Passage V

Drought—In My Front Yard

My house in Santa Fe, New Mexico, was shaded by an enormous blue spruce. It was a tall, elegant tree that kept the house cool in summer, if a bit chilly in winter. The tree was not native to the city; rather, it had been transplanted from the mountains east of the city.

Santa Fe is in one of the most arid regions in the United States, but last year conditions were so dry that a drought emergency was declared. We were on strict water rationing, and there was a ban on outdoor watering. (62) By spring the needles of the blue spruce started to turn brown and were dropped off. I watered it with every precious drop of water I could find. I carried dirty dishwater to the tree. I kept a plastic bucket in the shower and watered the tree in there. All my efforts failed the tree died.

The dead tree was a horrific depressing sight, it continued to shed its dry needles all over the yard. I called an arborist. In my neighborhood, you couldn't simply chop a tree down and yell “Timber!” as it fell. The tree would have to be “topped"—a delicate job. (68) The arborist came and shook his head. “I feel like an undertaker," he said. "Trees are dying all over town." Then he cut off a section at a time and dropped the pieces onto the yard, climbing the old spruce. He counted the rings and told me the tree was fifty years old. Santa Fe's last fifty years had been unusually wet; the next fifty promised not to be.

Without the tree, the front yard changed. (70) Some cacti, which I'd never given much attention to went wild, blossoming in crimson flowers. Four little piñon trees—trees more better suited to the conditions of drought—volunteered where the spruce had grown. Best of all was the effect on a dwarf peach tree that had struggled to grow. In the shade of the spruce, it had borne two or three peaches a season. Now in full sunlight, I produced forty. Each peach was succulent—a welcome harvest in a dry season.