Rabbit Relief

I’ve had a garden in most parts of the country. I’ve gardened where the setting was idyllic. I’ve also battled intense dry heat, damp heat, drought, mildew, deer, raccoon, cabbage loopers, tomato hornworms, grasshoppers, leafhoppers, clay, sand. I figured I’d gained a bit of experience over the years. My first year in Albuquerque, my garden was an unmitigated disaster. The curved-billed thrashers dug up all my new transplants and the spring winds blasted what was left. My lettuce was crisp, though more like toast than an iceberg. I didn’t get a single tomato on my six plants that year. I knew I was dealing with the culture shock I expected, but there was one thing I wasn’t prepared for: rabbits.

The voracity of the animals was shocking. First they ate the kale and swiss chard down to the ground. Then they ate the dahlias. The ornamental grasses disappeared. I learned why Eragrostis trichodes is called the “ice cream grass.” They moved on to the chocolate flower, then the desert willow was chewed off at ground level, then all the penstemon were neatly clipped off. The opuntia were down to stubs. These lasted a week, then the gravel around them was mysteriously excavated and the remaining bits chewed out. My claret cup cactus developed open semi-circular wounds overnight. Even the Yucca, sumac, salvia and Artemesia were chewed to the ground. And these are supposed to be ignored by rabbits.

I declared war. I blocked the space under the garden fence with bricks. They dug under them. I dug down and put in more bricks. They still appeared in the garden, looking at me as they devoured another plant. I put up chicken wire. They jumped over. I set traps (useless). One morning I looked out my window and saw a rabbit sitting on the top of my three-foot wall. He ignored me until I approached him, then looked at me disdainfully before hopping off.

The rabbits have won. But I haven’t given up. But neither have I listened to the old saying “If you can’t beat ‘em, join em.” I’ve learned to garden with the rabbits. From the standpoint of a landscape architect, it would seem that in designing for a location with rabbit cancer, planning for it could make or break an installation.

Rabbits will sample anything that is just planted. “Sampling” in a seedling means that plant is eaten off at the roots. In rabbit infested sites, protect newly planted plants for the first year. The exception would be large woody plants. Mostly, rabbits like juicy, tender growth. They eat to obtain water as well as nourishment. They don’t like plants with little moisture in them, nor do they like strong fragrance. Bigger plants at planting time means more tough tissue, and though the rabbits may eat the tender new growth, they generally leave the year-old growth alone. I’ve noticed that if the ornamental grasses are left with a foot of old stems in the spring, the rabbits will eat some of the new shoots that poke through, but mostly leave the rest alone. Just because a plant has spines or fuzzy leaves, doesn’t mean that a rabbit will leave it alone. In times of drought, a hungry, thirsty rabbit will eat ANYTHING. Here is a list of plants that are a bit more rabbit resistant. It’s a surprisingly long list.

In my garden, they generally don’t touch:
Agapanthus
Agastache (most – they will eat Agastache neomexicana, which recovers)
Allium
Aquilegia
Ballota
Basil
Cacti, when densely spined such as Echinocereus reichenbachii
Caryopteris
Ceanothus
Chamaebatiera
Chrysothanmus nauseosus
Cistus
Cotinus
Cotoneaster
Crinum
Dasylirion
Eriogonum
Euphorbia
Gutierrezia
Hymenocallis
Iris
Juniper
Lavandula
Liriope
Most Salvia, especially desert salvias. They will eat Salvia argentea.
Origanum
Penstemon (they eat P. grandiflora, and seedlings of species that don’t grow naturally in the area. They also sample many species even if they don’t devour them, as if they are just checking to remind themselves.)
Perilla
Perovskia
Rhus (they will nip off seedlings or small plants at ground level).
Rosmarinus
Scuttelaria
Stachys
Strawberry leaves
Trachycarpus
Veronica

They will eat, but plants recover well:
Artemesia species (Artemesia versicolor looks better after a “rabbit winter” than when left alone).
Agave (recovers with time, and rabbits get bored of it, but they will eat small plants to the ground. Agave parryi seems most resistant, Agave americana least resistant)
Berlandiera lyrata
Cercocarpus (protect seedlings)s
Ericameria (lower branches and small plants are browsed)
Fallugia paradoxa (they will eat seedlings)
Gaura lindheimeri
Heuchera
Melampodium leucanthum (protect first year, then allow to self sow in gravel mulched bed, where numbers of seedlings ensure survival)
Mirabilis (re-grows very quickly after browsing to ground)
Penstemon grandiflora (they eat flower stems), hybrid penstemon
Yucca (some plants are never allowed to grow past browsing stage, protect until large)

