Movement, Connectivity, and Landscape Change in the Ancient Southwest (Proceedings of the Southwest Symposium)

Movement, Connectivity, and Landscape Change in the Ancient Southwest

Proceedings of the Southwest Symposium The Archaeology of Regional Interaction: Religion, Warfare, and Exchange across the American Southwest and Beyond edited by Michelle Hegmon Contemporary Archaeologies of the Southwest edited by William H. Walker and Kathryn R. Venzor Identity, Feasting, and the Archaeology of the Greater Southwest edited by Barbara J. Mills Movement, Connectivity, and Landscape Change in the Ancient Southwest edited by Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker Traditions, Transitions, and Technologies: Themes in Southwestern Archaeology edited by Sarah H. Schlanger

Movement,

C o n n e c t i v i t y, and L a n d s c a p e c h a n g e in the

Ancient Southwest

The 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium

edited by Margaret

C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker

University Press of Colorado

© 2011 by the University Press of Colorado Published by the University Press of Colorado 5589 Arapahoe Avenue, Suite 206C Boulder, Colorado 80303 All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America The University Press of Colorado is a proud member of the Association of American University Presses. The University Press of Colorado is a cooperative publishing enterprise supported, in part, by Adams State College, Colorado State University, Fort Lewis College, Mesa State College, Metropolitan State College of Denver, University of Colorado, University of Northern Colorado, and Western State College of Colorado. The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials. ANSI Z39.48-1992 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Southwest Symposium (1988–) (20th : 2008 : Arizona State University) Movement, connectivity, and landscape change in the ancient Southwest : the 20th anniversary Southwest Symposium / edited by Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen A. Strawhacker. p. cm. Symposium hosted by School of Human Evolution and Social Change and held Jan. 17–19, 2008 at Arizona State University. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-60732-064-7 (hardcover : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-60732-065-4 (e-book) 1. Indians of North America—Southwest, New—Antiquities—Congresses. 2. Social archaeology— Southwest, New—Congresses. 3. Ethnoarchaeology—Southwest, New—Congresses. 4. Migration, Internal—Southwest, New—History—To 1500—Congresses. 5. Landscape changes—Southwest, New—History—To 1500—Congresses. 6. Land use—Southwest, New—History—To 1500—Congresses. 7. Human ecology—Southwest, New—History—To 1500—Congresses. 8. Nature—Effect of human beings on—Southwest, New—History—To 1500—Congresses. 9. Southwest, New—Antiquities—Congresses. 10. Mexico, North—Antiquities—Congresses. I. Nelson, Margaret Cecile, 1951– II. Strawhacker, Colleen A. III. Arizona State University. School of Human Evolution and Social Change. IV. Title. E78.S7S576 2008 979.004'97—dc22 2010047209 Design by Daniel Pratt 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11

€1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The University Press of Colorado gratefully acknowledges a subvention from the Southwest Symposium in partial support of the costs of the production of this volume.

[ ] Contents

List of Illustrations €€|€€€ix List of Contributors €€|€€€xiii Acknowledgments €€|€€€xv 1. Changing Histories, Landscapes, and Perspectives: The 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium €€|€€€1 Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker Part I: Past and Present Issues 2. Ten Millennia, Twenty Years Later €€|€€€17 Paul E. Minnis and Charles L. Redman 3. Foraging Societies in an Arid Environment: Coping with Change in the Greater Southwest €€|€€€25 Bradley J. Vierra 4. Moving on the Landscape: Mobility and Migration €€|€€€45 Patricia A. Gilman and Michael E. Whalen



Contents

5. Rethinking Social Power and Inequality in the Aboriginal Southwest/Northwest €€|€€€57 Randall H. McGuire 6. Demographic Issues of the Protohistoric Period €€|€€€75 William H. Doelle 7. Remembering Archaeology’s Past: Perspectives on People and Process €€|€€€95 J. Jefferson Reid Part II: Landscape Use and Ecological Change 8. Landscape Change: Archaeological Perspectives on the Legacy of HumanEnvironmental Interactions in the U.S. Southwest €€|€€€107 Carla R. Van West 9. Anthropogenic Ecology in the American Southwest: The Plant Perspective €€|€€€119 Karen R. Adams 10. Soil and Landscape Responses to American Indian Agriculture in the Southwest €€|€€€141 Jonathan A. Sandor and Jeffrey A. Homburg 11. Investigating the Consequences of Long-Term Human Predation of r-Selected Species: Experiments in the Upland Southwest €€|€€€161 C. David Johnson 12. Human Impacts on Animal Populations in the American Southwest €€|€€€179 Jonathan C. Driver 13. Legacies on the Landscape: The Enduring Effects of Long-Term HumanEcosystem Interactions €€|€€€199 Katherine A. Spielmann, Hoski Schaafsma, Sharon J. Hall, Melissa Kruse-Peeples, and John Briggs 14. Linking the Past with the Present: Resources, Land Use, and the Collapse of Civilizations €€|€€€219 Guy R. McPherson Part III: Movement and Ethnogenesis 15. A Framework for Controlled Comparisons of Ancient Southwestern Movement €€|€€€233 Scott G. Ortman and Catherine M. Cameron 16. Becoming Hopi, Becoming Tiwa: Two Pueblo Histories of Movement €€|€€€253 Wesley Bernardini and Severin Fowles 17. Standing Out Versus Blending In: Pueblo Migrations and Ethnic Marking €€|€€€275 Tammy Stone and William D. Lipe

vi

Contents

18. Ancestral Pueblo Migrations in the Southern Southwest: Perspectives from Arizona and New Mexico €€|€€€297 Jeffery J. Clark and Karl W. Laumbach 19. Ensouled Places: Ethnogenesis and the Making of the Dinétah and Tewa Basin Landscapes €€|€€€321 Kurt F. Anschuetz and Richard H. Wilshusen 20. Themes and Models for Understanding Migration in the Southwest €€|€€€345 Barbara J. Mills Part IV: Connectivity and Scale 21. Connectivity and Scale in the Greater American Southwest €€|€€€363 John Kantner 22. Irrigation Communities and Communities in Diaspora €€|€€€375 Patrick D. Lyons, J. Brett Hill, and Jeffery J. Clark 23. Anchoring Identities: Iconic Landforms across San Juan Time and Space €€|€€€403 Ruth M. Van Dyke 24. Ritual Places and Pilgrimages: Movement, Connectivity, and Landscape €€|€€€423 Gregson Schachner 25. The Past Is Now: Hopi Connections to Ancient Times and Places €€|€€€443 Stewart B. Koyiyumptewa and Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh 26. Historiography and Archaeological Theory at Bigger Scales €€|€€€457 Stephen H. Lekson 27. Connectivity, Landscape, and Scale €€|€€€467 Andrew Duff Index €€|€€€481

vii

[ ] Illustrations



Figures 3.1 Total number of Archaic and lithic scatter sites recorded in New Mexico, 1966–2005 €€|€€€34 6.1 Southwest population density contours for fifty-year intervals, AD 1200–1500 €€|€€€79 6.2 Population histories of the northern and southern Southwest/Northwest between AD 1200 and 1700 €€|€€€80 6.3 Increase in average number of rooms per site among Early (AD 1275–1325), Middle (AD 1325–1400), and Late (AD 1400–1540/1600) temporal subdivisions of the Protohistoric period for the Pueblo world €€|€€€86 9.1 Pollen concentrations, LC&T project, Rendija tract fieldhouses €€|€€€131 11.1 Village Ecodynamics Project location map €€|€€€162 11.2 Map of study area habitation sites and block surveys €€|€€€163 11.3 Average household population for 128 model runs vs. best estimates based on archaeological record €€|€€€165 11.4 Distribution of study area drainages €€|€€€166 11.5 Distribution of study area springs €€|€€€167 11.6 Distribution of study area soil polygons €€|€€€168 ix

ILlustrations

11.7 Modeled Black-tailed Jackrabbit population fluctuation in the study area through time in the absence of predation €€|€€€170 11.8 Modeled Desert Cottontail population in the study area through time in the absence of predation €€|€€€171 11.9 Average long-term model household hare harvest €€|€€€172 11.10 Modeled Black-tailed Jackrabbit population fluctuation in the study area through time with human predation €€|€€€172 11.11 Average long-term model household rabbit harvest €€|€€€173 11.12 Modeled Desert Cottontail population in the study area through time with human predation €€|€€€173 11.13 Model households’ average long-term caloric expenditures on farming €€|€€€173 11.14 Model households’ average long-term caloric expenditures on hunting €€|€€€173 11.15 Average proportions of model household protein deficiency €€|€€€174 13.1 Location of the Legacies on the Landscape Project €€|€€€200 13.2 La Plata agricultural area €€|€€€203 13.3 Bull Tank agricultural area €€|€€€204 13.4 Pato Mesa survey area €€|€€€205 13.5 Soil texture from Bull Tank terraces and off-field (non-terrace) “control” areas €€|€€€206 13.6 Profile of trench excavated in a Richinbar terrace showing midden fill €€|€€€207 13.7 2004 data collection transects from Pueblo La Plata and on the “control” mesa €€|€€€208 13.8 Ordination plot of 2005 herbaceous communities on the pueblo and “control” transects €€|€€€209 13.9 Agave fields near Pueblo La Plata €€|€€€210 16.1 Hopi and Northern Tiwa regions in the context of the Greater Southwest €€|€€€254 16.2 Map of Taos Pueblo €€|€€€261 16.3 Map of early-thirteenth-century T’aitöna (“People House,” aka Pot Creek Pueblo) €€|€€€265 17.1 Map of the regions discussed €€|€€€276 18.1 Early and late migrations routes in eastern Arizona and western New Mexico €€|€€€298 18.2 Major Classic period sites and archaeological districts in the lower San Pedro Valley €€|€€€301 18.3 Contour plot of corrugated sherd frequency in utilitarian ceramic assemblages from 256 systematically sampled sites in eastern Arizona, ca. 1150–1300 €€|€€€302 18.4 Images and locations of the Cañada Alamosa sites €€|€€€305 19.1 Tewa Basin archaeological districts in the northern Rio Grande €€|€€€325 19.2 Athapaskan migration path €€|€€€329 22.1 Map of Arizona showing the locations of places mentioned in the text €€|€€€376 22.2 Lower Salt River irrigation canals and major archaeological sites discussed in the text €€|€€€377 22.3 Lower Salt River irrigation canals and the extent of the Salt River Adobes €€|€€€379

˘

ILlustrations

22.4 Late Roosevelt Red Ware types €€|€€€383 23.1 San Juan Basin, with locations of landforms and sites discussed in the text €€|€€€408 23.2a La Plata Mountains, looking east €€|€€€410 23.2b Sleeping Ute Mountain, looking west-southwest €€|€€€410 23.3 Shiprock, Bennett Peak, and Ford Butte €€|€€€411 23.4 Sleeping Ute Mountain, looking south from Alkali Ridge Site 13 in southeastern Utah €€|€€€412 23.5 La Plata Mountains, looking east from the great kiva at Martin 1 €€|€€€412 23.6 At Morris 33, looking south-southwest to Shiprock and west to Sleeping Ute Mountain €€|€€€413 23.7 Shiprock, Bennett Peak, Sleeping Ute Mountain, and Ford Butte rise to the north behind Grey Mesa, location of the Skunk Springs community €€|€€€415 23.8 Bennett Peak and Ford Butte, looking northwest from Willow Canyon €€|€€€416 24.1 Historic trails to Zuni Salt Lake €€|€€€431 24.2 Representations of changes in the complexity of potential Puebloan pilgrimage routes from the Chaco through historic periods €€|€€€434



Tables 6.1 Temporal scheme for discussion of the Protohistoric period €€|€€€81 9.1 Archaeological site locations that provide archaeobotanical data relevant to landscape changes over time €€|€€€122 9.2 Key archaeobotanical traits that shed light on diachronic landscape changes €€|€€€123 10.1 Examples of soil change in Southwest American Indian agriculture by outcome €€|€€€143 11.1 Data for three study-area soil complexes €€|€€€169 12.1 Environmental change induced by people, with indirect effects on animals €€|€€€181 12.2 Environmental change induced by people, with direct effects on animals €€|€€€182 12.3 Lagomorph index and artiodactyls index results from Arroyo Hondo €€|€€€185 12.4 Lagomorph index and artiodactyls index results from Fremont villages €€|€€€185 15.1 Social dimensions of movement €€|€€€246 16.1 Clan and dual-division affiliation of village offices at the Third Mesa village of Orayvi, 1906 €€|€€€260 17.1 Migration chronologies for Mesa Verde and Kayenta areas €€|€€€277 17.2 Comparison of conditions in the Central Mesa Verde and Kayenta areas prior to migration €€|€€€279 17.3 Conditions along the Rio Grande and in the Point of Pines region when the migrants arrived €€|€€€282 17.4 Comparison of pre-migration Central Mesa Verde and post-migration northern Rio Grande cultural complexes €€|€€€285 17.5 Comparison of Kayenta markers prior to and after migration to Point of Pines Pueblo €€|€€€287 xi

ILlustrations



20.1 20.2 20.3 22.1 22.2 22.3 23.1

xii

Case studies classified along dimensions of scale €€|€€€346 Case studies classified along dimensions of connectivity €€|€€€350 Case studies classified along dimensions of transformation €€|€€€352 Roosevelt Red Ware data for key sites in Canal System 2 €€|€€€385 Roosevelt Red Ware sherd data from Pueblo Grande and Las Colinas €€|€€€386 Mean maximum diameter for Roosevelt Red Ware bowls by type €€|€€€389 Settlements along the Shiprock Valley–Chaco Wash travel corridor, AD 875–925 €€|€€€409

[ ] Contributors

Karen R. Adams (Crow Canyon Archaeological Center) Kurt F. Anschuetz (Rio Grande Foundation for Communities and Cultural Landscapes) Wesley Bernardini (University of Redlands) John Briggs (Kansas State University) Catherine M. Cameron (University of Colorado, Boulder) Jeffery J. Clark (Center for Desert Archaeology) Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh (Denver Museum of Nature and Science) William H. Doelle (Center for Desert Archaeology) Jonathan C. Driver (Simon Fraser University) Andrew Duff (Washington State University) Severin Fowles (Barnard College, Columbia University) Patricia A. Gilman (University of Oklahoma) Sharon J. Hall (Arizona State University)

xiii

Contributors

J. Brett Hill (Center for Desert Archaeology) Jeffrey A. Homburg (Statistical Research, Inc.) C. David Johnson (Bureau of Land Management) John Kantner (School for Advanced Research) Stewart B. Koyiyumptewa (Hopi Cultural Preservation Office) Melissa Kruse-Peeples (Arizona State University) Karl W. Laumbach (Human Systems Research, Inc.) Stephen H. Lekson (University of Colorado Museum of Natural History) William D. Lipe (Washington State University) Patrick D. Lyons (Arizona State Museum) Randall H. McGuire (Binghamton University) Guy R. McPherson (University of Arizona) Barbara J. Mills (University of Arizona) Paul E. Minnis (University of Oklahoma) Margaret C. Nelson (Arizona State University) Scott G. Ortman (Crow Canyon Archaeological Center and Arizona State University) Charles L. Redman (Arizona State University) J. Jefferson Reid (University of Arizona) Jonathan A. Sandor (Iowa State University) Hoski Schaafsma (Independent Researcher, Phoenix, Arizona) Gregson Schachner (University of California, Los Angeles) Katherine A. Spielmann (Arizona State University) Tammy Stone (University of Colorado, Denver) Colleen Strawhacker (Arizona State University) Ruth M. Van Dyke (Binghamton University) Carla R. Van West (SRI Foundation) Bradley J. Vierra (Statistical Research, Inc.) Michael E. Whalen (University of Tulsa) Richard H. Wilshusen (University of Colorado Museum of Natural History)

xiv

[ ] Acknowledgments

Archaeological research in the southwestern United States and northern Mexico is intense and fascinating. We feel privileged to have been able to organize this group of outstanding scholars in the 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium and to bring their ideas together in this volume. Thanks to all the scholars who presented these papers at the Southwest Symposium and prepared them for publication. Every person responded in a timely way and provided excellent manuscripts and final products. We appreciate this commitment to the volume. We also thank Will Russell and Stephanie Kulow for helping assemble the illustrations and references. But the process began well before the formulation of the book, with the organization of the 2008 Southwest Symposium, the biennial conference for archaeologists working in the southwestern United States and northern Mexico. We appreciate the hard work of faculty, staff, and students at Arizona State University, especially the organization and support by Nathan Wilson and Sarah Berguetski. Thanks to the session organizers, Katherine Spielmann, Carla Van West, Scott Ortman, Catherine Cameron, John Kantner, Paul Minnis, and Charles Redman. We are grateful to Mark Varien and Elizabeth Perry for their special efforts on behalf of the Southwest Symposium. Several donors supported the conference and this published volume. We are all grateful to T. J. Ferguson Archaeological Research L.L.C., Desert Archaeology Inc.,

xv

Acknowledgments

PaleoWest L.L.C., SWCA Environmental Consultants, School of Human Evolution and Social Change at Arizona State University, Department of Anthropology at Northern Arizona University, Department of Anthropology at the University of Arizona, and Department of Anthropology at the University of Colorado, Boulder.

xvi

Movement, Connectivity, and Landscape Change in the Ancient Southwest

[1] Changing Histories, Landscapes, and Perspectives The 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium

Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker

The U.S. Southwest arguably has the highest density of archaeologists in the Americas, with hundreds of surveys and excavations conducted annually. In 1927 the Pecos Conference was established by A. V. Kidder as the meeting place for Southwest archaeologists and has continued as a vital and successful annual gathering, focused on recent findings from the region. In 1988, two leading archaeologists, Paul Minnis and Charles Redman, introduced a second, regional conference—the Southwest Symposium—to provide a forum for discussing how insights gained from research in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico can contribute to methodological, theoretical, and substantive issues in archaeology. The symposium has resulted in a series of publications of collected papers on key issues to archaeologists (Cameron 1995; Fish and Reid 1996; Hegmon 2000; Mills 2004; Minnis and Redman 1990; Schlanger 2002; Spielmann 1995; Villalpando 2002; Wills and Leonard 1994). As a set, they map the changing priorities of the field and the role Southwest archaeology has played in its recent history. The inaugural symposium in 1988 had sessions on the classic themes of huntergatherers, sedentary life, and elites, organized in that order (Minnis and Redman 1990). Subsequent sessions shifted focus from these “levels of social organization” or “modes of subsistence” to issues of community organization and dynamics (Wills and Leonard 1994), scale (Fish and Reid 1996; Hegmon 2000), production and exchange (Fish and



Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker

Reid 1996; Hegmon 2000), technology and technological strategies (Fish and Reid 1996; Schlanger 2002), gender (Spielmann 1995), migration (Cameron 1995), regional interaction and boundaries (Hegmon 2000; Villalpando 2002), agricultural transitions (Schlanger 2002), identity, affiliation, and feasting (Mills 2004). These topics represent a broad sweep of the issues of interest to all archaeologists, and the published volumes have made substantial contributions to the field. In 2008, the twentieth anniversary of the symposium, scholars took a look back at the issues raised in the first symposium and tackled three contemporary domains in archaeology: landscape use and ecological change, movement and ethnogenesis, and connectivity among social groups through time and space. Although the Southwest United States and northern Mexico have a rich and fine-grained record of past environments and climate, the Southwest Symposium had never focused a session entirely on landscape change from an ecological perspective. This domain of research and explanation offers numerous, current examples of collaboration across disciplines and efforts to address the relevance of archaeology outside our profession, as illustrated in Part II of this volume. Movement and ethnogenesis (Part III) are themes that emerge from migration research in archaeology, which Gilman and Whalen (Part I, this volume) see, and we agree, is a strong emphasis, perhaps even a fixation, of Southwest archaeology in the past decade or so, with some of the most varied and innovative approaches to understanding human movements. Finally, connectivity is an emerging focus in Southwest research (Part IV), bringing new ideas about time and space relationships that stimulate us to broaden our views from the single period and place of most archaeological research to the connections across broad areas and over long time spans, including into the present. These four sections are cross-cut by three themes, which have influenced the research and interpretations presented here as well as the authors’ calls for changes in practice: (1) considerations of the relevance and value of archaeology, (2) emphasis on collaboration across disciplines and communities and within the various archaeological subgroups, and (3) valuation of multiple perspectives and diversity of explanations. We first offer an introduction to each of the four sessions in the 2008 Southwest Symposium that form the four parts in this book. We then examine the themes that cross-cut the sections and influence much of current research in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico. The chapters differ in the terminology used to describe the region encompassed by the four corner states of the southwestern United States and the northern states of Mexico. Some refer to the region as the Southwest, others as the Southwest/Northwest, and still others using the modifiers U.S. and American. We have not standardized this terminology because it reflects different perspectives and ongoing discussion about the region. Part I: Past and Present Issues How have the priorities of Southwest archaeology changed? How has archaeological research in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico influenced the field in general? The Southwest Symposium has served as a forum for new ideas, and this



Changing Histories, Landscapes, and Perspectives

volume is no exception. Session organizers and participants from the inaugural 1988 symposium revisited the topics of that first symposium, examining not only changes in our intellectual contributions but innovative future directions as well. Their key topics—hunter-gatherers, transitions to sedentism, elites and regional systems, and the prehistoric to historic transition—have been central to archaeological research not only in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico but throughout the Americas. In the first section of this book, each topic is addressed in a single chapter. As a set, the chapters cover a wide temporal range, from the Archaic to the Protohistoric Southwest, while stressing the need to expand the areal scope of research to include northern Mexico and the need to take a broad view of historical trends and connections in time and space, foreshadowing the final section of this volume on connectivity. In addition, the inaugural symposium had a session on the history of archaeology in the U.S. Southwest, examining and analyzing the sequence of contributions made up to the late 1980s. While all the chapters in the first part of this book address historical trends, the final chapter by Reid focuses explicitly on the contributions of Southwest research. Part II: Landscape Use and Ecological Change The role of environment, especially climate, in the patterns of change across the Southwest United States and northern Mexico has been a central research theme in archaeology for many decades. The arid to semiarid character of the landscape invites explanations of change that identify drought, climate variability, and resource declines as causal. Environmental research has been led by Jeffrey Dean, who has played a leading role through his dendroclimatological analyses (Dean 1988, 1996; Dean, Doelle, and Orcutt 1994; Dean et al. 1985; Dean and Robinson 1978; Dean and Van West 2002; Force et al. 2003; Van West and Dean 2000). Some early work on landscapes took a non-site approach to documenting the organization of human activities (e.g., Rossignol and Wandsnider 1992). Recently, environment, climate, and landscape have reemerged as central foci of Southwest research (Cordell et al. 2007; Doyel and Dean 2006; Ingram 2008; Kohler 1992; Kohler and van der Leeuw 2007; Kohler et al. 2000; Nelson and Schollmeyer 2003; Nelson et al. 2006; Spielmann et al. n.d.; Van West 1996; Van West and Altschul 1997). But no Southwest Symposium, or session within the symposium, has specifically focused on the contributions of archaeological studies to understanding human-environment interactions and landscape use. The chapters in this second part address current trends and insights on landscape use and ecological change, presented at the 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium. Emphasizing the two-way interaction between humans and various aspects of environments, from soils to fauna to plant communities, this set of research papers touches on the major themes in ecological research of the prehistoric Southwest and in archaeology more generally. The chapters also represent current directions in collaborative research concerned with the dynamic and iterative impacts of human-environment interaction, the enhancement as well as the depression of resources by humans, and the long-term consequences of both. The authors call for archaeologists’ fuller collaboration and dialogue on issues, theory, and methods with ecologists, soil scientists, and other specialists



Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker

who can add their theoretical expertise to that of archaeology, enhancing exploration of the interaction between prehistoric behavior and the environment. Part III: Movement and Ethnogenesis The subject of prehistoric movements across the U.S. Southwest and northern Mexico has been part of the history of archaeology in the region for decades (Bernardini 2005; Cameron 1995; Cordell 1975, 1995; Fewkes 1900; Fish et al. 1994; Gilman 1997; Hard and Merrill 1992; Haury 1986 [1958]; Lyons 2003; B. Nelson and Anyon 1996; M. Nelson 1999; Powell 1983; Preucel 1988; Reid and Whittlesey 2007; Rocek 1996; Schlanger and Wilshusen 1993; Spielmann 1998; Stark, Clark, and Elson 1995; Varien 1999; Whalen and Gilman 1990; Wilshusen and Ortman 1999) and a common theme in Southwest symposia. The inaugural Southwest Symposium in 1988 included several papers (Minnis and Redman 1990) on movement that were concerned with adaptive strategies of hunter-gatherers and transitions to sedentism. In the early to mid-1990s, discussions of movement at the Southwest Symposium addressed the decoupling of subsistence and aggregation from mobility (Rocek 1996) and issues of recognizing and understanding processes of migration (Lekson and Cameron 1995). Scholars working in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico have been concerned with understanding different kinds of movement, from annual cycles to population shifting and reorganization to migration. We have vacillated about the value of studying migration, driven by our views about the appropriate methods and explanations of archaeological phenomena (Cameron 1995; Ortman and Cameron, this volume). At the 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium, archaeologists returned to a comparative approach to understanding movement, but with new ideas about the value of that approach. The goals of the four comparative studies, according to Ortman and Cameron, are to examine the archaeological visibility of migrants, understandings of how people moved, and social consequences of migrations, especially at destinations. They emphasize social consequences and the role of movement in identity formation. While the authors do explore the reasons for migration out of a region, they highlight the effects of migrating groups into a new region. Further, Ortman and Cameron, as well as Mills in her discussion of the chapters at the end of this section, argue that archaeology can play a valuable role in the development and refinement of migration theory. The comparative case studies in this section offer insights that can inform migration theory, such as recognizing (1) that the role of first comers is not necessarily one of dominance over land or ideology (Bernardini and Fowles), (2) that there are different processes and consequences of standing out as opposed to blending in to destination communities (Stone and Lipe; Clark and Laumbach), and (3) that ethnogenesis and new identity formation resulting from movement deserve attention (Anschuetz and Wilshusen). Part IV: Connectivity and Scale Archaeologists working in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico have been concerned with how the scale of phenomena, both spatial and temporal, influ

Changing Histories, Landscapes, and Perspectives

ences explanations of the past. In particular, Southwest scholars have recognized that social change is influenced to varying degrees by connections that are local, regional, and pan-regional and by events and processes that reverberate across social landscapes at various scales (e.g., Lekson 1996; Lekson, this volume; B. Nelson 1995, 2006). From the second Southwest Symposium, which focused on community dynamics, through subsequent symposium sessions on geographic and demographic scales (Fish and Reid 1996), regional interactions (Hegmon 2000), and feasting and politics (Mills 2004), interaction at various scales has been an important focus. Currently, new ideas are emerging from research explicitly exploring spatial and temporal connectivity at varying scales. Spatial connectivity refers to the influence of people, processes, and events in one area on those in another. This connectivity can be intentionally constructed through movements of people, ideas, and goods, but it may also be an unintended consequence of events or processes at considerable distance. For example, the roughly synchronous, dramatic changes that occurred in the Mimbres, Hohokam, and Chaco regions in the eleventh and twelfth centuries surely were connected, perhaps in many unintentional ways. Temporal connectivity focuses on the ways referencing the past influences the present and potentially directs the future. Here both landscapes and ancestral people become important (Anschuetz and Wilhusen, this volume). Many examples from modern Native people express the value of temporal connectivity. Archaeologists have acknowledged these spatial and temporal connections but have not systematically examined them as drivers of culture change and continuity. The chapters in this section represent emerging ideas about constructed and unintentional connectivity. Some examine conscious linking of people to landscapes as well as to others in past homelands, contributing new ideas to understanding the processes of interaction and movement of various kinds, including migration, diaspora, and pilgrimages. Lyons, Hill, and Clark address diaspora from the northern Pueblo region to the Hohokam in southern Arizona. They explore the role of both connectivity and conflict in regional collapse and depopulation. The temporal connectivity that rests on ancestral spirits and significant places is explored as a way to understand identity and cultural landscapes. Van Dyke describes this dynamic for the Pueblo 1 period along the San Juan River in the northern Southwest, emphasizing the role of highly visible landforms in the formation of landscapes of memory. Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh examine contemporary Hopi connections to the past, describing how Hopi animate their landscape and, through these perspectives, connect to the past. Schachner’s view of connectivity is both temporal and spatial; he discusses connectivity as mediated through the ceremonial use of unusual natural places on the landscape. Through the use of these places, people remain connected to their past and have the opportunity to continually reestablish connections to distant others who they encounter on scheduled pilgrimages. The topic of connectivity itself is one of contemporary interest as we look to the globalization of economies, social practices, and ideologies. While the connectivities discussed in this set of chapters do not address the global scale, they are concerned with broad spatial and deep temporal scales of connection. The broadest is Lekson’s call for attention to continental-scale connections.



Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker

Relevance, Collaboration, and Diversity Cross-cutting and integrating the various topics, regions, and perspectives brought to the 2008 Southwest Symposium, the themes of relevance, collaboration, and diversity are reiterated by many authors. These are not unique to Southwest archaeology, but the chapters in this volume make a strong contribution to each theme, bringing new insights to the practice of archaeology. Relevance

The archaeologists represented in this volume challenge those studying in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico to explore ways to become more relevant to a dynamic, modern world. This shift is in part attributable to the voices of Native Americans, urging archaeologists to involve them in their thinking about the past (e.g., Swidler et al. 1997). The call for relevance may also be influenced by increasing collaborations with those in other fields, especially ecology, that have brought into sharper focus the value of long-term perspectives of archaeological research to issues of social and environmental change, human impacts on environment, and sustainability (Kirch 2005; Morrison 2006; Redman and Kinzig 2003; van der Leeuw and Redman 2002). Minnis and Redman, in their introduction to Part I, argue that establishing the relevance or value of Southwest archaeology beyond our profession is essential to our future. They primarily discuss their approaches through human ecology but urge other efforts toward relevance to non-archaeologists. Van West, in her introduction to Part II, argues for the essential relevance of archaeological research to contemporary issues on two bases—first, that humans are an integral component of ecosystems, and second, that we cannot adequately understand or manage socio-natural systems without long-term perspectives on human-environment dynamics. Collaboration among various social and natural scientists is essential to this understanding. She and co-organizer Spielmann have brought together researchers from an array of disciplines and specialties to focus on the value of the past for understanding anthropogenic environmental change. Ortman and Cameron, in the introduction to Part III, argue that archaeological research on migration offers the potential for informing modern policy: “Deeper understanding of the causes and long-term consequences of migration in the past has the potential to inform contemporary public policy debates” (Ortman and Cameron, this volume, p. 233). Their point is illustrated by the insights offered in many of the chapters regarding land tenure, claims by different waves of migrants, and varied processes of integration with host communities. Finally, Kantner, introducing Part IV, bemoans the myopic nature of much archaeological work but asserts that “in recent years the discipline has made a concerted effort to be more relevant, not only in interpreting the past in human terms but also in making more direct contributions toward understanding the future” (Kantner, this volume, p. 363). Closing out this section of the book, Duff identifies a variety of ways the authors writing about connectivity address the call for “broader impacts” of their research. He identifies the educational value of large-scale databases compiled by dozens of projects 

Changing Histories, Landscapes, and Perspectives

conducted over decades. In addition, he sees a broader impact in the role of archaeology toward enriching the public’s perspective of underrepresented groups—Native Americans in the Southwest—and encouraging minority participation in science, as exemplified by the many collaborations with Native American people that support the work reported in the chapters in this book. Collaboration

The authors in this volume call for broad collaboration, as well as engagement with diverse communities of scholars, Native people, and interested citizens. Strong emphasis on collaboration has changed the perspectives we take and the questions we address, as well as the way we do archaeology in the Southwest United States and northern Mexico. Minnis and Redman emphasize the strides that have been made through collaboration with Native Americans, echoed in chapters by McGuire and Doelle. These collaborations bring into view discussions of the value of archaeological research to various communities, which Minnis and Redman argue ranges from the intrinsic value of exploring the past to the assertion that the world cannot be understood without the perspective brought by archaeological research. McGuire argues that changes in approaches to social relations—from an emphasis on power and inequality to relations among identity, migration, and ritual—are influenced in part by the expanded collaborations between Native people and non-Native archaeologists. This shift, he argues, has fundamentally changed our debates and our perspectives on explanation. Categorical explanations are being replaced by a relational approach; we have replaced debate over how complex a social group is with debate over the relationships among politics, ritual, migration, and identity that influence social constructions. The chapters that form Part III on movement and ethnogenesis and Part IV on connectivity illustrate well the advantages of collaborations and consultations with Native Americans. According to Ortman and Cameron, movement has become a central theme in research because of “effective and regular communication” between archaeologists and Native Americans. All of the four comparative studies on movement rely on the perspectives Native Americans bring to movement and identity, especially Bernardini and Fowles’s examination of movements and social change among the Hopi and Tiwa and Anschuetz and Wilshusen’s analysis of ethnogenesis for the Tewa and Navajo. Bernardini and Fowles point to the difference in the depth of understanding possible in two cases, one of which benefits from considerable input of Native perspectives and the other that suffers from less input. The contribution by Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh exemplifies the value of collaboration and speaks directly to the relevance of our work beyond archaeology. Their work with Hopi people provided understanding of the nature of their connections to past people, places, and landscapes. They acknowledge the difference between traditionalist Hopi approaches to this connectivity and those of archaeologists and note the importance of recognizing this distinction for better addressing heritage issues of preserving traditional cultural property. They also suggest that beginning with an indigenous perspective—what they call “reverse archaeology”—can enrich archaeological method and theory. In a similar



Margaret C. Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker

vein, Van Dyke argues that physical landscapes are imbued with meaning in the lives of people that reinforce past and present identifies and can thus inform our understanding of changing identities in the past. Schachner also emphasizes the importance of understanding contemporary Native peoples’ connections to features of landscapes, as expressed in songs and prayers: “Collaboration with Native peoples in the study of landscape use is likely to provide greater detail for understanding how pilgrimage connects people, places, and time periods” (Schachner, this volume, p. 428). Others emphasize collaboration with those in other academic disciplines. The chapters by Johnson and Spielmann and her colleagues in Part II are from large, interdisciplinary research programs. The Village Ecodynamics Project, focused on the Mesa Verde area in the Four Corners, and the Legacies on the Landscape Project, focused on Perry Mesa in central Arizona, address the consequences of human action, both short and long term. They illustrate the call for collaboration and the benefits of research across varied disciplines. In addition, some authors acknowledge great strides made through dissolution of the boundaries between contract and academic archaeology, and their chapters illustrate that progress. Contract-funded research has contributed larger databases and larger research teams than were the norm twenty years ago. The chapters in this book benefit from efforts to engage traditional as well as new collaborators and build common understanding across histories, philosophies, and disciplinary training. In Part I, McGuire’s chapter and those of Vierra, Gilman and Whalen, and Doelle benefit from collaborations between contract-funded and academic research. Doelle notes that most of the information about the Protohistoric in the southern Southwest has come from contractually funded research. Diversity

Diversity of perspectives has been a hallmark of Southwest archaeology and is a major contribution of this volume. The authors bring a diversity of perspectives for a deeper and fuller understanding of the past. Some also document shifts in the diversity of explanations and greater recognition of the variability in the phenomena to be explained. As our foundations of information expand with each generation of research, we recognize more variability and diversity, and as our debates deepen, they drive new ideas that expand our approaches to understanding the past. In reviewing changes of perspective since the late 1980s (Part I), Vierra argues that the issues of research on foraging societies in the Southwest have not changed but that the diversity of data and variability in the patterning change the explanations, making them more contextualized. Gilman and Whalen, as well as McGuire, note the shift from categorical explanations and debates to a more nuanced consideration of human actions and social contexts. Gilman and Whalen, in their review of research on mobility, see a change from a dichotomized study of sedentism and mobility to a fuller view of the ways humans move and settle on landscapes and the kinds of factors that influence movement. Emphasis on environment-based explanations and processual arguments is expanded to include a variety of social conditions and arguments that consider social action and human



Changing Histories, Landscapes, and Perspectives

agency. McGuire documents a shift from debates about levels of complexity to explanations of how social power and inequality are constructed and expressed. Discussion of power and inequality has shifted to understanding ritual, migration, identity, and religious practice, and McGuire argues that future research will benefit from examining the relationships among and around these aspects of human experience. One set of chapters illustrates the ways diverse ideas brought to a common problem—understanding anthropogenic change—can enrich understanding. Adams, an archaeobotanist, Driver, a zooarchaeologist, and Sandor and Homburg, soil agronomists, all examine archaeological data to document both intended and unintended impacts of human action on the environment. They illustrate the dynamic relationship of human-environment interactions in which human-induced changes impact ecosystems and those changes then impact human choices. In line with the tradition of the Southwest Symposium and its initial mission, this book documents insightful, leading-edge contributions to archaeological research. The authors revisit past themes, introduce new ideas, and continue valuable discussion about issues essential to our understanding of prehistoric behavior across the Southwest United States and northern Mexico. Their efforts come together to provide a synthetic volume on current research and possibilities for future explorations. As the authors stress, it is essential that archaeologists continue to include researchers from across political and disciplinary boundaries and enhance collaboration with Native American groups. References Bernardini, W. 2005 Reconsidering Spatial and Temporal Aspects of Prehistoric Cultural Identity: A Case Study from the American Southwest. American Antiquity 70(1): 31–54. Cameron, C. M. 1995 Migration and the Movement of Southwestern Peoples. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 14: 104–124. Cordell, L. S. 1975 Predicting Site Abandonment at Wetherill Mesa. Kiva 40(3): 189–202. 1995 Migration Pathways from the Receiving End. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 14: 203–211. Cordell, L. S., C. R. Van West, J. S. Dean, and D. A. Muenchrath Mesa Verde Settlement History and Relocation: Climate Change, Social Networks, 2007 and Ancestral Pueblo Migration. Kiva 72(4): 391–417. Dean, J. S. 1988 1996

Dendrochronology and Paleoenvironmental Reconstructions on the Colorado Plateau. In The Anasazi in a Changing Environment, ed. G. J. Gumerman, 119–167. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Demography, Environment, and Subsistence Stress. In Evolving Complexity and Environmental Risk in the Prehistoric Southwest: Proceedings of the Workshop, “Resource Stress, Economic Uncertainty, and Human Response in the Prehistoric Southwest,” Held February 25–29, 1992 in Santa Fe, NM, ed. J. A. Tainter and B. B. Tainter, 25–56. Addison-Wesley, Reading, MA.



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Dean, J. S., W. H. Doelle, and J. D. Orcutt 1994 Adaptive Stress, Environment, and Demography. In Themes in Southwest Prehistory, ed. G. J. Gumerman, 53–86. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Dean, J. S., R. C. Euler, G. J. Gumerman, F. T. Plog, R. H. Hevly, and T.N.V. Karlstrom Human Behavior, Demography, and Paleoenvironment on the Colorado Plateau. 1985 American Antiquity 50(3): 537–554. Dean, J. S., and W. J. Robinson 1978 Expanded Tree-Ring Chronologies for the Southwestern United States. Chronology Series 3. Laboratory of Tree-Ring Research, University of Arizona, Tucson. Dean, J. S., and C. R. Van West Environment-Behavior Relationships in Southwestern Colorado. In Seeking the 2002 Center Place: Archaeology and Ancient Communities in the Mesa Verde Region, ed. Mark D. Varien and Richard H. Wilshusen, 81–100. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Doyel, D. E., and J. S. Dean (editors) Environmental Change and Human Adaptation in the Ancient American Southwest. 2006 University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Fewkes, J. W. Tusayan Migration Traditions. In Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnol1900 ogy for the Years 1897–1898, part 2, 573–634. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. Fish, P. R., and J. J. Reid (editors) Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underlying Principles and Over-Arching Pat1996 terns. Anthropological Research Papers 48. Arizona State University, Tempe. Fish, P. R., S. Fish, G. J. Gumerman, and J. J. Reid 1994 Toward an Explanation for Southwestern Abandonments. In Themes in Southwest Prehistory, ed. G. J. Gumerman, 135–165. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Force, E. R., R. G. Vivian, T. C. Windes, and J. S. Dean Relation of “Bonito” Paleo-Channels and Base-Level Variations to Anasazi Occu2003 pation, Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. Journal of Anthropological Research 59(3): 360–361. Gilman, P. A. 1997 Wandering Villagers: Pitstructures, Mobility, and Agriculture in Southeastern Arizona. Anthropological Papers 49. Arizona State University, Tempe. Hard, R. J., and W. L. Merrill Mobile Agriculturalists and the Emergence of Sedentism: Perspectives from North1992 ern Mexico. American Anthropologist 94(3): 601–620. Haury, E. W. Evidence at Point of Pines for a Prehistoric Migration from Northern Arizona. In 1986 Emil W. Haury’s Prehistory of the American Southwest, ed. J. J. Reid and D. E. Doyel, 414–421. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Originally published 1958 in Migrations in New World Culture History, ed. R. H. Thompson. Social Science Bulletin 27. University of Arizona, Tucson.

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Hegmon, M. 2000 The Archaeology of Regional Interaction: Religion, Warfare, and Exchange across the American Southwest and Beyond. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Ingram, S. E. Streamflow and Population Change in the Lower Salt River Valley of Central Ari2008 zona, ca. A.D. 775 to 1450. American Antiquity 73: 136–165. Kirch, P. V. 2005 Archaeology and Global Change: The Holocene Record. Annual Review of Environmental Resources 30: 409–440. Kohler, T. A. Prehistoric Human Impact on the Environment in Upland North American South1992 west. Population and Environment: A Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies 13(4): 255–268. Kohler, T. A., J. Kresl, C. R. Van West, E. Carr, and R. Wilshusen There Then: A Modeling Approach to Settlement Determinant and Spatial Effi2000 ciency among Late Ancestral Pueblo Populations of the Mesa Verde Region, U.S. Southwest. In Dynamics in Human and Primate Societies: Agent-Based Modeling of Social and Spatial Processes, ed. G. J. Gumerman and T. A. Kohler, 145–178. Santa Fe Institute and Oxford University Press, Oxford. Kohler, T. A., and S. E. van der Leeuw (editors) The Model-Based Archaeology of Socionatural Systems. School for Advanced Research 2007 Press, Santa Fe. Lekson, S. H. Scale and Process in the Southwest. In Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underly1996 ing Principles and Overarching Patterns, ed. P. R. Fish and J. J. Reid, 81–86. Anthropological Research Papers 48. Arizona State University, Tempe. Lekson, S. H., and C. M. Cameron 1995 The Abandonment of Chaco Canyon, the Mesa Verde Migrations, and the Reorganization of the Pueblo World. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 14(2): 184–202. Lyons, P. D. Ancestral Hopi Migrations. Anthropological Paper 68. University of Arizona Press, 2003 Tucson. Mills, B. J. 2004

Identity, Feasting, and the Archaeology of the Greater Southwest. University Press of Colorado, Boulder.

Minnis, P. E., and C. L. Redman (editors) Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory. Westview, Boulder. 1990 Morrison, K. D. Failure and How to Avoid It. Nature 440: 752–754. 2006 Nelson, B. A. 1995 Complexity, Hierarchy, and Scale: A Controlled Comparison between Chaco Canyon, New Mexico and la Quemada, Zacatecas. American Antiquity 60(4): 597– 618.

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2006

Mesoamerican Objects and Symbols in Chaco Canyon Contexts. In The Archaeology of Chaco Canyon: An 11th Century Pueblo Regional Center, ed. S. H. Lekson, 339–372. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe.

Nelson, B. A., and R. Anyon 1996 Fallow Valleys: Asynchronous Occupations in Southwestern New Mexico. Kiva 61: 275–294. Nelson, M. C. Mimbres during the Twelfth Century: Abandonment, Continuity, and Reorganiza1999 tion. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Nelson, M. C., M. Hegmon, S. Kulow, and K. G. Schollmeyer 2006 Archaeological and Ecological Perspectives on Reorganization: A Case Study from the Mimbres Region of the U.S. Southwest. American Antiquity 71: 403–432. Nelson, M. C., and K. G. Schollmeyer 2003 Game Resources, Social Interaction, and the Ecological Footprint in Southwest New Mexico. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 10(2): 69–110. Powell, S. 1983

Mobility and Adaptation: The Anasazi of Black Mesa, Arizona. Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale.

Preucel, R. W. 1988 Seasonal Agricultural Circulation and Residential Mobility: A Prehistoric Example from the Pajarito Plateau, New Mexico. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of California, Los Angeles. Redman, C. L., and A. P. Kinzig Resilience of Past Landscapes: Resilience Theory, Society, and the Longue Durée. 2003 Conservation Ecology 7(1): 14. Reid, J. J., and S. M. Whittlesey 2007 Migration, Population Movement, and Process at Grasshopper Pueblo, Arizona. In Archaeology as Anthropology: Theoretical and Methodological Approaches, ed. J. Skibo, M. Graves, and M. Stark, 218–235. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Rocek, T. R. 1996 Sedentism and Mobility in the Southwest. In Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underlying Principles and Overarching Patterns, ed. P. Fish and J. G. Reid, 17–22. Anthropological Papers 48. Arizona State University, Tempe. Rossignol, J., and L. Wandsnider (editors) Space, Time, and Archaeological Landscapes. Plenum, New York. 1992 Schlanger, S. H. (editor) 2002 Traditions, Transitions, and Technologies: Themes in Southwestern Archaeology. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Schlanger, S. H., and R. H. Wilshusen Local Abandonments and Regional Conditions in the North American Southwest. 1993 In Abandonment of Settlements and Regions: Ethnoarchaeological and Archaeological Approaches, ed. C. M. Cameron and S. A. Tomka, 85–98. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

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Spielmann, K. A. 1995 Glimpses of Gender in the Prehistoric Southwest. Journal of Anthropological Research 51: 91–102. 1998 Migration and Reorganization: The Pueblo IV Period in the American Southwest. Anthropological Research Paper 51. Arizona State University, Tempe. Spielmann, K. A., M. C. Nelson, S. Ingram, and M. A. Peeples n.d. Sustainable Small-Scale Agriculture in Arid Environments. Ecology and Society, submitted for review. Stark, M. T., J. J. Clark, and M. D. Elson Causes and Consequences of Migration in the 13th Century Tonto Basin. Journal 1995 of Anthropological Archaeology 14: 212–246. Swidler, N., K. E. Dongoske, R. Anyon, and A. S. Downer (editors) Native Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground. Rowman 1997 Altamira, Lanham, MD. van der Leeuw, S., and C. L. Redman 2002 Placing Archaeology at the Center of Socio-Natural Studies. American Antiquity 67(4): 597–605. Van West, C. R. Agricultural Potential and Carrying Capacity in Southwestern Colorado, AD 901 1996 to 1300. In The Prehistoric Pueblo World, AD 1150–1350, ed. M. A. Adler, 214– 227. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Van West, C. R., and J. H. Altschul 1997 Environmental Variability and Agricultural Economics along the Lower Verde River, A.D. 750–1450. In Vanishing River: Landscapes and Lives of the Lower Verde Valley, the Lower Verde Archaeological Project, Overview, Synthesis, and Conclusion, ed. S. M. Whittlesey, R. Ciolek-Torello, and J. H. Altschul, 337–392. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Van West, C. R., and J. S. Dean Environmental Characteristics of the A.D. 900–1300 Period in the Central Mesa 2000 Verde Region. Kiva 66(1): 45–66. Varien, M. D. Sedentism and Mobility in a Social Landscape: Mesa Verde and Beyond. University of 1999 Arizona Press, Tucson. Villalpando, E. (editor) 2002 Boundaries and Territories: Prehistory of the U.S. Southwest and Northern Mexico. Anthropological Research Papers 54. Arizona State University, Tempe. Whalen, M. E., and P. Gilman Transitions to Sedentism. In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis 1990 and C. L. Redman, 71–75. Westview, Boulder. Wills, W. H., and R. D. Leonard (editors) 1994 The Ancient Southwestern Community: Models and Methods for the Study of Prehistoric Social Organization. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Wilshusen, R. H., and S. G. Ortman Rethinking the Pueblo I Period in the San Juan Drainage: Aggregation, Migration, 1999 and Cultural Diversity. Kiva 64: 369–399.

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Part I Past and Present Issues

[2] Ten Millennia, Twenty Years Later

Paul E. Minnis and Charles L. Redman

We are not sure if we ever thought about how long the Southwest1 Symposium would exist, but we are gratified that it seems to have served the community of Southwestern archaeologists for more than two decades. Despite the best efforts of our many colleagues who helped during the first meeting—and there were many who did—the beginning of the Southwest Symposium was not without an occasional bump. While we were watching the book displays during the lunch break on the first day, for example, an Arizona State University groundskeeper showed up with a decrepit cardboard box filled with ash, calcine human bone fragments, and a whole pot. He pointed out, enjoying the obvious irony, that while hundreds of Southwestern archaeologists were meeting on the south end of campus talking about the past, an ancient Hohokam village with a cemetery was being destroyed at the north end of campus by the expansion of a stadium parking lot. This was a traumatic reminder once again that archaeology is more than talk. We have been impressed with the subsequent twenty-plus years of the Southwest Symposium. We were concerned at first that the format of presentations-by-invitation could devolve into a venue for a small group of scholars meeting once every other year to demonstrate incestuously their cleverness and to congratulate each other on their theoretical sophistication. Fortunately, this scenario has been avoided; the Southwest

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Symposium has become an event hosted by many organizations from several states in two countries, with presentations by hundreds of individuals from throughout the U.S. Southwest and northern Mexico, and has resulted in a number of published volumes of research. We wish to do more than simply reflect and reminisce on the twenty-plus years of the Southwest Symposium; anyone can compare on their own the results of the first Southwest Symposium (Minnis and Redman 1990) with those of more recent ones. Instead, we briefly address two topics. First, we will comment on a few changes we have seen in Southwestern archaeology since the first meeting. Second, and more important, indulge us while we outline some topics we would like to see addressed. Where Have We Been? Southwestern archaeology is an active enterprise, and no one has read everything published about the prehispanic Southwest over the past twenty years. We have been busy. Articles on the Southwest account for between one-fifth and one-quarter of all articles and notes in American Antiquity, both in the late 1980s and today. Certainly, we are publishing in the premier journal at a rate at least equal to, or more likely greater than, that of people working in other regions. What we are doing has changed some, but perhaps not as much as we would like to think. There seems to be a continuity of archaeological scholars. Archaeological careers in the Southwest, if the participants in the first Southwest Symposium are a reasonable sample, seem to have a long shelf life. Approximately 80 percent of this group is still professionally active in archaeology. Unfortunately, 7 percent have died in the last twenty years. An additional 11 percent is no longer active, most through retirement where the person no longer publishes archaeological research. Very few have gone on to other professional pursuits. The merits and problems of long professional involvement deserve consideration beyond what we can devote here. Another area of seeming continuity is that the focus, intensity, and pace of archaeological research across sub-regions of the Southwest continue to be uneven. Several areas, most notably parts of the Colorado Plateau and the Sonoran Desert around Phoenix and Tucson, are densely populated by archaeologists producing voluminous and excellent research. Regrettably, we can all list other sub-regions that continue to be understudied or largely ignored, as they have for many decades. It seems to us that Southwestern archaeologists have responded reasonably well to issues that began to face the discipline twenty years ago. This is not to say that all is well and that we have acted adequately on all of these concerns. Specifically, we think of three issues that need attention: the role of contractual archaeology, relationships between Native America and archaeology, and theoretical transformations in the discipline. A fourth is the integration of archaeology both north and south of the international border. As is obvious, contract archaeology (CRM) accounts for the vast majority of research dollars and activity, and this is especially true in the Southwest. Contract archaeology in the Southwest, in our opinion, is also one of the healthiest in that many

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CRM archaeologists are active members of the wider archaeological community, and some of the most significant research projects have been conducted under a contract paradigm. Some of this is a result of the fact that contract archaeology has allowed a scale of research previously rare in Southwestern archaeology. All we need to do is think back a half century, before CRM archaeology, to remember how different archaeology was then; with the exception of projects at Snaketown and Casas Grandes, most research projects were fairly small and contrast with today’s often large-scale projects unimaginable in the not-too-distant past. As will be discussed later, size can matter. Much has been written on the relationships between archaeologists and Native Americans. While tensions still arise on occasion, as one would expect, we are heartened to see systematic organizations and relationships facilitating better communication and cooperation. As has been noted by all, Southwestern archaeology, dominated by processual approaches, has been replaced by a more theoretically eclectic mix. Compared with the transition from pre-processual to processual archaeology in the 1960s and 1970s, which was too often and unnecessarily contentious, we find this transformation has been more integrative and less acrimonious and has resulted in a better and more diverse intellectual atmosphere. Finally, we are now seeing increasing relationships between the Southwest north of the international border and what is too often perceived as the “other Southwest”— which should more correctly be termed the “Northwest”—that is, the region south of the border in Mexico. There are many differences in organizational structure, laws, culture, available resources, and other characteristics between Mexico and the United States. The November 2007 issue of the SAA Archaeological Record provides excellent and concise discussions of these differences from the perspectives of Mexican archaeologists. For a long time, the important work of our colleagues in northern Mexico had not received the attention it deserved from those north of the border but also from their countrymen working in central and southern Mexico. Recent research at Cerro Juanaqueña, La Playa, Casas Grandes, Las Trincheras, and in the Sierra Madre Occidental, among others, represents but a few examples from northern Mexico that illustrate the critical role of northwestern Mexico’s prehispanic heritage and how its study has enriched our understanding of the archaeology of our shared region. Is all well with Southwestern archaeology? Perhaps not entirely. Where Would We Like To Go? There is no consensus that we know of among Southwestern archaeologists about where we need to go either theoretically or topically, so our short list is simply that: ours. Here we briefly make three points: one about organization, one about coverage, and one about context. The success of Southwestern archaeology has created, we believe, an organizational problem. The Southwest has been a center of archaeological work in North America for over a hundred years, with some of the most creative work in archaeology done there, and the Southwest surely has the highest density of archaeologists in North America,

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likely surpassing the population density during the Middle Archaic. But communication among Southwestern archaeologists is increasingly problematic. It is now entirely respectable for a “Southwestern” archaeologist to spend his or her entire career in one sub-region. It appears to us that for an increasing number of archaeologists, their frame of reference has likewise become constricted. One way to help mitigate this tendency is to have a general pan-southwestern meeting. Odd in light of its vibrancy, Southwest archaeology lacks an equivalent to meetings such as the Southeastern Archaeological Conference or the Plains Conference. For all its advantages, the Pecos Conference has not played this role for many decades, and we doubt it ever will again. The current structure of the Southwest Symposium may not be best suited to this purpose either, and we say this despite being its original architects. We suggest modifying the Southwest Symposium in a way that retains its core strength of invited papers, which people seem to appreciate, but also opens it up for wider participation. Aggressively encouraging posters, especially in thematic groups, seems the logical means to do so, but there are other options. Keeping the current structure of scholarly meetings risks intellectually balkanizing Southwestern archaeology. Rather, let us encourage the traditional perspective of our discipline’s early practitioners, such as Emil Haury and A. V. Kidder, who worked in more than one area. One striking characteristic of Southwestern archaeology—southwestern used in its narrow geographic sense—is its strong nationalist character. Almost no archaeologists from countries other than the United States direct archaeological research in the Southwest north of the border. We find this odd, as Southwestern archaeology has been theoretically cosmopolitan at the same time it has been so demographically provincial. Despite the much lower number of archaeologists working in northern Mexico, that work has greater international participation. In Chihuahua, for example, the number of archaeologists directing projects can be counted on two hands, which contrasts markedly with their hundreds of colleagues in Arizona or New Mexico. Of these few archaeologists working in Chihuahua, the project leaders come from three countries. Furthermore, the Instituto Nacional de Antropología y Historia, the Mexican governmental agency responsible for archaeological research and conservation, has hired nonMexican archaeologists in its northern states. Archaeology in northern Mexico, then, is more cosmopolitan than is the case north of the border. The final issue we raise is wider than archaeology—what is the value of Southwestern archaeology, and how do we present it outside the professional community? Given the likelihood of far tighter government budgets in the near future, archaeologists must be prepared to demonstrate why what we do is important. Both of us have a central concern with environmental problems, although we do not address that concern in exactly the same way. The senior author has emphasized a “utilitarian” ancient human ecology (Minnis 2001, 2004a, 2004b, 2006), whereas the junior author has focused on the role of humans in ecological processes (Redman 1999; Redman et al. 2004; Van der Leeuw and Redman 2002). We are not arguing that environmental issues are the only or even the most important value of archaeology. Nonetheless, Southwestern archaeology has much to offer the study of human-environmental relationships over the long term at a time when these issues are paramount for humanity’s future.

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For example, in 2007 Minnis participated in an interdisciplinary seminar on “Indigenous People and Climate Change” at Oxford University as an ethnobotanist. Conference members agreed that a long-term archaeological perspective on human environmental interaction is needed; while ancient human ecology is not a direct analogy for a postindustrial world, much can be learned from our ancestors’ dynamic and complex relationships. Southwestern archaeologists in the past may have overemphasized the role of the environment in the affairs of prehispanic peoples of the Southwest; employing crude, easy, and simple correlations of precipitation fluctuations with cultural changes is tiresome and unenlightening. Nonetheless, we should not shy away from studying human-environmental interactions in the Southwest, one of the best archaeological laboratories in the world for doing so. We are encouraged, therefore, to see Spielmann and Van West’s session here as evidence of a renewed commitment to understanding past human ecology of the Southwest. The connection between archaeology and the study of the environment has always been strong, and ten years ago Redman shifted from directing an anthropology department to leading a research center on the environment. A major impetus for that job change was the belief that archaeology could be a key contributor to broader environmental issues. To attempt to implement that objective, it seemed more reasonable to be positioned in an institutional leadership role that could smooth the way for greater intellectual participation by archaeology colleagues and students in contemporary issues of human-environment interaction. Moreover, Redman’s experience and that of many others who have assumed authority over multidisciplinary organizations is that archaeological training and field experiences provide an excellent training ground for these roles (see Van der Leeuw and Redman 2002). The experience of the past ten years has produced mixed results, yet it appears to us that the field is accumulating momentum and is nearing a “takeoff ” position in terms of interdisciplinary collaboration with ecologists in particular. Assuming, as we do, that collaboration between archaeologists and other environmental scientists is advantageous, a realistic view of how we have collaborated and what adjustments in our position might enhance effective participation in broader academic and institutional contexts seems warranted. We offer five points. We realize that others already work with us closely for at least three reasons, the first three listed here. In addition, we believe our substantive contributions will prove our value, as suggested in the fourth and fifth reasons. 1. Intrinsic Value: Archaeological remains are widely distributed across the globe, they represent our collective history, and we, as archaeologists, are the ones who can understand and interpret them for everyone else. We should not minimize the value of basic archaeological information. 2. In the Service of Others: Larger projects, administrators, and sponsoring agencies often feel it is necessary to treat the history, prehistory, or both of a place or society and hence require or encourage that archaeological perspectives be added to the interpretive mix. In these cases the project’s overall mission, objectives, and conceptual framework continue to be driven by the other/dominant disciplines.

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Paul E. Minnis and Charles L. Redman

3. Parallel Play: We often find ourselves a significant part of larger projects, but we and they conduct ourselves according to separate paradigms, each judged and valued in its own right and according to its own values. This may lead to a section on the archaeology, but results are seldom integrated. 4. You Can’t Understand What You See without Us: We argue that the current condition and operation of landscapes, regions, and the world require a thorough understanding of past conditions, processes, and interactions. Collaboration is needed with archaeologists who focus on reconstructing interactive processes between humans and environments in the past that have left imprints on the present and might continue to leave legacies well into the future. 5. You Can’t Understand How the World Works without Us: We believe that archaeology, knowledge of the past, and long-term observational series are essential to the development of meaningful conceptual frameworks for understanding the world, people’s place in it, and the dynamics of socio-ecological systems in the past, present, and future.

As in the development of archaeological method and theory over the past 150 years, we expect archaeology as practiced in the Southwest will provide leadership that forges effective interdisciplinary collaborations and enhances archaeology’s position within the broader intellectual and institutional milieu. It could be argued that many of these noted “values” of archaeology require a detailed understanding of the past and that such high-quality information is not available in many regions, where data are sparse or chronological control is not precise. However, archaeology can be helpful even if information and understandings are fragmentary and incomplete. As one of us has discussed elsewhere (Minnis 2001, 2004a, 2004b), there may be substantial utilitarian value in fragmentary paleoecological and archaeological information. Reaching the goal of greater collaboration between archaeologists and environmental scientists requires changes in the way we work. First among these is the fact that poorly documented archaeological narratives of the past are not sufficient, regardless of how interesting, theoretically current, or sophisticated the interpretations may be. Archaeologists are used to working with explanations that have a “high degree of scientific uncertainty.” We need to better evaluate the veracity of contrasting explanations if we are to make contributions. Although large and reasonably well-funded projects are not necessary to accomplish this, the kind of work needed to better integrate archaeology with colleagues in ecology must often be underwritten by substantial budgets. The traditional model of small archaeological projects, often organized as field schools, with woefully inadequate budgets likely will not be up to the job. Size often does matter. Summary Whatever happens in Southwestern archaeology, we are pleased that our vision of a pan-southwestern conference has been of service and seems likely to continue into the future. We think Southwestern archaeology is in good shape and has much to add to

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Ten Millennia, Twenty Years Later

an understanding of the region’s history and its value to wider intellectual and practical spheres. This does not mean, however, that it need not change. Environmental concerns are central to our interests, but we recognize that there are others. Finally, we suggest that you reread the results of the first Southwest Symposium (Minnis and Redman 1990) and compare them with the contributions to this volume to judge for yourself the vitality of Southwestern archaeology during the past twentyplus years. Note 1. The term “Southwest” is used here to include the U.S. Southwest, centered on Arizona and New Mexico and surrounding states, and northwestern Mexico, especially most of Sonora and Chihuahua. This term, while geocentric, is the one most commonly used. Historically, Northwest would be a more accurate term for this region.

