gardens have intrigued the Southwestern public, creating a popular style of sheltered arid landscape around hotels, resorts and other public places (for ex- ample Latane 2007; Sorvig 2010).

Arizona’s designed gardens typically contain a high proportion of hard surfaces such as paving, walls and sculpture (Figures 5 and 6). Not only do these provide an architectural framework for informal clusters of plants, but they also evoke images of past settlement that are forgotten in today’s Arizona cities, thereby grounding residents in the richness of their environment. Some recall native Sonoran pueblo set- tings, others Spanish adobe, yet others the modernism of Frank Lloyd Wright entrenched in Scottsdale history since the 1930s (Leccese 1996). Associations with tra- ditional desert architecture are often novel for current city dwellers more familiar with tract development.

222 Landscape Journal 32:2

Landscape architects in the Phoenix and Tucson areas have been notably concerned to connect their designs with the Sonoran Desert ecosystems. Many projects take advantage of the stunning mountain views on the city’s edge. Employing familiar strate- gies such as the Japanese shakkei or the framed views of Chinese Scholar gardens, designers have engaged borrowed views of desert hills which allow the viewer to “leap the fence” and see all of nature as a garden. Larger and more ambitious projects have again allowed for borrowed views, also including elaborately staged transitions of ecosystems or landforms. Phoe- nix’s Desert Botanical Garden is set against the Papago Buttes but large enough to contain desert wash and canyon settings (Figure 7), while the grounds of Tuc- son’s Arizona Cancer Center by Ten Eyck Associates allow for visual connections between a creek and the nearby Santa Catalina Mountains (Lenart 2009). This “grounding” has been similarly achieved through more concentrated landscape transitions in confi ned spaces such as the Healing Gardens at the Desert Samaritan Hospital in Phoenix, and the Thompson Peak Hospital, both by Ten Eyck Associates.

Over time, a range of desert landscape elements has evolved throughout Arizona cities, including famil- iar plantings of Mesquite, Palo Brea, and Palo Verde to shade parking lots and cycle paths; ubiquitous com- positions of cactus, agaves, and trees along sidewalks and traffi c islands. A signifi cant proportion of private houses feature desert xeriscapes.

While the proliferation of desert plants in Ari- zona’s cities has helped conferr a regional identity, it has also been criticized for its indiscriminate use. Fish Ewan and Ewan, for instance, deplore the proliferation of “faux desert” designs of scattered shrubs “in a sea of gravel,” which bear scant resemblance to surrounding ecosystems and few functional benefi ts. Instead they encourage further degradation. “Too often, water- conserving landscapes are visual blights that exacerbate the urban- heat island eff ect and off er no value what- soever in terms of human outdoor space” (2004, 54). More alarming perhaps, water- conserving landscapes are used to justify regional sprawl with all its attendant impacts. Quoting landscape architect Michael Dol- lin, the authors note: “We’re taking out real Sonoran Desert to build subdivisions, and then plant drought- tolerant plants along their fairways” (55).

FUNCTIONAL NATIVE LANDSCAPES In Arizona cities, demonstration or “showcase” proj- ects have commonly addressed urban functions such as water use, drainage and conservation, and water recharge. A few have looked at low- impact technology in answer to the area’s building boom, again using desert landscapes that evoke frugal lifestyles, while others look at cycle trails along wildlife corridors. Throughout Landscape Architecture magazine one fi nds examples of demonstration projects that explore alternatives to harmful urban practices. Many of these include native plants, as designers have valued a pristine setting to exemplify an ecological or regional

Figure 8 Tempe Town Lake, 2012.

Crewe 223

process. Examples have included unpaved storm water channels in San Francisco and Pasadena (Viani 2010), low impact golf courses substituting turf with natives (Enlow 2008), or low water use in California parks (Contreras 2008). More ambitious projects are fre- quently greenway systems and wildlife corridors func- tioning as public recreation, such as Knoxville’s Toby Creek or Charlotte’s Mallard and Clark’s Creek.