They will devour:
Cacti with few spines
Cotyledon orbiculata (leaves large unsightly holes in leaves, but usually survives, even if plants are always unsightly)
Crocus (may recover, but not always)
Dalea (until big enough)
Dianthus (don’t even think about it)
Eriogonum jamesii
Hesperaloe (until plants are large enough)
Most seedlings of any sort
Most succulents
Most vegetables
Opuntia (until it is big)
Ornamental grasses (they survive, but are left with irregular holes in them).
Sunflower seedlings
Yucca seedlings

My garden has recovered. Many plants have grown so that rabbit damage is barely noticeable. Now if I can only stop my neighbor from feeding them carrots every morning. The rabbits line up like a buffet line in front of his door. Then they come to my yard for dessert. But now they are finding less and less to eat.

Guilty

I am guilty. I admit to having and enjoying non-native plants in my garden. Sure, they are considered “xeric” and in fact do use little water. I’m happy with their performance with relatively little care, growing quickly and with a long season of interest. The colors work as I intended them to, bringing the colors of my interior outside. There is movement in the garden, and the wildlife is very happy (maybe too happy, considering the uncontrolled rabbit population in my neighborhood). So what’s there to be guilty of? Is there some underlying mental pathology, you ask?

Perhaps I may be overreacting. There’s nothing wrong with such stalwart performers such as Calamogrostis ‘Karl Foerster’, Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’, and Artemesia ‘Powis Castle.’ Here’s the dig: when I look out my window, I don’t see Albuquerque, I see Philadelphia. The time I feel I really see Albuquerque is when I look up and see the mountains or other parts of the garden. Why do I have all these non-native plants in my garden, when there are native plants that perform the same function, in similar or even identical colors, AND (here’s the kicker) retain the natural Albuquerque character? The effect may be slightly different, but isn’t that the point of living in Albuquerque? Why design a garden that looks like the East Coast?

Well what are my options? Plenty.
Let’s start with my favorite Calamogrostis. The plants green up early in the spring, quickly form impressive height, the plant has great movement and structure, and the color of the seedheads exactly match my interior accent color. Sporobolus is a genus that has several, if not many, options. S. wrightii has more than enough height, and the feathery seedheads which form in late summer are airy, moving with the wind as well. It has a looser structure than Karl, which is for me a bit disappointing, but that’s what makes it more Albuquerque. I’ve got to loosen up a bit. It’s late flowering means that I won’t have the 7+ months of color, but other plants can fill in during this time. S. airoides is similar, but smaller, to 2-3 feet and a more graceful stature. Festuca sp. can fill in while the Sporobolus grows. It is a cool season grass, and blooms early, providing early season tans that I want. Smaller, it can be placed in front of the taller Sporobolus. Schizachyrium scoparium (little bluestem) has the disadvantage of being a green tuft for most of the early season, putting on height only at the end. Still, the fall color can be a glowing russet with the seed heads sparkling in the sun, and the stems last all winter. Stipa neomexicana is another cool season grass, producing its silky awns early, but leaving buff colored stems atop green leaves. Although Indian Grass (Sorghastrum nutans) doesn’t bloom until fall, it has a similar upright stature and seedheads, but with native grace.

I would happily rip out any Miscanthus and replace them with other grasses. Although Miscanthus is a beautiful grass with many intriguing cultivars, and although it does not have an invasive habit in our climate, I can’t help remembering that this plant is from East Asia. It is a common wetlands plant in Japan, even covering vast stretches by itself. As such, it requires a good amount of water to look decent, especially the variegated forms, which burn every summer in Albuquerque even with moist soil. Despite its inherent beauty, there is no way you can convince me that it looks appropriate for New Mexico.

