Posts by Katherine Montgomery

Photos: Katherine Montgomery

Witnessing the enormous wildfires scarring large stretches of California a few months ago, followed by the subsequent mudslides, it’s been difficult to see past the very real threat of nature. Lively green hillsides became charred and empty, and rain has made them destructive. I’ve struggled with mounting questions related to what these threats mean for life in California moving forward.

It’s well documented chaparral plant species have evolved with wildfires, sometimes requiring the burn to regenerate. The California Chaparral Institute has championed this unique ecosystem. Their articles have helped me better understand the chaparral; I now bristle when our native habitat is referred to as ‘overgrowth’ or ‘fuel’. However, the increased frequency and scale of recent fires – caused by humans – exceed what chaparral has evolved to withstand. The California Invasive Plant Council has also researched the correlation between wildfires and invasive species. Can these ecosystems adapt at a reasonable pace, or will they need to be managed?

Birds act as indicators of a landscape’s health. After the Thomas Fire, birders congregated for their annual Christmas Bird Count where they found a surprising amount of avian diversity, if not quantity, had returned to the depleted but regenerating landscape. For immediate survival birds are able to fly away from a fire. These observations left me wondering how much resiliency can be designed, and at what point do humans just need to get out of the way?

Since September, I’ve returned to hike through La Tuna Canyon. Along the canyon’s trails I’ve seen life begin to spring back from under the surface, giving me reason to reflect on survival and grit. Plants shielding themselves from death, their cells evolving to survive extreme heat, or seeds requiring fire to propagate – it’s reassuring to see nature’s resilience in person and consider how to best to mimic it.

I’ve found myself returning to the pages of John McPhee’s The Control of Nature again. I’m digging further into how others process the cycle of destruction and regeneration. Articles by experts – naturalists, engineers, birders, landscape architects, etc. – vacillate between managing the wildness and keeping a safe distance from it. As wildfires become more extreme and frequent, and as the boundaries between nature and city blur, how can we as designers protect habitat for both wildlife and humans?

As 2017 year comes to a close, the AHBE LAB contributors are taking time to look back at our year’s worth of posts. We are each identifying the most memorable post and sharing what we found interesting, informative, and inspiring. Enjoy the flashback, and let us know which post you thought was most memorable.

A thriving system is worth a thousand renderings.

When I read Jenni Zell’s post, Fulfilling the Promise of Our Pictures, I took her questions posed to the profession as a whole, personally. What can I do early in my career to better include scientific processes in the stories of beautiful spaces? I pursued this career for its combination of science and art, and I’m eager for that hands-on, in the field, scientific method. How can we integrate it into our practice? It’s an exciting and daunting challenge, and so much more complicated than a Pinterest-famous rendering can tackle.

Over the past year, my first in the profession, I have observed that landscape architecture is a true juggling act that requires a continual coordination of complex systems to create beautifully functional landscapes. Jenni’s thoughtful post hit upon key points to consider moving forward, igniting a multitude of questions that stuck with me. I am looking forward to continuing the discussion with my colleagues.

The original post here: Fulfilling the Promise of Our Pictures

Photos by Katherine Montgomery

A few weeks ago, I pulled off the 210 freeway onto La Tuna Canyon Road to take in the devastation of the recent fire that engulfed and scorched more than 7,000 acres. Having been extinguished only a couple weeks before, the land was still raw with soot and ash. I parked at a trailhead, ignored the “Closed” signs, and wandered into an otherworldly canyon landscape.

When fires strike California it can feel apocalyptic. The contaminated sky changes to an eerie orange glow along the mountains. I could see the La Tuna Canyon Fire from my front porch for the first few nights, looming like Mordor in the distance. I woke up several times to check on it in the night, thinking about the fatigued firefighters, and the tragic loss of ecosystem. I tried to reason through my emotional response, telling myself that every region has its natural disasters, rationalizing wildfires as part of California’s natural systems. But is that still true?

The ground was black, except in areas where ash had swirled and gathered at the base of the canyon, mimicking snow. There were still oaks standing, with burnt brown leaves, and sycamores with white trunks and charred limbs. With the brush burned away, litter, old bottles, and pull-tab beer cans were exposed on the ground. The landscape was eerily silent except for the occasional scrub jay, and the twinkling of pebbles tumbling down the barren hillsides. How and when does life return to this landscape?

Understanding the natural history of wildfires in comparison to modern day occurrences, there arises a concern that the increased frequency is preventing native ecosystems from rebounding, inviting invasive plants to take over. I am curious to know more about how the land regenerates: which plants sprout first, which trees can survive being charred, and when do the critters return? La Tuna Canyon last burned in 1955. Will it be another 60 years until the tree canopy is as dense as it was a few months ago before the fire?

I hope to return to this site and repeatedly photograph it to document the changes. Also, the Theodore Payne Foundation is hosting a series of talks geared towards landscapes after the fire. I am especially interested in hearing insights from the perspective of the California Chaparral Institute, to better understand how we as stewards of the land can support the natural ecosystems that make California so beautiful.

