Nadina Galle, Ph.D., is an ecological engineer and National Geographic Explorer whose work inhabits the rich borderlands between modern technology and deep nature. We live in a world replete with enormous challenges, and one of the biggest might be the increasing societal disconnection with nature and natural systems amidst a booming technological era focused, at least allegedly, on connections and networks. Dr. Galle has just published a fascinating book, The Nature of Our Cities, which explores important questions that could not be more relevant today: how do we ride the line between a technologically mediated dystopian future and a Luddite-esque rejection of the same? Surely there must be some sort of middle path? The book explores the edges of technological innovation that are supporting the re-integration of nature and cities in ways that may not have otherwise been possible. The journey that Dr. Galle is able to take a reader on is one that points towards a type of modern urban allyship with the natural world. 

About the Author: Dr. Nadina Galle is a Dutch-Canadian ecological engineer, technologist, podcast host, and keynote speaker, best known for popularizing the “Internet of Nature.” Her contributions have been featured in documentaries by BBC Earth and in print publications such as National Geographic, Newsweek, and ELLE. The recipient of academic and entrepreneurial awards, including a Fulbright scholarship for a fellowship at MIT’s Senseable City Lab, Dr. Galle was honored as one of Forbes’ 30 under 30. Recently, she was named a National Geographic Explorer. Dr. Galle divides her time between Amsterdam and Toronto.

As the book opens, a neighborhood in the Netherlands is seemingly dying following the construction of a four-lane highway. Removing homes, families, and trees proved gravely consequential to the air quality and livability of the neighborhood. To mitigate the hazardous effects of the highway, residents rallied to create a Groene Loper, or a Green Carpet, to tunnel motorists underground, restoring biodiverse greenery above ground. Road safety, noise pollution, and air quality improved after seven long decades of urban misery. Now, a local arborist tasked with caring for this innovative green space faces the challenge of striking harmony between technology and nature yet again — to keep the urban forest alive and save the city.   

The following is an excerpt from The Nature of Our Cities by Nadina Galle.

Building from research into the impact of urban trees on the health of their human neighbors, the massive construction project had one particularly ambitious goal: to increase the life expectancy of the residents surrounding it by five years. To make that happen, its newly planted 1,800 trees needed to thrive.

Tjeu Franssen (whose name was changed for privacy reasons) was tasked with nurturing this new urban forest. An arborist by trade, he accepted the heavy burden because he believed in the mission and valued the ability to work outside, away from a computer, the quality that had attracted him to his career nearly thirty years ago.

I met Tjeu one morning on one of the excursions I’d take around Maastricht to water its neighborhood trees. It was a weekend ritual I enjoyed, an informal way to learn about other Dutch cities while I did research for my Ph.D. in ecological engineering. Wanting to get to know the steward of my favorite park in the city, I eventually mustered the courage to reach out to him and invite him along.

As we strolled down a sunny block in the city’s historic Jekerkwartier district, Tjeu stopped at a small beech tree that tilted over the road as if exhausted. He grabbed one of its dry leaves with a fist, almost crunching it to powder. “This one’s a goner,” he said. He wrinkled his sunburned nose and tensed his chin into a stoic pout.

I nodded.

“I’ll grab the shovel,” he said, leaving to retrieve it from his truck.

I dug my fingers into the soil and pulled up a couple of roots, which snapped, confirming what we both already knew despite my unreasonable hope. There was no saving this tree.

“I’m starting to have the same problem over by the Groene Loper,” Tjeu yelled over the traffic as he walked back. He was shaking his head, rubbing his palm against his white stubble as he swung the shovel in his other arm. I understood the immense stress he must have felt. The Groene Loper was the largest project he’d ever overseen, the kind of historic undertaking that could not only make or break a career but could forever alter the public’s appetite for funding urban forest initiatives.

He drove the shovel into the hard soil with a swift kick of his heel and dug with urgency as if we needed to canvass the whole city in a single day.

I prepared the bag and helped him lift the tree into it.

“Why don’t you try sensors?” I asked.

He paused, then laughed. “Yeah, right,” he said, gathering his composure. “A sensor couldn’t possibly tell me something I can’t see in the field.”

I tried to bite my tongue. I knew Tjeu’s frustration well. I’d had a long streak of terrible luck with the tomatoes I planted in my community garden. I was heartbroken each time I found the plants wilted and dead in the mid-summer. The last time that happened was over a year ago, a few months before an urban farmer introduced me to her soil sensors.

We walked silently for a few blocks until we slowed in front of another parched tree. I couldn’t stop the thought from pouring out of me: “Tjeu, your trees are dying by the dozens—by the hundreds in some sites. What do you have to lose?”