How about Sedum ‘Autumn Joy’? I don’t have nay in my garden, but every once in a while I catch myself looking at those Oehme Van Sweden gardens and wishing. Mostly I like this plant for the long lasting russet seed heads which appear in the fall after the pink flowers fade. I was never that fond of the pink. The fleshy leaves are nice, but not essential and burn without enough water. For even more attractive leaves of blue-grey and a similar plant size, look to Penstemon grandiflorus. In my garden it needs no water despite being a plains plant. The shell-like leaves stay attractive all winter and even when the large blue flowers fade. Several of the genus Eriogonum may also be better plants. Eriogonum jamesii has tufts of silvery leaves which produce umbels of white/beige flowers which fade to russet, Eriogonum umbellatum has green leaves and flower heads which start out in spring as impressive umbels of yellow. They fade to russet and hold for months. This plant has the benefit of winter leaves that range from red tinged to solid striking red. They smolder like embers all season until spring. Eriogonum corymbosum has similar size as the sedum, and similar russet seed heads. I’m trying E. ericifolia this year. It should have mounds of silvery leaves and masses of red umbels which fade to that russet color I love. Best of all, these plants tolerate much less water than the sedum, and they grow under the Albuquerque sun without burning.

Artemesia ‘Powis Castle’ is a beautiful plant. I can’t help but love its texture, color and size. It is easy to propagate from cuttings and grows quickly. The problem with it is that in the winter, the leaves collapse and the plant looks like a dead bush decorated with toilet paper. The fast growth also can mean a bunch of bare stems and more maintenance. Some other options include Artemesia filifolia, which has the same color, but in a graceful wispy plant that always appears windblown. It is taller than Powis Castle, however, growing 3-5 feet tall. The Eriogonums can also fill this niche. Mariola is a great plant with similar size and color as Powis Castle. It has the benefit of a wonderful fragrance, and small blooms in early summer. Ceratoides lanata is a plant that shouldn’t be overlooked. Although grazed by herbivores, it has silvery color, small stature, and the best winter appearance of just about any other silvery plant I know. If only I didn’t have rabbits in my neighborhood. I hear that once the plants are big enough, the rabbits leave them alone. Mine never get to that point.

So here’s the bottom line on the guilt: with a little searching, I could have had the same garden, with more Albuquerque character. As a Landscape Architect, I should keep this in mind. But, as guilt goes, it will be tough giving up my favorites for new ones.

It's All Research

It’s a funny thing that happens when people find out that I’m a student of Landscape Architecture. “Really? Why would you want to do that?” is a most common response, along with “don’t you know how to plant things?” Then comes the plant question, “My rose is dying. Why do you think it is?” (Umm…I think this is the real reason landscape architects claim plant ignorance). Next, people want to see my garden. It’s amusing to see people’s response when they finally drive the long hill to my house. People frequently have that look of “Is that all?” I have a little garden, not more than 10 feet wide in places, and 5 foot side yards.

The entire garden is over-planted with both the common and the uncommon, and divided into sections. Only natives are supposed to be allowed in the front, according to the neighborhood covenant rules. It even specifies that nothing is to be planted and what grows must be allowed to grow. Very few of my neighbors follow these rules. There is a rosebush and rosemary in the streetside strip of one yard, another has miniature roses and boxwood. Those that do attempt to follow the intention of the law frequently have non-natives such as Spartium, or Perovskia in their front yards. Some follow the letter of the law strictly, but not intentionally. These may be yards of neglect, others are those whose owners are simply not interested in what goes on outside the house. They are banks of gravel (with plastic showing through), and a spray of Roundup once or twice a year. My front yard is planted with natives and “almost natives.” After all, how do you define “native?” Is it just what grew on that piece of land upon development? What about a mile away? 10 miles? 50 miles? 100 miles? What about plants that grew there 50 years ago? 100 years ago? 1000 years ago?

The expression people generally wear on their faces when they pass through this front yard is one of confusion. They look lost. At first I made excuses, “it’s not grown-in yet,” I say, or “I can’t help it, I have 35 species in the front yard, more than 50 species in my tiny courtyard, and nearly that much in my backyard.” My interest in plants allowed me to use as an excuse, the English gardens and the glorious gardens of Lauren Springer in Colorado. These gardens have dozens of species all vying for attention, packed in elbow to elbow. There’s always another jewel to check on, even if it isn’t blooming. I think it looks great. “What’s this?” is the visitor’s most common question, pointing to an unrecognized plant. Salvia pachyphylla nudges the local Penstemon palmeri and Yucca glauca.

