Moonscape
Photo by Mark Petrucci
When we lived in the city, we had a gardener like everyone else. Ours arrived in his beat-up Chevy and trailer on Friday mornings at 9:00 a.m. sharp. After mowing, edging, and trimming our yard, he walked down the street to his next account and so on until the yards he tended on our cul-de-sac were immaculate by noon.
We chose a tropical look for our city home. Queen’s palms circled our Mediterranean-style house, mixed with Birds of Paradise, Jasmine, and Lily of the Nile. Our grass, smooth as a putting green, had pansies in winter and marigolds in summer. Sego Palms clustered under our front window.
Our move to Cook Peak marked a big change. We traded the city for a mountain high desert environment of sagebrush, natural grasses, oak, and pine trees. The new home stood out to us as an oasis, set on a hill with a sloping fescue lawn. We noticed most of the neighbors sprayed their yards into barren moonscapes, a stark contrast to ours. They utilized drought-resistant plants interspersed with river rock and decorated with the occasional wagon wheel for a low-maintenance property. As newcomers, we couldn't imagine our life without grass and greenery. We refused to. Embracing our hubris, we purchased lawn equipment and mowed and edged our lawn on Fridays, just like Jose did, until we didn’t.
As we settled into rural life, adjusting to gardening took time. Water was expensive, and the risk of wildfire meant greenery needed to be kept to a minimum. Besides, we worried about rattlesnakes and tarantulas hiding in the thick Morning Glory that bloomed with purple flowers each spring. Out of fear, we killed the plants and told ourselves it was because of the water bill. Our front lawn needed watering three times a day, and the cost soared. The city bushes and flowers we planted didn’t last long in the hard soil. Worried about fire, we cut down the thick Junipers surrounding the house. Over time, deer nibbled at the front hedge, mistletoe took over the oaks, and beetles damaged the pines. When the drought hit in 2013, we let the lawn die, and our grassy hill turned to dust. Initially, we felt good about helping to save water and the environment, but now, our yard looked like everyone else’s—a moonscape. After the Erskine Creek Fire in 2016, we were tired of the brown and black and yearned for the green to return.
June marks our 23rd year at Cook Peak, and we’ve adapted well to the environment. We’ve planted drought-resistant species and built a privacy fence worthy of Sunset magazine. Flowers now grow in clay pots, safe from gophers, and deer avoid the hedge. We hauled river rock to cover the hill and planted rosemary. The morning glory somehow survived, but it’s now controlled to a spot, so when I look out our window, I see green. And we were right about the rattlesnakes.
Some might say the only thing missing at Cook Peak is a wagon wheel. We’ll probably get there one day.
