Constructing Resilient Landscapes: Earthworks from Planning to Execution

In this episode, we focus on the practical techniques behind earth-working—how to shape land to retain water, prevent erosion, and support productive ecosystems. We explore core principles like planning for slope and flow, choosing the right types of earthworks for different landscapes, and using simple tools to measure level accurately. From planting strategies that protect new formations to using on-site materials like clay, stone, and gravel, this episode provides a full walkthrough of how to design with soil and terrain in mind. Whether you’re digging a swale, building a terrace, or sourcing subsoil for construction, these grounded techniques form the backbone of lasting, resilient design.

Chapters

• 0:00 Earthworks
• 1:37 1: Introduction
• 4:07 2: Planning Earthworks
• 6:02 3: Planting After Earthworks
• 7:50 4: Slope Measure
• 9:33 5: Levels and Leveling
• 11:11 6: Types of Earthworks
• 13:08 7: Earth Constructs
• 15:07 8: Moving the Earth
• 17:08 9: Earth Resources
• 19:14 10: Designer’s Checklist
• 21:22 11: Summary

Transcript

Welcome back. Today, we shift our attention to a subject both ancient and urgently modern: the movement of earth. Earth-working—whether by hand or machine—is one of the most powerful and lasting ways humans shape the land. It affects water flow, plant life, erosion, and even the climate of micro-regions. In this episode, we look at how thoughtful, small-scale earthworks can create stability and abundance, while careless movement of soil can bring erosion, pollution, and collapse. We'll cover planning principles, planting strategies, slope and leveling methods, structural forms like banks and terraces, and reflect on the cultural and ecological implications of shifting the ground beneath us.

What stands out here is not just the practical how-to—though there’s plenty of that—but the moral and ecological framing. Moving earth isn't just an engineering act. It's a profound ecological choice. For centuries, civilizations have risen and fallen based on how they managed the land under their feet. So we’re going to explore how these choices can be made with care, with clarity, and with an awareness of both opportunity and risk. Earth-working can restore degraded landscapes, capture precious water, create new forms of food and shelter—but only if done in rhythm with the land itself. Let’s begin.

Section 1: Introduction

Before we ever move a shovelful of soil, we have to understand what lies beneath our feet. Earth-working begins not with action but with observation. The type of soil, its structure, depth, drainage characteristics, and relationship to water are all factors that determine what is possible—and what is wise. Many of the disasters in land use, from landslides to salinization, happen when we try to impose patterns on the earth without first understanding its language.

Some landscapes have shallow or rocky soils that limit how deep you can dig. Others are made of dense clay, which may trap water too long or crack open when it dries. In certain areas, water sits just beneath the surface, while in others, a hard layer beneath the topsoil blocks roots and drainage. These variations matter. A design that works well in one location can fail just a few kilometers away. That’s why successful earthworks begin with careful, site-specific understanding.

And that knowledge isn’t just technical. It’s also cultural and ecological. In some places, people have been shaping land for centuries—building rice terraces, swales, chinampas, bunds. These are not just quaint traditions. They are data-rich systems developed through long-term feedback with land and climate. Ignoring them in favor of imported models or machines often leads to breakdown.

There’s also the matter of energy. Earth is heavy. Moving it takes fuel, or labor, or both. So permanence is key. Any large earthwork should be designed to last decades or centuries. That’s not just an engineering challenge—it’s an ethical one. Because if an earthwork collapses, it doesn’t just waste effort. It can release sediment, water, even toxins into the wider environment. Our first responsibility is to do no harm. Our second is to build well enough that the land becomes more stable, more fertile, more alive over time.

Section 2: Planning Earthworks

Planning is the hidden half of all successful earthworks. It’s the part no one sees, but everything depends on it. A well-planned project respects the shape of the land. It doesn’t try to overwrite its contours but reads them like a script. This means beginning with long, slow observation. Where does water flow in heavy rain? Where does it pool? What erodes and what holds?

Planning also means mapping. Not just with lines on paper, but with stakes, flags, strings—whatever helps bring a design to life on the ground. Earthworks should never be drawn purely from a bird’s-eye view. They must be walked, paced, and visualized in place. Sometimes what seems logical on paper proves disastrous when traced across a slope. Other times, a subtle rise or dip—missed in early sketches—can be the key to success or failure.

