ghost dancing the grand canyon

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C u r r e n t A n t h ro p o l o g y Volume 41, Number 1, February 2000! 2000 by The Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research. All rights reserved 0011-3204/2000/4101-0002$3.00

Ghost Dancing theGrand Canyon

Southern Paiute Rock Art,Ceremony, and CulturalLandscapes

by Richard W. Stoffle,Lawrence Loendorf,Diane E. Austin, David B. Halmo,and Angelita Bulletts

Combining rock art studies with ethnohistory, contemporaryethnographic analysis, and the interpretations of people whoshare the cultural traditions being studied, this paper documentsa rock art site in Kanab Creek Canyon that appears to have beenthe location of a Ghost Dance ceremony performed by SouthernPaiute and perhaps Hualapai people in the late 1800s. Using thesite as a point of departure, it focuses on the way in which syn-ergistic associations among place, artifact, resources, events, andhistoric and contemporary Indian people contribute to the con-struction of a contextual cultural landscape.

r i c h a r d w. s t o f fl e is Associate Research Anthropologistwith the Bureau of Applied Research in Anthropology, Depart-ment of Anthropology, University of Arizona (Tucson, Ariz.85721, U.S.A. [[email protected]]). Born in 1943, he was edu-cated at the University of Colorado (B.A., 1965) and the Univer-sity of Kentucky (M.A., 1969; Ph.D., 1972). His recentpublications include (with Michael Evans) “Has NAGPRAHelped or Hindered Relationships between Native Americansand Anthropologists?” (High Plains Anthropologist 17[2]) and(with M. Zedeno and D. Austin) “Landmark and Landscape: AContextual Approach to the Management of American IndianResources” (Culture and Agriculture 19[3]:123–29).

l a w r e n c e l o e n d o r f is Professor of Archaeology at NewMexico State University and president of the cultural resourcefirm Loendorf and Associates Inc. He received his Ph.D. from theUniversity of Missouri in 1973. His publications include (with J.Francis and Ronald Dorn) “AMS Radiocarbon and Cation-Datingof Rock Art in the Bighorn Basin of Wyoming and Montana”(American Antiquity 58[4]) and (with S. Chaffee, M. Hyman, andM. Rowe) “Dating a Pictograph in the Pryor Mountains, Mon-tana” (Plains Anthropologist 39[148].

d i a n e e . a u s t i n is Assistant Research Anthropologist in theBureau of Applied Research in Anthropology at the University ofArizona. She received her education at Texas Christian Univer-sity (B.S., 1981), the California Institute of Technology (M.S.,1983), and the University of Michigan (Ph.D., 1994). Among herpublications are “Cultural Knowledge and the Cognitive Map”(Practicing Anthropology 20[3]:21–24) and (with R. W. Stoffle and

D. B. Halmo) “Cultural Landscapes and Traditional CulturalProperties: A Southern Paiute View of the Grand Canyon andColorado River” (American Indian Quarterly 21:229–50).

d a v i d b . h a l m o is a Ph.D. candidate in anthropology at theUniversity of Arizona. Born in 1955, he received his M.A. fromGeorgia State University. He has published “With One Voice:Collective Action in Cultural Impact Assessment” (PracticingAnthropology 16[3]:14–16) and (with B. Stoffle, R. W. Stoffle, andC. B. Burpee) “Folk Management and Conservation Ethics amongSmall-Scale Fishers of Buen Hombre, Dominican Republic,” inFolk Management in the World’s Fisheries, edited by C. Dyerand J. McGoodwin (Boulder: University Press of Colorado, 1994).

a n g e l i t a b u l l e t t s is the Tribal Administrator for the Kai-bab Paiute Tribe. During this study she was the director of theSouthern Paiute Consortium, representing six Southern Paiutetribes in the Glen Canyon Project. She has a B.A. (1982) in an-thropology and sociology from Northern Arizona University.

The present paper was submitted 11 v 98 and accepted 20 i 99;the final version reached the Editor’s office 17 ii 99.

According to many Kaibab Paiute people, their ancestorsconducted a Ghost Dance ceremony in an isolated placewhere the side canyon of Kanab Creek begins to forman outer edge to the Grand Canyon. At the time of theceremony they made white paintings on a sandstone cliffnear the largest known source of white paint pigment intraditional Southern Paiute territory (see fig. 1). It is notclear from this oral testimony whether the paintingswere made as part of the ceremony or as a record of it.Either way, the rock paintings mark where the GhostDance occurred, and through this ceremony the site be-came a part of new Southern Paiute regional, national,and international interethnic cultural landscapes.

Ceremonies are culturally significant events that aremanifest in place and space and, if of sufficient magni-tude, may contribute to the punctuated history and re-affirm the identity of a people (Altman and Low 1992;Low and Altman 1992; Low 1992; Lawrence 1992; Rod-man 1992:649; Basso 1996a, b; Greider and Garkovich1994:8). The Ghost Dance was of such magnitude, andit gave new meaning to Southern Paiute places. Throughtheir participation in the Ghost Dance, Southern Paiutepeople transcended the aboriginal boundaries definedover thousands of years by language, society, and politicsand became part of a pan-Indian movement involvingdozens of Indian ethnic groups—a kind of Indian socialorganization and cultural landscape that had never beforeexisted. To the extent that they continue to value thistransformative and transcendent event, the Ghost Danceperformance is a foundation for identifying protectablesacred places in the course of contemporary cultural re-source studies (Theodoratus and LaPena 1994:22; Kelleyand Francis 1996; Rodman 1992:647, 649–50).

This paper gives voice to Indian people by integratingthem into the research process in a collaborative, par-ticipatory manner. It argues for emic research regardingcultural landscapes, sacred places, and signs left on theland—in this case, rock art as a physical marker on thelandscape that serves as an example of both “attachmentto place and the recording of myth and history in termsof space” (Kahn 1990:53, cited in Rodman 1992:651). The

12 F current anthropology Volume 41, Number 1, February 2000

Fig. 1. Southern Paiute traditional territory.

analysis combines the etic analysis of rock art special-ists, ethnohistory, and contemporary ethnographic anal-ysis with the cultural interpretations of the people whoshare the cultural traditions being studied and who par-ticipated in the study (Zedeno et al. 1998:19–30).

During the summers of 1975 and 1976 Bill Tom, thenthe chairman of the Kaibab Paiute tribe, showed Stoffleand other members of his ethnographic field crew theGhost Dance site (fig. 2). He wanted to have the rockpaintings recorded and to recount his family’s history.Stoffle took photographs of the Ghost Dance paintingsand turned these over to the Kaibab Paiute tribe, retain-ing a copy of the contact prints and negatives. Almost20 years later, a study1 of Southern Paiute cultural re-

1. Funds for this study were provided by the Glen Canyon Envi-ronmental Studies (GCES) of the Bureau of Reclamation. The pur-pose of the study was to assess the impact of Glen Canyon Damwater release policy on Southern Paiute cultural resources locatedalong 300 miles of the Colorado River.

sources in the Grand Canyon provided the opportunityto conduct interviews documenting Southern Paiutes’continued perception of this site as possessing both su-pernatural power and historical importance associatedwith the Ghost Dance ceremony (Stoffle et al. 1995). Italso included examination of the rock art by a profes-sional rock art archaeologist. The results of these linkedinvestigations are the subject of this paper.

The Ghost Dance: An EthnohistoricSummary

The Ghost Dance movements of 1870 and 1889–90sought to restore dead animals, destroyed botanical land-scapes, and dead ancestors to their aboriginal conditionand to shift power from Euro-Americans (who were ex-pected not to survive the event) back to Indian peoples.According to Indian visions, the millennium would

stoffle et al . Ghost Dancing the Grand Canyon F 13

Fig. 2. Former chairman Bill Tom and Merle Jake, Kaibab Paiute Tribe, examining the Ghost Dance rock artpanel in Kanab Creek Canyon, 1976. (Photo R. Stoffle.)

come more quickly if many Indian people correctly per-formed the Ghost Dance.

The Ghost Dance is best understood as a response byIndian people to the stresses produced by Euro-Americanencroachment on Indian holy lands (Osterreich 1991).These stresses included depopulation from diseases(Thornton 1986), animal disruption of native plant areas(Crum 1994:62–63), decline of the population of prey an-imals (Lesser 1933), dislocation from springs and riversand the resulting loss of access to farming areas (Dobynsand Euler 1967), social disruption (Jorgensen 1986), apower shift from competition to domination (Stoffle andEvans 1976), and the failure of traditional religions eitherto explain or to deal with the encroachments (Dobynsand Euler 1967:vii).

The Ghost Dance is believed to have originated in theNorthwest Coast Prophet Dances, which began in theearly 1800s (Spier 1935) and flourished as revitalizationmovements (Linton 1943, Wallace 1956) between 1870and the 1890s (Aberle 1959, DuBois 1939, Gayton 1930,Mooney 1991 [1896], Thornton 1986). In its first phase,ca. 1870, the Ghost Dance was initiated to revitalizetraditional ecosystems and Indian ways in California and

Oregon. The visions of Northern Paiute shamans begana movement that spread to hundreds of Indian groups,each group adapting the ceremony to fit its own culture.Hittman (1973a) suggests that the 1870 movement wasa response to massive Northern Paiute social and eco-nomic deprivation. A second Ghost Dance movement in1889 was further stimulated by the influence of a char-ismatic prophet whose Indian name was Wovoka (hisEnglish name was Jack Wilson). Wovoka, a Northern Pai-ute from Yerington, Nevada, had learned in trance thatif he practiced certain rituals the old ways would be re-stored. According to Hittman (1990:63), Wovoka had hisrevelation on New Year’s Day in 1889 during a solareclipse. According to one account, he was ill with a highfever; according to another, he was chopping wood, hearda loud noise,and fell into a trance while walking towardit. Both traditional and nontraditional vision-seekingmethods were used to enter trance during the GhostDance movement. One traditional way was to visit arock art site to fast and pray for a dream; revelationsoften came through dancing or the ritual associated withit (Dobyns and Euler 1967:2, 4, 8, 12–13). After the 1890Ghost Dance, Indian peoples continued to seek super-


Fig. 3. Wovoka (Jack Wilson), leader of the GhostDance Movement. (Courtesy of the Milwaukee PublicMuseum.)

natural solutions to encroachment problems, now vari-ously through the Native American Church, the organ-izational outgrowth of what is called the peyote ormescal religion (Stewart 1987:34), the Bear Dance, theSun Dance (Jorgensen 1972, 1986), opiates (Hittman1973a, b), and conversion to Christian religions (Dobynsand Euler 1967:57), including Mormonism (Lanternari1963, Smoak 1986).

Neither the 1890 Ghost Dance ceremony nor its leaderWovoka is distant for many Southern Paiute people to-day. Southern Paiute elders working with applied eth-nographers to identify and protect their cultural re-sources have described a time almost 900 years ago whenPaiutes had relationships with or were the people ar-chaeologists call the Virgin Anasazi and the Fremontpeople. Linguistic and archaeological research has pro-vided support for these accounts.2 The elders tell of Pai-utes’ meeting the Spanish in the late 1700s and Euro-American trappers in the early 1800s and describe theMountain Meadow massacre of 1856 (Stoffle, Dobyns,and Evans 1983:53, 111, 170), and they know who wassitting in the tepees shown in photographs taken in 1904(Stoffle and Evans 1978: cover photograph caption). In1989 the Kaibab Paiute elder Dan Bulletts recognized aphoto of Wovoka taken in the early 1900s (fig. 3); as ayoung man he had met Wovoka when he visited South-ern Paiute communities in southern Utah and northernArizona. Wovoka continued to visit the Kaibab Paiutelong after his Ghost Dance had failed to achieve its de-sired goals, thus not only reaffirming connections amongnetworks of places and events but also maintaining in-teraction networks among Indian people.

Much has been made recently of the issue of the va-lidity of Indian consultant testimony, especially in thecontext of cultural resource or traditional cultural prop-erty studies (e.g., Haley and Wilcoxon 1997, Winthrop1998). It is not our intent here to enter into a discussionof cultural politics or contribute to the ongoing debateamong Indian people, ethnographers, archaeologists, andland managers regarding science versus indigenousknowledge and religion (see, e.g., Carmichael, Reeves,and Schanche 1994; Layton 1989a, b; Deloria 1995; Swid-ler et al. 1997; Stoffle and Evans 1990; Stoffle et al. 1990:11–27). While recognizing the heterogeneity, intracul-tural variation, uneven distribution of specializedknowledge, and constant cultural change at work in anysociocultural system (Harrod 1995; Spicer 1971; Castile1981; Moone 1981; Shipek 1977; Winthrop 1998:27), wemaintain that enduring Indian peoples (Spicer 1971,

2. See Fowler, Madsen, and Hattori (1973). Swarthout (1981) hasproposed using Southern Paiute settlement-subsistence strategiesto model Anasazi settlement distributions in the western GrandCanyon and lower Virgin River region, including the Arizona Strip.Wikle (1979:370) notes that “a few archeologists argue that theSouthern Paiutes were actually post-agricultural Anasazi using ahunting and gathering strategy to cope with the recurring environ-mental crisis” (see also Gunnerson 1962, 1969). Fairley’s (1989)extensive review of this issue places Paiutes in and around theVirgin Anasazi but concludes that it is unclear whether the Paiutepushed the Anasazi out of this area in the early 1100s or joinedthem to become a single people.

