In a quiet corner of Sun Valley, Idaho, Charles Conn has been watching his garden grow—slowly, deliberately, and in sync with nature. Unlike many who rush to the nearest garden center for a cartload of instant color, Conn chose to wait. Over the past four years, he's witnessed columbine seedlings self-sow, and a family of foxes make a home in his rock wall. His patience is as deep-rooted as his love for the land.
Originally a West Coast entrepreneur, Conn’s move to Idaho shifted something in him. “You can’t live here without loving nature,” he often says. Now a senior adviser for conservation programs at the Gordon and Betty Moore Foundation, Conn wanted his home to reflect the same environmental values he champions professionally.
He partnered with Native Landscapes, a Hailey-based design firm known for its unique blend of ecology and aesthetics—what founder Kelley Weston calls “designed natural landscapes.” The idea sounds paradoxical, but the results are stunning: gardens that are regionally appropriate, sustainable, and quietly beautiful. As landscape architect Karen Sherrerd puts it, “You can have a great-looking yard that needs less water and care. It works—even in town, even on a small lot.”
This approach stands in stark contrast to the “turf-and-tree” ideal long dominant in Sun Valley. As water prices rise and irrigation limits tighten, lush lawns and ornamental trees are becoming costly and unsustainable. “The golf-course aesthetic,” Conn calls it, is falling out of favor.
Weston’s first rule of garden design is simple: “Start with a landscape that doesn’t need much water.” Conn’s two-acre property now includes drought-tolerant plants, efficient irrigation, subtle landform channels to direct water, and even an underground soil moisture monitoring system. In the backyard, a Zen garden offers a minimalist, water-wise meditation on what it means to be in harmony with the environment.
But water conservation is just the beginning. Native Landscapes approaches sustainability holistically—using only local materials, avoiding fertilizers and herbicides, preserving existing trees, and creating wildlife habitat. Everything in Conn’s garden came from within 100 miles: basalt pavers, mulch made from community green waste, and native plants grown from seed. Even after years of disruptive landscaping from previous owners, the team protected cottonwoods and aspens that now anchor the space. From the house, Conn often spots birds, moose, deer—even the occasional bear. “They nibble a bit,” he shrugs, “but most of the plants need pruning anyway.”
Each part of the property—nicknamed “the Hideaway”—reflects a native ecosystem: an aspen understory with groundcovers and shrubs, a conifer forest, a riparian corridor, and a sagebrush steppe. It’s a living mosaic of the surrounding region, stitched together with care and ecological intelligence.
The most surprising transformation came from what could have been a liability: a 15-foot-high U-shaped berm left behind by earlier landscaping. Meant to screen neighbors, it was a visual and design obstacle. But Weston and Sherrerd saw an opportunity. They reshaped it into a series of micro-ecosystems—talus slopes, rock outcroppings, shady nooks—mirroring the topography of the surrounding hills. What once stuck out now blends seamlessly.
Plant selection was equally meticulous. Everything was grown from seed or custom nursery plugs, adapted to the region’s elevation, moisture, and light. Weston’s team has federal permits to collect native seeds from the wild, and Weston himself hand-sowed several of the site’s 15 sage species. “Anytime we strayed from Kelley’s core plan, it backfired,” Conn says. “The stuff that works is what actually belongs here.”
One of the most impressive efforts involved creating an aspen grove for a picnic area. Instead of planting at random, the team studied a wild aspen community—measuring spacing, sizes, and canopy shape. They recreated this “aspen matrix” down to the detail, and the result looked fully established from day one.
There’s just one thing Weston and Sherrerd ask of clients: patience. “Give us three to five years,” says Sherrerd, “and you’ll have a complete native garden.” It's not instant gratification. But that’s the point. Starting with healthy soil and letting the landscape evolve slowly is not only more sustainable, but also more rewarding in the long run.
They see each garden not as an isolated aesthetic space, but as part of a regional ecological puzzle. “That’s why people come here in the first place,” says Sherrerd. “It’s about connection to place.”
This philosophy isn’t limited to rural retreats. In Seattle, retired teacher Margaret Andrews used to have a classic garden filled with hybrid roses and tulips—beautiful, but high-maintenance. After a visit to the local native plant conservancy, she began replacing her beds with sword ferns, redtwig dogwoods, and Pacific bleeding hearts. Now, hummingbirds nest in her viburnum, and rabbits dart between the grasses. “It’s the first time I feel like my yard is part of something bigger,” she says.
Ultimately, as Weston and his team believe, beauty doesn’t have to shout. It just needs to belong. And belonging takes time. But when you let nature take the lead, what grows back is more than just a garden—it’s a home for everything that calls the land home.