Restoring Layered Landscapes: A Book Review
At the Fraser River Heritage Park in Mission, BC, you will have noticed the rectangular depressions framed with worn-down brick foundations pockmarking the stately lawn. You can step down into these geometric pits or tiptoe atop the footings. Inconspicuous plaques among the ruins identify the remains of St. Mary’s Indian Residential School, built in the year 1885. The District of Mission, who owns the park, could have easily hauled away the remaining bricks, filled in the pits, and replaced them with turf, or a playground, or an ornamental garden. But the conscious choice was made to preserve them. As noted in the District of Mission’s description of the park, “The physical remains of the residential school buildings are significant for reminding visitors of the relationship between early Christian groups and aboriginal people from their first encounters to the changing attitudes of the 1960s. The survival of the site in its entirety provides a common ground for cultural dialogue and for healing.”
The Fraser River Heritage Park is but one example of a “layered” landscape, a site with multiple histories and meanings, both natural and cultural. I learned that after reading the subject of this review, “Restoring Layered Landscapes,” a 2015 collection of essays compiled and edited by Marion Hourdequin and David G. Havlick. Hourdequin is an Associate Professor of Philosophy at Colorado College, and Havlick is an Associate Professor of Geography and Environmental Studies at the University of Colorado. The authors’ occupations reflect the contents of the book — a scientific and philosophical consideration of how these landscapes might be restored — by a multidisciplinary group of contributors including historians, sociologists, and geographers, along with restoration practitioners.
This book emphasizes that while the historicist theory of landscape restoration calls for a return to a “natural” reference point in ecological history. Together with the erasure of human evidence from the site, the futurist view posits that restoration of layered landscapes acknowledges the profound effect our species has had and continues to have on the landscape (whether perceived as positive or negative). While most (all?) landscapes globally could be considered “layered” to some degree, formerly militarized zones, retired nuclear power plants, slave plantations, and historically intensified agricultural and grazing regions are all prominent examples of layered landscapes given the obvious chiaroscuro of light (nature) and dark (human destruction) at odds in the landscape.
The question this book seeks to answer is the one of how these landscapes, with potentially clashing historical uses and meanings, should be restored. Should the shameful or “unnatural” past be covered up, celebrated, or quietly memorialized? The answer: It’s never that simple. But a return to the “natural” state while concealing other necessary layers is usually problematic as this approach tends to invalidate already marginalized groups: descendants of Black slaves in the American South; Indigenous peoples first living on the landscape globally; suburban families affected by toxic substances stemming from nuclear power generation nearby; and farmers who had their land and livelihood taken from them during the Highland Clearances in the 18th century (among many other important examples).
I recall the paper introduced at the beginning of my graduate-level restoration ecology course, “The Trouble with Wilderness: Or, Getting Back to the Wrong Nature.” In this piece, William Cronon notes the vision of the “wild” America hinges on the Eurocentric romanticization of seemingly rural landscapes that Native Americans had been living in and affecting for millennia before colonizers ever set foot on the land — and that in many cases, a “natural” reference point is nothing more than an idealization one particular individual or group. This book argues that there is no need to rigidly prescribe to the restoration of one singular worthy layer in these multilayered landscapes, but rather to address the different meanings and significance these landscapes carry while considering the context of each landscape. In this way, historical and futurist restoration theory can be integrated during landscape restoration projects by authenticating the multiple histories in the site.
I recall an exam question in my plant ecology class in the third year of my undergraduate degree. We had been working on the restoration of Logan Creek in Langley, BC, for the semester and were asked what we would do about the 100-year-old Juglans nigra (black walnut) growing on the flood plain among our replanted native berry shrubs and cedar. My response was this:
“I would remove all black walnut specimens from the site. Personally, I do not oppose exotic plant species colonization on the grounds of origin alone. However, in this case, there are several factors that led me to the decision to complete eradication. Firstly, the ecosystem restoration plan is centred around restoring Logan Creek to Indigenous integrity. Out of respect for the Kwantlen First Nation, we cannot allow an allelopathic species to remain within this site as it parallels too closely the effects of European colonization on the First Nations of BC. Additionally, if the black walnut can remain and reproduce within the ecosystem, it will continue to hinder the growth of any other native plant species used for reclamation of the site, which renders our entire restoration plan redundant. If this tree did not have these allelopathic qualities, and in turn had some pronounced and irreplaceable ecological benefit within the site, my decision may be different. Addressing the fact that this tree has iconic settler cultural values is irrelevant in this case; as in Langley (and all of North America), we have no shortage of other monuments, sites, and plantings with these values, while plantings of cultural significance to Indigenous people are becoming increasingly scarce and diminished in integrity. So, while it is always sad to cut down a tree, black walnut wood is extremely valuable and would need not be wasted. The site could then be re-established with indigenous plants of cultural significance to the Kwantlen First Nations to fill any ecological voids the black walnut may have been filling.”
