By Lilly Hancock
I mostly run in a city now. Two blocks north of my house sits Berkeley Lake (or more accurately, a man-made pond). If I run the lake counter-clockwise, I get an amazing view of Longs Peak and the surrounding Rocky Mountains. Along the edge of the pond there are cattails that turn golden in the evening light. Red-winged black birds stir in unison and cottonwoods rustle with the westerly winds. It sounds somewhat idyllic for a city, but the truth is, the part of the lake with those great mountain views is also a mere 25 feet from Interstate 70, separated from bumper-to-bumper traffic by a chain-link fence. Running the lake provides a glimpse beyond the neighborhood and the feeling of levity that comes along with open, natural space, but also reminds me of the compromise I’ve accepted to live in a city: nature, or at least how I have typically conceived of it, is hard to come by.
What I’ve come to accept living and working in the Denver metropolitan area is how much these semi-wild spaces matter, not only to us humans, but to the surrounding ecosystems. Whether recognized or not, there is an innate part of us that needs to connect to nature and plants that proliferate on their own; wild spaces calm us and allow us to touch something beyond ourselves. And what we see as nature doesn’t end in the impermeable hardscapes of suburban sprawl and skyscrapers, these landscapes can be wildlife corridors and host their own naturalized and thriving ecosystems, whether planned or not.
Much of my life, regardless of intention, has been defined by my relationship with the natural world. As a child, this relationship was generally forced. It wasn’t uncommon for my parents to drag me up into the mountains – my Dad’s mission to share with us “the meaning of sublime” or so he called it. As I grew older, and moved past my party dress and shiny shoe obstinate phase, I began to explore nature on my own terms. This exploration began mostly through recreation but then shifted to something more serious as both a student and scientist.
Lilly as a graduate student in Australia
As a graduate student, I spent much of my time exploring the deserts of Australia; landscapes so remote and pristine that you could hear nothing – true silence. In the mornings, right before sunrise, I would typically run along the edge of desert roads, often wondering how many people had touched the scorched earth beneath my feet. Although the real academic focus of these trips was to collect plants and accompanying data, I believe I found myself there because of an innate curiosity to touch nature; to be alone and connected to the wildness of it all; to see and work with nature in an untouched state.
The thing is, across even the most remote, pristine landscapes there are traces of humanity, and the outback of Australia is of no exception. Although human presence is sparse, people have been walking, cultivating, and hunting these lands for the last 60,000 years and implementing a fire regime that has very much shaped the flora and fauna of present day. But even beyond the obvious footprints of humans, are those that we don’t typically acknowledge or see: our imprint on the climate and the atmosphere, which is very much a part of the living system.
Although I deeply believe in the preservation of natural, pristine landscapes, we also have to start thinking more openly about what “wild” or “native” or even “nature” means. We are living in an era of climate change, population growth, and urban expansion. Biomes are shifting, plants that once lived in one place can no longer tolerate the conditions, and invasive species are often more ubiquitous than native ones. We - humans - have altered the world fundamentally and we need preserve and cultivate the wildness that that is.
Lilly sampling paint colors to make a warm and inviting space during the build out of Larimer Uprooted
In an urban landscape, the preservation of wildness means to foster the random and often chaotic proliferation of plants and animals: thistle flowering next to chain-link fences and succulent weeds poking through sidewalk cracks. These seemingly weedy spaces showcase the perseverance and adaptability of nature and they are in themselves often thriving ecosystems. We also need to cultivate nature and wildness in our cities. Our city parks and sidewalk planters should host native and naturalized plant species, thereby providing ecosystem services such as habitat, water infiltration, and shade. Urban spaces should be living spaces, wild and reflective of the natural world.
A view of the mountains from Larimer Uprooted
Guests learning about the native species planted at Larimer Uprooted
It is in this vision of preservation, cultivation, and education that we designed Larimer Uprooted, a 4,000 square foot rooftop farm that sits atop a parking garage in Lower Downtown Denver (LoDo). As a farm, the space hosts 3,000 square feet of soil-based fruit and vegetable production. The remaining 1,000 square feet host a mix of native and naturalized perennials reflective of the surrounding flora. These plants not only provide habitat for a mix of bees, wasps, and beetles, but they connect urban-dwellers to the foothills and prairies that lie just beyond the city limits.
Rooftops are underutilized spaces for both food production and plant cultivation in our cities, in part because they present unknown growing challenges, but also because we hardly think of them as spaces at all. With this in mind, we created Larimer Uprooted as a platform to learn how best to repurpose a rooftop into a working farm and public space. In this vision of experimentation and exploration, we monitor microclimate variation, track water usage, test soil recipes, experiment with plant species, host events and engage in public outreach, all so that we can share the lessons we've learned.
2019 Larimer Uprooted Farm Manager Mike Spade releasing ladybugs to help with pest management
Larimer Uprooted is part of a larger initiative called the Larimer Square Green Project, which aims to reimagine and transform our urban green-scape in LoDo. Another example of this effort is through our redesign of the Bull and the Bear Courtyard on Larimer Square. Up until this summer, the space was filled with heavy concrete planters, and most notably, an absence of abundant plant life in the large, built-in garden beds. Like most city planters and raised beds, these gardens were planted four times a year with a mix of annuals, mostly pansies and begonias. Although these flowers are beautiful, such a planting plan is not sustainable. The amount of energy, labor, cost, and eventual waste (all those plants get dug-up and thrown away prior to the end of their lifecycle) does not add to the preservation and cultivation of plants and living ecosystems in our cities and it is wasteful.
The Bull and the Bear Courtyard, an urban oasis on Larimer Street in LoDo
With this in mind, we transformed the space into a warm, naturalized, and educational space, one that is planted with a diverse mix of shade-loving native and non-native grasses, herbs, flowers, and shrubs. These plants will not always be green and in flower but they will return year after year, thereby reducing our inputs and further connecting our inner city to the natural landscapes of Colorado.
Guests gathering in the courtyard to hear Alice Waters speak at Slow Food Nations 2019
It has been well documented that people care more about protecting plants, animals, and natural resources if they get to experience natural landscapes on a regular basis. I believe that if even just a few people feel a sense of connection, or even just a temporary reduction in stress, while they visit the wild, urban landscapes we’re creating— that is a win for us, and the planet.
This is part one in the three part series about finding wild spaces in urban environments.