And planning means timing. Wet seasons are a terrible time to dig. So are periods of high wind, or when neighboring lands might be affected. Earthworks should ideally be done in dry windows, and followed immediately with planting. A bare slope is an invitation to erosion. That means seed must be on hand, mulch ready to apply, and workers coordinated to act quickly once the machines stop.

Finally, planning means imagining failure. Every system has a breaking point. A good design asks: where will the overflow go? What happens in a hundred-year storm? Can we make sure that, if something goes wrong, it fails gently—not catastrophically? Earthworks should always include redundancies: spillways, backups, escape routes for water and sediment. We plan not to prevent change, but to shape its path toward resilience.

Section 3: Planting After Earthworks

The moment a shovel breaks ground, the race begins: a race between erosion and establishment. Bare soil is vulnerable. It dries out quickly, sheds rain, and loses its structure. Planting immediately after earthworks isn’t an afterthought—it’s an integral part of the process. Seeds, mulch, and organic matter are not just for aesthetics; they are the armor that protects new landforms from collapse.

This is especially true on slopes and edges. These transitional zones—between flat and steep, wet and dry—are the most fragile. They require fast-germinating cover crops or grasses that root quickly and hold tight. Sometimes legumes are best, adding nitrogen while stabilizing the soil. In other cases, native pioneers are preferred, drawing on local adaptations to handle heat, drought, or flooding.

And planting isn’t just about protection—it’s about succession. The first wave of plants prepares the way for the next. As biomass builds, more sensitive or productive species can follow. A swale lined with fast-rooting grasses might later support trees. A terrace first stabilized with clover may one day host food crops. By thinking in layers of time, we transform earthworks from exposed scars into living systems.

Mulch plays a key role here. Straw, wood chips, or even fresh-cut vegetation shields the soil, suppresses weeds, and feeds microbes. Compost teas and mycorrhizal inoculants can jumpstart biology, creating conditions that favor the plants we want. Every seed we plant is a design decision—a step toward integrating soil, water, and life.

Section 4: Slope Measure

Working on sloped land brings both opportunity and risk. Slopes can guide water with grace or accelerate it into destructive torrents. The first step in navigating this tension is to measure slope accurately. That doesn't always require fancy tools. A simple A-frame level, made from sticks and a string, can reveal where water wants to flow and where it might be held.

Slope percentage—a measure of vertical rise over horizontal run—gives us critical insight. A 2% slope might be ideal for a drainage swale. A 10% slope could call for a terrace. Beyond 18%, the risk of erosion and collapse increases dramatically. But slope isn’t destiny. With the right design, even steep land can be made productive. What matters is matching the strategy to the grade.

Measuring slope also helps us understand energy. Water accelerates downhill. Wind gains speed along ridges. These flows shape the microclimate and determine what interventions will succeed. But these measurements aren’t just technical—they’re interpretive. A slope might look benign, but if it collects upstream water during storms, it becomes dangerous. Or a gentle grade might fail to drain if it sits in a basin.

This is why slope measurement isn’t a one-time act—it’s an ongoing awareness. It’s watching how leaves drift in the rain, how frost settles at dawn, how shadows move with the sun. It’s seeing the land not as a fixed surface, but as a flowing system of energies. And only then, with that awareness, can we begin to shape it wisely.

Section 5: Levels and Leveling

If slope tells us where water wants to go, level tells us where we might ask it to pause. Level lines are the spine of many earthworks—swales, terraces, check dams—and getting them right means everything. A level line across a slope creates a shelf of stability. It lets water soak instead of surge.

But finding true level is trickier than it sounds. Our eyes deceive us, especially on sloped ground. A line that looks flat may in fact lean just enough to pool water in one spot or send it running off in another. That’s why simple tools—like the A-frame, bunyip level, or water tube—are so powerful. They slow us down, force us to measure, and connect us to the real contours of the land.

Leveling isn’t about flattening the land; it’s about aligning with it. Sometimes, leveling means cutting and filling—removing earth from one place and placing it in another. Other times, it’s as simple as shaping a shallow trench to follow a contour. But always, leveling should leave the land stronger, not weaker.