1980; Castile and Kushner 1981; Harrod 1995) with longresidence in and knowledge of what they believe to beholy lands (Spicer 1957) have passed rich oral traditionsof their history, culture, and resource use down throughthe generations. Euler (1967:61–67), in an attempt to testthe reliability of oral testimony, compared the notes ofEdward Sapir from an interview with a Southern Paiutenamed Tony Tillahash with the responses to his owninterviews of Tillahash between 1956 and 1959 andfound a 92% match on detailed statements concerningthe same subjects. On another 4% Tillahash gave essen-tially the same answers, and on the rest he simply saidthat he had forgotten. Recent cultural resource studieshave been firmly based on the oral accounts of Tilla-hash’s daughter, Eunice Surveyor. Studies drawing uponprimary documents, archaeological and geological re-search, and comparative ethnography and ethnologyhave led anthropologists and historians to the conclusionthat people with strong oral traditions can make accuratestatements about events that occurred long before theywere born (DeLaguna 1958, Krech 1980, Montell 1970,Opler 1940, Pendergast and Meighan 1959), and the fed-eral courts have recognized this (Dobyns and Euler 1970;Heizer and Kroeber 1976; Shipek 1970, 1980). These stud-


ies independently documenting the validity of oral his-tory data for the interpretation of archaeological re-sources and places lend credibility to the SouthernPaiutes’ accounts of their ancestors’ participation in theGhost Dance.

The Ghost Dance in the Grand Canyon

The Pai and Southern Paiute peoples native to the GrandCanyon exhibited all the symptoms of peoples understress that seem to have been a precondition for theGhost Dance. By at least 1826 Southern Paiute peoplewere experiencing depopulation from European diseases,and between 1840 and 1860 the direct transmission ofpathogens caused the death of as much as 90% of localpopulations (Stoffle, Jones, and Dobyns 1995). During the1860s all the major riverine and spring oases north ofthe Colorado River had been either settled by Euro-Americans or encroached on by their livestock. Only afew side canyons and the river itself remained under thecontrol of the Paiute people. Conflicts and land losscaused many Southern Paiutes to move to the south sideof the river to reside with their Pai neighbors in relativelyprotected areas such as Havasu Canyon, Peach SpringsCanyon, Grapevine Wash, and Granite Park (Stoffle etal. 1994:81, 171–73). When these lands were threatened,Paiute warriors fought alongside the Pai warriors in theHualapai War (1867 to 1869). After the U.S. Army sup-pressed this native resistance movement, many Paiutepeople moved back across the river to isolated regionsof refuge (Aguirre Beltran 1973) such as Kanab Creek,where they farmed in relative isolation until the turn ofthe century. Thus, 1870 dates a fundamental shift in therelationship between Euro-Americans and the Pai andPaiute peoples.

After the Mormon “treaty”3 with the western Navajosand the defeat of the Hualapai by the U.S. Army, South-ern Paiutes increasingly turned to supernatural solutionsfor their problems. In 1875 there was a mass conversionto the Mormon religion on the Virgin River drainage nearthe town of St. George. Mormon accounts indicate thatthe 197 persons baptized in this ceremony representednearly the entire Shivwits/Santa Clara Paiute tribe (Bleak1954:409). Euler’s (1966:93) research suggests that theconversion stemmed from shamanistic visions and wasprobably a response to stress. In 1881 the Hualapai andthe Havasupai traveled to Chemehuevi Valley to dancethe Ghost Dance with the Paiute people. According toGeorge Laird, a Chemehuevi Paiute who participated inthis Ghost Dance, a voice from above spoke to dancersfrom different tribes in their own languages (Laird 1976:44–45). Several years later, George Wharton James (1903)

3. Although the LDS Church and local Mormon historians (Corbett1952:299–303) refer to the November 2, 1970, agreement as theNavajo Treaty, it involved some Navajo band leaders who signed anonaggression agreement at Fort Defiance in the presence of JacobHamblin, Captain F. F. Bennett, and Major J. W. Powell. It was notan official treaty, because only the U.S. government is permittedto sign treaties with Indian nations.

witnessed a Ghost Dance ceremony at Cataract Canyon“led by a Chemehuevi missionary” (cited in Dobyns andEuler 1967:12–13).

Southern Paiute participation in the 1890 GhostDance is recorded largely by the oral history of the Hu-alapai Ghost Dance. In 1929 Hualapai people told stu-dent ethnographers under the leadership of A. L. Kroeberthat the Ghost Dance had been introduced to them “fromthe Paiute of St. George [Utah] and St. Thomas [Nevada]in 1889” (Kroeber 1935:198). After a Paiute leader namedPanamaita had visited the Hualapai in the company ofJeff, a Hualapai shaman, “a party of prominent Walapai,including Jeff and several recognized chiefs, went to St.George and witnessed the dance” (p. 198). A Hualapaiwith the initials M. P. told Scudder Mekeel (p. 199):

Once chief Serum and chief Kwasula wanted to visitthe Paiute and see if this dance were true. Theywent in August. They took some men with themand traveled on horseback to Panyimsavokua on theother side of St. George. There they danced with thePaiute. They stayed with them for a month andcame home.

Another Hualapai person with the initials K. J. told Mek-eel (p. 201):

Kjinpuka, Jeff went to the Ghost Dance. Tamnadawent. Oava’dima, my father Kua’da, Levi-levi, Se-rum, these four went as far as St. Thomas [a townon the Colorado River north of Las Vegas]. Thedance was held at St. George. They went there thenext night. Sticks were put around in a circle. Peo-ple danced in a circle around a pole. The dancestopped the fourth morning. Jeff and Tamnadalearned all their songs.

After learning the Ghost Dance from the Shivwits/Santa Clara Paiutes and perhaps the Moapa Paiutes livingnear St. Thomas, the Hualapai held the first of threeceremonies in August 1889 at Grass Springs, near PierceFerry, Arizona. According to an article in the MohaveCounty Miner (August 3, 1889),

The Wallapai Indians this week departed for GrassSpring some seventy-five miles north-east of King-man, there to have a grand pow-wow, which Sur-rum, the chief, says will last one month. The Nava-joes, Supais, Moquis, Utes and Chimeueves willhave representatives there. They will have a big rainsing and dance and expect to bring rain in plenty.They also expect to “catch em heap plenty blan-kets” from the other tribes, and they will probablygamble as long as they can rustle grub in that sec-tion and they have anything to win or lose.

Within two weeks the Hualapai dancers returned andagain were interviewed by the newspaper editor, whowrote (Mohave County Miner, August 17, 1889),

Wallapais who have returned from Grass Springs saythat a “ghost dance” in which all the tribes took


part, all dressed in white and which lasted five daysand nights, was had last week and it took about allthe dance out of the Indians. The Piutes are respon-sible for the gathering of the various tribes at GrassSprings. The medicine men of that tribe say that theGreat Spirit told them to gather all the good Indiansat that place and that some time during two moonsthe Hicos4 would be totally wiped from the face ofthe earth by some pestilence and they would be-come possessors of all the land again. These medi-cine men keep apart from the rest of the Indians andclaim to be in direct communication with the GreatSpirit and have a great influence over all those as-sembled. It is probable that if the prophecy of themedicine men prove false that the Piute tribe willshoot a couple of the wise men of their tribe at theend of the second moon. They are getting short ofprovisions and a number of deaths have occurredfrom lack of food, and if the foolishness lasts thetime allotted the number of good Indians will belargely increased.

These two newspaper accounts confirm that the GhostDance sponsored by the Hualapai and Paiute at GrassSprings was stimulated by relationships with the South-ern Paiutes, involved several Indian ethnic groups, re-quired extensive food resources, involved great personalrisk for the organizers, and was intended to eliminatewhite people from the earth.

Old Mike, a Hualapai elder interviewed by Kroeber(1935:200), remembered a dance held in September 1889at Grass Springs, Arizona, which was probably the sec-ond ceremony in as many months at this site. Old Mikeremembered:

When night came all the girls and boys started todance in a ring, alternating and holding hands. Theystarted circling with a short step when the singingbegan. They alternated in a clockwise and counter-clockwise direction. In the center was a fire, andthere were also fires on the outside at some dis-tance. The older people of my age stayed by the fireand watched the young people dance. Jeff knew thePaiute song and he sang. The boys wore their under-wear and the girls wore white cloth dresses like cov-eralls. They painted their faces with qwada (red he-matite) and matinyatc [white paint].

The people danced around a pole that was painted witha spiral and had eagle feathers at the top (Dobyns andEuler 1967:3). Anglo visitors noted that about 500 Hu-alapai attended the dance (Dobyns and Euler 1967:5). TheHualapai gathering at Grass Springs lasted four months,during which there were dances that lasted up to 15 days(Kroeber 1935:200). White clay was a key element in thedance. Havasupai Ghost Dance leaders, for example, toldvisiting Hopi traders that they had to wash their bodiesand paint them with white clay before entering the

4. “Hicos” is one spelling of a Paiute and Pai word for “whiteperson.”

Ghost Dance encampment (Dobyns and Euler 1967:26;Mooney 1991 [1896]:813). Large quantities of white pig-ment would have been required for hundreds of dancersto cover their bodies for day after day of ceremonialdancing.

Pai oral history and local newspaper accounts, then,confirm that the ceremony was taught to them by theirPaiute neighbors, and both record the movement of peo-ple back and forth across the Colorado River. Paiute peo-ple participated in both Hualapai and Havasupai GhostDance ceremonies. It has been suggested by Henry Do-byns (personal communication) that the largest Hualapaiceremony may have been held at Grass Springs in orderto facilitate Paiute attendance. Both documents and oralhistory convey a picture of Pai and Paiute people workingtogether in response to the social and environmentalproblems resulting from territorial encroachment byEuro-Americans and population decline.

Early observers documented frequent intertribal inter-actions between Pai and Paiute peoples across the Col-orado River (Stoffle et al. 1994:75–84, 102–3). Such in-teractions included trade in ceramics and other goods(Dobyns 1974, Smith 1977) including red hematite pig-ment (Dellenbaugh 1933:85–87), intermarriage (Stoffle etal. 1994:82–83), and joint use of trails in Peach Springsand Diamond Creek Canyons and at the ToroweapValley–Prospect Canyon crossing (Stoffle et al. 1994:76–84). Evidence suggests ceremonial interactions aswell. The red pigment traded to the Hualapai was likelycollected from a large cave on the Colorado River as itis today (Stoffle et al. 1994:75, 168–69). Red hematitepigment, or red ochre, is sacred to Paiute people and usedalmost exclusively for ceremonial purposes (Stoffle et al.1994:7). Furthermore, Grass Springs is an important stop-ping point on the Salt Song trail, along which, accordingto Southern Paiute and Hualapai cosmology, the de-ceased travel to the afterlife. Both the trail and the songare important components of Pai and Paiute funeral cer-emonies, and even today Paiute people retain the serv-ices of Hualapai singers for the Cry (see Sapir 1912).

Given all these types of social, economic, and ritualinteraction, it may be that essential ceremonial itemssuch as white paint also moved across the river and thatthe Pai people participated with the Kaibab Paiutes dur-ing their Ghost Dance ceremony in Kanab CreekCanyon. The major source of white paint for the Pai wastraditionally a cave called Ookwata Giyo’ about 20 milesup the Bill Williams River (Henry Dobyns, personal com-munication). Pai had lost access to this important paintsource by the 1870s, and it may be that they acquiredthe large quantities of white paint for their 1889 GhostDance from the source in Kanab Creek Canyon. If so,then they may have participated in the Kaibab PaiuteGhost Dance held there. The likelihood of Indian tribes’jointly using a white paint source is strengthened by thedocumented trade in red paint and the occurrences ofjoint ceremonial dancing and fits the broader model ofinterethnic cooperation for the Grand Canyon ecoregionthat recent studies have revealed (Stoffle et al. 1994).


