Discovering the Beauty of Fall in the Low Desert

Fall's slower, gentle rhythms invigorate. They dictate my movements in the garden and remind me that the low desert is a haunting and beautiful place. Plants for fall color below.

Fall arrives in the low desert as a phantom. First, the howl of the few grand and extravagant autumnal displays we experience here, Chinese pistache (Pistacia chinensis) and Arizona ash (Fraxinus velutina) among them. They flush red and orange and yellow. Then, the paling and purpling of chaste tree (Vitex agnus-castus) and hardy succulents. 

In the waterways, Cottonwoods (Populus fremontii) have been touched by Midas himself, a yellow that flows like molten gold along the streams and oases near Lake Mead, where nearly-native California palms still grow. 

I saw them on the drive to Valley of Fire where we camped this weekend. Silver clouds thickened and rain fell just before darkness descended. Then the skies cleared and a full yellow moon cast our shadows on red rock and sand. 

Many plants were straw, exhausted by the summer’s unrelenting heat. But creosote (Larrea tridentata) and desert willow (Chilopsis linearis) bore silent witness to our soft and silent steps. The moon illuminated persistent piles of dry and dead evening primrose (Oenothera deltoides). Some of these looked like their common name, little birdcages sprouted from sand. Others sprawled, like ancient medusa heads half-buried and forgotten. 

But the most beautiful plant growing from soft, orange sand was Croton californicus. So unlike the dominant sage of other famous red rock destinations, like Arches National Park, California croton is fine and delicate and not at all imposing. It looks like it was airbrushed onto the landscape. At night, lit by moonlight, it is a silvery apparition. 

It wasn’t the only apparition. I found a plant that was not a plant at all, but a walking stick insect. It looked like a little twig of dried and dead creosote had blown into the pickup truck, only it started to move as I got nearer. 

Walking sticks are phasmids. The name comes from the Ancient Greek word phaínō, which means to bring to light. As a noun, phásma means apparition, or phantom, but it can also refer to a sign from heaven, an omen.

In my own garden, the pomegranates have taken on deep, red tones as deep green leaves fade. For a moment, they look like giant holly berries, an early Christmas miracle before the leaves turn yellow and russet. 

I planted three New Mexican olives (Forestiera neomexicana) in September, but the hot, angry temperatures of early fall were almost too much for them. They have limped along. I hope they will recover so that next fall soft yellow tones against bone-colored bark will hint that winter light has reached its nadir. 

South African succulents, aloe in particular, are purple and red. Cool nights and warm sun has pulled them from their summer stupor. The leaves of Texas yucca (Hesperaloe parviflora) turn a gentle maroon and purple, as do the stems on my peanut cactus (Echinopsis chamaecereus). But the spines on a potted barrel cactus (Ferrocactus gracilis) are fiery red and not gentle at all.

There are flowers, too. Cape honeysuckle has burst like gunshot into the bright, warm color of hunter’s orange.

Native desert marigold doesn’t seem to know that the solstice is a mere four weeks away—its yellow flowers have become warmer, contrasting the blue, furry basal foliage. I studied the ground around them and saw tiny desert marigold seedlings emerging, just two or three leaves each. I placed rocks near them to protect them from the dog. My garden will be a dry meadow of desert marigolds. 

The ferny, carrot-like foliage of California poppies has appeared and desert bluebells, those weedy, true-blue spring ephemeral, are everywhere.

Meanwhile, winter containers, blessed by cooler weather, have started to fill in. Morning air was perfumed by alyssum and scented stock as I wandered the courtyard, admiring and monitoring potted cacti. 

The grasses are phasma too. Alkali sacaton (Sporobulus airoides) has faded to straw. Their delicate, dancing seed heads, which persisted almost all summer, have started to fade and break from late evening winds. Red muhly (Muhlenbergia spp) grasses look like maroon feather dusters. I should have planted them closer together, because the flowers are too delicate and the effect I imagined is lost. 

But in early and late light the grasses glow. In a few years I will achieve the gauzy dreamscape I envisioned, with blue and greenish-gray Agave murpheyi growing through airy seed heads.

I will add more grasses soon.