Polishing A Civic Jewel

With a plan and public support, Seattle's Arboretum can shine

Author, speaker Daniel J. Hinkley, who travels the world in search of distinctive plants, is a board member of the Arboretum Foundation and co-founder of Heronswood Nursery in Kingston.

IN MEDIEVAL JAPAN, the death of a shogun was an event to be commemorated in a manner no less fitting than send-offs of major-league politicians and princesses today. It was, then, at the death of Shogun Ieyasu in 1616, that this duty fell upon the minor princes of the land. One of these, too poor to commission a stone lantern as was customary, asked instead to plant a 40-mile alee of Cryptomeria japonica. This Japanese conifer, related to the redwoods of California, would provide shade to the pilgrims along the approach to the royal mountain borough of Nikko. Now, after nearly four centuries, that humble gift remains one of Japan's national treasures.

It is a feel-good ending to a story that has profound relevance to the Puget Sound region today — a region without comparison in magnificence, where green meets marine and everything is dwarfed by a ridiculously huge volcano.

Historically, emotionally and physically, trees have proven their lasting power. And the only institution in Seattle to showcase the essence of the tree has grown rather tired.

In 1936, the Washington Park Arboretum became the last executed design of numerous public projects in Seattle by the famed Olmsted Brothers. The Arboretum was meant to be the jewel in the crown of 20-odd miles of treed boulevards that the Boston-based firm had laid out in preparation for the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition of 1909. The city had purchased two large tracts of undeveloped land — ultimately Woodland Park and Washington Park. There was, then, a considerable buzz when it was decided that one, near the University of Washington, would be devoted to the appreciation and study of botany and horticulture.

As was Olmsted's approach with other arboreta, and trés chic for the time, the Arboretum was to present plant collections not only by their families but also in evolutionary order, from the most ancient to the most advanced.

In theory, it seemed edgy and brilliant. In practice, it simply did not work. Imposing taxonomic relationships on the varied geology and geography of Washington Park was akin to forcing the round peg in the blah blah. The willows needed moisture, the rock roses the sunniest situation possible.

What did work, however, were the plants. During the first five decades, the staff botanists and curators were discovering that we are blessed with a rarity of climate that allows for the cultivation of a greater range of plant species than any other region in North America. Trees, shrubs and vines were passionately acquired from sister institutions and plant collectors around the world. Titillating things. Hardy avocados from China, flame trees from Chile, hydrangeas from the Himalayas, oaks from Mexico, even Cryptomerias from Japan.

As the collections grew, so did the individual specimens. In the early 1970s, just as 250 acres began feeling not quite as spacious as it had in 1936, funding went south and the Arboretum went fallow. Though not unloved — there were some improvements — the jewel had lost its clarity.

When I moved to Seattle in the early 1980s, my first home was the endearing stone cottage that sits at the south margin of the Arboretum. Outside my back door was a whiskery collection of trees, shrubs and vines that could still, even unkempt, make other arboreta envious. It was while living there that I learned exactly how underappreciated the Arboretum was.

By contrast, another heavily Olmsted-influenced city continues to build on its horticultural heritage. Chicago recently added 70 miles of planted thoroughfares to its already heady number of parks and preserves, polishing the perception of that wind-ravaged, snow-plagued metropolis as the country's horticultural center.

This makes even more painful the general ambivalence toward our own Arboretum, which once held the promise of making Seattle the public-garden Mecca of our continent. There is no reason we still cannot be.

It is thus gratifying to see a shift of commitment to bring this institution back. After years of staff and volunteer labor, an exhilarating master plan, by the internationally respected landscape architectural firm Portico, has been adopted. The first phase of implementation is under way. World-class leadership has taken the helm, support has come from the university and the city, and a capital campaign is afoot.

Stand back, Chicago.

Not without a degree of intent, the transformation will be first noticeable to motorists on Lake Washington Boulevard, deadlocked in traffic, as intricate simulations of several geographical regions of the world take form.

Along the road itself will be a slice of Chile, with expansive plantings of the aptly named Chilean Fire Tree, alight with red flowers in late spring. Sweeps of red-fruited Pernettya, evergreen Gaultheria and Drimys will be flanked by winter-scented Azara, summer-blossoming Eucryphia and groves of the curiously beautiful monkey puzzle tree. Perhaps just the invitation needed to explore the other-worldly realm of plants hidden within.

Equally enticing displays will showcase the floras of Asia, New Zealand and Australia, as well as our own native flora through an exhibit called Cascadia. And this is simply the beginning. Over the coming decades, the master plan promises a public space that is at once exotic, entertaining and highly educational.

During a recent trip to Japan, I visited that grove of Cryptomeria. On a spring day, in the coolness of shade laid down by this ancient wood, I was again captivated by the power a tree possesses. In centuries hence, I believe the citizens of Seattle will realize the magnitude of our own gift.