The cactus rangers: it's SOS—save our saguaros. In booming Tucson, the Cactus Rescue Crew protects the spiky symbols of desert beauty

Sunset, Oct, 2006 by Lawrence W. Cheek

THE RESCUE OPERATION begins just after dawn as Robert Ellis, a retired National Park Service ranger, passes out bottles of correction fluid. "Be sure to mark the south side of the cactus before you dig," he reminds the 30-odd volunteers who've converged on an ominously warm July morning in the sudden boomtown of Sahuarita, 15 miles south of Tucson. "They'll sunburn just like people, but the south side is more accustomed to the direct sun. They'll have a better chance if they're replanted the same way."

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The diggers are the Tucson Cactus and Succulent Society's Cactus Rescue Crew, which gathers at one or another development site up to 30 times a year to save as many cactus as possible from the looming bulldozers.

They may be hardy icons of the desert, but cactus don't always have an easy time of it in the urbanizing Southwest. Cactus rustling may sound laughable, but it remains a persistent problem. That's understandable, perhaps, when you learn that a saguaro, Arizona's signature cactus, can fetch from $35 to $75 a foot in a legitimate nursery. Michael Reimer, the Arizona Department of Agriculture's Tucson-based investigator, says there are typically three or four prosecutions statewide every six months. "We prosecute the guys who know the law and do it anyway."

An even greater threat is suburban development, which is where the Cactus Rescue Crew comes in. These aren't saguaro-hugging protests to prick developers. The rescuers work in cooperation with the landowners and the Department of Agriculture, which strictly regulates any movement of wild cactus. And it's not entirely altruistic. The volunteers are welcome to take home some of the booty; all they have to do is pay the nominal cost ($1 to $6) of a state-issued tag for each plant.

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At the Sahuarita site, crew coordinator Joe Frannea, a retired electrical engineer, briefs the rescue crew on the day's mission. The site comprises 14 acres, and it belongs to the town of Sahuarita--incorporated just 12 years ago--which will build its municipal complex here. "There are several hundred barrels, about 50 nice cholla, and a few Mammillaria grahamii [fishhook pincushion]. The two saguaros are already tagged; the town is going to use them on-site." Finally, Frannea warns the volunteers to look over their shoulders before swinging their picks, and, as always, reminds everyone to step carefully and watch for rattlers.

Dick Wiedhopf, president of the Tucson Cactus and Succulent Society, is among the volunteers this morning, and he's also assistant dean of the University of Arizona College of Pharmacy. He adds a sobering caveat: These days, a rattlesnake bite treatment will set the victim back about $60,000.

The site harbors some spectacular jumping cholla as tall as 10 feet; they look like shade trees from the planet Spike. The plant's moniker comes from its spiky segments, which come loose when brushed against--a fact that greatly reduces demand for the species. So today the crew is going after the barrel cactus, which grow as big as offensive tackles' torsos here but are surprisingly easy to dig.

Frannea, who's enjoyed years of practice, dislodges a barrel in 90 seconds. He digs a circle about 12 inches out from the trunk of the cactus, loosens the dirt just underneath it, and with another volunteer's help, rolls it onto a canvas sling with four carrying loops stitched to it. They plop it into a wheelbarrow, then cart it to a 10-foot open-bed trailer behind Frannea's truck. The volunteers handle the cactus with leather welders' gloves, which are so thick that they barely bend. "Cheap welders' gloves," Frannea explains. "The good ones are soft calfskin, and they don't give us enough protection."

The barrel's roots are extremely shallow--only a few inches long for a 2-foot-tall, 100-pound specimen--and Frannea takes no great pains to preserve them all. Most cactus are remarkably resilient--surprising, because around Tucson you're always hearing talk of the "fragile desert." Dave Palzkill, a volunteer digger and professional horticulturist, explains that most succulents (which include the cactus family) can produce new roots from stem tissue if the plant needs them. If an uprooted prickly pear or cholla lying on its side detects moisture in the ground, it'll send out a spurt of new roots, essentially transplanting itself.

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As the morning heats up, the volunteers stumble into numerous prickly treasures. Palzkill finds a stunningly large queen of the night (Peniocereus greggii), the elusive cactus that erupts in nocturnal blooms for a few nights in May or June, then spends the rest of the year looking like a frumpy purplish stick. Its enlarged root is as thick as a cantaloupe, and Palzkill is digging deeply and carefully. "We don't find too many of these," he says.

Christian Monrad, an electrical engineer, finds a barrel cactus with a rare genetic mutation--twin furrowed crests folded over its top, like a person clasping his or her scalp with two kitchen mitts. The crew will donate this specimen to Tucson Botanical Gardens or the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. "We like to make rare specimens accessible to the public," he says.