Done well, level-based earthworks slow erosion, store moisture, and support a wide range of planting strategies. They become anchors for future design. Paths, beds, fences, even buildings can follow their lines. In this way, the act of finding level becomes the first gesture in a long, unfolding composition—one that ties water, soil, plants, and people into a shared, resilient pattern.

Section 6: Types of Earthworks

There’s no single shape that fits every landscape. Earthworks come in many forms, and each one serves a different purpose. Swales, for example, are shallow, level ditches dug along a contour line. They don’t move water; they hold it. When rain falls, a swale slows it down, giving it time to soak into the ground instead of rushing away. Swales are ideal in climates where water is scarce but arrives in heavy bursts.

Then there are terraces. These are steps built into slopes, creating flat planting areas where once there was only gradient. Terraces stabilize slopes, reduce runoff, and increase the usable surface area for growing food. They’ve been used for thousands of years—from the Andes to the Himalayas—and remain one of the most effective strategies for managing steep land.

We also have dams, which capture water in ponds or reservoirs. These can range from tiny household tanks to large landscape features that irrigate entire systems. Dams require careful placement and strong construction, especially at the spillway—where overflow must be directed safely to prevent collapse. When done properly, dams become not just sources of water, but magnets for life.

Another category is diversion drains and contour banks. These structures don’t store water—they steer it. A diversion drain might carry excess water away from a vulnerable area or toward a recharge zone. Contour banks follow the lay of the land and guide water gently downslope without letting it pick up erosive speed.

Each type of earthwork asks something different of the land—and offers something different in return. Choosing the right form isn’t just a technical decision. It’s a question of goals, climate, soil type, and long-term vision. Earthworks, like stories, have arcs. The best ones hold meaning long after the machinery is gone.

Section 7: Earth Constructs

Beyond the functional forms of swales and terraces lie a host of more intentional earth constructs—structures where form and function meet in durable design. These include banks, mounds, berms, and even small walls made of compacted soil. Each of these is crafted not only to move or hold water, but to shape the microclimate and guide growth.

Take the humble berm, for example. A simple ridge of earth, it can redirect wind, create shade, reduce evaporation, and provide shelter for young plants. Arranged correctly, berms can carve out warm pockets in cool areas or reduce the drying effect of prevailing winds. Their impact on temperature, moisture, and light is subtle but powerful.

Banks and bunds—raised edges built alongside paths, fields, or contours—act as both physical and energetic boundaries. They slow water, mark zones, and help retain nutrients. When planted, these banks can also stabilize themselves and become miniature ecosystems. The same goes for mounds, which can be used to lift plants above a waterlogged area or to capture sunlight in cooler zones.

Some constructs are even more architectural. Earth walls, often stabilized with clay or fiber, can form the base for windbreaks, seating, or shelter. In drylands, crescent-shaped earth catchments harvest scarce rainfall and funnel it to tree roots. The range of earth constructs is vast—but what unites them is the principle of working with the forces already in motion.

Good earth design is rarely symmetrical. It flows with the slope, curves with the terrain, responds to shade and sun. These constructs become part of the landscape—useful, beautiful, and enduring. They show that shaping the earth isn’t just about water control. It’s about creating conditions for life to organize itself in new ways.

Section 8: Moving the Earth

There comes a moment in every project when planning ends and movement begins. Shovels sink into soil. Machines start their engines. At this stage, the abstract becomes real—and the risks multiply. Moving earth is no small thing. It takes energy, coordination, and a deep respect for timing.

Hand tools offer precision, slowness, and intimacy with the land. They’re ideal for small sites, for delicate work, or for projects where human labor is abundant and fossil fuels are not. A spade allows you to feel the resistance of a root, to smell the difference in soil layers, to stop when needed.

Machines, on the other hand, bring scale. A single excavator can do in hours what would take weeks by hand. But with that power comes danger. One mistake with a blade or bucket can collapse a slope, slice into a water vein, or compact soil so heavily it takes years to recover. That’s why machine work must always follow the design exactly—and be guided by someone who knows both the land and the limits of the tool.

There’s also sequencing to consider. Earthworks should begin at the highest point and work downward. That way, each step builds on the last and any water that enters the system can be directed safely. Likewise, construction should start with features that receive runoff, like swales or dams, before building elements that rely on stored water, like ponds or gardens. This upstream-to-downstream logic ensures that the system remains stable even as it's being built.