Fig. 4. The Kanab Creek Basin ecoscape (adaptedfrom Webb, Smith, and McCord 1991:2), showingdrainage divides (solid lines), reaches with arroyos(dashed lines), reaches with bedrock canyons (dottedlines), gauging stations (triangles), and towns (squares).

The Kanab Creek Ghost Dance Site

Kanab Creek is for Southern Paiutes a special ecoscapewithin the regional landscape—a portion of that land-scape that is “clearly defined by an unusual or distinctlocal geography and its unique cultural relationship toan American Indian group or groups” (Stoffle et al. 1995:47; Stoffle, Halmo, and Austin 1997). Physically, it isdefined by steep-sided canyons and streams; culturally,it is defined by its contribution to the aboriginal adap-tation of Southern Paiute people and to their ethnicgroup’s survival during the historic period. The KanabCreek ecosystem, defined by hydrology, is the most ex-tensive in the Grand Canyon regional landscape (fig. 4),more than 60 miles north to south and 40 miles east towest. The Kanab Creek ecoscape is significantly smaller,about 30 miles from the Colorado River to where canyonwalls begin to appear on the Kaibab Paiute reservationand about 30 miles from the upper Snake Canyon in theeast to the upper Hack Canyon in the west.

Aboriginally the Kanab Creek ecoscape fell within theterritory or district of a local group of Southern Paiutescalled the Kaivavichutsin (“Paiute people from themountain-lying-down region”) or Kaibab Paiutes. Riv-erine and spring oasis farming was central to Kaibab Pai-ute aboriginal adaptation in this district, and thepermanent waters of Kanab Creek were a key oasis. Kai-bab Paiute people farmed the length of Kanab Creek fromthe headwaters it shares with the Great Basin near Alton,Utah, to its delta on the Colorado River. Useful riparianplants were gathered in this oasis ecosystem; in fact, theterm “Kanab” comes from the Paiute kanav (willow; cf.kanav ’uipi, “willow canyon”) and refers to the largestands of willows that grew near Paiute residences alongthis creek. Animals of many kinds lived and were huntedin this topographically unique ecosystem. Finally, theKanab Creek ecoscape was one of the major north-southtrails from the mountains of southern Utah to the Col-orado. Along this trail goods and materials flowed to andfrom the neighboring tribes to the south along with theplants and animals of various ecological zones.

The rock art site and paint source identified by South-ern Paiutes as the Ghost Dance site is a sandstone out-crop on the east bank of Kanab Creek, and people visitit today because of its historic and religious significance.The rock art extends more than 400 meters across theface of the outcrop. Although there are examples ofpecked and incised petroglyphs, the rock art is domi-nated by paintings in a variety of colors. One group ofpaintings is situated along a ledge 15–20 meters abovethe creek that is narrow and dangerous to walk on insome places. Other paintings are located where it is nolonger evident how the artist(s) gained access to paintthem.

Our investigation of the site integrated three perspec-tives. Four Southern Paiute consultants interpreted thesite in terms of their worldview, oral history, and tra-ditional conceptual orientation regarding their territoryand cultural landscape. An archaeologist who specializes

in rock art (see Loendorf 1991, 1994) interpreted thepanel in terms of the number and kinds of figures presenton the panel, the various styles that these figures andsymbols represent, and the temporal aspects of these el-ements as they reflect the possible chronology of theirplacement on the panel. Ethnographers wove oral tes-timony from native consultants and scientific interpre-tations from the archaeologist together with comparativeethnological data, previous long-term ethnographicknowledge of Paiute traditional culture, secondary eth-nographic and ethnohistorical accounts, and current the-oretical frameworks of place, space, and landscape. Thisprocess of triangulation permitted multiple-sourcecross-checking and validation of findings regarding thesite and its cultural significance as a place or landmarkand as a component of the Paiute cultural landscape.

The styles of rock art are directly comparable to those


Fig. 5. White grid of diamond shapes, with dots and figures on outcrop above. (Photo R. Stoffle.)

at other sites in the Colorado River Corridor (see Stoffleet al. 1995). The Cave Valley style is best represented inthe side canyons of the Grand Canyon, but it is alsofound elsewhere (Stoffle et al. 1995:18–38). The diamond-shaped grids and other triangular patterns (fig. 5) are mostsimilar to designs found in Parashant Canyon; althoughit is clear that the Southern Paiute visited and respectedthese sites, it is impossible to determine who made thesepatterns. The majority of the paintings represent whathas been called the Paiute style (Stoffle et al. 1995:36–38).The figures most clearly related to the Cave Valley styleare human figures with triangular bodies that are usuallylarger than the Paiute figures, made in more colors, andlocated higher on the wall. Several areas of zigzag pat-terns are found along the rock face. Other scalloped andfretlike patterns appear to be older. One figure was madeby placing leaves of an Indian tobacco (Nicotiana spp.)plant on the wall and spraying them with paint, makinga silhouette on the wall. The white figures seem to rep-resent the Paiute style. One painting is found along theouter edge of a layer of the sandstone about 10 cm thick.A zigzag pattern painted in white fills the width of thesurface for a distance of 4 meters.

Loendorf’s analysis (Stoffle et al. 1995:26–27, 171–75)suggests that other nearby red-pigment paintings andpeckings indicate use of the site before the Ghost Dancepaintings were made. Style variations within the rockart at the site suggest that some of the paintings weremade more than 2,000 years ago and therefore either by

proto-Paiutes or by other Indian peoples. Some Paiutepeople assert that their ancestors made these earlierpaintings, but others say that they were made by otherIndian tribes while Paiute people were living in the area.

The panel identified by Kaibab Paiute individuals in1976 as associated with a Ghost Dance ceremony is aprominent series of paintings in a bright white, mostlyhuman forms with rounded shoulders and torsos. Mov-ing from right to left (figs. 6 and 7), the panel begins witha figure that on first glance resembles a spiral but uponcloser inspection is a circle around a central dot; aroundthis is an enclosed crescent moon with a line extendingfrom the bottom of the crescent. Below this figure is awhite smear. Above and to the left is a headless figure.Two conspicuous figures in the panel, one human-likeand the other a quadruped (probably a horse), are depictedwith their feet pointing upward. To the left of them is along object with an oval head that appears to be a rattle.Above this set of figures are six flying figures. To the leftof the rattle-like object are stick figures that appear tobe wearing clothing (represented by a double outline ofthe arms, legs,and body). Next to these are more stickfigures with white paint smeared over them like a veil.To the left of these are three-toed stick figures (one witha triangular body), a geometric design, and two morestick figures. Small white lines appear above these fig-ures. These figures are connected with the next set offigures by a 3-ft.-long angled line. Two of the next threefigures have no heads, and two have grids of dots over


Fig. 6. Crescent moon spiral (right) and various figures. (Photo R. Stoffle.)


Fig. 7. Figures connected by angled line to other figures, with lines and dots above. (Photo R. Stoffle.)

their heads. The remainder of the panel contains twodistinct animals, headless figures, and smears. The flyingfigures of this panel are very similar to those depictedon the ceiling over a rock art panel at a site in WhitmoreWash, farther down the Grand Canyon, which has alsobeen interpreted by two knowledgeable Southern Paiuteconsultants as a Ghost Dance site (Stoffle et al. 1994:165–166; Stoffle et al. 1995:115). Thus there appears tobe a direct cultural relationship between these sites.

The white paint panel was seen by the Southern Paiuteconsultants as directly linked to Indian residence acrossand up the canyon: “People were living in this area whenthese paintings were made.” The panel is believed to berelated to the white paint pigment source that is foundbelow the panel and just beyond it along the base of thecliff (see fig. 8). The consultants agreed that the panelwas a record of events and things seen, “part of our life.”They considered the site a place where Paiute peoplewould come and make offerings, offer prayers to spiritualbeings, and record events:

This is a good record of events, a part of history thattook place including ceremonies. The whole panel isconnected.

It is a record of traditional beliefs, where they con-duct ceremonies.

It is all of the above, teaches children, translates

traditions from one people to another, shows trails,happiness and tragedies.

History is written here. For example, the headlesspeople are about Paiutes that were killed by thewhite people.

One middle-aged Paiute woman said that she had visitedthis panel when she was growing up, but her parents hadnot told her its meaning; rather, they had given her les-sons about life in general. All the consultants believedthat the white paint panel was made by Paiutes. Oneperson said, “This is an overwhelming experience to seethese are still here and that I can come down here toview it and touch the white paint source.”

The pigment from the seam along the base of the sand-stone cliff had the consistency of cornstarch and wouldhave needed very little grinding to prepare it for makingpaint. At one point the pigment is more than a meterthick and many meters high. The seam shows the scarsof extensive quarrying. In connection with the GhostDance, it is important to reiterate that the pictographsat the site are in white and white clothing was worn byHualapai Ghost Dancers. According to an eyewitness toa Ghost Dance (possibly the third Grass Springs cere-mony) held in 1891 near Kingman, Arizona (Miller 1952:33–34, quoted in Dobyns and Euler 1967:5),

As darkness began to fall, the every-day flashy,


Fig. 8. Vein of white paint pigment near the GhostDance rock art panel. (Photo R. Stoffle.)

though scant clothing was exchanged for the whiterobes prescribed by the medicine men as a dancingcostume; faces and hair were painted white. . . . A fa-vorite mode of painting seemed to be to paint thelips, eyes, nose and hair white, leaving the rest ofthe face its natural color.

Although other descriptions suggest red face paint, if onewere trying to depict Ghost Dancers in costumes whitewould be the most appropriate color. The white pigmentmay have had more significance than a correct icono-graphic respresentation. Hittman (1990:186–94) de-scribes an elaborate hypothesis linking Wovoka and thecolor white to rain-making magic and shamanic curing.While components of Hittman’s hypothesis are conjec-tural, it is apparent that Wovoka sought white pigment(ebe) from a source in the Wabsuka Hills north of Yer-ington, Nevada, and that it was an integral part of theGhost Dance ceremony. One Paiute consultant thoughtthat more white paint was used for painting figures herebecause more was available at this pigment source. An-other consultant agreed but felt that “it was all white

for a reason. When they used red paint (ompi), they usedit for special reasons also.”

These Ghost Dance paintings are a good candidate forthe scientific demonstration of the association betweenrock art and shamanism, because this is one of the fewplaces in which an oral account establishes what relig-ious ceremony occurred while the rock paintings werebeing created. Clear descriptions of the Ghost Danceamong the Hualapai allow us to glimpse this ceremonyas it was practiced among the neighboring Paiutes. Whilethe Hualapai probably adapted the dance to their ownculture, their proximity to the Southern Paiute and thefact that Hualapai shamans learned the dance directlyfrom Paiute shamans suggests that the descriptions ofthe Hualapai dance represent the Paiute practice. Be-cause of the age of the rock art at the Kanab Creek GhostDance site, the extensive quarrying of the white pig-ment, and the documented interactions of Paiute andHualapai people during the Ghost Dance, there is reasonto believe that the site was recognized by the Paiutes asa “house of power,” used by shamans or religious leaders.

The earliest ethnographic evidence of the religious im-portance of the Kanab Creek ecoscape comes from the1932–34 study of the Southern Paiutes by Isabel Kelly(1939:151–152). In her analysis of Paiute shamanism sherecorded the names of recent but not then living sha-mans. Kelly’s informants knew the names of 20 shamansfrom the Kaibab Paiute district, and only 2 of these werewomen. One of these female shamans was named Tcan-tuya (“slashed forehead”) and she lived in Kana diuip(“willow canyon,” Kanab Creek). Tcantuya was the onlyshaman known by Kelly’s informants to have lived inthe Kanab Creek area, so she must have been powerfulto attend singlehandedly to all the spiritual needs of thepeople living in her area. It can be assumed that shepracticed in the late 1880s, long before the establishmentof the Kaibab Paiute reservation. Control of the rains orof natural forces such as earthquakes that would do harmto Euro-Americans was an important part of the GhostDance; we have seen that the Hualapai Chief Surrumpredicted that the Ghost Dance at Grass Springs would“bring rain in plenty.” The association between rain-making and rock art has been described by Whitley forNumic-speaking groups in the Great Basin. Whitley(1994:362–63) learned that a vision of “killing a moun-tain sheep” was prophetic of rain-making and that a de-piction of a hunter shooting an arrow at a mountainsheep is a metaphor for bringing the rains. This metaphoris expressed in several pictographs at the Kanab Creeksite. Thus it can be hypothesized that the site was fre-quented by shamans who were trying to make it rain, adesired outcome of the Ghost Dance.