My courtyard was originally named “The Garden of Guilty Pleasures,” but to be truly honest with myself, it was recently renamed the “California Dreaming Garden” . In this garden, I have planted things that are not native to New Mexico, and although xeric, the garden is an homage to my California roots. If one were generous, they would call the courtyard a miniature maquis, on the edge of being a garrigue. This is where the comments change to “I know what that is,” and “I have that.” These are comments that hover somewhere between pride and disappointment. People seem proud that they have a plant that is in my garden, and perhaps they have entered a more comfortable zone than the unfamiliar front yard. The underlying subtext to this is “if I have this planted in my yard, why would I need a Landscape Architect?” The flip side is that they are disappointed that I have something in my yard as common as lavender, or rosemary. Others are disappointed that I have not celebrated native plants in this garden, and used the space for design work. I have noted from these responses, that my garden is about the plants, and although designed, the focus is not on design. “Lean palette!” I yell, slapping the table, in parody of one of my instructors.

My back yard is what I call the “Smoke and Fire” garden. Using the colors of the view of the Sandia Mountains, as well as those of the interior of the house, the result of red/grey/white/brown made me think of smoke and fire. For example, the fluffy seed heads of Apache plumes make the “smoke” and the flowers of Agastache make the “fire” which matches the colors of the Sandia Mountains as the sun sets. Here the garden is not finished, with flagstone poorly set by the landscape firm I hired. Paths are not finished. Here, the expression turns once again to confusion. “Your plants look really weird,” said one visitor who wasn’t familiar with my plant choices. “It’s all research,” I told him.

Here’s the lesson. If I am considering using my home garden as a display garden, there are certain things to keep in mind. People think that landscape architecture is only about planting schemes. When they see plants that are commonly used, they think that they can do the plants themselves (more often false than true). I will need to have the design speak loudly in order for people to see it, as well as to overcome preconceived notions about what a landscape architect does. Most of all, the groundwork will have to be finished.

Starting In the Garden

I have come to the entirely biased conclusion that a decent landscape architect must have a garden. And they must garden (verb). It’s interesting that my friends who are not landscape architects say, “of course you do,” when I say that, as if it is something so obvious that they are surprised that I bring it up at all. Those of my friends who are landscape architects also say, “of course,” but add, “but not everybody thinks so.”

My bias is this: my interest in landscape architecture began in the garden. It began as a five year-old planting onions in a bucket on the apartment balcony. It began by playing with tunnels and landform in a three by eight foot wooden trough on legs. My father had made this trough to grow vegetables and filled it with soil from my uncle’s yard. It became my play yard. I soon realized that in order to make a tunnel, I couldn’t get too close to the jade plant or I would have to cut roots. What would I do with the soil I excavated to make the tunnel? I had to balance cut and fill. Would planting on top of my excavation weaken the tunnel? What about the type of plant? What happened when it rained? Would my tunnel fill with water?

As I work in my garden now, more than 30 years later, I think about the lessons that I learn by gardening. These are things that I suspect will be important in my work as a landscape architect, although I am not certain by any means. But in being the kind of landscape architect that I want to be, I hope that these lessons will be useful. These are things that I imagine will drive a design, or that can make or break a design. I laugh at an imagined by-line: “Plants, more than just objects in the landscape.”