Not surprisingly, Arizona’s smaller and more discrete pilot projects have been less controversial than the ambitious ones. The low- water use plan for the Sonoran Landscape Laboratory at the University of Arizona in Tucson, for instance, has received much public support, with well- wishers contributing money, time, and other donations. Designed by Ten Eyck

Associates, the project demonstrates water harvesting from buildings using a three- story tank that collects water from roofs and air conditioners to irrigate new wetlands and Sonoran mesquite bosques; performance is measured through a controller linked to the univer- sity’s weather station. “Buildings,” as Christine Ten Eyck comments, “are the new aquifers” (Sorvig 2010, 26). Designers hope this relatively cheap system will be scalable to homes and businesses in the area. These hopes seem realistic since water shortages are more publicly acknowledged in Tucson than in Phoenix (Ewan, Fish Ewan, and Burke 2004).

In North Phoenix, the Arizona Falls Water Works off ers similar lessons for the public in water conserva- tion, featuring a power- generating facility amidst a

Figure 9 Desert shade trees under palms, Phoenix 2012.

224 Landscape Journal 32:2

rocky landscape of desert trees and grasses (Fish Ewan 2005, 92). Also in Phoenix, a riparian landscape around a constructed seasonal storm channel in Chaparral Park demonstrates careful conservation of water (Hill, 2009), while a rooftop garden atop the Tempe Transportation Center explores the cooling powers of arid plantings for buildings (Lenart 2009). Art projects along Phoenix’s 131- mile metropolitan canal system have aimed to edu- cate the public about its irrigation history and encour- age outdoor use (Fish Ewan 2002). All the above have drawn visitors or attracted hikers, and all have been well received in spite of a few concerns, such as the feasibility of rooftop cooling from plants needing heavy irrigation (Lenart 2009), and mixed messages from arid landscape designs set in an environment of green front lawns and golf courses (Hill 2009).

On the other hand a number of large- scale city projects advocating native plants have encountered opposition from public opinion, city jurisdictions, and economic development interests, revealing underlying misgivings about native plants. Plans for an avenue of native trees along the 134- mile Phoenix canal system (put forward by the landscape architect Steve Martino in 1998) were thwarted because of infrastructure and maintenance concerns (Fish Ewan 2002), with future canal plans showing no mention of native plants (see for example Freeman, 2003). In 2002, plans for a riparian system of native mesquites and wetlands along Tempe’s Salt River banks were overturned (Fish Ewan 2002). The more ambitious expansion of the Tempe Town Lake project has included a heavily paved riverside landscape for high volumes of pedestrians and cyclists, waterfront commercial and apartment buildings, a boat launch, and the Tempe Center for the Arts. Advocates have argued the need for paved riverside space to sup- port heavy town and student uses (Figure 8 and 9).

Tucson’s model community project of Civano has demonstrated comparable drawbacks for native landscapes, this time as a setting for housing commer- cial activity. Fourteen miles southeast of Tucson, this 2,600 home village settlement off ers energy- effi cient living in a native setting. House designs save energy through structurally insulated walls, solar technology and plumbing for grey water. The entire settlement is nested in a landscape design of native mesquites and desert shrubs to create what a resident has called “one- ness with the desert” (Buntin 2005, 1). Native trees were salvaged, water runoff reduced and harvested,

desert washes preserved, and solid waste recycled (Fish Ewan 2001b; Crewe and Forsyth 2011). As a semi- New Urbanist community led by Andres Duany, Stefanos Polyzoides, and William McDonough, the project has off ered smaller lots and narrower streets than the Arizona norm. The project has also fostered pedestrian- friendly spaces under natural shade, and included home offi ces and some commercial and indus- trial uses (Buntin 2008). Civano has been celebrated as a showcase for anti- sprawl, although this is ques- tionable since builders have invaded wilderness land (Crewe and Forsyth 2011).

While Civano’s housing has sold well, the com- mercial side of the project has not fl ourished. Within fi ve years most businesses had relocated and few home offi ces survived. Key explanations have been the naturalistic landscape which blocks street views and signage; also narrow streets which limit circulation and parking needs for commercial activity (Crewe and Forsyth 2011). Over time, Civano’s residents have come to rely on an adjacent shopping center for business connections.

For all their attempts to introduce native land- scapes as part of large- scale and multifunctional systems of water transportation, housing, and com- mercial activity, Arizona’s landscape architects have had limited public support. Key challenges have been limitations to the parking, signage, and infrastructure needs to support heavy uses. For Arizona’s landscape architects, setbacks over the Tempe canal system and riparian waterfront are seen as a serious loss of a metropolitan- wide landform which could function as vital habitat while also serving as a setting for recre- ation. More broadly, the setback has been viewed as a loss for the city’s opportunities “to understand what it means to live in one of the most beautiful deserts in the world” (Fish Ewan 2001b, 131).

