In Tucson, Arizona, where I live, a remarkable ecological movement has been slowly and quietly building for decades now. Instead of focusing solely on restoring degraded habitat, it encourages Westerners to reimagine and reconnect with their local landscapes — beginning by accepting them on their own imperfect terms.
It was catalyzed by the 1960s environmental movement and the resulting ’70s and ’80s conservation and ecological restoration efforts. Today, however, instead of using the word “restoration” to discuss an urban stretch of a riparian corridor, we talk about “reconciliation.” “Reconciliation ecology,” a term coined in 2003, aims to increase biodiversity in human-dominated landscapes. Think of it as conservation for the Anthropocene.
Angelantonio Breault, a fourth-generation Tucsonan, grew up near the top of the region’s floodplain “thinking it was a ditch.” But when he started studying ecology and visiting the Santa Cruz River on Sundays “to look for birds and wildflowers,” he began thinking about stewardship, and how he was developing a personal connection to the river even as he learned from it. And so he created the Reconciliación en el Río Santa Cruz community initiative. It differed from past environmental campaigns in that it was concerned less with restoring the landscape than with reimagining how we humans engage with each other and the land.
Its roots go back to the 1960s, when growing awareness of air and water pollution and environmental disasters including oil spills and pesticide use inspired local environmentalists. By then, uncurbed development had led to the widespread overuse of surface water and groundwater pumping, leaving creeks and rivers dry for most of the year.
The movement encourages Westerners to reimagine and reconnect with their local landscapes — beginning by accepting them on their own imperfect terms.
While Phoenix, two hours to the north, kept expanding and building new housing developments, various local nonprofits and community groups formed coalitions to convince the city of Tucson to rein in development. Within a decade, Tucson had purchased farmlands west of city limits, retiring them to ease pressure on groundwater pumping. Small water systems were consolidated into the city-run Tucson Water, with its valley-wide structure and a unified agenda focused on stewarding water resources.
What followed was the city’s first ”Beat the Peak” campaign in 1977 to raise consciousness around water use at peak times and encourage wastewater use for landscape irrigation. In 1984, Tucson became one of the first cities in the country to recycle treated wastewater for parks and golf courses.
The activists who’d championed slower growth for years built a coalition calling for protecting habitats for 44 vulnerable, threatened and endangered species, creating bond-funded land conservation programs and a solid system to preserve open spaces, and mitigating impacts to important riparian habitats. Their efforts led to the Sonoran Desert Conservation Plan, which was finally adopted by the Pima County Board of Supervisors in October 1998. It had two major goals: protecting endangered species and imposing considerable restrictions on development. But over time, it has done even more, from environmental restoration and wildlife crossings to harvesting stormwater.
THE 200-MILE SANTA CRUZ RIVER, which passes through Tucson on its way from northern Mexico, exemplifies how Tucsonans have been at the forefront of urban conservation.
When development kicked into high gear in the early 20th century, overgrazing, excessive groundwater pumping and infrastructure building devastated the riverbed. By the 1950s, Tucson’s stretch of the Santa Cruz had completely dried up.
Decades later, local ecologists saw the need to stand up for the river and the communities that rely on it. But Breault and his cohorts saw no way to restore the trash-clogged, drought-ravaged Santa Cruz to meet the standards of scientific experts or conventional conservationists. They wanted something different — a reconciliation.
“I see the Santa Cruz as a portal,” Breault told me — a way for people to explore the authentic relationships they already have with the natural world. “We know the best way to engage people is through participatory stewardship programming. People don’t need to have their hand held.” Breault believes that what works best is for people to find their own way to connect to nature, regardless of how badly it’s been impacted, used or abused by humans in the past. Even degraded and dried-up ecosystems like the Santa Cruz can still support life and find ways to thrive.
“We know the best way to engage people is through participatory stewardship programming. People don’t need to have their hand held.”
In late 2017, for example, the endangered Gila topminnow was found downstream of the Nogales International Wastewater Treatment Plant. To help replenish the aquifer and its riparian habitat, Tucson Water started diverting up to 2.8 million gallons of treated recycled water a day into the river, at a point south of downtown. A team of scientists from the Arizona Game and Fish Department and the University of Arizona collected more than 700 Gila topminnows upriver and carefully transported them to a release point near downtown Tucson, where the once-polluted river had entirely dried up.
That was in 2020. Today, the river flows humbly for about a mile near downtown Tucson. Parts of it are ephemeral while others are perennial, so it never looks quite the same. I’ve seen water flow freely after heavy monsoon rains, but even without the monsoon, the effluent is enough to support the resurgence of wetlands and marshes. Cottonwoods, which disappeared more than six decades ago, are returning, the Gila topminnow is reproducing, and 40 other native animal and plant species have come back. And so have people, whether as part of organized trash cleanups, impromptu invasive plant purges or just simple wildlife watching.
“Get in line,” Breault told me. “Do what you do best; tell stories.” He described gatherings he’s planning along the river, ranging from storytelling workshops and art-making meetups to interpretive nature walks, as well as others he’s hearing about. “We don’t have to do everything. The river knows. We just have to be down there together.”
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This article appeared in the October 2025 print edition of the magazine with the headline “Investing habitats.”
This article first appeared on High Country News and is republished here under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