Here are some of the things that I thought about today while in the garden:
Rosemary grows towards walls, not away from them like most plants.
Be careful how you amend soil. Chilopsis will fail if planted in amended soil, but may grow like gangbusters if planted in soil poor in organics. The variety ‘Burgundy’ grows relatively slowly and bushy as opposed to the species, which in my garden grew 5 feet from a 2-inch stump last year.
The books might be wrong. The Veronica incana which looks so great in Lauren Springer’s book and in the High Country Gardens catalog isn’t as drought tolerant here in Albuquerque as it is made out to be. The plants were pathetic wilted dishrags today, while the spuria iris next to it was fine. There are levels of xeric and you won’t know unless you try.
Be careful about planting roses, or any plant for that matter, against a west wall. Rose blossoms may burn in the heat, which begins right at bloom time.
Rosemary ‘Arp’ which may be more cold tolerant than other forms of rosemary, grows rapidly, and will become floppy and messy if not pruned biannually (an added maintenance expense?)
Lavandula stoechas ‘Otto Quast’ is perfectly hardy in my garden, but needs a bit of water at bloom time or the flowers don’t last.
Salvia nemerosa ‘May Night’ needs more water than lavender, although both are considered “xeric.” It spreads from the roots, and if dug up, the roots that are left will sprout many plants. The flowers last a couple of weeks, and the plant won’t rebloom unless it has adequate moisture.
Are grasses cool season growers or warm? Panicum virgatum takes a large part of the summer to build up mass and visual bulk, whereas Calamogrostis x acutifolia ‘Karl Foerster’ grows rapidly in the early spring, then goes semi-dormant for the rest of the year. Evergreen grasses will keep their structure all year.
Grasses are rabbit fodder. Ever wonder why Eragrostis trichodes is called the “ice cream” grass?
Rhus glabra suckers like crazy, even the ‘lancinata’ variety.
The dramatic six foot Penstemon palmeri lives only a couple years, but reseeds well in gravel mulch. It doesn’t reseed at all in an organic mulch. Speaking of Penstemon, plants in flower are quite a different height than the rest of the year. The basal rosette of Penstemon strictus, for example is only a couple of inches high, but the flower stems reach two feet.

Are these things that need to be known in order to design? Of course not. There are many designs out there that I think work well, and are pleasing places to occupy, yet use very little, or limited plant palette. But what kind of landscape architect do I want to be? I expect that I will be an architect who uses a wide variety of plant material. In order for me to use that material effectively, I’ll need to know how that most dynamic of landscape elements performs. Can I plant something small and have it relate to the design in a few years, or does it grow so slowly that I’ll need to plant large stock? How do buildings really affect plant growth and hardiness? Will I need to irrigate a plant heavily in a southern location or should I choose something else? Can I drive a design based on the color and form of the trunks of Forestiera? Why is a plant failing (is it exposure, soil, water, cold)? How much maintenance will a design need?
To know these things I’ll need experience. I’ll need to garden.

Living Sculpture

When talking about a garden recently, my friend David commented that it needed more sculpture. To be precise, he said it needed more Sculpture. I was imagining a feature like Rodin’s Thinker, but what he meant was that it needed more living sculpture, or plants with a particularly dramatic (dare I say Architectural?) presence. Since we are both from California, we bemoaned the fact that we couldn’t plant our favorite sculptural plants here in New Mexico. It is too hot in the summer, too cold in the winter for tall palms, Phormiums, Astelia, Strelitzia, Cereus, Aloe, Dicksonia, Cordyline, Ensete, Gunnera…the list went on and on. Given that these plants cannot be grown here, what options do we have? The first is accepting that the character of the high desert is not that of subtropical areas. Here we live in an area of brushy, mounding grays and browns. Frankly, that is the character of this region and even why we love it. Why not embrace it? A second option is seeing what plants we do have, that have the sculptural character that we crave, but are more appropriate for this region.

I asked David what he meant by “Sculpture,’ and he began with the genus Agave. There is not doubt that Agave are sculptural, and although many are subtropical, there are also many that are hardy here. Agave parryi is the best known in Albuquerque, and for good reason. It is easy to grow, easy to find and plants are of good size and form. They slowly grow to form 3 foot high and wide (or more) gray-green rosettes. After a good 12-20 years, a flower stem like a mammoth asparagus stalk forms. It grows what seems two feet a day until 25 feet tall, branches and produces clumps of yellow brush-like flowers loved by both birds and bees. The plant then dies (but pups live on, so don’t dig them all out in the meantime). Now that’s fireworks.