COLLABORATING FOR MULTI- FUNCTIONAL LANDSCAPES In his study of American environmental planning from the City Beautiful Movement to present- day “sustainability,” Thomas Daniels identifi es fi ve stages or time periods in which designers and planners have made key decisions about the natural environment. For each period they have defi ned the most press- ing environmental problems of the day, and off ered new approaches for how to manage them (2009, 178).

Crewe 225

Daniels describes the fi fth or latest stage (in the early 21st century) as one of “planning for sustainability and the global environment,” dominated by concerns over climate change, global loss of species, ozone depletion, and population growth. Identifying a new quality of holistic thinking that demands equal concern for envi- ronmental, economic, and social sustainability, Daniels comments: “It is simply not possible to have one kind of sustainability without the others. . . .” (187).

Daniels further notes that, in the absence of fed- eral or national leadership, many US cities have taken the lead over such issues as air and water quality, walk- ability issues, multimodal transit and social inclusive- ness (quoting Alberti 2008; Newman and Jennings 2008; Register 2008 among others). As participants in this latest stage of concerns for a holistic ecological balance, landscape architects are challenged to create multifunctional landscapes in cities which can perform, even regenerate themselves, on multiple trajectories.

A number of recent ecological studies of Sonoran Desert cities provide insight for future directions for landscape architects promoting wilderness design. The Central Arizona Phoenix Long Term Ecological Research (CapLTER) Project, funded by the National Science Foundation, has examined a range of ecologi- cal impacts depending on Phoenix residents’ economic status and dwellings, their travel and work patterns, and cultural and lifestyle preferences. Impacts include contributions to heat stress, water use, pollution and waste, and their capacity to sustain wildlife. These are assessed in light of prevailing environmental threats such as urban heat conditions, habitat formation and water scarcity. Further studies have explored spe- cifi c impacts from landscape preferences (Larsen and Harlan 2006); the area’s waste and recycling practices (Martin 2006); also the needs and impacts of local plant materials (Martin 2006), and the resilience of surrounding Sonoran Desert ecosystems (Grimm and Redman, 2004).

This research into the Phoenix metropolitan area has revealed a number of serious ecological concerns in relation to the surrounding region. While key concerns relate to the shortage of water and escalating urban heat island eff ects, other fi ndings have raised new ques- tions about the role of landscape design in Arizona’s desert cities:

• Human impacts in cities. The physical condition of low income housing in the Phoenix area, coupled with an absence of vegetation, the high proportion of heat- retaining gravel surfaces, plus wide paved streets, and industrial facilities create high risk factors (Chow and Brazel 2011). Not only do low income neighborhoods suffer disproportionately from heat stress and poor air quality; they also contribute more to the city’s overall heat island effects, and host fewer wildlife species. While affluent neighborhoods irrigate lavishly on average, they produce more urban cooling and host diverse wildlife. In total, this affects the city’s energy balance and poses a challenge for landscape architects.

• Questioning peripheral locations. These latter findings on the heat impacts of large portions of the Phoenix metro area, coupled with evidence of the low resilience of damaged Sonoran Desert ecosystems relative to non- desert (Grimm and Redman 2004; Ewan, Fish Ewan, and Burke 2004; Martin 2008), and wasteful maintenance and recycling practices (Martin 2008), prompt a shift in focus among landscape architects towards under- shaded parts of the city, particularly high- use areas. However, peripheral sites have been popular among landscape architects given work site locations and opportunities for interesting and highly imageable work with desert natives. While Arizona’s landscape architects agree as to the threats to wilderness from existing development patterns, including low- density (for example, Ewan, Fish Ewan, and Burke 2004), this urgency forces rethinking about where landscape architects choose to work.

• Are natives always best? For all their benefits in desert cities, native plants may not always produce the coolest shade, although trade- offs exist given their lower water use. Heavy shade trees such as the non- native fig may better suit heavy use areas in cities, justifying their water demands (Martin 2008). Exotics for their part can also host wildlife species and contribute to urban functions such as phytoremediation, and may be preferable in appropriate places (Miller 2008). Then again, the dry gravel groundcover associated with xeriscaping may

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reduce irrigation costs, yet produces albedos rivaling concrete in extreme heat (Martin 2008; Gober et al. 2010).

