Twenty-eight Years Later: A Look Back at Our Adventure in Rewilding
March 11, 2026
Velvet mesquite tree with self-seeding brittlebush in foreground. (Photo by Juliet Stromberg)
“When Phoenix was laid out, there was an average of six huge mesquite trees to each city lot,” proclaimed a magazine article in 1938.1 The vegetation in places was “too thick to be conquered.” I am a riparian plant ecologist. Velvet mesquite is one of the tree species I studied during my tenure at Arizona State University. These subtropical trees are amazing in form and function. They are long-lived (400 years!) and heat-tolerant. They grow deep roots to tap groundwater, and shallow roots to find surface water. They host insects and birds in their canopies and produce large, dry pods that feed ground squirrels and coyotes. They feed us, too. “Velvet mesquite was the tree of life, the principal food to the River Pima [Akimel O’odham],” wrote ethnobotanist Wendy Hodgson.2
The vegetation of Phoenix, Arizona, ultimately was “conquered.” The mesquite woodlands are long gone. In their stead there are acres of irrigated farmland and subdivisions with sod-covered parks. Nearly 30 years ago, my spouse and I were searching for a place to live that was not too far from our university. Matt is a historian of science and a naturalist; we both love wildlands. When a neglected old house set among acres of dying citrus trees came on the market in 1998, we seized the opportunity. Our rewilding project in south Phoenix had begun.3
Developing fruit of velvet mesquite. (Photo by Juliet Stromberg)
We worked hard in those early years. We planted and seeded many desert and riparian trees, shrubs, and herbaceous plants in our rich Rillito loam soil, and we resumed irrigation with Salt River water. Trial and error is the name of the game in gardening and re-wilding, and not everyone survived. Thankfully, we had assistance in our co-created oasis. The wind blew in tansy aster, sweetbush, camphorweed, and others with plumed seeds. Northern mockingbirds fed on berries of the blue elders, white mulberries, and common lantanas who grew in the neighborhood and then perched in our trees to excrete the seeds.
There have been many surprises over the decades. We knew that nitrogen-fixing mesquite trees, with irrigation, could grow quickly in the Sonoran Desert ecoregion, but the rate of forest growth astounded us. Some of the trees are huge! Each June, when the pods are ripe, we make an early-morning circuit of 30 or so mature trees to harvest their bounty. Last year, this young forest yielded 30 pounds of flour!
Painted lady butterfly nectaring on common lantana. (Photo by Matt Chew)
We did not anticipate quite how many birds, insects, reptiles, and mammals we would encounter — the “plant it and they will come” force is strong! Our species tally on the four acres includes 162 birds, 80 butterflies and moths, 72 bees and wasps, and 76 flies. There are California kingsnakes, Couch’s spadefoot toads, Cooper’s hawks, and western screech owls. Coyotes are common visitors, as is the occasional bobcat. One of the fungi on our land — a decomposer of wood — is new to science. Sadly, though, we have witnessed the untimely deaths of many creatures — butterfly caterpillars and desert shrubs among them — owing to steadily rising temperatures in what was already a hot city. We have come to appreciate even more the role that vegetation plays in protecting us from heat.
“It’s like walking through a portal,” a young student remarked as she passed through our front gate. Matt and I have retired from our university jobs but continue in our roles as educators. We welcome school groups to learn about climate resilience, sustainable agriculture, and co-existing with wildlife in the city, and we welcome researchers who are studying urban ecology. There is play time, too. We encourage students and friends alike to set aside their hesitations and revel in sensory delight: Scramble into the limbs of a climbable tree. Feel the softness of the spider webs that line hummingbird nests. Inhale the deep satisfaction from an elephant tree’s leaves.
Author perched in a blue palo verde tree. (Photo by Matt Chew)
I wish more of us had front doors that opened into a wild woodland, messy as they may be at times. Matt and I listen for the plaintive songs of the white-crowned sparrows, which remind us that winter has arrived, and we await the excited drumming of the flickers, telling us that breeding season has begun. I wish more of us could feel deep attachment to place and revel in the connections that affirm our status as a part of an ecosystem — and have that be “enough.”
Canal paths provide some degree of connectivity between our place and the South Mountain Park and Preserve. A partially restored riverway lies to our north, which serves as a flyway. Our South Phoenix neighborhood is known historically as an agricultural area, and while subdivisions are rapidly replacing farms, the area is more “open” than some parts of the city.
I am grateful that our small forest is inspiring others to forge their own path to a more joyful, respectful, and satisfying way of living. The vegetation of Phoenix may have been “conquered,” but pockets are springing back to life.
Calliopsima bees on brittlebush. (Photo by Juliet Stromberg)
1E. Douglas, “Arizona’s First Irrigators,” Arizona Highways September 1938, pp 10, 25-27.
2Wendy C. Hodgson, Food Plants of the Sonoran Desert, 2001, University of Arizona Press, Tucson.
3Juliet C. Stromberg, Bringing Home the Wild: A Riparian Garden in a Southwest City, 2023, University of Arizona Press, Tucson.
Dr. Juliet C. Stromberg is a riparian plant ecologist and Professor Emerita at Arizona State University. Her books are available through the University of Arizona Press Juliet C. Stromberg | UAPress.