In Tucson, Arizona, a profound ecological shift has been quietly unfolding for decades, moving beyond traditional habitat restoration to embrace a philosophy of reimagining and reconnecting with local landscapes, accepting them with all their imperfections. This innovative approach, termed "reconciliation ecology," emerged from the environmental consciousness sparked in the 1960s and the subsequent conservation and restoration efforts of the 1970s and 1980s. Instead of solely focusing on returning degraded areas to a pristine state, the movement advocates for increasing biodiversity within human-dominated environments, offering a forward-thinking model for conservation in the Anthropocene.

Angelantonio Breault, a lifelong Tucson resident, grew up near the upper reaches of the region’s floodplain, initially perceiving it as little more than a ditch. However, his studies in ecology and his Sunday visits to the Santa Cruz River, where he sought out birds and wildflowers, fostered a deep sense of stewardship and a personal connection to the waterway. This evolving understanding led him to establish the Reconciliación en el Río Santa Cruz community initiative, which diverged from earlier environmental campaigns by prioritizing a reimagining of human engagement with both each other and the land over the strict goal of landscape restoration.

The movement’s roots can be traced back to the 1960s, a period marked by growing public concern over air and water pollution, as well as environmental disasters like oil spills and the widespread use of pesticides. During this era, unchecked development had led to the severe depletion of surface and groundwater resources, leaving creeks and rivers dry for extended periods each year. While cities like Phoenix, located a few hours to the north, continued their rapid expansion and new housing development, Tucson witnessed the formation of coalitions among local nonprofits and community groups advocating for controlled growth. Within a decade, Tucson took the significant step of purchasing farmlands west of the city limits, retiring them to alleviate the strain on groundwater resources. Smaller water systems were consolidated under the city’s purview, creating Tucson Water, a unified entity with a valley-wide operational structure and a clear agenda focused on the responsible stewardship of water resources.

This proactive approach was further solidified by the city’s "Beat the Peak" campaign, launched in 1977, which aimed to raise public awareness about water consumption during peak usage times and promote the use of reclaimed wastewater for landscape irrigation. By 1984, Tucson had become a pioneer among American cities in recycling treated wastewater for use in parks and golf courses, demonstrating a commitment to innovative water management. The activists who had long championed slower growth successfully built a broad coalition that advocated for habitat protection for 44 vulnerable, threatened, and endangered species. Their efforts also paved the way for bond-funded land conservation programs, the establishment of a robust system for preserving open spaces, and crucial measures to mitigate the impact of development on vital riparian habitats. These collective actions culminated in the Sonoran Desert Conservation Plan, officially adopted by the Pima County Board of Supervisors in October 1998, which set forth two primary objectives: the protection of endangered species and the implementation of substantial restrictions on development. Over time, the plan’s influence has expanded, encompassing environmental restoration, the creation of wildlife crossings, and effective stormwater harvesting strategies.

The 200-mile Santa Cruz River, which meanders through Tucson on its journey from northern Mexico, serves as a compelling illustration of Tucsonans’ leadership in urban conservation. As development surged in the early 20th century, the riverbed suffered extensive damage due to overgrazing, excessive groundwater extraction, and the construction of infrastructure. By the 1950s, the section of the Santa Cruz River passing through Tucson had completely dried up.

Years later, local ecologists recognized the urgent need to advocate for the river and the communities that depended on it. However, Breault and his contemporaries found it impossible to envision restoring the trash-laden, drought-ravaged Santa Cruz to the idealized standards of scientific experts or conventional conservationists. They sought a different paradigm – one of reconciliation. "I see the Santa Cruz as a portal," Breault explained, "a way for people to explore the authentic relationships they already have with the natural world." He emphasized that the most effective strategy for engaging people lies in "participatory stewardship programming," asserting that individuals do not require constant guidance. Breault firmly believes that people find the most meaningful connections to nature when they are empowered to discover them independently, irrespective of how the environment has been historically impacted, utilized, or abused by human activity. Even ecosystems as degraded and desiccated as the Santa Cruz can, he argues, still sustain life and find pathways to thrive.

In late 2017, a significant ecological event occurred downstream of the Nogales International Wastewater Treatment Plant when the endangered Gila topminnow was rediscovered. To aid in replenishing the aquifer and its associated riparian habitat, Tucson Water began diverting up to 2.8 million gallons of treated recycled water daily into the river, south of downtown. A collaborative team of scientists from the Arizona Game and Fish Department and the University of Arizona undertook the delicate task of collecting over 700 Gila topminnows from upstream and carefully transporting them to a designated release site near downtown Tucson, where the river had previously experienced complete desiccation due to pollution.

This initiative, undertaken in 2020, has led to the river now flowing modestly for approximately one mile near downtown Tucson. While some sections remain ephemeral, others are perennial, resulting in a dynamic and ever-changing aquatic landscape. The author has witnessed the river’s free flow following intense monsoon rains, but even in the absence of monsoons, the sustained flow of treated effluent has been sufficient to foster the resurgence of wetlands and marshes. Cottonwood trees, which had vanished more than six decades ago, are now returning, the Gila topminnow is successfully reproducing, and an impressive 40 other native plant and animal species have reappeared. Critically, people have also returned to the river, engaging in organized trash cleanups, impromptu invasive plant removals, and simple wildlife observation.

Breault encourages community involvement, stating, "Get in line. Do what you do best; tell stories." He envisions a series of gatherings along the river, including storytelling workshops, art-making meetups, and interpretive nature walks, noting that he is also aware of similar events being organized by others. "We don’t have to do everything," he added. "The river knows. We just have to be down there together." This sentiment encapsulates the core of reconciliation ecology: fostering a sense of shared presence and co-existence with the natural world, embracing its resilience and encouraging human participation in its ongoing recovery and adaptation. The approach championed in Tucson offers a powerful model for urban areas worldwide grappling with environmental degradation and the urgent need to foster a more harmonious relationship between human development and ecological vitality. It underscores the idea that even in highly modified landscapes, opportunities exist to cultivate biodiversity and nurture a deeper connection between people and the natural world.