Acknowledgments Reflecting on the past two decades of the Southwest Symposium reminded us of the great debt we owe a large number of people, especially those who organized the previous meetings. Dr. Margaret Nelson, the primary organizer of the 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium, deserves special thanks. References Minnis, P. E. 2001 One Possible Future of Paleoethnobotany. In Ethnobotany at the Millennium: Past Promise and Future Prospects, ed. R. Ford, 35–48. Anthropological Papers 91. Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. 2004a Extinction Isn’t Always Forever: Biodiversity and Prehistory. In The Archaeology of Global Change, ed. C. Redman, S. James, P. Fish, and J. Rogers, 249–257. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. 2004b Introduction. In People and Plants in Western North America, ed. P. Minnis, 1–16. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. 2006 Answering the Skeptic’s Question. The SAA Archaeological Record 6(5): 17. Minnis, P. E., and C. L. Redman (editors) Perspectives on Southwestern Archaeology. Westview, Boulder. 1990 Redman, C. L. Human Impact on Ancient Environments. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 1999 Redman, C. L., S. R. James, P. R. Fish, and J. D. Rodgers (editors) The Archaeology of Global Change: The Impact of Humans on Their Environment. 2004 Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. Van der Leeuw, S., and C. L. Redman Placing Archaeology at the Center of Socio-Natural Studies. American Antiquity 2002 67: 597–605.

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[3] Foraging Societies in an Arid Environment Coping with Change in the Greater Southwest

Bradley J. Vierra

The traditional Southwestern Culture Area was primarily defined by the spatial distri-­ bution of agricultural societies who lived among the plateaus and deserts of the region. However, a variety of foraging societies surrounded the area—including California, the Desert West, Great Basin, Rocky Mountains, and the Plains and bush country of south Texas—and foraging societies lived throughout the Southwest prior to, and in some areas contemporary with, farmers. This vast expanse provides an ecologically diverse landscape that ranges from the Sonoran Desert to the Mogollon Rim transition, from the San Luis Valley to the Chihuahuan Desert, and from mountains to river valleys. As Wirt Wills (1988) once pointed out, in a simple sense the region can be separated into the heterogeneous northern uplands and the homogeneous southern deserts. These regions offered opportunities for foraging societies to flourish while coping with a vari-­ ety of challenges in these arid lands. Much has changed over the last twenty or so years of research on foragers in the Southwest. The paper I presented at the Southwest Symposium in 1988 discussed several topics, including the Paleoindian/Archaic transition, Archaic settlement-­subsistence, early agriculture, and stone tool technology (Vierra 1990). In fact, these are the same basic issues with which we are still grappling. The big difference between then and now is that we have much more information, and we are beginning to identify regional

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Bradley J. Vierra

variability about which we had previously only speculated. Yet much of this informa-­ tion was, and still is, limited to the Late Archaic. Paleoindian/Archaic Transition Little has changed over the last twenty or so years in understanding the nature of the Paleoindian/Archaic transition in the American Southwest. This has been in part a result of the lack of data on this critical time period, with few sites having been exca-­ vated. Therefore, much of what we currently know is derived from observations on iso-­ lated projectile points. Nonetheless, the Southwestern paleoenvironmental data indi-­ cate a marked Middle Holocene dry period from circa 8,000 to 5,000 BP (Blinn, Hevly, and Davis 1994; Doerner 2007; Haynes 1995; Holmgren et al. 2003; Weng and Jackson 1999). One example is the drying of bogs in the Jemez Mountains from circa 8000 to 6500 cal yr BP (or ca. 7200–5700 BP) (Anderson et al. 2008). Middle Holocene drying had a significant impact on regional resource structure, which appears to be associated with the transition from Late Paleoindian to Early Archaic. I am aware of only a single systematic study on this period of transition. A pro-­ jectile point study conducted by Margaret Jodry, Steven Shackley, Michael Dilley, and myself revealed a pattern of large-scale regional movement by Late Paleoindian groups between the Plains, Rocky Mountains, and even the Great Basin into the San Luis Valley and down the Rio Grande Valley to the Jemez Mountains (Vierra et al. 2005, in press). This migration was followed by a shift to a more restricted pattern of northsouth movement within the valley and adjacent areas by Early Archaic groups who used two specific point types, Jay and Bajada. These changes in regional mobility and tech-­ nology presumably relate to changes in hunting strategies involving a mix of lowland grassland and upland woodland hunting. For example, Early Archaic projectile points were more durable and were probably designed for the encounter hunting of medium to small game, which increased the number of target misses. These points are similar to hunting weapons used by Rocky Mountain and Great Basin Late Paleoindian groups. In contrast, Late Paleoindian Plains groups used points that were manufactured for deep penetration, were commonly scavenged from bison carcasses at kill sites, and were rebased and reused. Nicholas Chapin’s (2005:560) preliminary study on the adjacent areas of the Rio Puerco of the East and the San Juan Basin of northwestern New Mexico also provides productive insights into this time period. He suggests that prior to about 7000 BP Cody groups occupied the middle Rio Grande Valley, with a subsistence strategy ori-­ ented toward the east and the Plains. Data on the Early Archaic occupation of the San Juan Basin are generally lacking, but foraging groups in this area may have already been implementing a more generalized strategy similar to those groups situated across the desert scrub lands to the west. By circa 6000 BP foragers residing in both areas appear to have been implementing a similar strategy to that characterizing the regional Early Archaic. This raises a significant question: how did the Middle Holocene drought affect Southwestern foraging groups? In particular, how do Jay materials found in the north-­

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Foraging Societies in an Arid Environment

ern Rio Grande Valley relate to the pre–6000 BP occupation in the San Juan Basin? Foragers residing in the San Juan Basin were related to groups that were moving across the southern Colorado Plateau from northeastern Arizona to northwestern New Mexico. Yet there is very little evidence of Jay and only limited evidence of Bajada dur-­ ing this time frame, with the latter possibly appearing circa 6000 BP. Jay points are most common in the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado, while Bajada points are found in the Rio Grande Valley from Taos to Santa Fe, New Mexico (Vierra et al. 2005, in press). Perhaps seasonal hunting of bison was still important to these Jay groups but not to for-­ agers residing in the nearby San Juan Basin and subsequent Bajada groups. This simply represents a single local pattern, which is obviously surrounded by a much larger picture of hunter-gatherer land use throughout the Southwest during this dry period, including the movement of foragers out of the southern deserts (Huckell 1996; Mabry, Carpenter, and Sanchez 2008; Matson 1991; Waters 1986). Archaic Foraging Technology At the first Southwest Symposium I discussed several issues involving Archaic forag-­ ing technology, including projectile point typologies, comparisons between Archaic and Ceramic period lithic assemblages, and debitage analyses designed to identify tem-­ porally distinctive groups. Currently, most projectile point typologies are still poorly dated, and many researchers no longer use the traditional phase designations, preferring to segregate the Archaic into early, middle, and late periods. Chapin’s (2005) study of long-term changes in Archaic stone tool technology stands as one of the most detailed studies conducted. He provides an excellent baseline analysis of unpublished sites excavated by the Anasazi Origins Project supplemented with recently excavated cultural resource management (CRM) sites, which date from circa 7000 to 1700 BP. The wealth of information provided is beyond what I can sum-­ marize here, but let me review several important conclusions. His analysis revealed sev-­ eral significant periods of cultural change: 1. As previously noted, the preliminary data indicate that prior to about 6000–7000 BP two separate foraging strategies may have been implemented in the middle Rio Grande Valley but not in the San Juan Basin. 2. By circa 6000 BP people in both areas were implementing similar generalized strategies that included an emphasis on biface production activities using non-local materials for projectile points and bifacial knives (Early Archaic). 3. Circa 4500 to 5000 BP there was a shift toward greater emphasis on exploiting plant resources and small game, which coincides with a mix of core reduction and biface production activities and increase in use of local materials (Middle Archaic). 4. Circa 2000 to 3000 BP, during the Late Archaic there was a shift toward increased biface reduction, but one primarily geared to bifacial knives and not projectile points. Eventually the trend shifted toward an increasing presence of core reduc-­ tion after 2000 BP. 5. Last, the defined phases of the Oshara Tradition do not appear to coincide with the temporal changes identified in his study. 27

Bradley J. Vierra

My own technological study focused on the northern Rio Grande Valley, where I was interested in linking changes in projectile point technology to the expansion of piñon-juniper woodlands and subsequent changes in Archaic foraging strategies (Vierra 2007). In this case, Early and Middle Archaic points consist of single types used to hunt a variety of game, primarily produced on biface blanks and eventually discarded when exhausted. In contrast, a variety of Late Archaic points was produced on flake blanks, presumably used to hunt specific target species, and fewer were discarded when exhausted. This seems to fit what Steven Kuhn (1989) has referred to as a “replacement when exhausted,” as opposed to a replacement “prior to failure” strategy. That is, EarlyMiddle Archaic groups were residentially mobile, with Middle Archaic foragers the first to systematically integrate upland piñon-juniper woodlands into their seasonal rounds. This is reflected in the use of mostly lowland dacites for Early Archaic points and upland obsidian with dacite for points made by Middle Archaic groups. Eventually, mobility during the Late Archaic was more restricted to a seasonal lowland-upland pattern, coupled with the dominant use of obsidian. The diversity of point types manufactured during the Late Archaic presumably set the stage for the eventual use of the bow and arrow by circa AD 400. No comparable study has been done of the Archaic in other areas of the Southwest, although J. Sliva (2005) does provide a review of technological change during the Middle to Late Archaic in southern Arizona. She implies a greater degree of similarity between Middle and Late Archaic stone tool technology than that observed in the northern Southwest. Jonathan Mabry and colleagues (2008) suggest that foraging groups from the northern Southwest (e.g., San Jose/Pinto points) and northern Mexico (e.g., con-­ tracting stemmed points) moved into the region after the Middle Holocene dry period, with a similar pattern evident in southern New Mexico (Miller and Kenmotsu 2004). On the other hand, Cortaro points span the Middle-Late Archaic transition and are associated with early agriculture (Gregory 1999; Mabry 2007; Roth and Huckell 1992; Sliva 2005; Whittlesey, Hesse, and Foster 2007). Nonetheless, by circa 400 BC over-­ all changes in core, debitage, and retouched tool assemblages appear to indicate a shift toward greater residential stability. Late Archaic assemblages have more point forms, including both large stemmed side-notched and corner-notched forms, with smaller stemmed styles. However, the smaller forms appear to be restricted to the circa 800 BC to AD 50 time frame, in contrast to the larger side- and corner-notched forms that span the entire Late Archaic period. Sliva (1999, 2005) also acknowledges the importance of this formal variability and argues that some of the smaller forms may actually represent arrow and not dart points. VanPool’s (2003, 2006) study of the projectile point sequence at Ventana Cave provides interesting insights into this issue, arguing for the continuing use of the spear and atlatl during the post-Archaic period. As he points out, this technology probably does have an advantage over the bow and arrow while hunting large game in these open desert settings. Researchers have also described a similar situation in southeastern New Mexico, indicating continued use of dart technology and the late introduction of the bow and arrow by circa AD 900 to 1000 (Kelley 1984:113; Miller and Kenmotsu 2004). This appears to contrast with the earlier use of the bow and arrow in northern

28

Foraging Societies in an Arid Environment

woodland settings by circa AD 400. Thus the adoption of bow and arrow technology could be associated with the increased use of upland settings, where it was more efficient than the spear and atlatl (e.g., Yu 2006). Nonetheless, thrusting spears continued to be an important part of bow and arrow hunting (e.g., see Churchill 1993). Other studies have included obsidian source analyses in an attempt to identify what Shackley (1996, 2005) has referred to as “procurement ranges.” These ranges often covered distances over 200 km in diameter to include both lowland desert and wooded upland resource areas (e.g., Sonoran Desert and Mogollon Highlands). Upland areas were especially important for the collection of piñon nuts during Middle and Late Archaic times (also see Vierra 1994). In addition, Shackley (2005:122–125) suggests that foraging groups could have commingled during the fall piñon harvest to meet potential mates, since these upland areas may not have been defended. However, access to these upland areas does appear to have become more restricted from Middle to Late Archaic times. This pattern was also identified in the Tucson Basin (Roth 2000) and the northern Rio Grande region (Vierra 2007). Maxine McBrinn’s (2005, 2008) recent work has focused on identifying regional social networks for Late Archaic groups in southern New Mexico by studying pro-­ jectile points and textiles (e.g., sandals). Her comparison of Mogollon cave sites with the Fresnal Shelter in the Sacramento Mountains indicated a similar distribution in projectile point types that she attributed to regional social networks. These networks were critical for providing information on the distribution and availability of various subsistence resources. In contrast, she identified marked differences in the production techniques used for textiles between the two areas and argued that this reflects differing marriage groups. That is, information on these techniques was presumably being taught and passed on separately between the two areas. A comparison of this study with others in the northern Southwest could be particularly fruitful. For example, R. G. Matson (1991) and Phil Geib (2002) have argued that differences in textile and knapping technology can also be used to discriminate western from eastern Basketmaker groups. Although this dichotomy may relate to the spread of early agriculture, it could also sim-­ ply reflect differing marriage groups, as implied by McBrinn’s argument. At any rate, current studies of organic technology are providing new insights into Archaic social organization (also see Coulam and Schroedl 2004; Geib 2000; Robins and Hays-Gilpin 2000). Early Agriculture Certainly, the most significant change in our understanding of Archaic foraging societ-­ ies involves the Late Archaic and early agriculture. No longer do we view these popula-­ tions as simple foragers, but we see them instead as the earliest agriculturalists who lived in communities and modified the landscape to divert water into their fields. The earliest dates for Southwestern maize have been pushed back to circa 3600 BP at the Old Corn, Las Capas, and Clearwater sites in southern Arizona and west-central New Mexico, spreading across the region by circa 3000 BP (Mabry 2007; Miljour and Huber 2005; Thiel and Mabry 2006). The current evidence indicates a rapid spread of

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Bradley J. Vierra

maize once it entered the Southwest. Archaeologists offer various explanations for the spread: the northern movement of farmers (Berry 1982; Berry and Berry 1986; Coltrain, Janetsky, and Carlyle 2007; Huckell 1990, 1995), the integration of this cultigen into hunting-and-gathering economies (Hard, Mauldin, and Raymond 1996; Minnis 1992; Vierra 2004a, 2008; Vierra and Ford 2005, 2007; Wills 1995), or a mixture of the two (Mabry 2005a; Matson 2005). Indeed, recent arguments have focused attention on the spread of maize cultivation with a possible Uto-Aztecan migration from northern Mexico. Here the view is that farmers with cultigens expanded to the north, represent-­ ing the western Basketmakers. In contrast, the eastern Basketmakers were indigenous groups who were less dependent on maize cultivation (Hill 2001, 2002, 2003; LeBlanc 2003, 2008; Mabry 2005a; Mabry and Doolittle 2008; Matson 2003). At any rate, the two important questions are: (1) did the entire suite of cultigens arrive at the same time, and (2) is there a roughly simultaneous appearance of cultigens with farming communi-­ ties or a time lag between the initial use and dependence on these domesticates? The answer to the first question is currently unresolved, but maize, domesticated amaranth, and squash appear to have arrived early. In contrast, beans appear to date later, arriving in the Southwest in the first few centuries BC; however, disparities in preserva-­ tion and processing may be playing a significant role in the differential representation of beans (Adams and Fish 2006; Hard et al. 2008; Mabry 2005b). Indeed, the tentative identification of a possible bean from the Las Capas site in southern Arizona indicates that all of these domesticates could have arrived as a single suite (Mabry 2005a). The second question is currently being debated, but several researchers argue that the northern expansion of farming communities explains the dispersal of maize in the western Southwest, in contrast to the later adoption of and dependence on maize in the eastern Southwest. Certainly, southern Arizona and northern Mexico have provided some of the most exciting new insights into the early agricultural period. Excavations conducted at the Tucson Basin sites, Las Playas, and Cerro Juanaqueña have docu-­ mented some of the earliest villages containing evidence of middens, cemeteries, and even irrigation features; however, houses have only been identified at the Tucson Basin sites (Carpenter, Sanchez, and Villalpando 2005; Hard and Roney 2005; Mabry 2005a, 2007). Whether these sites represent stable village communities, are the culmination of multiple separate occupation episodes, or both is not clear. Robert Hard and John Roney (2005:153) suggest that Cerro Juanaqueña was occupied most of the year, per-­ haps “nine months annually.” On the other hand, D. Gregory and M. Diehl (2002) argue that some of the early agricultural villages in the Tucson Basin appear to have had multiple occupational episodes of varying duration. Important changes in labor organization at these early settlements were certainly occurring, as reflected in Marsha Olgivie’s (2005) biological study. She identified that male femora were similar to their foraging counterparts, while female femora were similar to their farming counterparts. I have also suggested that changes in the nature of the retouched tool, debitage, and ground stone assemblages at Cerro Juanaqueña are indicative of the same difference in sexual division of labor (Vierra 2005, 2006). In addition, as argued by Wills (1991; Wills and Windes 1989), the shift from exterior to interior storage features associated with a shift from communal to household shar-­

30

Foraging Societies in an Arid Environment

ing and commensurate changes in site organization can also provide important insights into changing social organization. Interpreting the implications of these patterns can be fairly complicated, given the importance of this transitional period. Great regional variability in the timing, nature, and context of early agriculture existed across the Greater Southwest, as revealed by Hard and colleagues’ (1996) study. Amber Johnson’s (1997, 2008) research addressed timing and context. She argued that the transition to agriculture is more likely to have occurred in regions where huntergatherers had intensified on wild plants (also see Binford 2001; Mabry and Doolittle 2008) and that maize horticulture can be expected to have developed more rapidly in the less productive, resource-poor areas of the southern Southwest than in the more productive, resource-rich environments in the northern Southwest. In this case, her research predicts that the period of transition to maize agriculture should be shorter in the southern deserts than in the northern uplands because of differences in resource structure, rainfall, and length of the growing season. Research by Diehl (1997; Diehl and Waters 2006) and myself (2004a, 2008) indicates that maize did not surpass wild plant seeds in the Late Archaic diet until circa AD 150 in the Tucson Basin and AD 600 in the northern Rio Grande Valley. Fremont sites containing maize also increased dramatically by circa AD 600, whereas maize did not surpass wild plant foods until circa AD 1200 in the Jornada Mogollon region of southeastern New Mexico (Barlow 2006; Miller and Kenmotsu 2004). I am skeptical of maize dependence arguments based on the carbon isotope data, since wild C4 plants contributed so highly to the Late Archaic diet (e.g., Coltrain, Janetsky, and Carlyle 2007). Nonetheless, at least in the former three cases, the importance of maize agriculture is roughly coincident with the use of ceramic vessels. Diehl and Waters have even argued that “as a direct result of the improved storage properties of ceramics, the dependence on crops increased (2006:81).” This pattern needs further evaluation, but I am more cautious given that the evidence indicates that more produc-­ tive varieties of maize were present during this time period and that they were stored dried on the cob (Adams 1994; Schmader 1994:156). In addition, a recent analysis of tecomates in southern Arizona indicates that they were used for a variety of functions, including cooking, storage, and serving (Heckman, Garraty, and Shenandoah 2008). Other researchers have also argued for the importance of ceramic technology for cook-­ ing, especially beans (Crown and Wills 1995; Skibo and Blinman 1999; Wilson and Blinman 1994). Finally, archaeological evidence of both beans and squash increases during this period in the northern Rio Grande; beans may have replaced cheno-ams as an important source of vegetal protein. Besides protein, beans also provide the amino acid lysine, for which maize is deficient. A similar pattern was identified in the Jornada Mogollon area (i.e., lower Rio Grande), with an increase in beans corresponding with increased maize consumption; however, as previously noted, maize did not make a sig-­ nificant contribution to the diet until circa AD 1200 in this area. This transition also corresponds to changes in ceramic technology (Miller and Kenmotsu 2004). Domestic beans supplemented mesquite pods as a source of both protein and lysine. Therefore, it seems likely that coincident changes in ceramic technology are partially related to the increasing consumption of beans.

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Bradley J. Vierra

Two primary perspectives have been used to explain the relationship between for-­ aging and farming: the density dependent model (Binford 1983; Hunter-Anderson 1986) and the diet breadth model (Barlow 2002, 2006). The former model assumes that subsistence resources are exploited in proportion to the density of their occurrence within the environment. Subsistence diversification and intensification is viewed as a product of regional population packing. That is, as the size of annual foraging ranges began to shrink, the number and type of resources available to these hunter-gatherers began to diminish. Maize was added to the diet to offset seasonal shortfalls in natural resource productivity (e.g., pine nuts). In contrast, the diet breadth model predicts that resources are not added to the diet based on their own availability but rather in rela-­ tion to the conditions of higher-ranked foods. Renee Barlow (2002, 2006) argued that maize cultivation could have been conducted with little investment, thereby provid-­ ing a low-cost and high-return option to wild grass seed collection, a common plant exploited by Southwestern foraging groups. That is, maize was simply planted in areas with a reliable source of moisture and later collected with little effort in maintaining the fields. A unilinear scheme is implied in the density dependent model, whereas the diet breadth model assumes the potential for variability. Research does not support the resource abundance argument assumed with the density dependent model (e.g., Vierra 1995:33–35; 2004b:134). In respect to the Southwest, R. Dello-Russo’s (1999) study identified an increase in the number of exploited plant species during periods of drought at Late Archaic sites in the middle Rio Grande Valley and not a decrease, as predicted by the resource abundance argument. On the other hand, the diet breadth model uses a cost-benefit analysis to rank species with respect to the energetic costs of search and handling in relation to the energetic content of a particular prey species (Kelly 1995:78–90; MacArthur and Pianka 1966; Stephens and Krebs 1986:17–24). Given that wild seed plants dominate the archaeo-­ botanical record until the first few centuries AD, I wonder if early maize cultivation deserves a lower ranking until the development of more productive varieties of maize. As Mabry and Doolittle (2008; Doolittle and Mabry 2006; Mabry 2005b) have pointed out, there was presumably a great deal of diversity in cultivation techniques, varieties of maize, and the manipulation of these varieties in the prehistoric Southwest. Certainly, an early variety of chapalote was not as productive as a later variety of Fremont Dent (e.g., see Adams 1994). Nonetheless, as Hard and Roney (2005:154) suggest, whether one is arguing that maize arrived with new immigrants or was integrated into the local foraging economies, the diet breadth model provides a detailed framework within which to evaluate decisions concerning which wild and domesticated resources should be selected. Forager-Farmer Relations Almost thirty years ago Katherine Spielmann (1982) first discussed trade relationships between foragers and farmers, involving the exchange of game (protein) for agricul-­ tural products (carbohydrates) between Plains and Pueblo groups. Today the discussion revolves around the expansion of farming communities and the eventual displacement

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Foraging Societies in an Arid Environment

of foraging groups. This research indicates that coincident with a growing dependence on agriculture is an increase in fertility and a decrease in birth spacing and infant mortal-­ ity, which results from changes in diet, intensive food production, and residential stabil-­ ity (Ammerman and Cavalli-Sforza 1984:64; Bellwood 2005:18; Binford and Chasko 1976; Ford 1984; Kakos 2003; Lee 1979:318; Renfrew 2005:8). Current arguments concerning increased population growth imply that the descendants of these early farm-­ ers may have expanded into territories already occupied by foragers. These foragers ini-­ tially could have set up mutual exchange relationships while occupying nearby upland areas; however, they eventually may have been forced to adopt cultivation practices, integrated into these agricultural communities, or displaced into areas not conducive to maize agriculture. In the northern Rio Grande, this process began with the northward expansion of farming communities by about AD 600 and the potential for forager-farmer interactions through the AD 1100s. Agriculturalists subsequently moved into these upland areas with the cultivation of more productive twelve-row maize, thereby displacing foragers from their homeland (Lakatos 2003; Vierra and Ford 2007). This displacement would have had a limiting effect on local hunter-gatherer population growth, making it more difficult for men to find mates during traditional fall foraging activities, with the pos-­ sibility that some women were marrying into neighboring agricultural communities. Another example of forager-farmer interactions may have occurred in the Phoenix Basin with the expansion of farming communities toward the Mogollon Rim. Initially, foraging groups could have coexisted with lowland agricultural communities, until these farmers eventually moved into the foothill transition zone while seasonally occu-­ pying agricultural sites linked to the lowland communities (Ciolek-Torrello 1997; Heilen 2008; Wegener et al. 2008). Robert Wegener and colleagues (2008) investigated one possible example of this in the Mogollon transition zone near Florence Junction and Superior, Arizona. Their excavations revealed the presence of at least six separate occupational episodes dating from circa 350 BC to AD 500, each with two to four houses often associated with middens and burials. Although the site was extensively sampled and appeared to have been occupied during the warm growing season (May to August), no maize was recovered from the earlier Cienega phase component, and only 2 percent of the flotation samples from the later Red Mountain phase component contained maize. A review of contemporaneous sites in the region also identified a gen-­ eral lack of cultigens. These data indicate later use of maize cultivation in the Phoenix Basin in contrast to the Tucson Basin and the potential for forager-farmer interactions across the region. Therefore, Wegener is currently faced with the same dilemma many archaeologists encounter: how do we discriminate between contemporaneous forager and farmer land-use strategies? This is even more critical during late prehistoric time periods when attempting to identify the archaeological signature of possible foragers (e.g., see Seymour 2009a, 2009b). In addition, the paucity of cultigens in the Phoenix Basin area raises questions concerning the expansion of farmers out of the Tucson Basin and into the Four Corners region by circa 500 BC (i.e., western Basketmakers). Southwestern archaeological research is lacking in efforts to understand potential forager-farmer interactions and their archaeological correlates (Spielmann and Eder

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1994; Vierra and Ford 2007). Nonetheless, the Four Corners region was mostly aban-­ doned by Ancestral Pueblo groups by the fourteenth century, followed by the expansion of Athapaskan foragers into these vacated areas by the fifteenth century (Dean, Doelle, and Orcutt 1994; Towner 1996). Most of the archaeological research conducted on the Protohistoric period has focused on early Navajo or Apaches (e.g., Adams, White, and Johnson 2000; Towner 1996), with the archaeological record of indigenous groups like the Yavapai in central Arizona and the Mansos and Sumas in southern New Mexico poorly documented (Seymour 2002; Whittlesey, Deaver, and Reid 1994). In the case of the Yavapai, Shackley (2005:126) does suggest that the seasonal pattern of movement, which characterized Middle and Late Archaic groups, “was probably much like the . . . Yavapai hunter-gatherers” who continued this foraging lifestyle in central Arizona until historic times. Some researchers suggest that the Sumas and Mansos may represent a continuation of the local El Paso phase populations but with a greater emphasis on for-­ aging (Beckett and Corbett 1992; Carmichael 1986). On the other hand, D. Seymour (2002) suggests, based on archaeological evidence, that Plains groups arrived in the area circa AD 1300 during the El Paso phase (i.e., Suma and Mansos), with the later arrival of Apache groups sometime during the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries. Southwestern Hunter-Gatherer Archaeology The New Mexico State Historic Preservation Office recently asked me to give a lec-­ ture on the effects of the National Historic Preservation Act (1966) on hunter-gatherer archaeology. The title of the lecture was “The Archaic: We Get No Respect,” which certainly reflects my view on the subject. There seems little doubt that the act had a significant effect on hunter-gatherer research in the Greater Southwest. Just look at the recent excavation of Late Archaic communities in the Tucson Basin. Figure 3.1 provides data on the total number of Archaic and lithic scatter sites recorded in New Mexico during the years 1966–2005. As can be seen, there is a general linear increase in the number of Archaic sites recorded over time. These presumably represent large palimpsests that contain Archaic points. In contrast, the recording of small ephemeral lithic scatters witnessed an almost exponential increase from 1988 to 2005, indicating that they are finally receiving their due attention. In fact, these small ubiquitous lithic scatters comprise about 50 percent of the archaeological record in New Mexico. An 3.1. Total number of Archaic and lithic scatter sites recorded in New Mexico, 1966–2005

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excellent example of this recent research is Raymond Mauldin’s (1996) small site study in the Jornada Mogollon region. When taken together, data derived from the isolated hearths he recorded revealed a robust pattern in the occupation of the central Tularosa Basin during Late Archaic and early Ceramic periods from circa 3000 to 1000 BP. Even these ephemeral campsites can make a significant contribution to our understanding of hunter-gatherer land use. Much has changed over the last twenty+ years of hunter-gatherer research in the Greater Southwest. Some say that 99 percent of human history was spent living in for-­ aging societies. Over time, foragers were forced to live in increasingly marginal environ-­ ments, a situation that has limited our view of this ancient way of life. Yet there is much diversity to be expected and much variability in the Southwestern archaeological record in need of explanation. So, after twenty years there is still much more work to be done. References Adams, C., D. White, and D. Johnson 2000 Dark Canyon Rancheria Apache/Military Battle Site. Lincoln National Forest Heri-­ tage Program, Alamogordo, NM. Adams, K. 1994

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Adams, K., and S. Fish Southwest Plants. In The Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 3: Environ2006 ment, Origins and Population, ed. D. Ubelaker, 292–312. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Ammerman, A. J., and L. L. Cavalli-Sforza 1984 The Neolithic Transition and the Genetics of Populations in Europe. Princeton Univer-­ sity Press, Princeton. Anderson, R. S., R. B. Jass, J. L. Toney, C. D. Allen, L. M. Cisneros-Dozal, M. Hess, J. Heikoop, and J. Fessenden Development of the Mixed Conifer Forest in Northern New Mexico and Its 2008 Relationship to Holocene Environmental Change. Quaternary Research 69(2): 263–275. Barlow, R. 2002 2006

Predicting Maize Agriculture among the Fremont: An Economic Comparison of Farming and Foraging in the American Southwest. American Antiquity 67: 65–88. A Formal Model for Predicting Agriculture among the Fremont. In Behavioral Ecology and the Transition to Agriculture, ed. D. Kennett and B. Winterhalder, 87–102. University of California Press, Berkeley.

Beckett, P., and T. Corbett The Manso Indians. COAS, Las Cruces, NM. 1992 Bellwood, P. First Farmers: The Origins of Agricultural Societies. Blackwell, Malden, MA. 2005

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Diehl, M., and J. Waters Aspects of Optimization and Risk during the Early Agricultural Period in South-­ 2006 eastern Arizona. In Behavioral Ecology and the Transition to Agriculture, ed. D. Ken-­ nett and B. Winterhalder, 63–86. University of California Press, Berkeley. Doerner, J. 2007 Late Quaternary Prehistoric Environments of the Colorado Front Range. In Paleoindian Archaeology from the Dent Site to the Rocky Mountains, ed. R. Brunswig and B. Pitblado, 11–38. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Doolittle, W., and J. Mabry Environmental Mosaics, Agricultural Diversity, and the Evolutionary Adoption 2006 of Maize in the American Southwest. In Histories of Maize: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Prehistory, Biogeography, Domestication and Evolution of Maize, ed. J. Staller, R. Tykot, and B. Benz, 109–123. Academic Press, New York. Ford, R. 1984

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Gregory, D. (editor) 1999 Excavations in the Santa Cruz River Floodplain: The Middle Archaic Component at Los Pozos. Anthropological Papers 20. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Gregory, D., and M. Diehl Duration, Continuity, and Intensity of Occupation at a Late Cienega Phase Settle-­ 2002 ment in the Santa Cruz River Floodplain. In Traditions, Transitions and Technologies: Themes in Southwestern Archaeology, ed. S. Schlanger, 200–223. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Hard, R. J., and J. R. Roney 2005 The Transition to Farming on the Rio Casas Grandes and in the Southern Jornada Mogollon Region in the North American Southwest. In The Late Archaic across the Borderlands: Foraging to Farming, ed. B. Vierra, 141–186. University of Texas Press, Austin. Hard, R., K. Adams, J. Roney, K. Schmidt, and G. Fritz The Emergence of Maize Farming in Northwest Mexico. In Case Studies in Envi2008 ronmental Archaeology, 2nd ed., ed. E. Reitz, C. Scarry, and S. Scudder, 315–336. Springer, New York. Hard, R. J., R. Mauldin, and G. Raymond Mano Size, Stable Carbon Isotope Ratios and Macrobotanical Remains as Multiple 1996 Lines of Evidence of Maize Dependence in the American Southwest. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 3: 253–318. Haynes, V. Geochronology of Paleoenvironmental Change, Clovis Type Site, Blackwater Draw, 1995 New Mexico. Geoarchaeology 10(5): 317–388. Heckman, R., C. Garraty, and R. Shenandoah Ceramic Technology of the Forager-to-Farmer Transition: Late Archaic and Early 2008 Agricultural Pottery of Southern Arizona. Paper presented at the 73rd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Vancouver. Heilen, M. 2008 Foraging and Farming Landscapes in South-Central Arizona. Paper presented at the 73rd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Vancouver. Hill, J. 2001 2002 2003

Proto-Uto-Aztecan: A Community of Cultivators in Central Mexico? American Anthropologist 103: 913–934. Toward a Linguistic Prehistory of the Southwest: “Aztecan-Tanoan” and the Arrival of Maize Cultivation. Journal of Anthropological Research 58: 457–475. Uto-Aztecan Cultivation and the Northern Devolution. In Examining the Farming/Dispersal Hypothesis, ed. P. Bellwood and C. Renfrew, 331–340. McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, Cambridge.

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Hunter-Anderson, R. 1986 Prehistoric Adaptation in the American Southwest. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Johnson, A. 1997 Explaining Variability in the Pace and Pattern of Cultural Evolution in the North American Southwest: An Exercise in Theory Building. Unpublished PhD disserta-­ tion, Department of Anthropology, Southern Methodist University, Dallas. 2008 A Method for Anticipating Patterns in Archaeological Sequences: Projecting the Duration of the Transition to Agriculture in Mexico: A Test Case. In Archaeology without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. M. McBrinn and L. Webster, 89–106. University Press of Colo-­ rado, Boulder Kakos, P. 2003

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Living in the Zone: Basketmaker Food Packages, Hormonal Responses and the Effects on Population Growth. In Anasazi Archaeology at the Millennium, ed. P. Reed, 35–48. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. The Archaeology of the Sierra Blanca Region of Southeastern New Mexico. Anthropo-­ logical Papers 74. Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. The Foraging Spectrum: Diversity in Hunter-Gatherer Lifeways. Smithsonian Institu-­ tion Press, Washington, DC. Hunter-Gatherer Foraging Organization and Strategies of Artifact Replacement and Discard. In Experiments in Lithic Technology, ed. D. Amick and R. Mauldin, 33–47. BAR International Series 528, Oxford.

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Mabry, J. B. 2005a Changing Knowledge and Ideas about the First Farmers in Southeastern Arizona. In The Late Archaic across the Borderlands: Foraging to Farming, ed. B. Vierra, 41– 83. University of Texas Press, Austin. 2005b Diversity in Early Southwestern Farming Systems and Optimization Models of Transition to Agriculture. In Subsistence and Resource Use Strategies in Early Agricultural Communities in Southern Arizona, ed. M. Diehl, 113–152. Anthropologi-­ cal Papers 34. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. 2007 Las Capas: Early Irrigation and Sedentism in a Southwestern Floodplain. Anthropo-­ logical Papers 28. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Mabry, J. B., J. P. Carpenter, and G. Sanchez 2008 Archaeological Models of Early Uto-Aztecan Prehistory in the Arizona-Sonora Borderlands. In Archaeology without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. M. McBrinn and L. Webster, 155– 184. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Mabry, J. B., and W. E. Doolittle Modeling the Early Agricultural Frontier in the Desert Borderlands. In Archaeology 2008 without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. M. McBrinn and L. Webster, 55–70. University Press of Colo-­ rado, Boulder. MacArthur, R., and E. Pianka On Optimal Use of a Patchy Environment. The American Naturalist 100: 603– 1966 609. Matson, R. G. 1991 The Origins of Southwestern Agriculture. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2003 The Spread of Maize Agriculture in the U.S. Southwest. In Examining the Farming/ Dispersal Hypothesis, ed. P. Bellwood and C. Renfrew, 341–356. McDonald Insti-­ tute for Archaeological Research, Cambridge. 2005 Many Perspectives but a Consistent Pattern: Comments on Contributions. In The Late Archaic across the Borderlands: Foraging to Farming, ed. B. Vierra, 279–299. University of Texas Press, Austin. Mauldin, R. Exploring Patterns in Late Archaic and Early Ceramic Residential Occupation in 1996 the Northern Chihuahuan Desert. In Early Formative Adaptations in the Southern Southwest, ed. B. Roth, 85–98. Monographs in World Archaeology 25. Prehistory Press, Madison, WI. McBrinn, M. 2005 Social Identities among Archaic Mobile Hunters and Gatherers in the American Southwest. Archaeological Series 197. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 2008 Networking the Old Fashioned Way: Social and Economic Networks among Archaic Hunters and Gatherers in Southern New Mexico. In Archaeology without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. M. McBrinn and L. Webster, 209–226. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Miljour, H. J., and E. K. Huber LA 137258 (Old Corn Site). In Archaeological Data Recovery in the New Mexico 2005 Transportation Corridor and Five-Year Permit Area, Fence Lake Coal Mine, Catron

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[4] Moving on the Landscape Mobility and Migration

Patricia A. Gilman and Michael E. Whalen

Twenty years ago, archaeologists had not grappled sufficiently with mobility and sedentism, especially Late Archaic sedentism and post-Archaic mobility. Today, the concepts of mobility and sedentism are commonly used, following much research since the first Southwest Symposium in 1988. Southwestern archaeologists now see mobility as a variable strategy practiced to different extents and at different times as circumstances, both social and ecological, required. Current research, though, is pushing recognition of some kinds of sedentism farther and farther back into the Archaic, at least in the southern Southwest, and the idea of late period migration as a form of mobility is at the fore. Some mobility and sedentism research in the Southwest has developed in ways that, in retrospect, we might have predicted. While the original motivations for mobility studies were to understand its possible ecological foundations, as was then common for explanations of cultural processes, archaeologists have come to see those interpretations as narrow and mechanical. Such discussions have more recently been supplemented with other factors, such as social action and human agency (see Varien 1999). The practice of adding the social to the purely ecological seems to be everywhere now, but that was not the case in the 1980s. In contrast, other mobility and sedentism research has developed in two ways we likely would not have predicted. First, although we have continued to think about

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transitions to sedentism, the title of our 1988 Southwest Symposium session, it has mostly been in terms of the greater degree of sedentism archaeologists (Hard and Roney 2005; Huckell 1995; Mabry 2002, 2008; Roney and Hard 2002a, 2002b) have proposed for Late Archaic sites in the Tucson Basin and at Cerro Juanaqueña in northern Chihuahua. Thus the actual transition may be earlier in some parts of the Southwest. Second, we are consumed with the idea of migration, the movements of relatively sedentary people to new permanent locations, and their integration into new social settings. This single-mindedness could be the result of the continuing and traditional Southwestern focus on the post–AD 1000 era rather than on ways people used their landscapes earlier in time. Migration studies, however, have come a long way since those of the culture history paradigm. The “Movement” session in this Southwest Symposium demonstrates just how far they have come, in that those papers consider the new social formations resulting from migrations and the relationships among movement, identity, and ethnogenesis. Transitions to Sedentism in 1988 At the first Southwest Symposium in 1988, we (Whalen and Gilman 1990:71) argued that “[i]t is, perhaps, not going too far to term late period mobility as the ‘idea of the 1980s’ in Southwestern archaeology.” While this may seem a bit overstated today, a traditional interpretation had been that people who lived in post-Archaic Southwestern pit structure and pueblo sites were residentially sedentary year-round for many years in one place. Archaeologists did recognize that so-called sedentary people went on forays to hunt and gather wild plants and raw materials, what we now call logistical mobility. We were not particularly interested in what the sites representing these trips might look like, and this disinterest remains. We also did not focus on the possibilities that people might have moved their residences regularly within an annual cycle or that they could have moved their residences after a relatively short span of years in one place. As exemplified by the papers presented in the “Transitions to Sedentism” session of the 1988 Southwest Symposium, Southwestern archaeologists in the 1980s were starting to investigate post-Archaic sedentism and mobility patterns. There were four major themes in the 1988 papers. The first was that there are no necessary one-to-one relationships between sedentism and agriculture. Suzanne Fish and colleagues (1990) and Robert Hard (1990) and many other studies published in the 1980s and 1990s showed, for example, how complex mobility and sedentism can be in terms of their relationships to the amount of agriculture practiced. Second, David Carmichael (1990) and the two session discussants, Margaret Nelson (1990) and Ben Nelson (1990), emphasized that the change from mobility to sedentism is not a one-way process. Third, papers by Shirley Powell (1990), Sarah Schlanger (1990), and Hard (1990) emphasized the importance of developing measures of sedentism and mobility. Fourth, both Powell and Schlanger highlighted the value of small sites, particularly whether they are residential or logistic, in determining amounts of mobility and sedentism.

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Transitions to Sedentism Twenty Years Later Although much archaeological research and many publications in the last twenty-plus years have focused on the issues the participants in the first “Transitions to Sedentism” session raised, we will concentrate here on where we are today. How have the followups to the 1988 authors’ research and suggestions played out in terms of Southwestern archaeology right now? Perhaps the most important result of more than twenty years of mobility and sedentism research around the world is that most of us no longer think there is necessarily a transition to sedentism. That is, under some circumstances, people may become more sedentary, and under other conditions, they may become more mobile. Within both categories are many different kinds of mobility and sedentism, going far beyond Lewis Binford’s (1980) original definition of residential and logistic mobility. As well, we are grappling with the mobility and sedentism practiced by groups of varying sizes, from individuals to large numbers of people, although we do not yet do all parts of this well. We also realize that mobility and sedentism are not necessarily linked to other factors, such as amount and kind of agriculture or social organization. As Thomas Rocek (1995) has emphasized, such characteristics do not necessarily change in lockstep, although they may. In fact, Rocek’s (2007) recent work suggests that heavy dependence on agriculture does not necessarily correlate with full sedentism. With all of this said, it is still clear that major differences exist between the ways Southwestern people who made their livings without agriculture and those who practiced much agriculture organized their lives in terms of mobility and sedentism. Three major topics come to the fore in terms of the present status of mobility and sedentism in Southwestern archaeology. First, a hot topic recently has been the amount of sedentism practiced by people during the Late Archaic (now also called the Early Agricultural) period in the southern Southwest. Second, archaeologists are currently seeing residential mobility everywhere during the post-Archaic, and this especially plays out in detecting migrations. Third, Mark Varien’s (1999) book Sedentism and Mobility in a Social Landscape points the way toward new and innovative post-Archaic mobility and sedentism studies that include the critical social component and do not necessarily involve migration. Sedentism in the Late Archaic Period

Although the original symposium session did not cover mobility and sedentism during Archaic times in the Southwest, this has since emerged as a much debated topic (also see Vierra’s chapter in this volume). Specifically, with the intensive archaeological research in the Tucson Basin and at the Cerro Juanaqueña site in northern Chihuahua, some archaeologists have argued for much residential sedentism during the thousand or more years of the Late Archaic (about 1200 BC–AD 50) period, especially during the Cienega phase (800 BC–AD 50). Jonathan Mabry (1998; Mabry et al. 1997) and Bruce Huckell (1995) initially posited much sedentism in the Tucson Basin and just to the east in the Cienega Valley associated with the many structures, storage pits, thick middens, formal use of space, formal burial areas, communal structures, and diverse artifact 47

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assemblages exposed at large Late Archaic sites. In fact, Huckell (1995:117–119) has called this the Early Agricultural period in contrast to the Late Archaic period, which refers only to hunter-gatherers contemporary with these early farmers. Mabry (2002, 2008) bases his interpretations not just on the large number of structures at the Late Archaic Tucson Basin sites but also on the presence of irrigation canals in the San Pedro phase (1200–800 BC), especially at the Las Capas site. He notes that, cross-culturally, irrigation is associated with high residential stability and well-developed concepts of property. Irrigation, he states, requires an alliance of users that functions as a community owning a specific territory. Mabry suggests that irrigated agriculture involved such communities in the Tucson Basin. In expanding his discussion to mobility and sedentism, Mabry proposes that this increased residential sedentism should have promoted more logistical mobility to obtain nearby bajada and foothill wild foods. The expanded foraging ranges of logistically organized groups practicing long-term sedentism would have put territorial and therefore subsistence pressure on contemporary residentially mobile groups. In contrast, David Gregory and Michael Diehl (2002) and Mark Schurr and Gregory (2002) suggest that not all structures were contemporary at these large sites, and so there is no basis to argue for so much sedentism. Focusing on the Los Pozos site in the Tucson Basin, which dates after about 250 BC, Gregory and Diehl note that there may be as many as 800 pit structures along with large storage pits, substantial middens, burials, and more than 80 percent maize ubiquity, implying sedentism and largescale aggregation. Their analysis of the remains indicates, however, that the site may have been created by a series of discontinuous occupations. Those occupations varied in the numbers of people present at any specific time, the continuity of their presence, and the range and frequency of their activities. As well, Gregory and Diehl document the continued importance of wild plants in the diet, a fact that could impact the amount and kind of mobility practiced. Mabry’s more recent work (2008) responds to the criticism that the presence of many houses does not necessarily equate to much residential sedentism. He suggests that these Early Agricultural occupations and their associated ephemeral houses are actually examples of short-term sedentism characterized by frequent short-distance moves within the owned territory. Mabry (2008:295) continues to support his model of relatively low residential mobility with the fact that there are no overlapping house pits on the Las Capas site, as would be expected if people were mobile and returning to the site after an extended period. The short-distance moves responded to recurrent floods of the habitation sites. Anticipating brief stays, the inhabitants purposely built small houses that were not elaborate or durable (Mabry 2008:297). Roney and Hard (2002a, 2002b:133; Hard and Roney 2005) have also seen evidence of “unprecedented levels” of residential sedentism during the Late Archaic period at the Cerro Juanaqueña site in northern Chihuahua. They propose that the average population at Cerro Juanaqueña for about 200 years around the date 1240 BC was approximately 200 people, and they specifically state that this was population aggregation and not multiple non-contemporary occupations. Support for their explanation includes the fact that sizable parts of Cerro Juanaqueña were conceived

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and built as single units, especially the large perimeter berms. This required planning and organized leadership characteristic of a relatively large group living long term at the site. As well, given the relatively short time the site was occupied, a considerable amount of labor was invested, suggesting that incremental construction did not occur. Finally, there are many deeply worn metates on the site, also suggesting residential sedentism. Hard and Roney (2005:153) propose that people were sedentary at Cerro JuanaÂ� queña for about six months each year but that about 200 people occupied the site, intensively processing food during these months; this kind of occupation lasted for about 200 years. Hard and Roney (2005:152) do note, though, that “both limited seasonal abandonment and year-round occupation are compatible with the evidence.” They correctly hedge their bets here because Bradley Vierra (2005) has proposed that if biface production and use are a measure of relative residential mobility, the many bifaces on the site suggest that the population was not fully sedentary, and the combination of core reduction and biface production at the site implies a mixed foraging and agricultural economy. Regardless of the end results of this debate, it has turned our ideas about the Late Archaic in a completely new direction in terms of the relationships among Late Archaic agriculture, apparent aggregation into large villages, and therefore increasing residential sedentism and logistical mobility. The results here are important because they will indicate how at least some ancient southwesterners may have transitioned to village life. Timothy Kohler and colleagues (2008) note that the Neolithic Demographic Transition, the decreased birth spacing thought to be related to the increased sedentism associated with the change from hunting and gathering to agriculture, occurred in the Southwest at about AD 500—the time they, among others, see the first appearance of villages. If indeed there were Late Archaic villages in the Tucson Basin and northern Chihuahua, their presence would counter the argument that the Southwest did not have settled villages until AD 500 or later. Migration as an Aspect of Mobility

Another very interesting development is that it is now common to observe residential mobility in all times and places, especially where mixed ethnicities are involved. That is, archaeologists are seeing various ethnic groups, or at least people with different material identities, moving into and out of areas. This brings us to another current hot topic in mobility/sedentism studies, which is migration. In 1988, none of us predicted that migration, that critical explanation for change in the culture history paradigm, would reemerge as an obsession among Southwestern archaeologists. Catherine Cameron’s 1995 call to reconsider migration in the Southwest, and the resulting papers in that volume of the Journal of Anthropological Archaeology reevaluating the late-thirteenth-century migrations from the Four Corners to the northern Rio Grande Valley, was an important beginning for current interest in the topic. Attention to migration has continued into this decade, with studies by Jeffery Clark (2001), Patrick Lyons (2003), and Anne Neuzil (2008) on the migrations from

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northeastern into southeastern Arizona, along with an interesting article by J. Brett Hill and colleagues (2004) on the demographic impact those migrants had in terms of Hohokam population decline. As well, Katherine Spielmann (1998) has edited a volume on migration during the Pueblo IV period across the Southwest, Wesley Bernardini (2005a, 2005b) has recently developed a model of serial migration to account for the movements of small social groups that ultimately became Hopi clans, and Richard Wilshusen and Scott Ortman (1999) and Gregory Schachner (2001) have discussed the Pueblo I movements in the San Juan drainage. Clearly, this kind of long-distance mobility is an important part of Southwestern prehistory. If late period mobility was the idea of the 1980s, migration is the idea of the last fifteen years of Southwestern archaeology. In addition, much of the new book on “hinterlands” that Alan Sullivan and James Bayman (2007) edited focuses on migrations of a different sort, although this is not the main purpose of the chapters in the book. Rather than long-distance movements by apparently relatively large groups of people who maintained their ethnic difference through material items for some time after they moved, the movements discussed in the volume were often made by small groups of people traveling relatively short distances, moving back and forth among areas, mixing and mingling with the local people, so they kept only the more subtle of their material identifiers. In that volume, for example, Stephanie Whittlesey (2007:28) suggests that the lower Verde Valley, northeast of the Phoenix Basin, was “a zone of mixed and moving cultures,” a place of culturally variable and mobile people who were certainly not all “Hohokam.” Mark Elson and Jeffery Clark (2007) propose that there were actual Hohokam immigrants from the Phoenix Basin in part of the Tonto Basin, farther northeast of Phoenix, along with local people and Puebloan immigrants later in time. Rein Vanderpot and Jeffrey Altschul (2007) posit the Mescal Wash site, east of Tucson, as a persistent place occupied at least intermittently between 1200 BC and AD 1450 by people who moved in and out and were not necessarily from the same ethnic groups. James Bayman (2007) points out that the Papaguería, west and southwest of Tucson, contained heterogeneous ceramic assemblages not dominated by any cultural tradition, suggesting relationships with or the presence of non-local people. All of these studies indicate that the areas around the Phoenix and Tucson basins were, as Whittlesey stated for the lower Verde, places of mixed and moving cultures. The movements and the mixes resulting from those movements are fertile topics for future research. Mobility and Sedentism in Their Social Contexts

Given that much mobility and sedentism research in the last twenty years has concentrated either on the Late Archaic period or on migration, Varien’s (1999) Sedentism and Mobility in a Social Landscape stands as an innovative and useful mobility and sedentism study in post-Archaic, non-migration settings. Varien notes that mobility and sedentism are socially negotiated activities and therefore argues against employing a solely ecological, seasonality framework, often applied in hunter-gatherer research, to mobility/sedentism issues. Instead, using the Mesa Verde region as an example, Varian

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shows that mobility and sedentism and different mobility strategies often were used simultaneously and that while people composing households moved every generation or two, communities persisted on the landscape. Communities thus structured the social landscape, and individuals and households negotiated their movements or lack of them within this context. Both Varien and Mabry (2008) emphasize the importance of mobility and sedentism to land access and ownership for people using agriculture. Varien illuminates the relationship between residential mobility and land tenure in that such mobility directly affects how individuals and households access land—a critical resource for agricultural production. This access has to be negotiated at a larger social scale, since other farmers would have been seeking or already using the same lands. Land tenure itself was reproduced and changed through the practice of residential mobility. Mabry (2008) also considers access to agricultural land and ownership of that land as critical for Late Archaic farmers, but he does so from a perspective of sedentism rather than residential mobility. Mabry discusses the short-term sedentism of people forced to move after floods changed the placement of the best agricultural lands, and he also points out how some people who owned agricultural lands would change the ways any foragers remaining in an area were constrained. Varien and Mabry have thus made clear the fact that mobility and sedentism are critical concepts when thinking about the changes brought about by the practice of agriculture, whether at its beginnings or after it had become established. The Next Twenty Years of Mobility/Sedentism Research Where are we headed? Where should we be headed? We certainly see continued productive research focusing on migration in the Southwest, and we think the recent research suggesting that various ethnic groups moved their residences and mingled with others is particularly useful in understanding the social landscape of the ancient Southwest. We are way ahead of where we were twenty years ago in this kind of research. We propose, however, that we also need more fine-grained analyses of mobility and sedentism unrelated to migration of the kind Mabry, Varien, and others have done. The social component must be part of all analyses, even in hunter-gatherer research, although social factors should be combined with environmental change and resource depletion—components of more traditional models of the causes of residential mobility and sedentism—to understand all aspects of mobility and sedentism. Specifically, we could be asking these kinds of questions: 1. How do the movements of social groups vary? a. Do men and women move differently? Marriage and post-marital residence patterns might be one way to tackle this problem. If a group is not large enough to have appropriate marriage partners, then some individuals will move across community boundaries. Varien (1999:213) notes that such individuals and their families would have gained new access to natural and social resources, but this kind of residential mobility also positively affects political life by facilitating interaction within a region. Positing sex-specific task

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groups might also be a way to see whether and how men and women moved differently. b. Do age sets move differently? Do people move differently in various parts of the domestic cycle? c. Under what circumstances do individuals, families, task groups, or other kinds of social groups move? Christopher Carr (2005), in his recent book on the Hopewell, has suggested several kinds of movement archaeologists do not often consider, including vision-power questing, pilgrimages to places in nature or social centers, rising social leaders’ travels to centers of learning where they might obtain esoteric, sacred knowledge and power, and intermarriage and adoption across cultural lines. 2. Why are people moving? Do they move or migrate away from bad social or natural circumstances or toward good ones, such as marriage partners? 3. What is the role of logistical mobility in dietary patterns, landscape use, and land tenure? How can we determine that the occupation of a site is logistical and not for short-term residential purposes? How can we fine-tune appropriate distinctions among kinds of occupations of sites? 4. How does the number of people per site or community affect patterns of residential mobility and sedentism? For example, if there is only one family at any given time on Mimbres Mogollon pit structure sites, even though there are many pit structures (Gilman 2010), then that family’s residential mobility would likely be quite different than it would if several or many families lived on each pit structure site. Rocek (2007) suggests a similarly low number of people per pit structure site in the Capitan Mountains of southeastern New Mexico. The same is true of Mimbres pueblos, on which we suggest that there were many fewer people than archaeologists once thought. However, as Varien (1999) determined for the Mesa Verde region, families and other groups of people were moving onto and off sites in response to changing social and perhaps environmental situations.

Many fertile areas of mobility and sedentism research remain in Southwestern archaeology, and the three discussed here—proposed relative sedentism in some places during the Late Archaic period, migration of both large groups and small, and movement among sites within a single cultural system—remain as useful topics for debates or research foci. Including the suggestions here and Carr’s (2005) recent consideration of the many forms of Hopewellian movement, there are plenty of avenues for future mobility and sedentism research in the Southwest. Acknowledgments We thank Paul Minnis, Bernard Schriever, and the other Southwestern archaeology graduate students at the University of Oklahoma for commenting on this chapter. Timothy Kohler, Jonathan Mabry, and Thomas Rocek gave permission to use unpublished papers or chapters that greatly improved the quality of this document. The College of Arts and Sciences, University of Oklahoma, provided support for Gilman to attend the 2008 Southwest Symposium and present the oral version of this chapter.

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References Bayman, J. M. 2007 Papaguerian Perspectives on Economy and Society in the Sonoran Desert. In Hinterlands and Regional Dynamics in the Ancient Southwest, ed. A. P. Sullivan III and J. M. Bayman, 109–124. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Bernardini, W. 2005a Hopi Oral Tradition and the Archaeology of Identity. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2005b Reconsidering Spatial and Temporal Aspects of Prehistoric Cultural Identity: A Case Study from the American Southwest. American Antiquity 70: 31–54. Binford, L. R. 1980 Willow Smoke and Dogs’ Tails: Hunter-Gatherer Settlement Systems and Archaeological Site Formation. American Antiquity 45: 4–28. Cameron, C. M. 1995 Migration and the Movement of Southwestern Peoples. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 14: 104–124. Carmichael, D. L. Patterns of Residential Mobility and Sedentism in the Jornada Mogollon Area. In 1990 Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 122– 134. Westview, Boulder. Carr, C. 2005

Clark, J. J. 2001

Rethinking Interregional Hopewellian “Interaction.” In Gathering Hopewell: Society, Ritual, and Ritual Interaction, ed. C. Carr and D. T. Case, 575–623. Kluwer Academic/Plenum, New York. Tracking Prehistoric Migrations: Pueblo Settlers among the Tonto Basin Hohokam. Anthropological Papers 65. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

Elson, M. D., and J. J. Clark Rethinking the Hohokam Periphery: The Preclassic Period Tonto Basin. In Hinter2007 lands and Regional Dynamics in the Ancient Southwest, ed. A. P. Sullivan III and J. M. Bayman, 31–49. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Fish, S. K., P. R. Fish, and J. Madsen 1990 Sedentism and Settlement Mobility in the Tucson Basin Prior to A.D. 1000. In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 76–91. Westview, Boulder. Gilman, P. A. Substantial Structures, Few People, and the Question of Early Villages in the Mim2010 bres Region of the North American Southwest. In Becoming Villagers: Comparing Early Village Societies, ed. M. S. Bandy and J. R. Fox, 119–139. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Gregory, D. A., and M. W. Diehl 2002 Duration, Continuity, and Intensity of Occupation at a Late Cienega Phase Settlement in the Santa Cruz River Floodplain. In Traditions, Transitions, and Technologies:

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Themes in Southwestern Archaeology, ed. S. H. Schlanger, 200–223. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Hard, R. J. Agriculture Dependence in the Mountain Mogollon. In Perspectives on Southwest1990 ern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 135–149. Westview, Boulder. Hard, R. J., and J. R. Roney 2005 The Transition to Farming on the Río Casas Grandes and in the Southern Jornada Mogollon Region. In The Late Archaic across the Borderlands: From Foraging to Farming, ed. B. J. Vierra, 141–186. University of Texas Press, Austin. Hill, J. B., J. J. Clark, W. H. Doelle, and P. D. Lyons Prehistoric Demography in the Southwest: Migration, Coalescence, and Hohokam 2004 Population Decline. American Antiquity 69: 689–716. Huckell, B. B. Of Marshes and Maize: Preceramic Agricultural Settlements in the Cienega Valley, 1995 Southeastern Arizona. Anthropological Papers 59. University of Arizona, Tucson. Kohler, T. A., M. P. Glaude, J. Bocquet-Appel, and B. M. Kemp The Neolithic Demographic Transition in the U.S. Southwest. American Antiquity 2008 73: 645–669. Lyons, P. D. Ancestral Hopi Migrations. Anthropological Papers 68. University of Arizona Press, 2003 Tucson. Mabry, J. B. 2002 The Role of Irrigation in the Transition to Agriculture and Sedentism in the Southwest: A Risk Management Model. In Traditions, Transitions, and Technologies: Themes in Southwestern Archaeology, ed. S. H. Schlanger, 178–199. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. 2008 Irrigation, Short-Term Sedentism, and Corporate Organization during the San Pedro Phase. In Draft Report: Las Capas: Early Irrigation and Sedentism in a Southwestern Floodplain, ed. J. B. Mabry, 293–327. Anthropological Papers 28. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Mabry, J. B. (editor) Archaeological Investigations of Early Village Sites in the Middle Santa Cruz Valley: 1998 Analyses and Synthesis. Anthropological Papers 19. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Mabry, J. B., D. L. Swartz, H. Wöcherl, J. J. Clark, G. H. Archer, and M. W. Lindeman Archaeological Investigations of Early Village Sites in the Middle Santa Cruz Valley: 1997 Descriptions of the Santa Cruz Bend, Square Hearth, Stone Pipe, and Canal Sites. Anthropological Papers 18. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Nelson, B. A. Comments: Southwestern Sedentism Reconsidered. In Perspectives on Southwestern 1990 Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 157–163. Westview, Boulder. Nelson, M. C. Comments: Sedentism, Mobility, and Regional Assemblages: Problems Posed in 1990 the Analysis of Southwestern Prehistory. In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 150–156. Westview, Boulder.

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Neuzil, A. A. 2008 In the Aftermath of Migration: Renegotiating Ancient Identity in Southeastern Arizona. Anthropological Papers 73. University of Arizona, Tucson. Powell, S. 1990

Sedentism or Mobility: What Do the Data Say? What Did the Anasazi Do? In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 92–102. Westview, Boulder.

