Dry Shade Gardening in the Valley of Death

Adjacent to my driveway, ending where my neighbor's holly bushes begin, is a little strip of land that I have dubbed the Valley of Death.  A few years ago, Ron and I had the harebrained idea of turning it into a shade garden; ever since, it has been the place where plants go to die.  The entire experience has been an education. 

First, some background.  When we moved in 8 years ago, our future shade garden was an unsightly slope of not-very-nice grass. Two mature trees, an oak and an alder, did a good job of preventing anything decent from growing around them.  Throw in years of topsoil erosion and the reflected heat from the driveway, and you had just about the least likely place to plant a garden. 

After one year, my driveway still looked great, but my expensive shade garden was still looking pretty sparse.

Fast forward to fall 2008.  We had just replaced our ugly cracked driveway with pavers, and suddenly the wasteland seemed like a shade garden waiting to happen.  We spent fall and winter preparing the site, piling on bag after bag of compost and top soil to improve and raise the planting bed.  Then, beginning in March 2009, we filled it with a very expensive assortment of "tough" and "drought-tolerant" shade plants.  Among the lucky winners were some A plants (asarum, aspidistra, and acanthus), some H plants (hostas, heucheras, and hellebores), one bergenia, two carex, one euphorbia robbiae, two "heat-tolerant" primulas, and assorted ferns.   

An aerial view in January 2013. This dry shade business takes time. At least the euphorbia by the oak tree has spread.

Four years later, half the plants are dead or have been moved to a more congenial location.  Apparently "tough" and "drought-tolerant" are relative terms.  Take hostas.  Forget those pretty pictures in the White Flower Farm catalogue - I'm here to tell you that, in the South, hostas do not belong at the base of trees.  They need consistent moisture if you expect them to do anything other than shrivel up and die.  Ditto for Japanese holly fern (Cyrtomium falcatum).  Primula, in my humble opinion, should not be attempted in the South at all.  To paraphrase Jimmy McMillan, the temperature's too damn high.

Some things did survive the Valley of Death, though: most of the hellebores (except Helleborus foetidus, aka "stinking hellebore," which didn't smell but which didn't live either), the aspidistra (ugly but I can't blame the location), and Acanthus "Summer Beauty" (which never gets as grand as it might in a moist spot but which is still very striking, especially when it's not going dormant from the blazing heat).  But the real winner of the dry shade contest is the euphorbia robbiae.  This guy got the worst seat in the house - smack under the the oak tree.  But once established, he began taking over previously abandoned Valley of Death real estate, moving into territory that no sane plant would even consider.  Ordinarily I would object, but since not even weeds will grow there, I feel he's doing me a favor.  

White hellebore with dead oak leaves. Life in the valley is not a picnic.

What else did I learn from my shade garden experience?  

I learned that improving the soil is a never-ending process. That "dry shade" doesn't mean that you don't need to water, especially in North Carolina. That it's best to start with 3 inch pots when you're planting under trees.  

I learned that Lowes' $1.50 top soil is a pretty decent product, far preferable to the clay-in-a-bag that others sell at that price.  

I learned that the trunk of a 2004 Hyundai Elantra will hold up to 12 bags of top soil if you load them properly.  

I learned that I have no problem spending hundreds of dollars on plants for dry shade but for some reason won't spend more than $1.50 a bag for top soil. 

I learned not to spend hundreds of dollars on plants for dry shade.