The Paiute interpretation that the upside-down horseand human figures represent the dead who will be re-turned to life after the Ghost Dance makes good sense.As for the spiral near the end of the panel, it may belinked to the spiral painted on the center pole used inthe Ghost Dance, presumably a representation of theroute used to enter a trance (Dobyns and Euler 1967:2,quoting Kroeber 1935:198). Some dancers ran to the cen-


ter pole and swung around and around it until they fellinto trance, while others apparently climbed the pole andfell from it into trance (Dobyns and Euler 1967:13, 26,quoting Parsons 1936:996). The suggestion of trance isalso evident in the flying figures.

The rattle-like object to the left of the upside-downfigures in the panel may represent a musical instrumentused in the dance (Dobyns and Euler 1967:4), while otherdepictions may represent the rasping sticks also used.Some of the figures may be wearing feathers both on theirheads and on their shoulders; eagle feathers were an im-portant part of the Ghost Dance.

The arrangement of the panel, with the flying figuresat the top, suggests a cosmic map with spirits of the skyrealm shown above the figures in the main panel. Theseflying figures are often the vehicle used by shamans toexplore other worlds. The wavy lines around some of thefigures, the spiral, and the long angled line connectingparts of the left side of the panel are all examples of thepower lines depicted by shamans in their art. Severalfigures are headless, a possible representation of the“death” associated with trance. The grids of dots shownabove the heads of several figures probably represent theentoptic phenomena that are the first stage of trance.These grids are connected to the heads of several humanfigures, suggesting the construct stage, the second stepinto trance.

The strong association between shamans and rock artis expressed in several other motifs as well. Shamansfrequently depicted the guardians of the supernaturalworld in their rock art. In the Grand Canyon region thesewere dangerous animals—rattlesnakes, grizzly bears, andmountain lions. Shamans also depicted their spirit help-ers. Thus the person who dreamed rattlesnakes con-trolled the medicine to cure rattlesnake bites, and paint-ings of rattlesnakes were put on the rocks for validationof this power.

It is important to recognize that although the under-standing of the rock art might be part of the esotericknowledge of the shaman, any Native person woulddemonstrate respect for it. Cushing (1965[1882]:71) de-scribes a small ritual that took place at rock art sites:

The worship of the Ha-va-su-pai’ consists of prayers,made during their smokes, or at hunting shrines,which are merely groups of rude pictographs alongthe nooks or caves in the walls of the canyon. Here,seated on the ground, the worshiper blows smoke tothe north, west, south, and east, upward and down-ward; then says in a low tone, some simple prayer.

Apparently some of the rituals at rock art sites were adhoc and performed by passers-by or short-term visitorsto the site to insure success in their endeavors. Othersmay have been more sophisticated and included shamanswho used the rock art in their practices.

The suggestion that rock art may be associated withthe Ghost Dance has been made for California Indians(Schiffman and Andrews 1982:79–96). With ethnographicsupport for a Ghost Dance connection to rock paintings

at the Kanab Creek site, it is reasonable to assume arelationship between this site and the Ghost Dance.

Places of Power

For Paiute people, rock art sites elicit behavioral pro-scriptions. Many Paiute people believe that no Indianperson would casually mark a rock, because all rocks arealive and powerful. Also, to mark a rock is to place ahuman desire on the rock’s desire. It is much like pickinga plant without its permission. It would not be donewithout a clear-cut and culturally acceptable reason thatthe rock understood and accepted. Most Paiute peoplewould not deliberately anger a powerful rock, and there-fore it is understood that any marks on a rock, whetherpecked or painted, were made within the bounds of cul-turally appropriate behavior.

The act of painting or pecking a boulder or cliff faceinvolves additional interaction obligations between thePaiute person and the pecking rock or the painting pig-ment. Cobble-sized stones receive special attention.Such stones often talk to an Indian person in order toattract attention. Sometimes the Indian person listensto this message and moves the cobble to a place that isagreeable to it and the person. Some cobbles are used incuring and are highly valued possessions, but each cobblehas selected the person to cure as much as being selectedby that person. Picking up a cobble to peck a boulder orcliff face involves two-way communication. Similarly,painting a rock involves acquiring the pigment at aquarry, and pigment sources are often approached withcaution because of their perceived power. Pigment canbe quarried only after it has been told the reason it isbeing disturbed, and it will serve the Paiute person onlyif it agrees to be so used. The making of paint furtherrequires the use of animal fat, which involves additionalPaiute-animal behavioral proscriptions.

No Paiute person today knows with certainty whomade all rock paintings and peckings, but the Paiuteconsultants interviewed assert that they are likely tohave been made by persons with religious knowledge andpurpose. According to the consultants, when medicineand religious persons make rock paintings they do so forthemselves, their fellow community members, and Pai-ute people in general. The act of painting or pecking arock may be for good, for evil, or for both. Culturallyinappropriate actions need to be balanced by appropriateactions so that sickness will abate or misfortune willreverse. When medicine and religious persons paint andpeck rocks, they leave the location with added powergenerated by the ceremony (see Carmichael 1994, Mohs1994, Theodoratus and LaPena 1994). A person steppinginto ceremonial power associated with an already pow-erful place risks becoming involved in the rock art cer-emony itself. Thus, rock painting and pecking sites arebelieved to be associated with personal danger that doesnot exist elsewhere.

The question may remain whether the paintings at theKanab Creek site in fact depict a Ghost Dance there or


are instead associated with ceremonies held elsewhere.It is possible that they were made to serve as a mnemonicdevice for shamans learning the dance. Among some Cal-ifornia Indians, one reason offered for rock art is to recorda vision in sufficient detail that the visionary will neverforget any part of it; another is to show people the super-natural journey that the shaman has completed (Whit-ley 1992:91). These examples suggest that the paintingsmay have been done at the Kanab Creek site as a re-minder of the components of the Ghost Dances heldelsewhere or as a public validation of the supernaturaljourney taken by participants in those dances.

The Kanab Creek ecoscape has a special place in thetraditions of Southern Paiute people. It can therefore beexpected that the rock paintings they made while livingin this ecoscape would reflect the role of the ecoscapeas well as the specific role of the site or ceremony as-sociated with the rock paintings. More recent rock paint-ings are expected to reflect Southern Paiute people’sstress from Euro-American encroachment on lands else-where and thanks for the relative protection afforded bythe Kanab Creek ecoscape (see Walker 1991:107).

Basso (1996a:56) has pointed to the significance ofplace in human society and interaction. The work ofRodman (1992), Altman and Low (1992), and Basso(1996a, b) on the significance of place is particularly val-uable in helping to elaborate on the experiences, mean-ings, and importance of this place for Southern Paiutepeople.

The Ghost Dance rock art site is clearly a traditionallandmark, in Mohs’s (1994:196) sense of the term (seealso Rodman 1992:649; Kelley and Francis 1993:158;Stoffle, Halmo, and Austin 1997:10; Zedeno, Austin, andStoffle 1997:125–26), within a culturally significant ecos-cape, or “a portion of a regional landscape that is clearlydefined by an unusual or distinct local geography and itsunique cultural relationship to an American Indiangroup or groups” (Stoffle et al. 1995:47; Stoffle, Halmo,and Austin 1997). As such, this place is also part of alarger cultural and social landscape in that it “links thearcheological record to the ways that social groups in-teract with landscapes that are partly structured by pre-vious social groups” (Rodman 1992:650). The synergisticassociations (Stoffle, Halmo, and Evans 1998:17; see alsoBasso 1996a:55) of the site with historic Paiute and Paipersonages interacting in a communal ceremony, of thewhite pigment source with the paintings and the myth-ical and historic figures they represent, and of Paiutepeople with Wovoka, the Ghost Dance prophet, long af-ter the movement ended inextricably link contemporaryPaiute people with the Kanab Creek ecosystem, theGrand Canyon and Colorado River, their Pai neighborsacross the Colorado River, and, we suggest, even theNorthern Paiute and the birthplace of Wovoka at Yer-ington, Nevada, several hundred miles outside of tradi-tional Southern Paiute territory (see Low and Altman1992).

Drawing upon our previous research (Stoffle et al.1995, Stoffle, Halmo, and Austin 1997), the linkages de-scribed above allow us to elaborate on a conceptual

scheme that integrates the ideas and typologies of theother analysts mentioned above. The Ghost Dance siteis a landmark within an ecoscape; both are componentsof a Southern Paiute regional landscape, which is furtherintegrated into ethnic group national territory or holyland (Spicer 1957; Stoffle and Dobyns 1983:45–46; Stof-fle, Halmo, and Austin 1997:10–11; Stoffle et al. 1995:45–46, 49). All of these components together comprise ageneralized social and cultural landscape (Stoffle et al.1995:41–55). We suggest here, further, that the KanabCreek ecoscape and the Ghost Dance site within it areparts of a contextual cultural and social land-scape—synergistically associated in a specific context,event, or period of time with particular people. Beneaththe level of holy land but within regional landscapes andecoscapes, contextual cultural landscapes may transcendnotions of bounded traditional territory, expanding, con-tracting, and shifting with the context within whichplaces, events, and people are interconnected.

Within this contextual cultural and social landscape,the Kanab Creek Canyon Ghost Dance rock art site is,to use Rodman’s (1992:649) term, polysemic in that itacknowledges Paiute “practices, their history, their con-flicts, their accomplishments.” The place is inherentlycharacterized by multivocality and multilocality (Rod-man 1992:646–47, 649–50); at once meaningful to manyPaiute people and connected to a network of other placesand people, it links living descendents, deceased ances-tors, and historic events, triggering memories, senti-ments, and a revitalized awareness of Paiute identity ina “roundly reciprocal” process of experiencing, sensing,and bonding to place among all Paiutes who, individuallyor collectively, visit and reflect on the place (Basso 1996a:55–77; see also Lawrence 1992:212–13; Low 1992:166–74; Low and Altman 1992). Paiute people who havevisited and continue to visit the site have given voice tothe power and significance of the place in their historyand culture, just as the site has beckoned and spoken tothem. Most important, whenever Southern Paiute peoplevisit the rock art site in Kanab Creek Canyon, offerprayers and tobacco in a traditional manner, and teachtheir children through telling stories (Low 1992:173–74)about the historic and religious events that occurredthere, they transform and further empower the alreadysacred place (Low 1992:166–67; Low and Altman 1992:10). Simultaneously, they are empowered by the placein that these acts reaffirm their identity (Harrod 1995)as Paiute people who, despite loss of territory, resources,and important places within their holy land by beingforced into refuge (see Riley 1992:24–25; Low 1992:169;Brown and Perkins 1992), remain firmly connected totheir land, cosmos, kin, and special places (Lawrence1992, Low 1992, Low and Altman 1992, Spicer 1971).

Summary

Contemporary Southern Paiute oral history accounts,ethnographic descriptions, and archaeological compari-sons arrive at essentially similar positions regarding the


cultural importance of Kanab Creek and the white rockpaintings found there. We have presented evidence fromthese three sources that Paiute and Pai peoples interactedsocially, economically, and ceremonially in the GrandCanyon–Colorado River ecoregion and that such inter-action was both frequent and intense prior to and duringthe Ghost Dance movements of the late 1800s. We havehypothesized, on the basis of documented interactionsbetween the two peoples, that Pai people may have ob-tained white pigment from and participated in a GhostDance ceremony with Paiute people at a site in KanabCreek Canyon. We have presented archaeological, ma-terial culture, and contemporary oral evidence that manyof the rock art panels, figures, and symbols are likely tohave been made by Paiute shamans during or after theGhost Dance ceremony. We have argued that GrassSprings, the Salt Song and trail, the Cry, the Kanab CreekCanyon Ghost Dance site, and the adjacent white pit-ment vein are all components of a contextual culturallandscape that link Pai and Paiute people, places, andGhost Dance ceremonies in social, cultural, economic,historical, geographical, ceremonial, and cosmologicalways that transcend the traditional boundaries of ethnic-group holy lands.

The interactions between peoples and places imply thesocial construction of cultural landscapes and constit-uent places within them (Low and Altman 1992:6–7).The Kanab Creek site is a sacred place in the view ofPaiute people because ceremonies were held there andsymbolic rock paintings were made by shamans or med-icine people. Those actions and events served to trans-form the site into a sacred place. Today, the sentimentsassociated with the site as a refuge and ceremonial lo-cation used by people from two ethnic groups remainstrong via the mechanisms of visitation (Low 1992:173),entailing individual or group ritual acts of prayer andofferings which serve to create or renew bonds betweenvisitors and the place (Lawrence 1992:212–13; Low 1992:166–75; Low and Altman 1992), and storytelling (Low1992:173–75), the recounting of the historical circum-stances surrounding the place and the ceremony heldthere as a method of teaching younger generations andothers and thus reaffirming those bonds. Through suchritual action (individual or group ceremony of prayingand offerings), reaffirmation, and cultural transmission,the experience of individuals is transcended (Low 1992:167; Low and Altman 1992:6–7), and both place and peo-ple are empowered.