Summer has come to an end here in Los Angeles. Despite the unabated high temperatures, the days are becoming shorter. Gardeners are already planning the transition from the growing cycle of warm weather into the cooler autumn months in preparation to plant next year’s bounty. Vacation season has come to a close too, with students returning to school. In recognition of this seasonal transition, we’ll be focusing on a Back-to-School theme for September, specifically one from the perspective of the landscape architecture education and profession. We hope you’ll learn something from their lessons.

Photos: Katherine Montgomery

I returned to school as an adult while working full-time. I attended classes in the evenings and weekends, all with the purpose of earning a degree in landscape architecture. The program required a large amount of self-guided learning, and outside of class, I sought knowledge within the quiet aisles of bookstores.

More than any class or studio I took during school, books provided a multi-faceted depth to my understanding of the landscape. From field guides to novels, I’ve accumulated a library that now I can repeatedly dip into for inspiration and perspective. My own understanding of landscapes comes from logical, scientific, artistic, and emotional descriptions. I’ve divided some of my favorite books into these categories to share and recommend.

At the heart of my list is a very dog-eared copy of Last Child in the Woods by Richard Louv. This book resonated, evoking memories of my childhood love of nature. It was Louv’s words that inspired me to consider landscape architecture as a career. I’ve included this title in my stack of non-fiction “Landscape Analysis” books, which includes essays on natural systems and historic context. Each of these books touches upon a different angle of the human impact on landscapes. Another favorite, Trees in my Forest by Berndt Heinrich, describes the interconnectedness of trees with a scientific, yet personal perspective. John McPhee’s The Control of Nature thoroughly investigates a handful of landscapes, looking closely at how humans have attempted to impact them. Even more so, Emma Marris’s Rambunctious Garden proposes that nature has become just another human system. While I don’t necessarily agree with the outlook and opinions of these authors, they spark critical thoughts about how to interact with and design in our modern world.

In a similar category are the urban design books like Site Planning, Pattern Language, and Design with Nature – mainstays of landscape architecture school. I’ve kept these three books to refer to again and again when considering the built environment.

Taking a step back from analysis, my next stack is a series of field guides and indexes of birds, plants, wildlife, and how those systems function. I find comfort within the objective facts of science: a scrub jay is a scrub jay. I find studying bird guides and plant identification books extremely calming, but also helpful in navigating and integrating design with the natural world.

The final grouping of books in my library is based on subjective experiences of landscape. While a scrub jay is a scrub jay, everyone’s experience of its squawk is different. The novels, memoirs, essays, and poetry shown above all describe the human experience of a physical place. Willa Cather’s rugged Nebraska and Alice Munro’s descriptions of rural Canada help me understand the physical experience of place that influences the characters’ lives. Literary narratives can translate these visceral qualities in ways that blueprints cannot.

The ponds are uprisings from the water table, shallow and shape shifting as sand from the dunes blows into them, creating mass here, causing the water to spread in a generally southeast direction, away from the prevailing winter winds which day after day bite and rasp and shovel up the great weight of the sand. – Mary Oliver, Upstream

The most striking landscape narratives come from a combination of meditating on personal experience and an objective understanding of natural systems. There are so many varied perspectives to absorb and grasp, I love having them all mingling on my bedside table and bookshelves. I can only hope these books continue to guide my understanding of the world and design process.

Toyon photo by Katherine Montgomery

I find it comforting to meditate upon the subtle evidence of life buzzing all around us: the mundane movements of ants, the funny chattering of birds, and the slow growth of plants. Even in the urban setting of Los Angeles, wildlife finds a way to nestle into the smallest cracks. Lately during the morning, I’ve observed a mating pair of red-whiskered bulbuls grooming one another while perched on the electric line outside my kitchen window. An introduced species brought from Southeast Asia as pets, the bulbul was once prized for its beautiful song.

In the evenings, I notice my Epiphyllum has grown new buds that will bloom while I sleep. The iridescent green Japanese beetles have arrived, and the pomegranate tree has large, unripe fruit growing already. Recognizing these signals of life has given me a deeper understanding of the layered ecosystem of Los Angeles.

Cercis photo by Katherine Montgomery

One detail of the landscape that always catches my eye is the perfectly notched leaves left by leaf cutter bees. Often mistaken for caterpillar bites, these notches look more like deliberately decorative edging, as if a hole-puncher was taken to the leaf. The bees cut these semi-circles from leaves with their mouths, adding the plant matter into their nests to protect their eggs. Numerous leaf cutter bees are native to North America, and they rarely sting.

Bee hotel photo by Linda Daley

A solitary species, they can sometimes be found nesting near one another in existing tree cavities. Gathering pollen on their bellies instead of their legs, leaf cutter bees are an efficient and important pollinator that should be encouraged in any open space. One way to invite them into your garden is to build a bee hotel (or mixed-use development) by stacking hollow bamboo or drilling holes in wood. They are difficult to spot in action, but you can keep an eye out for the evidence of their delicate handiwork on nearby greenery.