by Lauren Buchholz
Shaman visions: Pictographs remain key testaments of ancient park tribes.
The Giant Forest of Sequoia National Park, home of Sierra vistas, black bears, and the world’s largest trees, easily sees several hundred visitors drop by park information desks on a daily basis to learn what there is to do. There are the usual major attractions to see, and, as an interpretive ranger, I field many of the same questions during my shifts. The diversity of what the park protects, however, provides numerous opportunities to explore often-unexpected features—opportunities encouraged by the park for visitors and rangers alike.
I was fortunate enough to be able to pursue one such opportunity near the end of July, when Sequoia’s employees were invited to attend an archeological park field day. Dressed in old clothes and armed with water and sunscreen, I joined a number of rangers at the designated roadside site where our exploration would begin. Having long associated archeology with dinosaur bones and ancient ruins, I was a bit confused by the lack of major excavation tools and roped-off fossils at our destination, which looked like a rather ordinary stretch of forest only recently disturbed by the cutting of park roads. New light was shed on this nondescript setting with the arrival of cultural resources specialist Tom Burge, who explained that instead of seeking brontosaurus remains or ancient Mayan temples we would focus on findings dating from a “recent” era 600 years ago to the 1960s—a time some of our party still remembered.
Ranger Tom Burge discusses an obsidian flake with the survey group.
As Tom debriefed us on the logistics of archeology work, we followed him towards a hillside ringed by white fir trees. This location, no more than a few dozen yards from one of the park’s busiest roads, housed an ancient settlement of the Western Mono people who immigrated to the western Sierra a little over half a millennium ago. Several archeological surveys had previously taken place at the site, and many signs of inhabitation had been recorded. Tom pointed out several of the most prominent features, including numerous mortar-and-pestle grinding holes and several Indian basins. Even the soil had become an artifact: hundreds of years of human impact had left it dark and ash-ridden, full of a greasy substance that stained our hands black after we picked it up.
Using the site as a learning tool, Tom instructed the group on surveying. Our task for the morning would be to patrol the area briefly, searching for and flagging artifacts on the ground. The list of potential artifacts included everything from obsidian flakes and arrowheads to bottles and pull-tabs dating from well into the 20th century—essentially, any item that was created or used before the archeological “Golden Age Rule” of 50 years prior to the present.
Having chosen a manzanita-choked route, I struggled to see the ground—much less any artifacts upon it—for the first minute or so. After opting for a more open area, however, I was surprised by the number of things I was able to find in the course of our survey, including an old brown glass bottle, a rusty nail, a single bedrock mortar, and a huge flake of black obsidian. The lack of ancient bones notwithstanding, archeology was looking to be a pretty rewarding job.
After the group reunited, Tom discussed some of the items that we’d discovered. The obsidian flake had a particularly interesting history, having traveled with Native American traders several centuries ago from near the modern city of Mammoth to the settlement that we were currently surveying—close to 200 miles! Top honors went to an unpainted shard of Owens Valley brownware pottery, once used for the same storage purposes that people rely on Tupperware for today. Pottery is considered by archeologists to be a fairly recent invention in human history, arriving on the scene about 5,000 years ago in the face of significant obstacles. The difficulty involved in crafting durable items from clay ranges wildly, from finding proper combination materials (stone, broken pots, or even grass) to determining the proper time, temperature, and air allowance inside a pottery kiln. These obstacles made the finding of our brownware shard particularly rewarding.
After cleaning up the remainder of the survey flags, we trekked out to the parking area for lunch and a reprise from staring at the ground. As we ate, I tried not to think about the centuries-old remains imbedded in the soil coating my hands. Excited as I was about archeology, I wasn’t ready to swallow so much history just yet.
Thirty minutes later, Tom rounded up the group under a large overhanging boulder near the lunch area, where he revealed another archeological treasure. We weren’t the first people to have gathered beneath this rock; on the face of the granite were several brightly colored prehistoric paintings known as pictographs. These yellow and red designs had been drawn over a period of time by shamans, the native medicinal men for the local tribes. Historical “readings” of the pictographs by European explorers attempted to take the drawings literally, leading to stories with questionable interpretations. A deepened awareness of cultural diversity over time, however, has contributed to a modern archeological consensus that views the pictographs as representations of various shaman visions. According to Tom, these visions acted as catalysts through which a tribe’s shaman would be able to discover a cure for migraines, pregnancy pains, and other afflictions of his people. To determine the cause of a given case the shaman would often enter (or induce) a trance-like state, during which he would create pictographs depicting what he saw. Following this ritual, medicinal plants or avoidance of certain foods would be recommended to the patient—an aspect of the practice that has not changed much to this day.
Pictograph sites like this boulder near Potwisha Campground highlight a few of Sequoia’s many cultural treasures.
The size and variety of the pictographs we viewed was intriguing, the brightness of the originals still evident centuries after their creation. What interested me most, however, was their closeness to the highway, 15 feet directly to the south. Such a site as this highlights the balance Sequoia National Park strives to maintain between preservation and public accessibility, especially when compared with the park’s famous—and graffiti-ridden—roadside pictographs on Hospital Rock.
Our visit to the centuries-old drawings renewed an element of ancient wonder. Tom reminded us, however, that there was more to archeology than prehistoric artifacts, and that it would be our heightened understanding of the relatively modern bottles and pull tabs discovered earlier in the day that would serve us best at our next survey site.
We headed back to our vehicles and drove to Halstead Meadow. One of many cut through by the main park road, Halstead’s history has been particularly impacted by this cutaway. Drainage systems implemented when the highway was developed channeled the meadow’s water into a single ditch that, by this summer, had developed into a canyon over a dozen feet deep. Restoration crews were working on diverting the drainages back to their original systems so as to restore the meadow to its natural state.