A Paiute Conclusion

The science of archaeology may never resolve to its sat-isfaction the connection between the white paintings onthe walls of Kanab Creek Canyon and the Ghost Dance,but for many living Paiutes an acceptable answer to thequestion exists. A respected elder and chairman of theKaibab Paiute tribe said that a Ghost Dance ceremonytook place below the white painted figures in KanabCreek Canyon. At the time, other elders of the Kaibab

Paiute tribe both had heard of the Ghost Dance and saidthat this was the place where it occurred. The story ofthe Ghost Dance has persisted since 1890. Many Paiutepeople remember culturally significant events that oc-curred more than 85 years ago, as well as the placeswhere they occurred. For many contemporary SouthernPaiute people, then, the search for a scientifically validconnection between the white paintings and the GhostDance is largely irrelevant. They simply know that it isso.

Comments

richard w. arnoldPahrump Paiute Tribe, P.O. Box 3411, Pahrump, Nev.89041, U.S.A. 3 v 99

Southern Paiutes throughout Nevada, Utah, Arizona,and Southern California have known about the signifi-cance of rock paintings and the interrelationship withother resources for thousands of years. Indian people be-lieve that rock paintings should be treated with greatreverence, as they are a record of past events with tre-mendous cultural importance that became an integralpart of our contemporary belief system. Oral accountspassed down from one generation to the next speak ofthe Ghost Dance that occurred in the late 19th centurythroughout Southern Paiute territory. Historically, suchaccounts were discounted because of the absence of lit-erary material to substantiate the knowledge of our el-ders. It seems a bit incongruous that great credence wasgiven to early accounts of the forty-niners during the1849 gold rush but not to the memories of Indian peoplewho experienced such an important movement that hap-pened 20 and 40 years later.

There is no question that the Ghost Dance had a pro-found impact among Southern Paiutes as with othertribes. Clearly, it helped redefine our aboriginal bound-aries through powerful songs, prayers, and ceremoniessuch as those conducted in Kanab Creek Canyon andnumerous other areas within Southern Paiute territory.The intrinsic value of the ceremony and our strong beliefin an afterlife are a critical component essential to thesuccess of the Ghost Dance. Southern Paiutes knew thatthe ceremony would be an appropriate means of wel-coming back the people, animals, and resources thathave passed on or no longer exist. This belief is the foun-dation of Southern Paiute culture that helped perpetuatecomplex alliances with other tribal groups and gave anew meaning to areas that are more easily understoodby non-Indian people.

Contrary to some non-Indian perspectives, SouthernPaiutes evaluate areas using a complex system that goesfar beyond just rock paintings. Indicators such as loca-tions, representational styles, paint types and colors,plant communities, cultural landscapes, viewscapes,songscapes, and acoustics, to mention a few, assist in


developing cultural definitions today as they have forthousands of years. To our people, it may not be nec-essary to validate a scientific or ethnographic hypothesis,but it is critical to pay homage to areas that are knownto possess great power, especially those that were oncethe home of the Ghost Dance.

It is refreshing to read a manuscript that mirrors thetraditional thinking of Southern Paiutes beyond the lit-erary emphasis of hunters and gatherers. Clearly, therock paintings are known to possess great powers andillustrate more than merely the hope of a successful huntthat is all too often postulated in the literature. Today,as we approach the 21st century, people are taking stockof their resources and examining their preparedness fora new dawn just as we have done since the beginning oftime. Perhaps at some point the Indian viewpoint willcontinue to be articulated and our deep-rooted tradi-tional stories and beliefs will be recognized for what theytruly represent.

christopher chipp indaleCambridge University Museum of Archaeology andAnthropology, Downing St., Cambridge CB2 3DZ,England. 20 iv 99

As an undergraduate student a quarter-century ago, I wastaught political ethnography as a static functionalist sys-tem by Meyer Fortes, whose African Political Systems(Fortes and Evans-Pritchard 1940) was a text for thecourse. Not much visible in that influential book, largelywritten in the present tense, is the historical place ofthose political systems; yet they were not in stasis butpassing products of a certain circumstance. For manyregions of western America we have, if we choose, nota timeless present-tense ethnography but the sourcesclosely to report a century and more of dynamic upheavaland change. Although “traditional” in the positive senseis largely taken to mean unchanging, strong in the faceof disruption, the dictionary tells us that tradition en-compasses both change and lack of change; the key anddefining point is the continuity between forms old andnew (Akerman 1995). This is very evident in the GhostDance as reported here, not an ancient device but a nov-elty precipitated at a certain time by the immediateevents of European disruption and then remembered upto the present. Oral knowledge of it is clearly stayingstrong and consistent over the generations, but wouldthat knowledge be false or not “authentic” were it tohave changed much?

Alongside other studies of ethnohistory and rock artin western America, this paper compellingly links recentrock art to recent Native American knowledge. Its useof a triangulation among source materials echoes thecomplementary roles that Paul S. C. Tacon and I (Taconand Chippindale 1999) find useful for informed methodsand formal methods in rock art study, the informedmethods being those benefiting from some ethnohistor-ical or other immediate insight which gives access to aninsider’s account and the formal methods being those

that depend only on what is immanent in the rock artitself (see Chippindale and Tacon 1999 for a set of studiesusing this approach). The two methods apply to archae-ology in general; they have special force for rock art,since iconography and symbolic systems seem more id-iosyncratic and historically conditional in the forms theytake and in their internal structures and logic. One can-not, for example, deduce directly from the image of afish the Christian meaning which it has had in Westernknowledge or grasp from the imagery alone the relation-ship between the image of a bighorn sheep and rain thatWhitley (1999a) has deduced using ethnohistory perti-nent to the Mojave Desert in California. That uncer-tainty would habitually be contrasted with the confi-dence with which one can approach more robust classesof archaeological material such as the lithics—at leaston the routine face of it. Since both the informed meth-ods of lithic ethnoarchaeology and the formal methodsof use-wear study show that the set of lithics which ar-chaeologists call “scrapers” is not to be equated with theset of objects actually used in the task of scraping, theconfidence archaeologists have in those analytical clas-ses is false. The conditionality and variety of meaningsthat rock art may hold and the way they may changeover time more accurately model the world as it is, theworld of lithics included. The time depth of the anthro-pological record, now many decades even for remoteregions of the Americas, renders naıve the archaeolo-gist’s standard question of the anthropological record,which provides an analogy and a guiding model: not“What is the ethnography related to this phenomenon?”but “What are the ethnographies, and how have theybeen transformed over time?”

That said, the continuity in understanding and theconsistency of the Ghost Dance stories over time arestriking and should not surprise. In Aboriginal northernAustralia it has been demonstrated (Tacon, Wilson, andChippindale 1996) that the Rainbow Serpent, central ac-tor in modern Aboriginal knowledge of the world, ap-pears in the rock art back to some 6,000 years ago. Beforethat moment, there are snakes in the rock art but noRainbow Serpents and a clear indication that those earlyRainbow Serpents have a marine element in their beingwhich is lacking in the later serpents and their stories.Visionary iconography in the different rock art older thanthat first era of Rainbow Serpents nevertheless has strongparallels—or continuities—with other elements of mod-ern Aboriginal knowledge. In Australia the rock art isthe key evidence by which to articulate the world ofstories and human viewpoints in the ethnography to thematerial record of the archaeology, which offers splendidtime depth but a very reticent and thin range of objectsthat chance to survive (see, e.g., David 1998, n.d.; Davidet al. 1994 for work in this spirit). The present paper,addressing a smaller time depth and the disruptions ofEuropean annexation of the land, shows the same po-tential for the U.S. Southwest. That is another regionwhere a perceptive approach applying both informed andformal methods to a rich rock-art sequence may givetime depth to an ethnography otherwise limited to a


century or so and provide a human dimension to an ar-chaeology otherwise rather dependent on the externalforces of a controlling ecology.

j ean clottesFoix, Ariege, France. 21 iv 99

This paper deals with much more than the Ghost Dancein the Grand Canyon. After putting a rather recent his-torical event—as far as archaeology goes—into its his-torical and sociological context, the authors—SouthernPaiute consultants, a rock-art archaeologist, and ethnog-raphers—have woven together three threads of evidenceto determine why the art was created where it is, bywhom, and according to what rules of behavior and evenits meaning, its fundamental relation to power, the in-fluence it still exercises today, and the social construc-tion of cultural landscapes. Therefore it is a particularlyimportant article not only for the information it bringsabout the 1889 Ghost Dance but also for the methodsused, its wide-ranging results, and the analogies itpermits.

As to the results, they appear extremely well-sup-ported and fully convincing, be they the interaction be-tween the Paiute and Pai peoples, the hypothesis thatthe Pai may have obtained white pigment from the Pai-ute, the making of the rock art by Paiute shamans, andthe emergence—under severe stress—and persistence ofa contextual cultural landscape transcending traditionalethnic boundaries.

The authors insist on the validity of oral testimonyand upon its very long temporal range. This continuityof knowledge transmitted by oral tradition is all the morelikely, one might add, whenever—as is the case here—itrefers not simply to events but to cultural attitudes andstates of mind, to religious beliefs and rites. Some par-ticular events may get lost or at least very hazy in thecourse of time while their consequences for the way peo-ple believe and practice their religion survive for farlonger periods. This is why David Lewis-Williams coulddraw upon the ceremonies of present-day Bushmen inthe Kalahari Desert, who no longer practice rock art andhave lost all memory of what their ancestors did in thatrespect, to understand 19th-century Bushman rock artin the Drakensberg Mountains (Lewis-Williams 1980;also see Lewis-Williams 1981, Lewis-Williams and Bie-sele 1978).

In the article under review the importance of the whitepaint and its source(s) is emphasized again and again. Infact it is even hypothesized that the presence of a thickvein of white pigment may have been the determiningfactor in the choice of the site. The pigment played animportant part in the relationship between the Pai andthe Paiutes and most probably in the Ghost Dance itself.Therefore, I suggest that it would be advisable to go onestep farther and launch a program of pigment sampling,whether from the possible natural sources on the siteitself and elsewhere or from the white paintings. Thiswas done with some success a few years ago in several

Paleolithic caves in the French Pyrenees to checkwhether the red paintings on the portable art found in ahabitation site, La Vache (Buisson et al. 1989), were thesame as the wall paintings in the nearby cave of Niauxand also to verify what kinds of preparations were madein the Magdalenian caves in the Ariege (Clottes, Menu,and Walter 1990, Clottes 1993, Menu et al. 1993). Thequestions asked about the white paint of the Paiutes andPai would no doubt be quite different but no less inter-esting. Can the paintings be indisputably linked to thepigment vein on the site? How exactly was the pigmentused (Was it finely ground? With what kind of binderwas it mixed? Was there any extender?)? Could there beany other pigment source for the white paintings? Afterall, participants from distant places might have broughttheir own paint, since the power of paint and pigmentquarries is strong and meaningful and since the KanabCreek Canyon “is connected to a network of other placesand people.” Not only could such analyses produce tech-nical information that is no longer available from livinginformants about the paint but also they might provideclues about how white pigment was really regarded andpossibly whether the same local source was utilized forrock paintings at other sites. To the three strands of ev-idence used would thus be added a fourth.

Establishing firm standpoints as the authors have donegoes far beyond the interest of the site itself because itenables and furthers the use of analogies with other bod-ies of rock art (on analogy see Wylie 1985, 1988; Lewis-Williams 1991; Flood 1997:18–24). Several points theymake are particularly useful in that respect. Naturally,when they refer to evidence established elsewhere to sug-gest a hypothesis (i.e., when they themselves use anal-ogy), for example, about a spiral’s being “presumably arepresentation of the route used to enter a trance” or thegrids of dots “probably represent[ing] the entoptic phe-nomena that are the first stage of trance,” then one canonly consider it speculation, likely as it may be.

The Ghost Dance and the paintings associated with itwere a direct response to drastically changing conditionsof life under the pressure of Euro-Americans. This canbe compared with what occurred in other parts of Amer-ica, be it in the north (Keyser 1992:101–2 on the Colum-bia Plateau) or in South America (Schobinger and Gradin1985:79), in Australia (Flood 1997:254, 307, 316–17; Tre-zise 1993:49–55), in Southern Africa (Lewis-Williams andDowson 1989:145–47), or elsewhere, whenever religiouspractitioners were faced with problems their traditionalmethods could not cope with.

