Since PUKUBOOK is a media outlet all about succulents—plants that are, in a way, direct blessings of nature—we naturally care deeply not only about succulent plants, but also about the "natural environment" they come from. We try to be mindful of and participate in "environmental conservation" whenever possible. Today, I'm going to introduce a book that really updates our understanding of environmental activism… or rather, this is just my study memo.
To sum up this book in one sentence, its message is: "Environmental conservation work tends to hold up 'untouched nature' as its highest goal, but that kind of 'untouched' nature doesn’t really exist—nor is it always inherently good. Let’s take a step back and reconsider." It’s easy to fall into the mindset of "nature is wonderful," "invasive species are bad," or "all endangered species must be saved"—not that there’s anything wrong with these by themselves, but taken to extremes, they can cause real issues. On the flip side, even invasive species have their merits, so maybe we should use them, too.
Rather than simply aiming to restore everything to some "pristine wilderness," the author suggests we take environments we've shunned as "artificial"—like perfectly engineered riverbanks, city parks, forests with nonnative species, or gardens with a mix of wild and domestic plants—and blend them all together rambunctiously. The idea is to have us deliberately plan, manage, and actively create natural environments, much like gardening, which is the spirit behind the book’s title: 'Rambunctious Garden.'
To me, the most striking thing in this book was the assertion that truly "untouched nature" simply doesn’t exist.
The author traces the history of the Białowieża Forest, famous as "Europe’s last primeval forest." The forest formed 10,000–12,000 years ago, and its present plant community was established about 2,000 years ago. Around that same period, the first man-made structures were built there. Archaeological evidence shows Iron Age and Slavic settlements, as well as large-scale hunting events for military training in the 14th century. When Poland and later Russia ruled the area, resource extraction and predator control affected the balance—wolves and bears were exterminated, resulting in an overabundance of deer that changed the vegetation. During World War I, logging for resources led to the local extinction of bison (who were later reintroduced from zoos in 1929). It’s just one example among many.
And it’s not unique—over 10,000 years, humans have expanded everywhere. It’s well known that the spread of humans and their quest for resources (or threat elimination) resulted in the mass extinction of large mammals like mammoths, mastodons, and saber-tooth cats. In fact, a detailed survey of Earth reveals that 75% of ice-free land has "experienced modification due to human habitation or land use," and even in the 22% of land with "no obvious sign of human use," we can’t be certain humans haven’t had any indirect effect. Also, with recent global warming and climate change, no land escapes human impact anymore.
Given all this, it only makes sense to ask: What do we actually mean by "restoring nature to its original state"? What is "the original state" supposed to be, anyway?
# To bring this back to Japan: Japan’s forests, especially those visible to us, are almost all "artificial forests." In fact, there truly is no "wilderness in its natural state" left in Japan. The term "satoyama" refers to forests and hills that have always been shaped and cultivated by people living in close relationship with their environment—these landscapes are inherently artificial.
Another memorable topic is that not all invasive species are "bad"—in fact, the author provocatively suggests we might even benefit from actively introducing new species. Not in the old sense (like bringing in animals as food, crops, or pest control), but in a more ecosystem-focused way.
For example, there’s a real debate in America about introducing elephants to fill the ecological niche left by extinct mammoths, or donkeys in place of wild horses, or even African cheetahs to substitute for those that went extinct in North America (the so-called Pleistocene rewilding plan). The question is: If similar kinds of animals once lived there, might the ecosystem return to some previous balance? While the idea sounds outrageous at first glance, it's been met with a fair share of criticism—and yet, on closer look, it may not be so far-fetched. In Japan, for instance, the extinction of the Japanese wolf has led to an overpopulation of deer, creating huge problems; there’s even debate about introducing gray wolves from China back into Japan, with a 2019 poll showing 41% support for the idea.
This kind of thinking totally upends the stereotypical goals broadcast by TV and the media—"beautiful nature," "protect the environment," and so on. Honestly, I like stories that challenge the standard narrative.
If conventional wisdom no longer applies, what *should* we actually do if we want to protect the environment? This book lists various guidelines (and their challenges)—here’s a summary.
All living things possess intrinsic value. Even if it comes at a cost to ourselves, we should prioritize the survival of other plants and animals, and the preservation of their habitats. To do that, we’d need to slow our consumption and limit population to reduce Earth’s burden. But defining where that "value" lies—and how to judge it—is hard. If you consider the rights of local soil, water, plants, and animals, those rights often conflict; and humans aren’t necessarily accustomed to thinking about the worth of non-living things like soil or water.