Rocek, T. R. Sedentarization and Agricultural Dependence: Perspectives from the Pithouse-to1995 Pueblo Transition in the American Southwest. American Antiquity 60: 218–239. 2007 Early Villages or Palimpsest Farmsteads? Chronological Analysis of the DunlapSalazar Pithouse Site, Lincoln County, New Mexico. Paper presented at the 72nd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Austin, TX. Roney, J. R., and R. J. Hard 2002a Early Agriculture in Northwest Chihuahua. In Traditions, Transitions, and Technologies: Themes in Southwestern Archaeology, ed. S. H. Schlanger, 160–177. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. 2002b Transition to Agriculture: An Introduction. In Traditions, Transitions, and Technologies: Themes in Southwestern Archaeology, ed. S. H. Schlanger, 129–136. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Schachner, G. 2001 Ritual Control and Transformation in Middle-Range Societies: An Example from the American Southwest. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 20: 168–194. Schlanger, S. H. Artifact Assemblage Composition and Site Occupation Duration. In Perspectives on 1990 Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 103–121. Westview, Boulder. Schurr, M. R., and D. A. Gregory 2002 Fluoride Dating of Faunal Materials by Ion-Selective Electrode: High Resolution Relative Dating at an Early Agricultural Period Site in the Tucson Basin. American Antiquity 67: 281–299. Spielmann, K. A. (editor) Migration and Reorganization: The Pueblo IV Period in the American Southwest. 1998 Anthropological Research Papers 51. Arizona State University, Tempe. Sullivan, A. P., III, and J. M. Bayman (editors) 2007 Hinterlands and Regional Dynamics in the Ancient Southwest. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Vanderpot, R., and J. H. Altschul 2007 The Mescal Wash Site: A Persistent Place in Southeastern Arizona. In Hinterlands and Regional Dynamics in the Ancient Southwest, ed. A. P. Sullivan III and J. M. Bayman, 50–69. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Varien, M. D. Sedentism and Mobility in a Social Landscape: Mesa Verde and Beyond. University of 1999 Arizona Press, Tucson.

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Vierra, B. J. 2005 Late Archaic Stone Tool Technology across the Borderlands. In The Late Archaic across the Borderlands: From Foraging to Farming, ed. B. J. Vierra, 187–218. University of Texas Press, Austin. Whalen, M. E., and P. A. Gilman Introduction: Transitions to Sedentism. In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, 1990 ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 71–75. Westview, Boulder. Whittlesey, S. M. 2007 Not the Northeastern Periphery: The Lower Verde Valley in Regional Context. In Hinterlands and Regional Dynamics in the Ancient Southwest, ed. A. P. Sullivan III and J. M. Bayman, 11–30. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Wilshusen, R. H., and S. G. Ortman Rethinking the Pueblo I Period in the San Juan Drainage: Aggregation, Migration, 1999 and Cultural Diversity. Kiva 64: 369–399.

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[5] Rethinking Social Power and Inequality in the Aboriginal Southwest/Northwest

Randall H. McGuire

For the archaeologists who attended the 1988 Southwest Symposium in Tempe, few issues were more contested or more volatile than that of social power and inequality among prehispanic peoples. In the early 1980s this issue had erupted in the Grasshopper–Chavez Pass debate, and tempers were running hot. Indeed, during the first four Southwest Symposia, floor fights between advocates of each side provided predictable distractions from the formal program. In the mid-1990s scholars reframed the issue by constructing more nuanced and relational investigations into inequalities and social power in aboriginal Southwest/Northwest societies. These new ideas have removed much of the heat from the debates. Also, issues of social power and inequality have declined in prominence as issues of identity and religion have ascended in importance. Differences of opinion remain, however, about the nature of social power and inequality in the prehispanic Southwest/Northwest. Such questions lie at the heart of understanding society and prehistory, and they will never completely disappear. Prelude to a Debate The first professional archaeologists to work in the Southwest/Northwest, at the turn of the twentieth century, believed the people who lived in ancient pueblos differed 57

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little from the modern Pueblo peoples whom they also studied (Spielmann 2005:195). Unlike later researchers, however, they had few doubts concerning the existence of elites, hierarchy, and ranked social organization among the region’s past and present indigenous populations (Cushing 1970 [1882]). They embraced Lewis Henry Morgan’s nineteenth-century unilineal evolution and his social typology of Savagery, Barbarism, and Civilization (Fowler 2000:102–103). They divided Savagery and Barbarism into three levels: Lower, Middle, and Higher. Following Morgan, they believed the aboriginal peoples of North America never got beyond the stage of Middle Barbarism, or what late-nineteenth-century archaeologists would call Chiefdoms. According to Morgan (1966 [1877]:124), war leaders, councils of chiefs, and hierarchically organized priestly orders characterized social organization in Middle Barbarism. These first professional archaeologists freely populated aboriginal history with chiefs and nobles, peasants and commoners. Based on excavations in the Phoenix Basin, first Frank Hamilton Cushing (1890) at Los Muertos and then Jesse Walter Fewkes (1912:153) at Casa Grande wrote that chiefs inhabited the great houses of the Classic period Hohokam and that these elites ruled over people living in brush huts. In 1917, Clark Wissler announced a “New Archaeology” based in stratigraphy, typology, and seriation (Fowler 2005:22). Proponents of this first New Archaeology rejected ideas of social evolution and instead embraced an approach of cultural history or historical particularism that sought to account for variations in time and space between cultures in terms of their own histories. Scholars such as Alfred V. Kidder and, later, Emil Haury used the new methods of stratigraphy, typology, and seriation to tear down the interpretations of the first professional archaeologists. In the Phoenix Basin, Haury (1945) demonstrated that Cushing and Fewke’s great houses and brush huts were not contemporary but rather represented different epochs of Hohokam culture history (the Classic period and the Sedentary and Colonial periods, respectively). He attributed the changes in architecture to a migration of Salado peoples into the Phoenix Basin. He rejected any suggestion of hierarchy, as well as the evolutionary interpretation of the Classic period Hohokam as representing Middle Barbarism. The first New Archaeology continued the earlier assumptions that modern Pueblo peoples were little more than fossilized versions of past Southwestern/Northwestern societies (Spielmann 2005:195). Kidder (1924:37–39) wrote that the modern Pueblos “preserve the ancient culture of the Southwest in almost its aboriginal purity.” In her popular book Digging in the Southwest, Ann Axtell Morris (1933:74) declared that the modern Pueblos “are archaeology still alive.” Although most often expressed for the Pueblos, archaeologists extended this point of view to the other agricultural peoples of the region. Scholarly and popular perceptions of the Pueblos, however, began to shift. During the late nineteenth century, reformers often characterized the Pueblos as barbaric and needing to be “uplifted” into civilization. By the 1920s, however, Anglo activists widely admired the Pueblos as models of communal life and an alternative to the alienation of the modern industrialized world (Dippie 1982:274–279; Jacobs 1999; McFeely 2001). At the same time, Pueblo people took on a new role in white society: they became tourist attractions (Howard and Pardue 1996; McLuhan 1985). All of this, coupled with

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the romanticization of Pueblo culture by the Taos and Santa Fe artists’ colonies (Baca 2000; Goetzmann and Goetzmann 1988), produced the powerful image of peaceful, egalitarian Pueblos. Ruth Benedict (1934) later made this image into a caricature in her work, and Aldous Huxley (1932) satirized it in Brave New World. Archaeologists also took up the image. In her summary of the prehispanic Southwest, Marie Wormington (1959:19) declared the Pueblos to be democratic societies that existed many centuries before the U.S. Declaration of Independence. I encountered this mid–twentieth-century view in my own education. One of the privileges of my graduate training at the University of Arizona was to take Emil Haury’s last Southwestern prehistory seminar. During one class session the discussion turned to the nature of prehistoric social organization among the Hohokam. I asked Doc what he thought Hohokam social organization had looked like. He replied by asking if I had read Frank Russell’s classic 1908 ethnography, The Pima Indians. I replied that I had, to which he said, “Well, that is it.” Like most Southwestern/Northwestern archaeologists of the first half of the twentieth century, Haury saw the social organization of prehistoric aboriginal groups as simply a reflection of their egalitarian, democratic descendants. There were, however, a few exceptions to this dominate view. For example, Charles Di Peso (1974) populated his narratives of the aboriginal Southwest/Northwest with elites, priests, warriors, and commoners. The Chavez Pass–Grasshopper Debate In the 1970s processual archaeologists reintroduced the notion of cultural evolution to Southwest archaeology and with it the idea that aboriginal Southwest/Northwestern societies had been more socially complex and unequal than modern Pueblos (Cordell and Plog 1979). These processual archaeologists tended to adopt either Elman Service’s (1971) evolutionary typology of bands, tribes, chiefdoms, and states or Morton Fried’s (1967) evolutionary classification of egalitarian, ranked, and stratified societies. Many established archaeologists, however, clung to older notions of an egalitarian Southwest/ Northwest and challenged the legitimacy of even asking questions about elites, inequality, or complexity in prehispanic history. Numerous archaeologists embraced an ecological functionalism that stressed adaptation rather than social inequality as the key to understanding past societies. Discussions of social organization focused on how to classify archaeological societies as bands or chiefdoms ( Johnson 1989; Sebastian 1992; Spielmann 1994). Only a few researchers posited states or stratified societies in the aboriginal Southwest/Northwest (Lekson 2005:165; Wilcox 1993). Fred Plog was chief among the archaeologists advocating an evolutionary approach to understanding aboriginal Southwestern/Northwestern societies. He and Linda Cordell argued that the Spanish conquest had transformed the Pueblos from more complex and hierarchical societies into the egalitarian, autonomous villages of the twentieth century (Cordell and Plog 1979). For the large Western Pueblo (or Late Mogollon) site of Chavez Pass (Nuvakwewtaqa), Plog and his students posited a ranked social order dominated by managerial elites who had differential access to agricultural production and trade goods (Upham 1982; Upham and Plog 1986).

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Steadman Upham (1989) later used the work of the ethnographer Elizabeth Brandt (1994) to argue that elite control of ritual knowledge created inequalities in historic and prehispanic Pueblo societies. Less than 100 miles away, J. Jefferson Reid and Stephanie Whittlesey (1999, 2005) drew different conclusions from their excavation of a contemporary large Western Pueblo, the Grasshopper Ruin. In her analysis of burials from this site, Whittlesey (1978) concluded that the differential distributions of grave goods reflected gender and age differences and differential membership in sodalities rather than inequality or hierarchy. Reid (1989) argued that the Grasshopper evidence indicated an egalitarian society little different from ethnographic descriptions of twentieth-century Western Pueblo cultures. When the first Southwest Symposium convened in 1988, the Chavez Pass– GrassÂ�hopper debate was raging, and it would continue to do so for a decade or more (McGuire and Saitta 1996; Spielmann 2005). The Chavez Pass advocates critiqued the Grasshopper researchers for statistical errors and an excessive reliance on ethnographic analogy (Cordell, Upham, and Brock 1987). The Grasshopper researchers argued that they had data superior in quality and quantity to those of Chavez Pass and accused the scholars there of failing to adequately account for formation processes (Reid et al. 1989). Well into the 1990s, each side continued to muster very similar data in defense of very different conclusions. Comparable problems also manifested themselves in discussions of Eastern Pueblo social organization. At the 1990 Southwest Symposium, Brandt (1994) and Katherine Spielmann (1994, 2005) marshaled the same ethnographic and ethnohistorical data to argue for and against hierarchy in historic era Eastern Pueblo societies. In 1993, Timothy Kohler (1993) concluded that the debate over the egalitarian or hierarchical nature of Pueblos had driven Southwest/Northwest archaeology to the edge of chaos and that neither side had made a compelling case for its position. The Chavez Pass–Grasshopper debate never came to a clear resolution (Cordell and Gumerman 1989:13; Duff 2002; Hegmon 2005; Spielmann 1995:92, 2005:203). Archaeologists have advanced various reasons to account for our failure to settle both this debate and the broader question of whether prehispanic Southwestern/Northwestern societies were egalitarian or hierarchical. Linda Cordell (2000) blames both parties for failing to publish the data that would have allowed independent evaluation of their interpretations. John Ware (2001) considers Chavez Pass and Grasshopper (Western Pueblos) the wrong places to ask such a question because they lie at the periphery of the Pueblo world. He proposes that the focus should be on the core of the Pueblo world in Chaco Canyon and in the Eastern Pueblos (see also Lekson 2005:164). Even after it became clear that the Chavez Pass–Grasshopper debate was not resolvable, some researchers have continued to frame questions about inequality and hierarchy in the prehispanic Southwest/Northwest in typological “either/or” terms. Some have continued to look for evidence of chiefdoms in the region (Creamer 2001). Steve Lekson (2005, 2006) maintains that early-twentieth-century anthropological characterizations of Pueblo societies as simple and egalitarian blind twenty-first–century archaeologists from seeing complex, hierarchical, or stratified social forms in the ancient past.

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For Lekson, prehispanic Southwestern/Northwestern societies were either simple and egalitarian or complex and hierarchical. Other archaeologists have argued that the failure to resolve egalitarian versus hierarchical debates results from the categorical thinking inherent in those debates (Feinman, Lightfoot, and Upham 2000; McGuire and Saitta 1996; Mills 2000a; Nelson 1995). These archaeologists have reframed the vital question of inequality in the region. Transcending the Debate In the social sciences we rarely, if ever, resolve the crucial debates that consume most of our scholarly attention and discussion (Bishop 2007; Manicas 2006). Like a dog with a bone, we tend to worry them until they become chewed up and tasteless. In trying to resolve them, however, we gain new understandings and knowledge of the world. Our worrying leads us to make new kinds of observations of the world and to rethink and replace old assumptions and ideas. The late-twentieth-century debate over elites and inequality has been productive in terms of new understandings and knowledge. As a result of this debate, archaeologists have looked at mortuary data, architecture, and ceramics in new ways that were not possible as long as we assumed egalitarian societies. These debates have helped scholars see that the Hohokam were not Russell’s Pima, that Pueblo Bonito was not a pueblo, and that the people of the prehispanic Southwest/ Northwest differed in dramatic and significant ways from the peoples anthropologists observed at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Spielmann 2005). Most important, because of these debates archaeologists can openly discuss the nature of hierarchy, elites, and inequality in prehispanic societies without having to defend the legitimacy of asking such questions. At the turn of the twenty-first century, most archaeologists have replaced categorical “which” questions with “how” questions. In the late 1990s, several key articles sought to transcend the categorical debates. Ben Nelson (1995) published a systematic comparison of Chaco Canyon and the MesoÂ� american site of La Quemada in Zacatecas. Nelson found many similarities and differences between the two sites. His conclusion was that the important question in the comparison was not whether one site was complex but rather how the sites were complex. Dean Saitta and I (McGuire and Saitta 1996) published a critique of the Chavez Pass–Grasshopper debate. We suggested that the debate asked the wrong question and suggested an alternative approach that focused on the dialectical relationship of equality and hierarchy in Western Pueblo society. We argued that “it will be more productive for archaeologists to ask how the tensions between equality and hierarchy played themselves out over time, rather than to argue about which conceptual box Western Pueblo social organization best fits into” (McGuire and Saitta 1996:212). I felt our arguments applied specifically to late prehistoric and historic Western Pueblo society. I remain reticent to generalize them beyond this context. Saitta (1997), on the other hand, thought his notion of complex communalism could be applied to all Pueblo societies throughout aboriginal history. In 1997 Stephen Plog and Julie Solometo (1997) explored how Western Pueblo ritual shifted emphasis between communalism and hierarchy as a result of shifting demographics and social relations.

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Barbara Mills’s (2000a) Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehispanic South­ west has become the key work defining current approaches to the study of inequality, leadership, and social power. Mills (2000b) identifies four major changes that have moved twenty-first–century archaeologists away from categorical approaches to social organization. The most basic of these has been a near universal rejection of unilineal models of cultural evolution and typologies, such as bands, tribes, chiefdoms, and states. In earlier debates, archaeologists argued for or against the existence of inequality in aboriginal societies. Today, all recognize that inequality was pervasive in ancient Southwest/Northwest societies. The real questions are, what inequalities existed, and how did they permeate social relations? Recognizing that evolutionary typologies have limited use, archaeologists have begun to unpack the different social domains—such as economy, kinship, politics, and ritual—these typologies categorized. Finally, scholars have increasingly adopted an actor-based approach. Mills’s volume also introduced researchers in the Southwest/Northwest to the concepts of heterarchy and dual process theory as ways to structure their studies of inequality, leadership, and social power. Carole Crumley (1987, 1995) introduced the idea of heterarchy to archaeology as a critique of cultural evolutionary approaches that she felt put too much emphasis on stratification. She argued that heterarchical social structures include elements that are either unranked in relationship to each other or that possess the potential to be ranked in different ways. The concept leads archaeologists to consider a greater diversity of social categories and multiple ways for these categories to interact. Rather than debating how to classify societies, they look at cross-cutting influences of status and power and the changes in these influences. Heterarchy captured and organized insights Southwest/Northwest archaeologists were already playing with at the first Southwest Symposium (Plog 1988; Reid and Whittlesey 1990). Mesoamerican archaeologists Richard Blanton, Gary Feinman, Stephen KowalewÂ� ski, and Peter Peregrine (1996) first proposed the idea of dual process theory as an alternative to monolithic models of cultural evolution. In a series of articles, Feinman (2000a, 2000b; Feinman, Lightfoot, and Upham 2000) applied this approach to understanding Pueblo societies. The theory makes a distinction between two modes of political organization—the network mode and the corporate mode. In a network mode, power is focused on individuals and their networks. In contrast, in the corporate mode, power does not rest in the hands of individuals but is instead more likely to be shared and a product of group membership. These archaeologists introduce network and corporate modes not as a new typology but rather as concepts that define the opposite poles of a continuum. They argue that these two modes can exist at any level of complexity. Network and corporate modes do not replace a concept of hierarchy; instead, they expand our comparative concepts and aid us in a search for general patterns of cultural variation and change. In the context of this new view of leadership strategies, many Southwest/Northwest archaeologists have focused on feasting as a locus of leadership (Mills 2004, 2007; Minnis, Whalen, and Howell 2006). Mills (2004:21) sees feasting as important in current Southwest/Northwest research that focuses on the social and political dynamics that produce differences both within and between societies. The notion of heterarchy

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fits well here. She also maintains that feasting expresses religion, politics, and identity (Mills 2007:210). Feasting becomes a valuable event to study because it encompasses all three of these sets of social relationships, which have become the key foci of current archaeological research in the Southwest/Northwest. In the final decade of the twentieth century, feminist archaeologists expanded the scope of our considerations by adding gender to our contemplations of power and inequality in the prehispanic Southwest/Northwest (Crown 2001; Crown and Fish 1996; Spielmann 1995). One of a feminist archaeology’s most basic positions is that gender roles are not a biological given but instead have changed over time (Conkey and Williams 1991). The dominant typologies of cultural evolution in the 1980s, such as Morton Fried’s (1967) sequence of egalitarian, ranked, and stratified societies, effectively assumed universal gender roles. Fried defined an egalitarian society as one in which the only inequalities that exist are those of sex and age, whereas ranked societies had inequalities not based in sex and age. That which does not change (in this case universal sexual inequality) does not require study and becomes the unexamined category (women) in research. As Spielmann (1995:92–93) has pointed out, the debates about social power and inequality in the Southwest/Northwest rarely considered who had access to social power and tended to assume that such power rested in the hands of men. They also tended to assume that changes in men’s productive activities—such as hunting, farming, building—drove evolutionary change and increased inequalities, while the tasks of reproduction, cooking, caring for children, and cleaning remained basically unchanged. Feminist scholars have discussed relations of gender and power in regard to craft production (Mills 1995), settlement patterns (Rautman 1997), rock art (HaysGilpin 2004), and domestic violence (Martin et al. 2008). At the turn of the twenty-first century, Southwest/Northwest archaeologists have moved well past the debates of the 1988 Southwest Symposium. We no longer ask if social power existed. We now ask how people negotiated social power and expressed it. This new bone has been very productive. Archaeologists have gathered new data and interpreted old data in new ways. I suggest, however, that this bone might be too gnawed to give us sustenance. Questions about social power and inequality among prehispanic peoples no longer have the prominence in Southwest/Northwest archaeology that they did at the first Southwest Symposium. Questions about identity, migration, and ritual have replaced power and inequality as primary foci of research. Shifting trends in anthropological theory and the implementation of the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) of 1990 may have driven this switch. In the context of repatriation under NAGPRA, questions of identity and who lived where become important. Compliance with the act has also led archaeologists to interact much more directly with indigenous peoples in the Southwest/Northwest and to focus on issues more directly related to indigenous concerns and interests. Unfortunately, this shift in emphasis has led some Southwest/Northwest archaeologists to propose identity or ritual or migration or power as alternative explanations for the cultural processes we observe in the prehispanic past.

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Relating Power, Identity, Migration, and Ritual The debates of the 1980s framed questions about social power and inequality in either/ or terms. I argue that our goal today should be a dynamic approach that allows us to understand social organization, gender, inequality, power, identity, migration, ritual, and social change in terms of actual historical processes and people’s lived experiences instead of abstractions. Our shift away from categorical thinking has helped move us away from characterizing societies in terms of abstract categories. Heterarchy and dual process theory have been useful, but rethinking these concepts is necessary to progress further. Heterarchy leads us to think about social relations in a more complex way (Rautman 1998). As Janet Levy (2006) has forcibly and effectively argued, heterarchy allows archaeologists to understand human experience in terms of both the vertical and horizontal axes of society. Heterarchy as a concept, however, does not speak to the question of causality and change. It guides us to examine the complex ways human relationships may be structured, but it does not give us insights into the internal dynamics of change within those relationships (Saitta and McGuire 1998). Dual process theory proposed corporate and network organization not as a typology but rather as two ends of a continuum. Feinman (2000a), in his commentary on Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehispanic Southwest (Mills 2000a), noted that numerous authors in the book used these ideas in ways that are too typological and categorical. He called for a subtler, more contextualized use of the concepts. Despite Feinman’s warning, many archaeologists have simply employed dual process theory as a new typology. For example, Tracy Brown (2004:284) equates a corporate organization with an egalitarian society and network organization with a stratified society in her discussion of the socio-politics of eighteenth-century Pueblo communities. The problem with dual process theory does not simply lie with its misuse. Like heterarchy, dual process theory remains mute on the question of how the internal dynamics in these relationships lead to cultural change. Indeed, despite these conceptual advances, many archaeologists have continued to look at social power and inequality in categorical ways. The old either/or opposition was between egalitarian and ranked societies. The new oppositions contrast social and political inequality with ritual or identity. We see these new either/or arguments in debates about the Chaco Phenomenon and the Salado. In the 1980s, debates over the nature of social organization at Chaco Canyon engaged the same oppositions as did the Grasshopper–Chavez Pass debates. Some researchers proposed that Chaco society differed little from modern egalitarian pueblos, others argued for a redistributive chiefdom headquartered in Chaco, and still others maintained that Chaco was a state. Current debates contrast those researchers who see social power and inequality as important to understanding Chaco versus those who wish to explain the Chaco Phenomenon in terms of ritual, pilgrimage, and feasting. Steve Lekson (2006, this volume) and David Philips and Lynne Sebastian (2004) have argued that archaeologists need to understand the Chaco Phenomenon in terms of elites, inequalities, and power relations. They see the emphasis on ritual and pilgrimage in interpretations of Chaco as simply a way to avoid giving up assump64

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tions that Chaco was an egalitarian society. They identify this elite avoidance with the work of Wirt Wills (2000) and Mills (2002). Both Wills (2000) and Mills (2002) acknowledge that social inequalities and elites probably existed in Chacoan society, but they clearly favor ritual explanations for the Chaco Phenomenon. John Malville and Nancy Malville (2001) have advocated ritual pilgrimage models and explicitly rejected political explanations. They see no need to invoke political power, administrative coercion, or military force to explain the social integration of the Chaco Phenomenon. This debate sets up ritual and politics as mutually exclusive, oppositional categories. But how do we decide between ritual and politics as forces of cultural change? Can we imagine a society in which they are not interrelated? By contrast, a handful of archaeologists have used the concept of ideology to speak of the interrelationship among ritual, belief, elites, and inequalities in the Chaco Phenomenon. Nelson (2006) argues that Chacoan elites used Mesoamerican symbols to legitimize their power. Ruth Van Dyke (2007) contends that Chacoan elites constructed a landscape that manipulated meaning and experience in rituals and pilgrimages to motivate outlying inhabitants into willingly providing goods and labor to support elite interests. One of the recurring key issues in Southwest/Northwest archaeology has been how to account for the Salado Phenomenon. In the 1980s and early 1990s, David Wilcox (1987:172) and I (McGuire 1991) proposed an interpretation of the Salado as an elite interaction network. At the Amerind Foundation Salado Conference in 1995, the participants replicated the Grasshopper–Chavez Pass debate on new ground (Dean 2000). Whittlesey and colleagues (2000) found no evidence for the operation of true political authority in the Salado. In contrast, Glen Rice (2000) emphasized the political and economic role of elites as manipulators and managers of economic commodities. Mark Elson and colleagues (2000) reflected the currents of the 1990s in arguing that the Salado society of the Tonto Basin displayed a subtle kind of complexity that incorporated both egalitarian and ranked aspects. At about the same time as the conference, Patricia Crown and Ronald Bishop (1994) completed their seminal study of the production, distribution, and iconography of Salado Polychromes. They concluded that the iconography on the ceramics sprang from a wide-ranging Southwest cult that was not an elite phenomenon, replacing politics with ritual. More recently, scholars at the Center for Desert Archaeology have sought to replace ritual with identity and migration (Clark, Woodson, and Slaughter in press; Clark and Laumbach, this volume; Lyons and Lindsay 2006; Lyons, Hill, and Clark, this volume). They have argued that in the mid-thirteenth century, large numbers of migrants left the Kayenta region of northern Arizona and spread across southeastern Arizona and southwestern New Mexico. These migrants introduced new ceramic styles that would become the Salado Polychromes. As is the case with Chaco, current explanations for the Salado set up a series of oppositions and mutually exclusive propositions (politics vs. ritual vs. migration). I suggest that the more interesting questions are, how were these things interrelated in people’s lived experience, and how did contradictions arise among identity, ritual, and the political that drove cultural change? A relational approach offers a way to answer these questions.

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Relational thinking understands the world in terms of aspects or qualities that connect two or more things as being or belonging or working together. In the social realm, relations of interdependence, mutuality, and contradiction define social categories such that these social things have no existence apart from the relations that create them. Relational thinking looks to the underlying connections between phenomena and seeks to account for those phenomena in terms of how they are interrelated and how those interrelationships change. Thus what is interesting about aboriginal societies in the Southwest/Northwest is not whether they are egalitarian or ranked or where they fall on a continuum of corporate to network organization but rather how they are both egalitarian and hierarchical. We also need to eliminate the notion that egalitarian relations exist as prior, given, or passive states that ranked or hierarchical relations must overcome. As Bruce Trigger (2003) commented, egalitarian relations must be maintained in societies through complex means that include witchcraft accusations, ideologies of reciprocity or sharing, gossip, and kin relations. Also, as Eric Wolf (1990:593) noted, those social relations that establish one individual as superior to another must be constantly negotiated and maintained. Here is where a notion of heterarchy is useful to guide us to look at the complexity of cultural practices, structures, and ideologies that seek to both maintain egalitarian social relations and justify inequalities. But beyond heterarchy, we also need to ask about the ambiguities and contradictions inherent in these relationships as the motor driving change. A relational view of society and of cultural change forces us to realize that all those social relations that have fascinated archaeologists over the last two decades—including social power, inequality, gender, identity, and ritual—only exist in relation to each other. Now the question becomes not which is the most important but rather how do the interrelationships between each create society. Within and between these relationships we will find ambiguities and contradictions. People enter into many compromises and ideological fictions to maintain society in the face of these points of internal fracture. When the constant negotiation and maintenance of these accommodations break down, cultures will change. As long as archaeologists see politics, ritual, identity, gender, or any other aspect of society as determining the phenomena we study, we will not be able to think about society relationally. No one aspect of society encompasses the social whole. Instead of privileging specific aspects, scholars need to embrace diverse points of view. With this diversity, some aspects of society may give a clearer understanding of a specific issue than others, but no one aspect will give a complete or “true” picture of the world. We thus gain by including multiple aspects of society in our construction of knowledge. Scholars will, however, begin their study of societies from different entry points. Some scholars may choose to begin their study from the perspective of politics, others from ritual, and still others from identity or gender. Taking a different entry point on a question may lead to different answers. But if each researcher considers the relationship of his or her entry point to other aspects of society, then answers can be complementary, not necessarily at odds with one another. Seeing different aspects of society such as politics, ritual, identity, and gender as entry points still leaves lots for archaeologists to disagree about.

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But now those disagreements may rest in discussions of real social relations, human experience, and cultural change rather than in how we classify societies in an evolutionary typology or along a continuum. References Baca, E. 2000

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Blanton, R., G. Feinman, S. Kowalewski, and P. Peregrine A Dual-Processual Theory for the Evolution of Mesoamerican Civilization. Current 1996 Anthropology 37: 1–14. Brandt, E. A. Egalitarianism, Hierarchy and Centralization in the Pueblos. In The Ancient South­ 1994 western Community: Models and Methods for the Study of Prehistoric Social Organi­ zation. ed. W. H. Wills and R. D. Leonard, 9–23. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Brown, T. L. 2004 Stratified or Egalitarian? The Sociopolitical Dynamics of Eighteenth Century Pueblo Communities. Kiva 69(3): 283–304. Clark, J., K. Woodson, and M. Slaughter In press Those Who Went to the Land of the Sun: Puebloan Migrations into Southeastern Arizona. In The Archaeology of a Land Between: Regional Dynamics of the History and Prehistory of Southeastern Arizona, ed. H. Wallace. Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, AZ. Conkey, M., and S. Williams Original Narratives: The Political Economy of Gender in Archaeology. In Gender at 1991 the Crossroads of Knowledge: Feminist Anthropology in the Postmodern Era, ed. M. di Leonardo, 102–139. University of California Press, Berkeley. Cordell, L. S. Review of Migration and Reorganization: The Pueblo IV Period in the American 2000 Southwest, Edited by Katherine Spielmann. American Antiquity 65(3): 596–597. Cordell, L. S., and G. J. Gumerman Cultural Interaction in the Prehistoric Southwest. In Dynamics of Southwestern Pre­ 1989 history, ed. L. S. Cordell and G. J. Gumerman, 1–17. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Cordell, L. S., and F. Plog 1979 Escaping the Confines of Normative Thought: A Reevaluation of Puebloan Prehistory. American Antiquity 44: 405–429.

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Cordell, L. S., S. Upham, and S. L. Brock 1987 Obscuring Cultural Patterns in the Archaeological Record: A Discussion from Southwestern Archaeology. American Antiquity 52: 565–577. Creamer, W. 2001 The Origins of Centralization: Changing Features of Local and Regional Control during the Rio Grande Classic Period, A.D. 1325–1540. In Leaders to Rulers, ed. J. Haas, 37–58. Plenum, New York. Crown, P. L. (editor) Women and Men in the Prehispanic Southwest: Labor, Power, and Prestige. School of 2001 American Research Press, Santa Fe. Crown, P. L., and R. L. Bishop 1994 Ceramics and Ideology: Salado Polychrome Pottery. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Crown, P. L., and S. K. Fish 1996 Gender and Status in the Hohokam Pre-Classic to Classic Transition. American Anthropologist 98: 803–817. Crumley, C. L. A Dialectical Critique of Hierarchy. In Power Relations and State Formation, ed. 1987 T. C. Patterson and C. W. Gailey, 155–169. American Anthropological Society, Washington, DC. 1995 Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies. In Heterarchy and the Analysis of Complex Societies, ed. R. M. Ehrenreich, C. L. Crumley, and J. E. Levy, 1–6. Archaeological Papers 6. American Anthropological Association, Washington, DC. Cushing, F. H. 1890 Preliminary Notes on the Origins, Working Hypothesis, and Primary Researches of the Hemenway Southwestern Archaeological Expedition. International Congress of Americanists, Berlin. 1970 My Adventures in Zuñi. Reprinted. American West, Palo Alto, CA. Originally published 1882, Century magazine, vols. 25 and 26. Dean, J. S. 2000

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Feinman, G. 2000a Dual-Processual Theory and Social Formations in the Southwest. In Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehispanic Southwest, ed. B. Mills, 216–222. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2000b Corporate/Network: New Perspectives on Models of Political Action and the Puebloan Southwest. In Social Theory in Archaeology, ed. M. B. Schiffer, 31–51. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Feinman, G., K. Lightfoot, and S. Upham 2000 Political Hierarchies and Organizational Strategies in the Puebloan Southwest. American Antiquity 65: 449–470. Fewkes, J. W. Casa Grande, Arizona. Twenty-Eighth Annual Report. Bureau of American Ethnol1912 ogy, Washington, DC. Fowler, D. D. A Laboratory for Anthropology: Science and Romanticism in the American Southwest, 2000 1846–1930. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 2005 The Formative Years: Southwest Archaeology 1890–1920. In Southwest Archaeol­ ogy in the Twentieth Century, ed. L. S. Cordell and D. D. Fowler, 16–26. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Fried, M. H. 1967 The Evolution of Political Society: An Essay in Political Anthropology. Random House, New York. Goetzmann, W. H., and W. N. Goetzmann The West of the Imagination. W. W. Norton, New York. 1988 Haury, E. 1945

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Hays-Gilpin, K. Ambiguous Images: Gender and Rock Art. Altamira, Walnut Creek, CA. 2004 Hegmon, M. Beyond the Mold: Questions of Inequality in Southwestern Villages. In North 2005 American Archaeology, ed. T. R. Pauketat and D. DiPaolo Loren, 212–234. Blackwell, Oxford. Howard, K. L., and D. F. Pardue 1996 Inventing the Southwest: The Fred Harvey Company and Native American Art. Northland, Flagstaff, AZ. Huxley, A. Brave New World. Chatto and Windus, London. 1932 Jacobs, M. 1999

Engendered Encounters: Feminism and Pueblo Cultures 1879–1934. University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln.

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Kidder, A. V. 1924 An Introduction to the Study of Southwestern Archaeology with a Preliminary Account of the Excavation at Pecos. Yale University Press, New Haven. Kohler, T. A. News from the Northern American Southwest: Prehistory on the Edge of Chaos. 1993 Journal of Archaeological Research 1(4): 267–321. Lekson, S. H. 2005 Complexity. In Southwest Archaeology in the Twentieth Century, ed. L. S. Cordell and D. D. Fowler, 157–173. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 2006 Chaco Matters. In The Archaeology of Chaco Canyon, ed. S. Lekson, 3–44. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Levy, J. L. 2006

Gender, Heterarchy and Hierarchy. In Handbook of Gender in Archaeology, ed. S. M. Nelson, 219–246. Rowman Altamira, Lanham, MD.

Lyons, P. D., and A. J. Lindsay Jr. Perforated Plates and the Salado Phenomenon. Kiva 72(1): 5–54. 2006 Malville, J. M., and N. J. Malville Pilgrimage and Periodic Festivals as Processes of Social Integration in Chaco Can2001 yon. Kiva 66(3): 327–344. Manicas, P. T. A Realist Philosophy of Social Science: Explanation and Understanding. University of 2006 Cambridge Press, Cambridge. Martin, D. L., N. Akins, B. Crenshaw, and P. Stone 2008 Inscribed on the Body, Written in the Bones: The Consequences of Social Violence at La Plata. In Social Violence in the Prehispanic Southwest, ed. P. Crown and D. Nichols, 98–122. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. McFeely, E. The Zuni and the American Imagination. Hill and Wang, New York 2001 McGuire, R. H. From the Outside Looking In. In Changing Views of Hohokam Archaeology, ed. G. J. 1991 Gumerman, 347–382. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. McGuire, R. H., and D. Saitta Although They Have Petty Captains, They Obey Them Badly: The Dialectics of 1996 Prehispanic Western Pueblo Social Organization. American Antiquity 61(2): 197– 216. McLuhan, T. C. Dream Tracks: The Railroad and the American Indian 1890–1930. Harry N. 1985 Abrams, New York. Mills, B. 1995 2000b

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[6] Demographic Issues of the Protohistoric Period

William H. Doelle

The Protohistoric period offers researchers a wide array of major challenges and a wealth of exciting opportunities. Given that, it is frustrating that the pace of new research is not more intense. In this review I focus on three major demographic issues that come together in the Protohistoric period and explore some of their implications. Also, a number of changes in the world of archaeology merit consideration—most important, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA, 1990) and archaeologists’ increasing trend of working directly with Native Americans as tribal employees or collaborators in research. A lamentable change over the past two decades has been the increased pace of development and legal frameworks that have not kept up with the scale of development. As a consequence, the material traces of the Protohistoric period could be destroyed before they are discovered and documented in substantial areas of the southern Southwest. Protohistoric Period Syntheses A number of overviews, conferences, and syntheses have focused on the ProtoÂ�historic period. The initial conference that produced the most comprehensive synthesis was organized by David Wilcox and Bruce Masse in 1980 (Wilcox and Masse 1981). It had 75

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broad topical and areal coverage and led to a publication that is still an essential starting point in researching the Protohistoric period. In the mid-1990s Deni Seymour organized a protohistoric conference in Albuquerque, and in 2004 the Center for Desert Archaeology and the Arizona Archaeological Council sponsored a session that focused on the high-mobility groups of the Protohistoric and historic periods in Arizona. Both conferences provided opportunities for direct interaction and information exchange by interested researchers, although they have yet to result in publications. The Arizona State Historic Preservation Office funded a historic context study on the prehistoric to historic transition in Arizona (Gilpin and Phillips 1999), and in 2001 Chuck Adams and Andrew Duff organized a Society for American Archaeology session on the Protohistoric Pueblo world (Adams and Duff 2004). Except for the Wilcox and Masse effort, these conferences and overviews have taken place since the first Southwest Symposium in 1988. Carroll Riley’s (1987) book The Frontier People remains the single most comprehensive overview of the Protohistoric period. It is based primarily on ethnohistorical sources, although it incorporates archaeology as well. More recently, Riley (2005) published Becoming Aztlan, which provides his view of the same geographic area for the time period 1200 to 1500. Thus, there is encouraging evidence of ongoing interest in the Protohistoric period. Demography and the Protohistoric Period At its base, the concept of a “Protohistoric period” implies a transition between a prehistory and a subsequent time when written records provide additional sources of information. That is an important transition, but the case I want to make here is that it is eclipsed by three major demographic transitions that occurred in relatively close succession. The arrival of Cortez on the Gulf Coast of Mexico took place in 1519, and a quick sequence of European passages through or near the Mexican Northwest and American Southwest occurred in 1536 (Cabeza de Vaca), 1539 (Fray Marcos de Niza and Estéban), and 1540–1542 (multiple components of the Coronado expedition). Thus the transition to history took place in less than a quarter century. Three major demographic processes were involved: (1) a dramatic population decline that began soon after 1300 and was largely complete by 1450, (2) the arrival of Athapaskan populations in the region slightly before or after 1450, and (3) the tremendous impact of the introduction of European diseases in the sixteenth century. Because more new information has been generated about the prehistoric population collapse in the Southwest during the past twenty years, the next section reviews those data in some detail. Then a brief discussion highlights the critical role the study of demographic change must play if we are to succeed in addressing the complex issues of the Protohistoric period. Prehistoric Demographic Change

The most significant area of disagreement in the 1988 Southwest Symposium session centered on the timing of the demographic decline in the region. Daniel Reff (1990) and Henry Dobyns (1990) were strong advocates for the position that 76

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European-Â�introduced diseases moved rapidly through northern Mexico into what is now the southwestern United States, and the resulting loss of life was the primary explanation for the prehistoric–early historic demographic contrasts in the region. Doelle and Henry Wallace (1990) and discussant David Wilcox (1990) favored the view that population decline on a substantial scale began during late prehistoric times. Soon after the 1988 conference, Reff (1991) published a major synthesis of his research on the role of disease in northwestern New Spain. In his introductory chapter Reff summarizes his position: The point is that one should not assume on the basis of the evident failure of some and perhaps many communities that the vast areas of northwestern Mexico and the American Southwest were depopulated prior to AD 1500. The uncritical acceptance of this idea often has prompted anthropologists to invoke the mysterious or unusual, to postulate that entire cultures such as the Hohokam simply vanished or emigrated to points unknown. . . . It would appear to make more sense, particularly given the resiliency of native cultures (Cordell and Plog 1979) and the abundant evidence of disease, to assume that native populations persisted in many areas well into the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, when it can be shown that Old World diseases were responsible for a true collapse. (1991:14–15)

During the past twenty years, several efforts have been made to estimate the prehistoric population of the Mexican Northwest/U.S. Southwest (Dean, Doelle, and Orcutt 1994; Doelle 2000; Hill et al. 2004; Wilcox, Gregory, and Hill 2008). The first of these articles (Dean, Doelle, and Orcutt 1994) is important as an initial ambitious attempt to compile existing analyses from most of the sub-regions of the U.S. Southwest and to come up with a rough regional population estimate through time. It omitted some areas and did not employ a uniform methodology because it relied mostly on the previous work of others. The most impressive accomplishment was to derive a maximum regional population figure of 100,000 people, “though this figure undoubtedly underestimates the true number of people, perhaps by as much as half ” (Dean, Doelle, and Orcutt 1994:73). My work (Doelle 2000) involved updating and expanding upon the Dean, Doelle, and Orcutt (1994) paper. I added areas that had been left out of the initial paper and incorporated new work from places like the Tonto Basin in the southern portion of the Southwest. That study argued for a regional population maximum of just under 120,000 for the U.S. Southwest (Doelle 2000:105). Both articles also showed at least a 1,000-year-long trend of population growth after AD 1 that culminated in a major population collapse. The second pair of papers uses a geographically broader database, consistently derives population estimates from room counts, and considers a shorter span of time. While the papers do extend south into northwestern Mexico, the coverage of Mexico is still fairly incomplete. Both articles are based on the work of David Wilcox, the primary compiler of the Coalescent Communities Database (Wilcox et al. 2003). That database contains over 3,000 temporal components for sites with more than twelve rooms that date between 1200 and 1600, and it continues to be supplemented with new data. Brett Hill and colleagues (2004:fig. 3) organize their data into fifty-year time intervals and argue that a very substantial population decline was initiated in the

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1300–1350 temporal interval. That places the start of this demographic collapse a full two centuries prior to the time Old World diseases could have affected the area. Both Hill and colleagues (2004:figs. 3, 4) and Wilcox and colleagues (2008) underscore an important demographic contrast between the northern and southern portions of the Southwest. In the northern Southwest, places such as Hopi, Zuni, Acoma, and the Rio Grande pueblos showed continuity of occupation right through to 1600, whereas the southern Southwest experienced substantial population decline and became “archaeologically invisible” by 1450. Unfortunately, the population graphics presented by Hill and colleagues (2004:figs. 3, 4) give the impression that there was no population in the southern Southwest after 1450. In their text, however, they state for the Hohokam area: “it is highly unlikely that populations there went extinct. Rather, we argue that after 150 years of decline, small remnant groups left the area and/or shifted to a less visible lifestyle” (Hill et al. 2004:697). Wilcox and colleagues (2008) try to address this “archaeological invisibility” by incorporating the early historical populations for the Serrana Province—Opata- and Piman-speaking populations of the upper Río Sonora, Río Moctezuma, and Río Bavispe, as defined by Riley (1987). While Riley (1987) makes a strong case for significant population in that area during the Coronado era, there is as yet no archaeological basis for the 85,000 people Wilcox and colleagues (2008) postulate as coalescent communities derived from the breakup of the populations from Paquimé and other contemporaneous communities that were abandoned around 1450. This is an interesting suggestion that should be tested by archaeological fieldwork. For this chapter, I developed a more refined proxy for the invisible population of Pimería Alta by compiling the population data documented in the journals of Father Kino and Lieutenant Manje in the 1690s (Burrus 1971). Brett Hill then created a map that displays this information at the same scale as the original population maps in Hill and colleagues (2004). This new map is the final one in the sequence reprinted here (Figure 6.1) from Hill and colleagues (2004:fig. 3). Note that the Phoenix area remains empty in the 1690s, providing a strong contrast with the high population density of the prehistoric Hohokam. Also, in Figure 6.2, I use the 1690s population data to modify the graph of population change in the southern Southwest that was used by Hill and colleagues (2004:fig. 4). I assume a constant rate of population decline between the AD 1400–1450 interval and 1700 when Father Kino and Lieutenant Manje provided figures that amounted to at least 13,700 persons in Pimería Alta (Figure 6.2). While this is conjecture, it graphically conveys the expectation that there was a remnant population in the region after 1450. Figure 6.2 displays the population numbers from south of the international border that are included in the Coalescent Communities Database. It is intended to emphasize that a great deal of information from south of the border is still missing, and the population numbers for northwest Mexico may be two to three times the amounts shown. In Figure 6.2 the fifty years from 1300 to 1350 are highlighted as the time when this population decline began. Also highlighted is the period 1500 to 1550, as that is the time when the effects of European-introduced diseases were first evident. This visual helps underscore the fact that the dramatic population decline in the Greater Southwest

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6.1. Southwest population density contours for fifty-year intervals, AD 1200–1500

William H. Doelle

6.2. Population histories of the northern and southern Southwest/Northwest between AD 1200 and 1700. The population shown for Mexico is included in the total for the southern region; it is graphed separately to indicate its underrepresentation. Shaded zones highlight the initiation of population decline between 1300 and 1350 and the potential arrival of European diseases in 1500–1550.

was well under way prior to the arrival of European diseases. This is not to minimize the negative consequences of those diseases on the Native population when it did arrive, but it forces us to turn to the archaeological record along with oral history as sources for gaining insight into the initiation of this dramatic decline. Discussion

To state the implications of the previous discussion most simply, more than a millennium of population growth over the entire Southwest/Northwest appears to have culminated in a century or slightly more of dramatic decline in population that had a particularly marked effect on the southern portion of the region. The study of the collapse of mid-level societies is poorly developed in the archaeological and anthropological literature. Thus the prelude to the Protohistoric period presents very significant research challenges and opportunities. The second major demographic factor is the arrival of Athapaskan populations in the northern and central Southwest/Northwest, most likely around 1450. These new arrivals encountered Pueblo populations that had undergone aggregation and reorganization themselves in the preceding centuries. In the central Southwest/Northwest it is still unclear who the Athapaskans first encountered; nor do we adequately understand the social and cultural changes they may have just 80

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experienced. Less than a century after 1450, the arrival of Europeans with dramatically different cultural concepts and technologies and bearing diseases to which Native populations had no natural resistance brought this three-part drama to a head. The results were probably highly stressful for the Native populations of the Southwest/Northwest, and they likely created remarkable social and cultural change. Demography is only one element of this period of change, but it helps identify the major points of change in both time and space. Unfortunately, it seems that we are only beginning to understand the importance of the Protohistoric period and are just starting to grasp the magnitude of the changes experienced by the human populations of the Southwest/Northwest. Temporal Framework for the Protohistoric Period My preference is to follow Wilcox and Masse (1981) and to maintain the time span 1450–1700 to designate the Protohistoric period (Table 6.1). However, the context for that time period must go back to at least AD 1275, just before the interval when the regional population growth curve turned downward. Dividing the Protohistoric period into early and late subdivisions helps highlight the Athapaskan and Spanish arrivals in the region, respectively. Table 6.1. Temporal scheme for discussion of the Protohistoric period Time interval

Date range (AD)

Late prehistoric

1275–1450

Protohistoric

1450–1700

Early Protohistoric

1450–1540

Late Protohistoric

1540–1680/1700

Comments Demographic context for the Protohistoric Athapaskan arrival (?) Spanish presence grows; Pueblo revolt

Athapaskan Arrival in the Southwest

This issue was not addressed in the first Southwest Symposium, although it was an important topic at the initial Protohistoric Conference (Wilcox and Masse 1981). The omission in 1988 was a result of space constraints, not a lack of importance. A contract-funded project, the massive Fruitland Project in northwestern New Mexico, has brought about dramatic new understandings of Navajo origins (e.g., Dykeman 2003; Dykeman and Roebuck 2008; Hovezak and Sesler 2002; see also Towner 1996, 2003). Ron Towner (2004) reports that the oldest confirmed date for an early Navajo occupation is from a northwestern New Mexico site designated LA 55979. The site consists of a forked pole hogan and an associated storage pit, and it yielded a tree ring cutting date of 1540. Because the site yielded ceramics indicative of developed relations with the region’s Puebloan communities, Towner roughly estimates that the initial Navajo arrival may have been up to 100 years earlier. This initial stage of contact and interaction is poorly understood. Maps in Figure 6.1 highlight the substantial open space between Puebloan residential areas in the 1450–1500 interval. Thus the prehistoric

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demographic change that affected the area may have created conditions in which the arrival of a major “foreign” population would not have generated immediate conflict. Kevin Gilmore (2006) offers an elegant model of Athapaskan migration along the western margin of the high plains and into the Southwest. While progress on understanding early Athapaskans is promising, the dating and details of this process of settling into this new region require more research. Richard Wilshusen (2007) recently utilized a portion of the new data from the Fruitland Project along with documentary and oral history sources to develop an impressive outline of the emergence of a recognizable Navajo cultural pattern. Wilshusen notes an emerging consensus regarding the arrival of the Athapaskans in the northern Southwest by around 1450 to 1500, although he sees little evidence of differentiation between Apache and Navajo at this early time. In fact, he argues that the Fruitland data show the emergence of a distinctive Navajo cultural identity in settlement pattern, community organization, and material culture only around 1650 and afterward. The active role of generating a new and distinctive ethnic identity and recruiting others to become part of the process is underscored in this quotation (Wilshusen 2007:11): “By AD 1650 the Diné are overtly signaling their presence as a historically rooted group of clans with distinct architectural forms, emblematic pottery and rock art designs, subsistence practices, kinship rules, and a history that made it clear that application forms were still available for almost any group who brought something to the mix.” In recent reviews of early Navajo archaeology in Arizona, Towner (2004) and Dennis Gilpin (2004) suggest that Navajo movement into what today is Arizona postdates 1670. Deni Seymour (2004) has reported a possible early Apache site in southeastern Arizona with a mid-1400s suggested date. While that date is compatible with the general model of a circa 1450 arrival of Athapaskans in the Southwest, full publication of the cultural context as Apache and details of the dated materials has not been provided. A recent contract-funded project near Payson directed by Sarah Herr (2011) encountered an Apache site that I describe very briefly because of its unique artifact assemblage. Plymouth Landing, a site initially recorded as€a prehistoric period artifact scatter with two Apache sherds on the surface, is one of the best examples of a singlecomponent early historic Apache site in central Arizona. Careful excavation revealed that prehistoric period and Apache ceramics and flaked stone tools were mixed in feature fill and on floors.€Each of the five structures€dates after AD 1640, based on AMS radiocarbon dates on juniper berries once stored in baskets. Furthermore, a count of rings on a tree stump whose roots penetrated one of the Apache structures indicated that 1700 was the approximate date of the tree’s establishment, giving a potential occupation range of 1640 to 1700. Although prehistoric sherds were almost five times more common than Apache sherds,€the vessel-based analysis showed that Apache vessels outnumbered earlier vessels 3 to 1. Additional support for the early historic period interpretation is provided by the presence of horse bone, a flaked stone technology that differs from that used by prehistoric people, a use of grasses in structural contexts and foodstuffs in domestic contexts that matches that of historic period and modern Apache, and a site structure found at later Apache settlements in the region.

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To date, there has been no substantial regional pattern of documented Apache sites in any way comparable to what the Fruitland Project has established for early Navajo sites in the Dinétah area of New Mexico. In 1989 Tonto National Forest had identified only 18 Apache sites on forest lands. Today, after working with tribal consultants and reassessing many sites recorded previously, archaeologists recognize 125 Apache components on this same forest. Targeted work is often essential when dealing with such faint traces. As early Apache sites become more broadly identified and a set of material indicators, predicted site locations, and temporal markers are developed, it will be important to attempt to develop an Athapaskan component to the demographic database for the Southwest. For Navajo sites, this could probably be initiated very soon, whereas for Apache sites further data accumulation is essential. Coronado

While Coronado’s exploratory journey through the Southwest and onto the Plains in 1540–1542 is well-known, the specific route taken when the expedition entered what is now the United States is not clearly documented. Richard and Shirley Flint have invested their energies and organized several conferences to bring new research focus to the Coronado expedition (Flint 2002; Flint and Flint 1997, 2003, 2005). The Zuni Cultural Resource Enterprise has worked with the National Park Service and has had significant success identifying artifacts from the Battle of Hawikuh that took place in 1540 (Damp 2004). At the 2008 Society for Historical Archaeology meetings, Coronado artifacts and archaeological interpretations of a conflict between the residents of the Tiguex population of Piedras Marcadas Pueblo in Albuquerque were reported in a series of papers (Mathers, Leckman, and Aydin 2008; Schmader et al. 2007). In recent articles in the New Mexico Historical Review, geologist and private researcher Nugent Brasher (2007, 2009) suggests he has discovered the site referred to in Coronado era documents as Chichilticale. The evidence in the initial article is thin. The Kuykendall site is a long-known, large late prehistoric site in southeastern Arizona (Mills and Mills 1969), and many artifacts described in the article are likely from late prehistoric times. The single candidate for a definitive Coronado era artifact that is described is made from iron and is interpreted as a possible bolt head, the metal point at the end of the projectile fired from a crossbow. The crossbow was an older technology rapidly being superseded by firearms at the time of the Coronado expedition. The fact that the Coronado expedition is known to have had significant numbers of crossbows and later Spanish expeditions likely did not makes a bolt head a highly time-sensitive artifact. All known bolt heads (roughly a dozen or so) in the Southwest are of copper, but this possible bolt head is iron. Thus the published evidence linking this site to either Chichilticale or a Coronado era campsite remains inconclusive. Brasher’s second article (2009) is much less assertive of a conclusive outcome than was his original paper, which is healthy at this stage of the research process when almost no other researchers have reviewed the material evidence. The slowly accumulating documentary and archaeological information about the Coronado expedition has the potential to fill in some of the gaps in the record

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of this initial extended contact between Europeans and the Native population of the Southwest/Northwest. For example, confident documentation of a route would add value to the observations made prior to the expedition’s entry into the multi-day despoblado, or unpopulated zone, that led to the Zuni pueblos. Farther south, the Río Sonora Valley has generally been associated with the place referred to as “Señora,” which has received richer coverage in the documentary sources (see Reff 1981; Riley 1990). There has never been direct evidence of Coronado expedition presence in that valley, however. The documentary interpretations of the Serrana region by Riley (1990) and Wilcox and colleagues’ (2008) proposal that it is a population “refugium” for much of the missing population of the southern Southwest could be tested, or at least better evaluated, if the expedition’s route could be resolved. Progress in the archaeological documentation of the Coronado expedition over the past twenty years is encouraging. The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act

NAGPRA was on the near horizon at the time of the initial Southwest Symposium. In fact, it passed in 1990, the year the conference publication came out. NAGPRA gave a new primacy to the determination of cultural affiliation. As a result, issues related to modern tribes and their historical roots have become more important to both archaeologists and Native Americans in the intervening time. The passage of NAGPRA has raised awareness of what is now a legally defined concept: cultural affiliation. Cultural affiliation (Public Law no. 101–601) “means that there is a relationship of shared group identity which can be reasonably traced historically or prehistorically between a present-day Indian Tribe or Native Hawaiian organization and an identifiable earlier group.” Archaeologists working for the U.S. Forest Service (e.g., Wood and Teague 1996) used mostly archaeological and published ethnographic data to prepare a cultural affiliation study to guide Forest Service consultations in the Southwest. T. J. Ferguson was the lead consultant hired by the Hopi Tribe to carry out cultural affiliation studies documenting Hopi ties to both the Salado (Ferguson and Lomaomvaya 1999) and Hohokam (Ferguson 2003) prehistoric cultures. The differences in the Forest Service approach and that initiated by the Hopi Tribe underscore that the methods for cultural affiliation studies are still being developed and criteria are not yet standardized. Although it was not a NAGPRA cultural affiliation study, the recent advanced seminar sponsored by the Museum of Northern Arizona and the Center for Desert Archaeology sought to take a very long-term view of the question of Zuni origins (Gregory and Wilcox 2008). Because the Zuni language is a linguistic isolate, it was viewed as an ideal test case to see if a distinctive material culture pattern could be traced through time. Historical linguist Jane Hill expanded the temporal scale of the discussion with her assessment that the Zuni language probably became distinct at least 7,000 to 8,000 years ago. As Wilcox and Gregory (2008:8) noted: “Race, language, and culture have long been known to be independent variables (Boas 1902, 1911, 1940). Even if it is true that Zuni became a distinct language at least 7,000 to 8,000 years ago, this does not mean we can with certainty expect to discriminate these populations archaeologically from other contemporary hunter-gatherer groups—though it might be possible.”

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Ultimately, this diverse team of twenty-one scholars found that an archaeologically recognizable identity for Zuni was much younger than seven or eight millennia. But the deep temporal and broad spatial scale of the exploration of existing information has set the stage for future refinements with new research and new analytical approaches. The broad anthropological approach these scholars pursued provides a model with very high standards regarding the study of identity over the long term. It also highlights some of the intellectual challenges presented by the concept of cultural affiliation. This is important research that merits evaluation and further development. The Northern Southwest The regional-scale demographic contrast between the northern and southern Southwest reviewed earlier was dramatic. Within the northern Southwest, Adams and Duff (2004) highlight a strong demographic trend of increasing settlement size over the time span of the late prehistoric and Protohistoric periods. Their information on changes in site size measured in numbers of rooms over three temporal subdivisions is shown graphically in Figure 6.3. The authors in the Adams and Duff volume (2004) address this trend of increasing village size, as well as the spatial clustering of villages evident across the entire Southwest after roughly 1300. The remarkable diversity in the treatment of these spatial clusters by different authors reflects unique historical circumstances in each area, as well as the researchers’ different perspectives. In his chapter in that volume, Severin Fowles comments on the general significance of this Southwestern phenomenon (Fowles 2004:25): “In other parts of the world where such social circumscription existed and the option to resolve competition by population movement was limited, centralized and stratified societies evolved. That the Pueblo IV trajectory did not follow this path and instead came to be characterized by a complex mix of village confederations of varying size and coherency is a problem that deserves the attention not only of Southwesternists, but of social evolutionary theorists more broadly.” The unique social and cultural solutions to these demographic issues at the village and regional levels clearly merit further exploration and are ongoing elements of a great deal of current research. The Southern Southwest In the southern Southwest, there continues to be gradual progress in documenting the archaeology of the interval from 1450 to the 1690s, but there is still a long way to go. Deni Seymour has invested great effort on the very subtle archaeology of the Protohistoric in the southern Southwest. She has worked on a large regional scale from west Texas to New Mexico to Arizona and includes Sonora and Chihuahua within her study area (Seymour 2009:423). Given the apparent high mobility that characterized many groups in the southern Southwest during the Protohistoric period, this large geographic scale is commendable. The Center for Desert Archaeology has recently been involved in the study of the O’odham-speaking Sobaipuri occupation of the San Pedro River Valley through the work of Preservation fellow James Vint. 85

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6.3. Increase in average number of rooms per site among Early (AD 1275–1325), Middle (AD 1325–1400), and Late (AD 1400–1540/1600) temporal subdivisions of the Protohistoric period for the Pueblo world (Adams and Duff 2004:table 1.1)

Vint’s work involved survey, mapping of known sites, and sample excavation of a newly discovered site with a strong correspondence to a place Father Kino recorded in the 1690s on maps and in journals. The site of San Salvador de Baicatcan was the leading village of a headman or chief named “El Coro.” While the site was occupied in 1692 (Bolton 1948:123), on a journey in late 1697 (Burrus 1971:362) Kino described it as having been abandoned two years before (1695). The site consists of three separate clusters of house features, with thirty-six–thirty-eight houses evident on the surface. The sample of nine houses excavated by Vint produced distinctive plain ware sherds, very lightly used ground stone, debitage from knapping high-quality lithic raw materials, and completed projectile points of this same raw material, which has a known source just a few miles away. Helping to strengthen the case for the match with the place described in Father Kino’s journals were two glass beads and a metal knife blade tip. This subtle archaeological record represents a village of 150 to 200 residents, who left behind a very light imprint on the landscape. A disagreement with another Sobaipuri village to the north that escalated into hostilities was the stated cause of several villages being abandoned and moved forty-five miles to the south to Quiburi. Seymour (1989, 2003) argued for a linkage of several archaeological sites with named places in Kino era documents. The site of Quiburi is one such location, and she has also argued that the site Charles Di Peso (1953) excavated and called Gaybanipitea was actually a place Kino mapped as Pitaitutgam. She argued further that a second site on the opposite side of Babocomari Creek was a better match with the site of Gaybanipitea. What is most significant about Seymour’s argument is that it is further evidence that the Sobaipuri on the San Pedro were fairly mobile. Despite being engaged in irrigation agriculture, they employed a strategy of mobility on both an annual cycle

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and in response to threats from other Sobaipuri and from other, more mobile groups to the east. In more recent work, Seymour (2003, 2004, 2007, 2008, 2009) elaborated on her view of the Sobaipuri. She argued that they represent a blending with mobile groups who expanded westward from the Plains and a remnant of the former Hohokam occupation of the southern Arizona area. The migrants from the west Texas plains are said to be characterized by a material cultural assemblage that Seymour (2009) defines as the Canutillo complex. Seymour has clearly focused on mobility in the Protohistoric as a critical contrast to settlement in late prehistoric times. However, the role of cultural identity and its archaeological signature remains unresolved. Both larger sample sizes and fuller reporting of the entire material assemblage are essential. At present, large bifaces are the primary indicators on a regional scale of a general cultural identity and possible migration. The population history discussion earlier in this chapter underscored that the Phoenix Basin was not occupied during the 1690s, although the nearby Gila River area to the south was. While it is not surprising that archaeological evidence is not forthcoming from the Phoenix area, the absence along the Gila is more problematic. Work conducted by Soil Systems, Inc., on the Ak Chin Reservation in the 1980s identified a Protohistoric period occupation with subtle, mostly plain ware ceramics (Cable 1990). No other comparable archaeological sites have been reported since that time, even though the project demonstrated that the subtle archaeology of the Protohistoric period does exist in the Gila River vicinity. The cultural resource program at the Gila River Indian Community (Wells 2006) has conducted a great deal of systematic survey within the reservation boundaries. While they have not identified clear sites, the researchers have argued that multivariate statistical analyses suggest that components of recorded sites may date to the Protohistoric period. While Protohistoric period archaeological evidence has not been discovered along the Salt River in the Phoenix area, a probable Yavapai presence at sites in the McDowell Mountains northeast of Phoenix (Schroeder 1999) and along the Verde (Ferg and Tessman 1997; Whittlesey and Benaron 1997; Whittlesey, Ciolek-Torrello, and Altschul 1997; Whittlesey, Deaver, and Reid 1997) has been suggested. Conclusions I want to highlight three points in closing. First is the need for an expanded community of researchers to pursue research issues of the Protohistoric period. Second is the importance of continuing to intensify our efforts to develop collaborative working relationships with Native American researchers and communities. Finally, I close with a reminder of the threats posed to the archaeological record of this time period. The Pace of Research on the Protohistoric Period

In terms of new field research, outside of contract-funded compliance work, the amount of work currently being conducted on the Protohistoric period is fairly limited. 87

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For the northern Southwest, researchers have an invaluable resource in the Protohistoric Pueblo World, edited by Adams and Duff (2004). Most current research on the northern Southwest, however, targets the Pueblo IV time period rather than the post-1450 Protohistoric period. In the southern Southwest, only a few researchers are pursing the Protohistoric period. Grant-funded and academic research would be ideal contexts for pursuing such research. As Keith Kintigh (1990:274) noted twenty years ago, progress in resolving major research problems of the Protohistoric period will only be solved “by the presentation of a network of carefully crafted arguments based on strong inferences from an abundance of well-analyzed archaeological data.” This has not yet come to pass. Working with Native Americans

In the Pueblo world, an obvious reason for the lack of research on the 1450 to 1700 time range is that many sites are located on Indian reservations, and some are still occupied today. This does not mean research is impossible. Sometimes research that is nondestructive, such as using existing collections or analyzing rock art, can be pursued. But in most cases new excavations on tribally owned sites will require a compelling shared research interest. While not impossible to develop, such shared approaches require substantial time investments. They can be very productive, however. Work by T. J. Ferguson and Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh in the San Pedro Valley (2006) and Ferguson and Duff in the landscape around Zuni Salt Lake (Duff et al. 2008) did not involve excavations and was mostly on non-tribal lands. However, they have created a mutual research framework and laid groundwork for preservation activities that are not based strictly on federal laws, such as the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) and the National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA). Threats to the Past

The threats of population growth, suburban sprawl, and energy development cast a dark shadow on the future of the archaeology of the Protohistoric period—actually, all time periods—especially in Arizona. The subtle archaeology of the Protohistoric period likely goes unnoticed or unrecognized on many archaeological surveys, which reduces the likelihood that such sites are addressed in investigations required for legal compliance. There is also a need to ensure that work done on sites of this time period is fully reported and that the artifacts, fieldwork documentation, maps, and photographs are placed in public curation facilities. When the archaeological record is as thin as that for the Protohistoric period, collections must be available for comparison and reassessment in the future. When work is done at sites of this time period, efforts need to be made to focus on threatened sites, to develop sampling strategies that leave a significant portion of non-threatened sites for the future, and in general to take a conservative approach to consuming this rare and valuable resource.