The paramount importance of pigments, red or white,their “sacredness” and power, is once more emphasizedand well documented, as is the indisputable shamanisticcontext in which the ceremonies took place. Finally, thepower of the rocks themselves and the behavior thatconception entails, the way paintings were added to it,the contextual and social landscape which is thus cre-ated—all these attested beliefs and their consequencesare universals of human thinking and behaving. Theymay help us understand other bodies of rock art forwhich direct evidence is missing.


vine deloria jr .Department of History, University of Colorado atBoulder, Boulder, Colo. 80309-0234, U.S.A. 10 iv 99

The Stoffle et al. article is a positive step toward mod-ernizing and modifying ancient racial slurs concerningthe Indian oral traditions and bringing anthropology andarchaeology to the brink of the 19th century (while therest of the world begins the 21st!). For some time it hasbeen doctrine that Indian traditions are either silly fic-tions reflecting primitive superstitions or fables devisedto entertain children. It is hard to deny the latter clas-sification, as they have occupied the minds of anthro-pologists, linguists, and folklorists for generations. How-ever, both these interpretations are based on doctrine,not on hard research or correlation of the tradition withthe geological and geographical sites that would help de-termine its validity.

Scholars who maintain that Indians have no long-standing recall of events and activities have simply notpaid attention to what they were hearing when talkingwith Indians—or did not know how to talk with Indians.It is doubly distressing to hear the tribal oral traditionsattacked by representatives of a people that could notremember the existence or provisions of a treaty madeless than a generation before. And looking at the sworntestimony of our political leaders, who cannot seem torecall any of their activities since taking office, there istoo much prima facie evidence that it is white societythat cannot remember at all.

The next step in expanding the beachhead which Stof-fle et al. have established would be to correlate tribalstories of strange people passing through their lands inancient times. Many such stories exist and would givea much firmer foundation to questions regarding theKennewick remains, for example, than spur-of-the mo-ment changes in established doctrines by the scholarsnow in court in Oregon seeking to play with the remainsof the individual found in the Columbia River.

Moving into this territory would allow entertainmentof the hypothesis that a variety of people made sea voy-ages to the western hemisphere from the earliest timesand that some of them may have left evidence in themounds and stone monuments scattered over the easternUnited States. At the present time anthropology and ar-chaeology take the stance that no voyages were possible,based wholly on the arrogant modern belief that weknow more than our ancestors did. This doctrine is un-warranted and, at the least, not in tune with everythingthe so-called scientists espouse regarding the propermethod of gathering and evaluating evidence to supporta theory or belief.

Anthropology and archaeology have looked at theirdata with blinders on for more than a century. Scholarswith some national prestige have dictated doctrinesbased wholly on their personal preferences. The rest ofthe practitioners of these disciplines have operated in aclimate of fear, hoping that what they publish will notoffend the powers that be. Thus anthropology and ar-chaeology look more like religions than academic fields

of inquiry. Perhaps for that reason textbooks in thesefields spend time trying to convince the readers that theyare “sciences.”

Stoffle et al. have provided us with an opportunity tomove beyond academic folklore and gain better insightsfrom our data. If Schliemann can show that Greek“myths” had a basis in fact, why can’t the same will-ingness to think open up similar discoveries in the west-ern hemisphere?

t . j . fergusonHeritage Resources Management Consultants, Tucson,Ariz. 85745, U.S.A. ([email protected]). 30 iv 99

This article illustrates the intellectual tension underly-ing current research on traditional cultural properties.The Paiute conclusion makes it clear that Southern Pai-utes “simply know” that the pictographs are associatedwith a Ghost Dance but implies that the non-Indiancoauthors have not resolved the scientific validity of thisassociation. Throughout the article, the authors carefullyqualify their statements about the association betweenthe pictographs and the Ghost Dance. The white pig-ment was “perhaps” the paint source used in the 1889and 1890 Hualapai Ghost Dances; it is “possible” thePai “may have” participated in the Kaibab Paiute GhostDance. Certain iconographic elements “appear” to berelated to a Paiute artistic style; stylistic variations “sug-gest” that some paintings at the site were produced longbefore the Ghost Dance. There “appear” to be direct cul-tural relationships between the Kanab Creek site andanother Ghost Dance site at Whitemore Wash. A rattle-like object “may” represent a musical instrument usedin the dance; other depictions “may” represent raspingsticks. Several figures “probably represent” entopic phe-nomena associated with trances. There is a “suggestion”that rock art “may be associated” with the Ghost Dance.It is “likely” these rock art images were made by personswith religious knowledge and purpose. It is “possible”that the paintings were a mnemonic instrument for sha-mans learning the dance, or, alternatively, they “may”simply document one or more Ghost Dances held onKanab Creek. The scientific conclusions about the rockart are indeed ambivalent, providing a striking contrastwith the certainty of Paiute conclusion. Nonetheless,while individual points are debatable, an overall assess-ment of all the lines of evidence is supportive of thePaiute historical perspective.

There is no doubt that the Kanab Creek site is an im-portant place in the cultural landscape of the SouthernPaiute. Their own testimony documents this and ex-plains the contemporary meaning of the site; this is sig-nificant in itself. Questions about the historicity of thesite seem to stem from a subtext to the article, whichis that most traditional-cultural-properties research inthe United States is undertaken to implement the Na-tional Historic Preservation Act (NHPA), and in order tobe considered a historic property eligible for the NationalRegister and thus warrant consideration in project plan-


ning, a site must be historic (more than 50 years old),have integrity, be associated with cultural practices andbeliefs rooted in a community’s history, and be impor-tant in maintaining the continuing cultural identity ofthe community. The fact that the site is meaningful tocontemporary Paiutes is important, but in order for it tobe eligible for the National Register as a traditional cul-tural property it must have a historical association withthe Paiute. The rock art at the Kanab Creek site clearlyhas archaeological (i.e., scientific) importance. Its statusas a traditional cultural property, however, is evaluatedusing the non-Paiute criteria and standards of the NHPA.Many historic preservation officials want independentcorroboration of native testimony, and this is a sourceof tension because it evaluates one knowledge systemin terms of another. The classification of the site hasmanagerial implications because Native Americans gen-erally have more influence in the management of tra-ditional cultural properties than they do with other typesof historic properties (e.g., archaeological sites).

I think that many of the qualified statements regardingthe interpretation of the site could be or should be de-termined conclusively by Paiute history regarding thesite. The article extols the long and specific culturalmemory of the Paiutes, yet little traditional historyabout the Ghost Dance at the Kanab Creek site is pro-vided. How many people participated in this dance? Werethere members of other tribes present? How long did thedance last? Where was the dance performed in relationto the rock shelter with the pictographs? Who paintedthe rock art images, and how are these related to theGhost Dance? Why was the Ghost Dance held in theGrand Canyon and not elsewhere along Kanab Creek?Additionally, what archaeological evidence is there forthe dance? Is there an associated campsite, evidence ofcooking or feasting, a dance ground? Were these potentialarchaeological features searched for?

Perhaps in asking these questions I impose a non-In-dian paradigm of history of the Kanab Creek site, andthis highlights the tension between scientific and NativeAmerican ways of knowing about the past. Be this as itmay, the collaborative research of the coauthors is ex-emplary, and I think the continuation of this type ofresearch will yield historical knowledge that is valuedby both Native Americans and scholars. Angelita Bul-letts and her coauthors are forging new ground thatpromises to give Native Americans a greater role in themanagement of their cultural resources.

ruthann knudsonKnudson Associates, 343 River Rd., Harrison, Nebr.69346-2734, U.S.A. ([email protected]). 12 v 99

The concepts of contextual cultural landscapes and theirconstruction and empowerment through a perhaps punc-tuated history are useful to me as a public land manager(one of the few who is also a trained anthropologist). Iam the superintendent of Agate Fossil Beds NationalMonument in far northwestern Nebraska, on the south-

ern edge of the Northern High Plains, in a minimallydeveloped area that is now cattle country and was tra-ditionally part of an Oglala Lakota (Teton Sioux) estateas well as a range used by Cheyenne, Shoshoni, Arapa-hoe, and probably Hidatsa, Crow, Pawnee, and otherPlains hunters. During the late prehistoric period theland was used by Apachean-speakers. My responsibilitiesas a land manager focus on understanding and then pre-serving the pre-20th-century landscape while at the sametime informing visitors and providing them an enjoyablerecreational experience. Agate’s lands have evidence ofmillions of years of natural history complemented bymillennia of cultural use and modification. I think thesynergistic teamwork exhibited by intertwining the in-terests and expertise of Native Americans, archeologists,ethnohistorians, and ethnographers is to be both com-mended and used as a model for other such identifica-tion, evaluation, and protection projects. My question ofcourse becomes how one manages resources such as theKanab Creek Canyon rock art site to conserve themphysically and culturally into the future. Let me applythe Kanab “lessons learned” to Agate.

The multicomponent Serenity archeological site hasrecently been identified high on the top of the fossilif-erous Carnegie Hill at Agate, where we have a majorsafety problem whose mitigation requires the recon-touring of the hillside on the southwest face of the butte,including removal of some of the hilltop. The four orfive apparently prehistoric low mounds of rock distrib-uted across the flat hilltop are not associated with anyartifacts, but they are clearly not natural deposits. Thesite has been scientifically described, including a de-scription of the soil profile that has built up in andaround the mounds, but there are no known counterpartsin the literature. The site has a view 100 miles to thesoutheast, to Laramie Peak, and1 20 miles to the north-east, to the Pine Ridge; it has a feeling of power. In thecoming several months I will be formally consultingwith representatives of Lakota reservations in our gen-eral region to see what the elders know or think aboutthe site. At the same time, there is a ring of stones ofwhat appears to have been a cairn atop the central pre-historic mound, and there is contemporary oral historyin the ranching community that this was a topographicmarker built in 1912 during the local ranchowner andgeologist’s drafting of a topographic map of the area. Thisis complemented by comments by the geologist’s grand-children that they remember building cairns on the hill-tops around the ranch (now within the national monu-ment) as children. There appear to be several culturaltraditions and practices represented at the Serenity site.How should that be managed as a public resource?

As with the Kanab Creek Canyon sites, it is criticalthat we bring a variety of perspectives to understandingwhat the Serenity site means and its value to severalgroups of people. As a public landscape, it needs evalu-ation in terms of formal technical approaches such asthose outlined in Parker and King (1998) supplementedby the more Euro-American-oriented guidance of Ver-non, Garvey, and Williams (1990) and Birnbaum and Pe-


ters (1996). But equally important is getting the archeol-ogist, ethnographer, historian, geotechnical engineer,recreation specialist, and local community membersworking together to find the best plan to manage thecomplex resource to meet safety, value preservation, ac-cess, and public education and enjoyment needs. Bybringing together a synergistic team of people, one caninterpret and ultimately manage for the long term con-textual cultural landscapes such as those on Kanab CreekCanyon or Agate Fossil Beds National Monument andleave all the stakeholders as empowered as is the re-source of concern.

william breen murrayDepartamento de Ciencias Sociales, Universidad deMonterrey, 66200 Nuevo Leon, Mexico ([email protected]). 3 v 99

Nowadays, advances in rock art studies are just as oftenthe result of breaking down old barriers as of makingnew discoveries. This “convergent” account breaks newground in that it tells us what the Paiute people see, feel,and understand today when they visit the rock paintingsat the Kanab Creek site. Rock art is silent until we findout what it says to those who give it meaning. The Paiuteelders’ view may not “converge” completely with thatof the scientific community, but if we accept their ac-count I think this is the first confirmed instance of rockart production attributable to any Uto-Aztecan group.

For those of us who look at rock art in “ecoscapes”where it is all that remains, the Paiute explanations arevaluable as analogies. I found the relation to the whitepigment source particularly interesting because I thinkit may correct a Eurocentric preconception still main-tained in much rock art research. As the Ghost Danceitself shows, body painting was (and still is) antitheticalto “civilized” ways and was quickly suppressed onceEuropeans took control. Yet body decoration was widelyused in Amerindian cultures and still is on special oc-casions among some Mexican Uto-Aztecan groups suchas the Huichol (Schaefer 1996:fig. 28) and the Raramuri(Murray 1981). I have visited several rock art sites innorthern Mexico with similar associations to paintsources. The Kanab Creek site is a tempting analogy foridentifying some of them as places where body decora-tion was actually done.

Including the Paiute point of view also underlinessome barriers erected by the scientific approach. By plac-ing “rocks” in geology and “rock art” in ideology, sci-entists create a communication barrier which preventsthem from speaking to the rocks as the Paiutes do. Theopposition of natural and cultural explanations is starklyexposed in this account, and it is to the authors’ creditthat they are committed to synthesizing them. Twoframeworks are employed, both well-known in rock artstudies but each with its own limitations.

