A garden at the edge of everything – how Alan Calpe and Christopher Crawford grew a Catskills mountainside sanctuary where wilderness and cultivation happily coexist

Garden Diaries is our new series where we share inspiring stories of designing and cultivating a stunning garden space. We explore how creatives, designers and tastemakers have grown a deeply personal space, inviting creativity, learning and happiness in their gardens, and how they live in these spaces.

When creatives Alan Calpe and Christopher Crawford first drove three hours north of New York City to view a cedar-shake bungalow in the Catskills, they weren’t gardeners. Originally from Florida, they had each spent two decades in New York working in visual arts, fashion and education. Their lives were full but confined: a small apartment, long hours and no outdoor space. 'We weren’t even window-box gardeners,' says Christopher. 'We came to gardening with absolutely no knowledge.'

What they found in Windham was four acres of woodland: a ski-town mountainside dense with ash trees, heavy clay soil and a rushing creek that split the property in two. There was a small guesthouse, a modest main house and a view across the slopes. 'It felt lucky,' says Alan. 'A chance to reconnect with nature, to slow down and to create something of our own.' And so, in 2016, they took on the challenge, with no plan beyond a desire to make something grow, and plenty of scope for garden ideas.

The reality, though, was more daunting. Soon after moving in, they cleared diseased ash trees to open up the view, only to be left with what Alan calls 'a martian landscape' – bare clay and tree stumps. A vast void. Exciting and ripe with possibility, yes, but overwhelming too. It was here, then, at the edge of the forest – at the edge of everything – that their journey into gardening, and into listening to the land, began. In the years that followed, this love of nature would evolve into Gardenheir, their garden-inspired brand, rooted in the same mix of creativity, humility and wild beauty as the mountainside they now call home.

Beginnings in the Catskills – A move out of the city

When Christopher and I first left the city to look at a cedar-shake bungalow in the Catskills, we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. We had each spent two decades in New York – me in the visual arts and arts education, Christopher in fashion – and our lives were full, but confined. We had no urban garden, no balcony, not even a window box. We came to this with absolutely no knowledge, only curiosity.

The house was modest, perched in Windham in US hardiness zone 5, a ski town set high in the mountains. What drew us was the land, though. The four acres of woodland, a rushing creek that cut between the small guest house and the main bungalow, and a view that opened up, where the mountains in the distance turn hazy in a deep, burnished blue. The landscape was just so vast, so enveloping. We were awestruck, I think.

That first winter, it was so cold and bleak. We knew we had to clear a patch of earth, and there were so many diseased ash trees that had to be felled. All of this was such a big job, and at times felt bigger than we intended.

Christopher and I describe that swamp-like scene that followed as a Martian landscape. Bare, brown clay, sad tree stumps and silence. It was intimidating. It felt very empty all of a sudden.

We had no plan, no expertise and yet a stubborn determination that we would try. That was 2016. Looking back, it was the beginning of a big change for us, and the start of our brand, Gardenheir. This journey – this process – has shaped us so much.

Eventually, when the clearance was complete and that mountain view opened up, we knew we’d made the right call. As warmer days came, it felt like a gift – stark, beautiful and humbling. Full of possibility.

It all started with the pond – The heart of the garden

It really all began with the garden pond. When we cleared the ash trees, we were left with a barren swath of land that felt impossible to fill. We grew up in Florida, always close to water, and the property already had a rushing creek. Both Christopher and I felt it seemed natural to anchor the space with a pond.

At first, it was a disaster – a vast, empty clay hole. We imagined all of our new neighbours driving by, wondering what these city people had done. For a while, it felt like we’d built a skate park, not a garden.

But then the water began to settle. The springs filled it naturally, without liners, and slowly life crept in. We planted waterlilies and other marginals, like water irises and arrowheads, and soon frogs and insects arrived.

Birds tend to gather at the pond's edges. We also swim there in summer. What started as a design intervention to balance the mountain view became something much larger – an entire ecosystem. The beating heart of our garden.

