I learned a word when I was trying to find more information about this hidden gem of wilderness, encircled all around by private property and technosocial infrastructure—like when it was established, who maintains it, etc.: the word was “ecotone.”
Ecotone refers to “a transition area between two biological communities, where two communities meet and integrate.” They’re natural formations; swamps, marshes, and other wetlands are by definition “ecotones” because they are the crossfade between dry land and bodies of water. They’re home to a mashup of species from both environments, along with those specially adapted to that particular mix.
But you might have guessed where my mind went when I learned the concept; this space is in itself a liminal condition of urban and ecological systems — a “metronatural” mélange, to use the old-school motto of the City of Seattle. And it’s as seamless as it is stark.
This nature sanctuary is wedged between an exclusive golf course and a private dock, which strikes me as the other “ecotone” in this area. Broadmoor is an 85 acre (340,000 m²) gated community built on land formerly owned by a logging company. I didn’t even know gated communities existed in this city until we moved here. But they do. And this one was especially gross.
According to UW’s database on “Segregated Seattle,” this property’s racially restrictive covenant stipulated: “No part of said property hereby conveyed shall ever be used or occupied by any Hebrew or by any person of the Ethiopian, Malay or any Asiatic Race, and the party of the second part his heirs, personal representatives or assigns, shall never place any such person in the possession or occupancy of said property or any part thereof, nor permit the said property or any part thereof, ever to be used or occupied by any such person, excepting only employees(sic) in the domestic service on the premises of persons qualified hereunder as occupants and users and residing on the premises.”
Apparently this was true for all of Puget Mill’s properties. Think about that the next time you’re in the Arboretum. That was also developed on “their” land.
I don’t know enough about architecture to have anything to say about the housing typologies I see in this neighborhood, but I really enjoy the hodgepodge of shapes, styles, and colors, each lot a picture postcard of some era or another.
The history of this place is a fascinating slice of life, marking the transition from settler-colonialism to statecraft in the very fabric of the neighborhood. The whole area used to be “owned” by one man, a Judge J. J. McGilvra, who staked his massive claim when the federal government encouraged settlers to go west with the Homesteading Acts. The guy cut a wagon road from his house here straight through to Pioneer Square, and later invested in a cable car company, essentially creating what is now Madison Street, the only straight line from shore to shore in this city.
According to one website, “Judge McGilvra retained ownership of a large tract of land north of Madison Street and divided it into individual lots as well. However, with these lots, Judge McGilvra stipulated that only cottages could be built and solely on a leasehold basis. After constructing their dwellings, owners would be required to make annual payments for the use of the lots. Despite these limitations, many chose to build cottages on the small lots, which remained in the ownership of the McGilvra Estate until the land was eventually platted as the Loch-Gilvra Addition in 1919 and made available for sale.”
Guess what else is interesting about the “Loch-Gilvra Addition.” Yup. Redlining.
According to the UW database on racial restrictive covenants, 239 properties were sold by the descendants of McGilvra that stipulated that they “shall never be occupied by a colored person.”
I think about that and other histories whenever I admire a pretty structure anywhere in this country. It’s hard not to. A house is never just a home. It’s a haunting. It’s a have and have-not.