“Place” is now used by many rock art researchers asa unifying concept (cf. Bahn and Fossati 1995) becauseit is also a defining characteristic of the object itself.

Rock art is always a cultural element within a naturallandscape and becomes a mere patio adornment or mu-seum exhibit when removed from its proper place. Butwhen “place” is transformed from landscape into “land-mark” or “holy land,” it becomes unique, and compar-ison with other sites becomes impossible and indeed ir-relevant. If the “ecoscape” is a historical scenario,archaeology becomes a mere spectator, at most adding afew minor details to the plot.

This is an important distinction for the Kanab Creeksite, because I think the tightest case is the historicalone. History never provides all the details, but oral tra-dition confirms the context very clearly, and to me therelation of the Ghost Dance panel to documented eventsseems more or less proven. One can only applaud thework of an earlier generation of anthropologists—Mooney, Spier, and others—who provide some of the crit-ical ethnohistorical links in this instance. Archaeolo-gists, however, must raise some additional questions.The authors note the presence of different styles at thesite and suggest a time span of more than 2,000 yearsbut say very little about either. What other rock art isthere at the site besides the “Ghost Dance” panel? Whatother rock art sites are found in this “ecoscape”? Howdo their contexts compare? Is the white paint of the paneldatable? If the Ghost Dance is only a century old, whatwere the site’s earlier uses? The “Ghost Dance” panelmay well refer to a unique event, but dancing figures,white-painted zigzags, and lines of carved dots are well-known motifs in North American rock art. At least someof the rock art at this site appears to derive from mucholder and more widespread traditions than that of theGhost Dance.

Shamanism is another framework often used to ex-plain the rock art, and the Kanab Creek site presents avery clear historical example for such an association.Nevertheless, the authors do not explore the relation ofthe historic Ghost Dance to Paiute traditions prior totheir forced enclosure or to other native ceremonies,such as the peyote religion, which use other means toachieve trance visions. Phosgenes notwithstanding, call-ing rock art “shamanistic” does not really identify inwhat ways the carved figures relate to specific shamanicpractices, nor does it show that shamanism is a unifiedtradition with telltale signs. In order to use it as an ex-planation of rock art, I think we must be more sensitiveto its highly varied symbolic manifestations. It seems tome that the Paiute explanation of the Ghost Dance paneltells a rather straightforward mnemonic story, as the au-thors themselves explain, and shows that more than en-toptics is involved in the symbolic relation of shaman-ism to rock art.

One final barrier is also worth noting—the modernborder which still seems to divide the two scholarly com-munities studying the northern and southern portionsof the North American Great Basin. Although the au-thors invoke Aguirre Beltran’s concept of “refuge zones”to explain the Paiute’s historical experience, they makeno reference to recent studies of North Mexican rock art(cf. Murray and Valencia 1996) and no attempt to connect


either the Paiutes or their rock art to their Uto-Aztecan“cousins” to the south. Linguistics tells us that this sep-aration is arbitrary and recent. I think that when theNorth American Great Basin can be viewed as a singleunit, a number of perplexing questions about continentalprehistory may become clearer. This study encouragesme to think that rock art may be precisely the kind ofarchaeological evidence that prehistorians need to estab-lish these links.

florence c. shipek2932 Lawrence St., San Diego, Calif. 92106-3526,U.S.A. 10 v 99

Boundary penetrability and sacred landscapes existedin Southern California. From Spanish records a 1769boundary can be drawn. One hundred years earlier, theKumeyaay-Luiseno boundary was 100 miles north.Back 2,000 years, Shoshoneans were inland. Thecoastal Luiseno creation story (Boscana 1933) describ-ing the Salton Sea and fish dying on shore contraststo that of the Kumeyaay, whose creators come fromthe ocean (Shipek 1986). Oceans rose 450 ft. between20,000 and 7,000 years ago, drowning much land. Ku-meyaay describe floods inland separating them fromrelatives speaking the same language. When the waterreceded they met again, speaking differently. The rel-atives, Quechan and Cocopa, share the story.

For sun ceremonies, every Kumeyaay town had asacred mountain located for its eastern view. The mostsacred mountain is Kuuchumaa. All see Kuuchamaaas a face in a landscape reaching to the ocean. A springon the southwest slope is Tears of God. Otay Moun-tain was Nose, a high narrow ridge with a river oneach side. Where the ridge ended was Debouchementof the Nostrils; the mouth, a small bay, existed be-yond. The Mind of God is Kuuchamaa, the forehead.Several facts indicate that ancestral Kumeyaay ob-served some of the geological uplift creating this land-scape (Shipek 1986). To prevent development, severalKumeyaay elders were taken there by representativesof the Bureau of Land Management, who insisted thatthey needed a “scientific article” (Shipek 1985). Theypromised they would deed Kuuchamaa to Kumeyaay,because it belonged to the nation, not to any of the13 Kumeyaay reservations. The Bureau of Indian Af-fairs refuses such a deed, insisting that it be grantedto a single reservation—a bureaucratic impasse.

Table Mountain is a sacred healing mountain; manynations came for healing ceremonies. Developmentwas halted, but BLM says that no rare plants existthere and so allows cattle grazing. To protect hundredsof “archaeological sites” on the sacred mountain, theBLM asked an archaeological society to guard themountain. Excavations have occurred in religious lo-cations that Kumeyaay wanted protected. Kumeyaayreceived no access rights.

Another sacred mountain is now Luiseno territory.Because of the manner of Luiseno takeover—two

brothers married Kumeyaay women, then sisters andfriends entered, marrying some and driving othersaway—what was sacred to Kumeyaay became sacredto Luiseno, who are also descendants of original in-habitants. Because California treaties were shelved,this sacred mountain became part of settlers’ home-steads. The U.S. Army stood aside while settlers at-tacked the peaceful Pala village and killed many Lu-iseno. A tiny location south of the river was reservedfor survivors in 1875.

In 1903 the government relocated peoples who hadlost the Barker v. Harvey case in the Supreme Courtto so-called Mexican Land Grantees. The Court ad-mitted that it was a political, not a judicial, decisionand refused to allow it as precedent for non-Indiancases (Shipek 1988). The U.S. Army forced the Cupenoof Warner’s Springs, the Kumeyaay of San Felipe, Ma-taguay, San Jose, and Tahwee, and the Luiseno ofPuerta La Cruz to march several days down the moun-tain to Pala land that the government had bought fromsettlers who had stolen it from Luiseno. Many diedduring the forced march and in the following year.

In a land where “religious freedom” is basic, theUnited States did not buy the sacred mountain. Nowa waste management company wants to put a landfillagainst it, on the sacred area used for purification toascend the sacred mountain. The environment impactreport does not address the location’s sacredness, itsrainfall potential, the geologic faults which cut andguide the river and tributary valleys, or the prevailingwinds. The Pala Indian Reservation air and water basinwill be polluted. Where will the government movethem?

Sacred mountains were omitted from all reservedland. The government banned native religions andforced all to become Catholics, as under Spanish rule.On Campo, a Kumeyaay reservation, the BIA broughtfederal agents to stop a “forbidden” religious cere-mony in 1927. Today’s elders, then children, lay onthe ground while some of their parents were shot. Inspite of active persecution, the religious beliefs con-tinue; all revere and pray on these sacred mountainswhen they can.

A number of international marriages took place atMission San Diego when Franciscans confirmed pre-existing marriages in Catholic rites: Cocopa, Quechan,Paipai, Cupeno, Luiseno, plus five in which a spousewas unidentifiable but not Kumeyaay. Leadership fam-ilies had long intermarried. Grandchildren of the lastkuchut kwataay (national leader) are related to lead-ership families of Quechan, Cocopa, Luiseno, Cupeno,Cahuilla, and O’O’tam.

Trade relations existed the length of both Califor-nias. From San Quintin (southern Baja) comes a frag-ment of the large red-and-black-striped obsidian cer-emonial blade from northern California, and otherfragments were found at Santa Ysabel. The “missiontrail” through the two Californias was a well-used pre-Spanish trade route.


david s . whitleyICOMOS Rock Art Committee, 447 Third St.,Fillmore, Calif. 93015, U.S.A. ([email protected]).15 iv 99

Stoffle et al.’s study augments a growing body of datalinking North American forager rock art to shamanismgenerally (e.g., Turpin 1994) and, in certain cases, to theGhost Dance specifically (e.g., Whitley, Schiffman, andAndrews 1982, Loubser and Whitley 1999). More thanthis alone, it shows that the shamanistic interpretationis not historical, universalistic, or monolithic as recentlyclaimed (e.g., Matheny, Smith, and Matheny 1997, Quin-lan 1998). Instead, that rock art is shamanistic in no wayprecludes functional and regional variability or changeover time—in this case, historical change as a responseto the pressures of culture contact, paralleling other iden-tified examples of prehistoric change in this shamanisticart (e.g., Whitley 1994b).

The tension between continuity and change in culturaltraditions is important and often misunderstood. Con-trary to some archaeologists’ assumptions (e.g., Woodyand Quinlan 1998, Quinlan 1999), continuity and changeare not always mutually exclusive (Levi-Strauss and Er-ibon 1991); cultural traditions can evolve and be trans-formed over time, as well as manifest regional and func-tional variability. But nowhere does this imply completediscontinuity in belief or require full ethnic replacementas these archaeologists essentially assert. Kanab Paiuterock art can, then, be shamanistic in a general sensewhile, in the specific case, being directly linked to theGhost Dance.

Stoffle et al.’s claim for 900 years of time depth in!oral tradition is matched by similar data from Utah (Pen-dergast and Meighan 1959), while the long-term conti-nuity in belief and ritual that this implies is supportedby recent Mojave Desert archaeological analyses (Whit-ley 1994b, Whitley et al. n.d.). The general argument forthe ongoing validity of Native American culturaltraditions, moreover, is supported by accumulating eth-nography on rock art. Hann, Keyser, and Cash (n.d.), forexample, documented 100 years of continuity in NativeAmerican consultants’ interpretations of Columbia Pla-teau rock art. In California’s southern Sierra Nevada, Ifound consistency in descriptions of the making, mean-ing, and use of rock art extending from 1857 to 1998,yielding 150 years of continuity (Whitley 1999b). Con-cerning the Numic (of which the Kanab case is a regionalexample), the use of rock art sites for shamans’ visionquests was first documented by Lowie (1924) and hasbeen confirmed by numerous ethnographers, includingPark (1938), Shimkin (1953), and Fowler (1992). In anearlier paper Lowie (1909) also recorded the making ofart specifically to portray the shaman’s visionary im-agery, a fact confirmed later by Gifford (1932), Driver(1937), Phillips (1986), and Hultkrantz (1987). Not onlyis there long-term consistency in Native Americanclaims about this art—four generations of agreement inNumic consultants’ commentaries—but also there isvery wide-ranging geographical consensus from all por-

tions of Numic territory (Whitley n.d.). Temporal andgeographical consistency of this kind can only be rec-onciled with valid, ongoing cultural traditions andbeliefs.

The importance of Stoffle et al.’s contribution is ob-vious when it is contextualized in terms of the NativeAmerican Graves Protection and Repatriation Act(NAGPRA) of 1990 and its impact on American archae-ology. Many archaeologists now assume that sacred re-mains may no longer be studied. They believe that NAG-PRA represents an attack by Native Americans onscience, and they infer that archaeology as a disciplinemay never recover. On the basis of superficial and un-critical readings of the Numic ethnography, some ar-chaeologists (e.g., Quinlan 1998, 1999; Woody and Quin-lan 1998) argue at once that the ethnographic record istoo heavily altered by acculturation to be of any valuein reconstructing traditional beliefs and that it can stillbe used to disprove the shamanistic interpretation ofrock art. Regardless of this contradiction, they hold thatethnographic and modern Native American input to theinterpretation of the archaeological record is intellec-tually valueless, leaving archaeological interpretation astheir own exclusive domain: archaeology for academicEuro-Americans but not Native Americans.