You might think that the hardy agave are variations on a theme after seeing Agave havardiana (slightly bigger), but don’t be so quick. Agave scabra has similar leaves, and looks similar as a tiny plant, but leaves aren’t as broad and grow longer. Frequently they have a graceful curve to them that produces a plant that has the appearance of a many-petaled lily tulip. This one won’t wilt after a week. Agave lechuguilla isn’t called shin-digger for nothing. It is the right height (12 inches or so) that if you are tromping around them without protection, it’ll give you a reminder you won’t forget. The plants have few leaves that are yellow-green swords held staunchly upright. They may be dangerous to the unaware, but the staunchly upright swords in clusters are impressive. Agave parrasana is a wickedly spined (and strikingly beautiful) artichoke. In case you need further clarification, Yucca-Do Nursery has one called ‘Meat Hook.’ I started looking for a place to put one the moment I set eyes on it. For a completely different look, set your sights on Agave striata and the closely related Agave stricta. Looking like sea anemones, these are said to have “pencil-like” leaves, but I would be more likely to compare them to skewers.
Yucca can be similar to agave in form, and are in fact more woody lilies. But most Yucca don’t die after bloom (Y. whipplii does), they produce a white or nearly white flower, and many species form trunks that put that plant at tree height. There’s probably no need to introduce these, since the Soaptree Yucca (Yucca elata) is the state flower of New Mexico. The flowers are incredible towers of white flowers, but since these last only a couple of weeks, count on the sculpture of the plants instead. There’s also the huge Yucca faxoniana, which you see around UNM. A friend in Socorro has one that is at least 25 feet tall with a fifteen foot leaf-spread. Look also to Yucca rostrata, the Beaked Yucca, or yucca rigida (the Blue Yucca) for tree sized sculpture in fine leaves or steely blue. The yucca that don’t form tall trunks can be sculptural also. Consider Yucca baccata, the Banana yucca at an easy 5 foot diameter of thick green leaves and short trunks when very old. Or the relatively diminutive Yucca harrimaniae. All these yuccas are dramatic when lit at night. Don’t bother with the frequently seen Yucca recurvifolia or Yucca filamentosa if you are looking for sculpture. Although safer to be around, those soft leaves droop and flop, losing the drama.

More spiny plants for sculpture (this is the desert after all), include Opuntia. Lest you groan with boredom at the thought of common Opuntia phaeacantha, look also to Opuntia engelmanii with its dramatic foot-plus pads and four-by-five foot plants. As are many opuntia, this is very dramatic when night-lit. Remember also that common is not equivalent to bad. Take for example Cylindropuntia imbricata (Tree Cholla). What could be more sculptural? What could be more indicative of the high desert? For a different kind of spiny sculpture, ocotillo is thought of as a low desert plant, but I’ve seen many fine specimens around town. The red flowers on spindly stems are a give-away.

Just because I’ve mentioned all spiny plants so far, not all sculptural plants need to be health hazards. The bare branches of some trees with a backdrop of winter sky is as dramatic as anyone can ask for. The sparse branches of Rhus glabra come to mind, and this small tree has the added advantage of brilliant fall color, which is uncommon in the desert, and great drought tolerance. Be aware of the tendency to sucker, however, a fact that I ignored until it abruptly came to my attention.
Two trees that seem to come directly out of Tim Burton’s movies are Crataegus crus-galli and Celtis reticulata. You’d never guess how dramatic they become if all you saw was the cute young saplings in gallon cans, or the pictures in books. The mature Celtis reticulata in my neighbor’s yard has your basic “tree shape” in the summer, but come winter, the sinuous branches lined with short branchlets come to the fore. I stopped my car in the middle of the road the first time I saw it. If you get a chance, look at the Crataegus crus-galli in the Denver botanic garden. Black trunks and stems that are low branching at odd angles and long 4 inch spines (sorry, but I had to mention another “health hazard” plant) make an imposing picture. The Nightmare Before Christmas indeed.

The much-maligned juniper makes an artistic silhouette. In addition to the famous Hollywood Juniper (Juniperus chinensis ‘Torulosa’), there is exclamation point of Juniperus scopulorum ‘Skyrocket’ or my favorite kid-in-a-ghost-costume Juniperus scopulorum ‘Moonglow.”

Grasses can make for striking structure in the garden as well. Choose the 10-foot tall Erianthus ravennae for its starkly upright culms over the formless Pampas Grass (Cortaderia selloana) any day. Vertical is the rule with Panicum virgatum ‘Heavy Metal’ and Calamogrostis x acutifolia ‘Karl Foerster.’ Both form a nice contrast to the mounded forms of many native plants such as Eriogonum jamesii. Planted together, ‘Heavy Metal’ has more upright leaves than Karl, and are glaucous blue-green compared to Karl’s mid-green fountains. Karl also grows and blooms rapidly in the spring, with fluffy green-purple flowers that fade to the slim beige spikes that we know so well. Heavy Metal takes the summer to put on growth, the diaphanous red seed panicles forming in the fall. Both take a bit of water in this climate.