Introducing water changed everything. Around the pond, things slowly began to take shape. We began to plant beds and carve paths. At its softer edges, natives wandered in, while the plants we brought in spilled outward.

I think the dialogue between cultivated and wild is best illustrated here, at this part of the garden, and it is this push and pull that continues to shape our garden today.

Listening to the land – Responding to our surroundings

Like many beginner gardeners, our first instinct was to plant the romantic garden that we had imagined for so long. Of course, we turned to the usual suspects: roses, lavender and tulips, and a whole host of charming cottage garden plants. The land, however, had other ideas.

Most of those plants did not fare well. Despite our best efforts, many struggled or died, unable to cope with the heavy clay soil, or, if the soil didn't prove too difficult for them, most were devoured by deer.

We don't have fences here, so the deer remain our constant collaborators and our greatest thieves. They eat what they want, even the water lilies in our pond this summer. At first, it was maddening. But over time, we learned to accept it.

Christopher and I like to say whoever gets to the lettuce first, gets it. That became our philosophy: share the space, adjust, and plant what will endure. Of course, sometimes it is infuriating, but it is a good lesson to learn. Nature will always win.

While we wanted to persevere with roses and tulips, at some point, we just realised it wasn’t human error or something we were doing wrong. We had to listen to the land to gauge what we should and could grow. This is the biggest lesson, really. It is more about what will survive here, in our garden at the edge.

What thrived surprised us. Daffodils, for example, love it here. Though I had never loved them before, they became a mainstay. Now, both Christopher and I have fallen for their scent and the way they light up the early season when the landscape is still bare.

In recent years, we have grown Narcissus 'Thalia' and Narcissus poeticus, both of which have white flowers and, we think, are some of the best varieties of Narcissus bulbs. And, most importantly, the deer leave them well alone.

Native plants also have a big part in our garden. Asters and goldenrods, Joe Pye weeds and bee balms, all weaving their way along the garden's edges. It softens the border between the wild and the cultivated. Ironweeds, too, which produce royal purple flower spikes throughout the season.

Walking to the garden – Journeying through the land

One of the things I love most is the journey to the garden itself. The garden isn't on our doorstep – you have to venture there, all in the view of the misty Catskills mountains. It is both humbling and freeing to find yourself in a landscape so vast.

From the house, we cross a small bridge over a natural creek. The planting is free and loose here, allowing space for shrubs and trees to breathe and grow.

Beyond, the paths shift with the seasons. Christopher and I mow new routes each year through the meadow, changing how we engage with the grounds and how the space unfolds.

Because of this, we notice different things, seeing how new wildflowers volunteer themselves among the grass. Or perhaps catch a tree or shrub from a different angle, noticing something unseen before.

Our way of working feels less like imposing a design and more like responding to what’s already there, noticing which plants want to take hold, and giving them room to thrive. Of course, there’s still some intention there, and quite a diversity of plantings we've introduced, but we prefer a light touch.

That instinct to edit rather than impose may stem from our backgrounds in the creative arts. And, the more time we spend outside, the more I think how similar the act of gardening is to the processes we both valued as artists.

Both Christopher and I enjoy the produce of all this, the flowers, fruits and vegetables in summer. But I think we have both come to understand that we really love the process, the labor involved, the trials and endeavors that go into creating something. The garden does provide all of those things. It is nourishing for both of us.

What has emerged is a garden that feels like a collaboration between us and the land itself. A living composition, I think. Forever unfinished, forever changing, but all the richer for it.

I often think back to the advice we heard from an older gardener when we were starting on this journey: plant trees early, don’t wait. We regret not doing that sooner.

The birches, serviceberries and smoke bushes we have added are still young, but they will grow old with us. Watching them root here in the Catskills, thriving despite this challenging soil and climate, has taught us patience. To value the slower things, and to simply appreciate our time here.

You can follow Gardenheir via Instagram.

For more inspiration, you can read another of our Garden Diaries, this time with Pom Shillingford, who created an English Cottage Garden in rural Connecticut.

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