Stoffle et al.’s paper is a welcome antidote to this po-sition. They demonstrate that the Native Americanvoice is a key ingredient in understanding important as-pects of the archaeological record. They show that Na-tive American religious topics need not be excluded fromresearch. And they challenge the archaeological view ofan ahistorical past punctuated only by subsistencechanges and never really populated by thinking peoples.Perhaps most important, to the degree that there is afuture for archaeological research after NAGPRA, Stoffleet al. present us with a model of cooperation betweenNative Americans, archaeologists, and anthropologistsand show how such cooperation can be used to informour understanding of the past.

robert winthropCultural Solutions, P.O. Box 401, Ashland, Ore.97520, U.S.A. ([email protected]). 7 v 99

Stoffle and his colleagues provide an interesting and wel-come account of the use and cultural significance of aSouthern Paiute rock art site. I am particularly interestedin what this research suggests about the current state ofcultural resource studies in the United States, the senseof cultural practice implied in their concept of a “con-textual cultural landscape,” and the effort to combine avariety of perspectives, native and non-native, in the in-terpretation of the Kanab Creek Canyon site.

Their account is representative of a new generation ofstudies of what are frequently termed “cultural re-sources” or, with slightly greater precision, “traditionalcultural properties,” “cultural landscapes,” or (a ParkService favorite) “ethnographic landscapes.” Of course,terming such sites “resources” or “properties” com-


modifies cultural experience. To describe such places as“landscapes” is a significant improvement. Yet this ter-minological clutter is also indicative of a more funda-mental confusion regarding the object of study, whatconstitutes valid knowledge in this domain, and, perhapsmost fundamental, the very purpose of such research.

The common denominator here is a concern for theinterrelation of particular places, practices, and com-munities, linked by a system of understandings with areal or perceived time depth or traditionality. In an Amer-ican Indian context culturally significant places are oftenentwined with federal decision making, for in the UnitedStates such localities are often found on federal ratherthan tribal government lands. Hence conflicts betweenresource management goals and American Indian beliefsand practices often require federal agency managers will-ingly or otherwise to sort through complex issues of cul-tural practice and environmental perception. Too oftenthe applied research prompted by such controversies hasnot been well grounded anthropologically, reflectingquite narrow and static conceptions of tradition and cul-tural transmission. “Ghost Dancing the Grand Canyon”suggests the emergence of a more sophisticated approachto understanding the subtle relationships of place, his-tory, and cultural experience in native thought.

Stoffle et al. analyze the Kanab Creek Canyon site asan example of a contextual cultural landscape. They de-fine such geographic systems as “particular places andresources that together are synergistically associated orlinked in a specific context, event, or period of time withparticular people.” As this implies, such landscapes areshifting cultural constructs, which particular events pe-riodically define and re-create. Their emphasis on thecontextual dimension makes good sense in terms of myown experience of native communities in the PacificNorthwest. A tribal colleague and I once made a similarargument in explaining native perceptions of place (Men-inck and Winthrop 1995:12):

The Yakama sense of place is relational rather thananalytic, bringing together rather than separating outkey characteristics of the land. A Yakama descrip-tion of place identifies its physical features, its char-acteristic resources, the families or communitiesthat use it, the legendary events that shaped it, andthe orienting relationships that connect this place toother places in terms of seasonal patterns of travel.Everything has its context, the place or setting inwhich it belongs. A burial, for example, is not un-derstood as a collection of human remains in isola-tion, but as the fusing of those remains and theearth that protects them.

Of course, knowledge that is contextual is of necessitylargely tacit. This may be a commonplace for symbolicstudies, but it poses interesting problems for applied re-search that must document cultural understandings tomake the case for certain management decisions in theuse of land and resources.

One of the most interesting aspects of this paper is the

authors’ effort at ethnographic “triangulation,” weavingtogether indigenous understandings with those of ar-chaeology and ethnography to interpret the significanceand associations of the Kanab Creek Canyon site. In cul-tural resource studies such collaborations between na-tive experts and non-native scholars are becoming rela-tively common. Yet to my knowledge there has beencomparatively little discussion of the intricate chore-ography in matters of method and epistemology thatsuch collaborations require. Stoffle and colleagues are tobe commended for their collective effort. At many pointsthe interpretations offered are interesting and provoca-tive precisely because of this multisided dialogue. Iwished at times, however, that they had discussed moreexplicitly their differences in perspective and clarifiedhow the interpretations offered in this stimulating ar-ticle were negotiated. That would be an apt topic for asequel.

Reply

richard w. stoffle, lawrence loendorf ,diane e . austin , david b . halmo, andangelita bullettsTucson, Ariz., U.S.A. 9 vii 99

We thank the commentators who have provided thought-ful reviews of our paper and encouraged us to think moreabout collaborative research with American Indian peo-ple. Their comments have also suggested new ways toview cultural landscapes, especially the far-reaching (ge-ographically and socially) ones produced by joint partic-ipation in ceremony or historic event.

Protecting and retaining access to culturally signifi-cant places in traditional lands continues to be a strugglefor many American Indian tribes, as Shipek’s commentillustrates for Southern California tribal peoples. The1890 Ghost Dance movement represents another episodein the long struggle to protect lands, resources, and life-ways from non-Indian encroachment. Southern Paiutesand Hualapais did not just perform Ghost Dance cere-monies in the Grand Canyon: they Ghost Danced theGrand Canyon to protect it from Euro-American appro-priation and because it is a source of power to be drawnon for the special needs of humans. When they GhostDanced as part of a far-reaching ceremonial event theyproduced a cultural landscape that allied them withother Indian peoples, producing a spatially and sociallylarger form of social organization.

Our analysis suggested that these Ghost-Dance-basedcultural landscapes persisted, albeit in somewhat atten-uated form, after the 1890 dances ended as a source ofcultural and historical identification, something likewhat must be felt by participants in a highly chargedemotional event such as the Vietnam War. We were in-correct in implying that the 1890 event was considereda failure and therefore Indian people discontinued the


ceremony and turned to other ways of dealing with Euro-American encroachment. New sources document a con-tinuation of the Ghost Dance itself as well as a strongcommitment to the cultural landscape produced by the1890 event. According to Vecsey (in Hultkrantz 1981:271), the Shoshoni in Wyoming who performed the 1890dance did not give up the dance. Rather, they added itto other ceremonies such as the Sun Dance. Alice Kehoe(cited by Vecsey, p. 275) records the performance of theGhost Dance among the Kiowas until 1950. It can alsobe argued that certain key elements of the Ghost Dancehave persisted as components of the Round Dance andthe Forty-nine Dance, which are practiced today by manywestern Indian groups including the Southern Paiutesand Hualapai.

Vecsey, citing Hultkrantz’s research (1981:271), notesthat the social and cultural ties between the Shoshoneand the Paiute Ghost Dancers were not disrupted after1890. Indeed, Wovoka visited the Shoshone reservationin 1910 (Shimkin 1941:457) when they held a GhostDance in his honor, and again in 1916 (Hittman 1997:129) and 1917 (Vecsey in Hultkrantz 1981:272). Occa-sionally Shoshoni Indians visited their fellow GhostDancers in Nevada as well as the Prophet himself (Hitt-man 1997:127–36). This point is in keeping with ourfindings that Wovoka continued to visit his SouthernPaiute dancers well into the 20th century and that theycontinued to be attached to him and their other GhostDance partners from distant tribes.

Today, Indian people from distant tribes still developpartnerships to protect lands and their rights of accessto places of ceremony. It has been our experience thatthe logic and appropriateness of such partnerships de-rives from past relationships such as the joint partici-pation in the Ghost Dance. Even younger tribal memberswho were unaware of former partnerships like the GhostDance are quickly drawn to these precedents and wantto learn about them and incorporate them into their con-temporary knowledge of Indian culture. So past culturallandscapes based on joint activities acquire contempo-rary meaning as rationales for collective action. For ex-ample, over 20 tribes and Indian organizations repre-senting three distinct Indian ethnic groups from Arizona,California, Nevada, and Utah have independently cre-ated the Consolidated Group of Tribes and Organizations(CGTO) for the purpose of responding to cultural re-source and environmental issues that potentially affectshared territory in the western United States. Despitesome contending ethnic claims and differences in cul-ture, all of these groups have decided to speak with acommon voice (Halmo 1994). A major rationale for thisjoint effort is the precedent set by these Indian peopletraditionally using the lands for mutual ceremony andthe negotiation of political agreements (Stoffle et al.1990:31–34).

Hundreds of other examples attest to the mobilizationof social energy and the re-creation of collective socialorganization by Indian people dedicated to protecting andmaintaining multiethnic rights to holy places and re-sources. Cultural anthropologists and, to a lesser extent,

archaeologists (but see Swidler et al. 1997) have playedan active role in collaborating with Indian people in theseefforts. Documentation of past shared cultural land-scapes is but one service provided by the academiccommunity.

It is both refreshing and encouraging to see archaeol-ogists and ethnographers recognizing the validity of in-digenous knowledge and oral history as a “key ingredi-ent” (Whitley) in collaborative interpretation andunderstanding of material culture remnants left on tra-ditional Indian lands. Virtually all of the comments sug-gest that there are research benefits from using oral tes-timony and collaborating with Indian people. We expectthese to be important themes for future research. Despitethe growing recognition of the value of indigenousknowledge in other countries (Sillitoe 1998), incorpora-tion of native knowledge of U.S. landscapes, ecosystems,resources, and history has generally lagged behind (savefor some excellent studies in ethnobotany and environ-mental management). Too often, as Deloria points out,cultural anthropologists and archaeologists “have simplynot paid attention to what they were hearing when talk-ing with Indians—or did not know how to talk withIndians.” Perhaps nowhere is the insistence that “Indi-ans have no long-standing recall of events and activities”more common than in the Great Basin and western Col-orado Plateau, where for decades scholars have exhibitedan almost doctrinal adherence to the early views of JulianSteward and others even when Indian people have toldthem otherwise. Even the history of the Prophet Wovokaawaited funds for publication from the Yerrington PaiuteTribe before many oral histories about him were avail-able (Hittman 1997:xi). More often than not, as Arnoldnotes, scholars have been too quick to rely on the writtenword and theories of so-called scientific experts ratherthan on indigenous data.

In our view, scholarly research has largely reflected thenotion of traditional culture as something that was buthas forever changed or disappeared rather than as en-tailing both continuity and change and thus resulting informs that, as Whitley and Chippindale point out, maybe different but are no less valid. Our own acceptanceof the commonly held view that the Ghost Dance cer-emony was discontinued after 1890 reflects a failure torecognize cultural change and to look for continuity.Once we reject easy answers, important new questionsarise. For example, what is the connection between Wo-voka’s urging people to dance frequently because thedance moves the dead back to the earth and the CryCeremony (jointly performed by the Southern Paiute andthe Hualapai), in which the Salt Song moves the deadalong a physical trail to the afterlife? It has been pointedout that one of the stops on the Salt Song trail is wherethe Ghost Dance was performed in 1890. If there is anepistemological connection between the two ceremo-nies, then for these Indian people the Ghost Dance couldbe understood as another version of the Salt Song and akind of reverse Cry Ceremony, singing people home fromheaven. The Cry Ceremony and the Salt Song were per-formed long before and long after the Ghost Dance.


We believe that studies of American Indian history,archaeology, and ethnography are inadequate withoutcollaborative input by Indian people. Winthrop notesthat such collaborative research relationships involve an“intricate choreography” of negotiation. It is onlythrough long-term collaborative research, iterations ofwhich build an atmosphere of trust, that successful co-operation will be achieved. Elsewhere, we have describedthis process as one of “reciprocal development” (Stoffle,Halmo, and Jensen 1991). Ferguson, who has long ex-perience in a collaborative relationship with the Zunipeople, notes that in the context of historic preservationstudies “officials want independent corroboration of na-tive testimony”; any identification, evaluation, and pro-tection study thus requires incorporating both scientificand indigenous knowledge, employing, to use Chippin-dale’s terms, both informed and formal methods. Tri-angulation is not new; many cultural anthropologists,archaeologists, and ethnohistorians have productivelymixed methods since the 1950s. New today is an in-creasing demand by Indian people that they and theirviews be consistently part of the triangle. Policy-drivenresearch such as is called for by NPS superintendentKnudson that utilizes triangulation tends to be morecomplex and has higher confidence levels; thus, it betterserves anthropology, land and resource managers, andIndian people.

Finally, Indian people wield more power today than inthe past with regard to their struggles to protect landsand resources. In the Kanab Creek case, there are furtherstudies that can make important contributions to sci-ence and the correction of history (Deloria) as suggestedby Clottes and Murray. Southern Paiutes continue toagree with Murray that we should ignore internationalboundaries and document their special connections withUto-Aztecan cousins to the south and to support Clot-tes’s observation that any traditional-use site may beimportant because it enables us to see other places andrelationships. One true test of respect, however, is toacknowledge that Indian people may not always need orwant science to justify their claims. For them, somethings are better left alone. But sometimes, as in the caseof this article, the Indian people want to be researchpartners in the joint study of subjects of mutual interest.

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