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References Adams, E. C., and A. I. Duff (editors) 2004 The Protohistoric Pueblo World: A.D. 1275–1600. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Boas, F. 1902 1911 1940

Rudolf Virchow. Science 16: 441–445. Handbook of American Indian Languages, part 1. Bulletin 40. Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Race, Language, and Culture. Macmillan, New York.

Bolton, H. E. 1948 Kino’s Historical Memoir of Pimería Alta. 2 vols. University of California Press, Berkeley. Brasher, N. The Chichilticale Camp of Francisco Vázquez de Coronado: The Search for the Red 2007 House. New Mexico Historical Review 82: 433–468. 2009 The Red House Camp and the Captain General: The 2009 Report on the Coronado Expedition Campsite of Chichilticale. New Mexico Historical Review 84: 1–64. Burrus, E. J. Kino and Manje: Explorers of Sonora and Arizona. Sources and Studies for the His1971 tory of the Americas 10. Jesuit Historical Institute, Rome. Cable, J. S. 1990

Who Were the Protohistoric Occupants of the Ak-Chin? A Study Concerning the Relationship between Ethnicity and Ceramic Style. In Archaeology of the Ak-Chin Indian Community West Side Farms Project: Subsistence Studies and Synthesis and Interpretation, comp. R. E. Gasser, C. K. Robinson, and C. D. Breternitz, 23.1– 23.65. Publications in Archaeology 9(5). Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix.

Cordell, L. S., and F. Plog Escaping the Confines of Normative Thought: A Reevaluation of Puebloan Prehis1979 tory. American Antiquity 44: 405–429. Damp, J. 2004

The Battle of Hawikku: Archaeological Investigations of the Zuni-Coronado Encounter at Hawikku, the Ensuing Battle, and the Aftermath during the Summer of 1540. Report 884, Research Series 13. Zuni Cultural Resource Enterprise, Zuni, NM.

Dean, J. S., W. H. Doelle, and J. D. Orcutt Adaptive Stress, Environment, and Demography. In Themes in Southwest Prehistory, 1994 ed. G. J. Gumerman, 53–86. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Di Peso, C. C. 1953 Sobaipuri Indians of the Upper San Pedro River Valley, Southeastern Arizona. Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, AZ. Dobyns, H. F. 1990 Comments: Prehistoric to Historic Transitions: Chronological Considerations. In Perspectives in Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 301– 307. Westview, Boulder. Doelle, W. H. Tonto Basin Demography in a Regional Perspective. In Salado, ed. J. S. Dean, 81– 2000 105. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque.

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Doelle, W. H., and H. D. Wallace 1990 The Transition to History in Pimería Alta. In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 239–257. Westview, Boulder. Duff, A. I., T. J. Ferguson, S. Bruning, and P. Whitely Collaborative Research in a Living Landscape: Pueblo Land, Culture, and History 2008 in West-Central New Mexico. Archaeology Southwest 22(1): 1–24. Dykeman, D. D. 2003 The Morris 1 Site Early Navajo Land Use Study: Governador Phase Community Development in Northwestern New Mexico. Papers in Anthropology 39. Navajo Nation Archaeology Department, Window Rock, AZ. Dykeman, D. D., and P. Roebuck Navajo Emergence in Denetah: Social Imaginary and Archaeology. Paper presented 2008 at the 72nd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Austin, TX. Ferg, A., and N. Tessman Two Archival Case Studies in Western Apache and Yavapai Archaeology. In Vanish1997 ing River: Landscapes and Lives of the Lower Verde Valley: The Lower Verde Archaeological Project, ed. S. M. Whittlesey, R. Ciolek-Torrello, and J. H. Altschul, 215–279. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Ferguson, T. J. (compiler) Yep Hisat Hoopoq’yaqam Yeesiwa (Hopi Ancestors Were Once Here): Hopi-Hohokam 2003 Cultural Affiliation Study. Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, the Hopi Tribe, KykotsÂ�movi, AZ. Ferguson, T. J., and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh History Is in the Land: Multivocal Tribal Traditions in Arizona’s San Pedro Valley. 2006 University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Ferguson, T. J., and M. Lomaomvaya 1999 Hoopoq’yaqam niqw Wukoskyavi (Those Who Went to the Northeast and Tonto Basin): Hopi-Salado Cultural Affiliation Study. Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, the Hopi Tribe, Kykotsmovi, AZ. Flint, R. 2002

Great Cruelties Have Been Reported. Southern Methodist University Press, Dallas.

Flint, R., and S. Flint Documents of the Coronado Expedition, 1539–1542: “They Were Not Familiar with 2005 His Majesty, nor Did They Wish to Be His Subjects.” Southern Methodist University Press, Dallas. Flint, R., and S. Flint (editors) Coronado Expedition to Tierra Nueva. University Press of Colorado, Niwot. 1997 2003 Coronado Expedition: From the Distance of 460 Years. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Fowles, S. M. Tewa versus Tiwa: Northern Rio Grande Settlement Patterns and Social History, 2004 A.D. 1275–1540. In The Protohistoric Pueblo World, A.D. 1275–1600, ed. E. C. Adams and A. I. Duff, 17–25. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

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Gilpin, D. 2004

Protohistoric Navajo Colonization of Northeastern Arizona. Manuscript submitted for the “Faint Traces of Past Places” workshop. On file, Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson.

Gilpin, D., and D. A. Phillips Jr. 1999 The Prehistoric to Historic Transition Period in Arizona, circa A.D. 1519 to 1692. SWCA, Inc., Flagstaff. Gilmore, K. P. And Miles to Go Before I Sleep: A Model for Prehistoric Athapaskan Migration 2006 along the Western High Plains Margin. Paper presented at the 71st Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Puerto Rico. Gregory, D. A., and D. R. Wilcox (editors) Zuni Origins: Toward a New Synthesis of Southwestern Archaeology. University of 2008 Arizona Press, Tucson. Herr, S. A. (editor) 2011 Dilzhe’ ‘e bii tian: Archaeological Investigations of Apache Sites Near Little Green Valley, Arizona, State Route 260—Payson to Heber Archaeological Project, Gila County, Arizona. Technical Report 2006-05. Desert Archaeology, Inc., Tucson. Hill, J. B., J. Clark, W. H. Doelle, and P. L. Lyons Prehistoric Demography in the Southwest: Migration, Coalescence, and Hohokam 2004 Population Decline. American Antiquity 69: 689–716. Hovezak, T. D., and L. M. Sesler 2002 Archaeological Investigations in the Fruitland Project Area: Late Archaic, Basketmaker, Pueblo I, and Navajo Sites in Northwestern New Mexico. Research Papers 4. La Plata Archaeological Consultants, Dolores, CO. Kintigh, K. W. Protohistoric Transitions in the Western Pueblo Area. In Perspectives in Southwest1990 ern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 258–275. Westview, Boulder. Mathers, C., P. Leckman, and N. Aydin “Non–Ground Breaking” Research at the Edge of Empire: Geophysical and Geo2008 spatial Approaches to Sixteenth-Century Interaction in Tiguex Province (New Mexico). Paper prepared for the symposium Between Entrada and Salida: New Mexico Perspectives on the Coronado Expedition, C. Haecker and C. Mathers, organizers. Society for Historical Archaeology Annual Conference, Albuquerque, NM, January 12. Mills, J. P., and V. M. Mills 1969 The Kuykendall Site, a Pre-historic Salado Village in Southeastern Arizona. Special Report 6. El Paso Archaeological Society, El Paso. Public Law no. 101–601 Section 2, Definitions, cultural affiliation. Native American Graves Protection and 1990 Repatriation Act, passed November 16, 1990. Reff, D. T. 1981

The Location of Corazones and Señora: Archaeological Evidence from the Río Sonora Valley, Mexico. In The Protohistoric Period in the North American Southwest, AD 1450–1700, ed. D. R. Wilcox and W. B. Masse, 94–112. Anthropological Research Papers 24. Arizona State University, Tempe.

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1990 1991

Contact Shock and the Protohistoric Period in the Greater Southwest. In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 276–288. Westview, Boulder. Disease, Depopulation, and Culture Change in Northwestern New Spain, 1518–1764. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City.

Riley, C. L. 1987 The Frontier People: The Greater Southwest in the Protohistoric Period. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 1990 The Sonoran Statelets Revisited: Urbanism in the Serrana Province of Northeastern Sonora. In Clues to the Past: Papers in Honor of William M. Sundt, ed. M. S. Duran and D. T. Kirkpatrick, 229–238. Archaeological Society of New Mexico, Albuquerque. 2005 Becoming Aztlan: Mesoamerican Influence in the Greater Southwest, AD 1200–1500. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Schmader, M., C. Mathers, C. Haecker, R. Flint, S. Cushing Flint, and C. Adams Piedras Marcadas: Proposed Research Plan. Prepared for the New Mexico Cultural 2007 Properties Review Committee, August 2007 meeting. Document on file at the CPRC, Santa Fe. Schroeder, K. J. McDowell Mountains Archaeological Symposium. Publications in Anthropology 10. 1999 Roadrunner, Tempe. Seymour, D. J. 1989 The Dynamics of Sobaipuri Settlement in the Eastern Pimeria Alta. Journal of the Southwest 31(2): 205–222. 2003 Sobaipuri-Pima Occupation in the Upper San Pedro Valley: San Pablo de Quiburi. New Mexico Historical Review 78: 147–166. 2004 New Perspectives on the Protohistoric and Late Prehistoric Periods in the Southern Southwest. Manuscript submitted for the “Faint Traces of Past Places” workshop. On file, Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. 2007 Delicate Diplomacy on a Restless Frontier. Seventeenth-Century Sobaipuri-O’odham Social and Economic Relations in Northwestern New Spain, Part I. New Mexico Historical Review 82: 469–499. 2008 Delicate Diplomacy on a Restless Frontier. Seventeenth-Century Sobaipuri-O’odham Social and Economic Relations in Northwestern New Spain, Part II. New Mexico Historical Review 83: 171–199. 2009 The Canutillo Complex: Evidence of Protohistoric Mobile Occupants in the Southern Southwest. Kiva 74: 421–446. Towner, R. Defending the Dinétah. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 2003 2004 The Navajo Occupation of Northwestern New Mexico. Manuscript submitted for the “Faint Traces of Past Places” workshop. On file, Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Towner, R. (editor) 1996 The Archaeology of Navajo Origins. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Wells, E. C. From Hohokam to O’odham: The Protohistoric Occupation of the Middle Gila River 2006 Valley, Central Arizona. Anthropological Research Papers 3. Gila River Indian Community, Sacaton, AZ.

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Whittlesey, S. M., and S. Benaron 1997 Yavapai and Western Apache Ethnohistory and Material Culture. In Vanishing River: Landscapes and Lives of the Lower Verde Valley: The Lower Verde Archaeological Project, ed. S. M Whittlesey, R. Ciolek-Torrello, and J. H. Altschul, 143–183. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Whittlesey, S. M., R. Ciolek-Torrello, and J. H. Altschul (editors) Vanishing River: Landscapes and Lives of the Lower Verde Valley: The Lower Verde 1997 Archaeological Project. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Whittlesey, S. M., W. L. Deaver, and J. J. Reid 1997 Yavapai and Western Apache Archaeology of Central Arizona. In Vanishing River: Landscapes and Lives of the Lower Verde Valley: The Lower Verde Archaeological Project, ed. S. M Whittlesey, R. Ciolek-Torrello, and J. H. Altschul, 185–214. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Wilcox, D. R. Comments: Transition or Period: Systematic Change in the Southwest, A.D. 1275– 1990 1700. In Perspectives on Southwestern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 308–313. Westview, Boulder. Wilcox, D. R., W. H. Doelle, J. B. Hill, and J. P. Holmlund Coalescent Communities GIS Database: Museum of Northern Arizona, Center 2003 for Desert Archaeology, Geo-Map, Inc. On file, Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Wilcox, D. R., and D. A. Gregory Introduction: The Structure of Anthropological Inquiry into Zuni Origins. In Zuni 2008 Origins: Toward a New Synthesis of Southwestern Archaeology, ed. D. A. Gregory and D. R. Wilcox, 3–13. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Wilcox, D. R., D. A. Gregory, and J. B. Hill Zuni in the Puebloan and Southwestern Worlds. In Zuni Origins: Toward a New 2008 Synthesis of Southwestern Archaeology, ed. D. A. Gregory and D. R. Wilcox, 165– 209. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Wilcox, D. R., and W. B. Masse (editors) 1981 The Protohistoric Period in the North American Southwest, AD 1450–1700. Anthropological Research Papers 24. Arizona State University, Tempe. Wilshusen, R. Ethnogenesis at the Edge of History: The Northern Southwest between A.D. 1500 2007 and 1750. Paper presented at the 72nd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Austin, TX. Wood, J. S., and L. S. Teague Cultural Affiliation Assessment, Hohokam and Salado, Tonto Basin and Globe 1996 Highlands, Central Arizona. In Prehistoric Cultural Affiliations of Southwestern Indian Tribes, comp. F. E. Wozniak, 50–60. U.S. Department of Agriculture, U.S. Forest Service, Southwestern Region, Albuquerque, NM.

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[7] Remembering Archaeology’s Past Perspectives on People and Process

J. Jefferson Reid

Historical narratives have proliferated in both number and kind ever since the session on the history of Southwestern archaeology at the first Southwest Symposium. Today, books, festschrifts, articles, interest groups, and dedicatory symposia at regional and national meetings are abundant. This explosion of reflexivity is all the more remarkable because the baby boomers have yet to reach full retirement. In our history of research at Grasshopper Pueblo titled Thirty Years into Yesterday (2005a), Stephanie Whittlesey and I used an epigram to our preface from historian Hayden White (1987:20): “In order to qualify as historical, an event must be susceptible to at least two narratives of its occurrence. Unless at least two versions of the same set of events can be imagined, there is no reason for the historian to take upon him [her] self the authority of giving a true account of what really happened.” Would that we Southwestern archaeologists had only two narratives of the past to contend with, and this includes our own intellectual past as well as the past of the distant others. What we have before us is a wealth of historical research and the opportunity to explore multiple narratives of the past. My purpose in this chapter is not to present a master narrative of our intellectual past, nor is it to challenge other, lesser narratives. Rather, I wish to offer observations on developments over the past twenty years in writing histories of Southwestern

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archaeology and archaeologists. I begin with thoughts on origins, comment on people and process, and conclude with predictions for the future. Up until the mid-1970s, historical interests were principally expressed in obituaries, and the most often cited periodization scheme for Southwestern archaeology was presented by Walter Taylor in the 1954 Southwest issue of the American Anthropologist. He divided intellectual development into three periods—the Cushing-Fewkes Period, the Time-Space Revolution, and a period characterized by filling in the gaps (Taylor 1954:561–566). He also expanded on criticisms he had made in his A Study of Archae­ ology (1948). It was not until Gordon Willey and Jeremy Sabloff ’s A History of American Archaeology (1974) that we had a broad-spectrum, fully periodized archaeological history into which the American Southwest could be made to fit. Their last period is the Explanatory Period (1960–), which in 1974 was of reasonable duration;furthermore, I think it was indicative of the intellectual forces behind writing the book. Also that year, Willey published an edited book, Archaeological Researches in Retrospect (1974), that contained Paul Martin’s reflections on “Early Development in Mogollon Research” (Martin 1974). Richard Woodbury (1973) had entered the realm of biography the previous year with his profile of A. V. Kidder, and he would emerge as a major historian of Southwestern archaeology (e.g., Woodbury 1990a, 1990b, 1993). Around this time I began doing oral histories—first with Emil Haury (see Reid 1993) and later with Watson Smith (Smith 1992)—in response, I think, to a loosely constructed graduate seminar on Southwestern history under the tutelage of William Longacre, who had a penchant for the early history of archaeology (Longacre 1970). But disciplinary history at that time was the domain of the elders of the tribe (e.g., Cummings 1952; Haury 1988, 1989) and was not generally considered the intellectually challenging research expected of young professionals. I take as support for this interpretation a single datum—Gene Rogge’s 1983 historically oriented dissertation, Little Archaeology, Big Archaeology: The Changing Context of Archaeological Research. Vaguely remembered comments by colleagues questioned the archaeological scholarship of investigating our disciplinary history. Twenty-three years later, Cory Harris’s (2006) dissertation would employ sophisticated computer techniques to analyze changes in the pace and social structure of Hohokam archaeology during the late decades of the twentieth century. According to my qualitative analysis, the tipping point came in 1985 with the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the Society for American Archaeology (SAA) at the annual meeting in Denver. SAA president Don Fowler organized two plenary sessions and a symposium around historical themes, and the April issue of American Antiquity, edited by Patty Jo Watson, was devoted to historical issues and institutions. A defining, perhaps historic moment occurred at the evening plenary session when moderator Jeremy Sabloff asked the panel members about their reaction to Walter Taylor’s critique of their work. I, along with much of the audience, was amazed at the still strong feelings concerning Taylor’s critique, and it is said that Taylor stomped out of the room. That event impressed upon me the lasting power of personality and the impact of historical acts. Although this session was not published, another session and the all-day symposium were edited by David Meltzer, Fowler, and Sabloff as American Archaeology Past

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and Future: A Celebration of the Society for American Archaeology 1935–1985 (1986). I submit that historical reflection and retrospection had been legitimized through the celebration of the anniversary ritual and the publications that commemorated the event. Furthermore, I assume that these historical forces inspired Charles Redman and Paul Minnis to plan a session on the history of Southwestern archaeology for the first Southwest Symposium in 1988. In the published introduction to that session I proclaimed: Southwestern archaeologists are losing the past; not the prehistoric past, but their intellectual history. . . . I scanned the audience to observe that my generation had apparently grown up. Absent were Emil Haury, Florence Hawley Ellis, Jesse Jennings, and many others who had been our teachers and leaders not so long ago. In their place appeared George Gumerman, William Lipe, James Judge, Cynthia IrwinÂ�Williams, and Don Fowler, the latter still hiding behind the fiction of eternal youth by claiming continuing status as Jesse Jennings’ student. From that vantage [Don] Fowler has been among the first, the few, to look deeply into personalities, events, and ideas of our special history. (Reid 1990:317)

My 1990 observation is made more poignant by the fact that all the people I mentioned then are today either deceased or retired. At least my prediction concerning Fowler has held true, as he has clearly become our leading historian (Cordell and Fowler 2005; Fowler 1987, 1992, 2000, 2003; Parezo and Fowler 2007). The papers at that first Southwest Symposium session addressed particular developments in the concepts used to investigate prehistory. Chip Wills discussed changes in the ways archaeologists investigate the transition to agriculture in the Southwest. Steve Lekson charted shifts in the models of population aggregation and sedentism. Andy Christenson looked at different notions of population growth and mobility on the Colorado Plateau. Chris Downum examined the role of individual and institutional conflict in early Flagstaff archaeology. In these papers, young scholars pointed the way to a more complete understanding of the intellectual history of Southwestern archaeology (Reid 1990:318). I sought to continue the momentum of these discussions of our intellectual history and to broaden their reach during my editorship of American Antiquity from July 1990 to April 1993. I wrote a rousing Editor’s Corner (Reid 1991) “On the History of Archaeology and Archaeologists.” I selected Douglas Givens for the newly conceived position of associate editor for Obituaries and History of Archaeology. We conspired to expand the obituaries of major figures into biographical essays as represented by David Doyel (1994) on Charles Di Peso, Richard Woodbury (1990a) on J. O. Brew, and Raymond Thompson (1995) on Emil Haury. We also badgered living luminaries for autobiographical sketches, with the admonition that it is always better to write one’s own eulogy than to leave it to the pen of strangers or estranged former students. Our only success was with George Quimby (1993), whose “A Thing of Sherds and Patches” had to be heavily edited, although we did leave in a few Quimbyesque incidents to convey a certain sense of the man. I would like to think that my efforts had something to do with Jesse Jennings’s fine memoir Accidental Archaeologist (1994), but there is no evidence to support it. 97

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Jennings’s personal account does underscore my point that he was well advised to get his story out before former students such as James Adovasio (Adovasio and Page 2002) referenced him in the text and the index as “the Dark Lord.” Sadly, my well-intentioned editorial initiatives came to naught in the mid-1990s when American Antiquity, aided and abetted by Latin American Antiquity, decided to transfer all obituaries to brief announcements in the SAA Bulletin and its successor, the Archaeological Record. Mark Aldenderfer, then editor of the SAA Bulletin, recalls that the shift was made in part in response to my efforts to expand the obituary concept and in part to a desire of both journal editors to make more space for articles. Given the slim biographical treatment provided in current obituaries, I think this decision was an unfortunate one. Other trends may compensate, however. Douglas Givens, for example, later established and edited the Bulletin of the History of Archaeology and became a founding member of the History of Archaeology Interest Group in the Society for American Archaeology. That group is responsible for putting on the biennial Willey Symposium devoted to exploring historical topics. Other efforts to encourage, analyze, and write the history of Southwestern archaeology have been far more successful than mine. They have been taken farther than I could have predicted by such prominent scholars as Don Fowler, Linda Cordell, David Wilcox (2005), Curtis Hinsley (Hinsley and Wilcox 1995), Steve Nash (1999. 2000), Nancy Parezo (1993), and, most recently, James Snead. I single out James to make a point. The highly laudatory jacket cover quotes are the envy of any author and are only exceeded by Stephen Colbert’s (2007) appraisal of his own book: “A great read! I laughed, I cried, I lost 15 pounds! I cannot recommend this book highly enough.” Gordon Willey, on the jacket cover, called Snead’s (2003) Ruins and Rivals “[a] first-rate book—well conceived, well organized, and well written.” Brian Fagan said: “Beautifully written, thoroughly researched, and insightful, Ruins and Rivals is a remarkable tour de force, especially when one remembers the author is not a professional historian” (emphasis added). The point I wish to make is that archaeologists need not depend on professional historians to write our narratives and, furthermore, we should not be surprised when archaeologists excel in doing it. Clearly, we have to improve our narrative skills if we are to engage an interested and enthusiastic public unfamiliar with the lexical fashions of the day. I argue that archaeologists are best positioned to provide the critical, firsthand account of what actually happened in history. Recall, for example, that Ambrose Bierce was the only American writer who actually fought in the Civil War, and some interpret a severe head wound inflicted at Shiloh to be responsible for his dark, cynical view of the world. Stephen Crane, by contrast, author of the Civil War classic The Red Badge of Courage, was not born until 1871, six years after the war had ended. We must be vigilant in our ability to distinguish firsthand accounts from gossip, rumor, and compelling fiction. We bear the traditional anthropological authority of having been there. In closing, I mention one underdeveloped avenue of historical narrative. It is a marginal genre I have provisionally labeled the “fawning acolyte.” I have always admired, for example, the adoration of General George Crook by his brilliant adjutant John Gregory Bourke. Closer to archaeology is Tierra Dulce: Reminiscences from the Jesse Nusbaum

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Papers (1980), a lovingly crafted portrait of Jesse Nusbaum by his wife, Rosemary. It is matched in tone and admiration by Eleanor Hibben’s (1983) tales and photographs of her husband, Frank’s, hunting prowess. Florence Lister provides alternative perspectives in her book Behind Painted Walls (2000). Stephanie Whittlesey informs me that the faux Victorian genre is short-lived and will disappear under the weight of its own maudlin prose, but the demographics of the discipline hint at the potential for a literary florescence. On the way to the Pecos Conference in 2007, Stephanie and I did a mental tally of the number of anthropology couples in the Southwest, at least one of whom is an active archaeologist. We exhausted our memory banks somewhere around fifty couples, and we did not even consider serial monogamy. Quite apart from the shaky future of this particular biographical genre is the inescapable truth that intellectual histories are intensely personal. I use this fact to expound on recommendations gleaned from experience. Of extreme significance is the art of keeping a journal or diary and archiving important papers and manuscripts. Our article “Seven Years That Reshaped Southwest Prehistory” (Reid and Whittlesey 2005b) was based on sparse journal entries by Emil and Hulda Haury during the seven years (1930– 1937) Haury was employed by Harold Gladwin at the Gila Pueblo Archaeological Foundation. Our current book, Prehistory, Personality, and Place: Emil W. Haury and the Mogollon Controversy (Reid and Whittlesey 2010), relies heavily on unpublished materials, most critically the 1948 and 1951 Pecos Conference proceedings transcribed by Pat Wheat, Joe Ben Wheat’s wife. There are, of course, caveats regarding the use of personal documents. John McGregor’s 300-page unpublished memoir dated 1987 fails to mention J. O. Brew’s (1942) scathing review of his textbook Southwestern Archaeology (1941); only through personal correspondence were we able to gauge McGregor’s reaction within the context of the Mogollon controversy. Who even knows about, much less has read, the two dissertations by Erik Reed that were rejected by his Harvard committee? The history of ideas and the people who create them will always be a critical part of our discipline (Miller 1991; Sabloff 1998; Willey 1988). Michael O’Brien, Lee Lyman, and Michael Schiffer (2005:5), following David Hull’s (1988) Science as a Process, are interested less in paradigm shifts than “in who influenced whom, who did not get along with whom and why, and all the myriad interconnections of people’s ideas and activities with the cultural environment.” Thus I conclude that the intellectual history of Southwestern archaeology, in all its manifestations, is in good hands as long as many of those hands are ours and they are busily recording ideas, opinions, people, and events for future examination. Alternative narratives, multivocality, and different modes of discourse are all integral parts of contemporary archaeology and are fully achievable with today’s technology. Recent examples of narrative breadth are well represented in the reexamination of the Camp Grant massacre (Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2007; Jacoby 2008; Record 2008) and Marilyn Norcini’s (2007) biography of the Native American anthropologist Edward P. Dozier. Under the editorship of Joseph Wilder, the Journal of the Southwest has been especially attentive to historical themes and issues (Burgess 2009; L. Haury 2004; Hinsley and Wilcox 1995; Welch 2007). For young scholars, like the ones at the

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first session twenty-plus years ago, there is much more history to examine and much history still to make. References Adovasio, J. M., and J. Page 2002 The First Americans: In Pursuit of Archaeology’s Greatest Mystery. Modern Library, New York. Brew, J. O. 1942

Review of Southwestern Archaeology, by J. C. McGregor. American Antiquity 8: 191–196.

Burgess, D. Romans in Tucson? The Story of an Archaeological Hoax. Journal of the Southwest 2009 51(1): 3–135. Colbert, S. I Am America (and So Can You). Grand Central Publishing, New York. 2007 Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. Massacre at Camp Grant: Forgetting and Remembering Apache History. University 2007 of Arizona Press, Tucson. Cordell, L. S., and D. D. Fowler Southwest Archaeology in the Twentieth Century. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake 2005 City. Cummings, B. 1952 Indians I Have Known. Arizona Silhouettes, Tucson. Doyel, D. E. Charles Carradino Di Peso: Expanding the Frontiers of New World Prehistory. 1994 American Antiquity 59: 5–20. Fowler, D. D. The Uses of the Past: Archaeology in the Service of the State. American Antiquity 1987 52: 229–248. 1992 Models for Southwestern Prehistory, 1840–1914. In Rediscovering Our Past: Essays in the History of American Archaeology, ed. J. E. Reyman, 51–66. Avebury, Aldershot, UK. 2000 A Laboratory for Anthropology: Science and Romanticism in the American Southwest, 1846–1930. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 2003 E. L. Hewett, J. F. Zimmerman, and the Beginnings of Anthropology at the University of New Mexico, 1927–1946. Journal of Anthropological Research 59: 305–327. Harris, C. D. Organizational Change and Intellectual Production: Hohokam Archaeology in the 2006 Second Half of the Twentieth Century. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson. Haury, E. W. Gila Pueblo Archaeological Foundation: A History and Some Personal Notes. Kiva 1988 54(1): vi–77.

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1989

Point of Pines, Arizona: A History of the University of Arizona Archaeological Field School. Anthropological Papers 50. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

Haury, L. (editor) Emil Haury Centennial. Journal of the Southwest 46(1): 1–213. 2004 Hibben, E. B. 1983 In Outer Places: Adventures with Frank C. Hibben. Sunstone, Santa Fe. Hinsley, C. M., and D. R. Wilcox A Hemenway Portfolio: Voices and Views from the Hemenway Archaeological 1995 Expedition, 1886–1889. Journal of the Southwest 37(4): 519–742. Hull, D. 1988 Jacoby, K. 2008

Science as a Process: An Evolutionary Account of the Social and Conceptual Develop­ ment of Science. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Shadows at Dawn: A Borderlands Massacre and the Violence of History. Penguin, New York.

Jennings, J. D. Accidental Archaeologist. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 1994 Lister, F. 2000

Behind Painted Walls: Incidents in Southwestern Archaeology. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque

Longacre, W. A. A Historical Review. In Reconstructing Prehistoric Pueblo Societies, ed. W. A. LongÂ� 1970 acre, 1–10. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Martin, P. S. Early Developments in Mogollon Research. In Archaeological Researches in Retro­ 1974 spect, ed. G. R. Willey, 3–29. Winthrop, Cambridge, MA. McGregor, J. C. Southwestern Archaeology. John Wiley and Sons, New York. 1941 Meltzer, D. J., D. D. Fowler, and J. A. Sabloff (editors) American Archaeology Past and Future: A Celebration of the Society for American 1986 Archaeology 1935–1985. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Miller, J. H. 1991 The Life of Harold Sellers Colton: A Philadelphia Brahmin in Flagstaff. Navajo Community College Press, Tsaile, AZ. Nash, S. E. Time, Trees, and Prehistory. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 1999 2000 It’s about Time: A History of Archaeological Dating in North America. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Norcini, M. Edward P. Dozier: The Paradox of the American Indian Anthropologist. University of 2007 Arizona Press, Tucson. Nusbaum, R. Tierra Dulce: Reminiscences from the Jesse Nusbaum Papers. Sunstone, Santa Fe. 1980

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O’Brien, M. J., R. L. Lyman, and M. B. Schiffer 2005 Archaeology as a Process: Processualism and Its Progeny. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Parezo, N. J. (editor) Hidden Scholars: Women Anthropologists and the Native American Southwest. Uni1993 versity of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Parezo, N. J., and D. D. Fowler 2007 Anthropology Goes to the Fair: The 1904 Louisiana Purchase Exposition. University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln. Quimby, G. I. A Thing of Sherds and Patches. American Antiquity 58: 7–21. 1993 Record, I. W. Big Sycamore Stands Alone: The Western Apache, Aravaipa, and the Struggle for Place. 2008 University of Oklahoma Press, Norman. Reid, J. J. 1990 1991 1993

Introduction: History of Southwestern Archaeology. In Perspectives on Southwest­ ern Prehistory, ed. P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, 317–318. Westview, Boulder. Editor’s Corner: On the History of Archaeology and Archaeologists. American Antiquity 56: 195–196. Emil Walter Haury: 1904–1992. Kiva 59(2): 242–259.

Reid, J. J., and S. Whittlesey 2005a Thirty Years into Yesterday: A History of Archaeology at Grasshopper Pueblo. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2005b Seven Years That Reshaped Southwest Prehistory. In Southwest Archaeology in the Twentieth Century, ed. L. S. Cordell and D. D. Fowler, 47–59. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 2010 Prehistory, Personality, and Place: Emil W. Haury and the Mogollon Controversy. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Rogge, A. E. 1983 Little Archaeology, Big Archaeology: The Changing Context of Archaeological Research. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson. Sabloff, P.L.W. Conversations with Lew Binford: Drafting the New Archaeology. University of Okla1998 homa Press, Norman. Smith, W. 1992

One Man’s Archaeology. Kiva 57(2): 101–191.

Snead, J. E. Ruins and Rivals: The Making of Southwest Archaeology. University of Arizona Press, 2003 Tucson. Taylor, W. W. A Study of Archaeology. Memoir 69. American Anthropological Association, Mena1948 sha, WI. 1954 Southwestern Archaeology, Its History and Theory. American Anthropologist 56: 561–575.

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Thompson, R. H. 1995 Emil W. Haury and the Definition of Southwestern Archaeology. American Antiq­ uity 60: 640–660. Welch, J. R. Kinishba. Journal of the Southwest 19(1): 1–127. 2007 White, H. 1987

The Content of the Form: Narrative Discourse and Historical Representation. Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore.

Wilcox, D. R. Creating a Firm Foundation: The Early Years of the Arizona State Museum. Journal 2005 of the Southwest 47: 375–410. Willey, G. R. (editor) Archaeological Researches in Retrospect. Winthrop, Cambridge, MA. 1974 Portraits in American Archaeology: Remembrances of Some Distinguished American­ 1988 ists. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Willey, G. R., and J. A. Sabloff A History of American Archaeology. W. H. Freeman, San Francisco. 1974 Woodbury, R. B. Alfred V. Kidder. Columbia University Press, New York. 1973 1990a John Otis Brew. American Antiquity 55: 452–459. 1990b Watson Smith and Southwestern Archaeology. In When Is a Kiva? And Other Ques­ tions about Southwestern Archaeology, ed. R. H. Thompson, 5–30. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 1993 60 Years of Southwestern Archaeology; A History of the Pecos Conference. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque.

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Part II Landscape Use and Ecological Change

[8] Landscape Change Archaeological Perspectives on the Legacy of HumanEnvironmental Interactions in the U.S. Southwest

Carla R. Van West

George Perkins Marsh—Vermont-born attorney, foreign diplomat, philologist, and keen observer of human-environmental interactions—published an important book in 1864 entitled Man and Nature. Marsh revised and republished the book in 1874 and again in 1885 under a new title, The Earth as Modified by Human Action: Man and Nature. Marsh’s intent was to indicate the character and, approximately, the extent of the changes produced by human action in the physical conditions of the globe we inhabit; to point out the dangers of imprudence and the necessity of caution in all operations which, on a large scale, interfere with the spontaneous arrangements of the organic or the inorganic world; to suggest the possibility and the importance of the restoration of disturbed harmonies and the material improvement of waste and exhausted regions; and, incidentally, to illustrate the doctrine that man is, in both kind and degree, a power of a higher order than any of the other forms of animated life, which, like him, are nourished at the table of bounteous nature. (Marsh 1874:iii)

Scholarly and insightful, Marsh was astonished to see the many ways preindustrial and industrial-level societies had altered the world. Marsh discussed the historic role human actions and technologies played in introducing, modifying, and extirpating plant and animal species, modifying soils and landforms, and managing and 107

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mismanaging water resources. Marsh also described the unintended consequences of human action that resulted in deforestation and desertification. Today, many consider Marsh the “father” of the modern environmental conservation movement.1 He is recognized as the person who first drew attention to the widespread and cumulative ecological problems of his day. He also is noted for his call for social action to remediate damage and to institute policies to care for earth’s life-sustaining natural resources. More than 145 years have passed since Marsh first published Man and Nature. During that time, many social and natural scientists have explored the connections between humans and the physical environments in which they live. Some believed human behavior is largely determined or limited by the nature of the physical environment and its climate (e.g., Diamond 1992; Huntington 1915; Semple 1911). Others, while acknowledging that the environment presents both opportunities and constraints to given populations, argued that human-environment relations are driven largely by cultural historical factors that influence human decisions (e.g., Harris 1966; Sauer 1925; Simmons 1989). Still others worked to understand what conditions in both human and environmental systems influenced adaptation and conditioned cultural stability and culture change rather than to debate whether nature determines human behavior or whether humans determine nature (e.g., Butzer 1996; Crumley 1994; Dean 1988; Ingold 1986, 1995; Moran 1982; Netting 1977; Rappaport 1968; Steward 1955). Environmental determinism, environmental possiblism, cultural ecology, ecological anthropology, and historical ecology are a few of the approaches scientists and philosophers have taken to explore human-environment relations since Marsh’s era. Today, many geographers, biologists, anthropologists, and archaeologists have embraced a more inclusive ecological perspective that assumes that humans are an integral component of a dynamic, interactive, and multiscalar ecosystem (e.g., Bailey, Charles, and Winder 2000; Kohler and van der Leeuw 2007; McGlade 1995; McGlade and van der Leeuw 1997; van der Leeuw 1998; van der Leeuw and Redman 2002). To understand and ultimately manage these dynamic socio-natural systems, it is necessary to engage the expertise of many social, natural, and computational scientists who can work collaboratively to address research questions. Their interdisciplinary methods include the analyses of many detailed case studies of socio-natural systems based on empirical data and explored with sophisticated and quantitative behavioral models. Their immediate objectives are to identify and characterize the recursive and patterned relationships among many variables and processes that operate simultaneously at different temporal rhythms and geographic scales. They want to understand what historical conditions and socio-natural processes make socio-natural systems vulnerable or resilient to change. Their ultimate goal, however, is to apply this knowledge to contemporary problems of human survival and sustainable ecosystems. Thus authors like Sander van der Leeuw and Charles Redman (2002) contend that archaeologists in particular have a crucial role to play in advising policy makers about the predictable and likely outcomes of ongoing behavior because archaeologists are uniquely qualified to document the successes and failures of past human decisions on ecosystem health. An especially important contribution of archaeologists to the larger topic of socionatural ecodynamics is the documentation of anthropogenic environmental change,

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including landscape change (e.g., Dean 2004; Fish 2000; Kohler 1992, 2004; Redman 1999). Studies of human-caused environmental impacts in both the recent and ancient past provide critical baseline data for the construction of dynamic models of socio-natural interrelations and mutual transformations. Such studies can lead to an understanding of what resources and human actions in a given ecosystem are susceptible or resistant to change. These studies also allow researchers to document and potentially predict the frequency, magnitude, and duration of certain conditions at different spatial scales, given variable human population sizes and distributions, technological capabilities, and demands for critical resources. The six papers presented in the symposium session Landscape Use and Ecological Change were designed to illustrate the nature and longevity of human modifications to Southwestern landscapes. Here we understand the term “landscape” to include the physical world and its organic and inorganic systems. These papers add to a growing body of anthropological literature on human impacts to the environment around the world (e.g., Erickson 2006, 2008; Goudie 1986, 1994; Jacobson and Firor 1992; McIntosh, Tainter, and McIntosh 2000; Nicholson and O’Connor 2000; Redman et al. 2004; Reitz, Newsom, and Scudder 1996). Archaeologists, anthropologists, and other environmental specialists have documented anthropogenic environmental changes for all major environmental domains: plants, animals, soils, water, landforms, and climate/atmosphere. Archaeologists in particular have been able to document long-term and broadly distributed human subsistence and settlement practices that influence plants, animals, soils, and water resources (e.g., Anschuetz 1998; Howard and Huckleberry 1991; James 2004; Kohler and Matthews 1988; Minnis 1985; Nials, Gregory, and Graybill 1989; Rohn 1963; Samuels and Betancourt 1982; Sandor and Gersper 1988; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990; Sandor et al. 2007; Speth and Scott 1989; Spielmann and AngstadtLeto 1996; Stiger 1979; Szuter and Bayham 1989; Waters and Ravesloot 2001; Wycoff 1977). Historians, biologists, and other natural scientists have documented many of the same environmental changes—in addition to recent changes in the earth’s terrain, atmosphere, and climate—but their studies are typically restricted to the time period for which written records exist (e.g., Abruzzi 1995; Bahre 1991; Graedel and Crutzen 1995; Savage and Swetnam 1990; Touchan, Swetnam, and Grissino-Mayer 1995). What is particularly interesting about these six papers is that each of the authors, whether trained as an archaeologist, a biologist, or a soil scientist, accepts the premise that humans are essential elements of dynamic ecosystems and that humans have the ability to modify the world in ways large and small that may last for centuries, if not millennia. Some of these modifications are the result of conscious decision making and deliberate human action, but many of the results are unintended consequences and unanticipated interactions. The first three chapters in this section are thoughtful discussions of anthropogenic ecology as understood by archaeologists and soil scientists. Each describes its subÂ�discipline’s methods of identifying landscape change at a variety of scales. Archaeobotanist Karen Adams discusses the ways humans have affected the plant world and how natural and anthropological changes to plant resources in turn influence

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human behavior at a variety of spatial and temporal scales. Her goal throughout the chapter is to understand in what ways natural environmental variation and human behavior alter natural landscapes. Adams first describes how environmental archaeologists currently use independent proxy records to infer the presence of given plant species and plant communities. She also describes the data and techniques used to reconstruct climate and other natural environmental conditions that sustain or hinder plant growth. Next she describes how human choices and economic behaviors are reflected in the archaeological record of plant use. Adams then illustrates how archaeobotanists use ancient plant remains to reconstruct aspects of ancient landscapes and their alterations through time. Here she identifies what archaeological contexts yield the most informative data concerning natural and human-induced vegetative change. Finally, Adams discusses how she uses the anthropological ecology approach to address humanÂ�environmental interactions at a variety of spatial and temporal scales. She provides many examples of how ancient humans in the U.S. Southwest have altered individual plants, plant species, habitats, and ecosystems for periods ranging from a few years to a few generations, decades, and centuries. As soil scientists who collaborate with archaeologists, Jonathan Sandor and Jeffrey Homburg have devoted considerable portions of their professional careers to the study of ancient and modern agricultural land-use practices in the U.S. Southwest. In their chapter they describe the methods used to study agricultural soils and to infer human-induced soil alterations. Perhaps more so than the other authors in the section, Sandor and Homburg acknowledge the diversity of outcomes in humanÂ�environmental interactions. In the case of soils, human actions may result in enhanced, degraded, or minimally altered soil quality. These outcomes largely depend on initial soil and landform properties, environmental inputs, and agricultural technologies. Using controlled comparisons of cultivated and uncultivated soils examined in many areas of the Southwest, the authors are able to detect the characteristics of soils where human action has resulted in positive, negative, or neutral soil changes. Sandor and Homburg are able to document agricultural soils that have remained viable for many generations, as well as those that have not fully recovered in the eight centuries since abandonment. As a result, they are well positioned to provide a long-term perspective on contemporary practices that promote or negate sustainable agriculture and land resource conservation. Johnson’s and Spielmann and colleagues’ chapters are case studies that either model or document landscape change in a specific geographic location. The first is a sophisticated computer simulation of human predation on lagomorph populations in the central Mesa Verde region of southwestern Colorado. The second is an ecological study of the lasting effects of a century of prehistoric agricultural practices on the semi-desert grasslands of Perry Mesa in central Arizona. As part of his dissertation research, archaeologist David Johnson designed a series of computer simulations of human predation on animal populations in the central Mesa Verde region. In his chapter, Johnson illustrates how agent-based modeling of human hunting of rapidly reproducing animal populations permits researchers to investigate both short-term (i.e., years, decades, a few generations) and long-term (i.e., centuries)

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impacts on their dynamic landscapes. He notes that his simulations are one of several modeling experiments undertaken as part of the Village Ecodynamics Project (VEP; Johnson, Kohler, and Cowan 2005; Kohler et al. 2007; Ortman, Varien, and Grip 2007; Varien et al. 2007). After providing an overview of the VEP and the methods used to model landscape productivity, Johnson describes his results. Using data gathered from 128 separate 700-year runs (AD 600–1300) in the VEP 1800 km2 study area, he is able to demonstrate that serious depletion of cottontail and jackrabbit populations had both short-term and long-term economic consequences for the region’s human populations. Like Driver, Johnson suggests that intensification of turkey production was a logical response to the unsustainable hunting practices of sedentary farming populations they themselves had helped to create. Zooarchaeologist Jonathan Driver describes the theoretical concepts and analytic methods used to document the direct and indirect impacts of humans on wild game populations in the ancient U.S. Southwest. He also reviews the history of Southwestern research on these topics and discusses key methodological issues that can clarify or obscure these analyses. Direct effects are those that result from human predation and resource depression. Indirect effects are primarily those that result from agricultural practices that significantly alter animal habitats and behavior. The clearing of land for agricultural fields, for example, promotes certain types of plant growth that attract certain species and repel others. Driver discusses the dynamic relationships between human-caused changes to animal populations and their habitats and subsequent human interactions with animals and other humans. His suggestion that turkey was domesticated as an alternate meat source to deer when this important protein resource was locally depleted, as well as his recognition that an important link exists between human social organization and animal food, exemplify these relationships. Throughout his chapter, Driver cites key faunal studies from the U.S. Southwest that illustrate his points. He makes it clear that to understand the meaning of the archaeofaunal record, past or present, an analyst must also understand the larger environmental and social contexts within which humans interact. The chapter by Katherine Spielmann and her collaborators describes the persistent and measurable ecological consequences of a set of prehistoric agricultural strategies on contemporary soils and plant communities of Perry Mesa. Their “Legacies on the Landscape Project” is part of a larger comparative study of enduring agricultural legacies in the U.S. Southwest that strives to understand “the ecological and social conditions under which human land use results in long-lasting transformations of ecosystem structure and function” (pp. 202–203). Through a combination of archaeological survey and ecological analysis, the authors document at least three types of landscape change that can be attributed to prehistoric activity. The first is the presence of soils and sediments that were deliberately improved or deposited to create planting beds for cultivated crops. The second is the distribution of rock-cleared areas and rock-rich architecture features (e.g., roomblocks and other features) where contemporary woody vegetation differentially grows. The third is the modern-day distribution of relict stands of domesticated agave whose “ancestors” ancient cultivators brought to Perry Mesa centuries ago. Thus the modern appearance, structure, and function of the Perry Mesa ecosystem is

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an anthropogenic landscape, created by both direct (intentional) and indirect (unintended) human actions during the distant and recent past. Although Spielmann and her collaborators acknowledge that not all prehistoric land-use activities will leave as lasting a legacy as that now documented for Perry Mesa, their work does underscore an important point. No matter where a landscape ecologist may work, he or she must always consider the possibility that the present-day structure of the ecosystem he or she is studying was, in part, created by prehistoric actors who actively manipulated their environment (e.g., Lentz 2000; Mann 2005). The final chapter by Guy McPherson, an evolutionary biologist and range ecologist, provides a sobering perspective on contemporary anthropogenic landscapes and our prospects for the future. He identifies eight human behaviors that have substantially altered the physical landscape, decreased biological diversity, and created an unsustainable economy for contemporary human populations in the American West: mineral extraction, agricultural expansion, timber removal, introduction of non-native plant and animal species, urbanization, fire regime alteration, fossil fuel extraction, and global climate change. He aims to show that the rate, extent, and severity of humaninduced environmental change are increasing and that the consequences are potentially catastrophic. More than any other author in this section, his understanding of the past translates into a call for social action in the present if we are to survive what he believes are predictable and dire supply-and-demand imbalances. George Perkins Marsh would have found a soul mate in Guy McPherson. In closing, it is fair to say that the six chapters presented in this section are representative of the approaches environmental scientists and archaeologists interested in ecosystem dynamics are taking in the early twenty-first century (e.g., Anderies 2000, 2003; Dean 2000; Gunderson and Holling 2002; Johnson, Kohler, and Cowan 2005; Kohler and van der Leeuw 2007; McGlade 1995; Redman and Kinzig 2003; van der Leeuw 2000; van der Leeuw and Redman 2002). Were George Perkins Marsh alive today, he likely would agree with contemporary environmental scientists who characterize the time when humans began to substantially impact the world around them as the “Anthropocene” (Crutzen and Stoermer 2000; Ruddiman 2003). Beginning with the control and use of fire, gathering speed with the development of agriculture, and accelerating dramatically with the Industrial Revolution, it is clear that humans have always been active agents of environmental change—changes that, in turn, influence subsequent responses in humans. Regardless of whether we intended these changes, it is inescapable to conclude that we leave a legacy of change for all that comes after us. Note 1. In 1998 the U.S. Department of the Interior, National Park Service incorporated his boyhood home as the Marsh-Billings-Rockefeller National Historic Park in Woodstock, Vermont, to tell the story of the conservation movement in the United States. It is the only national park that tells the story of conservation history and the evolving nature of land stewardship in America.

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References Abruzzi, W. S. 1995 The Social and Ecological Consequences of Early Cattle Ranching in the Little Colorado River Basin. Human Ecology 23: 75–98. Anderies, J. M. On Modeling Human Behavior and Institutions in Simple Ecological Economic 2000 Systems. Ecological Economics 35: 393–412. 2003 Economic Growth, Demographics, and Renewable Resources: A Dynamical Systems Approach. Environment and Development Economics 8(2): 219–246. Anschuetz, K. F. 1998 Not Waiting for the Rain: Integrated Systems of Water Management by Pre-Columbian Pueblo Farmers in North-Central New Mexico. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Bahre, C. J. A Legacy of Change: Historic Human Impact on Vegetation in the Arizona Border1991 lands. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Bailey, G., R. Charles, and N. Winder (editors) 2000 Human Ecodynamics: Proceedings of the Association for Environmental Archaeology Conference 1998 Held at the University of Newcastle upon Tyne. Oxbow Books, Oxford. Butzer, K. W. 1996 Ecology in the Long View: Settlement, Agrosystem Strategies, and Ecological Performance. Journal of Field Archaeology 23: 141–150. Crumley, C., L. (editor) Historical Ecology. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. 1994 Crutzen, P. J., and E. F. Stoermer 2000 The “Anthropocene.” IGBP Global Change Newsletter 41: 17–18. Dean, J. S. 1988 2000 2004

A Model of Anasazi Behavioral Adaptation. In The Anasazi in a Changing Environment, ed. G. J. Gumerman, 25–44. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Complexity Theory and Sociocultural Change in the American Southwest. In The Way the Wind Blows: Climate, History, and Human Action, ed. R. J. McIntosh, J. A. Tainter, and S. K. McIntosh, 89–118. Columbia University Press, New York. Anthropological Environmental Change in the Southwest as Viewed from the Colorado Plateau. In The Archaeology of Global Change: The Impacts of Humans on Their Environments, ed. C. L. Redman, S. R. James, P. R. Fish, and J. D. Rogers, 191–207. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC.

Diamond, J. M. Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies. W. W. Norton, New York. 1992 Erickson, C. L. 2006 The Domesticated Landscapes of the Bolivian Amazon. In Time and Complexity in Historical Ecology: Studies in the Neotropical Lowlands, ed. W. Balée and C. Erickson, 235–278. Columbia University Press, New York.

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Goudie, A. S. The Human Impact on the Natural Environment. Blackwell, Oxford. 1986 The Human Impact on the Natural Environment, 4th ed. MIT Press, Cambridge. 1994 Graedel, T. E., and P. J. Crutzen 1995 Atmosphere, Climate, and Change. Scientific American Library, New York. Gunderson, L. H., and C. S. Holling 2002 Panarchy: Understanding Transformations in Human and Natural Systems. Island, Washington, DC. Harris, M. 1966

The Cultural Ecology of India’s Sacred Cattle. Current Anthropology 7: 51–66.

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Jacobson, J. E., and J. Firor (editors) 1992 Human Impact on the Environment: Ancient Roots, Current Challenges. Westview, Boulder. James, S. R. Hunting, Fishing, and Resource Depression in Prehistoric Southwest North Amer2004 ica. In The Archaeology of Global Change: The Impacts of Humans on Their Environments, ed. C. L. Redman, S. R. James, P. R. Fish, and J. D. Rogers, 28–62. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. Johnson, C. D., T. A. Kohler, and J. A. Cowan 2005 Modeling Historical Ecology: Thinking about Contemporary Systems. American Anthropologist 107: 96–107. Kohler, T. A. Prehistoric Human Impact on the Environment in the Upland North American 1992 Southwest. Population and Environment: A Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies 13: 255–268.

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Kohler, T. A., C. D. Johnson, M. Varien, S. Ortman, R. Reynolds, Z. Kobti, J. Cowan, K. Kolm, S. Smith, and L. Yap 2007 Settlement Ecodynamics in the Prehispanic Central Mesa Verde Region. In The Model-Based Archaeology of Socionatural Systems, ed. T. A. Kohler and S. E. van der Leeuw, 61–104. School for Advanced Research Press, Santa Fe. Kohler, T. A., and M. H. Mathews Long-Term Anasazi Land-Use Patterns and Forest Reduction: A Case Study from 1988 Southwest Colorado. American Antiquity 53: 537–564. Kohler, T. A., and S. E. van der Leeuw (editors) 2007 The Model-Based Archaeology of Socionatural Systems. School for Advanced Research Press, Santa Fe. Lentz, D. L. (editor) 2000 Imperfect Balance: Landscape Transformations in the Precolumbian Americas. ColumÂ� bia University Press, New York. Mann, C. C. 1491: New Revelations of the Americas before Columbus. Knopf, New York. 2005 Marsh, G. P. 1864 Man and Nature; or Physical Geography as Modified by Human Action. Charles Scribner, New York. 1874 The Earth as Modified by Human Action: A New Edition of Man and Nature. Scribner, Armstrong, New York. McGlade, J. Archaeology and the Ecodynamics of Human-Modified Landscapes. Antiquity 69: 1995 113–132. McGlade, J., and S. E. van der Leeuw 1997 Time, Process, and Structured Transformation in Archaeology. Routledge, London. McIntosh, R. J., J. A. Tainter, and S. K. McIntosh (editors) 2000 The Way the Wind Blows: Climate, History, and Human Action. Columbia University Press, New York. Minnis, P. E. Social Adaptation to Food Stress: A Prehistoric Southwestern Example. University of 1985 Chicago Press, Chicago. Moran, E. F. Human Adaptability: An Introduction to Ecological Anthropology. Westview, Boulder. 1982 Netting, R. M. Cultural Ecology. Cummings, Menlo Park, CA. 1977 Nials, F. L., D. A. Gregory, and D. A. Graybill 1989 Salt River Streamflow and Hohokam Irrigation Systems. In The 1982–1984 Excavations at Las Colinas: Environment and Subsistence, ed. D. A. Graybill, D. A. 115

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Gregory, F. L. Nials, S. K. Fish, C. H. Miksicek, R. E. Gasser, and C. R. Szuter, 59–78. Archaeological Series 162. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. Nicholson, R. A., and T. P. O’Connor People as an Agent of Environmental Change. Oxbow Books, Oxford. 2000 Ortman, S. G., M. D. Varien, and T. L. Grip 2007 Empirical Bayesian Methods for Archaeological Survey Data: An Application from the Mesa Verde Region. American Antiquity 72: 241–272. Rappaport, R. A. Pigs for the Ancestors: Ritual in the Ecology of a New Guinea People. Yale University 1968 Press, New Haven. Redman, C. L. Human Impact on Ancient Environments. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 1999 Redman, C. L., S. R. James, P. R. Fish, and J. D. Rogers (editors) 2004 The Archaeology of Global Change: The Impacts of Humans on Their Environments. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. Redman, C. L., and A. P. Kinzig Resilience of Past Landscapes: Resilience Theory, Society, and the Longue Durée. Con2003 servation Ecology 7(1): 14. [http://www.ecologyandsociety.org/vol7/iss1/art14/]. Reitz, E. J., L. A. Newsom, and S. J. Scudder 1996 Case Studies in Environmental Archaeology. Plenum, New York. Rohn, A. H. Prehistoric Soil and Water Conservation on Chapin Mesa, Southwestern Colorado. 1963 American Antiquity 28: 441–455. Ruddiman, W. F. The Anthropogenic Greenhouse Era Began Thousands of Years Ago. Climate 2003 Change 61: 261–293. Samuels, M. L., and J. L. Betancourt Modeling the Long-Term Effects of Fuelwood Harvests on Pinyon-Juniper Wood1982 lands. Environmental Management 6: 505–515. Sandor, J. A., and P. L. Gersper Evaluation of Soil Fertility in Some Prehistoric Agricultural Terraces in New Mex1988 ico. Agronomy Journal 80: 846–850. Sandor, J. A., P. L. Gersper, and J. W. Hawley 1990 Prehistoric Agricultural Terraces and Soils in the Mimbres Area, New Mexico. World Archaeology 22: 70–86. Sandor, J. A., J. B. Norton, J. A. Homburg, D. A. Muenchrath, C. S. White, S. E. Williams, C. I. Havener, and P. D. Stahl Biogeochemical Studies of a Native American Runoff Agroecosystem. Geoarchaeol2007 ogy 22: 359–386. Sauer, C. O. The Morphology of Landscape. University of California Publications in Geography 1925 2(2): 19–53.

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Savage, M., and T. W. Swetnam 1990 Early and Persistent Fire Decline in a Navajo Ponderosa Pine Forest. Ecology 70: 2374–2378. Semple, E. C. Influences of Geographic Environment on the Basis of Ratzel’s System of Anthropo1911 Geography. Henry Holt, New York. Simmons, I. G. 1989 Changing the Face of the Earth: Culture, Environment, History. Blackwell, Oxford. Speth, J. D., and S. L. Scott Horticulture and Large-Mammal Hunting: The Role of Resource Depletion and 1989 the Constraints of Time and Labor. In Farmers and Hunters: The Implications of Sedentism, ed. S. Kent, 71–79. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Spielmann, K. A., and E. A. Angstadt-Leto Hunting, Gathering, and Health in the Prehistoric Southwest. In Evolving Com1996 plexity and Environmental Risk in the Prehistoric Southwest, ed. J. A. Tainter and B. B. Tainter, 79–106. Addison-Wesley, Reading, MA. Steward, J. H. The Concept and Method of Cultural Ecology. In Theory of Culture Change: The 1955 Methodology of Multilinear Evolution by J. H. Steward, 30–42. University of Illinois Press, Urbana. Stiger, M. A. Mesa Verde Subsistence Patterns from Basketmaker to Pueblo III. Kiva 44: 133– 1979 144. Szuter, C. R., and F. E. Bayham 1989 Sedentism and Prehistoric Animal Procurement among Desert Horticulturalists of the North American Southwest. In Farmers as Hunters: The Implications of Sedentism, ed. S. Kent, 80–95. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Touchan, R., T. W. Swetnam, and H. D. Grissino-Mayer Effects of Livestock Grazing on Presettlement Fire Regimes in New Mexico. In Pro1995 ceedings: Symposium on Fire in Wilderness and Park Management, Missoula, Montana, March 30–April 1, 1993, tech. cords. J. K. Brown, R. W. Mutch, C. W. Spoon, and R. H. Wakimoto, 268–272. General Technical Report INT-320. Intermountain Region Station, USDA Forest Service, Ogden, UT. van der Leeuw, S. E. Land Degradation as a Socio-Natural Process. In The Way the Wind Blows: Climate, 2000 History, and Human Action, ed. R. McIntosh, J. Tainter, and S. K. McIntosh, 357– 383. Columbia University Press, New York. van der Leeuw, S. E. (editor) 1998 Understanding the Natural and Anthropogenic Causes of Land Degradation and Desertification in the Mediterranean Basin. The Archaeomedes Project, Synthesis Volume. Office for the Official Publications of the European Communities, Luxembourg. van der Leeuw, S. E., and C. L. Redman 2002 Placing Archaeology at the Center of Socio-Natural Studies. American Antiquity 67: 597–605.