Other non-native plants that produce dramatic sculpture in the garden are contorted forms of plants. This could include the twisted black locust (Robinia pseudoacacia ‘Tortuosa’), Hollywood juniper (Juniprus chinensis ‘Kaizuka’) or contorted flowering quince (Chaenomeles speciosa ‘Contorta’). I’m curious to try the contorted form of bitter orange (Poncirus trifoliata ‘Flying Dragon’).
So who wants to be in California anyway? Here we have the beauty of the high desert, with its mesmerizing rhythms of rounded forms and muted color palette. But if you want something with the dramatic impact of a Rodin sculpture, you have options here. Ever see a Yucca elata look as good in California? With sculptural plants such as these, we can keep our sense of place, and we can have the sculpture too.

Autumn Color in the Desert

Autumn may just be my favorite season, if such a thing were possible. Unlike the frenetic activity of the spring, fall is a time to slow down, to take it easy. In the spring, I hardly have time to appreciate everything that is growing and changing, for I am so busy with garden chores. In the fall, when a chore is done it mostly remains that way. There is time to relax and enjoy the garden. It is a bittersweet enjoyment however, viewing the work of the growing season gone by, but also anticipating the long winter to come.

Fall color in the high desert is unlike that of the East coast. There, the background for fall color is the remaining green on the trees, the evergreens and the dark moist soil. This contrast makes the reds and yellows stand out. In the desert the background colors are frequently the browns of the grass gone dormant, the pale beige of dry sand and rock, the olive of pinon pines and mountain mahogany (whose fall seedheads catch light), or the grays of the native plants that remain leafed out until snow falls. Because of this, rich colors are made subtle. Reds can look brown and yellows can appear muddy. Dry weather doesn’t help, either, as plants need moisture to prevent premature leaf drop and to develop the fall colors. Like spring flowers, the fall leaves offer only a few weeks of intensity before dropping, like fireworks leaving a smoke trace before a long quiet night.

We know it is fall here, when the rabbitbrush (Chrysothamnus nauseosus) blooms, and earns its botanical name. The bright yellow flowers cover the grey bushes and although colorful, they are indeed overwhelmingly pungent, some liken it to cat urine, my neighbor calls it the sweaty-gym-sock plant. Scent notwithstanding, the yellow flowers form a striking contrast to the purple aster (Aster bigelovii and other species) that blooms at the same time. To my eye the mauve of the aster doesn’t quite hold up to the dark golden yellow of the rabbitbrush, unless the aster is a particularly dark version, or exists in large numbers, but it is a quintessential New Mexico scene. One of the most striking combinations I’ve seen is in my neighbor’s side yard, where the purple of the aster blooms against the fluffy white seed heads of a wild Asclepias (Asclepias macrotis).

Agastache cana’s flowers last well into the fall, and form a bright color contrast to the rabbitbrush as well. This Agastache takes very little water, but needs some moisture to bloom. Interestingly, the spikes will hold on the plant until there is moisture, then the spike erupts into color. With some fall rains or supplemental moisture, this plant glows with the Sandia color. An additional benefit is that Agastache cana has wonderfully, sweetly fragrant foliage. This scent is released with the lightest touch. To my nose, the other Agastache don’t have as sweet a fragrance, but they do offer a great variety of color and form. In a garden, Autumn sage (Salvia greggii) blooms all summer despite the name. Fall blooms can be particularly abundant. The dark red varieties forms a nice contrast to the many golden flowers of fall such as Threadleaf Groundsel (Senecio longilobus), which has silver leaves and abundant yellow daisies. Blue sage (Salvia azurea), which has been growing steadily all summer bursts into bloom in the fall with too-blue-to-be-real flowers, almost the same color as the New Mexico sky. Blooms fade in a day, but new flowers open each morning of its 3 week display. Be aware that the plant has a lanky, almost weedy form, but fantastic drought tolerance.

Lately I’ve been entranced by the autumn crocuses. Crocus speciosus produces luminous pale purple flowers that appear magically and suddenly from bare ground in early fall. Saffron Crocus blooms later with reddish purple flowers and bright orange stigmas.