Halstead had also seen human impact prior to the highway drainages, including the 1930s development of outdoor fireplaces by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). Established during the Great Depression, the corps enlisted hundreds of young men to work for the Park Service developing lasting visitor amenities. Knowing that the CCC had been active in the area, Tom was hoping that remnants of the fireplaces would be counted among the relics we would find. He showed us a photograph of the historic fireplace design in question, instructing us to keep an eye out for cement foundations and old metal grills. He disbursed the colorful survey flags as we reached our location, and then revealed a bonus: our search would be accompanied by a metal detector! Several members of the group assembled the white, weed-whacker-shaped item, and in no time it was sweeping steadily over the ground.
Ten minutes of scanning later, the group rejoined to see what had been discovered. Unlike the veritable treasure trove of the first survey site, Halstead revealed relatively few items. An old bottle turned up under a surveyor’s boot, while rusted nails and a spring coil were unearthed by the metal detector team. Despite the lack of fireplaces, Tom thanked us graciously for our aid in surveying the site and released us from further bush-whacking duty to return home.
Much as I might like to dream otherwise, our brief park archeological excursion is not likely to join a list of the world’s greatest expeditions any time soon. All the same, anyone who has ever had the opportunity of viewing unknown pictographs, dating prehistoric arrowheads, or seeing the jubilant faces of friends as they dig frantically for nails and springs beneath a chirping metal detector will understand why this trip tops my expedition list. Exploring and coming to better understand the historical cultural resources of this park truly enhanced their value for me, and I plan to continue seeking such treasures of Sequoia. Hope to see you on the search!
For More Information
For more on the cultural resources of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks, please contact Tom Burge at Tom_Burge@nps.gov or Keith Hamm at Keith_Hamm@nps.gov.
Lauren Buchholz is an environmental writing student at the University of Colorado in Boulder, and has worked as an interpretive naturalist for Sequoia National Park and the Santa Monica Mountains Recreation and Conservation Authority, CA.
I was happy with the campfire program I had conducted. By reading the postures and the facial expressions of my audience, I knew they had been engaged. I felt justified to be proud of my presentation as the visitors began exiting the amphitheater. At least a dozen people approached to thank me, another group huddled around me asking questions and commenting. Then, off to my left, I overheard a woman reporting to her husband as she walked away, “He sounded just like a teacher.”
History in the Making
Note: This article was published in the September/October 2004 issue of Legacy, and is posted here shortly after the passing of Enda Mills Kiley.
by Paul Caputo
Enda Mills Kiley, pictured here in 2004, holds a photo of her father.
Longs Peak is not the tallest mountain in Colorado. That honor goes to Mount Elbert, which, at 14,433 feet, stands 178 feet taller than Longs. In fact, there are 14 mountains taller than Longs Peak in Colorado. But as you approach the Rockies from the east, Longs Peak seems to stand alone. While many of Colorado’s other tallest mountains are clustered together, reducing the effect of their height, Longs Peak towers over every other mountain for nearly 40 miles in any direction.
Not long ago, I was charged with the enjoyable task of videotaping an interview with Enda Mills Kiley, the 86-year-old daughter of renowned interpreter, author, naturalist, photographer, and architect (to name a few possible titles) Enos Mills. Enda lives in a retirement community that practically sits in the shadow of Longs Peak in Estes Park, Colorado, neighbor to the national park her father campaigned so vigorously to establish, Rocky Mountain National Park. She speaks with enthusiasm and clarity about the work Mills did, the principles he espoused, and the landscape he held dear during an impressive career in a field that would come to be known as interpretation.
Most of what Enda knows about her father comes from what she has read. He died when she was only three. She has studied her father’s writings and has contributed her own passion to the field of interpretation. Her fervor for and knowledge of the landscape Enos helped preserve is worthy of the daughter of a man who presided over the opening ceremonies of Rocky Mountain National Park. She told me over lunch that the best thing I could do for the intellectual and emotional well-being of my six-month-old son is to get him outdoors and in tune with nature. (“Better than any toy you could buy for him,” she said.)
I had been asked simply to videotape an interview Tom Danton, a friend of the Mills family and retired chief of interpretation at Saguaro National Monument, was conducting with Enda for a video on NAI’s 50th anniversary directed by NAI member David Kronk. As soon as the interview started, I was drawn in. Since I started working at NAI almost three years ago, I have heard the name and seen the work of Enos Mills, and it was a thrill to hear the man’s daughter speak with such obvious enthusiasm about why we should all appreciate nature and operate according to our deepest principles the way he did.
I visited Mills’ cabin that day. I briefly met his granddaughter Elizabeth and his great granddaughter Eryn, who operate tours of the tiny cabin he built at the base of Longs Peak. Among other artifacts on display at the cabin are newspaper articles about Mills and his interaction with the U.S. government, including meetings with presidents Taft and Roosevelt. The exhibit drives home the importance of Mills as a historical figure, but it is the existence of this pocket of wilderness itself that drives home the importance of understanding that history in the first place.
Experiencing some of the history of Longs Peak and its surroundings changed my perspective on it forever. What I once thought of simply as the 15th tallest mountain in Colorado and the centerpiece of Rocky Mountain National Park has become, in my mind, the backdrop for an important and interesting story. It is not only a place where a young nature enthusiast fought to protect a landscape he found beautiful, and in the process of doing so, helped found a profession. It is a place where, generations later, there are people of all ages—from six months to 86 years—who benefit from the resource and are charged with continuing its stewardship.
I see Longs Peak every day as I drive to and from work, but as I pulled out of Estes Park that day with the mountain in my rear-view mirror, it looked different to me. It somehow looked taller than I remembered.