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I had big plans for the short vacation between summer and fall semesters this year: kayaking in Moab, camping in the Uintas, biking to my heart's content. But, alas, my fleeting window of summertime freedom was even more so than usual.
A broken ankle two days into it changed the itinerary from surfing a wave on the Colorado and lacing up the hiking boots to surfing my couch with a fancy new walker boot.
Yet something unexpected came out of this couch-bound holiday. I had the opportunity to observe the subtle goings-on of the neighborhood around me. Joggers, bikers, walkers, dog-walkers -- all seem to operate like clockwork around here, each one acting out a unique daily ritual. Some zip by in deep concentration; others inspect trees and yards closely; some mark trees and yards with expressions of utter self-satisfaction; all participate in the hitherto unnoticed ceremonies that make a neighborhood a neighborhood.
Yet in spite of these pleasantries, another, less-agreeable fixture of the neighborhood caught my attention: No matter what time of day, whether far off in the distance or across the street, the sounds of lawn mowers buzzing and Weed Whackers wheezing fill the air, constantly. This new awareness caused me to wonder how much my neighbors really use their non-native, water-intensive lawns to necessitate such demanding maintenance.
What my ensuing investigation revealed is that the only individuals coming into physical
I can think of a number of better uses for my money than a monthly water bill and weekly payments to the lawn-mowing crew, or for you do-it-yourselfers, the price of tools and fuel to perform the task.
And these are just the short-term monetary costs of maintaining a plant that did not exist in the Salt Lake Valley when Brigham Young first laid eyes upon it. A grave longer-term consequence, when taking into account that there are now well over 1 million residents in Salt Lake County, is that we are squandering the most precious and limited resource of any desert: water.
The Utah Division of Water Resources estimates that Utahns consume nearly half of the entire municipal water supply nurturing lawns that only want to wither and die in our hot and dry desert climate.
Second only to Nevada in terms of least annual precipitation in the United States, Utah receives a minuscule 13 inches. That means the rest of our water is coming from winter snowpack, which we all know can fluctuate wildly from year to year; remember the six-year drought from 1998-2004? In response, Gov. Mike Leavitt was forced to form the Governor's Water Conservation Team, from which came the jingle that will stick in Utah residents' minds forever: "Slow the Flow: Save H2O."
So why not make this temporary water conservation campaign a permanent fixture in the daily rituals of neighborhoods all over Utah by targeting one of the biggest wastes of water.
How? Xeriscape. In other words, introduce drought-tolerant native plants that thrive in our desert climate and require little, if any, upkeep. You not only get to design a unique new yard, but cut monthly water bills and weekly lawn maintenance charges out of the budget, save precious water for times when it may not be in plentiful supply and curtail noise and air pollution.
You might even be able to find a plant that repels the neighborhood pooch.
Casey Coombs is a graduate student at the University of Utah studying international affairs and global enterprise.
