Arroyos across Santa Fe, mistaken for natural arteries, signal a land transformed for the worse; ancient techniques could be the way out BY WILLIAM MELHADO w i l l i a m @ s f r e p o r t e r. c o m
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JUNE 30-JULY 6, 2021
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SFREPORTER.COM
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n the shallow gully of the Arroyo de los Chamisos, late afternoon light illuminates the sandy soil and rocks lining the basin. The ditches’ short walls hide traces of other humans. The wind carries bird songs instead of revving car engines. In this private canyon, nature controls what’s so close to the world of paved roads and roofed structures. Willows grow unmanicured, grasses poke from between the rocks, and leafy branches stretch over the wandering channel. Another lone walker with a dog bouncing from one bush to the next passes with a silent nod. Ahead, a coyote stares over its shoulder before trotting up the berm, out of the wash. The weight of warm, dry air shunts any scent of water that’s supposed to flow through after storms. Places for recreating, socializing and inhabiting, the arroyos of Santa Fe fill a different niche for everyone: sites for early-evening walks, spots for sharing a joint, camps for the unhoused. The presence of arroyos in the city is largely welcomed and unquestioned by their users. Scientists see something else. “Arroyos are really scars—the remnants of poor landscape management,” Morika Hensley says of the channels that stripe the city. The expansion of the arroyo system emerged as a consequence, she explains, of livestock’s arrival via the railroad and, later, the paving of the land to make way for cars. Hensley grew up in Santa Fe with a fondness for these natural corridors. Arroyos, just outside many of our doors, provided an accessible place for her to walk in nature and experience the beauty of the Southwest in her backyard. Now, as the director of planning, education and restoration at the Santa Fe Watershed Association, Hensley recognizes arroyos as symptoms of the human forces that altered the landscape. When these channels swell with water, the land they cut through loses moisture and the vital element rushes out of the city. It’s known as desertification, and it threatens to dry an already arid landscape, pushing out native plant species and depriving Santa Fe of a valuable resource: water. Given the violent monsoons in this region, marked by short, heavy downpours, Santa Fe built stormwater systems generations ago that exploit arroyos to ship water out. With the incredible efficiency of these drainages, many longterm planners see water flowing down arroyos as an unacceptable resource loss. Advocates of more sustainable water management argue that obstacles in the city’s procurement process—favoring “hard-engineering” designs—have exacerbated the drying and, in turn, transformed Santa Fe from the prairie grassland it once was and still ought to be. As the pressure of water scarcity mounts in the Southwest and renewed calls for conservation vie for attention, an incremental shift is occurring in the city. Officials seek to balance concerns over protecting property with fears and consequences of further desertifying the surrounding landscape. A return to ancient ways of thinking about water and recent changes to the city’s stormwater management are poised to help the community brace against the dangers of coming wa-