However, after reading this book, I no longer have this stance. To remove the black walnut (allelopathic or not) would be to erase the history of the site to our detriment. Without physical reminders of what really happened in this space, reconciliation becomes more difficult. Maybe I felt at the time that we should remove the tree out of my white guilt. But looking back on my photos from that semester, it would be a terrible loss to remove this stately tree, which is a testament to the reality of our ugly history in our province. Whether or not the black walnut is removed, the past is not changed; but leaving the walnut ensures it can continue to be learned from. Of course, there are many more global examples of layered landscapes described in this book beyond the Indigenous-settler complex so familiar to my experience as a Canadian, which I would like to highlight in this paper.
In Chapter 10, “Slavery, Freedom, and the Cultural Landscape” by historian John Spiers recounts describes how multiple (and sometimes uncomfortable) human histories coexist with the natural environment at the Monocacy National Battlefield in Frederick County, Maryland. Although celebrated for its history as an important Civil War battlefield, there are several other lesser-mentioned layers to this site being considered for inclusion in the narrative of the landscape beyond the prominent nationalist aspect. Humans occupied the 1,674-acre site for at least 300 years (based on archaeological evidence) as a slave plantation and as agricultural land. The battlefield is situated along in the Piedmont Plateau of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It supports a variety of ecosystems: deciduous forests, grasslands, and riparian zones home to 80 bird species, amphibians, fish, and large mammals as well as 250 unique plant species. Notable plants include so-called “witness trees,” which stood during the battle that serves as both heritage and habitat. There are a few species of invasive plants present in the site, such as the allelopathic Tree of Heaven (Ailanthus altissima) and the voracious gypsy moth. In recent years, urban sprawl has threatened the natural elements of the site with air and water pollution, erosion, and flooding exacerbated by the interstate highway running through the middle of the site.
Although not yet fully integrated within the interpretive plan of the site, an archaeological discovery undertaken by the US government’s National Park Service in 2010 unearthed the most extensive slave plantation ever discovered in mid-Atlantic states, comprised of the Vincendière family’s18th century manor house L’Hermitage, a compound of cabins used to house, and a collection of whips. The Vincendière family was discovered to have had nine counts of cruelty against slaves during the time of their land ownership, all of which were dropped. In light of this discovery, it was suggested by the author that in this case, “…restoring to one particular layer is an act of violence,” referring to the simple restoration of the site into a civil war memorial or naturalized park without explicitly addressing the history of slaves on the site (which reminds me of the quote attributed to Irish politician and philosopher Edmund Burke in 1795: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing”). How could we not acknowledge that horrific human rights abuses occurred on this soil? It would be an act of war in itself to deny the long history of slavery in this region, which has had lasting and systemic effects on the Black community to this day, regardless of any other event or activity that this landscape is associated with.
Get Allison McCabe’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Suggested correctives to reconcile the multiple layers at odds on the site included the inclusion of meadows to bolster existing grassland ecosystems, enhance the interpretive plan to educate visitors on the slave history of the site (“close the gap” between archaeological discovery and subsequent interpretation of these findings) to widen the narrative to fully include each of these layers during the interpretation of the landscape via signage and tours.
Recently contaminated military sites do not seem to evoke the same nationalism in people as the Monocacy Battlefield. Described in Chapter 9: “Restoration, History, and Values at Transitioning Military Sites in the United States” by geography professor David Havlick, the Rocky Mountain Arsenal National Wildlife Refuge (NWR) in Colorado and Assabet River National Wildlife Refuge, Massachusetts are two military-to-wildlife (M2W) sites often described as “beautiful” and “peaceful” by visitors — although there are concrete bunkers and warning signs dispersed throughout both landscapes. The construction of Rocky Mountain Arsenal displaced farmers for its 1942 building, where it remained operation until 1982. There were over 400 structures in the 27 square miles of the site used to manufacture some of humankind’s most wicked inventions: sarin and VX nerve agents, white phosphorus, napalm, and commercial pesticides and herbicides. One waste basin in particular, “Basin F,” was referred to as the “Most Contaminated Square Mile on Earth” due to the particularly toxic concoction inside. After a multi-billion-dollar clean-up, restoration, and wildlife reintroduction program, the landscape is unrecognizable.
Bison and mule deer roam the grassy ranges while prairie dogs and black-footed ferrets scamper underfoot. Along with describing the site frequently as “beautiful,” visitors indicate that wildlife conservation and habitat should be the most critical priority for the site and that the military history of the site is of the least importance. In the Assabet River NWR, one creative solution for the massive concrete bunkers used to house ammunition is now employed as bat hibernacula. However, one group of local citizens in Rocky Flats have made it their mission to commemorate the military past of the site — not to celebrate, but to acknowledge the sociological hybridity of the landscape through the individual stories of farming families displaced by the site and the history of contamination on the landscape, which, although not a draw for most tourists, is nonetheless essential to the landscape’s history.