This time, he just shook his head and dug. He gave me the organic waste bag, and I held it open while he heaved the tree inside, its dusty root ball sticking out of the top.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said.

I was glad that Tjeu might consider the idea. Still, his initial reaction exposed a challenge I would become familiar with. As I’d discover, it haunts every ecologist who advocates for technological innovations.

My research colleagues and I worked with Tjeu to set up an experiment to reveal how the new tool could solve their problems. There were two sites—one on the Groene Loper and the other on the outskirts of eastern Maastricht. At the Groene Loper, we installed three soil-moisture sensors, and at the second, none. The soil type, drainage conditions, tree species, and weather were the same across both sites. To make things more interesting, we settled on a bet: if I won, he’d have to buy me a dish of my favorite zuurvlees, a traditional meat stew considered a delicacy in Maastricht. He’d get a week of my free labor during my next summer break if he was right.

We let the tree managers carry on their duties—planting, watering, and pruning—for the rest of the summer. When the sensors we installed registered soil that was too dry, the tree managers received a notification on their phones, alerting them to water a particular tree or grove. The managers could plan accordingly in these locations, organizing their day around where, when, and how much to water.

As we neared the end of August, I assembled the tree managers to see how they fared. Almost a fifth of the trees without a soil sensor had died. At the Groene Loper, not a single tree was lost. Though I’d learned from my tomatoes to expect a result like this, comparing those that survived in the location without sensors to the trees in the other site revealed a surprise: the ones grown with sensors were vastly larger, some of them by up to three times.

Sitting on a bench halfway up the grove in the Groene Loper that had previously suffered perennial tree deaths, Tjeu and I admired the soft, gentle rustling of the Linden canopy above us. Its leaves were broad, heart-shaped, and smooth, with an intense green hue that shimmered below the blue sky, shielding us from the scorching sun.

“This isn’t I told you so,” I said, unable to ignore Tjeu’s awe.

He turned and met my gaze. “I don’t know what to say.” He stood, then laid down on the shady grass, spreading his arms and closing his eyes.

When he rose a few moments later, he said he felt humbled by the results. “I’m proud . . .” he began, “but disappointed.”

I understood what he meant. I felt it, too. We sat in silence, thinking about what all those dying trees meant. The cries for water that went unheard. The thirsty roots that had received too much water in one pour, suffocating them with rot. The people who would have to go without shade. The future generations who would be forced to suffer under increasingly worsening urban heat island effects. Tjeu wondered out loud how many trees had died under his watch. How much money could’ve been saved by making a modest investment in sensors instead of replacing trees every few years? He spun, following a rumbling plane descending across the neighborhood.

When he turned back to me, Tjeu pursed his lips into a narrow smile, and for the first time, I noticed the dimples in his cheeks.

“Let’s install sensors all over Maastricht,” he said.

Several years ago—thanks in part to this experiment and the chain reaction that followed—I started exploring how technology could help us better understand the complex relationship between urban living and the nature we rely on. It drove me to research all the other ways urban ecologists used technology to turn our understanding of the living world upside down.

At the core of my mission was an understanding formed from my own experience and my interaction with dozens of neighbors: that the limited nature in our midst was an essential character in our lives. Painters and documentarians never seemed to direct their attention to pocket parks or streams bubbling under railroad tracks the way they sought to capture the beauty of a rugged mountain peak or a group of wild horses galloping across a field. But as every city dweller seemed to understand, the wildlife we interact with daily is a breed of nature that may be even more important.

I have spent the better part of a decade chasing the insights that Tjeu took to heart during the day we spent together in Maastricht, challenging the false dichotomy between nature and technology. Instead of treating the two as separate systems, locked in a grisly competition that ends with a barren city, I’ve been fighting to show that they can and should complement each other. And even more, if we are to restore the habitats that sustain humanity, we must teach these forces how to be friends.

The division between “natural” and “technological” is nowhere as great as in the urban enclaves where our species predominantly live. For decades, the concept of a “smart city” has dominated the urban planning discourse. While technology has benefits in improving efficiency, safety, and innovation in our neighborhoods, we tend to forget that cities are built on the back of nature, becoming ecosystems that interact with the environment.

To build a truly “smart” city, we must prioritize the health of our environment—and

in turn, ourselves. This requires confronting the trends of modern development that have destroyed natural habitats and caused air pollution and rapid deforestation. It means grappling with the effects of climate change and the severe consequences of our nature-starved environments regarding our health and well-being. But first, it demands a fundamental shift in how we view our place in the world—recognizing that we are not separate from nature but a part of it.

Excerpted from THE NATURE OF OUR CITIES. Copyright © 2024 by Nadina Galle. Reprinted by permission of Mariner Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.