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Varien, M. D., S. G. Ortman, T. A. Kohler, D. Glowacki, and C. D. Johnson 2007 Historical Ecology in the Mesa Verde Region: Results from the Village Ecodynamics Project. American Antiquity 72: 273–299. Waters, M. R., and J. C. Ravesloot Landscape Change and the Cultural Evolution of the Hohokam along the Middle 2001 Gila and other River Valleys in South-Central Arizona. American Antiquity 66: 285–299. Wycoff, D. G. 1977 Secondary Forest Succession Following Abandonment of Mesa Verde. Kiva 43: 662–674.

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[9] Anthropogenic Ecology in the American Southwest The Plant Perspective

Karen R. Adams

The nature and longevity of human modifications to natural landscapes can be examined through the arena of humans and their interactions with plants and plant communities in the prehispanic American Southwest. One major challenge to this effort is that both humans and nature are capable of altering natural landscapes to varying degrees. These effects can operate simultaneously or independently of each other at any given moment in time or for any particular landscape location. Archaeologists attempt to understand when landscape changes, either anthropogenic or natural, alter human choices in a meaningful way and when such changes appear to impact landscapes for centuries to come. Approaches to landscape reconstruction generally can be categorized as those that are independent of the archaeological record, briefly discussed in the next section, and those that are reflected in the archaeological record of plant remains. Approaches Independent of the Archaeological Record Packrat Middens

Packrat middens represent vegetation in relatively localized areas. Based on examination of packrat middens across the American West, modern plant communities settled into 119

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place approximately 4,000 years ago, as summarized for major Southwestern regions by Julio Betancourt, Thomas Van Devender, and Paul Martin (1990). This proxy record provides baseline perspectives on natural biotic community composition and changes that are independent of human activities. Pollen Sediment Cores

Pollen within sediment cores from lakes, marshes, and other localized riparian habitats has provided generalized records of vegetation at various geographic scales for Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado during the prehispanic period. However, resulting reconstructions of plant communities are general, chronological resolution provided by radiocarbon dating can be broad, and time spans represented may be short, compressed, and interrupted by erosional processes. Pollen reconstructions exist for the vegetation history (Hall 1985) and biogeography (Martin and Mehringer 1965) of the entire U.S. Southwest. Tree Ring Climatic Reconstructions

Tree rings record climate and other environmental factors and offer annual chronological resolution. Two long-term Southwestern United States climatic reconstructions include (1) the San Francisco Peaks chronology, documenting both temperature and precipitation for 1,425 years (Salzer 2000a, 2000b; Salzer and Kipfmueller 2005); and (2) the El Malpais chronology, providing a multi-century precipitation reconstruction (Grissino-Mayer 1995). A network of tree ring chronologies over the American Southwest has provided scholars with the opportunity to model climatic fluctuations in the past (Dean and Van West 2002; Van West and Dean 2000). One drawback to tree ring reconstructions is that they do not yet provide reconstructions of summer monsoonal precipitation critical for agricultural crops, such as maize (Adams, Muenchrath, and Schwindt 1999). Insights from Historic Biotic Communities and Plant Distributions

Descriptions of modern biotic communities in the Southwestern United States (Brown 1982) can provide baseline information on plants and animals living in various regions. However, modern plant communities and plant distributions have been influenced by factors unknown in prehispanic times, such as extensive domesticated animal grazing, deep plowing, fire suppression, introduction of plants from other continents, and unprecedented global warming. Therefore, modern plant community data are best for those areas or regions of lessened historic impact. Journals such as Desert Plants, Journal of Range Management, and Ecology often contain ecological information relevant to the responses of individual plant taxa to various disturbance forces, among them fire and agriculture. When the kinds of environmental forces that cause individual plants to increase or decrease in abundance are known, we have a better chance to understand human activities that might have affected those plants in the past. 120

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Approaches Reflected in the Archaeological Record Documenting vegetation changes in the culturally biased archaeobotanical record is challenging. A basic assumption is that as biotic communities and landscapes change, a group’s plant choices will also change. Significant shifts in available flora are expected to alter the record of plants that human groups bring into their dwellings and communities. Archaeobotanists must contend with the realities of differential plant preservation, uneven comparative sample sets often inherent in archaeological records, and the fact that people may shift plant preferences for purely cultural reasons. Despite these challenges, archaeobotanists do interpret changing landscapes using the archaeological plant record. Because archaeologists regularly acquire sediment samples for flotation and pollen analysis and at times for examination of phytoliths and starch grains, these systematically acquired samples have perhaps the best potential to document changing plant resource availability and use through time. Macrobotanical samples archaeologists collect during excavation represent discretionary samples; because they virtually never contain the broad range of small seeds and reproductive parts, they are considered to provide supplementary information. Flotation Samples: Contexts and Traits Relevant to Landscape Change

For archaeobotanists analyzing flotation samples, certain contexts within archaeological sites offer opportunities to compare plant use across time that might indeed reflect landscape alterations (Table 9.1). A record of the generalized activities of occupants, as represented in middens, can be compared to the short-term specific activities of individuals, as documented in primary debris from the final fires built within thermal features. Hearth contents from various time periods can be compared and contrasted. Agricultural stress may be indicated by reduced presence of maize kernels and increased representation of wild edible plants. Changes in woodland species may be indicated by decreased presence of wood from dominant local species, increased presence of lower heat-producing and faster-burning trees, and smaller branches of shrubs. A number of archaeobotanical traits can suggest landscape changes when examined within a diachronic framework (Table 9.2). For example, changes in individual plant taxon ubiquity (frequency) and/or rank order from one time period to another can reveal shifts in reliance on key subsistence resources, such as maize and the weedy annual plants that would occupy maize fields. Whether the ubiquities of these food resources are increasing or decreasing might reflect more or less access to them. An increasing diversity of wild plant foods might indicate a shift from a preferred narrow range of resources to inclusion of a wider range of less-preferred or more distant resources, possibly because a changing landscape requires more effort to obtain foods than before. An increasing diversity of domesticated plant taxa is often interpreted as an increasing commitment to agriculture. Examination of the relative proportions of weedy annuals to non-weedy perennial wild plants can provide some view of the general nature of landscape disturbance; an increase in weedy annuals could indicate expanding agricultural fields and a reduction in tree/shrub cover, resulting from long periods of occupation, increasing numbers of individuals, or both. Tracking fuel and 121

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Table 9.1. Archaeological site locations that provide archaeobotanical data relevant to landscape changes over time Sample type

Location

Explanation

Flotation

Intramural and extramural thermal features (hearths, ash pits) with primary debris

Final, short-term, specific household activities involving plants

Flotation

Middens

Longer-term generalized activities with plants by 1+ households

Pollen

Fieldhouse and farmstead floors

Floor samples from discrete time periods provide contexts protected from environmental pollen

Pollen

Agricultural fields

Potential to reconstruct use of different environments (riverine valley, Bajada, mesa top) with an adequate number of field sites. Pollen concentrations provide index to field productivity

Pollen

Middens

Pollen concentrations from different types of sites and time periods mirror occupation duration and intensity

Pollen

Immediately above collapsed roof-fall within abandoned puebloan structure(s)

Pollen signature of surrounding environment may be stronger here and less influenced by cultural activities

construction timber use of major tree species through time also helps gauge landscape impact. Examining diachronic trends in shrubs is helpful, especially when it is known which are the first to occupy fallow agricultural fields in a region. Finally, evidence for ethnographically documented responses to food stress (Colson 1979; Graham 1994; Hack 1942; Hard and Merrill 1992; Lightfoot 1983; Minnis 1991; Rautman 1993, 1996) that lend themselves to examination in the archaeological plant record might suggest a changing landscape or possibly more people to feed. Pollen Samples: Contexts and Traits Relevant to Landscape Change

For palynologists, certain contexts within archaeological sites offer opportunities to assess plant use through time that might indeed reflect landscape alterations (see Table 9.1). Floor samples from farmsteads or fieldhouses can provide a view of increasing emphasis on agriculture because the pollen record from fieldhouse sites represents a direct link to fields through contexts with limited, seasonal use. Pollen diversity and concentrations within farmsteads and fieldhouses are often relatively low, reflecting both limited seasonal use and short life spans. By comparison, abundant and diverse types of both economic and weedy pollen types often characterize large roomblock pueblo sites with potentially long-term and year-round occupation, but their chronological trends can be more difficult to interpret because of remodeling and superimposed occupations. 122

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Table 9.2. Key archaeobotanical traits that shed light on diachronic landscape changes Sample type

Trait

Explanation

Flotation

Individual taxon ubiquity (f )

Increasing frequency indicates increased reliance

Flotation

Individual taxon rank order

High rank order indicates high reliance

Flotation

Diversity of wild plant taxa

Increasing taxon diversity indicates increasing foraging efforts

Flotation

Presence of non-local resources

Increasing presence indicates longer/farther foraging trips

Flotation

Diversity of domesticated plant taxa

Increasing diversity indicates increasing commitment to agriculture

Flotation

Focus on maize (Zea mays) kernels vs. cob parts

Decreasing maize as subsistence resource may occur even as maize still used as a fuel/tinder resource

Flotation

Focus on trends in key indicator domesticates vs. wild foods

Decreasing use of maize and increasing use of wild foods suggests shifting subsistence emphasis

Flotation

Key indicator trees/shrubs

Compare trends in the region’s major tree and shrub species, to gauge landscape impact

Flotation

Ratio of weedy:non-weedy taxa

Increasing ratio indicates increasing availability of weedy plants of disturbed habitats

Flotation

Food stress evidence

Increasing evidence of food stress responses indicates a changing landscape

Pollen

Abundance of cultigens, measured by pollen concentration or sample frequency

Increasing abundance or sample frequency indicates increasing consumption of cultivated plants and greater investment in agriculture

Pollen

Trends in weed pollen, especially Cheno-am and composites

Increases in weed taxa indicate expanding site footprint and intensification in land use

Pollen

Diversity of domesticated plant taxa

Increasing diversity indicates increasing commitment to agriculture

Pollen

Appearance of aquatic pollen types in a chronological series

Potential signal of canal development, implying expanding commitment to agriculture

Ancient agricultural fields are another potential data source that can contribute to understanding landscape use. Pollen analyses from different field settings can help reconstruct how the landscape was partitioned for specific crops. For example, cotton may have been grown in valley bottomland and irrigated locations, whereas corn was planted on terraced side slopes and dry-farmed mesa tops. Pollen analysis, combined with mapping field areas, ditches, terracing, and other features, contributes to understanding the scale and technology of agriculture in a given region. Comparison of pollen concentrations of crops from different field systems derived from intensive scanning microscopy is a newer technique developed by Glenna Dean (1998) that has the

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potential to measure field productivity, which has implications for how intensively an area was farmed. Within these locations, palynologists assess changes in pollen taxon concentration, frequency, and overall composition to reconstruct relative reliance on wild and domesticated plants, as well as any intensification of landscape use in a given area over time (see Table 9.2). The absolute abundance of pollen is estimated by pollen concentrations, a measure enabled by specific laboratory techniques. Increasing abundance of cultigen pollen indicates larger harvests and an increasing commitment to agriculture and expansion of fields. The argument for this scenario is reinforced when there is a concomitant rise in weed pollen as a result of an expanding site footprint. The increasing representation and abundance of weedy taxa, using pollen percentages, pollen concentration, or both, is a signal of ground disturbance and is indirectly related to the duration and intensity of site occupation. As with flotation analysts, palynologists often focus on key indicator taxa that might suggest increasing use of landscapes, such as pine (Pinus), the Cheno-am group of weedy plants, beeweed (Cleome), cholla (Cylindropuntia), and the domesticates squash (Cucurbita) and maize (Zea mays). Anthropogenic Ecology Anthropogenic ecology, which is essentially ecology influenced by humans, can be examined at various scales. Some examples presented here are drawn from a previous document that discusses human influences on ecosystems, on plant populations, and on individual plants (Adams 2004). Other examples focus on temporal scales of environmental impacts when groups occupy/visit locations over a generation or two, for multiple decades, or during multiple centuries. In an effort to more fully express the nature and effects of human activities that involve and impact plants at different spatial and temporal scales, examples include those from both ethnographic literature and the archaeological record of the American Southwest. Continuity in plant use from the prehispanic through the historic era in the American Southwest (Adams and Fish 2006; Adams and Van West 2005) provides a level of support for assuming that the ethnographic record has relevance to understanding human impacts on ancient landscapes. Impacts That Alter Ecosystems

Humans affect the cycling of energy and matter among plants, animals, and their inorganic components (Lewis 1973:13). These processes occur as groups intentionally or unintentionally set fires, as they clear land and practice other activities associated with agriculture, and during their persistent harvesting of trees and shrubs for fuel wood and construction timbers. Fire. Although the role of human burning in influencing the Western landscape is a debated topic of study (Christensen et al. 1987; Dobyns 1981; Stewart 1956; Wickstrom 1987), human groups have long known the results fire can cause. Modern 124

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accounts cite many of the reasons humans set fires, including to increase seed yield, drive game or improve animal forage, stimulate plant growth, clear land for agriculture, facilitate travel and visibility, and warm the soil to extend the growing season (Bahre 1985; Barrett 1979; Blackburn and Anderson 1993; Curtis 1926a, 1926b; Dobyns 1981; Lewis 1973, 1980, 1985; Parsons 1939a, 1939b; Pyne 1982; Reynolds 1959; Stewart 1956; White 1932, 1943; Wickstrom 1987). The archaeobotanical and archaeofaunal records reflect the consequences of burning vegetation (Crites 1987:725). An excellent example of purposeful burning in the prehispanic Southwest is based on diverse paleo-biological data and modern fire ecology insights. Analyses of archaeological pollen (Fish 1983, 1984a), seeds and charcoal (Miksicek 1983, 1984), and faunal remains (Szuter 1984), combined with modern fire ecology data, allowed Vorsila Bohrer (1992) to suggest that the Hohokam in south-central Arizona used fire to manipulate pristine Sonoran Desert vegetation near Queen Creek, east of Florence. Bohrer suggests that as an agricultural tool, fire may have been “as much respected as a digging stick” (1992:123). By using small-scale, targeted fires (Fish 1997, 2000), the Hohokam could have cleared irrigation ditches of clogging vegetative matter, briefly increased soil fertility, and promoted diversity in flora and fauna. Agriculture. Agriculture creates anthropogenic landscapes, and each strategy differs from the next in terms of potential impact. Many farming strategies were practiced in prehispanic times, and some remain in use historically (Mabry 2005; Maxwell and Anschuetz 1992). However, studies of modern agricultural fields intended to gain insight into ancient field ecology are hampered because (1) the weedy status of plants has likely shifted through time, and (2) Old World domestic grazing animals have established a camp follower flora of aggressive foreign plant competitors unknown archaeologically (Bohrer 1991a). Pollen frequencies from Lower Sonoran Desert archaeological agricultural loci and habitation sites are unmatched by present natural weedy plant associations in the same areas (Fish 1984b:45). Irrigation Agriculture. Historic Arizona groups harvested crops, wild plants, and animals from irrigated fields, ditches, hedgerows, and abandoned fields (Fish and Nabhan 1991). Akimel O’Odham (Pima) groups living along the Gila River in Arizona increased biological productivity and diversity by managing all parts of their fields and irrigation systems (Bohrer 1971; Rea 1979, 1997). Resulting products included quantities of seeds, basketry material and greens, moist vegetation for lining roasting pits, medicines, and ceremonial paraphernalia. Leftover water from irrigated fields was allowed to “sheet” across the desert floor, producing a “second garden” of wild and semi-wild salt-tolerant plants (Crosswhite 1981:64). Archaeologically, canal irrigation has a long history in the American Southwest. Some of the earliest canals from the Tucson Basin in southern Arizona currently date to around 1250 BC at the Stewart Brickyard site (Mabry, in press) and at the Las Capas site (Mabry 2008). Later Hohokam groups living along southern Arizona rivers constructed elaborate canal systems that transported water many miles beyond the source

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(Fish and Nabhan 1991:48–49; Fish, Fish, and Madsen 1992). Canals are also known from the Southwestern U.S. uplands (Damp, Hall, and Smith 2002; Damp et al. 2000; Vivian 1974). Other Types of Water Enhancement. Each of the other farming strategies that enhance available water can create a different type of anthropogenic environment (Fish and Nabhan 1991:47–48; Hack 1942; Maxwell and Anschuetz 1992). Some ethnographic water enhancements involve natural areas of seepage, high water tables, slope wash, floodplains, arroyo bottoms, and shallow ditches. Others include rock/brush diversion weirs, rock/brush water spreaders, living cottonwood or willow fencerows, multi-course cobble terraces, and farming in sand dunes or in “ak-chin” fields placed on broad alluvial fans at the mouths of small arroyos. Archaeological systems that augmented soil moisture by diversion or surface preparation are still visible in the northern Rio Grande area of New Mexico, where archaeologists have identified a range of features dating from the thirteenth through fifteenth centuries AD. Among these are widespread cobble-bordered grids in association with Ancestral Puebloan villages, gravel-mulched fields, and sophisticated field systems that included micro-topographic water control (Anschuetz 1995; Maxwell and Anschuetz 1992). Managing Agricultural Field Fertility. Agricultural practices of indigenous groups have contributed to increased soil fertility (Castetter and Bell 1942:172). For the Tohono O’odham (Papago) of Arizona, plant nutrients carried in floodwaters and flood debris together replenish nutrients depleted by crops and enhance soil moisture-holding capacities (Nabhan 1979:249; Nabhan 1983). In uplands, farmers enhance soil fertility by adding various components to their fields, such as residential garbage and ashes. Historically, Puebloans carried Douglas fir trees to agricultural plots used in social or ceremonial dances and then left the trees to decompose (Sando 1992:33). Zuni farmers took ten days worth of ashes and sweepings to the corn fields (Stevenson 1904:108–132). Nutrients can also be conserved by many other means (see Adams 2004). Wood Gathering Fuel wood. Modern ethnographies reveal the role of cultural choice in fuel wood gathering. Fuel wood preference guides which woods are collected and which are left on the ground, affecting the ecosystem by selective deadwood removal. People’s need to keep warm and their daily cooking placed great demands on prehispanic fuel wood supplies. In the Dolores River Valley of southwestern Colorado, several lines of evidence suggest significant environmental impact during the Ancestral Puebloan occupation, AD 600–900 (Kohler 1992; Kohler and Matthews 1988). Over time, use of piñon and juniper declined while use of other woody shrubs and cottonwood increased (Kohler and Matthews 1988). At the same time, hunting took place in progressively more open and disturbed habitats (Neusius and Gould 1988), and seeds of pioneer plants were increasingly harvested (Matthews 1988). In the Mimbres area 126

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of New Mexico, charred wood and seed evidence, pollen results, and other evidence all suggest increasing environmental disturbance as groups intensively occupied the area over time (Minnis 1978). Construction Timbers. Historically, Southwestern groups have utilized wood for constructing permanent dwellings and temporary structures, such as ramadas, turkey pens, windbreaks, and brush shades for fieldhouses. Prehispanic needs may have been similar, although wood-use behavior changes when new tools and techniques for handling wood are acquired and as local habitats are altered. Recycling of structural timbers, as reported for the Hopi pueblo of Walpi, where up to 40 percent of beams were reused from previous dwellings, also needs to be considered (Ahlstrom, Dean, and Robinson 1991). The archaeological record exhibits numerous examples of impacts to wood resources. In the late AD 1200s, inhabitants of Kiet Siel in Tsegi Canyon, northern Arizona, heavily reduced aspen (Populus tremuloides) and box elder (Acer negundo) trees as they cleared farm plots and acquired roof timbers (Dean 1969:147–148). One solution to this impact at Kiet Siel, at Long House on Mesa Verde (Cattanach 1980), and at other archaeological sites in the American Southwest (Bradley 1992:93; Varien 1999) was to reuse beams when possible. Another solution was to travel some distance to uplands to acquire construction beams (Adams 2006; Bannister 1965; Betancourt, Dean, and Hull 1986; Bohrer 1962:81; Durand et al. 1999; Hayes 1964; Wilcox and Shenk 1981). Activities That Affect Plant Populations

Anthropogenic effects can be felt at scales smaller than the ecosystem. One such scale is the plant population, which includes a group of individuals of one plant taxon. Humans transport native plants into new areas, actively manage them, and at times domesticate them. Additional examples of human behaviors that affect plant populations are presented elsewhere (Adams 2004). Range Extensions. Historically, the Hopi transported cottonwood (Populus) and willow (Salix) saplings and cattails (Typha) into washes near their dwellings (Whiting 1966 [1939]:64, 72). Evidence of range extension in ancient times can be inferred from anomalous distributions of plants in relation to their natural habitats. For example, impressively high cholla pollen frequencies from archaeological Hohokam hamlets in central Arizona suggest that cholla cactus plants were planted near dwellings so young flower buds could be gathered as a spring vegetable (Fish 1984a:120, 134–135). In the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico, cholla plants growing outside their normal elevation range on abandoned pueblo ruins are considered the descendants of cacti transplanted there in prehispanic times (Housley 1974). Some plants that today are “site indicator” plants, signaling the occurrence of an archaeological site, may owe their presence to transplantation from elsewhere in prehispanic times (Huisinga 1999; Yarnell 1965). 127

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Plant Management. In the New River Mountains and the Tonto Basin of central Arizona, two species of agave (Agave murpheyi; A. Delameteri) are linked strongly to prehispanic agricultural terraces, rock piles, mescal knives, turtleback scrapers, and roasting features, all implying agave management in the past (Bohrer 1991b; Hodgson, Nabhan, and Ecker 1989). Recent DNA studies suggest a complex history of introduction of these plants from Mexico (Parker et al. 2007). The presence of carbonized agave remains in Classic period Hohokam sites supports this story (Bohrer 1991b; Fish et al. 1985; Gasser and Miksicek 1985; Miksicek 1984). Another agave (Agave Parryi) was cultivated in central Arizona (Minnis and Plog 1976), and elsewhere the Hohokam managed a cool-season complex of plants (Bohrer 1991b). Plant Domestication. Evidence for domestication of native plants exists in the Hohokam area (Bohrer 1991b). Morphological changes to reproductive parts of little barley grass (Hordeum pusillum) (Adams 1987; Bohrer 1984) and Mexican crucillo (Cordalia warnockii) (Bohrer 1991b) signal domestication. Numerous other plants, among them saltbush (Atriplex), spiderling (Boerhaavia), wolfberry (Lycium), ground cherry (Physalis), dropseed grass (Sporobolus), and ricegrass (Achnatherum hymenoides), have been mentioned as possible cultivated or tended resources in prehispanic times (Fish 2004; Fish and Nabhan 1991; Mabry 2005), and further evidence is needed for confirmation. Human Actions That Impact Individual Plants

Manipulation of individual plants would not likely significantly impact a landscape, unless such actions affected a plant population. Although chances of identifying such cases in the archaeological record are small, examples do exist in the archaeological and historic records of the American Southwest. In Mesa Verde National Park in southwestern Colorado, individual Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) trees were manipulated to facilitate production of roof timbers in prehispanic times (Nichols and Smith 1965). Area occupants were ensuring a supply of roof beams of the length, straightness, and strength required of construction timbers. During the historic period, Native American groups produced distinctive scars on conifer trees when they removed large slabs of bark to produce an emergency/starvation food, delicacy, or fermented brew (Martorano 1989; Swetnam 1984). Landscape Impacts by Human Groups: One to Two Generations

Temporal changes in plant availability in the prehispanic period can be as short as one to two human generations, as seen at the late Pueblo III Sand Canyon Pueblo (5MT 765) village in southwestern Colorado. The construction of the village began in the late AD 1240s/early AD 1250s and ended in the late 1270s (Kuckelman 2007). However, the area had been occupied for many previous generations, so Sand Canyon Pueblo was not built on a pristine landscape. While the village was occupied, the villagers’ good health rested on a subsistence base of maize and domesticated turkeys. 128

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However, the subsistence strategy appears to have shifted just prior to depopulation, as evidenced by a lowered reliance on turkeys, reduced preparation of maize, and increased diversity of wild animals and plant foods—including the addition of new plant species to the diet that were not common in the region (Adams, Kuckelman, and Bowyer 2007; Kuckelman 2007; Muir 1999, 2007). The timing of subsistence changes at Sand Canyon Pueblo coincided with an episode of environmental deterioration identified within the tree ring record, beginning around AD 1270 (Dean and Van West 2002; Van West and Dean 2000). This period included low groundwater levels, low crop-yield potential, unusual seasonal precipitation patterns, and a significant drought. The changing nature of the environment over a few generations profoundly affected the villagers at Sand Canyon Pueblo. Landscape Impacts by Human Groups: Many Decades

Another example from southwestern Colorado reveals the changing nature of subsistence and fuel use by human groups over many decades (Adams and Bowyer 2002). In this case, an ample archaeobotanical record from twelve archaeological sites in the Sand Canyon locality revealed changes in diet and wood availability between an early portion (AD 1180–1240) and a later portion (AD 1240–1290) of the Pueblo III period. Food choices appear to have shifted, as evidence from the later period suggested that people had access to only a portion of formerly available plants. Preparation of maize kernels also appears to have been lowest during the later period, particularly at the end. When foods become scarce, groups can employ various strategies to alleviate subsistence stress. Some ethnographically based hunger-buffering mechanisms lend themselves to examination with the archaeobotanical data (Colson 1979; Lightfoot 1983; Rautman 1993, 1996). One such buffering mechanism is a shift in food choice. In the Sand Canyon locality, an increase in prickly pear cactus (Opuntia) seeds in the later period reflects use of a famine food known to historic U.S. borderland groups (Minnis 1991:238). However, during this time people continued to burn leftover maize cobs as fuel, arguing against full starvation, since maize cobs have been a recognized famine resource in historic times (Hill 1938:46). The Sand Canyon locality archaeobotanical record also provided evidence of the changing nature of the piñon/juniper woodland between the early and later periods. Agricultural fields appear to have been located within easy walking distances of residences, based on the presence of maize stalks, leaves, and cobs carried into dwellings. The common recovery of weedy plants of disturbed habitats supports this interpretation, as does regular burning of shrub wood of big sagebrush (Artemisia tridentata) and rabbitbrush (Chrysothamnus), two plants that played an early successional role in disturbed agricultural fields in the region. When compared with the earlier sites, some of the later sites also had higher proportions of weedy plant taxa to non-weedy perennial species, suggesting an elevated level of environmental disturbance surrounding specific settlements.

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Human Impacts during Multiple Century Occupations

The Land Conveyance and Transfer (LC&T) archaeological data recovery project on the Pajarito Plateau at Los Alamos National Laboratories provides a palynological case study for a multi-century examination of plant use and environmental change. Under the direction of Brad Vierra, this project generated an immense database of archaeological samples, including more than 400 pollen samples from thirty-eight sites. Susan Smith has demonstrated why, in her own words, “context matters” when interpreting pollen samples from archaeological sites (Smith 2007). Smith determined that the pollen spectra from three large roomblock sites were complicated by individual site histories. For example, remodeling and superimposed occupations resulted in a blurring of the pollen record. If a site was cleaned and burned at abandonment or occupied for only a short period, the resulting pollen record was sparse but of greater fidelity, reflecting only a single occupation. Unevenness between contexts at sites also influenced pollen results. For example, samples from kivas and the front and back rooms of pueblos all produced different pollen signatures. Smith determined that the best example of chronological change from the LC&T project was a set of floor samples from nineteen fieldhouses in the same environmental setting, within a drainage of Rendija Canyon and spanning the centuries from the ca. AD 1150–1325 Coalition period to the ca. AD 1325–1600 Classic period (Figure 9.1). The fieldhouses represent limited occupations, as they were occupied seasonally and each was used for only a few decades. Pollen concentrations describe a clear signal of expansion of field area, as reflected by the abundance of weed types during the early Classic over the preceding Coalition period. Higher maize concentrations throughout the Classic period confirm the increasing commitment to agriculture. Cholla cactus was an imported crop incorporated into subsistence by the middle Classic. This cactus does not grow naturally in the piñon and juniper to ponderosa pine transition zone where these farmsteads are located. In addition, during the early Classic period the average number of economic pollen taxa per fieldhouse floor sample was twice that of any other period, indicating intensification of the effort to acquire subsistence resources (Smith 2007). Discussion Consequences of human actions that affect landscapes at various spatial and temporal scales clearly exist. When people clear woodlands, shrublands, or grasslands for agricultural fields, harvest wood for fuel and other needs, and gather resources during daily life, they maintain mosaic habitats around them. By fostering a state of perpetual secondary succession in plant communities, groups can increase the heterogeneity of available plants and animals. These changes, however, can alter landscapes significantly, depending on the intensity and duration of occupation(s), on momentary human population levels, on available technological toolkits, and on the major mode of subsistence. Over the long term, activities associated with human presence and use of a landscape can reset the natural trajectory of the local biotic communities and their plant and animal members. 130

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9.1. Pollen concentrations, LC&T project, Rendija tract fieldhouses. Courtesy, Susan J. Smith (2007)

The effort to build a case for anthropogenic ecology draws from a range of sources, including a variety of independent proxy records of past environments interpreted from packrat middens, pollen cores, tree rings, and other studies. Cases also draw from ecological literature on the documented responses of plant and animal communities to fire, other forms of human disturbance, and changing climate. The story is also encoded in the archaeological record of plant and animal remains, despite the clear cultural biases and preferences that operated in the past. For archaeobotanists working with the past record of human-plant interactions, the challenges of identifying anthropogenic landscape alterations are many. The job requires careful selection of site contexts and appropriate methods of data presentation. Although the roles of human groups may never be segregated precisely from Mother Nature in prehispanic landscape changes, the archaeological plant record does provide information about some of the consequences associated with human presence and use of a landscape. This information includes impacts that have reset the natural trajectory 131

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of local biotic communities and their individual plant taxa members for generations, centuries, and possibly forever. Acknowledgments Southwestern palynologist Susan J. Smith provided examples and explanatory text for where and how pollen from archaeological site locations can shed light on ancient landscape modifications by humans, and she also provided Figure 9.1. Colleagues Carla R. Van West and Suzanne K. Fish have collaborated on previous efforts to synthesize various portions of the Southwestern U.S. archaeobotanical record. The Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press granted permission to abstract and paraphrase portions of a paper titled “Anthropogenic Ecology of the North American Southwest” published in 2004 in People and Plants in Ancient Western North America, ed. Paul E. Minnis, 167–204 (Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC). References

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Matthews, M. H. 1988 The Macrobotanical Data Base: Applications in Testing Two Models of Socioeconomic Change. In Dolores Archaeological Program: Anasazi Communities at Dolores: Grass Mesa Village, comp. W. D. Lipe, J. N. Morris, and T. A. Kohler, 1137–1158. United States Department of the Interior, Bureau of Reclamation, Denver. Maxwell, T. D., and K. F. Anschuetz 1992 The Southwestern Ethnographic Record and Prehistoric Agricultural Diversity. In Gardens of Prehistory: The Archaeology of Settlement Agriculture in Greater Mesoamerica, ed. T. W. Killian, 35–68. University of Alabama Press, Tuscaloosa. Miksicek, C. H. Appendix B: Plant Remains from Agricultural Features. In Hohokam Archaeology 1983 along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct Central Arizona Project, vol. 3: Specialized Activity Sites, ed. L. S. Teague and P. L. Crown, 604–620. Archaeological Series 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 1984 Historic Desertification, Prehistoric Vegetation Change, and Hohokam Subsistence in the Salt-Gila Basin. In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct Central Arizona Project, vol. 7: Environment and Subsistence, ed. L. S. Teague and P. L. Crown, 53–80. Archaeological Series 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. Minnis, P. E. Paleoethnobotanical Indicators of Prehistoric Environmental Disturbance: A Case 1978 Study. In The Nature and Status of Ethnobotany, ed. R. I. Ford, 347–366. Anthropological Papers 67. Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. 1991 Famine Foods of the Northern American Desert Borderlands in Historical Context. Journal of Ethnobiology 11: 231–257. Minnis, P. E., and S. E. Plog 1976 A Study of the Site Specific Distribution of Agave Parryi in East Central Arizona. Kiva 41(3–4): 299–308. Muir, R. J. 1999 2007

Zooarchaeology of Sand Canyon Pueblo, Colorado. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC. Faunal Remains. In The Archaeology of Sand Canyon Pueblo: Intensive Excavations at a Late-Thirteenth-Century Village in Southwestern Colorado [HTML title], ed. K. A. Kuckelman. http://www.crowcanyon.org/sandcanyon.

Nabhan, G. P. 1979 The Ecology of Floodwater Farming in Arid Southwestern North America. AgroEcosystems 5: 245–255. 1983 Papago Fields: Arid Lands Ethnobotany and Agricultural Ecology. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Arid Lands Resource Sciences Committee, University of Arizona, Tucson. Neusius, S. W., and M. Gould Faunal Remains: Implications for Dolores Anasazi Adaptations. In Dolores Archaeo1988 logical Program: Anasazi Communities at Dolores: Grass Mesa Village, comp. W. D. Lipe, J. N. Morris, and T. A. Kohler, 1049–1136. United States Department of the Interior, Bureau of Reclamation, Denver. Nichols, R. F., and D. G. Smith 1965 Evidence of Prehistoric Cultivation of Douglas-Fir Trees at Mesa Verde. American Antiquity Memoir 31(2, part 2): 57–64. 138

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Parker, K. C., J. L. Hamrick, W. C. Hodgson, D. W. Trapnell, A. J. Parker, and R. K. Kuzoff 2007 Genetic Consequences of Pre-Columbian Cultivation for Agave murpheyi and A. Delameteri (Agavaceae). American Journal of Botany 94(9): 1479–1490. Parsons, E. C. 1939a Pueblo Indian Religion, Volume 1. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. 1939b Pueblo Indian Religion, Volume 2. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Pyne, S. J. 1982

Fire in America: A Cultural History of Wildland and Rural Fire. Princeton University Press, Princeton.

Rautman, A. E. 1993 Resource Variability, Risk, and the Structure of Social Networks: An Example from the Prehistoric Southwest. American Antiquity 58: 403–424. 1996 Risk, Reciprocity, and the Operation of Social Networks. In Evolving Complexity and Environmental Risk in the Prehistoric Southwest, ed. J. A. Tainter and B. B. Tainter, 197–222. Santa Fe Institute Studies in the Sciences of Complexity, Proceedings, vol. 24. Addison-Wesley, Reading, MA. Rea, A. M. 1979 The Ecology of Pima Fields. Environment Southwest 484: 8–13. San Diego Natural History Society. 1997 At the Desert’s Green Edge: An Ethnobotany of the Gila River Pima. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Reynolds, R. D. Effect of Natural Fires and Aboriginal Burning upon the Forests of the Central 1959 Sierra Nevada. Unpublished MA thesis, Department of Geography, University of California, Berkeley. Salzer, M. W. 2000a Temperature Variability and the Northern Anasazi: Possible Implications for Regional Abandonment. Kiva 65(4): 295–318. 2000b Dendroclimatology in the San Francisco Peaks Region of Northern Arizona, USA. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Geosciences, University of Arizona, Tucson. Salzer, M. W., and K. R. Kipfmueller Reconstructed Temperature and Precipitation on a Millennial Timescale from Tree2005 Rings in the Southern Colorado Plateau, USA. Climatic Change 70(3): 465–487. Sando, J. S. 1992 Pueblo Nations: Eight Centuries of Pueblo Indian History. Clear Light, Santa Fe. Smith, S. J. 2007 Pollens’ Eye View of Archaeology on the Pajarito Plateau. In The Land Conveyance and Transfer Data Recovery Project: 7000 Years of Land Use on the Pajarito Plateau, vol. 3: Analyses, ed. B. J. Vierra, 523–595. LA-UR-O7–6205. Los Alamos National Laboratory, Los Alamos, NM. Stevenson, M. C. The Zuni Indians. 23rd Annual Report, 1901–1902. Bureau of American Ethnol1904 ogy, Washington, DC.

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Stewart, O. C. 1956 Fire as the First Great Force Employed by Man. In Man’s Role in Changing the Face of the Earth, ed. W. L. Thomas, 115–133. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Swetnam, T. W. 1984 Peeled Ponderosa Pine Trees: A Record of Inner Bark Utilization by Native Americans. Journal of Ethnobiology 4(2): 177–190. Szuter, C. R. Paleoenvironment and Species Richness along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct. In Hohokam 1984 Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct Central Arizona Project, vol. 7: Environment and Subsistence, ed. L. S. Teague and P. L. Crown, 81–93. Archaeological Series 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. Van West, C. R., and J. S. Dean Environmental Characteristics of the A.D. 900–1300 Period in the Central Mesa 2000 Verde Region. Kiva 66: 19–44. Varien, M. D. (editor) 1999 The Sand Canyon Archaeological Project: Site Testing. Version 1.0. Crow Canyon Archaeological Center, Cortez, CO. Vivian, R. G. Conservation and Diversion Water-Control Systems in the Anasazi Southwest. In 1974 Irrigation’s Impact on Society, ed. T. E. Downing and M. Gibson, 95–112. Anthropological Papers 25. University of Arizona, Tucson. White, L. A. 1932 The Acoma Indians. 47th Annual Report (1929–1930), 18–192. Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. 1943 New Material from Acoma. Bulletin 136, Anthropological Papers 32. Bureau of American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Whiting, A. F. Ethnobotany of the Hopi. Northland, Flagstaff. Originally published in 1939 as Bul1966 letin 15, Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. Wickstrom, C.K.R. Issues Concerning Native American Use of Fire: A Literature Review. Publications in 1987 Anthropology 6. Yosemite Research Center, Yosemite National Park, CA. Wilcox, D., and L. O. Shenk 1981 The Architecture of Casa Grande and Its Interpretation. Archaeological Series 115. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. Yarnell, R. A. Implications of Distinctive Flora on Pueblo Ruins. American Anthropologist 67(3): 1965 662–674.

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[10] Soil and Landscape Responses to American Indian Agriculture in the Southwest

Jonathan A. Sandor and Jeffrey A. Homburg

Soil forms the base of agriculture and thus has been subject to change since farming began in the American Southwest approximately four millennia ago. Soil change as a result of agriculture is complex and wide-ranging in kind, magnitude, and scales of space and time, encompassing many processes and outcomes ( Johnson and Lewis 1995; Sandor, Burras, and Thompson 2005). The archaeological record provides an important long-term perspective on humans and soil change (Holliday 2004; Sandor and Eash 1991). The Southwest contains a rich record of anthropogenic soil and landscape alteration, including cases of both success and failure in maintaining productivity and conserving land resources. Although complex, soil change can be interpreted on a gradient from enhancement of soil quality to soil degradation, with neutral, mixed, or uncertain outcomes observed in between. Several themes concerning soil change and related landscape and ecosystem change are explored here. Diversity is linked closely to the ways soils, ecosystems, and human societies change and respond to disturbance. Diversity is a hallmark of Southwest American Indian agriculture and is an indicator of soil, ecosystem, and agricultural integrity and viability. Agricultural diversification, such as coupled irrigation and dryland systems, has been a key component of risk management strategies. Likewise, diversity contributes to the stability and resilience of soil resources and ecosystems. Soil degradation commonly

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involves lowered diversity at several scales. Much of diversity loss, such as through decreased organic matter and structural degradation, is an inadvertent consequence of agriculture. However, some agricultural management, especially in modern industrialized systems, deliberately promotes uniformity in physical soil properties and especially nutrient levels through land leveling, fertilization, and other practices to maximize large-scale crop production. Indigenous peoples of the Southwest and other regions have encountered problems in environmental resource conservation, as have modern societies. Resource depletion and degradation may be reflected in part in population movement and land abandonment, which occurred repeatedly in Southwest prehistory locally and regionally (Cordell 1997). However, it is also true that values of conservation and reverence toward the earth are basic tenets of the religious beliefs and lifeways of many traditional cultures. The fact that peoples, such as the Hopi, Zuni, and others, have lived and farmed in the same place for many generations indicates the development of sustainable land-use strategies. Sites and Methods for Studying Soil and Landscape Change The diversity of American Indian farming systems parallels the Southwest’s remarkable environmental diversity (Doolittle 2000; Minnis and Elisens 2000). These agricultural systems occur in all Southwest physiographic provinces, especially the southern Basin and Range, Colorado Plateau, and Transition Zone. Within these areas, dryland agricultural sites—including those with rock features in terraced alignments, grids, piles, and mulch—occur in myriad geomorphic and ecosystem settings. Irrigated systems occur on floodplain and low stream terraces of major rivers, especially the Colorado, Gila, Rio Grande, and their tributaries. Soil studies of American Indian agriculture are few relative to the many agroecosystems that exist but have been conducted in several environmental settings, in prehistoric, historic, and contemporary sites (see references in Table 10.1). Testing for soil change is predicated on the validity of methods employed. Several potential problems and uncertainties are involved in evaluating long-term effects of agriculture on soils: 1. Field identification 2. Kind and age of agricultural systems, and impact on soil 3. Post-agricultural environmental change and land-use impacts on soils 4. Availability of appropriate unfarmed (“control”) soils to use as references for assessing soil change from agriculture. Kinds of control soils, their validity, and what can be inferred from them 5. Sample design—number, depth, and type of samples and sample sites needed to test for soil differences 6. Appropriate physical, chemical, and biological assays of soil properties and how to interpret results (e.g., Holliday 2004; Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1986)

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Table 10.1. Examples of soil change in Southwest American Indian agriculture by outcome (outcome refers to interpretations of soil change in relation to agricultural productivity and soil resource condition) Positive soil change (enhanced soil productivity; soil resource protection and sustainability) Soil landscape and ecosystem: e.g., agricultural terraces can stabilize slopes and protect against accelerated water erosion by decreasing slope angle and length. Physical/morphology: thickened A horizons/rooting volume with medium texture, increased available water capacity and actual content. Rock features (e.g., mulch) can moderate soil temperature. Chemistry: cases of organic carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus increase or replenishment through runoff or irrigation water and sediment; pH optima for nutrient availability; few examples of increase in other nutrients. Biology: few direct data; possible increases in nitrogen fixation; increased vesicular arbuscular mycorrhizae in roots of traditional Zuni maize. Causes and factors: Geomorphic/ecosystem processes: sedimentation; post-agricultural native vegetation patterns. Management: terracing and rock alignment features; runoff/sediment capture. References: Cushing 1920; Dominguez 2002; Hack 1942; Herold and Miller 1995; Homburg and Sandor 1997; Homburg, Sandor, and Lightfoot 2004; Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005; Hubbell and Gardner 1950; Lightfoot and Eddy 1994; Nabhan 1984; Norton, Sandor, and White 2007; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990; Sandor et al. 2007; Schaafsma and Briggs 2007; Stewart and Donnelly 1943; Sullivan 2000. Negative soil change (soil degradation; unsustainable land use) Soil landscape and ecosystem: accelerated sheet, rill, gully erosion; breached rock alignments; accelerated wind erosion; excessive sedimentation; loss of grass and other vegetation cover. For agroecosystem, maize nutrient deficiency and decreased growth. Physical/morphology: soil erosion, soil structure degradation and compaction, possible soil crusting. Chemistry: decreased organic carbon, total and available nitrogen and phosphorus. Biology: pathogenic fungi in storage room soil possibly associated with maize. Causes and factors: Geomorphic/ecosystem processes: accelerated water erosion, slope instability, undercutting of rock alignments, wind erosion on soil cleared of vegetation and rock fragments. Management: vegetation clearing, inability to manage runoff, cultivation, nutrient use by crops. References: Dart 1986; Edwards 2002; Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005; Hubbell and Gardner 1950; Pendleton, Newton, and Pendleton 2003; Sandor and Gersper 1988; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1986, 1990; Stewart and Donnelly 1943; Sullivan 2000. Neutral (approximately no net soil change; insignificant change; offsetting, mixed, inconclusive, or contradictory change; recovery from degradation or reversion from enhancement). Soil landscape and ecosystem: fields showing neither enhancement nor degradation, subtle field features, ecosystem changes. Physical/morphology: no or insignificant change in bulk density (i.e., no compaction or not enough to be detrimental to crops). Chemistry: no or contradictory or insignificant change in organic carbon, soil nutrients, and pH. No definitive data on salt or sodium accumulation in soils resulting from irrigation agriculture. Biology: very little data. Causes and factors: Geomorphic/ecosystem processes: not significantly impacted over long term. Management: subtle field construction features and sufficient maintenance. References: Briggs et al. 2006; Dart 1986; Homburg 1992, 1994; Homburg and Sandor 1997; Homburg, Sandor, and Lightfoot 2004; Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005; Hubbell and Gardner 1950; Huckleberry 1992; Sandor et al. 2007; Sullivan 2000.

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Addressing all of these issues is beyond the scope of this chapter, so we discuss some approaches taken in soils studies. We have mainly studied dryland agricultural fields readily identified by visible rock alignment and other features still intact. These features are usually in valley margin and upland locations without post-agricultural, high-impact land use. Most studies have involved prehistoric fields, but we have also investigated historic and traditional contemporary fields—most notably at Zuni—to conduct observational and experimental studies of ancient agricultural fields that are known with certainty. The main method used to study soil change is to compare identified agricultural soils with uncultivated reference or control areas that have similar natural soils and geomorphic settings. Several basic questions and concerns about uncultivated control areas arise, the first being what “controls” signify. In effect, we are substituting space for time, with the idea that the control soils are similar to the original, unfarmed soils. In retrospective studies of prehistoric agriculture, even if uncultivated soils are available, they are unlikely to represent precisely what original soils were like prior to cultivation. Why? Soils are dynamic, forming and changing naturally over time. Soils are palimpsests, bearing the imprints of environmental change and multiple land use in the many years between prehistoric agriculture and present observations. Valid controls actually represent what cultivated soils would be like now if they had not been farmed. Because soils vary naturally with what appear to be slight differences in geomorphic and ecosystem settings and other soil-forming factors, it is essential to test whether the compared soils are similar enough in their natural properties for a valid comparison. In some areas, finding uncultivated soils to use as controls is difficult, so other types of comparisons can be made. At Zuni, for example, with its long and continuous agricultural history, nearly all valley-edge areas may have been farmed at different times in the past. In that situation, we used historic records of field locations to compare currently cultivated and abandoned agricultural soils with similar soils outside of fields (Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005). Our approach in several studies is a combination of “intensive” and “extensive” comparisons. Intensive comparisons involve adjacent cultivated and uncultivated soils to control more variables, allowing as close a comparison as possible. However, if there are not enough paired sample locations across a relatively wide area, there is a danger of pseudo-replication, in which sample locations are too few and spatially confined to be representative. In extensive comparisons, more interspersed sites across a broader region are sampled rather than adjacent, paired uncultivated and cultivated sites. This usually allows a greater sample size because of the common difficulty in finding appropriate adjacent sites, but the downside is less chance of controlling natural or land-use variability and the possibility of comparing “apples and oranges.” Increased background noise may obscure differences, which can be a problem in assessing soils in relatively subtle agricultural systems common in the Southwest. In summary, there are at least two major challenges in soil change studies of ancient Southwest agriculture: (1) identifying actual fields and soils that were farmed, and (2) the availability of appropriate uncultivated soils to measure and evaluate soil change. In some situations, other approaches besides the comparative approach may be useful for

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detecting and interpreting soil change. For example, dramatic or unique characteristics associated with some agricultural soils whose anthropogenic properties are far beyond the ranges found in natural soils may be evident. Despite the challenges in methodology and environmental reconstruction, several previous studies indicate that valid information about soil and landscape change can be obtained and interpreted. Soil Change Processes and Interpretations Soil change resulting from agriculture takes many forms, involving feedback among interactive physical, chemical, and biological processes in an array of spatial and temporal scales (Sandor, Burras, and Thompson 2005). Soil change is presented in this section in the context of outcomes, using case studies from the Southwest (see Table 10.1). Simplifying the real complexity of soil change, outcome end members are enhanced soil quality and degradation, plus intermediate cases that are minor, mixed, or inconclusive. Outcome interpretations are inherently subjective but are defined here as soil quality and change in terms of (1) sustaining agricultural productivity; that is, soil function to meet crop needs, and (2) long-term land resource conservation; that is, maintenance of soil function in ecosystems and the larger environment. The spectrum of outcomes in soil resource condition and productivity is evident in Southwest agriculture. Enhanced Soil Quality

Increased soil quality is commonly an outcome or at least a goal of deliberate agricultural management. Terracing and runoff agricultural management practices provide a clear example of both direct and indirect beneficial soil and landscape change. A major kind of dryland agriculture in the Southwest, especially in prehistoric times but also historically, involved a form of terracing associated with runoff agriculture in which series of small rock alignments were constructed across slopes and drainage ways. These constructions modified soils and landscapes in several ways to benefit crop production, as well as to conserve soils (Hack 1942; Sandor 2006; Stewart and Donnelly 1943). Land surface change involved rearranging surface rocks to construct terraces and similar features, which also had the benefit of augmenting diverse niches for farming and risk management. Terraces serve direct hydrologic and stability functions by segmenting and decreasing slope length, thereby slowing potentially destructive runoff and retaining water. The indirect natural accumulation of sediment (wedge-shaped in longitudinal cross-section) upslope of each terrace dam decreases slope angle (Leopold and Bull 1979). Reduced slope gradient also creates a more stable topographic platform for crops and increases water retention by decreasing runoff potential and velocity and promoting infiltration. These effects of small terraces have been documented in Southwest locations, such as Zuni and Mimbres (Bohrer 1960; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990). The sediment wedge becomes incorporated into soils, and subsequent increased A horizon thickness improves soil-rooting medium function by enhancing stability, available moisture and storage, and nutrient replenishment and storage for crops. Increased A horizon thickness measured in Southwest runoff systems ranges from a few centimeters 145

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to nearly a meter, depending mostly on terrace dam height. Given that most rock alignment terraces in the Southwest are low, commonly just one stone high or with just a few courses, most thickening reported is between 5 and 30 centimeters. In contrast, constructed soil thickness in multi-coursed agricultural terraces is commonly much greater. For example, A horizons are typically 0.3 to 1.3 meters thicker and up to 2 to 3 meters thicker in the Andes (Sandor 2006). Similar thicknesses are found in a few Southwest areas with high cross-drainage check dams, such as northern Mexico (Doolittle 2000; Herold 1965). Surface soil horizon thickening is also reported for other rock features, such as rock piles, which probably involve trapping of eolian sediment (Fish 2000) or deliberate placement of redeposited soil material or sediment. Besides soil surface thickening, texture is an important consideration, as loamy to sandy sediments favor water infiltration, ease root growth, and—in the case of sandy sediments—provide a mulch that increases soil water storage for plants by reducing evaporative water loss. In Hohokam floodwater fields, Hoski Schaafsma and John Briggs (2007) inferred deliberate soil building through managed deposition of silt-rich sediments. At Zuni, surface horizons in some runoff fields on alluvial fans are thickened relative to adjacent areas off the field, even without construction of stone alignments (Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005; Sandor et al. 2007). Remnants of terrace alignments, probably constructed of wood and brush or earthen berms rather than stones alone, can be seen on the ground and in 1935–1937 aerial photos. Short wood posts that likely anchored ephemeral dams occur in association with runoff and floodwater fields. Another important factor is that fields seem to be placed in positions of maximum natural deposition on alluvial fans, so soil surface thickening results from a combination of natural and enhanced sedimentation. Soil A and B horizons buried by this sediment are apparent in some fields. Deliberate field placement and management to capture loamy to sandy sediments and replenish soils, as well as knowledge of geomorphic processes, are evident in field location patterns and ethnographic studies with traditional farmers at Zuni and elsewhere (e.g., Bohrer 1960; Cushing 1920; Fish and Fish 1997; Nabhan 1984; Norton, Pawluk, and Sandor 2001; Pawluk’s work in Sandor et al. 2007). A horizon thickening works especially well in conjunction with the widespread use of soils with naturally slowly permeable subsurface horizons and layers, such as clayenriched horizons (argillic horizons), carbonate- or silica-cemented horizons (petrocalcic horizons and duripans), stratified sediments, and bedrock (e.g., Dominguez and Kolm 2005; Edwards 2002; Homburg, Sandor, and Lightfoot 2004; Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005; Sandor 1995; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1986). These subsurface horizons have the advantage of retaining water above them. While these horizons exclude roots, their functional advantage as water retention features is realized when naturally shallow A horizons, which serve as root zones, are thickened. In addition to increased soil water holding capacity with thicker soils, soil moisture increases have been measured in Southwest terraced fields and in other agricultural rock features, such as in Chihuahua, the lower Verde Valley, Safford, Mimbres, and northern New Mexico (Dominguez 2002; Herold 1965; Herold and Miller 1995; Homburg and Sandor 1997; Homburg, Sandor, and Lightfoot 2004; Lightfoot and Eddy 1994; review in Sandor 1995). Long-term increased moisture, which essentially changes the climate

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factor of soil formation, should result in higher soil weathering and formation rates. This effect has not yet been carefully studied in ancient Southwest agricultural contexts but has been reported in some contemporary irrigated soils (e.g., Ricks Presley et al. 2004). Slightly more leaching of carbonates and corresponding pH decrease have been observed at Zuni and elsewhere. Soil temperature moderation has been documented in rock mulch fields (Lightfoot and Eddy 1994). Soil environments altered by sedimentation, soil thickening and accompanying soil texture change, increased moisture levels and storage capacity, and thermal, snow trapping, and other microclimate changes in rock feature fields may lead to long-term soil transformations. On the other side of enhancement, it is likely that terracing was originally an adaptive response to accelerated erosion from farming hill slopes with insufficient erosion control (Sandor 2006). Innovations such as “splash pads,” semicircular rock aprons constructed at the downslope base of terrace walls in the Safford area (Neely 2001), appear to have provided additional protection to soils to prevent undercutting and piping erosion, common negative side effects of terracing. Increased surface soil thickness and texture change can result even more indirectly from soil management, such as from sediments transported in irrigation canals (Dart 1986; Huckleberry 1992). Deposition of suspended load in irrigation water enriches and replenishes soils (Castetter and Bell 1942, 1951; Doolittle 2000, 2006; Fish 2000; Forbes 1906; Sandor 2010). However, the potential risk of this deposition is excessive sedimentation that can compromise canal grade and clog canals (e.g., Dart 1986; Forbes 1906) and reservoirs (for example, the inferred function of curved intakes to trap sediment before it reaches reservoirs, such as at Mesa Verde; Doolittle 2000; Rohn 1963) or bury crops during the growing season (Hubbell and Gardner 1950). These opposing consequences illustrate the point that whether soil and landscape change is favorable or detrimental can depend on context and timing, as well as the magnitude of the change. In contrast to the positive physical soil changes brought about deliberately through runoff and sediment management, less evidence exists for management practices that directly led to improved soil chemical and biological properties. A key factor is that direct addition of fertilizers or amendments does not seem to have been a common indigenous practice in the Southwest (review in Sandor 1995), in contrast to some other regions in the Americas such as Peru (e.g., Sandor et al. 2006). However, additions of sediments and organic debris in runoff indirectly increased soil fertility with infusions of nutrients, as seen in historic and contemporary traditional runoff agriculture of the Tohono O’odham (Nabhan 1984) and Zuni (Norton, Sandor, and White 2007; Sandor et al. 2007). Soil pH change detected in some Southwest fields, likely associated with the hydrologic effects of rock features, may have imparted positive effects on soil productivity by increasing the availability of nutrients, such as phosphorus, through decreased alkalinity or acidity (Homburg and Sandor 1997; Homburg, Sandor, and Lightfoot 2004; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990; Sullivan 2000). A few studies of soil biology related to traditional Southwestern agriculture have been done on bacteria populations, nitrogen fixation and mineralization, and mycorrhizal fungi (Berry 1995; Hubbell and Gardner 1950; Sandor et al. 2007), but almost no research has

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been performed directly on soil biological change. More soil biology research would improve our understanding of the effects of agriculture and management practices, such as nutrients in runoff (Norton, Sandor, and White 2007), nitrogen-fixing crops like beans, and the role of mycorrhizae in improving traditional crop nutrition and water uptake. At Zuni, higher mycorrhizal fungi infection rates in Zuni blue maize compared with commercial hybrid maize imply important linkages of traditional cultivars to their local soils (Havener in Sandor et al. 2007). Soil Degradation

Soil degradation encompasses changes that result in decreased productivity and resource conservation. Degradation takes many physical-morphological, chemical, and biological forms ( Johnson and Lewis 1995). Common physical forms of degradation inferred in the Southwest include accelerated water or wind erosion, which decimates critical surface horizons, and soil structural degradation and compaction, which restrict root growth and compromise key soil functions involving physical support, nutrient and water storage and availability, and aeration. Unfavorable soil chemical change in Southwest agriculture primarily involves nutrient loss. The possibility of salt and/or sodium accumulation in irrigated soils also exists. While salt and sodium accumulation is a common problem in modern irrigation agriculture in the western United States and other arid world regions, it has not been definitively documented in ancient Southwest agricultural soils (see next section). Evidence of long-term accelerated water erosion has been observed at ancient agricultural sites in the Southwest. An example occurs at some Mimbres agricultural terraced fields, where sheet, rill, and gully erosion contrast with surrounding reference uncultivated surfaces lacking such erosion (Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990). It is hypothesized that accelerated erosion and related soil degradation persist nearly nine centuries after abandonment, in part as a result of continued unstable surface conditions and exposed soil following the loss of original grass cover. Evidence that erosion commenced during prehistoric cultivation is that terrace dams are breached by gullies and that attempts were made to repair damage by building dams within the gullies. Over the greater Southwest, arroyo incision has been an episodic problem. Controversy exists regarding natural climate-related versus anthropogenic land-use causes of this erosion, although it seems likely that land-use problems—such as deforestation and overgrazing—are involved in historic gullying. One of the negative consequences of gullies at Zuni and elsewhere is hydrologic bypassing of alluvial fans, which disrupts ecosystems and traditional runoff agriculture (Norton, Sandor, and White 2007). Besides water erosion, damaging wind erosion accelerated by cultivation is thought to have occurred on volcanic ash fields in northern Arizona, as inferred from rock features interpreted as windbreaks (Doolittle 2000:239). Soil structural degradation and compaction have been reported in several areas, such as Mimbres (Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990), northern Arizona (Edwards 2002), and certain areas at Zuni (Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005). Loss of granular structure, weaker structure grade, and a tendency toward larger aggregates (peds)

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and massive condition signal soil structural degradation. Compaction, measured by increased bulk density, often accompanies structural degradation as soil porosity and pore size are reduced through physical compression and decreased organic matter. In the Mimbres study, bulk density increased about 9 percent relative to uncultivated soils and may not have been a major problem prehistorically, but that degree of compaction has been shown in experiments to inhibit maize seedling development. Losses of soil organic matter and nutrients have been reported in widespread areas of the Southwest, such as in the Mimbres area already discussed, northern Arizona (Berlin, Salas, and Geib 1990; Edwards 2002), and the northern Rio Grande (Arrhenius 1963). The Mimbres research indicated consistent, statistically significant, and substantial losses of organic carbon, nitrogen, and total phosphorus, extending in depth from the A horizon into subsurface horizons before equating with reference natural soils (Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990). This long-term degradation is attributed to the sensitivity of soil and ecosystem to disturbance, that is, to low resilience. Major mechanisms of soil organic matter loss involve greater rates of microbial decomposition of organic matter with cultivation and subsequent exposure of organic matter previously protected within aggregates, as well as decreased inputs of organic matter with less vegetation cover (McLauchlan 2006). Lower nutrient levels relate to lower organic matter and to crop removal of nutrients with harvesting and decreased nutrient inputs. Organic matter and nutrient losses can be offset in some areas by organic debris and nutrient inputs in well-managed functioning runoff systems, but that balance apparently was not achieved in the Mimbres situation, especially where accelerated erosion was more intense. Lower nitrogen in Mimbres cultivated soil was reflected in reduced maize growth and nitrogen content in a greenhouse experiment comparing cultivated and uncultivated soils (Sandor and Gersper 1988). The persistence of soil degradation centuries after abandonment is remarkable in that decreased levels of organic matter (up to about 45 percent loss), nitrogen (about 40 percent loss), and phosphorus (about 18 percent loss) on a mass concentration basis in surface horizons are in line with losses reported for many soils under modern conventional cultivation (McLauchlan 2006; Sandor and Eash 1991). These similarities show the relevance of ancient agricultural sites for agriculture today in extending the time perspective on how long degradation can continue without appreciable recovery. The Mimbres case also illustrates the important linkage of long-term soil degradation to landscape erosion processes and reduced vegetation cover (Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990). Landscape stability and restored vegetation, especially grasses in the case of Mollisols, are critical to soil recovery processes (McLauchlan 2006). Based on the known importance of organic matter in maintaining soil structure and lower bulk density, the compaction of Mimbres agricultural soils is likely linked to organic matter decline. Whereas uncultivated soils have a wider spread of values that show the expected inverse relationship between bulk density and organic carbon, values in degraded cultivated soils cluster around lower organic carbon levels and higher bulk densities. The reduced variability in bulk density, organic matter, and nutrient levels in these cultivated soils illustrates the connection between degradation and loss of diversity.