The campaign to save whales, tigers, pandas, polar bears, and other large (keystone) animals is widespread and easy for the public to rally behind. Their numbers are decreasing, so there’s nothing wrong with efforts to save them, right? But in South Africa’s Addo Elephant Park, the rising number of elephants has devastated the land, making it barren and wiping out plants—literally destroying the succulents we love. Moreover, calls for protection often come from government authorities or even foreign NGOs, who may not understand the suffering of locals whose fields or homes get trampled. South Africa banned elephant culling in 1994, but resumed the practice in 2008.
This approach says we should try to prevent the extinction of all species, not just the large ones. "Even flies or newts deserve protection, every bit as much as jaguars." Fair enough. The clearest issue here is that there are simply too many species to protect them all—budget constraints and trade-offs are unavoidable. If our only goal is to prevent extinction, we might end up "protecting" species solely in zoos or breeding tanks. But if the wild population dies out, what happens to those protected individuals?
If the previous "extinction prevention" approach focuses only on species close to dying out, this one examines *all* life forms, aiming for balanced diversity overall, not just survival of specific species or avoidance of population booms. In fact, if overall balance improves, it might be okay if some species disappear. Yet, there are few practical conservation examples based on this approach; those that exist usually target "genetically unique" or locally evolved species (so-called EDGE species). Alternatively, this philosophy could lead to freezing DNA samples in storage banks as a form of “conservation.”
Saving species in tanks or freezing their genes might not appeal because it breaks up the true value of ecosystems: the interconnectedness of living things. Thus, some conservationists emphasize protecting "ecosystem-level" biodiversity as a whole. This is a popular keyword among ecologists and environmentalists. However, defining and measuring "biodiversity" is really tough. Keystone species have outsized effects, but should we ignore "redundant" species that don’t seem to make a difference? Ecosystems often adapt if one part falters; in fact, we probably still don’t grasp the whole picture—what about tiny parasites or microbes, many of which live in our own bodies yet are rarely considered in these debates? If biodiversity preservation becomes too broad a goal, it can become unwieldy. Still, the author rates this concept as "the closest to reality."
This philosophy frames conservation in practical, people-friendly terms: let’s maintain nature *because* it’s directly useful—think disaster prevention, sustainable sources of water, food, and materials for our 7 billion (and counting) population. Global organizations like the UN, World Bank, NGOs, and universities all coordinate to tackle these huge, urgent problems. On the other hand, if we focus only on productivity, we end up concreting over rivers and coasts, planting wheat everywhere, and erasing “biodiversity.” This viewpoint rates species or ecosystems on their "productivity," but living things themselves have no built-in purpose—an important criticism to remember.
We enjoy scenery, the scents and sounds of nature, the feeling of pine needles underfoot, learning about birds and trees, and the peace and refreshment that come from contact with something vast. This value system centers on the emotional and cultural feelings nature inspires. "It’s ultimately a matter of faith," and biodiversity forms the basis for culture. Destroying nature can mean destroying cultures or belief systems. Yet the landscapes we find "moving" are often not 100% wild. (The volume of flow at Niagara Falls is literally controlled with the flip of a switch for hydropower, and huge flocks of cranes in Nebraska appeared only after people rebuilt the rivers.) So, how should we value such places? The author calls this *precisely* a success story for Rambunctious Gardening: people should acknowledge and appreciate the value of such "gardened" landscapes.
Tangential but recurring thought: how did the boundary between forest and plain actually look in Japan back in the Jomon period, before there were basically any people around? It wouldn’t have been like in comics or anime, with random trees popping up by the roadside, or like the commonly-seen satoyama views where you can slip from a rice field into a woods. In true wilderness, there’s no real distinction between "mountain" and "plain"—forests should blanket both, with no clear edge. It’s only because people later cleared the "plain" areas that the flat grasslands came to exist.
I really wish I could see that "original" landscape—even though I'm sure it no longer remains anywhere in Japan (or even the world; there are no flat plains untouched by humans now). It’s precisely *because* it doesn’t exist that I want to see it. That view is truly a vision—almost an illusion. Unless I get my hands on an actual time machine and go visit the Jomon period or earlier, I guess I'll never know. So, if anyone asks me that classic question, "If you had a time machine, what would you want to see?" my answer is, "I’d like to see the original landscape of the Japanese plains before the Jomon era." (Of course, preferably after I’ve used it to nab next month’s winning lottery numbers!)
These kinds of tricky topics always seem to be among my least-read columns (haha), with site hits crawling along the floor, and it does get me wondering, "Is there any point in writing this?" But it’s fine, even if no one reads it. I write these for myself, after all. Hopefully, if I keep at it, eventually more people will find this kind of content worthwhile—so I’ll keep writing columns that matter.
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