Moving earth is dramatic. It reshapes landscapes, alters hydrology, and carves new paths for energy. But it should never be rushed. Every cut and fill changes the story of a place. To move earth well is to write a new chapter with care and consequence.

Section 9: Earth Resources

Working with the earth means more than shaping landforms—it also means recognizing the wealth of resources that soil and subsoil provide. Clay, gravel, sand, and stone are all present in the ground beneath us, and each can play a role in ecological design. When sourced carefully and used thoughtfully, these materials can reduce dependency on distant supply chains and bring a landscape into coherence with itself.

Clay, for example, has remarkable properties. It can be molded when wet, hardened when dry, and used as a lining for ponds, a sealant for dams, or a stabilizer in natural building. But not all clay is equal. Some clays swell too much; others crack. Testing and small-scale trials are essential. Likewise, sand may provide excellent drainage or serve as a construction material—but it can also dry soils too quickly if misapplied.

Stone, whether in the form of boulders or fine gravel, adds structure and permanence. Dry-stacked rock walls, rock mulch, or stone drains are long-lasting and often beautiful. When placed with intention, stone can direct water, stabilize slopes, or retain heat in microclimates. But it’s heavy and hard to move. Using what’s on-site, or nearby, is often the difference between feasibility and fantasy.

There’s also the question of waste. Earthworks often unearth subsoil or debris that seems unusable. But even these materials have potential—forming the core of mounds, infill for paths, or base layers for terraces. What we discard may be the very substance of the next layer of design.

When we see the earth not just as surface but as source, we begin to work differently. We stop importing everything from elsewhere and start reading the palette underfoot. Earth resources are not infinite, but when used with restraint and creativity, they become the bones of long-term ecological design.

Section 10: Designer’s Checklist

As we bring together all the threads from this conversation, it’s helpful to distill the key considerations into a practical checklist. Good earth-working design isn’t about complexity—it’s about clarity. This checklist is not a formula but a field guide: reminders of what to notice, plan, and question before the first shovel breaks ground.

• Observe the site across seasons. Water patterns, wind exposure, soil condition, and sun angles all shift over time. No map or aerial image substitutes for time spent watching the land.

• Start small and work from high ground down. Begin with features that manage water before expanding to larger interventions.

• Match technique to slope. Swales for gentle grades, terraces for steeper ones, and keyline strategies where applicable.

• Always consider overflow. Plan for extreme events by designing multiple drainage options and building in redundancy.

• Keep soil covered. Plant as soon as possible after moving earth to prevent erosion and kickstart ecological succession.

• Use local materials. Source stone, sand, and clay from nearby where possible, and treat excavated subsoil as a resource.

• Think in stages. Earthworks are long-term systems—design them to evolve.

• Involve community. Local knowledge, labor, and stewardship increase resilience and long-term care.

And beyond the technical, remember the ethical: every act of earth-working either enhances or diminishes life. Let our actions be humble, restorative, and regenerative. Use the checklist not just to direct machines, but to sharpen perception. Earth-working is not about imposing order, but about revealing and aligning with the order that already exists in the land.

The land holds memory. Let our designs be among the good ones it remembers.

Section 11: Summary

We’ve traced the arc of earth-working from planning to planting, from measurement to movement. Along the way, one idea has repeated in different forms: earth is not passive. It is shaped by water, wind, and gravity, yes—but also by time, intention, and care. Every cut, bank, swale, or terrace is a response to the landscape, not just an imprint on it.

Good design begins with observation, evolves through feedback, and endures through humility. It aligns with slope rather than fighting it. It follows level rather than guessing. It slows water, catches nutrients, and invites life back into places where it had withdrawn. Earth-working, at its best, is not extraction—it’s restoration.

And more than that, it’s legacy. The terraces of ancient China, the chinampas of Mexico, the stone bunds of West Africa—these were not short-term projects. They were living systems, sustained across generations. Our challenge is to design with the same sense of time. Not just to stabilize a hillside for five years, but to make it richer and more resilient for fifty or more.

What we shape, shapes us. What we build into the land becomes part of the memory it holds. As we move forward—whether by hand or by machine, on hillsides or plains—may we move with intention. May our efforts to work the earth also work toward its healing. And may the paths we dig hold not just water, but the promise of renewal.