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Nearly all soil degradation is unintended. A rare exception is the deliberate erosion of soil from a watershed to promote sedimentation in fields downslope. This practice has been documented in central Mexico and some other regions, such as the Philippines, but not in the Southwest (Doolittle 2000; Sandor 2006; Wilken 1987). Soil degradation in the Southwest has likely accompanied other kinds of environmental resource degradation, such as forest depletion (e.g., Kohler 1992). A question of major interest is whether soil degradation was severe enough to be a causal factor in population abandonment or movement, which occurred commonly in the prehistoric Southwest (Cordell 1997; Nelson and Hegmon 2001). The question remains open, but the consensus from most soils studies suggests that while soil degradation may have led to local abandonment and shifts in the use of agricultural sites, it was probably not a major driver of regional abandonment. Uncertain or Minimal Net Soil Change

In the majority of studies of soil productivity in the Southwest, definitive evidence of either positive or negative soil change is not apparent. Rather, results of studies are commonly mixed or inconclusive. A relevant adage, attributed to Carl Sagan, is that “absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.” Possible reasons for uncertain outcomes include: 1. Methodological constraints, such as unavailability of reference sites for clear comparisons or insufficient sampling (in extent, depth, or both) relative to soil variability and scale 2. Post-agricultural imprints of environmental change or land use that partially or wholly obscure previous soil change 3. Soil changes that are not necessarily negative or positive or that can be either under different circumstances (e.g., sedimentation) 4. Minimal overall net effects of agriculture, offsetting effects, or effects too subtle or ephemeral to define a clear direction of change.

The latter scenarios are plausible because many Southwest agricultural systems are relatively subtle and have left a light environmental footprint. For example, many ancient fields with rock alignments or other rock arrangements, in tandem with areas cleared of rocks, blend in well with the natural landscape. Field configurations can mimic those produced by natural geomorphic and watershed processes, such as alignments of rock fragments and wood that occur naturally as debris dams, or patches of rock concentrations and clearings. In contrast to more substantial to monumental agricultural features and soil construction and change in other world regions, much of traditional Southwest agriculture represents an inherently lower-key enterprise in making use of natural landscape processes and ecosystems with slight modification, resulting in relatively minor soil change. Internal complexity within agricultural landscapes is also a factor in that some areas or niches may display degradation while others may not. Even the ways values of soil properties are expressed can be variable in direction. For example, soil organic 150

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carbon or nutrients expressed on a mass per mass concentration basis could show a different direction than if expressed on a total mass per volume basis if differences in soil horizon thickness or bulk density are present. In the Mimbres case, for instance, organic carbon, nitrogen, and phosphorus losses, which are apparent on a mass or volume concentration basis to equal depths, are offset when total A horizons of cultivated and uncultivated soils are compared on a volume basis because of soil thickening from terracing and sedimentation. Several studies of rock feature systems show mixed or equivocal findings regarding the existence or direction of change in soil fertility and environmental resource condition. In the lower Verde Valley (Homburg and Sandor 1997), comparisons of terraced soils with controls indicate lower organic carbon and nitrogen but greater phosphorus. Comparisons involving other rock alignments and rock piles show both nutrient increases and decreases, so distinctive overall trends are not evident. Comparisons of rock grid, rock pile, and terraced soils with control soils at Safford also produced mixed results, although significant intra-site differences between rock alignments and rockcleared field interiors were found (Homburg, Sandor, and Lightfoot 2004). Along with little change in bulk density, results here suggest that agriculture did not degrade soils, at least not in the long term, and that the decrease in pH increased the availability of some nutrients, such as phosphorus. Other possible confounding factors may be at work here. For example, this agricultural system likely emphasized production of desert plants, such as agave, rather than more standard agronomic crops, such as maize (Fish et al. 2004). In addition, post-agriculture vegetation patterns associated with rock feature fields may cause soil differences (Briggs et al. 2006; Fish et al. 2004). Some variable results from the Zuni case study illustrate complexities involved in soil studies, such as how different sample designs can lead to different results, as well as multiple outcomes depending on site and time factors. Results of the extensive sampling and comparison of currently cultivated, abandoned, and historically uncultivated soils indicate no net change in soil organic matter, nitrogen, and phosphorus and no significant compaction (Homburg, Sandor, and Norton 2005). Measured soil changes seem to relate mainly to runoff agriculture, for example, in consistent A horizon thickening patterns. Another trend related to runoff agriculture is the distinct association of silt and organic matter preferentially co-transported and deposited with runoff, as seen in regression analyses of silt and nitrogen and micromorphological studies that show distinctive organic matter coatings on mineral grains in soils of runoff fields (Sandor et al. 2007). However, intensive paired site studies comparing long-term contemporary fields with adjacent historically uncultivated areas that have native grass and shrub vegetation indicate locally significant differences. In some intensive site comparisons, organic matter decrease and bulk density increase are evident, while other comparisons do not show these trends. In all cases studied thus far at Zuni, degradation seems associated more with modern tillage in the ancient fields than with traditional agricultural techniques (Sandor et al. 2007). We also observed that recent wind erosion had severely damaged a current traditional Zuni field following deep plowing, highlighting the negative impacts from intensive modern tillage. In contrast, an observation of maize nitrogen deficiency (chlorosis symptoms) in a traditional Zuni runoff field cropped for

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several years, compared with green vigorous maize in an adjacent new field, indicates that declines of fertility are ephemeral when fallowing is practiced in traditional runoff fields. The overall results of Zuni soil studies point to overall sustainability of traditional agriculture but some degradation with modern cultivation. The question of salinization problems in traditional irrigated agriculture remains open and illustrates uncertainty in soil change and interpretation in the Southwest. Cases of detrimental levels of salt and sodium accumulation caused by irrigation are well-known in modern agriculture (Szabolcs 1998), although scientific documentation is surprisingly rare. In some areas, excessive salt and sodium buildup has led to abandonment or severe limitations on the use and choice of crops. Examples of significant soil degradation have also been reported for ancient cultures in other arid regions (Hillel 2008; Szabolcs 1998). Prehistoric farmers in the Southwest likely contended with naturally occurring saline and sodic soils. These soils, and their occurrence in and around prehistoric, historic, and contemporary American Indian irrigated fields, have been documented in several areas of the Southwest—such as the lower deserts in the Hohokam area along the middle Gila River (Castetter and Bell 1942), limited areas of the northern Rio Grande Valley, the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon (Davis et al. 2000), the lower Colorado and Gila rivers (Castetter and Bell 1951; Doolittle 2000), and on other valley floors such as at Zuni. Davis and colleagues (2000) argue that high salinity measured at one early irrigated site in the Grand Canyon was induced by irrigation. Salinization has been identified in probable ak-chin floodwater fields in the Santa Rosa Valley of the Tohono O’odham Nation (Homburg and Casey 2007). Soils mapped by the Natural Resources Conservation Service (USDA-NRCS 1998) in the Hohokam area as saline or sodic are likely to have been that way prior to prehistoric irrigation, as indicated by well-developed soil features that take significant time to form, such as natric horizons. Naturally salt-affected soils likely dictated where irrigated agriculture could best be practiced (Castetter and Bell 1942, 1951). Other lines of evidence, such as ostracods in Hohokam irrigation canal sediments, suggest some salinity (Palacios-Fest 1997). The jury is still out on whether prehistoric irrigation agriculture in the Southwest ever resulted in serious enough salt or sodium accumulation to significantly reduce crop productivity (Sandor 2010). Some authors have indicated that Hohokam irrigation did cause salinity problems (e.g., review in Ackerly 1988; Diamond 2005; Hackenberg 1964), but little work on agricultural soils has been done to test this assertion. Although evidence of short-term canal abandonment suggests the possibility of salinity problems, the fact that the Hohokam maintained irrigated systems for about 1,000 years (AD 400–1400) suggests they either did not encounter major salinization or they were able to manage it (Ackerly 1988; Castetter and Bell 1942; Fish 2000). Conclusions: Relevance of Soil Change for the Present and Future Although significant knowledge has been gained about soil and landscape changes in Southwest American Indian agriculture and its archaeological record, much remains

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unknown. Major reasons for this uncertainty are the relative scarcity of soil studies, methodological shortcomings, the complexity of agricultural systems and soils, and imprints of multiple land use and environmental change. Expanded research is needed on changes in soil hydrology and nutrients in both dryland and irrigated systems. Current advances in soil science research, such as on dynamic soil properties and soil biology, can be applied to ancient agricultural sites to further understanding of longterm soil condition and land-use sustainability. Because the bottom line for soils in agricultural systems is their ability to produce crops, more work is needed to link soils to crop production through long-term in situ experiments coupled with observational studies of traditional farming (Muenchrath et al. 2002). Some data are available for major agronomic crops such as maize, but less is known about soil function in relation to desert crops, like agave. There is a need for more soil and crop experiments on agricultural rock features, especially on those that are little-known ethnographically, such as rock piles, grid, and mulch fields, as well as fields in volcanic tephra. More integrated watershed-field soil-crop research is needed to understand the dynamics and impact of runoff agriculture in different ecosystems. Interdisciplinary collaboration in archaeology, soil and other earth and environmental sciences, and agricultural sciences—drawing on multiple lines of inquiry and evidence—is critical to address these needs and advance understanding of soil and landscape change. Knowledge of long-term soil change under traditional Southwest agricultural systems is relevant to present-day critical resource issues on regional and global scales, such as climate change and variability, and related problems of water supply and use and desertification. Soil is a vital natural resource on which past and present societies have relied for their sustenance. Agriculture’s impact on soils is complex in process and outcome, ranging from degradation in varying degrees and duration to enhanced productivity and ecosystem function, as well as cases where outcomes seem minimal or uncertain. Soil is vulnerable to degradation, which compromises its function and quality and lowers crop productivity. Soil degradation continues to be a serious threat in the United States and throughout the world (Diamond 2005; Hillel 2008; Johnson and Lewis 1995; Montgomery 2007; Redman 1999; Sandor, Burras, and Thompson 2005). The long-term record of soil use and change by humans provides perspectives important to advance sustainable agriculture and land resource conservation. The Southwest, with its long agricultural history and wide range of systems, environments, and effects, holds valuable evidence and lessons on soil and landscape change. Acknowledgments We thank many colleagues in archaeology, agronomy, the earth sciences, and ecology, as well as traditional farmers, who have contributed to studies of ancient agricultural soils in the Southwest. We appreciate the opportunity to participate in the Southwest Symposium and thank the organizers.

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References Ackerly, N. W. 1988 False Causality in the Hohokam Collapse. Kiva 53(4): 305–319. Arrhenius, O. Investigation of Soil from Old Indian Sites. Ethnos 2: 122–136. 1963 Berlin, G. L., D. E. Salas, and P. R. Geib A Prehistoric Sinagua Agricultural Site in the Ashfall Zone of Sunset Crater, Ari1990 zona. Journal of Field Archaeology 17: 1–16. Berry, A. M. Biological Nitrogen Fixation and Soil Fertility in Southwestern Lands: Implications 1995 for Anasazi Agriculture. In Soil, Water, Biology, and Belief in Prehistoric and Traditional Southwestern Agriculture, ed. H. W. Toll, 139–143. New Mexico Archaeological Council. C&M Press, Denver. Bohrer, V. L. Zuni Agriculture. El Palacio 67: 181–202. 1960 Briggs, J. M., K. A. Spielmann, H. Schaafsma, K. W. Kintigh, M. Kruse, K. Morehouse, and K. Schollmeyer 2006 Why Ecology Needs Archaeologists and Archaeology Needs Ecologists. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment 4(4): 180–188. Castetter, E. F., and W. H. Bell Pima and Papago Agriculture. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 1942 Yuman Indian Agriculture; Primitive Subsistence on the Lower Colorado and Gila 1951 Rivers. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Cordell, L. S. Prehistory of the Southwest, 2nd ed. Academic Press, New York. 1997 Cushing, F. H. Zuni Breadstuff. Indian Notes and Monographs 8. Museum of the American Indian, 1920 Heye Foundation, New York. Dart, A. 1986

Sediment Accumulation along Hohokam Canals. Kiva 51(2): 63–84.

Davis, S. W., M. E. Davis, I. Lucchitta, R. Finkel, and M. Caffee Early Agriculture in the Eastern Grand Canyon of Arizona, USA. Geoarchaeology 2000 15(8): 783–798. Diamond, J. Collapse: How Societies Choose to Succeed or Fail. Viking, Penguin Group, New 2005 York. Dominguez, S. Optimal Gardening Strategies: Maximizing the Input and Retention of Water 2002 in Prehistoric Fields in North Central New Mexico. World Archaeology 34(1): 131–163. Dominguez, S., and K. E. Kolm Beyond Water Harvesting: A Soil Hydrology Perspective on Traditional South2005 western Agricultural Technology. American Antiquity 70(4): 732–765.

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Doolittle, W. E. 2000 Cultivated Landscapes of Native North America. Oxford Geographical and Environmental Studies. Oxford University Press, New York. 2006 Agricultural Manipulation of Floodplains in the Southern Basin and Range Province. Catena 65(2): 179–199. Edwards, J. S. Soil Fertility and Prehistoric Agriculture Near Sunset Crater, Arizona. Master’s the2002 sis, Department of Quaternary Studies, Northern Arizona University, Flagstaff. Fish, S. K. 2000

Hohokam Impacts on Sonoran Desert Environment. In Imperfect Balance: Landscape Transformations in the Precolumbian Americas, ed, D. L. Lentz, 251–280. The Historical Ecology Series, W. Balée and C. L. Crumley, general editors. Columbia University Press, New York.

Fish, S. K., and P. R. Fish Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Prehistoric Agricultural Potential in the Horseshoe 1997 Basin. In Vanishing River: Landscapes and Lives of the Lower Verde River, the Lower Verde Archaeological Project, vol. 2, ed. S. M. Whittlesey, R. Ciolek-Torrello, and J. H. Altschul, 239–248. Report to the United States Department of the Interior, Bureau of Reclamation. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Fish, S. K., P. R. Fish, A. MacWilliams, G. Sánchez de Carpenter, and K. R. Adams Growing Conditions and Crops: The Field Evidence. In The Safford Valley Grids: 2004 Prehistoric Cultivation in the Southern Arizona Desert, ed. W. E. Doolittle and J. A. Neely, 79–94. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Forbes, R. H. Irrigating Sediments and Their Effects on Crops. Experiment Station Bulletin 53. 1906 University of Arizona, Tucson. Hack, J. T. 1942

The Changing Physical Environment of the Hopi Indians of Arizona. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology 35(1). Harvard University Press, Cambridge.

Hackenberg, R. A. 1964 Changing Patterns of Pima Indian Land Use. In Indian and Spanish American Adjustments to Arid and Semiarid Environments, ed. C. S. Knowlton, 6–15. Texas Technological College, Lubbock. Herold, L. C. Trincheras and Physical Environment along the Rio Gavilan, Chihuahua, Mexico. 1965 Publications in Geography 65-1. Department of Geography, University of Denver, Denver. Herold, L. C., and R. F. Miller Water Availability for Plant Growth in Precolumbian Terrace Soils, Chihuahua, 1995 Mexico. In Soil, Water, Biology, and Belief in Prehistoric and Traditional Southwestern Agriculture, ed. H. W. Toll, 145–153. Special Publication 2, New Mexico Archaeological Council. C&M Press, Denver. Hillel, D. 2008

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Holliday, V. T. 2004 Soils in Archaeological Research. Oxford University Press, New York. Homburg, J. A. Soil Fertility Study. In Archaeological Investigations at Lee Canyon: Kayenta Ana1992 sazi Farmsteads in the Upper Basin, Coconino County, Arizona., vol. 38, ed. S. M. Whittlesley, 145–161. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Soil Fertility and Prehistoric Agriculture in the Tonto Basin. In The Roosevelt Rural 1994 Sites Study, vol. 3, ed. R. Ciolek-Torrello and J. R. Welch, 253–295. SRI Technical Series 28. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Homburg, J. A., and F.X.M. Casey 2007 Agricultural Soil Productivity in the Santa Rosa Valley. In Ak Chin Farmers of the Desert: Archaeological and Historical Investigations at the Ak Chin Site (TO: GA:6[TO]). Gu Achi District of the Tohono O’odham Nation, Arizona, ed. J. A. Homburg, 403–422. SRI Technical Series 89. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Homburg, J. A., and J. A. Sandor An Agronomic Study of Two Classic Period Agricultural Fields in the Horseshoe 1997 Basin. In Vanishing River: Landscapes and Lives of the Lower Verde River: The Lower Verde Archaeological Project, vol. 2, ed. S. M. Whittlesey, R. Ciolek-Torrello, and J. H. Altschul, 127–147. Report to the U.S. Department of the Interior, Bureau of Reclamation. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Homburg, J. A., J. A. Sandor, and D. R. Lightfoot Soil Investigations. In The Safford Valley Grids: Prehistoric Cultivation in the South2004 ern Arizona Desert, ed. W. E. Doolittle and J. A. Neely, 62–78, 143–147. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 70. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Homburg, J. A., J. A. Sandor, and J. B. Norton Anthropogenic Influences on Zuni Soils. Geoarchaeology 20(7): 661–693. 2005 Hubbell, D. S., and J. L. Gardner Effects of Diverting Sediment-Laden Runoff from Arroyos to Range and Crop Lands. 1950 Technical Bulletin 1012. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Washington, DC, and New Mexico Agricultural Experiment Station, Las Cruces. Huckleberry, G. 1992 Soil Evidence of Hohokam Irrigation in the Salt River Valley, Arizona. Kiva 57(3): 237–249. Johnson, D. L., and L. A. Lewis Land Degradation: Creation and Destruction. Blackwell, Oxford. 1995 Kohler, T. A. Prehistoric Human Impact on the Environment in the Upland North American 1992 Southwest. Population and Environment 13: 255–268. Leopold, L. B., and W. B. Bull Base Level, Aggradation, and Grade. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Soci1979 ety 123: 168–202. Lightfoot, D. R., and F. W. Eddy 1994 The Agricultural Utility of Lithic-Mulch Gardens: Past and Present. GeoJournal 34(4): 425–437.

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McLauchlan, K. 2006 The Nature and Longevity of Agricultural Impacts on Soil Carbon and Nutrients: A Review. Ecosystems 9: 1364–1382. Minnis, P. E., and W. J. Elisens (editors) 2000 Biodiversity and Native America. University of Oklahoma Press, Norman. Montgomery, D. Dirt: The Erosion of Civilizations. University of California Press, Berkeley. 2007 Muenchrath, D. A., M. Kuratomi, J. A. Sandor, and J. A. Homburg Observational Study of Maize Production Systems of Zuni Farmers in Semiarid 2002 New Mexico. Journal of Ethnobiology 22(1): 1–33. Nabhan, G. P. 1984 Soil Fertility Renewal and Water Harvesting in Sonoran Desert Agriculture. Arid Lands Newsletter 20: 21–28. Neely, J. A. Prehistoric Agricultural Fields and Water Management Technology of the Safford 2001 Valley, Southeastern Arizona. Antiquity 75: 681–682. Nelson, M. C., and M. Hegmon 2001 Abandonment Is Not as It Seems: An Approach to the Relationship between Site and Regional Abandonment. American Antiquity 66(2): 213–235. Norton, J. B., R. R. Pawluk, and J. A. Sandor Farmer-Scientist Collaboration for Research and Agricultural Development on the 2001 Zuni Indian Reservation, New Mexico, USA. In Sustainability of Agricultural Systems in Transition, ed. W. A. Payne, D. R. Keeney, and S. C. Rao, 107–120. ASA Special Publication 64. American Society of Agronomy, Crop Science Society of America, Soil Science Society of America, Madison, WI. Norton, J. B., J. A. Sandor, and C. S. White Runoff and Sediments from Hillslope Soils within a Native American Agroecosys2007 tem. Soil Science Society of America Journal 71(2): 476–483. Palacios-Fest, M. 1997 Paleoenvironmental Reconstruction of Human Activity in Central Arizona Using Shell Chemistry of Hohokam Canal Ostracodes. Geoarchaeology 12: 211–226. Pendleton, M. W., D. Newton, and B. B. Pendleton Recovery and Interpretation of Fungal Pathogens of Maize from Mimbres-Mogollon 2003 Archaeological Sites. Bulletin of the Texas Archaeological Society (74): 149–154. Redman, C. L. 1999 Human Impacts on Ancient Environments. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Ricks Presley, D., M. D. Ransom, G. J. Kluitenberg, and P. R. Finnell Effects of Thirty Years of Irrigation on the Genesis and Morphology of Two Semi2004 arid Soils in Kansas. Soil Science Society of America Journal 68: 1916–1926. Rohn, A. H. Prehistoric Soil and Water Conservation on Chapin Mesa, Southwestern Colorado. 1963 American Antiquity 28(4): 441–455. Sandor, J. A. 1995 Searching Soil for Clues about Southwest Prehistoric Agriculture. In Soil, Water, Biology, and Belief in Prehistoric and Traditional Southwestern Agriculture, ed. H. W.

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2006 2010

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Sandor, J., C. L. Burras, and M. Thompson 2005 Factors of Soil Formation: Human Impacts. In Encyclopedia of Soils in the Environment, vol. 1, ed. D. Hillel, 520–532. Elsevier, Oxford, UK. Sandor, J. A., and N. S. Eash Significance of Ancient Agricultural Soils for Long-Term Agronomic Studies and 1991 Sustainable Agriculture Research. Agronomy Journal 83: 29–37. Sandor, J. A., and P. L. Gersper 1988 Evaluation of Soil Fertility in Some Prehistoric Agricultural Terraces in New Mexico. Agronomy Journal 80: 846–850. Sandor, J. A., P. L. Gersper, and J. W. Hawley 1986 Soils at Prehistoric Agricultural Terracing Sites in New Mexico: I. Site Placement, Soil Morphology, and Classification. II. Organic Matter and Bulk Density Changes. III. Phosphorus, Selected Micronutrients, and pH. Soil Science Society of America Journal 50: 166–180. 1990 Prehistoric Agricultural Terraces and Soils in the Mimbres Area, New Mexico. World Archaeology 22: 70–86. Sandor, J. A., J. B. Norton, J. A. Homburg, D. A. Muenchrath, C. S. White, S. E. Williams, C. I. Havener, and P. D. Stahl Biogeochemical Studies of a Native American Runoff Agroecosystem. Geoarchaeol2007 ogy 22(3): 359–386. Sandor, J. A., A.M.G.A. WinklerPrins, N. Barrera-Bassols, and J. A. Zinck 2006 The Heritage of Soil Knowledge among the World’s Cultures. In Footprints in the Soil: People and Ideas in Soil History, ed. B. Warkentin, 43–84. Elsevier, Amsterdam. Schaafsma, H., and J. M. Briggs Hohokam Field Building: Silt Fields in the Northern Phoenix Basin. Kiva 72(4): 2007 443–469. Stewart, G. R., and M. Donnelly 1943 Soil and Water Economy in the Pueblo Southwest I. Field Studies at Mesa Verde and Northern Arizona II. Evaluation of Primitive Methods of Conservation. Scientific Monthly 56: 31–44, 134–144. Sullivan, A. P., III 2000 Effects of Small-Scale Prehistoric Runoff Agriculture on Soil Fertility: The Developing Picture from Upland Terraces in the American Southwest. Geoarchaeology 15(4): 291–313.

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Szabolcs, I. 1998 Salt Build-up as a Factor of Soil Degradation. In Methods for Assessment of Soil Degradation, ed. R. Lal, W. H. Blum, C. Valentine, and B. A. Stewart, 253–264. CRC, Boca Raton, FL. USDA-NRCS (U.S. Department of Agriculture–Natural Resources Conservation Service) Soil Survey of Gila River Indian Reservation, Arizona, Parts of Maricopa and Pinal 1998 Counties. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. Wilken, G. C. 1987 Good Farmers: Traditional Agricultural Resource Management in Mexico and Central America. University of California Press, Berkeley.

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[11] Investigating the Consequences of Long-Term Human Predation of r-Selected Species Experiments in the Upland Southwest

C. David Johnson

When considering predator-prey relationships among animal species, ecologists commonly rely on optimal foraging theory (Stephens and Krebs 1986) to guide their hypotheses. Optimal foraging theory is also used in studies of human predation (Simms 1987), wherein hunters are expected to pursue the most rewarding prey available because they provide the greatest nutritional return for the energy expended in the hunt. In North American terrestrial contexts, common large-bodied prey species are in the Order Artiodactyla, which can be locally abundant even though such populations are classified as slow-growing. These animals exhibit relatively low reproductive rates, forage at or near carrying capacity, and are termed “K-selected” species (MacArthur and Wilson 1967). Most small-bodied terrestrial species exhibit relatively robust reproductive potential and are termed “r-selected” species (Pianka 1970). Highly prolific species have often been seen as tolerant of predation, such that normal hunting pressure should not be expected to greatly deplete regional populations. This chapter presents results of a series of experiments designed to investigate the impact of long-term human hunting on r-selected species of the Order Lagomorpha in the Central Mesa Verde region of the upland North American Southwest (Figure 11.1). These experiments are one component of the recently completed implementation of the Village Ecodynamics Project (VEP) ( Johnson, Kohler, and Cowan 2005;

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11.1. Village Ecodynamics Project location map

Kohler et al. 2007; Ortman, Varien, and Gripp 2007; Varien et al. 2007). The VEP combines a variety of paleoenvironmental data with high-precision archaeological data to examine long-term human interaction within a regional environment by employing an agent-based model of multiple household behaviors simulated for a 700-year period on a dynamic model landscape. Overview of the Village Ecodynamics Project Results reported here are derived from aggregate analyses of the output from 128 different experimental model runs, showing average trends in human and animal populations and behaviors. The human population is modeled at the household level, such that the main agents in the model are corporate groups of individuals forming habitation units analogous to households. Model households are charged with producing their required caloric intake through the farming of maize, as originally modeled by Carla Van West (1994) and modified for the recent model implementation (Varien et al. 2007). In addition to raising crops to provide for their total annual caloric intakes, households are also programmed to obtain adequate supplies of animal protein by preying on regional herbi�vore populations, collecting adequate quantities of fuel wood from locally available woody plants, and retrieving potable water from any of a number of perennial sources. As is the case in the real world, procurement costs are associated with all of these subsistence activities. Every model household member age eight and older is available 162

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11.2. Map of study area habitation sites and block surveys

for work, and adequate calories must be produced to fuel base metabolisms and work hours. The ultimate goal of this modeling approach is to shed light on what socio�natural processes might account for the changes in settlement distributions evident in the Mesa Verde prehispanic archaeological record. This record comprises more than 4,000 habitation sites spread over the 1,800-km2 study area (Figure 11.2). The VEP uses an object-oriented, agent-based modeling approach based on the SWARM libraries developed at the Santa Fe Institute (Kohler and Carr 1997). The study area is divided into 200-meter by 200-meter cells, each of which is coded with a variety of environmental characteristics including elevation, presence or absence of four water source classes, and dominant soil type. Soils combine a number of characteristics important to the modeling effort, as described further later in this chapter. The resulting 45,400 4-hectare model cells respond to annually varying climatic input based on retrodicted mean annual temperatures and precipitation, as recently detailed by Tim Kohler and others (Kohler et al. 2007). Two hundred model households are distributed initially in random locations across the model landscape and instructed, using computer-coded algorithms, to go forth and prosper. Agricultural production potential, in conjunction with the nearby availability of water and fuel wood sources and protein-providing herbivore populations, partially influences the settlement decisions of these initial households. The annually dynamic distributions of resources are factored into household decisions as to whether

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each is better off moving to a nearby model cell (to more optimally exploit the local environment) or remaining where it is. Household populations increase at varying rates as dictated by female fertility, which is influenced to some extent by household living standards. Thus households that obtain all necessary resources in adequate amounts are potentially more fertile than those that do not. Offspring who reach age sixteen are available for marriage to single individuals from other households, and, when married, they branch off to form daughter households, allowing for expansion of the human population over the course of the simulation. The gray line shown in Figure 11.3 indicates the average number of households produced throughout the 700 years of the simulation by all 128 model runs. The black, more variable line plots the number of prehistoric households observed within the study area, as best estimated by Mark Varien and others (Varien et al. 2007). Although the model population increases more rapidly in the early centuries of the occupation, it levels off to remain well below the estimated actual populations in the occupation’s later periods. In this series of experiments, model households that fail to maintain adequate protein intakes, a notso-uncommon occurrence, suffer no increased mortality over those that do not. As economic units, model households are required to maintain basic levels of resource procurement at each modeled time step (one year). The amounts of resources each household is tasked to harvest from the model landscape are dependent on the number of individuals in the household. Resource requirements are determined on a per capita basis, with caloric intakes varying between juveniles and adults and females and males. Additional calories are required to fuel each hour of work the household expends in economic pursuits. Other resource requirements are fixed per capita rates. Of primary interest here is the variable parameter of the daily per capita protein requirement. A number of estimates have been made of the number of grams of high-quality protein humans need to maintain health (Nelson and Schollmeyer 2003; USDA 2005; Wing and Brown 1979). This series of experiments uses conservative values of fifteen or twenty-five grams per person per day. Since each of these parameter values was applied to half of the model runs reported here, for the present discussion the average protein requirement is twenty grams per household member per day. At each model step, which represents one of the 700 years dating from AD 600 to 1300, model households evaluate their economic situations and decide whether they can remain in their current location or whether they must relocate to a model cell where basic resources are more readily available. At the end of each of fourteen modeling periods (Ortman, Varien, and Gripp 2007), household locations are reported to an output file that is later compared to actual prehistoric habitation site locations, as discussed by Kohler (2007) and C. David Johnson (2006). This process allows for evaluation of which socio-natural factors might have led to the settlement patterns indicated in the archaeological record of the study area. Modeling Landscape Productivity The study area measures 45 kilometers east-west by 40 kilometers north-south and contains a variety of micro-environments (Winter 1976) situated within a region of

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11.3. Average household population (gray line) for 128 model runs vs. best estimates (black line) based on archaeological record ( from Varien et al. 2007:table 4)

highly dissected mesa and canyon topography, with elevations ranging from approximately 1,500 meters to just over 3,000 meters. Topographic slopes and aspects are variable across much of the study area. Surface water is available as a variable parameter from ephemeral, intermittent, or perennial streams and from seeps or springs (Figure 11.4). In these experiments, agents are allowed to collect water from all but ephemeral streams. The point sources of surface water are known aquifer drainage locations (Figure 11.5). The long-term flow rates of many of these sources are modeled as another dynamic portion of the larger VEP environmental reconstruction (Kolm 2004), and the remaining flow rates are modeled as maintaining static daily flows of 2.5 m3 each. Surficial deposits mantling the sedimentary bedrock of the study area comprise 148 different soil complexes, composed of various combinations of 87 distinct soil components associated with any of 33 different ecological settings (see Johnson 2006; Ramsey 2003). The study area comprises more than 6,000 individual soil polygons (Figure 11.6). Since many of these polygons are too small to represent the dominant soil in any of the 45,400 4-hectare model cells, conversion of the soil polygons to the grid-based model landscape results in a total of 139 soil complexes. Each soil component has numerous associated properties that factor into the natural productivity of the model landscape. Data for three study area soil complexes are presented in Table 11.1. The “Soil” column shows the VEP soil code number, the soil survey soil complex name, the range of slopes on which it is found, and its environmental setting. The “Area” column provides the number of hectares of each soil in the 165

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11.4. Distribution of study area drainages

study area and, below, the number of four-hectare model cells of that soil on the model landscape. The “Productivity” column lists the kilograms per hectare (kg/ha) of normal year annual net primary productivity (NPP) for each soil, the average productivity of that soil throughout the entire simulation produced by all model cells in which it dominates (middle figure), and the standard deviation of that modeled productivity (bottom figure). Soil survey data also provide lists of associated native vegetation species for each soil, the percentages each species contributes to the vegetation community, and figures for annual NPP, converted here to kg/ha (Table 11.1: fourth, fifth, and sixth columns, respectively). The annual NPPs of plant types are then derived from those figures (seventh, eighth, and ninth columns). These data are combined with ecological data for the herbivorous species of interest to determine the amounts of edible meat (tenth and eleventh columns), and thus available animal protein, provided annually by each hectare covered by a particular soil type and its associated native plant community. 166

Investigating the Consequences of Long-Term Human Predation

11.5. Distribution of study area springs

Native vegetation includes trees, shrubs, grasses, and forbs, although forbs are reported as infrequently associated with regional soil complexes, so they are not modeled. Study area soils support eighty-seven modeled species of native vegetation, thirtysix of which are recorded as preferred foods of hares, rabbits, or both species. In this region of the upland Southwest, Black-tailed Jackrabbit (Lepus californicus) and Desert Cottontail (Sylvilagus audubonii) are the dominant lagomorph species, and both are well represented in the archaeofaunal record (Driver 2002; Muir and Driver 2002). In this chapter, these species are synonymous with hares and rabbits, respectively. The dynamics of each of the lagomorph populations are modeled based on a logistical growth equation. Within each four-hectare model cell, each lagomorph population is initialized as Nt. At each model step, Nt + Δt, the annual NPP of preferred foods determines the carrying capacity (K) for each population within each cell. These populations thus fluctuate annually, based on K and the discretized logistic growth function of William Gurney and Roger Nisbet (1998:eq. 3.65), reproduced here as equation 1, where

g = erdt KNt Nt+dt = Ntâ•›+â•›gâ•›(Kâ•›–â•›Ntâ•›) 167

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11.6. Distribution of study area soil polygons

The 1.75 rmax rate of intrinsic population growth of jackrabbits (French, McBride, and Detmer 1965; Haskell and Reynolds 1947; Lechleitner 1958) works in conjunction with available food to regulate the number of these lagomorphs on the model landscape. When the 700-year average level of jackrabbit population is applied across the entire 1,800-km2 model world as the base population, the jackrabbit population is initialized at 200,000 individuals. Even in the absence of predation, the model-world jackrabbit population then fluctuates broadly, ranging between approximately 110,000 and 375,000 individuals throughout the 700 years of the simulation (Figure 11.7). As is partially the case for population fluctuation, the spatial distribution of hares is determined by the availability of preferred foods; the majority of the hare population is found on the mesa tops of the Great Sage Plain. The 2.3 rmax rate of intrinsic population growth of cottontails (Myers 1964) also works in conjunction with available food to regulate the numbers of this smaller species of lagomorph on the model landscape. Based on the 700-year average long-term 168

Semidesert loam

% Slope: 3 ~ 6

Barx ~ .9

8

Loamy bottom

314.0

1,223.0

23.0

Ackmen ~ .9

% Slope: 3 ~ 6

84.3

2

Loamy bottom

% Slope: 1 ~ 3

350.0

1,317.4

1

Ackmen ~ .9

Area

Soil

4.7

728.0

784.0

6.3

1,065.3

896.0

5.8

919.6

896.0

Productivity

Table 11.1. Data for three study-area soil complexes

5.9 5.9

Indian ricegrass Rubber rabbitbrush

5.9 5.9

Indian ricegrass Rubber rabbitbrush

8.8 8.8 3.5

Blue grama New Mexico feathergrass Winterfat

17.5

17.5

17.5

Wyoming big sagebrush

Muttongrass

Indian ricegrass

26.3

5.9

Fourwing saltbush

Galleta

5.9

17.6

25.3

Bottlebrush squirreltail

Wyoming big sagebrush

Western wheatgrass

35.3

5.9

Fourwing saltbush

Muttongrass

5.9

17.6

23.5

35.3

% VC

Bottlebrush squirreltail

Wyoming big sagebrush

Western wheatgrass

Muttongrass

Common name

27.5

68.8

68.8

137.5

137.5

137.5

206.3

52.7

52.7

52.7

52.7

158.1

210.8

316.2

52.7

52.7

52.7

52.7

158.1

210.8

316.2

Kg/ha

0.0

0.0

0.0

Trees

165.1

263.5

263.5

Shrubs

618.9

632.5

632.5

Grasses

3.8

4.9

4.9

Hare

2.2

1.5

1.5

Rabbit

C. David Johnson

11.7. Modeled Black-tailed Jackrabbit population fluctuation in the study area through time in the absence of predation

cottontail population level across the entire 1,800-km2 model world, the cottontail population is initialized at 375,000 individuals. In the absence of predation pressure, our model population of cottontails fluctuates widely, ranging between approximately 170,000 and 620,000 individuals throughout the 700 years of the simulation (Figure 11.8). In part because of the foods commonly preferred by each lagomorph species, as well as the general similarities in vegetation distributions across the study area, cottontails are also found predominantly on mesa tops—albeit in much higher numbers than jackrabbits—and extend into the lower canyon reaches and lowlands as well. Results of Long-Term Household Hunting Now that I have addressed the basic model implementation and the resulting supply of lagomorphs, we can consider the effects of human hunting of these species. This implementation of the VEP simulation assumes that all competing predator species have been driven out of model household hunting territories. In these experiments, the hunting range varies from six to ten kilometers, for an average household hunting radius of eight kilometers across all model runs. For the purposes of this chapter, I have excluded discussion of the rapid decline of the simulated mule deer population (Odocoileus hemionus; Cowan et al. in press), which accounts for the initial low focus on lagomorphs shown in the figures that follow. 170

Investigating the Consequences of Long-Term Human Predation

11.8. Modeled Desert Cottontail population in the study area through time in the absence of predation

Beginning with the larger-bodied jackrabbits, the expected preferred target of human hunters when readily available, hunting pressure increases rapidly from the first human generation, peaking by approximately the eighth human generation (Figure 11.9). On average, first-generation households harvested about six hares annually to meet part of their protein requirement. By the eighth generation, the average hare harvest per household had reached approximately thirty-two individuals annually. Following the tenth human generation, annual household hare harvest leveled off at about twenty-five individuals, fluctuating by an average of five hares annually for the duration of the simulation. The long-term result of this human predation on the modeled hare population is a relatively rapid decrease of approximately 70 percent within the first dozen generations of the regional prehispanic occupation of the study area (Figure 11.10). An examination of the results of human predation of Desert Cottontails shows a similar situation. During the first several human generations (assuming twenty-five years per human generation), model households increased their average annual harvest of rabbits from approximately eight in the first generation to over thirty-five per year by the end of the sixth human generation. From a peak average annual rabbit harvest of about thirty-seven individuals per household, the average harvest then declined to fluctuate slightly around twenty-five rabbits per household per year for the duration of the second half of the simulation (Figure 11.11). The long-term impact on the study area 171

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11.9. Average long-term model household hare harvest

11.10. Modeled Black-tailed Jackrabbit population fluctuation in the study area through time with human predation

cottontail population is dramatic. From the initial seed of 375,000 rabbits at the first model step, representing AD 600, the cottontail population increases to over 565,000 individuals by AD 637. During the final 200 years of the simulation, the average cottontail population fluctuates around an average of 120,000 individuals across the model landscape. This represents an approximately 80 percent depletion from the peak cottontail population level achieved in the early years of the simulation (Figure 11.12). The results of human predation on model lagomorph population levels appear substantially detrimental in the long term. At the same time, it seems that both jackrabbits and cottontails do maintain viable populations in spite of the human harvest pressure, as indicated by Figures 11.10 and 11.12. Are other factors at play that might be saving the lagomorph populations from total depletion by human hunting? As stated earlier, model households are required to produce their required caloric needs by growing maize. Both farming maize plots and obtaining all natural resources from the model landscape require work, and each hour of work costs additional calories that must be produced by farming. It is therefore likely that many households reach the point at which too few hours, household members, or farmland are available to produce enough calories to support other resource procurement activities. A comparison of the caloric expenditures required to cultivate maize with those required to hunt adequate supplies of lagomorphs is telling. The average annual calories expended on farming by all model households in all model runs is relatively high, much the same throughout the entire 700 years of the simulation. In fact, during the final twelve generations of the simulation, model households expend an average of 8 percent fewer calories than do those of the first generation (Figure 11.13). Those same model households of the final twelve generations of the simulation expend a mere 3 percent more calories on farming than the long-term average. The initial dramatic decrease evident in this curve indicates that early households quickly learned to locate in the most efficient places. The increase that follows suggests that resource procurement pressures significantly affected households in the later periods. The household efforts for protein procurement show the opposite trend. The average annual caloric expenditures on hunting increase 467 percent from the first generation

172

Investigating the Consequences of Long-Term Human Predation

11.11. Average long-term model household rabbit harvest

11.13. Model households’ average long-term caloric expenditures on farming

11.12. Modeled Desert Cottontail population in the study area through time with human predation

11.14. Model households’ average long-term caloric expenditures on hunting

to the last twelve generations of the simulation, and the final twelve generations expend 8 percent more calories on hunting than the long-term average. These results strongly suggest that model households were simply not capable of expending any more energy on hunting because they were unable to produce enough calories to do so (Figure 11.14). The proportion of model households unable to meet their required protein intake levels indicates a final telling sign of the substantial impacts of human hunting on lagomorph populations. Aggregate results of all 128 model runs show that by the end of six human generations, 10 percent of model households are not obtaining the average twenty grams of protein per person per day. Within the next six generations that figure increases to 30 percent of model households unable to meet this minimal protein requirement. Throughout the remaining 400 years of the simulation, the rate of household protein deficiency fluctuates between approximately 22 and 40 percent, reaching over 50 percent in some years (Figure 11.15). Conclusions Results reported here address only one aspect of the Village Ecodynamics Project experiments. The main goal of the entire modeling effort is to investigate a number of

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important factors that potentially influenced settlement decisions of Neolithic peoples in general and decisions of the prehispanic Puebloans of the Mesa Verde region in particular (Kohler 2007). A recreation of likely human responses to the long-term dynamics of past environments is facilitated through agent-based modeling. Despite the small size of the study area 11.15. Average proportions of model household compared with the entire area occupied protein deficiency by prehispanic Puebloans, the quantity of environmental and cultural data is considerable. Analysis of interactions among all these dynamic data over several centuries would be difficult at best without the use of this type of modeling strategy. The VEP simulation incorporates an enormous amount of environmental data and relies on in-depth studies of both natural and cultural ecology to inform our modeling efforts. After many verification procedures ( Johnson 2006), I am confident of the validity of both the environmental data used to construct the model landscape and the ecological data supporting the population dynamics. Assuming the model approaches real-world socio-natural interactions, it is clear that human predation of r-selected species in a circumscribed environment could significantly deplete regional populations. Of course, the prehispanic Puebloans of the upland Southwest did not rely solely on lagomorphs to satisfy their protein needs. Artiodactyls are an important component of the early prehistoric faunal assemblages of the Mesa Verde region, but they constitute much smaller proportions of the archaeofaunal record in mid- to late prehispanic Puebloan times (Driver 2002). Additional protein was undoubtedly obtained from various other food sources such as piñon nuts and cultivated beans. Nevertheless, if ethnographic analogy is any indication, Pueblo people were fond of eating meat and commonly felt it was lacking in their diets (Hawley, Pijoan, and Elkin 1943). Despite the conservative per capita protein requirements used in these experiments, long-term hunting of lagomorphs appears to have been an unsustainable source of economically feasible, high-quality protein in the Central Mesa Verde region. The intensification of turkey domestication in the latter centuries of the prehispanic Puebloan occupation of the Mesa Verde region (Munro 1994) likely indicates the perceived need to supplement depleted sources of meat protein previously supplied by over-hunted wild herbivores. Acknowledgments I express sincere gratitude to Carla Van West for the invitation to participate in the Landscape Change session of the 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium. Thanks also to Tim Kohler for the opportunity to participate in the Village Ecodynamics Project and to Carla, Tim, and Kathy Stangl for helpful comments on drafts of this chapter.

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References Cowan, J. A., T. A. Kohler, C. D. Johnson, and K. D. Cooper In press Supply, Demand, Return Rates, and Resource Depression: Hunting in the Village Ecodynamics World. In Emergence and Collapse of Early Villages: Models of Central Mesa Verde Archaeology, ed. T. A. Kohler and M. D. Varien. University of California Press, Berkeley. Driver, J. C. 2002 Faunal Variation and Change in the Northern San Juan Region. In Seeking the Center Place, ed. M. D. Varien and R. H. Wilshusen, 143–160. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. French, N. R., R. McBride, and J. Detmer Fertility and Population Density of the Black-Tailed Jackrabbit. Journal of Wildlife 1965 Management 29: 14–26. Gurney, W.S.C., and R. M. Nisbet 1998 Ecological Dynamics. Oxford University Press, New York. Haskell, H. S., and H. J. Reynolds Growth, Developmental Food Requirements, and Breeding Activity of the Califor1947 nia Jackrabbit. Journal of Mammalogy 28: 129–136. Hawley, F., M. Pijoan, and C. A. Elkin 1943 An Inquiry into Food Economy and Body Economy in Zia Pueblo. American Anthropologist 45: 547–556. Johnson, C. D. Critical Natural Resources in the Mesa Verde Region, A.D. 600–1300: Distribu2006 tion, Use, and Influence on Puebloan Settlement. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Washington State University, Pullman. Johnson, C. D., T. A. Kohler, and J. A. Cowan 2005 Modeling Historical Ecology: Thinking about Contemporary Systems. American Anthropologist 107: 96–107. Kohler, T. A. 2007 Testing Optimality in Site Location in the Archaeological Record: Local Examination of a Global Question. Paper presented at the 106th Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association, Washington, DC. Kohler, T. A., and E. Carr Swarm-Based Modeling of Prehistoric Settlement Systems in Southwestern North 1997 America. In Proceedings of Colloquium II, UISPP, XIIIth Congress, Forli, Italy, September 1996, ed. I. Johnson and M. North. Archaeological Methods Series 5. University of Sydney, Sydney, Australia. Kohler, T. A., C. D. Johnson, M. Varien, S. Ortman, R. Reynolds, Z. Kobti, J. Cowan, K. Kolm, S. Smith, and L. Yap 2007 Settlement Ecodynamics in the Prehispanic Central Mesa Verde Region. In The Model-Based Archaeology of Socionatural Systems, ed. T. A. Kohler and S. van der Leeuw, 61–104. School for Advanced Research Press, Santa Fe.

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Kolm, K. E. 2004 A Paleohydrological Model for the Central Mesa Verde Region. Paper presented at the Santa Fe Institute Workshop on Modeling Long-Term Culture Change, Santa Fe, NM. Lechleitner, R. R. 1958 Movements, Density, and Mortality in a Black-Tailed Jack Rabbit Population. Journal of Wildlife Management 22: 371–384. MacArthur, R. H., and E. O. Wilson The Theory of Island Biogeography. Princeton University Press, Princeton. 1967 Muir, R. J., and J. C. Driver 2002 Scale of Analysis and Zooarchaeological Interpretation: Pueblo III Faunal Variation in the Northern San Juan Region. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 21: 165–199. Munro, N. D. 1994 An Investigation of Anasazi Turkey Production in Southwestern Colorado. Unpublished master’s thesis, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC. Myers, K. 1964

Influence of Density on Fecundity, Growth Rates, and Mortality in the Wild Rabbit. CSIRO Wildlife Resources 9: 134–137.

Nelson, M. C., and K. G. Schollmeyer 2003 Game Resources, Social Interaction, and the Ecological Footprint in Southwest New Mexico. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 10: 69–110. Ortman, S. G., M. D. Varien, and T. L. Gripp Empirical Bayesian Methods for Archaeological Survey Data: An Application from 2007 the Mesa Verde Region. American Antiquity 72: 241–272. Pianka, E. R. 1970 On r and K Selection. American Naturalist 104: 592–597. Ramsey, D. K. 2003 Soil Survey of Cortez Area, Colorado, Parts of Dolores and Montezuma Counties. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Natural Resources Conservation Service; in cooperation with the U.S. Department of the Interior, Bureau of Land Management, and National Park Service; and the Colorado Agricultural Experiment Station. Natural Resources Conservation Service, Washington, DC. Simms, S. R. Behavioral Ecology and Hunter-Gatherer Foraging: An Example from the Great 1987 Basin. International Series 381. British Archaeological Reports, Oxford. Stephens, D. W., and J. R. Krebs 1986 Foraging Theory. Princeton University Press, Princeton. United States Department of Agriculture Dietary Guidelines for Americans 2005 [http:www.health.gov/dietaryguidelines/ 2005 dga2005/document/html/chapter2.htm], accessed June 28, 2005.

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Van West, C. R. 1994 Modeling Prehistoric Agricultural Productivity in Southwestern Colorado: A GIS Approach. Reports of Investigations 67. Department of Anthropology, Washington State University, Pullman, and Crow Canyon Archaeological Center, Cortez, CO. Varien, M. D., S. G. Ortman, T. A. Kohler, D. M. Glowacki, and C. D. Johnson Historical Ecology in the Mesa Verde Region: Results from the Village Ecodynam2007 ics Project. American Antiquity 72: 273–299. Wing, E. S., and A. B. Brown 1979 Paleonutrition. Academic Press, New York. Winter, J. C. Hovenweep 1975. Archaeological Report 2. San Jose State University, San Jose, 1976 CA.

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[12] Human Impacts on Animal Populations in the American Southwest

Jonathan C. Driver

Native Americans of the American Southwest consumed a predominantly vegetarian diet (e.g., Matson and Chisholm 1991), but animals were important sources of protein, fat, minerals, and vitamins (Mann 2000; Spielmann and Angstadt-Leto 1996; Wing and Brown 1979). The supply of meat was a critical limiting factor in human nutrition and health but also probably played a role in human perception of the quality of life in the Southwest. Meat is a highly valued food in most cultures (Abrams 1987), and in Southwestern communities meat was probably sought for its taste and for the feeling of well-being it provides. In this chapter I examine the ways archaeologists have documented and interpreted the evidence for human impacts on wild game populations in the American Southwest, and I briefly consider the rise of domestic turkey as an alternative meat source. After an introduction to some theoretical issues, I review the history of this topic, focusing on the two decades of research that have elapsed since the first Southwest Symposium. I discuss methodological problems, look at the evidence for indirect and direct human impact on animal populations, and show how detailed contextual knowledge of local environment and local human societies improves our understanding of human-�environment interactions.

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Theoretical Background During the last forty years of environmental archaeology, significant shifts have occurred in the general theory and resultant hypotheses about human-environment relationships. In the 1960s, cultural ecology in North America was influenced by a model of the environment as a complex system of interrelated phenomena—climate, soil, vegetation, and animals. Archaeologists tried to explain how human groups fit into this system, often using the concept that human culture could be understood as the way a group adapted to its environment. Karl Butzer (1982), Donald Hardesty (1977), and Robert Netting (1977) are widely cited examples of this approach. Archaeologists and anthropologists were well aware that people affected the natural environment through processes such as fire control, farming, and irrigation. Such activities were sometimes characterized as “management” of the environment (e.g., Williams and Hunn 1982), drawing the idea from both popular and academic literature that indigenous peoples used detailed knowledge about their environment to manage it to supply their needs (e.g., Hughes 1983; Nelson 1983). As the environmental movement of the 1960s and 1970s gained attention, it was not surprising that archaeologists would emphasize the sustainability of the small-scale cultures they studied to highlight long histories of land use that appeared to satisfy human needs without irreparably damaging the environment. By the early 1980s some social scientists had turned to behavioral ecology for predictive models that could be applied to human groups and individuals (e.g., Winterhalder and Smith 1981). In particular, optimal foraging models (Smith 1983) were used to better understand predation strategies of current and past peoples. The first chapter of Michael Jochim’s (1981) study of cultural ecology documents the discomfort many archaeologists felt in making the transition from a model of group adaptation to a model in which the individual organism (or person) was paramount. Over the last twenty-five years, subsistence strategies have been viewed increasingly in terms of benefits to individuals and their kin rather than as mechanisms for group survival (Winterhalder and Smith 2000). Reproductive and sociopolitical self-interest has been incorporated into models of subsistence and adds a new dimension for understanding decisions about use of the environment. Research suggests that even modest human populations have an impact on the environment and that deliberate conservation of resources may have been rarer than has been proposed in studies of indigenous “management” practices (Grayson 2001; Smith and Wishnie 2000). Raymond Hames (2007) provides a useful overview of the current debate about ecologically knowledgeable indigenous people. Good evidence exists that small human populations can affect the biomass of animal populations and the relative frequency of different taxa. Humans are now seen as active agents in the environment, engaged in activities that change its composition and structure. We need not abandon the concept of indigenous people as knowledgeable and competent managers of their environment, although we surely can stop presenting them as early examples of Bureau of Land Management employees. Their lives were complex, and their decisions about subsistence would have been affected by a multitude of considerations. 180

Human Impacts on Animal Populations in the American Southwest

Individuals use food strategically to manipulate their social position. Concepts such as “tolerated theft” (Blurton-Jones 1984) and “showing off ” (Hawkes and Bliege Bird 2002) reveal the world of subsistence to be as much about power and influence as it is about managing resources or obtaining a balanced diet. The renewed interest in feasting, particularly prevalent in archaeological literature (Hayden 2001; Potter 2000; Potter and Ortman 2004), has also reinforced the link between social organization and food. Adding further complexity, the close connection between ideologies and animals has been well documented by the wealth of traditional knowledge in Southwestern societies (e.g., Gnabasik 1981; Tyler 1991), and archaeologists are increasingly incorporating ideological motivation into their interpretation of animal bone assemblages (Hill 2000). Potential Impacts on Southwestern Animal Populations We can propose a list of indirect impacts on animal populations that result from human activities not directly concerned with animal exploitation (Table 12.1), as well as direct impacts on animals that result from predation and human presence (Table 12.2). Each table defines a set of environmental impacts and then lists examples of human behaviors that might cause those impacts, followed by a consideration of how animal populations will be affected. Each animal species will respond differently to human impact, especially indirect impacts. For example, a reduction in piñon-juniper woodland might adversely affect seed eaters but enhance the habitat for grazers. Note that the critical component of time is not included in the tables. Some manipulations of the environment (e.g., deforestation or terracing) have significant long-term consequences that may persist well after people have left the landscape. In other cases (e.g., a rabbit drive), the effects may be a temporary perturbation to an animal population that can rebound easily through reproduction and immigration. Table 12.1. Environmental change induced by people, with indirect effects on animals Environmental change

Examples of behaviors

Indirect effect on animals

Change hydrology

Irrigation, reservoirs, check dams

Attract aquatic species

Change vegetation

Farming, fallowing, forestry, fire

Change food and shelter opportunities

Remove predators

Capture eagles

Reduce predation; relax competition for other predators

Add predators

Raise dogs

Increase predation

Decrease competition

Selective predation

Non-hunted species increase

Increase competition

Raise turkeys

Some wild species must compete for food

Provide shelter

Build structures

Opportunities for commensals

Provide food

Fields, food stores, middens

Population increase

Reduce food

Harvest wild plants

Population decline

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Table 12.2. Environmental change induced by people, with direct effects on animals Environmental change

Examples of behaviors

Direct effect on animals

Increase predation

Communal hunting, human population increase, new technology, domestic dogs

Population reduction of targeted species

More selective predation

Focus on large game, target species for ideological reasons

Population reduction of targeted species

Reduce predation

Taboos, sumptuary rules

Population rises when protected

Increased threat

Settlement density increases

Reduce species with strong flight/avoidance response

Zooarchaeological Studies Perhaps because of the obvious fragility of Southwestern environments and recent environmental problems, such as overgrazing of pasture by European domesticates, Southwestern zooarchaeologists have long been aware of anthropogenic influences on environments and animal populations. I will not review these influences in detail, but it is worth noting a few early examples. Alden Hayes and James Lancaster (1975:185) noted that the strong presence of jackrabbits implied significant clearance of woodlands near Badger House on Mesa Verde. Roger Anyon and Steven LeBlanc (1984) made similar arguments about ratios of jackrabbits to cottontails in the Mimbres Valley. Sally Holbrook (1982) argued that the diverse prehistoric microfauna at Grasshopper Pueblo implied a mosaic of habitats created by ancient farming practices, in contrast to a less diverse fauna currently found around the site. Working on the Dolores Project in the early 1980s, Sarah Neusius (1986) argued that faunal assemblages reflected habitat alteration caused by farming. Steven Emslie (1981a, 1981b) proposed that farming and irrigation along the Rio Grande created habitats that attracted certain bird species. I believe the single most influential publication in Southwestern zooarchaeology in the last two decades has been Christine Szuter and Frank Bayham’s (1989) study of regional and temporal analyses of southern Arizona faunas. Even though regional studies had been done before (e.g., Akins 1985; Driver 1985), this study was considerably larger in geographic and methodological scope. Szuter and Bayham defined two indexes, calculated from numbers of identified specimens (NISP). The artiodactyl index compared the use of large game (represented by artiodactyls, such as deer and pronghorn) with small game (represented by lagomorphs, such as cottontail and jackrabbit). The lagomorph index compared the use of cottontails in relation to jackrabbits. Because artiodactyls and lagomorphs were commonly hunted, easy to identify, and unlikely to be intrusive to sites, these indexes provided a robust method of comparing assemblages. Furthermore, because data from large numbers of sites were considered, repeated patterns could be observed. The two indexes were used to investigate temporal and spatial trends in faunal data, with interesting conclusions about subsistence and settlement in southern Arizona. More important, Szuter and Bayham introduced a number of theoretical consider182

Human Impacts on Animal Populations in the American Southwest

ations that set the agenda for subsequent studies. First, they suggested that increased sedentism would lead to different hunting strategies, which changed impacts on animal populations as people switched from a strategy of seasonal mobility to one of residential sedentism. Second, they introduced the concept of resource depression from behavioral ecology, arguing that hunters would likely depress preferred game species in the immediate exploitation zone around a settlement. Third, they argued that aggregated sedentary populations would alter the vegetation around residential sites, changing the mix of small game species. Finally, they noted that all of these developments would take place over a diverse environment and that natural causes of variation in animal populations would have to be considered in any explanation of variation in faunal assemblages. In summary, Szuter and Bayham showed that a faunal assemblage had to be considered as the outcome of a complex and dynamic relationship among the natural environment, settlement patterns, human population, subsistence, and social systems. Their theoretical and methodological approaches have inspired subsequent regional studies (e.g., Driver 2002; Mick-O’Hara 1994; Potter 1997a) and further work on the human impact on animal populations. Before considering such studies, I first provide cautions about methods of analysis. Methodological Problems Interpretation of past human behavior from faunal assemblages involves numerous methodological problems. Many of these problems are almost universal to faunal studies and have been well documented elsewhere (Lyman 1994; O’Connor 2000; Reitz and Wing 1999). I will not recapitulate the extensive literature on topics such as assemblage formation, but I will highlight methodological issues that particularly affect Southwestern assemblages and the interpretation of human impact on the environment. One taphonomic problem that requires discussion for Southwestern assemblages is the role of rodents in the economy. Rodents are found in most Southwestern assemblages. Good evidence from coprolites exists for human consumption of rodents, but rodents could have been deposited in sites in many other ways. They may have burrowed into the deposits and died there, either as commensal inhabitants of the site or after the site fell into disuse. Uninhabited sites may have attracted predators such as owls that brought rodents to sites for consumption. Rodent bones typically exhibit few taphonomic signatures that suggest human use, but that is also the case with lagomorph bones, which are generally assumed to result from human procurement. John Speth (2000) has argued that rodent age structure might distinguish hunted populations from natural deaths, and Brian Shaffer (1992) suggests that element frequency may distinguish natural from cultural deposits. However, these suggestions have not been applied widely, and many analysts simply discount rodents because of uncertainty about their origin. However, Rebecca Dean (2007) offers a well-reasoned rationale for considering smaller mammals as potential prey items. When one compares assemblages analyzed by different researchers, a host of further problems appears (see Driver 1992, 2002). Having compiled data from hundreds of zooarchaeological reports, I can state with confidence that few zooarchaeologists

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discuss identification methods. Because Southwestern faunas are dominated by relatively few distinctive taxa, it is unlikely that inter-observer variation is as serious as Kenneth Gobalet (2001) found. However, variation certainly exists among analysts in the Southwest. For example, some are willing to identify long bone shaft fragments as “artiodactyl,” even though insufficient diagnostic criteria are evident to specify which skeletal element is present. How these analysts distinguish such fragments from other large vertebrates (such as carnivores) is not discussed. It is also possible to find specieslevel identifications made for large numbers of lagomorph specimens, even though osteological differences between various species of cottontails or jackrabbits are very subtle and identification to the genus level is probably as far as one should go for most specimens. Zooarchaeological reports often lack information about excavation procedures and screen size, both of which can affect the proportions of different taxa. Faunal assemblages from multi-component sites are sometimes treated as a single assemblage, preventing the analysis of temporal change and coarsening the period into which the assemblage can be placed. Quantification is a general problem in zooarchaeology. We do not know how the number of faunal specimens relates to the actual number of animals originally deposited at a site. Even though zooarchaeologists calculate relative frequencies of taxa, in practice these calculations are used to identify directional trends in the data rather than absolute quantities (Grayson 1979; Lyman 2008). Because archaeologists find change more interesting than stability, zooarchaeological studies of single sites or regions that do not document variation tend to receive little attention. Zooarchaeologists in the Southwest have used three indexes to compare faunal assemblages: the lagomorph index, the turkey index, and the artiodactyl index. The lagomorph index (Driver and Woiderski 2008; Szuter and Bayham 1989) measures the proportion of cottontail rabbits in the rabbit and hare (lagomorph) assemblage. The turkey index (Spielmann and Angstadt-Leto 1996) measures the ratio of turkeys to lagomorphs and provides a measure of the intensity of turkey hunting or husbandry. Finally, the artiodactyl index (Szuter and Bayham 1989) measures the ratio of artiodactyls to lagomorphs and is thus a measure of the emphasis on large game. Changes in each index can be related to human impact on the environment or on prey species. Other measures of fauna have been used, mainly in regional studies where large numbers of assemblages can be compiled. For example, Dean (2005) used ubiquity measures that count the number of presence/absence events in features on a site for each taxon, a method that has a long history in paleoethnobotany. Robert Leonard (1989) developed a detailed analysis of taxonomic richness when comparing sites on Black Mesa. The problems introduced by inconsistent application of quantification methods deserve a separate study and cannot be treated at length here. Many zooarchaeologists seem unaware of the complex relationship between NISP and the derived calculation of minimum number of individuals (MNI), first dealt with systematically by Don Grayson (1979) and recently reconsidered with great clarity by R. Lee Lyman (2008). Whether MNI or NISP values are used has a considerable effect on comparisons between assemblages, as does the method of calculating MNI.