• Providing recreation. The recreation needs of Arizona’s residents have to be reckoned with on a large scale. Research shows all groups, particularly families with children, call for highly useable and diverse recreation sites (Larsen and Harlan 2006; Yabiku et al. 2008). While large- scale recreation demands may distract landscape architects from their broader ecological goals, they may take on the challenge of fine- tuning public needs to reduce water consumption (for example Deutchle 2011).

Many groups have begun recommending oases of compact building and planting for Arizona cities as a way to conserve resources. Transportation planners urge high densities to reduce car travel (Cervero and Murakami 2010); New Urbanists advocate dense inner cities to concentrate services and encourage commu- nity (Talen 2009), while climatologists and ecologists urge higher densities to reduce heat islands from large paved surfaces, reduce cooling costs, and minimize waste (Gober et al. 2010).

Arizona’s landscape architects have been consis- tently involved in many urban oasis initiatives, par- ticularly downtown development projects aiming to enhance liveability through shaded sidewalks with quiet nooks. Many have oriented around public transit. The most noteworthy of these “oasis” downtowns is the Phoenix Urban Form Project, with A Dye Design as the lead landscape architects. The project draws on research of urban cooling through choice of building materials, spacing of buildings to ensure nighttime ventilation, and has created many comfortable outdoor areas. While landscape architects have established an overall network of desert trees and shrubs, their col- laborations with urban designers, developers, local his- torians and business groups have often forced them to compromise over California- style palm trees, Mediter- ranean landscapes, and lush groves of heavily watered fi cus (Meunier 2000).

A second key initiative for landscape architects has been for cooling the hottest metropolitan spaces, and for creating viable circulation throughout cities and neighborhoods. Projects have included shading for transit rail stops, college campuses, walkways,

and extensive planting of desert trees for underserved neighborhoods. Many projects are sponsored by the metro- wide Salt River Project (SRP), the Arizona Power Service (APS), and the Arbor Day Foundation. Future goals include the narrowing of wide streets; encouraging volunteer plants in neglected brownfi eld sites to help cool the city, use of grey water for street projects, and encouragement of conservative pruning of heat- stressed desert plants (Martin 2006).

CONCLUSION Were it not for the enterprise of Arizona landscape architects and practitioners since the 1970s, desert landscape design would not have commanded so strong a presence today in Sonoran Desert cities. For all the setbacks and compromises, native plants have become crucial to the identity of Arizona’s cities and play a part in all major urban initiatives. The profes- sion has guided the public’s perceptions of desert land- scapes from a scenic backdrop for Sunbelt living to an integral part of the character of streetscapes, gardens, and public spaces. They have done much homework to achieve their goals of identifying suitable plants, guiding their maintenance practices, and establishing a public knowledge base about native plants in the state. They have also worked hard in adapting wilderness to diverse urban situations. In their pursuit of native plant palettes, Arizona’s landscape architects have con- fronted some insurmountable challenges of arid city living. This will mean some reassessment about where to focus their work, and how to limit damage in some of the neediest areas. “Truly sustainable solutions are never applied in a vacuum, nor do they emerge from one” (Ross 2011, 249).

The Arizona city native plants initiative has undoubtedly been the most challenging so far in the chronicle of US landscape architecture. In their work on wilderness restoration in Chicago, Paul Gobster and Bruce Hull comment on the extensive human and fi nancial resources involved to protect an ecologically balanced environment: “It takes many people to plan, implement and maintain the desired environment . . .” (Gobster and Hull 2002, 202). The authors stress that a public awareness of ecological issues grows in stages, as groups accept innovations. “What is ecologically probable for a given place” may vary (and grow) with time (302). Preservation of desert ecosystems may depend on new zoning, urban growth boundaries, and

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stricter environmental regulations; it may also require more comprehensive political and social change. To meet these ever- expanding challenges, landscape archi- tects will need to keep reassessing their goals for ways to use native plants in desert urban landscapes. Given their record of leadership, Arizona’s landscape archi- tects will continue to do so.

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