The end of summer is marked by the blooming of the Bricklebush (Brickelia californica). Although the plant is rather shabby, and the flowers are nearly insignificant pale yellow brushes, once the sun sets the fragrance makes it all worthwhile. The sweetness of the blossoms at night lifts me up so that I feel like I’m walking a few feet off the ground. Some non-native shrubs for scented flowers include the Silverberry (Eleagnus pungens) with diminutive bells hidden among the leaves and unnoticed except for the lily-like fragrance. Fortunately the plant requires little water, but will grow long almost vine-like shoots. It is easily pruned but don’t make a gumdrop out of it. Osmanthus heterophyllus from southeast Asia has wonderfully fragrant flowers in late fall, just when the air develops a bite. The fragrance is worth venturing outdoors just to bury your nose in the exotic fragrance. This shrub is at its best with moist soil but can get by on less.
Maple is famous for its fall leaves and a native dry-land version of the sugar maple is the bigtooth maple (Acer grandidentatum). This maple has the expected colors of orange, red and yellow, in a small tree. With watering it will grow taller, but not likely to be as large as the East coast varieties. Box Elder (Acer negundo) is a native maple, that can develop a substantial trunk and size, but only plant it if you can tolerate its messy ways and the multitudes of box elder bugs that it may attract.

Sumacs are famous for their blazing fall color (even though not all do). The most popular are the three-leaf sumac (Rhus trilobata), staghorn sumac (Rhus typhina) and smooth sumac (Rhus glabra). R. typhina and R. glabra have some of the most brilliantly colored leaves of native plants. The large feathers turn brilliant orange red and last a good amount of time. The cultivar R. glabra ‘lacinata’ has serrated edges to the compound leaves. The effect is quite lacy despite leaves which grow to a foot or more in length. Be aware, however, of these sumac’s tendency to sucker. These suckers can pop up yards way, and digging them is a sure way to provoke the plant to produce more. Choose three-leaf sumac in the fall to be more certain of its ability to produce colorful fall leaves, but even so, color quality may vary slightly from year to year. It is generally more compact than the smooth sumac or staghorn sumac, but Agua Fria nursery has one in its driveway that is at least ten feet tall. Place three-leaf sumac where the sunlight shines through the leaves for best effect, as the color seems to be intrinsic to the leaf rather than on its surface. With southern sunlight the view from the south may be a dull purplish-red, but the view from the north will be glowing red. The Chinese Pistache has a deservedly growing popularity. A small tree, with a rounded form, the fall color can be blazing red. Plants seem to be either a red-purple variety or a yellow-orange variety so choose in the fall if you have a preference.

Other leaves include the grasses, my favorite of which is little bluestem (Andropogon scoparius). Although there are several cultivars, my favorite is the wild version, which has stiffly upright stems, red to russet fall color and seeds that catch the low fall light and sparkle like fairy magic. Plant a bunch and pick your favorite colors. You can also purchase a strain called ‘Blaze’ but I’ve found wild type plants with even brighter colors. There are other grasses which catch the eye in the fall. There is Silver Beardgrass (Andropogon saccharoides) with tufts of seed heads and Indian Rice grass with clouds of seeds that can almost look like a cloud of gnats. A high plains native, Big Bluestem (Andropogon gerardii) earns its name “turkeyfoot” in autumn with three-pronged seedheads and rusty red-orange fall color. I’ve been impressed with Deergrass (Muhlenbergia rigens) which forms an attractive fountain of foliage and produces a multitude of wands in late summer and fall, which catch light when backlit. Muhlenberia capillaries ‘Regal Mist’ is becoming quite common for its impressive cloud of autumn pink. This Texas native is not quite so attractive when out of bloom, with rather scraggly foliage.

Speaking of seedheads, an incredible autumn vision is the Mountain Mahogany (Cercocarpus brevifolius is our local species). In the fall, the plumes on the seeds extend to a few inches, like a feather in a cap. In the light of a rising or setting sun, they sparkle like dewdrops covering the sculptural shrubs. C. montanus is similar and more readily available, but deciduous instead of evergreen. C. ledifolius (Curl-leaf Mountain Mahogany) is evergreen, more dense, and tends to have a more upright structure.

Fall in Albuquerque may just be the best season. Not only are the temperatures moderate and enjoyable, but we have autumn experiences that are uniquely New Mexico. Not only are there the reds and yellows of leaves, but the yellow and purple native flowers, floral scents and sparkling seeds. Time for a cup of hot chocolate with cinnamon, and put off winter for one more day.