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Table 12.3. Lagomorph index and artiodactyl index results from Arroyo Hondo* Arroyo Hondo: time periods LInisp

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

0.42

0.44

0.58

0.58

0.41

0.43

0.64

0.63

LImni

0.45

0.47

0.55

0.55

0.43

0.49

0.58

0.59

AInisp

0.18

0.13

0.17

0.16

0.25

0.31

0.16

0.12

AImni

0.30

0.27

0.27

0.25

0.34

0.34

0.29

0.24

Note: *LInisp and AInisp were calculated from NISP values; LImni and AImni were calculated from MNI values. Source: Lang and Harris 1984.

Table 12.4. Lagomorph index and artiodactyl index results from Fremont villages* Median village and Evans Mound occupational units 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

LInisp

0.22

0.31

0.10

0.21

0.28

0.14

0.21

0.22

0.20

LImni

0.30

0.38

0.33

0.38

0.43

0.23

0.27

0.25

0.26

AInisp

0.67

0.74

0.81

0.76

0.91

0.82

0.88

0.88

0.62

AImni

0.22

0.35

0.45

0.47

0.78

0.60

0.70

0.58

0.34

Note: *LInisp and AInisp were calculated from NISP values; LImni and AImni were calculated from MNI values. Source: Ugan 2005.

Two examples demonstrate some of this complexity. Richard Lang and Arthur Harris (1984) provide details on eight temporal samples from Arroyo Hondo, with NISP and MNI data for artiodactyls and lagomorphs. As a result, one can calculate the artiodactyl index and the lagomorph index using either MNI or NISP values. When these calculations are done (Table 12.3), the value for the lagomorph index is similar, regardless of whether MNI or NISP figures are used. In contrast, the value for the artiodactyl index is usually lower when calculated using NISP than when using MNI. The reason for this difference is probably the well-documented relationship between MNI and NISP (Grayson 1979). When data are converted to MNI values, the representation of relatively rare taxa becomes more pronounced. For larger samples of a taxon, a good linear correlation between NISP and MNI is present, but for smaller samples, low NISP values tend to be converted to MNI values that represent a greater proportion of the overall MNI totals (Grayson 1979). At Arroyo Hondo, cottontails and jackrabbits are more common than artiodactyls. As a result, the relationship between MNI and NISP tends to be more consistent, and the lagomorph index is similar regardless of whether MNI or NISP is used. However, artiodactyl MNI values constitute a higher percentage of the assemblage than artiodactyl NISP values, so the artiodactyl index is higher when calculated using MNI. Andrew Ugan (2005) studied fauna from a time series spanning two sites in Utah (Table 12.4). The artiodactyl index is higher when calculated using NISP values because the ratio of NISP to MNI is greater for artiodactyls than for lagomorphs at these sites. A strong linear correlation between the artiodactyl index values calculated using the two

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methods is present, but a less consistent relationship exists when the lagomorph index is calculated in two different ways. This difference is probably caused by the relatively small size of the cottontail NISP assemblage, resulting in greater diversity in the NISP: MNI ratio and hence a greater diversity of lagomorph index values. Zooarchaeological Studies of Indirect Impacts The availability and nature of wild resources around Southwestern settlements were dependent on three general factors: limiting factors in the natural environment, such as moisture and temperature; human landscape modifications that changed the ecological relationships of naturally occurring species and thus indirectly influenced animal populations (see Table 12.1); and direct exploitation of plants and animals that altered the population dynamics of wild species used for food and other purposes (see Table 12.2). Examples of all three of these general scenarios have been referenced in animal bone studies over the past twenty years. With regard to limiting factors in the environment, any comparative study of assemblages must first account for variation caused by the natural environment, and proponents of a hypothesis concerning anthropogenic effects on landscapes must demonstrate that environmental variation and change was not the cause of observed differences in faunal assemblages (Szuter and Bayham 1989; Ugan 2005). Because this chapter is concerned mainly with anthropogenic effects, I simply provide a few examples to show that zooarchaeologists have consistently investigated the natural environment as a causative factor in animal relative abundance. Szuter and William Gillespie (1994) noted that environments in the northern Southwest support higher cottontail populations, whereas in the more arid southern regions, jackrabbits tend to be dominant. At a local scale, ratios between these two genera may be correlated with elevation, as Shaffer and Christopher Schick (1995) and Julia Sanchez (1996) suggested for the Mimbres Valley. The ratio of artiodactyl species is also controlled by environmental parameters. For example, bighorn sheep are often dominant in southeastern Utah assemblages, whereas in the neighboring Mesa Verde region in southwestern Colorado, deer are more common. At a finer scale, a study of the Sacramento Mountains of southeastern New Mexico showed that the deer-to-pronghorn ratio seems linked to topography and vegetation around sites (Driver 2000). Although fish are not generally associated with Southwestern faunas, a number of studies have shown regular use of fish and other aquatic species, but only near large rivers (e.g., James 1987, 2004). Table 12.1 lists a wide range of human behaviors that might indirectly affect animal populations. Archaeologists in the Southwest have often referenced Olga Linares’s concept of “garden hunting” (1976), arguing that the development of fields and crops would provide habitat for some pest species (such as rodents) and would also attract animals from nonagricultural areas to feed. Deer and various bird or rodent species are often cited as animals that would visit gardens to obtain food. Neusius (1986) proposed this concept for the Dolores Valley in Basketmaker III and Pueblo I times and provided a more general consideration of the hypothesis in a later publication (Neusius 1996).

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Szuter (1991) referenced the idea in her extensive study of hunting by Hohokam farmers. The major criticism of the hypothesis was made by Leonard (1989), who argued that archaeologists had misinterpreted Linares’s model by suggesting that increased diversity of animals would be expected if farmers hunted small game in gardens. Leonard noted that Linares argued for increased biomass, not increased species diversity. He also pointed out that it would be extremely difficult to document increased animal biomass from archaeological samples, even if that was a widespread effect of agriculture (a proposition he challenged). He argued that the best evidence for garden hunting would be the appearance of a new animal species at the same time farming was adopted and that most archaeologists had failed to find such evidence. Because commonly hunted animals could live in gardens or in habitats undisturbed by farming, confirmation of garden hunting would be difficult. Neusius (1996) responded that there were logical reasons for assuming that garden hunting would occur. For example, hunting in fields could be undertaken in conjunction with horticultural activities, thus reducing the scheduling problems that would otherwise occur if farmers wanted to hunt. Second, hunting in fields would reduce direct competition with animals for plants humans had grown and tended. Third, farming diets would have been deficient in animal protein. She argued that changing ratios of species could demonstrate garden hunting, not simply the arrival of species that had not been present prior to agriculture. She concurred with Leonard that diversification of faunal assemblages was probably a poor proxy measure for garden hunting. Neusius (1996) argued further that the absence of certain species from Dolores assemblages supported her assertion that garden hunting was an important factor in game procurement. For example, large and medium mammal species that ought to be preferred game—such as black bear, elk, bighorn sheep, pronghorn antelope, and beaver—did not make up significant parts of the faunal assemblages in the Dolores Valley. The dominant large mammal was deer, known to be attracted to fields, gardens, and “edges,” but the assemblages were generally composed of small mammals. I have used a similar argument for Pueblo III assemblages dominated by cottontails and domestic turkey in the Central Mesa Verde region (Driver 2002). Even large assemblages are remarkable for their lack of large mammals, and I have argued for constrained hunting in the immediate vicinity of settlements and fields. Human populations in Pueblo III times were dense (e.g., Varien 1999), and both major and minor communities had overlapping economic catchments (Varien, Van West, and Patterson 2000). Large “source” areas for game beyond the densely settled areas were available, yet animals that should be highly prized (elk, deer, eagles, carnivores) were not hunted, suggesting that few hunting trips were made beyond the fields. The high frequency of cottontails suggests localized hunting because jackrabbits were more likely to be taken in communal drives beyond field systems (Potter 1997b). The high frequency of turkey shows the need to supplement wild game with domestic animals fed almost exclusively on corn (Rawlings 2006), which has considerable labor costs. These lines of evidence suggest localized hunting patterns, possibly imposed by the threat of violence to those who ventured too far away from villages (Rawlings 2006).

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By evaluating faunal samples from relatively long time periods in the Hohokam region, Dean (2005) was able to look at long-term trends in small mammal and bird usage and to suggest how agricultural intensification affected animal populations. Because she could show that the small mammal and small bird faunas resulted from human activity, she was able to measure human use of anthropogenic agricultural landscapes through time. Her data suggest that the introduction of agriculture did not have a noticeable effect on small mammals and birds for many centuries. Changes in the overall percentages and ubiquity of rodents and gramnivorous and insectivorous birds occurred in phases associated with more intensive irrigation agriculture and aggregated human populations. Both Dean (2005) and I (Driver 2002) answered some of Leonard’s challenges to the garden hunting hypothesis by showing that change through time could be observed and correlated with changing settlement patterns and farming practices. One of Leonard’s criticisms of the garden hunting hypothesis remains valid. One cannot propose that garden hunting occurred in the Southwest by listing the presence of species known to exploit domestic crops because most Southwestern herbivores that would be attracted to food-rich gardens and fields would also be available to hunters in nonanthropogenic environments. It is therefore important to link faunal variation to variation in the anthropogenic landscape if one wishes to hypothesize garden hunting activity. Perhaps the most hypothesized effect of agriculture has been the change in ratios between cottontails and jackrabbits. Although a number of researchers proposed the hypothesis independently, Szuter and Bayham (1989) provided a comprehensive analysis and hypothesis to explain ratios of jackrabbits and cottontails. They argued that abandoned fields in southern Arizona and New Mexico should revert to open vegetation and that this transition would favor jackrabbits rather than cottontails because the latter rely on brush cover to escape predation. They also suggested that jackrabbits were more likely to be taken in communal hunting, which would be more common in larger settlements associated with more extensive fields. Thus the combined effects of environmental modification and changing human population would favor jackrabbit hunting. In the arid Basin and Range country south of the Mogollon Rim, this hypothesis seems valid. A number of cases have linked an increase in the jackrabbit-to-cottontail ratio to increased agricultural activity or settlement density (Cairns and Ciolek-Torrello 1998; Cairns and Huber 1999; Maxwell and Shelley 2003). However, on the Colorado Plateau and more specifically in piñon-juniper woodlands, the reverse seems to be true (Driver and Woiderski 2008). Intensification of agriculture associated with higher human populations is correlated with an increase in cottontails over jackrabbits, most likely because abandoned fields have a different sequence of vegetational succession that includes brush and shrubs. This example illustrates the danger of applying explanatory models that work in one region to another region without adequately considering environmental variables. Zooarchaeological Studies of Direct Impacts Zooarchaeologists also comment on the direct impact of human predation on prey species in the Southwest. Although the direct impacts have been investigated for a vari-

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ety of animals, including fish ( James 2004), the best-known studies involve the role of people in depleting large game species, notably artiodactyls. The depletion of artiodactyls is typically documented by calculating the artiodactyl index that measures the proportion of artiodactyls in the artiodactyl plus lagomorph assemblage. Szuter and Bayham (1989), who proposed the index, were among the first researchers to suggest that resource depression might be detectable in the Southwest, but their study of southern Arizona concluded that variation in the artiodactyl index between lowland and upland sites was caused in part by the environment and in part by the organization of hunting activities. However, other archaeologists have claimed to find evidence for a reduction in artiodactyl populations caused by human predation. A straightforward ecological explanation for the worldwide tendency to deplete large mammals has been advanced (Grayson 2001). Large animals are desirable for three reasons: they provide high postencounter returns of meat and fat, they increase the hunter’s prestige, and they supply raw materials—such as hide and bone—in large packages. Given this desirability and assuming an absence of conscious conservation behaviors (Smith and Wishnie 2000), people will hunt large mammals intensively, resulting in a decline in population density. The chances of a large mammal species surviving at low population densities in an anthropogenic landscape are enhanced by the presence of less intensively exploited buffer zones or game sources lying between areas of more intense human settlement (Hill and Padwe 2000; Martin and Szuter 1999). Such reservoirs are likely in the Southwest, given the patchy distribution of human populations. Therefore, one would predict that the overall use of artiodactyls would decline through time if a region was occupied continuously. Eventually, an equilibrium point should be reached when the population density of artiodactyls makes their inclusion in the human diet suboptimal in terms of yield per expenditure of energy. As artiodactyl populations recover, they will again be subjected to hunting pressure, and overall population density will decline. Alternatively, a continual supply of artiodactyl immigrants to the anthropogenic zone from less intensively exploited source areas may exist. This supply has the same effect of increasing prey density and makes hunting an optimal strategy, at least for a short time. Good evidence for this phenomenon exists in the Southwest ( James 2004). Various authors have argued for depression of artiodactyls in the Mimbres Valley (Cannon 2000, 2003; Nelson and Schollmeyer 2003; Shaffer and Schick 1995). I have shown that for the northern San Juan region the artiodactyl index became very low in Pueblo III times when human population was highest (Driver 2002). Janetski (1997) recorded a decline in artiodactyls in Fremont villages, as did Mick-O’Hara (1992) for the Rio Grande. However, a reduction in artiodactyl specimens in faunal assemblages was avoidable, even when aggregated settlements were present. Noting that some aggregated communities continued to hunt quantities of artiodactyls, Speth and Susan Scott (1989) proposed an initial overexploitation of large game, such that the area around an aggregated village would be a game sink. However, beyond the sink would be source areas that had not been subjected to intense predation, and hunting expeditions to these areas would be a better strategy than switching to small game in closer proximity to the village. A number of places in the Southwest had relatively high artiodactyl indexes in spite

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of the presence of aggregated villages. For example, in the Sacramento Mountains of eastern New Mexico, villages had significant quantities of deer, pronghorn, and bison, resulting in artiodactyl indexes of 0.5 or 0.6 (Driver 2000). Katherine Spielmann and Eric Angstadt-Leto (1996) summarized data from a number of examples along the Rio Grande Valley. If we recalculate their data to conform to the definition of artiodactyl index used in this chapter (Szuter and Bayham 1989), the artiodactyl indexes for some aggregated communities were in the 0.4 to 0.7 range, although others were lower. Pueblo III sites on Mesa Verde tended to have higher artiodactyl indexes than nearby lowland sites, although values were generally lower than those of some Rio Grande villages (Driver 2002). Ugan (2005) documented high index values at two Fremont sites. Although this hypothesis needs further investigation, I propose that two factors contributed to variation in the artiodactyl index, once one has ruled out variation in the carrying capacity of the local environment. First was the availability of source areas for large game within a reasonable distance of the aggregated settlement. Such areas cannot have had significant human settlement (otherwise local big game depletion would have occurred), and they must have been productive enough to make extended hunting trips worthwhile. In the Southwest, such conditions were normally met in upland environments, as originally suggested by Szuter and Bayham (1989) in their study of lowland and upland Hohokam sites. Upland areas typically have higher precipitation and thus could support denser artiodactyl populations. Above a certain elevation, Southwestern uplands are unsuitable for agriculture, and they lacked permanent human populations, thus reducing hunting pressure. Most of the sites discussed by Speth and Scott (1989), Driver (1985, 2000), Ugan (2005), and Spielmann and Angstadt-Leto (1996) that have high artiodactyl indexes seem to have had a mountainous hinterland. In lower and more arid areas, such as Chaco Canyon and the Phoenix Basin, the vegetation could not support a large artiodactyl population at any time. A second factor is the relationship of aggregated sites to their neighbors, which also deserves more detailed attention than I can give here. However, it is striking that in the northern San Juan region in Pueblo III times, no evidence exists for long-range hunting expeditions from the densely settled lowlands to the nearby highlands. Tiffany Rawlings (2006) suggested that the tight packing of settlements and the threat of raiding gave rise to conditions in which it was too dangerous for groups of men to leave a village to undertake long-range hunting. In contrast, aggregated villages in the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains were further apart than aggregated sites in the northern San Juan (compare maps in Kelley 1984 with Varien 1999). In such circumstances, less chance would exist that neighbors with potentially aggressive intentions would observe a temporary absence of men. Dean (2001) has suggested that social relationships could have influenced decisions about hunting large game. Using samples from Silver Creek, she showed that increased artiodactyl hunting was not correlated simply with a rise in aggregated settlements in Pueblo IV times because a non-aggregated Pueblo IV settlement displayed an increased artiodactyl index when compared with an earlier Pueblo III site. She suggested that artiodactyl hunting could have been related to the need to acquire social status in communities undergoing significant social and religious upheaval during the Pueblo III to

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Pueblo IV transition. Her spatial analysis of artiodactyl specimens suggested that they were found more often in contexts associated with ceremonial activity, such as plazas and kivas, and she used this evidence to support her interpretation of a sociopolitical factor behind increased artiodactyl exploitation. Robert Muir and I (Muir and Driver 2002) reported a similar situation at Pueblo III aggregated sites in southern Colorado where artiodactyl specimens were found in association with towers and D-shaped structures in the largest sites. In these cases, though, the overall use of artiodactyls was very low. Although the focus has been on resource depression of large game, some evidence exists for depression of other taxa. Steven James (2004) showed that Hohokam farmers fished with sufficient intensity to reduce the average size (and thus age) of prey items. I have documented a reduction in the frequency of the admittedly rare carnivores in sites in the northern San Juan (Driver 2002). Furthermore, eagles were rare in the densely packed Pueblo III villages of that area, but it remains unknown whether this scarcity was a result of depletion of the local population or a change in attitude toward the bird. A logical consequence of depleting the most favored game animals was to increase the diet breadth (Smith 1983). Dean (2007) provided an example of how one might track such changes in the Southwest. Working with Hohokam assemblages, she noted that it is difficult to detect resource depression because large game was always rare in southern Arizona. She proposed that the diversity of hunting methods would provide a different kind of measure of human impact on the environment. She hypothesized that the preferred small game would be lagomorphs and that adding new resources (taken with new hunting methods) would indicate that people had broadened their diet breadth to compensate for reduced availability of the preferred prey. Dean divided game into a variety of categories based on habitat and hunting methods (e.g., fast-running terrestrial game versus flying prey) and then measured the evenness of exploitation of the different categories. Two analyses were undertaken, one including large terrestrial game and one excluding that category. The clearest results were obtained when the largest game were excluded. Prior to the Colonial period, most sites were dominated by the hunting of fast-moving terrestrial game (mainly lagomorphs). Beginning with the Colonial period, more evenness in the reliance on different game categories was evident, suggesting diversification of hunting techniques and prey choices. This evenness was most notable during the Classic period, when human population is thought to have been the greatest. If large game was included, the prevalence of evenness was more pronounced in the Classic period. Dean also showed that diversification of hunting practices was most pronounced in areas with the most highly aggregated populations. The Role of Domesticates In some areas of the Southwest, turkey was a common component of faunal assemblages, typically in Pueblo III and IV times. Isotopic evidence from the northern Southwest shows that turkeys’ diet mirrored humans’ diet, with maize contributing significantly

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to each (Rawlings 2006; unpublished data). Spielmann and Angstadt-Leto (1996) suggested that turkeys are adapted to higher elevations and cooler conditions, so they may have had difficulty surviving in lower-elevation sites south of the Mogollon Rim. However, in more mesic conditions on the Colorado Plateau and along the Rio Grande, turkey was an important food source when wild game was limited. Turkeys required protection, food, and water, so evidence of this commitment from people probably indicates a lack of animal resources that could be obtained with less effort. Optimal foraging theory suggests that turkey intensification should have occurred as the availability of more highly valued resources declined, and we can postulate this decline as a cause for increased percentages of turkeys in many assemblages in later periods. One way to test this hypothesis is to see what happened when the situation was reversed and other resources became available to people who raised turkeys. At sites in the Zuni area, turkeys were common during Pueblo III times (Potter 1997a). When the Spanish introduced domestic sheep and goats in the seventeenth century, Zuni people had the option of continuing to raise turkeys or switching to European domesticates. Not surprisingly, turkey declined in use and was replaced by larger-bodied sheep and goats that could be provisioned by extensive grazing rather than through the production of maize surpluses (Tarcan 2005). Intensification of turkey production in pre-colonial sites is correlated with higher human population densities in later periods (e.g., Driver 2002; Munro 1994). Turkey was not a major resource at sites with higher artiodactyl values (e.g., Driver 1985; Lang and Harris 1984; Mick-O’Hara 1992), and its use at Zuni declined with the introduction of European domestic artiodactyls. It therefore seems likely that a strong preference for turkey reflects a severe lack of wild animal protein that was overcome by investing significant labor in tending flocks and creating agricultural surpluses the birds could convert to protein. Conclusions In the American Southwest, archaeologists have postulated human impacts on animal populations for at least thirty years, and this topic has received systematic attention over the last two decades, with two foundations for these studies. First, archaeologists recognize that Southwestern environments are relatively fragile and that a variety of indigenous practices, from agriculture to forestry to hunting, could have created anthropogenic environments that had distinctive faunal associations. Second, archaeologists have adopted a number of models from optimal foraging theory and have looked at issues such as resource depression, prey choice, and diet breadth to understand the ecological consequences of human actions. Although some researchers have tended to seek monolithic explanations for certain phenomena, such as causes of variation in the lagomorph index or the artiodactyl index, more recent studies emphasize the need to contextualize the data with regard to the local environment and the particular details of human social and ecological relationships (e.g., Dean 2007; Driver and Woiderski 2008).

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Hill, K., and J. Padwe 2000 Sustainability of Ache Hunting in Mbaracayu Reserve, Paraguay. In Hunting for Sustainability in Tropical Forests, ed. J. G. Robinson and E. L. Bennett, 79–105. Columbia University Press, New York. Holbrook, S. J. Prehistoric Environmental Reconstruction by Mammalian Microfaunal Analysis, 1982 Grasshopper Pueblo. In Multidisciplinary Research at Grasshopper Pueblo, ed. W. A. Longacre, S. J. Holbrook, and M. W. Graves, 73–86. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 40. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Hughes, J. D. 1983 North American Indian Ecology. Texas Western Press, El Paso. James, S. R. Qualacu Archeofauna: Faunal Patterns from a Late Prehistoric Piro Pueblo along 1987 the Rio Grande in Western New Mexico. In Qualacu: Archeological Investigation of a Piro Pueblo, ed. M. P. Marshall, 95–107. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and University of New Mexico, Office of Contract Archaeology, Albuquerque. 2004 Hunting, Fishing, and Resource Depression in Prehistoric Southwest North America. In The Archaeology of Global Change: The Impact of Humans on Their Environment, ed. C. L. Redman, S. R. James, P. R. Fish, and J. D. Rogers, 28–62. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. Janetski, J. 1997

Fremont Hunting and Resource Intensification in the Eastern Great Basin. Journal of Archaeological Science 24: 1075–1088.

Jochim, M. A. Strategies for Survival: Cultural Behavior in an Ecological Context. Academic Press, 1981 New York. Kelley, J. H. The Archaeology of the Sierra Blanca Region of Southeastern New Mexico. Anthropo1984 logical Papers 74. Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Lang, R. W., and A. H. Harris 1984 The Faunal Remains from Arroyo Hondo Pueblo, New Mexico. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Leonard, R. D. Anasazi Faunal Exploitation: Prehistoric Subsistence on Northern Black Mesa, Ari1989 zona. Occasional Paper 13. Center for Archaeological Investigations, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Linares, O. F. “Garden Hunting” in the American Tropics. Human Ecology 4: 331–349. 1976 Lyman, R. L. Vertebrate Taphonomy. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 1994 2008 Quantitative Paleozoology. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Mann, N. 2000

Dietary Lean Red Meat and Human Evolution. European Journal of Nutrition 39: 71–79.

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Martin, P. S., and C. Szuter 1999 War Zones and Game Sinks in Lewis and Clark’s West. Conservation Biology 13: 36–45. Matson, R. G., and B. Chisholm 1991 Basketmaker II Subsistence: Carbon Isotopes and Other Dietary Indicators from Cedar Mesa, Utah. American Antiquity 56: 444–459. Maxwell, D., and S. Shelley Vertebrate Faunal Remains. In Volume 2: Analyses of Prehistoric Remains, ed. E. E. 2003 Klucas, R. Ciolek-Torrello, and R. Vanderpot, 247–294. Technical Series 73. Statistical Research, Inc., Tucson. Mick-O’Hara, L. 1992 Game Depletion and Selection in the Late Prehistoric Southwest. In Current Research on the Late Prehistory and Early History of New Mexico, ed. B. J. Vierra and C. Gualtieri, 37–49. Special Publication 1. New Mexico Archaeological Council, Albuquerque. 1994 Nutritional Stability and Changing Faunal Resource Use in La Plata Valley Prehistory. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. Muir, R., and J. C. Driver 2002 Scale of Analysis and Zooarchaeological Interpretation: Pueblo III Faunal Variation in the Northern San Juan Region. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 21: 165–199. Munro, N. D. An Investigation of Anasazi Turkey Production in Southwestern Colorado. Unpub1994 lished master’s thesis, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC. Nelson, M. C., and K. G. Schollmeyer 2003 Game Resources, Social Interaction, and the Ecological Footprint in Southwest New Mexico. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 10: 69–110. Nelson, R. K. Make Prayers to the Raven: A Koyukon View of the Northern Forest. University of 1983 Chicago Press, Chicago. Netting, R. McC. 1977 Cultural Ecology. Cummings, Menlo Park, CA. Neusius, S. W. 1986 The Dolores Archaeological Program Faunal Data Base: Resource Availability and Resource Mix. In Dolores Archaeological Program: Final Synthetic Report, ed. D. A. Breternitz, C. K. Robinson, and G. T. Gross, 199–303. U.S. Department of the Interior, Bureau of Reclamation, Engineering and Research Center, Denver. 1996 Game Procurement among Temperate Horticulturalists: The Case for Garden Hunting by the Dolores Anasazi. In Case Studies in Environmental Archaeology, ed. E. J. Reitz, L. A. Newsom, and S. J. Scudder, 273–288. Plenum, New York. O’Connor, T. The Archaeology of Animal Bones. Sutton, Stroud, Gloucester, UK. 2000

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Potter, J. M. 1997a Communal Ritual, Feasting, and Social Differentiation in Late Prehistoric Zuni Communities. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 1997b Communal Ritual and Faunal Remains: An Example from the Dolores Anasazi. Journal of Field Archaeology 24: 353–364. 2000 Pots, Parties, and Politics: Communal Feasting in the American Southwest. American Antiquity 65: 471–492. Potter, J. M., and S. G. Ortman Community and Cuisine in the Prehispanic American Southwest. In Identity, Feast2004 ing, and the Archaeology of the Greater Southwest, ed. B. J. Mills, 173–191. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Rawlings, T. A. 2006 Faunal Analysis and Meat Procurement: Reconstructing the Sexual Division of Labor at Shields Pueblo, Colorado. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC. Reitz, E. J., and E. S. Wing Zooarchaeology. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 1999 Sanchez, J. L. A Re-evaluation of Mimbres Faunal Subsistence. Kiva 61: 295–307. 1996 Shaffer, B. S. Interpretation of Gopher Remains from Southwestern Archaeological Assemblages. 1992 American Antiquity 57: 683–691. Shaffer, B. S., and C. P. Schick Environment and Animal Procurement by the Mogollon of the Southwest. North 1995 American Archaeologist 16: 117–132. Smith, E. A. 1983 Anthropological Applications of Optimal Foraging Theory: A Critical Review. Current Anthropology 25: 625–651. Smith, E. A., and M. Wishnie Conservation and Subsistence in Small-Scale Societies. Annual Review of Anthro2000 pology 29: 493–524. Speth, J. D. Boiling vs. Baking and Roasting: A Taphonomic Approach to the Recognition of 2000 Cooking Techniques in Small Mammals. In Animal Bones, Human Societies, ed. P. Rowley-Conwy, 89–105. Oxbow Books, Oxford. Speth, J. D., and S. L. Scott Horticulture and Large-Mammals Hunting: The Role of Resource Depletion and 1989 the Constraints of Time and Labor. In Farmers as Hunters: The Implications of Sedentism, ed. S. Kent, 71–79. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Spielmann, K. A., and E. A. Angstadt-Leto Hunting, Gathering and Health in the Prehistoric Southwest. In Evolving Complex1996 ity and Environmental Risk in the Prehistoric Southwest, ed. J. A. Tainter and B. B. Tainter, 79–106. Sante Fe Institute Studies in the Sciences of Complexity, vol. 24. Addison-Wesley, Reading, MA.

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Szuter, C. R. 1991 Hunting by Prehistoric Horticulturalists in the American Southwest. Garland, New York. Szuter, C. R., and F. E. Bayham Sedentism and Prehistoric Animal Procurement among Desert Horticulturalists. In 1989 Farmers as Hunters: The Implications of Sedentism, ed. S. Kent, 80–95. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Szuter, C. R., and W. B. Gillespie 1994 Interpreting Use of Animal Resources at Prehistoric American Southwest Communities. In The Ancient Southwestern Community: Models and Methods for the Study of Prehistoric Social Organization, ed. W. H. Wills and R. D. Leonard, 67–76. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Tarcan, C. G. Counting Sheep: Fauna, Contact, and Colonialism at Zuni Pueblo, New Mexico, 2005 AD 1300–1900. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, BC. Tyler, H. A. Pueblo Birds and Myths, 2nd ed. Northland, Flagstaff, AZ. 1991 Ugan, A. 2005

Climate, Bone Density, and Resource Depression: What Is Driving Variation in Large and Small Game in Fremont Archaeofaunas? Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 24: 227–251.

Varien, M. D. Sedentism and Mobility in a Social Landscape. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 1999 Varien, M. D., C. R. Van West, and G. S. Patterson 2000 Competition, Cooperation, and Conflict: Agricultural Production and Community Catchments in the Central Mesa Verde Region. Kiva 66: 45–65. Williams, N. M., and E. S. Hunn Resource Managers: North American and Australian Hunter-Gatherers. Westview, 1982 Boulder. Wing, E. S., and A. B. Brown Paleonutrition. Academic Press, New York. 1979 Winterhalder, B., and E. A. Smith Analyzing Adaptive Strategies: Human Behavioral Ecology at Twenty-Five. Evolu2000 tionary Anthropology 9: 51–72. Winterhalder, B., and E. A. Smith (editors) Hunter-Gatherer Foraging Strategies. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. 1981

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[13] Legacies on the Landscape The Enduring Effects of Long-Term Human-Ecosystem Interactions

Katherine A. Spielmann, Hoski Schaafsma, Sharon J. Hall, Melissa Kruse-Peeples, and John Briggs

The Legacies on the Landscape Project is an ongoing collaboration between ecology and archaeology faculty, graduate, and undergraduate students at Arizona State University. The project was born out of the recognition that strongly integrated interdisciplinary research was essential for understanding human-ecosystem interactions. Our particular case study is focused on understanding the long-term legacy of prehistoric human land use on the ecology of semi-desert grasslands in the Southwestern United States. The Legacies project is situated on Perry Mesa, primarily within Agua Fria National Monument (AFNM), fifty miles north of the Phoenix Basin in central Arizona (Figure 13.1). Semi-desert grassland covers most of the region and generally occurs on soils derived from granite, basalt, or wind-transported material. At this latitude (34º N) and altitude (3,400–3,700 feet) in Arizona, the gradient in elevation includes the southern and lower edge of the range for juniper (Juniperus monosperma (Engelm.) Sarg.) in the north and the northern and upper edge of the range for mesquite (Prosopus velutina Woot.) in the south. Cat claw acacia (Acacia greggii A. Gray) is also common on the mesa. Perry Mesa is an ideal location for studying the ecological consequences of specific human actions because the landscape is characterized by a single, roughly century-long occupation of farmers in approximately the AD 1300s. Intense human impact did not

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13.1. Location of the Legacies on the Landscape Project

recur on Perry Mesa until Anglo ranchers arrived in the mid-1870s, after the U.S. Army moved local Yavapai and Apache tribes to reservations and opened their lands to ranchers. Cattle have grazed the entire area since that time. Basque immigrants introduced sheep ranching to the area in the 1930s but have not herded sheep in the area in the past several decades. The Bureau of Land Management and the U.S. Forest Service administer the Perry Mesa landscape and regulate cattle grazing there. Using data from Perry Mesa, we are addressing an essential question concerning the ecological implications of human action: what are the ecological and social condi200

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tions under which human land use results in€long-lasting transformations of€ecosystem structure and function? Impetus for Archaeological-Ecological Research Interdisciplinary research that unites archaeologists and ecologists provides both fields with greater understanding concerning coupled human-natural systems. Interdisciplinary research with ecologists is critical for anthropology. Since Robert Braidwood’s pioneering multidisciplinary studies in the 1950s (Braidwood and Howe 1960), archaeologists have used environmental data and, in some cases, worked with natural scientists to help to define “the environment” in terms of opportunities and constraints for adaptation. More recently, archaeologists have come to recognize that the environment is more than simply a stage upon which human action takes place, and human impacts have become a focus of archaeological inquiry (e.g., Fall, Falconer, and Lines 2002; Kohler and Matthews 1988; Lentz 2000; Leveau et al. 1999; Redman 1999; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990). Human-impact research, however, has generally lacked analyses of long-term, recursive human-environmental interaction and an ecological perspective on “impact.” Anthropogenic changes are assessed at the scale of human needs rather than in terms of ecosystem structure and function. In ecology, understanding coupled human-natural systems is critical because many landscapes that provide baseline ecological data for evaluating environmental change were structured in part by prehistoric occupations and agricultural practices. To make sense out of the observed ecological patterns on a landscape, it is imperative that we know something of the history of the processes acting to shape those patterns (Swetnam, Allen, and Betancourt 1999). An important, and often under-evaluated, aspect of virtually all landscapes is the fact that humans have been an active element of the biota (Ruddiman 2003). The global consequences of human activity are not just with us now (Vitousek et al. 1997); they have been present throughout the Holocene. As recently as the mid-1980s, people were still treating human-landscape interactions as separate non-ecological interactions that disturbed natural ecological processes (O’Neill et al. 1986), in effect separating humans from ecosystems. In the last fifteen years, however, ecologists and archaeologists have begun to incorporate long-term interactions between human actions and ecological processes in collaborative research (Briggs et al. 2006; Bush and Colinvaux 1994; Dambrine et al. 2007; Dupouey et al. 2002; Foster et al. 2003; Heckenberger et al. 2003; Huntly et al. 2006; Sandor et al. 2007; Vitousek et al. 1997; Willis, Gillson, and Bruncic 2004; Wu and Loucks 1995). Expanding the focus of ecology to include humans as elements and often drivers of landscape processes, rather than as outside disturbers of ecological processes, has led to fundamental changes in the field of ecology (Foster et al. 2003). Some ecologists have gone so far as to assert that human influence throughout the Holocene has been so profound that this epoch should be renamed the “Anthropocene” (Ruddiman 2003). The anthropogenic legacies that have been documented throughout the globe have shown that even relatively small changes to the environment can persist through centuries and even millennia in soils and plant communities (Bahre 1999; Caneva et al. 2003;

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Dambrine et al. 2007; Delcourt and Delcourt 2004; Dupouey et al. 2002; GomezPompa, Flores, and Fernandez 1990; Heckenberger et al. 2003; Myster and Pickett 1992, 1994; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990; Schaafsma and Briggs 2007; Willis, Gillson, and Bruncic 2004). Deciphering the relationship between human land use and ecosystem structure and function thus requires the time depth accessible through the archaeological record. Legacies Project The Legacies project is designed to overcome this long history of examining landscapes from dichotomous natural or social science perspectives (Fairhead and Leach 1996; Head 2000) by focusing on the recursive relationship between human action and ecosystem-scale change. In 2003 a group of archaeologists and ecologists came together to collaborate on research concerning the long-term legacies of prehistoric farming at AFNM. The Legacies project has focused on the Perry Mesa Archaeological District (National Register of Historic Places). A single fluorescence in population and land modification characterizes the district’s prehistory. Ephemeral occupation before about AD 1280 (Ahlstrom et al. 1992:4; Wilcox and Holmlund 2007) contrasts with the subsequent fourteenth-century Perry Mesa Tradition (Stone 2000), for which over 500 archaeological sites have been recorded. These sites include many masonry pueblos of 30 to 100+ rooms, a large number of dispersed 1- to 10-room habitation sites, and petroglyph concentrations. Agricultural features are extensive and include linear soil and water control features (field borders and terraces), rock piles for agave production, as well as field areas conspicuously cleared of rocks (Fish, Moberly, and Pilles 1975; Gumerman, Weed, and Hanson 1975; Heuett and Long 1996; North 2002). Subsistence during this period focused on maize agriculture supplemented with cultivated squash and agave, and a range of wild animal species (Bohrer 1984; Douglas 1975; Fiero et al. 1980; Fish 1980; Heuett and Long 1996). Our research is quantifying the relationship between human actions 700 years ago and ecological patterns and processes present today. As we discuss later, prehistoric activities that altered soil structure and surface rock density created persistent and measurable responses within modern plant communities. Ongoing research is evaluating the degree to which these actions resulted in long-lasting legacies in soil fertility that are still measurable in the twenty-first century (Trujillo in prep). Ongoing research by Kruse-Peeples is evaluating the degree to which these actions altered soil fertility to the point that habitation by prehistoric farmers was no longer tenable. Agricultural Legacies

On Perry Mesa, given the relatively small size of the villages (generally < 100 rooms), the most land-extensive human action was farming. The Legacies project thus has focused especially on the agricultural fields that are indicated by terrace systems. We began our agricultural investigations by creating a GIS database on the nature and 202

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13.2. La Plata agricultural area

distribution of agricultural features and water management strategies on Perry Mesa. To date, this database consists of the fire history of the mesa, present and past grazing allotments, range improvements (stock ponds, water tanks, and similar improvements), soil type, elevation (DEM), prehistoric residential sites, and prehistoric agriculture features. Our work in the spring of 2005 focused on terraces near La Plata and Richinbar pueblos. In the spring and summer of 2007, we substantially increased our knowledge of the spatial scale of agricultural production on Perry Mesa through pedestrian survey and site recording around Pueblo La Plata, Pueblo Pato, and the Bull Tank area (KrusePeeples et al. 2009). We surveyed an 85-hectare (210-acre) area near Pueblo La Plata (NA 11648). The largest agricultural complex we identified, called the La Plata Agricultural Area, is approximately 7 ha (17.5 acres) in size and is located 300 meters south of the main pueblo (Figure 13.2). It contains over 100 linear alignments, several check dams, and a rock pile area with a remnant agave colony. Ecological sampling was conducted in spring and summer of 2007, and analyses of these data are currently under way (Trujillo in prep). The Bull Tank Agricultural Area contains an extensive agricultural complex (Figure 13.3). Bull Tank is located across the canyon north of the 90-room Baby Canyon Pueblo (AZ N:16:45 [ASM]) and immediately northwest of (AZ N:16:28 [ASM]), a smaller roomblock overlooking Baby Canyon. To date, we have documented a field system over 10 ha (24.6 acres) in size, which contains over 300 agricultural features, four 1- and

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13.3. Bull Tank agricultural area

2-room architectural mounds, a 12-room structure, one race track, and three roasting pits. Finally, we surveyed a 91-hectare (225-acre) parcel around Pueblo Pato (Figure 13.4). Pato is a large village with five separate architectural mounds estimated to include

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13.4. Pato Mesa survey area

at least 150 rooms. The survey identified thirty-seven separate architectural units and a nearly continuous distribution of agricultural features including terraces, check dams, and rock pile clusters throughout the survey area. We are currently preparing complete documentation of the agricultural landscape and architectural features near Pueblo Pato. We have focused our ecological measurements on the agricultural fields we have mapped across the mesa. Much of the soil covering the surface of Perry Mesa is derived from wind-blown dust or basalt and thus contains a high silt and clay fraction. The secondary soils on the mesa are derived from granite and are high in the sand fraction. An agriculturalist in the agriculturally marginal environment of Perry Mesa would need to select the best soils possible for successful gardening. Soil texture influences the capacity of soils to retain water, the primary limiting resource to ecological processes in arid and semiarid landscapes. Soil classified as loam (containing about 50 percent sand, 30 percent silt, and 20 percent clay) in the U.S. Department of Agriculture soil classification schema is considered more desirable for agriculture than clay or sand (Figure 13.5). The 2005 pilot study on the terrace soils at Richinbar Ruin and La Plata found that the soil textures on terraces, in most cases, are loamier than the surrounding soils regardless of the parent materials (Kruse-Peeples et al. 2010). To evaluate the degree to which soil texture enhancement characterizes an entire field, in 2007 we collected

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13.5. Soil texture from Bull Tank terraces and off-field (non-terrace) “control” areas

soil texture data from well-constructed terraces near the top of the slope within the Bull Tank field system and from minimally constructed terraces near the bottom of the slope. For example, lower terraces in a field would receive water but perhaps not as great an influx of new sediments compared with terraces near the slope shoulder. It is also possible that the lower, less carefully constructed alignments were added later; thus farmers would have had less time to manipulate soil characteristics. We found that the upper terraces within the Bull Tank agricultural field are loamier in texture than the control, off-Â�terrace soils (Figure 13.5), similar to patterns found at La Plata and Richinbar terraces. The lower terrace soils, however, are indistinguishable in texture from “off-field” non-terraced controls. These data suggest that soils on upper terraces were better places for growing maize than lower terraces and that modern ecological legacies left from this textural modification may be related to water retention and availability. Kruse-Peeples and colleagues (2010) speculate that the primary method prehistoric farmers used to change the textures of the soil in agricultural fields consisted of regulating the flow of water across terraces such that sandier or clayier sediments would be deposited, depend-

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13.6. Profile of trench excavated in a Richinbar terrace showing midden fill

ing on what was necessary to increase the loaminess of the soil. How all this might have been accomplished, however, is still unknown. A second method of preparing terrace soils was discovered on the terraces at Richinbar Pueblo. There, terraces constructed close to the top of the slope had little chance of collecting sediments washed in from above the terraces. People living at Richinbar thus filled the terraces with thirty cm of dark midden deposits on top of bedrock capped by a thin A horizon (Figure 13.6). While it is not likely that many terraces were amended in this way, it is notable that these soils had to have been carried there specifically to fill the area behind the terrace wall. Architectural Legacies

Although the most spatially extensive ecological transformations to the Perry Mesa landscape involve agricultural production, the construction of a series of relatively large masonry pueblos also had an effect on ecosystem structure. During our first field season in 2004, we examined a suite of ecological and archaeological variables at 100-meter intervals along two transects radiating out from Pueblo La Plata and a third “control” transect on an adjacent finger of Perry Mesa where far less evidence of residential occupation is present (Figure 13.7). These data document a rock-depleted “donut” around the pueblo, probably because of room building, and a significant correlation between density of rocks and woody vegetation (Briggs et al. 2006). Specifically, areas cleared of stones support lower densities of woody plants on the landscape, but areas where stones were concentrated, such as within the rubble mounds of the pueblos, support higher densities of woody individuals. Variability in woody plant cover appears to be a long-term biotic response to this anthropogenic alteration. We speculate that the lower density of woody plants near the pueblo is a result of increased fire exposure in rockcleared areas of the landscape. Fires may burn more thoroughly in areas where rocks were removed uniformly, whereas areas that still have many rocks may create a patchy fire mosaic that will not burn as hot (Briggs et al. 2006). We also collected data on the density and community composition of herbaceous plants along the transects at Pueblo La Plata. Ordination analysis shows that the herbaceous communities differ from each other in composition (Figure 13.8). Species richness and diversity near the pueblo are lower than in the “control” area (twenty-one

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13.7. 2004 data collection transects from Pueblo La Plata and on the “control” mesa

species near the pueblo compared with twenty-nine species in the control area), and areas near the pueblo have a lower Shannon-Weaver diversity index score compared with control areas (1.5 versus 2.2, respectively). These numbers suggest that, as found elsewhere in the Southwest (Schaafsma and Briggs 2007), areas containing prehistoric legacies of human actions tend to support lower species diversity. These data parallel prior studies of plant communities on and off the agricultural terraces at La Plata and Richinbar pueblos (Kruse-Peeples et al. 2010), where herbaceous communities on the terraces were more similar to each other and had fewer species than the communities in off-terrace locations. Legacies of Plant Introduction, Manipulation, or Both

A third form of legacy we have documented on Perry Mesa is the contemporary presence of agave in former agave fields near Pueblo La Plata (Figure 13.9). Agave are also concentrated around Richinbar and Pato pueblos, although they are growing in naturally broken rock along the edge of the mesa rather than in association with anthropogenic rock pile fields, as is the case at La Plata. To explore the genetics and morphology of agave associated with the pueblos on Perry Mesa, we measured leaf attributes of agave plants at all three pueblos. Preliminary data from Wendy Hodgson at the Desert Botanical Garden and colleagues of hers at the University of Georgia suggest that these

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13.8. Ordination plot of 2005 herbaceous communities on the pueblo and “control” transects. Ordination plot shows a difference between the herbaceous plant communities on the pueblo and control transects

plants are hybrids, a cross between Agave chrysantha and Agave parryi. We are continuing to map agave on the mesa to determine whether the correlation between agave distribution and large habitation sites is as strong as it currently appears, as well as to evaluate if and how prehistoric peoples manipulated the genetics of agaves in the area. It is possible that the hybrid varieties observable today are a direct result of prehistoric manipulation of agaves for improved palatability, productivity, or other economic uses. Kathleen Parker and colleagues (2007) recently reported that the modern-day pattern of genetic variation in Southwestern agaves is in keeping with farming practices aimed at maintaining diverse genotypes within fields. Southwestern agave still exhibit less genetic variation, however, than is expected from natural agave populations. They infer from this level of variation that prehistoric people in the Southwest were moving agave varieties around the landscape, thereby homogenizing the distribution to some extent. Parker and colleagues (2007) also report that a modern population of two different agave cultigens reflects the dynamics of prehistoric human population movements and exchange, which have contributed to a fine-scale mosaic of genetic variation rather than a pattern of clear regional differentiation—a mosaic still evident many centuries later. It is hoped that with more data from the agaves on Perry Mesa, we can determine

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13.9. Agave fields near Pueblo La Plata

if human actions hundreds of years ago directly influenced the agaves currently growing on the landscape. Conclusions Through a diversity of analyses, the Legacies project is engaging the question of whether humans were drivers of landscape processes on Perry Mesa 700 years ago. The people who began moving onto Perry Mesa in the late 1200s were corn farmers. However, Perry Mesa’s arid climate and clayey soils would have presented challenges to people whose diet depended on corn. In response to these challenges, Perry Mesa farmers constructed rock alignments and terraces that captured both precipitation and sediment. These sediments may have transformed the soils from clayey to more loamy textures over time. Ongoing studies by Kruse-Peeples will determine whether these textures resulted from the prehistoric use of the terraces or through centuries of sediment capture since the terraces were abandoned. Agricultural terraces are distributed widely across the Perry Mesa landscape, possibly a function of both ecological and social conditions. For example, land with sufficient slope to capture runoff but not steep enough to erode fields is distributed patchily across the mesa (Kruse 2007). In addition, the large villages of Perry Mesa are spaced evenly around the edge of the mesa rather than concentrated in one place. Whether this

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configuration of settlements is a result of social divisions, conflict, a balance between village size and the amount of locally available arable land, or some combination is not known. However, Kruse (2007) demonstrated that the locations of the largest villages coincide with the largest patches of arable land on the mesa. Given the accretional growth of these pueblos (Hoogendyk 2009; Mapes 2005; Schollmeyer 2004, 2005), people may have initially lived in small villages, some of which grew as new immigrants joined those villages that had sufficient land to absorb them. Improving our knowledge of Perry Mesa settlement growth will require more fine-grained chronological control than is currently available. As it stands now, it is not possible to divide the Perry Mesa occupation of the fourteenth century into smaller temporal divisions. In the absence of suitable building materials other than rock, these larger villages required the accumulation of a fair number of rocks to construct residences. The fact that the rocks were taken from directly around the pueblos resulted in large, cleared areas, which we hypothesize created a different fire regime than most of the rocky mesa and thus affected the distribution of woody plants on the landscape. Similarly, we found a strong correlation between the abundance of agave stands and human habitation, implying an anthropogenic driver of agave distribution on Perry Mesa. However, we have not yet addressed the larger-scale ecological implications of these patterns in woody plant and agave cover, nor do we fully understand their social drivers. Was corn insufficiently productive that another, reliable carbohydrate resource was necessary to supplement it (Spielmann 1998), or was agave a fundamental part of the cuisine of the people who migrated to Perry Mesa? Or were both the case? Finally, the durability of rock and the effects of rocks on soil texture and water retention in this arid ecosystem suggest that rock movement by humans has resulted in long-lasting ecological legacies that have continued since the first construction of terraces and villages several centuries ago. The likely landscape-scale result of the human actions that took place 700 years ago is a more fragmented and therefore patchier landscape, with patch dynamics that differ from what would have been the case in the absence of people farming. This altered patchiness persists and affects the landscape today. Overall ecosystem production is higher in a heterogeneous (patchier) system compared with that in a homogeneous system, especially in water-limited ecosystems (Aguiar and Sala 1999). The differences, albeit subtle, have implications for ecosystem structure (patchiness) and function (productivity and soil processes). The farmers who migrated to Perry Mesa did not stay more than a few generations. What led them to leave remains a matter of debate. The causes may have been social, including external or internal conflict, or the mesa’s relative isolation from more populated parts of the Southwest. However, they may also have been ecological. Was corn farming sustainable based on available nutrients in soil and sediments captured by the terraces, and did the climate remain suitable for farming? These topics are currently under investigation (Ingram 2009; Trujillo in prep). Perry Mesa is one research location within a larger comparative study of enduring agricultural legacies in the southwestern United States that also includes the Cave Creek area in the northern Phoenix Basin (Schaafsma and Briggs 2007). The shorter-term dry

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farming practiced on Perry Mesa stands in contrast to the longer-term irrigation agriculture evident in the Cave Creek area. Such comparative studies are important because we know from research on modern agricultural systems that the type of agricultural practice and even the timing and amendments within a farming€method result in significantly different ecological outcomes (Gregory, Shea, and Bakko 2005; Robertson, Paul, and Harwood 2000). Furthermore, the effects of current agricultural practices differ depending on climatic and soil factors that influence ecosystem dynamics (Ogle, Breidt, and Paustian 2005). Given this understanding, we cannot expect prehistoric land-use activities to be equal in their long-term impacts. Some landscapes may be more resilient to perturbation€than others, and the ecosystem effects of human actions may effectively “disappear” from the ecological canvas over time, while in other contexts or other land uses, human-induced ecological transformations may endure for millennia. To conclude, while the ecological literature clearly shows that the legacies of disturbance likely differ depending on vegetation type, population dynamics, and speed of nutrient cycling through ecosystems, only a few studies have focused on the longterm ecological legacies of human action in slow-growing, arid land systems that take centuries or more to develop (Briggs et al. 2006). The Southwest thus provides an ideal context to undertake interdisciplinary research that contributes to an emerging literature on long-term human legacies (Gilson and Willis 2004; Sanford and Horn 2000; Vitousek et al. 2004). Acknowledgments Pilot funding for the Legacies project was provided by Arizona State University. Subsequent Bureau of Land Management and National Park Service funding sustained our efforts until we received two National Science Foundation grants in 2006. References Aguiar, M. R., and O. E. Sala 1999 Patch Structure, Dynamics and Implications for the Functioning of Arid Ecosystems. Trends in Ecology and Evolution 14: 273–277. Ahlstrom, R.V.N., M. Adair, R. T. Euler, and R. C. Euler Pothunting in Central Arizona: The Perry Mesa Archeological Site Vandalism Study. 1992 Cultural Resource Management Report 13. USDA Forest Service, Southwestern Region, Phoenix. Bahre, C. J. The Human Imprint, the Legacy of Change: Historic Human Impact on Vegetation 1999 in the Arizona Borderlands. Global Ecology and Biogeography Letters 2: 99. Bohrer, V. 1984

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Domesticated and Wild Crops in the CAEP Study Area. In Prehistoric Cultural Development in Central Arizona: Archaeology of the Upper New River Region, ed. P. M. Spoerl and G. J. Gumerman, 183–260. Occasional Paper 5. Southern Illinois University, Center for Archaeological Investigations, Carbondale.

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Braidwood, R. J., and B. Howe 1960 Prehistoric Investigations in Iraqi Kurdistan. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Briggs, J. M., K. A. Spielmann, H. Schaafsma, K. W. Kintigh, M. Kruse, K. Morehouse, and K. Schollmeyer 2006 Why Ecology Needs Archaeologists and Archaeology Needs Ecologists. Frontiers in Ecology and the Environment 4: 180–188. Bush, M. B., and P. A. Colinvaux Tropical Forest Disturbance: Paleoecological Records from Darien, Panama. Ecol1994 ogy 75: 1761–1768. Caneva, G., A. Pacini, L. C. Grapow, and S. Ceschin The Colosseum’s Use and State of Abandonment as Analyzed through Its Flora. 2003 International Biodeterioration and Biodegradation 51: 211–219. Dambrine, E., J. L. Dupouey, L. Laüt, L. Humbert, M. Thinon, T. Beaufils, and H. Richard 2007 Present Forest Biodiversity Pattern in France Related to Former Roman Agriculture. Ecology 88: 1430–1439. Delcourt, P. A., and H. R. Delcourt Prehistoric Native Americans and Ecological Change: Human Ecosystems in Eastern 2004 North America since the Pleistocene. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Douglas, D. L. 1975 Faunal Remains from Archaeological Sites Excavated by the Central Arizona Ecotone Project: 1973–1974 Field Seasons. In Adaptive Strategies in a Biological and Cultural Transition Zone: The Central Arizona Ecotone Project: An Interim Report, ed. G. J. Gumerman, C. S. Weed, and J. A. Hanson, 96–127. Report submitted to the National Science Foundation, NASA. University Museum Studies 6. Southern Illinois University, Carbondale. Dupouey, J. L., E. Dambrine, J. D. Laffite, and C. Moares Irreversible Impact of Past Land Use on Forest Soils and Biodiversity. Ecology 83: 2002 2978–2984. Fairhead, J., and M. Leach Misreading the African Landscape: Society and Ecology in a Forest-Savanna Mosaic. 1996 Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Fall, P. L., S. E. Falconer, and L. Lines 2002 Agricultural Intensification and the Secondary Products Revolution along the Jordan Rift. Human Ecology 30: 445–482. Fiero, D. C., R. W. Munson, M. T. McClain, S. M. Wilson, and A. H. Zier (editors) The Navajo Project: Archaeological Investigations Page to Phoenix 500KV Southern 1980 Transmission Line. Research Paper 11. Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. Fish, P. R., P. Moberly, and P. J. Pilles Jr. Final Report for Phase IIB Archaeological Studies. Manuscript on file, Museum of 1975 Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. Fish, S. K. 1980

Appendix VI: Agricultural Features and Their Pollen Record at NA11,504. In The Navajo Project: Archaeological Investigations Page to Phoenix 500KV Southern Transmission Line, ed. D. C. Fiero, R. W. Munson, M. T. McClain, S. M. Wilson and A. H. Zier, 261–270. Research Paper 11. Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff.

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Foster, D., F. Swanson, J. Aber, I. Burke, N. Brokaw, D. Tillman, and A. Knapp 2003 The Importance of Land-Use Legacies to Ecology and Conservation. BioScience 53: 77–88. Gilson, L., and K. J. Willis As Earth Testimonies Tell: Wilderness Conservation in a Changing World. Ecology 2004 Letters 7: 990–998. Gomez-Pompa, A., J. S. Flores, and M. A. Fernandez 1990 The Sacred Cacao Groves of the Maya. Latin American Antiquity 1: 247–257. Gregory, M. M., K. L. Shea, and E. B. Bakko Comparing Agroecosystems: Effects of Cropping and Tillage Patterns on Soil, 2005 Water and Energy Use, and Productivity. Renewable Agriculture and Food Systems 20(2): 81–90. Gumerman, G. J., C. S. Weed, and J. A. Hanson Adaptive Strategies in a Biological and Cultural Transition Zone: The Central Ari1975 zona Ecotone Project—an Interim Report. Research Records 6. Southern Illinois University Museum, Carbondale. Head, L. 2000

Cultural Landscapes and Environmental Change. Arnold, London.

Heckenberger, M. J., A. Kuikuro, U. T. Kuikuro, J. C. Russell, M. Schmidt, C. Fausto, and B. Franchetto Amazonia 1492: Pristine Forest or Cultural Parkland? Science 301: 1710–1713. 2003 Heuett, M. L., and P. V. Long Jr. 1996 A Cultural Resource Inventory of Fifteen Selected Linear Transects and a 300-Acre Quadrant on Perry Mesa in Southeastern Yavapai County, Arizona. Cultural and Environmental Systems, Inc., Tucson. Hoogendyk, M. J. Possible Construction Sequence for Room Blocks in Richinbar Ruin on Black Mesa 2009 at Agua Fria National Monument. In Report of the 2007 Field Season, Legacies on the Landscape, Archaeological and Ecological Research at Agua Fria National Monument and Tonto National Forest, ed. K.A. Spielmann, 8–44. Report submitted to the Bureau of Land Management and Tonto National Forest, Phoenix. Huntly, N., H. Maschner, K. Gilliland, and J. Knudsen The Persistence of Human Legacies: Consequences for Plant-Animal Interactions 2006 Linger after 1,000 Years of Abandonment by People. Paper presented at the 90th Annual Meeting of the Ecological Society of America, Memphis, TN. Ingram, S. 2009

Conflict and Climate in the North American Southwest. Invited paper€presented at the Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Atlanta, GA.

Kohler, T. A., and M. Matthews Long-Term Anasazi Land Use and Forest Reduction: A Case Study from Southwest 1988 Colorado. American Antiquity 53: 537–564. Kruse, M. 2007

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Kruse-Peeples, M., W. G. Russell, H. Schaafsma, C. Strawhacker, and J. Wallace 2009 Report of the 2007 Archaeological Survey of Northwestern Portions of Perry Mesa within Agua Fria National Monument, Yavapai County, Arizona. Report on file. School of Human Evolution and Social Change, Arizona State University, Tempe, and Bureau of Land Management, Phoenix Office. Kruse-Peeples, M., H. Schaafsma, J. Briggs, and K. Spielmann 2010 Landscape Legacies of Prehistoric Agricultural Land-Use in the Perry Mesa Region, Central Arizona. In The Archaeology of Anthropogenic Landscapes, ed. R. Dean, 122–141. Southern Illinois University Press, Carbondale. Lentz, D. L. (editor) 2000 Imperfect Balance: Landscape Transformations in the Precolumbian Americas. ColumÂ� bia University Press, New York. Leveau, P., F. Trement, K. Walsh, and G. Barker (editors) 1999 Environmental Reconstruction in Mediterranean Landscape Archaeology. Archaeology of Mediterranean Landscapes 2. Oxbow, Oxford. Mapes, S. D. 2005 The Walls Still Stand: Reconstructing Population at Pueblo La Plata. Unpublished senior honors thesis, Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. Myster, R. W., and S.T.A. Pickett Dynamics of Associations between Plants in Ten Old Fields during 31 Years of Suc1992 cession. Journal of Ecology 80: 291–302. 1994 A Comparison of Rate of Succession over 18 Years in 10 Contrasting Old Fields. Ecology 75: 387–392. North, C. D. 2002 Farmers of Central Arizona’s Mesa-Canyon Complex: Archaeology within and Adjacent to the Agua Fria National Monument. SWCA Cultural Resource Report 02339. Prepared for the Bureau of Land Management Field Office, Phoenix. Ogle, S. M., F. J. Breidt, and K. Paustian Agricultural Management Impacts on Soil Organic Carbon Storage under Moist 2005 and Dry Climatic Conditions of Temperate and Tropical Regions. Biogeochemistry€72: 87–121. O’Neill, R. V., D. L. DeAngelis, J. B. Waide, and G. E. Allen 1986 A Hierarchical Concept of Ecosystems. Princeton University Press, Princeton. Parker, K. C., J. L. Hamrick, W. C. Hodgson, D. W. Trapnell, A. J. Parker, and R. K. Kuzoff 2007 Genetic Consequences of Pre-Columbian Cultivation for Agave murpheyi and A. delamateria (Agavaceae). American Journal of Botany 94: 1479–1490. Redman, C. L. Human Impacts on Ancient Environments. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 1999 Robertson, G. P., E. A. Paul, and R. R. Harwood 2000 Greenhouse Gases in Intensive Agriculture: Contributions of Individual Gases to the Radiative Forcing of the Atmosphere. Science 289(5486): 1922–1925.