Chapter 3: “The Different Faces of History in Postindustrial Landscapes,” written by Jozef Keulartz, demonstrates a more dramatic restoration is possible, especially in the case of industrial land. Such as the case of the transformation of the Golpa-Nord lignite (brown coal) mine in Germany that closed in 1991. In 2000, to transform the unusable industrial landscape into one for recreation and leisure, the closed mine pit was flooded with a combination of groundwater and diverted flow from a nearby river. Waste heaps surrounding the lake have been planted with trees as a phytoremediation intervention, and the water is safe to swim in. The lake is also used for recreational purposes like boating and fishing. A walkway around the lake provides a cycling and walking route for visitors. Adjacent to the lake is a field housing five of some of the largest moving structures ever known to humanity — lignite excavators up to 125 metres long and 30 metres tall. Known as Ferropolis (“City of Iron”), this open-air museum is a testament to the Industrial Age (1850–1950) now used for tourism, education, and open-air concerts and festivals. Together with the pit lake Gremminer See, this rehabilitated open-cut coal mine is now a quality habitat for fish and birds as well as a famous historical sightseeing destination in Germany, an example of how both natural and cultural elements can both be prioritized within a landscape restoration context.
Although perhaps the most obvious in terms of landscape alteration, industrial and military uses are not the only drivers of profound change in the landscape. Chapter 6, “Restoring Wildness to the Scottish Highlands: A Landscape of Legacies” by then-PhD student Holly Deary recounted the fact that the Scottish Highland’s natural state was not its iconic heather moors but a wild and verdant Caledonian pine forest. Homo sapiens have occupied this region since at least 9,000 BP with a history of sheep grazing since the Neolithic era, which intensified with the Highland Clearances of the 18th century, where Highland farmers were forcibly removed from their land to make way for intensified sheep grazing, which served to denude the landscape further. The degradation of the forests in Scotland also led to the decline of several vital species such as eagles, pine martens, and apex predators such as the Highland wild cat. Without the keystone plant species and animal life present to retain the native forest ecosystem, the Highlands morphed into the “wet meadow” synonymous with Scotland today. However, given the fact that post-Glacial Scotland never existed without humans makes determining a defined restoration baseline difficult for practitioners.
The presiding school of restoration thought in Scotland is “rewilding” to its forested state before human activity that compromised it. This chapter summarized the results of interviews with 18 different landowners in the Scottish Highlands currently in the process of being rewilded. Supporting evidence for rewilding efforts include pollen analyses suggesting that from 5,000–6,500 BP that 15,000 square kilometres of Scotland was a Caledonian pine forest. Currently, there are only 180 square kilometres of pine forest remaining.
Deary posits that the idea of authenticity is a difficult one in the highlands: the landscape co-evolved with humans into a very wild-looking landscape of its own accord despite having undergone significant alteration. To someone who doesn’t know anything about Scotland’s past, the Highlands appear barren and unforgiving. It seems that by the looks alone, we can’t tell what’s wild and what’s not unless there are apparent human artifacts (such as building remnants) left as clues. One landowner with native pines growing on his property commented that although they look like remnants of the original forests of Scotland, they were planted by a landowner sometime between 1869–1877. If humans were to “rewild” Scotland, it would still be a cultural landscape, as we would have to continually intervene to return the highlands into a forested state after thousands of years as treeless moors. This alteration would add yet another cultural management layer to the landscape, making it only an illusion of wildness made possible by conscious decisions and actions carried out by humans.
One of the most interesting snippets of information mentioned in this chapter was that of the Capercaillie game bird in decline in its native Caledonian forests. The Capercaillie prefers the non-native spruce forest and is a symbol synonymous with hunting in the Highlands, and rewilding Scotland with native pines might threaten their population. In addition to having to work around the coevolution of the landscape and the animal species associated with it, there are even more complex factors at play today — the climate is changing, and plant and animal species ranges are changing drastically worldwide and that to attempt to reforest Scotland might produce unintended results. In short, the world is not what it was in 6,000 BP. It makes sense that humans might want to do right by mother nature by returning to a wild reference point. But perhaps the desire to rapidly alter a given landscape to some initial state existing only in the distant past might not be the wisest course of action, given the thousands of years of evolution required for the landscape to become what it is in the intersection of nature and culture in the Scottish Highlands.
The conclusion of Restoring Layered Landscapes noted two main points: firstly, that most (if not all) landscapes on earth are layered to some degree. A city park, a suburban lot, and a hayfield are all layered landscapes (albeit possibly not as impressive as the cases highlighted in this collection), but still worthy of deeper reflection, understanding, and appreciation. Secondly, that ecological restoration should move beyond the goal of restoring to one particular historical reference point deemed acceptable, usually due to its pure and untouched state, to account for a more comprehensive array of cultural goals within restoration to more accurately reflect the reality behind these landscapes — such as the history of slavery at Monocacy National Battlefield — while also combating environmental degradation. As the Hourdequin and Havlick note in conclusion,
“…restoration itself adds layers and meanings to landscapes. It remains our collective challenge to recognize, interpret, and embrace these layers in various forms so that we may restore without undue erasure and commemorate without abiding degradation.”
