The Living Edge

By Kristin Swoszowski-Tran, Ledoux Grange

What a regenerative farmer has learned from planting hedgerows in New Mexico

By the time I walk onto a piece of land, I am usually not looking at the plants first. I am looking at the water.

Where does it flow when the summer monsoon arrives? Where does it collect? Which areas dry first? Where does the wind hit hardest? Is there a north-facing slope, a shaded pocket, or an existing plant that could help a young tree survive?

The landscape is always telling us a story. The question is whether we are willing to listen.

That has become one of my greatest lessons as a regenerative farmer: successful landscapes aren’t created by forcing nature to follow our plans. They are created by understanding relationships—the relationship between soil, water, climate, plants, animals, and people.

This is why I think about hedgerows differently than simply planting a row of shrubs. A hedgerow is not decoration. It is living infrastructure.

A well-designed hedgerow can slow wind, protect soil, capture rainfall, filter runoff, support pollinators, shelter birds, and create habitat for beneficial insects. It can turn an otherwise fragmented landscape into a connected ecosystem.

And in New Mexico, where water is scarce, drought is increasingly familiar, and rainfall can arrive in short, intense bursts, that matters.

Start With the Landscape

One of the biggest misconceptions about regenerative agriculture is that there is a universal recipe. There isn’t. Even on my own farm, different soils require different approaches. A practice that works beautifully in one place may fail in another. So rather than asking, “Is this a good practice?” I ask:

Is this the right practice, in the right place, at the right time, for the right reason?

That question guides my approach to hedgerows. I don’t begin with a plant list. I begin by walking the property.

I look at sun, soil, water, existing vegetation, drainage, slopes, wind, and practical issues such as equipment access. I want to know where water naturally moves and where I can slow it down, spread it out, and allow it to soak into the soil.

In an arid landscape, water harvesting can be more important than irrigation. Traditional Indigenous systems such as Zuni waffle gardens remind us that people have been adapting agriculture to extreme weather for generations. Their approach—capturing and holding water where plants need it—offers an important lesson for modern landscape design.

Build the Way Nature Builds

Nature rarely grows in neat rows. Walk along a forest edge and you’ll find layers: tall trees, smaller trees, shrubs, grasses, wildflowers, and ground-level vegetation. Each layer performs a different function. I try to recreate that structure in a hedgerow.

Trees become windbreaks and long-term structure. Shrubs provide cover, berries, and flowers. Grasses stabilize soil. Wildflowers provide nectar throughout the growing season.

Resilience comes from diversity.

If one plant struggles during drought, another may thrive. If one species finishes flowering, another begins. Diversity creates redundancy—and redundancy creates resilience.

Plant What Belongs Here

In New Mexico, native plants have already solved many of the problems we’re trying to solve. They have evolved with alkaline soils, intense sun, drying winds, limited rainfall, and dramatic temperature swings. They also have relationships with native insects, birds, fungi, and wildlife that non-native plants often cannot provide.

Desert Willow is one of my favorites. Its summer flowers attract hummingbirds and bees, while its twisting form adds structure to the landscape. New Mexico Locust provides spectacular spring blooms and supports pollinators. Threeleaf Sumac offers autumn color and berries for birds. New Mexico Olive can become a hedge or small tree, providing shelter for birds and early-season nectar for bees.

These plants don’t simply tolerate New Mexico. They belong here.

The First Two Years Matter

Planting day gets a lot of attention, but the real work begins afterward. Young plants must survive heat, wind, weeds, wildlife, and transplant shock while establishing their roots. Good site preparation makes an enormous difference.

If weed pressure is high, I would rather spend time reducing the weed seed bank before planting than fight weeds for years afterward. Tarping can suppress weeds with relatively little soil disturbance.

I also don’t believe native plants automatically need lots of amendments. Soil testing can tell us when compost or biochar is appropriate, but the goal is ultimately to establish plants capable of thriving in their own environment.

Irrigation is important during establishment, but I want to reduce it over time. My personal preference is to keep drip lines above ground and cover them with mulch. I can inspect the lines, repair leaks, and adjust emitters without digging up the planting. As roots develop, watering becomes less frequent and encourages deeper rooting.

And one of the biggest mistakes I see? Overwatering. Sometimes yellow leaves aren’t telling us a plant is thirsty. They’re telling us the soil is too wet.

And…don’t forget to water in the winter! The trees need it.

Let the Landscape Be Alive

A regenerative landscape isn’t necessarily a tidy landscape.

Dead stems provide nesting habitat. Fallen leaves protect overwintering insects. Bare patches of soil provide homes for ground-nesting bees. Natural vegetation provides shelter for birds and beneficial insects.

That’s also why I strongly discourage routine pesticide use in pollinator habitat. If we’re planting a hedgerow to support beneficial insects and then applying chemicals that harm them, we’re working against the ecosystem we’re trying to build.

Instead, I prefer an Integrated Pest Management approach: observe, encourage predators, prevent outbreaks, and intervene only when necessary.

What We’re Really Planting

When I plant a hedgerow, I’m not simply planting trees and shrubs. I’m planting relationships.

A hummingbird visiting a Desert Willow. A native bee nesting in the soil. A bird finding shelter in a New Mexico Olive. Roots holding soil in place. Mulch slowing evaporation. Rain soaking into the ground instead of running away.

None of those things happens overnight. But give a hedgerow time, and something remarkable begins to happen: the landscape starts doing more of the work itself.

That is what regenerative agriculture means to me. Not a checklist. Not a universal recipe. But a way of paying attention.

Observe. Adapt. Work with the climate. Plant diversity.

And then, as much as possible, let nature do what it already knows how to do.