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Ruddiman, W. F. 2003 The Anthropogenic Greenhouse Era Began Thousands of Years Ago. Climactic Change 61: 261–293. Sandor, J. A., P. L. Gersper, and J. W. Hawley 1990 Prehistoric Agricultural Terraces and Soils in the Mimbres Area, New Mexico. World Archaeology 22: 70–86. Sandor, J. A., J. B. Norton, J. A. Homburg, D. A. Muenchrath, C. S. White, S. E. Williams, C. I. Havener, and P. D. Stahl Biogeochemical Studies of a Native American Runoff Agroecosystem. Geoarchaeol2007 ogy 22: 359–386. Sanford, R. L., and S. P. Horn 2000 Holocene Rain-Forest Wilderness: A Neotropical Perspective on Humans as an Exotic, Invasive Species. Forest Service Proceedings. Department of Agriculture, U.S. Forest Service, Washington, DC. Schaafsma, H., and J. Briggs 2007 Hohokam Field Building: Silt-Fields in the Northern Phoenix Basin. Kiva 72: 431–457. Schollmeyer, K. G. Spring 2004 Architecture Studies at Pueblo La Plata. Report submitted to the Bureau 2004 of Land Management, Phoenix Office. 2005 Architecture Studies Richinbar Ruin, Spring 2005. In Report of the Spring 2005 Field Season Legacies on the Landscape Archaeological and Ecological Research at Agua Fria National Monument, ed. K. A. Spielmann, 59–64. Report submitted to the Bureau of Land Management and the National Park Service, Phoenix Office. Spielmann, K. A. 1998 Diet and Subsistence in the Classic Period Tonto Basin. In Environment and Subsistence in the Classic Period Tonto Basin, ed. K. A. Spielmann, 183–193. Roosevelt Monograph Series 10. Arizona State University, Tempe. Stone, C. 2000

The Perry Mesa Tradition in Central Arizona: Scientific Studies and Management Concerns in Archaeology. In West-Central Arizona: Proceedings of the 1996 Arizona Archaeological Council Prescott Conference, ed. T. N. Motsinger, D. R. Mitchell, and J. M. McKie, 205–214. Sharlot Hall Museum Press, Prescott, AZ.

Swetnam, T. W., C. D. Allen, and J. L. Betancourt 1999 Applied Historical Ecology: Using the Past to Manage for the Future. Ecological Applications 9: 1189–1206. Trujillo, J. In prep

Effects of Prehistoric Agriculture on Modern Biogeochemistry across Gradients of Precipitation and Land Use Intensity. Master’s thesis in prep, School of Life Sciences, Arizona State University, Tempe.

Vitousek, P. M., H. A. Mooney, J. Lubchenco, and J. M. Melillo Human Domination of Earth’s Ecosystems. Science 277: 494–499. 1997 2004 Soils, Agriculture, and Society in Precontact Hawai’i. Science 304: 1665–1669.

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Wilcox, D., and J. Holmlund 2007 The Archaeology of Perry Mesa and Its World. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Willis, K. J., L. Gillson, and T. M. Bruncic How “Virgin” Is Virgin Rainforest? Science 304: 402–403. 2004 Wu, J. J., and O. L. Loucks 1995 From Balance-of-Nature to Hierarchical Patch Dynamics: A Paradigm Shift in Ecology. Quarterly Review of Biology 70: 439–466.

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[14] Linking the Past with the Present Resources, Land Use, and the Collapse of Civilizations

Guy R. McPherson

When man interferes with the Tao, the sky becomes filthy, the earth becomes depleted, the equilibrium crumbles creatures become extinct. (Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching, 1988 [ca. 550 BCE], chapter 39)

The human role in the extinction of species and degradation of ecosystems is well documented. Since European settlement in North America and especially after the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, we have witnessed a substantial decline in the biological diversity of native taxa and profound changes in assemblages of the remaining species. We have ripped minerals from the earth, often bringing down mountains in the process; we have harvested nearly all the old-growth timber on the continent, replacing thousand-year-old trees with neatly ordered plantations of small trees; we have hunted species to the point of extinction; we have driven livestock across almost every acre of the continent, baring hillsides and facilitating massive erosion; we have plowed large landscapes, transforming fertile soil into sterile, lifeless dirt; we have burned ecosystems and, perhaps more important, extinguished naturally occurring fires; we have paved thousands of acres to facilitate our movement and, in the process, have disrupted the 219

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movements of thousands of species; and last but not least, we have spewed pollution and dumped garbage, thereby dirtying our air, fouling our water, and contributing greatly to the warming of the planet. We have, to the maximum possible extent allowed by our intellect and never-ending desire, consumed the planet. In the wake of these endless insults to our only home, perhaps the greatest surprise is that so many native species have persisted, thus allowing our continued enjoyment and exploitation. Although insults by Homo sapiens since the Industrial Revolution are well documented and widely acknowledged, abundant archaeological evidence indicates similar actions in the more distant past (e.g., Spielmann et al., this volume; Van West, this volume), although these actions occurred at vastly more limited spatial and temporal scales. Humans have clearly impacted their environments since initially appearing on the evolutionary stage, and human impacts have grown profoundly since the development of agriculture and subsequent technologies (as reviewed by Redman 1999 and, for the general public, by Diamond 2005; for the North American Southwest, recent reviews are provided in this volume by Adams, Driver, Johnson, Sandor and Homburg, Spielmann et al., and Van West). Concomitantly, the environment has influenced the development of humans and their societies. The interaction between humans and their environments and the relative roles of culture and resources1 on human societies have received considerable attention from archaeological scholars (e.g., Van West, this volume). The resulting literature indicates the important role of resources in both permitting and constraining the development of several societies in the North American Southwest (see particularly the work by Kohler and colleagues, including Kohler 1992a, 1992b, 1992c; Kohler and Matthews 1988). Numerous examples of unwise exploitation of critical environmental resources have been documented. Although I am an ecologist and not an archaeologist, I find it striking and relevant to observe that humans, like other animals, operate on the principle of self-interest. Guided by this principle, humans have apparently always altered the landscapes and ecosystems in which they lived and, in turn, were altered by these changed conditions. Some of these altered conditions (e.g., the initial husbandry of plants and animals) proved useful in the short term. Others changes, however, such as degraded soils (e.g., Sandor and Eash 1991; Sandor, Gersper, and Hawley 1990; Sandor and Homburg, this volume), deforested watersheds (e.g., Kohler and Matthews 1988; Samuels and Betancourt 1982; Adams, this volume), and extirpated game species ( James 2004; Szuter and Bayham 1989; Driver, this volume; Johnson, this volume), had long-term negative consequences for the human groups who depended on them. My purpose here is to focus on the more recent past and add to the growing literature concerning human impacts to the environment by drawing attention to the looming ecological crisis ahead, created largely by self-interested human behavior. If we accept that humans played a pivotal role in the loss of species and degradation of ecosystems—and both patterns seem impossible to deny at this point—we face a daunting moral question: how do we reverse these trends? Maintaining biological diversity is important to our species because present and future generations of humans depend on a rich diversity of life to maintain survival of individuals and, ultimately, the persistence of our species. In addition, as architects

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of the extinction crisis currently facing planet earth, we have a responsibility to future Homo sapiens and to non-human species to retain the maximum possible biological diversity. We must embrace our capacity and capability to sustain and enhance the diversity and complexity of our landscapes. The substantial economic cost of maintaining high levels of biological diversity will pale in comparison to the costs of failing to do so, which potentially include human extinction from earth. Reintroducing ecological processes with which species evolved, and eliminating processes detrimental to native species, underlie the ability to maintain and perhaps even restore species diversity. Specifically, the management of wild-land ecosystems should be based on maintenance and restoration of ecological processes rather than on structural components, such as species composition or maintaining habitat for highprofile rare species. In fact, a focus on the latter goals—a fine-filter approach—may clog the coarse filter necessary for landscape-scale management of many species and ecosystems. Drivers of Change The proximate drivers underlying changes in land cover during the first few decades after European contact were mineral extraction, agricultural expansion, timber removal, and introduction of non-native species (most important, livestock). The quest for silver and gold drove the Conquistadors to dismember, rape, and murder Native peoples throughout the New World. The effects of mining on natural ecosystems were no less dramatic. Even before fossil fuels were employed to ease the extraction of metals from the ground, waterways were diverted and steam-powered water cannons were used to blast soil from mountains. Every tree within several dozen miles of a mining operation was cut down or pulled from the ground to power steam-powered stamp mills. Trees that escaped the eyes of mine operators rarely got away for long. The western expansion of the human population across North America drove great demand for construction lumber, railroad ties, paper products, and heat from the hearth. These changes and their consequences have been well documented in a wide variety of publications (e.g., Ehrlich and Ehrlich 1999; Wilson 1999; Zinn 1995). Farmers and ranchers followed frontiersmen, trappers, and miners into western North America. Whereas frontiersmen left a relatively small ecological footprint and the operations of trappers and miners tended to be limited in spatial scale, agriculture dominated large regions of the North American West. Row-crop agriculture covered areas with fertile soil that could be fed by irrigation systems, including nearly all rivers. The massive, arid expanses unable to sustain row crops supported the dominant form of agriculture: livestock. By the early twentieth century, cattle and sheep had trampled nearly every wild-land acre in search of forage. Stockmen (and, rarely, stockwomen) led the charge to exterminate perceived predators and potential competitors for forage: wolves, bears, coyotes, eagles, and prairie dogs were among the species slaughtered in the pursuit of safe environs for livestock and those who raised them. Perhaps more important than direct mortality from shooting and trapping were pronounced changes in site conditions that resulted from the collective action of millions of mouths and hooves.

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Among the profound changes attributable to livestock is a sudden shift from relatively open ecosystems to ecosystems dominated by woody plants. Livestock grazing increases the probability of woody plant recruitment in several ways, many of which also contribute to increased runoff and decreased infiltration of water (Archer 1994; McPherson 1997). •

Livestock effectively disperse seeds of woody plants, primarily in their feces. Removal of herbaceous biomass increases the amount of light reaching the soil surface and thus increases germination and establishment of woody seedlings.

•

Reduction in grass leaf area with resultant reductions in root activity and biomass can (1) increase surficial soil moisture and thus enhance establishment and growth of shallow-rooted woody plant seedlings; (2) increase the amount of water percolating to deeper soil layers, thereby benefiting established woody plants with deep root systems; (3) increase nutrient availability to woody plants; and (4) “release” suppressed populations of woody plants.

•

Grazing decreases basal area, increases mortality rates, and decreases seed production and seedling establishment of palatable grasses. Grazing might also increase susceptibility of grasses to other stresses (e.g., drought). Together, these factors increase rates of above- and belowground gap formation and thus increase the amount of area available for the establishment of woody plant seedlings, especially during post-drought periods.

•

Grazing-induced shifts in herbaceous species composition often result in herbaceous assemblages less effective at excluding woody plants or limiting their growth and seed production.

•

Reductions in fine-fuel biomass and continuity reduce fire frequency and intensity. Absence of fires accelerates shifts from grassland to woodland or shrubland.

•

Woody species are often unpalatable to cattle and sheep relative to herbaceous plants and thus are not browsed with sufficient frequency or severity to limit their recruitment.

•

Loss of plant cover and subsequent erosion reduce soil fertility, further favoring nitrogen-fixing woody plants and growth forms tolerant of low nutrient conditions.

•

Systematic eradication of prairie dogs, with the purpose of increasing herbaceous biomass for livestock consumption, likely removed a significant barrier to woody plant recruitment on many western landscapes.

The net effects of livestock grazing often include selection for long-lived, unpalatable plants at the expense of short-lived palatable plants; erosion and redistribution of soil; increased site aridity; and increased albedo (McPherson 1997; McPherson and Weltzin 2000). These effects contribute to alterations in fire regimes and positive feedback to ongoing changes in regional and global climates (Hibbard et al. 2003; Scholes and Archer 1997). Livestock still loom large, and other biological invasions have transformed western landscapes. Some, like livestock, are politically “untouchable” despite adverse impacts on native species and ecosystems (e.g., “sport” fishes and various species of turf grasses

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critical to the golf course industry). Others are universally undesirable but seemingly intractable because of ecological, rather than political, reasons. It is not surprising that we are largely unable to manage, much less eradicate, nonnative species. After all, there are more than 50,000 non-native species in the United States alone, invading terrestrial ecosystems at the rate of 700,000 hectares each year at an annual cost of $120 billion; they threaten 400 species with extinction (Pimentel, Zuniga, and Morrison 2005). To make matters even more challenging, every species on earth is capable of invading other sites (as assured by biotic potential), and every site is subject to invasion by at least one, and potentially many, non-native species. Because biological invasions depend exclusively on the “match” between characteristics of biological invaders and those of sites and because an infinite number of potential “matches” between species and sites exists, solutions to the problem of biological invasions are specific to species and sites. Given the disinterest in environmental issues displayed by citizens and their elected representatives, I doubt we will seriously address the problem of biological invasions before we cause the extinction of our own species. As such, this disinterest in environmental issues reflects ignorance or disdain for the living planet that sustains our species. It represents, in other words, omnicide that will almost certainly prove fatal ( Jensen 2006). The transition to modernity brought infrastructure, notably cities and the everwidening, increasingly well-maintained roads between them. Thus within the last few decades early drivers of change such as mining and agricultural expansion have been supplanted in importance by alteration of fire regimes, urbanization, and global climate change. Herein, I focus on the relatively simple impacts of each of these factors in isolation. As with historical drivers of change, interactions among these factors are complex, understudied, and undoubtedly critically important. A large and growing body of knowledge and empirical evidence indicates that fire was historically prevalent in North America, except in the driest deserts and the coldest tundra. It is clear that native species on the continent have evolved adaptations to periodic fires. Historical prevalence of fire ensures that even species that seem most intolerant of fire have evolved in the presence of recurrent fires (Steuter and McPherson 1995; Wright and Bailey 1982). Adaptations to fire are many and diverse; they include escape (e.g., distributions limited to rocky areas where fire rarely occurred), tolerance (e.g., thick bark), and rapid recruitment in post-fire environments (e.g., widely dispersed seeds and ability to establish in open environments). Recognition that virtually all native species in North America evolved in concert with periodic fires leads to two general conclusions: (1) native species have developed adaptations to fires that occur at a particular frequency, season, and extent; and (2) maintenance or reintroduction of the fire regimes with which these species evolved should assume high priority for those interested in maintaining high levels of biological diversity. A corollary to the first conclusion is that classification of native species along a gradient of adaptation to fire is simplistic and potentially misleading. Native species are “adapted” to recurrent fires, and classifying some as more tolerant than others suggests that fire is “good” for some species and “bad” for others. A more appropriate view is that recurrent fires, at the appropriate frequency, season, and extent (i.e., components

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of the historical fire regime), are part and parcel of these ecosystems. A corollary of the second conclusion is that reintroduction of ecological processes should be a relatively efficient and comprehensive strategy for retaining native species in extant ecosystems. Indeed, the historical prevalence of fire in these ecosystems suggests that fire is a necessary component of any comprehensive strategy focused on retention of biological diversity. Because fire was—and is—a dominant process in these systems, restoration of fire regimes would seem to be an important first step toward maintaining high levels of biological diversity. Urbanization and the associated transportation infrastructure have divided formerly large, contiguous landscapes into fragmented pieces. Fires that formerly covered large areas are constrained by fragmentation, and animals that necessarily range over large areas—such as mountain lions, bison, and grizzly bears—have suffered expectedly. These changes have been particularly pronounced since World War II (sometimes referred to as “Oil War II”), largely as a result of government subsidies that have promoted growth of the human population and suburban development. These trends will be reversed within the next few years because the Oil Age is ending. Unfortunately, our near-term inability to burn fossil fuels on a large scale will probably come too late to save many of the planet’s species from the effects of a runaway greenhouse. Ultimately, the story of western civilization is the story of fossil fuels. Profound changes in land use and land cover have been enabled by access to inexpensive oil and its derivatives (e.g., coal, uranium, ethanol, photovoltaic solar panels, wind turbines). Dramatic fluctuations in the price of oil within the next few years, coupled with steadily declining global supplies of this finite substance, will likely cause a complete collapse of the world’s industrial economy, which might usher in a new era with respect to species assemblages and land cover. Given humans’ dependence on fossil fuels for power, water, and food (including production and delivery), it seems inevitable that many people will die and the industrialized world’s vaunted infrastructure will collapse, thereby giving other species a slim and dwindling chance to make a comeback. Although the pattern of dwindling access to resources and subsequent collapse of civilizations has been thoroughly described in the archaeological record, the ongoing collapse obviously exceeds previous others with respect to geographic scale, as well as the numbers of both species and humans impacted. Peak Oil and the Collapse of Industrial Civilization Oil discovery and extraction tend to follow bell-shaped curves, as described for nonrenewable resources by M. King Hubbert (1956). The easily reached light oil is extracted first. Heavier oil, often characterized by high sulfur content, is found at greater depths on land and also offshore. This heavier oil requires more money and energy to extract and refine than does light oil. Eventually, all fields and regions become unviable economically and energetically. When extracting a barrel of oil requires more energy than the barrel of oil contains, extraction is pointless. The top of the bell-shaped curve describing oil extraction is called “Peak Oil” or “Hubbert’s Peak.” We passed Hubbert’s Peak for world oil supply in 2005 and began

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easing down the other side (Deffeyes 2006, 2007), with an annual decline rate of 0.5 percent between 2005 and 2008 leading to a record-setting price of $147.27 per barrel in July 2008. The International Energy Agency, which had never previously acknowledged the existence of a peak in oil availability, predicted an annual decline rate in crude oil in excess of 5 percent after 2008 (International Energy Agency 2008). The current economic recession resulting from the high price of oil led to a collapse in demand for oil and numerous other finite commodities, hence leading to reduced prices and the rapid abandonment of energy-production projects. Many geologists and scientists predict that a permanent economic depression will result from the declining availability of oil and the associated dramatic swings in the price of oil (Campbell and Laherrère 1998; Deffeyes 2001; Duncan and Youngquist 1999; Heinberg 2005; Kunstler 2005). The absence of a politically viable solution to energy decline explains, at least in part, the absence of a governmental response to the issue, even though the U.S. government recognizes peak oil as a serious problem (along, no doubt, with many other governments in the world) (Government Accountability Office 2007; Hirsch, Bezdek, and Wendling 2005). Without energy, societies collapse. In contemporary, industrialized societies, virtually all energy sources are derived from oil. Even “renewable” energy sources such as hydropower, wind turbines, and solar panels require an enormous amount of oil for construction, maintenance, and repair. Extraction and delivery of coal, natural gas, and uranium are similarly oil-intensive endeavors. Thus the decline of inexpensive oil spells economic disaster for industrialized countries. Demand destruction (an economic term used to denote a permanent reduction in the demand for a commodity, such as oil and oil-derived products) caused by high energy prices is affecting the entire industrialized world. Viewed from a broader perspective than energy, economic collapses result from an imbalance between demand and supply of one or more resources (Diamond 2005). When supply of vital resources is outstripped by demand, governments often print currency, which leads to hyperinflation. In recent history, the prices of oil and its refined products have been primary to rates of inflation and have played central roles in the maintenance of industrial societies. Addressing the issue of peak oil while also controlling emissions of carbon dioxide, and therefore reducing the prospect of a runaway greenhouse on planet earth, represents a daunting and potentially overwhelming challenge. Peak oil and the effects of a runaway greenhouse are the greatest challenges humanity has ever faced. Tackling either challenge without the loss of a huge number of human lives will require tremendous courage, compassion, and creativity. Little question exists that the decades ahead will differ markedly from the ancient or even the recent past. From this point forward, Homo sapiens will lack the supply of inexpensive energy necessary to create and maintain a large, durable civilization. The fate of western civilization is in serious question, given our inability to sustain high levels of energy production. The population of humans in industrialized countries will probably fall precipitously if oil extraction turns sharply downward, as the International Energy Agency (2008) predicts. The benefit of a massive human die-off is the potential for other species and even other cultures to expand into the vacuum we leave in our wake.

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Concluding Remarks Archaeologists and ecologists are increasingly interested in documenting humanenvironment relationships. Examples of ancient societies that exceeded sustainable economic practices have been documented in the American Southwest and across the globe (e.g., Diamond 2005; Kohler 1992c; Redman 1999; Redman et al. 2004). Such knowledge adds temporal depth to the ecological analysis of contemporary problems facing earth’s global population. Landscapes formerly perceived as “pristine” were likely altered by former human groups who introduced plants and animals to given regions, used fire to maintain grasslands and attract herbivores and their predators, over-hunted particular high-return animals, and modified soils in positive or negative ways. As demonstrated by all the chapters in this section, humans have the power to change the world around them in dramatic and enduring ways. Ecologists need to recognize that all landscapes and the ecosystems they support are, in one way or another, humanly modified. Likewise, archaeologists can benefit from contemporary ecological analysis whereby the linkages among various systems and subsystems are delineated and specific techniques used to discern environmental change can be applied to address archaeological questions. Such knowledge may be useful to archaeologists in modeling how and when environmental crises may have exceeded sustaining thresholds, as demonstrated by the modeling exercises C. David Johnson reported in Chapter 11. Although I have painted a grim picture of what I see ahead for earth’s living occupants, I do see the potential for positive change if contemporary human societies make dramatic and sustained efforts to maintain and restore ecological processes on a global scale. Given the human predilection for self-interest, however, it remains to be seen whether a superhuman and coordinated effort can occur. Note The word “resources” is problematic because it implies that materials are placed on this planet for humans’ use. We see finite substances and the living planet as materials to be exploited for our comfort. For efficiency and familiarity, I reluctantly use the word throughout this chapter.

Acknowledgments I thank Carla Van West for inviting my participation in the Southwestern Symposium held in Tempe, Arizona, in January 2008, and for soliciting this contribution. Thoughtful comments on earlier drafts were provided by Dana Backer, Paul Taylor, and the editors of this volume. References Archer, S. 1994

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the West, ed. M. Vavra, W. A. Laycock, and R. D. Pieper, 13–68. Society for Range Management, Denver. Campbell, C. J., and J. H. Laherrère 1998 The End of Cheap Oil. Scientific American 278(3): 78–83. Deffeyes, K. S. Hubbert’s Peak: The Impending World Oil Shortage. Princeton University Press, 2001 Princeton. Join Us as We Watch the Crisis Unfolding: February 11, 2006. [http://www.princeÂ� 2006 ton.edu/hubbert/current-events–06–02.html], accessed May 10, 2007. 2007 Join Us as We Watch the Crisis Unfolding: January 19, 2007. [http://www.princeÂ� ton.edu/hubbert/current-events.html], accessed May 10, 2007. Diamond, J. M. Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed. Viking, New York. 2005 Duncan, R. C., and W. Youngquist 1999 Encircling the Peak of World Oil Production. Natural Resources Research 8(3): 219–232. Ehrlich, P. A., and A. H. Ehrlich One with Ninevah: Politics, Consumption, and the Human Future. Island, Washing1999 ton, DC. Government Accountability Office 2007 Crude Oil: Uncertainty about Future Oil Supply Makes It Important to Develop a Strategy for Addressing a Peak and Decline in Oil Production. Report GAO-07-283. Report to U.S. House Committee on Science and Technology. U.S. Government Accountability Office, Washington, DC. Heinberg, R. The Party’s Over: Oil, War and the Face of Industrial Societies, 2nd ed. New Society, 2005 Gabriola Island, BC. Hibbard, K. A., D. S. Schimel, S. Archer, D. Ojima, and W. Parton Grassland to Woodland Transitions: Integrating Changes in Landscape Structure 2003 and Biogeochemistry. Ecological Applications 13: 911–926. Hirsch, R. L., R. Bezdek, and R. Wendling 2005 Peaking of World Oil Production: Impacts, Mitigation and Risk Management. Report to U.S. Department of Energy, dated February 2005. Department of Energy, National Energy Technology Laboratory, Washington, DC. Hubbert, M. K. Nuclear Energy and the Fossil Fuels. Presented at the spring meeting of the Southern 1956 District Division of Production, American Petroleum Institute, March 7–9. Publication 95. Shell Development Company, Exploration and Production Research Division, Houston, TX. International Energy Agency 2008 World Energy Outlook 2008. Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development and International Energy Agency, Paris, France. James, S. R. Hunting, Fishing, and Resource Depression in Prehistoric Southwest North 2004 America. In The Archaeology of Global Change: The Impact of Humans on Their

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Environment, ed. C. L. Redman, S. R. James, P. R. Fish, and J. D. Rogers, 28–62. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. Jensen, D. 2006

Endgame. Seven Stories, New York.

Kohler, T. A. 1992a Field Houses, Villages, and the Tragedy of the Commons in the Early Northern Anasazi Southwest. American Antiquity 57: 617–635. 1992b Guest Editorial: The Prehistory of Sustainability. Population and Environment: A Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies 13: 237–242. 1992c Prehistoric Human Impact on the Environment in the Upland North American Southwest. Population and Environment: A Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies 13: 255–268. Kohler, T. A., and M. H. Matthews 1988 Long-Term Anasazi Land Use and Forest Reduction: A Case Study from Southwestern Colorado. American Antiquity 53: 537–564. Kunstler, J. H. 2005 The Long Emergency: Surviving the Converging Catastrophes of the Twenty-First Century. Atlantic Monthly Press, Boston. McPherson, G. R. Ecology and Management of North American Savannas. University of Arizona Press, 1997 Tucson. McPherson, G. R., and J. F. Weltzin 2000 The Role and Importance of Disturbance and Climate Change in U.S./Mexico Borderlands: A State-of-the-Knowledge Review. General Technical Report RMRS-GTR50. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, Rocky Mountain Research Station, Fort Collins, CO. Pimentel, D., R. Zuniga, and D. Morrison Update on the Environmental and Economic Costs Associated with Alien-Invasive 2005 Species in the United States. Ecological Economics 52: 273–288. Redman, C. L. 1999 Human Impact on Ancient Environments. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Redman, C. L., S. R. James, P. R. Fish, and J. D. Rogers (editors) 2004 The Archaeology of Global Change: The Impact of Humans on Their Environment. Smithsonian Books, Washington, DC. Samuels, M. L., and J. L. Betancourt Modeling the Long-Term Effects of Fuelwood Harvests on Pinyon-Juniper Wood1982 lands. Environmental Management 6: 505–515. Sandor, J. A., and N. S. Eash 1991 Significance of Ancient Agricultural Soils for Long-Term Agronomic Studies and Sustainable Agriculture Research. Agronomy Journal 83: 29–37. Sandor, J. A., P. L. Gersper, and J. W. Hawley Prehistoric Agricultural Terraces and Soils in the Mimbres Area, New Mexico. 1990 World Archaeology 22(1): 70–86.

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Scholes, R. J., and S. Archer 1997 Tree-Grass Interactions in Savannas. Annual Review of Ecology and Systematics 28: 517–544. Steuter, A. A., and G. R. McPherson Fire as a Physical Stress. In Wildland Plants: Physiological Ecology and Developmen1995 tal Morphology, ed. D. J. Bedunah and R. E. Sosebee, 550–579. Society for Range Management, Denver. Szuter, C. R., and F. E. Bayham 1989 Sedentism and Prehistoric Animal Procurement among Desert Horticulturalists. In Farmers as Hunters: The Implications of Sedentism, ed. S. Kent, 80–95. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Tzu, L. 1988

Tao Te Ching: A New English Version. Translated and introduced by Stephen Mitchell. Harper and Row, New York.

Wilson, E. O. The Diversity of Life. W. W. Norton, New York. 1999 Wright, H. A., and A. W. Bailey Fire Ecology: United States and Southern Canada. John Wiley, New York. 1982 Zinn, H. 1995

A People’s History of the United States: 1492–Present, rev. ed. HarperCollins, New York.

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Part III Movement and Ethnogenesis

[15] A Framework for Controlled Comparisons of Ancient Southwestern Movement

Scott G. Ortman and Catherine M. Cameron

After a period of relative neglect, migration and population movement is once again a dominant research theme in Southwestern archaeology. We believe this resurgence derives from a number of factors. One is the more effective and regular communication between archaeologists and American Indians in recent years. About ten years ago, one of us was involved in a consultation in which the question “what can archaeologists learn about that would be interesting to you” was posed to a group of American Indian advisers. Their unanimous response was “migration.” A second reason is that migration, as a particular form of population movement, is an important contemporary social issue, one that divides people politically even as migrants themselves make a lasting impact on increasingly heterogeneous societies (see Brettell and Hollifield 2008). A deeper understanding of the causes and long-term consequences of migration in the past has the potential to inform public policy debates in the present. A third reason is that Southwestern culture history continues to present a number of difficult and interesting problems that we cannot solve without a clearer understanding of the causes, forms, and consequences of movement. We need to achieve better control over who moved where, when, and why to make further progress on many of the social, ecological, and evolutionary questions that for many of us are the ultimate goal. Finally, because of the long history of movement by ancient Southwestern peoples

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and the wonderful archaeological record we have to work with, Southwestern archaeologists have an opportunity to add to the movement theory toolbox rather than just taking from it. Our goal for the chapters in this section of the volume is to develop controlled comparisons of several relatively well-known cases of movement and ethnogenesis1 in the Southwest to (1) explore factors that condition the archaeological visibility of migrants, (2) develop better conceptions of how populations moved from their old homes to new destinations, and (3) examine how migrants impacted the social milieu of destination areas. Our use of controlled comparison follows Fred Eggan (1954:747), who promoted such comparisons as a means of “avoiding too great a degree of abstraction” when developing general theory. Tammy Stone (2003) has made a great start in developing controlled comparisons in her recent paper on the differential consequences of migration in the Western Pueblo area. We hope this introduction and the chapters that follow will continue along this trajectory. To develop a framework for controlled comparisons of movement, we need to define the relevant variables to be compared and correlated across cases. We begin by examining terminology and the literature on archaeological identification of movement, occasionally adding our own thoughts. Then we explore three topics that are important for controlled comparisons: the causes of movement, the forms of movement, and the social consequences of movement in destination areas. The end result is a matrix of social dimensions of movement we can seek to control or contrast as we use comparisons of conditions and consequences to develop general theory from specific cases. This chapter sets the stage for the next four chapters, written by pairs of scholars with different geographical foci, which compare the causes, forms, and especially the social consequences of movement in different parts of the Southwest (Bernardini and Fowles, Stone and Lipe, Clark and Laumbach, and Anschuetz and Wilshusen). A fifth chapter in this section (Mills) synthesizes these case studies and identifies their central themes. The Tricky Terminology of Movement Studies We have refrained from using the terms movement and migration as synonyms. In contemporary public discourse the word migration usually refers either to the movement of individuals across international political boundaries or to relocation by members of an ethnic group within a nation (also called “transnational migration”). In this view, (1) the movement is by individuals or small kin groups; (2) the movement is from one established society or community to another; (3) immigrants take on an identity related to their place of origin in the destination community, which may or may not reflect their previous homeland identities; and (4) at least for a time, immigrants keep in contact with the homeland through kin ties, cultural and economic exchange, oral tradition, or codification of homeland material practices. It is difficult to avoid everyday understandings of the terms one uses in scholarly discourse, and it increases the likelihood of misunderstanding if one bends the mean-

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ings of terms too far away from everyday understandings. We therefore think it is most practical to define migration in terms of the everyday conceptions described earlier. The important point that follows, however, is that not all forms of movement fit this definition. For example, a limiting aspect of contemporary migration discourse is the focus on individuals as decision makers and the economic rationality of migration decisions. These are important characteristics of migration in the modern world, but it would be a mistake to assume that they apply to the full range of human movements in the present and the past. For example, in contemporary discourse, people displaced by warfare, environmental catastrophe, or genocide are usually called refugees rather than immigrants, and different bodies of national and international law apply to these two categories, even though movement across an international border applies in both cases. In addition, refugee movements, especially in the Third World, are not necessarily limited to individuals or families. Rather, in many cases refugee flows consist of entire communities or ethnic groups because conditions that encourage refugee flows also encourage social solidarity and safety in numbers. There are also well-documented cases of movement by entire social groups, such as the movement of Latter-Day Saints from Nauvoo, Illinois, to the Utah Territory in 1846, for reasons that had more to do with religion and ideology than with economic rationality. We should not rule out these sorts of movements in the more distant past, but because of the capitalist and nationalist baggage of “migration,” it may be counterproductive to label them using this term. Irving Rouse (1986) recognized this and made the useful distinction between migration and population movement, with the latter referring to movement of an entire social group across a geographic, political, or social boundary. More recently, large-scale movements to multiple destinations have been termed “diasporas.” These distinctions emphasize that the social scale at which movement is organized and the bases of decisions to move are variable, but contemporary migration researchers often study and theorize only a subset of this variation. Because the political geography of the modern world was formed through the spread of people from a European core area, capitalist and nationalist baggage is also embedded in most of the terms we use to talk about movement. For example, the term colonization is usually used to describe situations where a population moves into a previously uninhabited area. Some instances, such as the spread of humans across Polynesia (Kirch and Green 2001), really do fit this definition. But in many more, the term has been used to obscure or belittle the indigenous population to better justify its domination by the incoming group. So perhaps the more general sense of colonization would be the establishment of a new home range by a social group with minimal influence from the indigenous population. This is close to the biological sense of colonization, where a species expands into a new habitat, but this requires the dubious analogy between human societies and biological species. Also, recent studies have emphasized the influence of indigenous people and their constructed environment on the colonizers (e.g., Comaroff and Comaroff 1997), so the notion that human colonizers are immune to native influence may be nothing more than First-World ideology. Such baggage also comes into play when we speak of the frontier as the area into which people

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are expanding. Such places are only frontiers from the perspective of the expanding group. We conclude that we must take care when writing about movement, as the terms we use can lead us—in true Whorfian fashion—to frame the questions in ways that reflect capitalist, nationalist, and colonialist ideology more than empirical reality. For example, if one assumes that contemporary migrations cover the full range of types and causes of movement, one will also define away certain forms of movement from the range of possible interpretations of archaeological evidence. Identifying Movement Archaeologists have identified population movements in a number of ways. The traditional method is to observe changes in material culture types or styles that can be connected with a distant source area (Haury 1958; Lekson et al. 2002; Lyons 2003) or to identify sites named in oral traditions as previous homes of a given people (e.g., Bernardini 2005). More recent methods include demographic reconstruction to indicate periods of population increase in excess of plausible in situ population growth rates (Duff 1998; Varien et al. 2007; Wilshusen and Ortman 1999), identification of gaps in regional chronometric data (Berry 1982; Schlanger and Wilshusen 1993), sourcing objects to their place of manufacture (Duff 2002), genetic and osteological studies (Barnes 1994; Le Blanc et al. 2007; Ortman 2010; Turner 1993), and historical linguistic methods (Hill 2001; Sapir 1936; Shaul and Hill 1998). Archaeologists have tended to focus on material culture because it is their most readily available data source and one they have been trained to use. Identifying movement from material culture continuities is not always straightforward, but other methods also have obstacles. For example, even when it is possible to make reasonable population estimates for a given region, it is difficult to identify specific source areas for immigrants or destination areas for emigrants without making additional population estimates for every possible source or destination area. Biological studies are also often difficult because of repatriation, and few archaeologists are trained in the use of linguistic data. Furthermore, biology, language, oral tradition, and material culture reflect different aspects of culture history and thus relate to episodes of movement in different ways (MacEachern 2000; Moore 1994; Terrell 2001; Terrell, Hunt, and Gosden 1997). In the Southwest, some population movements are fairly obvious, with Point of Pines (Haury 1958) being the most famous example of a site unit intrusion (also see Di Peso 1958). In other cases, there is good demographic evidence that movement has occurred, but artifacts and architectural styles do not clearly indicate the arrival of culturally different people. The thirteenth-century movement of populations from the northern San Juan region to the Rio Grande is of this latter type. Strong demographic and biological evidence indicates that large numbers of people from the northern San Juan entered the Rio Grande (Barnes 1994; Crown, Orcutt, and Kohler 1996; Fowles 2004; Ortman 2010), but material evidence of ceramic styles and architectural practices exhibits closer continuities with earlier sites in the Rio Grande than it does with northern San Juan sites (Lakatos 2006, 2007). Such ambiguous examples of popula-

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tion movement are everywhere more common than site unit intrusions (see Burmeister 2000; Madsen and Rhode 1994; Mallory 1989). One of the major problems with attempts to identify population movement in the past derives from the traditional conceptualization of cultures as bounded and homogeneous entities (Cameron 2005). Early definitions of culture as normative behavior (Tylor 1871), models of culture derived from linguistics and biology (Aberle 1960; Kroeber 1931; Trigger 1989), and Clark Wissler’s “culture-area concept” (Lyman, O’Brien, and Dunnell 1997:18) assumed that cultures were unitary phenomena, like biological species, that could be followed across time and space. Recently, the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) has reinforced this conception and encouraged Native American groups to project their contemporary social identities backward into the past, when in reality identities are continuously in the process of construction and thus are less likely to have existed in the same form as one moves further back in time (Ferguson 2004). Archaeologists have become increasingly aware that material culture plays an active role in the creation of social identities and that the use of style to signal social or ethnic boundaries is largely situational. One of the most productive avenues for the identification of social boundaries, and hence population movement, has been the study of technological styles (Lechtman 1977; Sackett 1990; Stark 1998). Such studies explore technologies as traditional “ways of doing” that are part of learning frameworks passed from generation to generation. Ceramics have been especially subject to such studies, with emphasis on production steps, vessel-forming techniques, design application, and other technological traits. At every stage in the process of manufacture, the producer has choices about how an artifact (or a building) can be made, and archaeologists have argued that such choices are typically not the result of active signaling. Because they are not highly visible and thus do not send social messages, technological choices are assumed to provide more reliable indications of social networks and boundaries than do “active” traits such as pottery design style. A successful recent application of this perspective is Jeffery Clark’s (2001, 2004) study of migration into the Tonto Basin (also Stark, Clark, and Elson 1995). Clark (2001:9–10; also see Carr 1995a) argues that the material culture traits most likely to be retained by migrants are those that are transmitted during the enculturation process and do not send social messages. Thus the artifact attributes migrants are most likely to continue producing after arrival in the destination area are not highly visible on the artifact and not highly evident in the context within which the artifact is used. In other words, attributes with low physical and contextual visibility have low message potential; as a result, there is less reason for an immigrant to shift to the local way of creating such attributes after moving (Clark 2001:12; see also Carr 1995b:195–198). Clark suggests that “the more fundamental and mundane the artifact, the more likely it is to passively reflect enculturative background” (2001:13). Clark’s approach has been applied convincingly in his case study of Pueblo migration into the Tonto Basin and may prove successful in other situations as well. Stone (2003), however, cautions against the idea that low-visibility attributes are necessarily passive and adds that ethnicity is only one level of social identity migrants might

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express. Comparing three examples of migration in west-central Arizona, she shows that migrants at Silver Creek and Grasshopper did not express ethnic identity consistently, while the people making up the enclave at Point of Pines did. We agree with Stone that expressions of ethnicity are context-dependent. Furthermore, we offer two related cautions that suggest that the relationship between material culture and movement may normally be less consistent than a rote application of Clark’s method would suggest. Our first caution involves the notion of “nested identity.” This is the concept recognized by Polly Wiessner (1983) and H. Martin Wobst (1977) in which individuals identify themselves with an increasingly inclusive series of social groups. For example, in his ethnolinguistic study of the Arizona Tewa speech community, Paul Kroskrity (1993:193–212) found that the multilingual Hopi-Tewa speak Tewa, Hopi, or English depending on the circumstances and their calculations as to which stance best serves their interests in a given situation (also see Ferguson 2004). Similarly, the late-eleventhand early-twelfth-century residents of the northern San Juan region may have considered themselves part of the larger Chacoan regional system, part of the social group that occupied the northern San Juan, part of the community in which they were resident, and part of a specific lineage within their community. Archaeologists have tended to operate as though social identity were visible in material culture only at one specific scale, namely, the scale of traditional archaeological culture areas. We suggest instead that the varying geographical and temporal scales of material culture traits may actually be expressions of varying levels of nested identities. For example, local architectural differences between Chaco and Mesa Verde “cultures” might well express language differences between the two areas, even as the distribution of great house architecture and decorated pottery styles expressed a larger-scale identity that perhaps distinguished the precursors of the Eastern Pueblos in the Chaco–Mesa Verde area from the Western Pueblos in the Kayenta-Mogollon area. If we begin to think about material expressions of social identity in nested terms, the next logical step should be to determine what types of material culture traits tend to be associated with which social scales of identity. Furthermore, we should define spatial scales at which material culture traits no longer reflect conscious distinctions between groups. The continental-scale distribution of Clovis points during the Paleoindian period is an obvious example, but what about two-rod and bundle basketry or corrugated pottery or desert side-notched projectile points? Our second caution involves the context of artifact production and use but goes beyond Christopher Carr (1995a, 1995b) to consider context in the situation of a migrating population. We agree with Carr that the social significance of material culture attributes is tied to their perceptibility. However, human perception is not fixed; rather, humans attend to external stimuli to varying degrees according to context and experience. Archaeologists, for example, learn to perceive details of the surfaces of archaeological sites to interpret their size, age, and function. The untrained eye may not even recognize a place as a site, but to the seasoned professional, concentrations of stones and fragments of pottery are highly perceptible and interpretable. Indeed, archaeologists today may perceive subtle details of artifacts useful for dating more readily than the creators of these objects in the past.

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There is every reason to believe this two-way street between perception and experience is also characteristic of the appraisal of material culture attributes by people in the past. If so, in a context of migration, attributes that might have had low perceptual salience among producers in their natal community could suddenly have become highly salient when these same people encountered others who did things differently. In their natal community, women may have coiled pots unreflectively, following the local tradition learned during enculturation, but after migration these same women would have quickly recognized whether their traditional method was different from that of people in their new home. Likewise, locals could have seized upon subtle differences in the way immigrants designed and built houses to distinguish “them” from “us,” and these subtle details could subsequently have become emblems of identity consciously emphasized by the immigrants (Neuzil 2005). In a migration context, distinct social identities may already exist in the minds of locals and immigrants; in such cases people will be motivated to find the behavioral differences that identify people as belonging to one group or another. In short, previously “unconscious” practices can suddenly become highly perceptible, and can be consciously manipulated, when migrants and natives start interacting. As a result, we feel it is prudent not to assume that low-visibility attributes in an absolute sense always work for tracing migrants in the archaeological record or that high-visibility attributes are necessarily misleading. Instead, we need to acknowledge that individuals pursuing their goals will tailor their perceptions to the situations they face and will consciously manipulate whatever markers of identity develop in the postmigration situation to suit their perceived interests. This introduces a level of unpredictability to the task of using material culture to track migrations, but we think it also adds a measure of realism. An example that illustrates the pitfalls of a priori reasoning about material culture attributes and movement is Scott Ortman’s (2008) study of directional shrines around Castle Rock Pueblo, a late AD 1200s northern San Juan village. These shrines form a system identical to those constructed around Classic period northern Rio Grande villages ( Jeançon 1923) and thus support the hypothesis of population movement from the northern San Juan to the northern Rio Grande more strongly than does either pottery or domestic architecture. A slavish follower of Clark’s method would not have looked for continuity in this aspect of material culture because shrines reflect conscious religious ideologies more than unconscious enculturation. Yet these features are not highly visible in everyday life, and their locations may not have been known to all the inhabitants of a community. So it is difficult to figure out where shrine features should fit in Clark’s schema, but they do support the notion that settlers moving from the northern San Juan into the northern Rio Grande maintained certain worldview schemas and methods of defining cultural landscapes even as they adopted local pottery styles and architecture in the destination area. The lesson is that archaeologists can use material culture to trace population movements, but the specific material culture traits that betray this movement will likely vary from case to case according to the social context. In some cases attributes a close follower of Clark’s model would presume to be misleading might in fact provide the strongest evidence of movement.

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We therefore urge archaeologists to consider social context in addition to perceptual qualities of material culture in searching for continuities that betray population movement. It is important to distinguish contexts in which migrants will tend to retain specific traditional practices from contexts that might encourage them to quickly change these practices or adopt local ones in the destination area. In the next sections, we suggest three dimensions of social context (see also Herr and Clark 1997; Stone 2003) archaeologists might consider in constructing such theory: causes of movement; the size, nature, and pace of the movement; and the ways migrants integrated into existing populations in the destination area. Causes of Population Movement Some scholars who study contemporary migration distinguish between “voluntary” and “forced” migration (Koser 2007). Voluntary migration is typically undertaken for economic reasons, because of deteriorating conditions in the source area or significantly improved conditions at the destination. This conforms to the “push-pull” models familiar to Southwestern archaeologists (e.g., Lipe 1995). In the modern world, voluntary migration is frequently undertaken by individuals (often solitary males) or households and may result in migration streams that funnel culturally similar populations to the same destination over a period of time (Anthony 1990:905; Lefferts 1977; Stone 1996:86–87). Through this type of movement, individuals would have been integrated into distant societies through intermarriage, trading partnerships that involved longterm residence in distant communities, and so on. Such relationships would have created social contacts that allowed stressed populations to call on distant groups for aid in times of need, perhaps eventually permitting the type of large-scale migration that is evident between the northern San Juan and Rio Grande in the thirteenth century (Cordell 1989:317, 1995; Cordell et al. 2007). However, one of the primary concerns raised over the application of recent migration studies to the past (Burmeister 2000; Cameron 2000; Clark 2001; Herr and Clark 1997; Stone 2003; but see Duff 1998) is these studies’ voluntary, economic focus, which need not apply to the ancient Southwest. For example, one of the primary factors enabling household-level migration in the modern world is the presence of highly developed economies, in which immigrants can make a living without owning land or even their dwelling. In the ancient Southwest, in contrast, every family required suitable land on which to farm. This fact could have limited the ability of individual households to move long distances into highly populated destination areas. Movement of larger groups into peripheral or frontier areas would have been much safer. Ancient and modern movements may be more similar when “forced migrations” are considered. In contemporary society, people who are forced out of their homes generally leave because of conflict, persecution, or for environmental reasons such as drought or famine. Forced migration can result in the movement of entire groups of people who do not have the option of remaining in their homes. In the contemporary migration literature, such migrants are called “refugees,” a term that today connotes

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people of low social standing and few options. Khalid Koser (2007) notes that in contemporary situations, refugees often leave not because of active persecution by the state but because the state is unable or unwilling to protect them from civil strife. A similar situation in the Southwest may have been experienced by people in low-status clans who tend to be sloughed off during times of economic or social stress (Benson, Petersen, and Stein 2006; Levy 1992). An important question for archaeologists, evaluated in more detail later in this chapter, is the status of refugees in the communities to which they migrate. If they are considered low status, how does this affect their production and use of material culture in the destination area? A third kind of movement, that involved with territorial expansion, does not seem well developed in contemporary migration studies (except with regard to “ethnic cleansing”; but see Marsella and Ring 2003) but is clearly a part of ancient human movements, including the peopling of the New World, Pacific colonization, and the Celtic expansion throughout Europe, among others. In contrast to refugee situations, territorial expansion might create situations in which migrants introduce or insist on the continuation of cultural practices they bring with them, at the expense of the practices of native groups. Such migrants are likely to have an elevated social position relative to the native population and may even conquer or dominate the native society. For example, although they do not focus on migration causes, Wes Bernardini and Severin Fowles (this volume) show that new migrants to Hopi and Taos became ritually and socially powerful. Archaeologists should consider the types of material culture traits socially powerful migrants might force on native peoples, the types of native practices they might be willing to adopt, and how material culture practices might blend. Ethnohistoric studies of colonization situations are likely to provide useful models. Of special importance to archaeologists studying migration, and certainly related to migration causes, is the fact that some movements are undertaken to allow continuity in social and cultural practices, whereas others are undertaken with the aim of social and cultural change. A good example of the former are persecuted groups (such as Jews) who have been forced to flee discrimination and harassment in their homes to continue their social and cultural practices. Other individuals and groups (for example, utopian and religious groups) migrate to establish a new society that sets them apart from their natal community (also see Kopytoff 1987). History, especially during European colonization, has many examples of these contrasting types of migration, and they should be found prehistorically as well. We might expect that migrants yearning to continue homeland cultural practices would be more easily recognized in the archaeological record, while those groups seeking change might not. These reflections make it clear that the causes of movement are important beyond simply explaining why a particular movement occurred. The causes of movement will also affect the size and composition of the migrating group, the pace of movement, the ways migrants are incorporated into existing societies in the destination area (discussed later), and perhaps most important, the immigrants’ desire to continue specific homeland practices in the destination area as opposed to adopting new or indigenous practices. These are all dimensions around which we should seek to compare well-

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d� ocumented cases in developing a better understanding of relationships between material culture and the causes and processes of movement.

Forms of Movement The ways various forms of movement occur are critical for understanding the archaeological correlates of migration. The form of movement is closely connected to causes but is usefully considered separately. A few variables archaeologists should consider are group size and composition and the pace and duration of movement. The size and composition of the migrating group are especially important because larger groups may be more successful in maintaining traditional cultural practices, although, as discussed later, other factors are also important. In the Southwest, we know that large groups of people sometimes migrated together, establishing sites in southern Arizona such as Goat Hill or the large enclave at Point of Pines. Whether migrations or population movements orchestrated at the household level occurred in the ancient Southwest is a more difficult question. We know that recent Pueblo societies were organized around clans, moieties, feast groups, religious societies, and so on, as opposed to individual households. Individuals were enmeshed in these cross-cutting social groups, and supra-household groups are also emphasized in Pueblo oral traditions about movement (e.g., Bernardini 2005; Fowles 2004; Parsons 1925). Given these facts, we should not rule out the possibility that the basal unit of decision making and movement was also larger than a household. On the other hand, it is important to remember that community-level oral traditions tend to enshrine events that had community-level social impacts; thus a constant background movement of individuals or households in the past would not likely be enshrined in a community’s oral traditions. In addition, the ubiquity of unit pueblo architecture prior to the Pueblo IV period may indicate that households and lineages were more important at that time than they have been more recently (see Ortman 1998). In short, there are pitfalls to assuming that any particular social scale was the basic unit of movement in ancient Southwestern societies. Under certain circumstances, the household might be the least likely social unit to migrate. A historical account from Hopi of the “starving time” during the late eighteenth or early nineteenth century suggests that during times of extreme stress, the nuclear family disintegrated (Anonymous n.d.). The elderly were abandoned, some children were sold to the Zuni, and other women and children walked to the Rio Grande to sell themselves as slaves to the Spanish. The men also dispersed. Some migrants eventually returned to Hopi, but others never did. This scenario suggests the importance of considering gender in evaluating the archaeological correlates of migration. Women and men differ in their contributions to material culture; they also differ in social status and, as a result, in their level of influence. Migrating groups consisting only of men or only of women and children are likely to have different influences on cultural practices in their destination (see Lowell 2007). Gender is thus an important variable: how might migrating women affect pottery tech-

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nology or style, for example, or how might an influx of single men affect agricultural practices or the nature of production of particular tool types? The pace and duration of movement also have an effect on the material culture produced by migrants. Movement can occur as an event of relatively short duration (the Mormon exodus to Utah) or as a process that occurs over decades (the movement of African Americans from the South to cities in the Midwest). Large, rapid movements can have the effect of swamping the native population in the destination area or can result in the transfer of the homeland social structure, both of which may encourage continuity in material practice. Movements that involve a trickle of people each year over a period of decades, in contrast, might result in the same number of people moving in aggregate but with substantial enculturation of immigrants to indigenous patterns in an occupied destination or the development of new social forms in frontier situations (Herr 2002; Kopytoff 1987; Stone 1996). Notice that variation in the pace and scale of movement can lead to counterintuitive results. At Point of Pines, for example, an immigrant Kayenta group is clearly identifiable using material culture traits despite the fact that this group was a small minority of the total community population. In the northern Rio Grande, in contrast, many thousands of immigrants are not clearly identifiable using pottery and architecture. Our common-sense notions of acculturation suggest that majority groups tend to continue doing things as they always have, whereas minority groups experience assimilation pressures from the dominant culture. Point of Pines and the northern Rio Grande present the opposite situation. Part of the explanation, as Tammy Stone and William Lipe (this volume) show, is that the movement to Point of Pines was a short-term event, whereas the movement to the Rio Grande was probably a long-term process that occurred over a century, where the initial immigrants developed new social forms modeled on local patterns and later migrants adopted the practices of this vanguard. Difficulties remain, however. Stone (2003) has argued that Kayenta ethnic identity was an important social role for immigrants to Point of Pines, yet in other situations Kayenta migrants did not choose to continue expressing their homeland identity (Clark and Laumbach, this volume). Migrants’ decisions concerning expressions of social identity were conditioned by the nature of their interactions with groups living in the destination area, a topic we turn to in the final section of this chapter. Social Consequences The consequences of migration and the nature of migrant-host interactions are of special interest to archaeologists today (Herr and Clark 1997; Mills 1998; Neuzil 2005; Stone 2003). Although there is a common perception that migration consequences are proportional to the relative demographic scales of the indigenous relative to the migrant group, the examples we have offered throughout this chapter suggest this may not always be the case. The material visibility of migrants in destination areas depends on a variety of factors that include (1) the distinctiveness of migrants prior to moving, which is based in part on distances moved; (2) the ways in which they are (or are not) integrated into the host population; (3) the social status of migrants in relation to their

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hosts; (4) the availability of raw materials in the destination and the homeland areas; and (5) the choices immigrants make regarding how strongly they wish to continue their homeland practices. In the same way attributes of material culture are affected differentially by movement, the biological, linguistic, social, oral tradition, and material culture impacts need not be consistent. For example, recent Navajo material culture and oral tradition have been much more heavily influenced by Pueblo culture than the Navajo language has been. Differences in the ways genes, language, and culture map onto people make the tracking of migration consequences tricky, and there is much opportunity for confusion when one assumes that language patterns reflect a genetic pattern, that a material culture boundary necessarily reflects a linguistic boundary, and so on (Creamer 2000; Ford, Schroeder, and Peckham 1972; MacEachern 1998; Welsch and Terrell 1998). Migrations are most likely visible in the archaeological record when the migrants’ natal culture is entirely distinct from the host culture. The initial European colonists in the New World created settlements, such as Jamestown, that could not have been more different from the settlements of their Native American hosts. Similarly, the Athapaskan immigration into the Pueblo Southwest juxtaposed very different settlement types and artifact inventories that, in general, are easily separated. Migrations that occur within a large, somewhat culturally homogeneous region should be much more difficult to detect. For example, the northern Southwest was composed of cultural groups that shared a similar repertoire of material culture traits, including black-on-white pottery and stone houses. Regional differences in material culture are difficult to define and may have clinal distributions that lack clear spatial boundaries. As a result, archaeologists attempting to track migrations within the northern Southwest often focus on a few key traits that can be identified in the source area and traced to the destination area. Some archaeologists dismiss or downplay suggestions of migration when such traits are not identified in the proposed destination. On the other hand, Stone and Lipe (this volume) identify a number of northern San Juan traits—including ceramic vessel forms and designs, households and household kivas, and settlement layout—that did not “make the trip” to the Rio Grande. Rather than assume that no migration occurred from the northern San Juan to the northern Rio Grande, however, Stone and Lipe argue that northern migrants entered different parts of the Rio Grande in small groups that were neither numerically nor socially powerful. As the chapters in this section of the volume show (especially Bernardini and Fowles, Anschuetz and Wilshusen; also see Leibmann, Ferguson, and Preucel 2005), conscious attempts by migrants to join with existing groups in transforming cultural practices must also be considered. Migrants who establish enclaves within host communities appear more likely to continue producing and using material culture in ways established in their homelands. But perhaps a better way to phrase this is that when a migrating group wishes to continue its traditional ways in the destination area, it will tend to form enclaves that can be identified archaeologically. The distinctiveness of the Tusayan-Kayenta migrants in southeastern Arizona is an excellent example. In contrast, migrants who mingle with host communities, such as migrants to the Silver Creek (Mills 1998) and Grasshopper

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(Stone 2003) areas, have far more opportunities to blend their traditional practices with those of their hosts. With regard to the Kayenta enclave at Point of Pines, Stone (2003) argues that large group size meant migrants were able to continue the social constructs of their previous communities. Because their hosts had already established the structured organization of an aggregated community, the Kayenta migrants were able to emphasize their distinctive origins. The social status of the migrating group in relationship to its hosts may be a powerful factor in determining the expression of material culture traits after migration. In addition, archaeologists should consider the types of cultural exchange that were possible when single individuals or small groups were incorporated into existing societies, especially with respect to these individuals’ social position. How would different technological practices be welcomed by a native group when the migrant among them was the son of a powerful chief or priest on an extended visit to a distant area instead of a young woman captured from a remote enemy? Herr and Clark (1997:380–381) use historical data to examine Southwestern migrations, and they make the important point that in many cases migrants were not successfully integrated into host communities and that the result was either a return to a homeland or further migration elsewhere. Large migrant groups were often offered residence on the outskirts of existing villages, a pattern Herr and Clark (1997:383) note has also been found archaeologically (i.e., at Grasshopper Pueblo; see Riggs 2001). Although migrants might or might not have found a warm welcome among their hosts, their presence almost certainly offered native populations opportunities to enhance their own social status. Archaeologists exploring the consequences of migration in the Southwest should be alert to the material consequences of factionalism and attempts at integration, as well as the social opportunities migrants offered. However, social restrictions can prevent migrants from ever fully participating in the culture of their host communities, making them more visible as they continue the cultural practices of their homeland (for example, Chinese railroad laborers during the nineteenth-century construction of the U.S. railroads [McGuire 1982]). Summary We have covered a great deal of conceptual territory in this chapter, and if nothing else, this wide expanse shows that the study of movement is complicated, rich, interesting, tricky, and central to a full understanding of social and historical processes. To bring some order to our review, we have organized the concepts discussed in this chapter in tabular form, in an attempt to summarize the social dimensions of movement we might use as a framework in developing controlled comparisons (Table 15.1; see also Mills, this volume). Table 15.1 lists the various social dimensions of movement considered in this review and arranges variation in each dimension along an axis, from low-magnitude entities on the left to high-magnitude entities on the right. If one shaded in the cells corresponding to the value of each dimension in a given case of movement, we would expect to see a variety of configurations, but we would probably also see that certain configurations are more common than others. Our hope is that increased awareness

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Table 15.1. Social dimensions of movement

Transformation

Connectivity

Scale

Theme

Dimension

Continua definitions

Social scale of moving unit

Individual, household

Lineage, clan

Faction, community, society

Destination population

Empty

Light

Dense

Ratio of immigrants to locals

Low

Balanced

High

Pace of movement

Singular event

Short-term process

Long-term migration stream

Distance moved

Close (1–2 days’ travel)

Moderate (2–7 days)

Far (>1 week)

Population impact in source area

Negligible effect on source area pop. density

Significant reduction in source area pop. density

Depopulation of source area

Reasons for movement

Environmental, climatic, anthropogenic

Economic, political

Ideological, religious

Relations between immigrants and locals

Conflict, hostility

Coexistence, enclaves

Co-residence, blending, assimilation

Degree of regional interaction among migrants

Minimal

Economic links

Economic and ritual links

Basis for choice of destination

Exchange partners

Kinship and exchange

Ideology, religion, kinship, exchange

Long-term impact on destination society

Negligible

Focused in certain areas

Pervasive in many areas

Expression of homeland identity after movement

None (discontinued by immigrants themselves)

Brief (continued by immigrants but not by offspring)

Extended (continued by offspring of immigrants)

Pervasiveness of regional conflict

Low

Moderate

High

of the common and rare configurations of these social dimensions, developed through controlled comparisons where the values of certain dimensions are identical and the values of others vary, will lead us toward a deeper understanding of migration and population movement in the ancient Southwest and beyond. Notes 1. Ethnogenesis is considered here to be the process by which a group of people comes to consider itself ethnically distinct from surrounding populations.

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[16] Becoming Hopi, Becoming Tiwa Two Pueblo Histories of Movement

Wesley Bernardini and Severin Fowles

In the Rio Grande Gorge is a large boulder on which have been pecked two parallel rows of dots extending roughly two meters across the rock face. It is a simple design, easily set to the side by archaeologists as semantically impenetrable and aniconic. Recently, however, a Pueblo consultant offered a more careful reading, suggesting that such petroglyphs are reminiscent of the rows of corn kernels laid on kiva floors in the recitation of group histories. With the placement of each kernel, he noted, a step in the group’s travels through time and space is narrated (cf. Cushing 1979), so one might reasonably conclude that whoever pecked the rows of dots in the past was employing a similar mnemonic device to aid in the retelling of history. In this reading, the parallel rows of dots become an icon of historical movement or, more accurately, of two movements, the histories of two social groups that traveled along a common path. In this chapter we lay out our own series of parallel dots as we trace two specific histories of immigration, assimilation, and social transformation in the northern Southwest. The histories we consider—one Ancestral Hopi, the other Ancestral Taos— lie on opposite ends of the greater Pueblo world (Figure 16.1), and we therefore entered into this comparative exercise assuming that our primary task would be to account for the many divergences in their individual trajectories. After all, twentieth-century ethnographic wisdom concluded that Western and Eastern Pueblo social organization

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16.1. Hopi and Northern Tiwa regions in the context of the Greater Southwest. Dashed line indicates Chacoan sphere of influence at AD 1100. Arrows indicate major post-Chacoan population movements.

developed in rather different directions.1 In the West, a strong clan system came to dominate on the Hopi Mesas (Eggan 1950). In the East, communities along the Rio Grande, such as Taos Pueblo, came to be governed by an overriding ceremonial organization of non–kin-based moieties and kiva sodalities (Dozier 1970; Ortiz 1969). Without denying these broad structural tendencies, we came instead to be impressed by the surprising number of parallelisms not only in the social organizations at Hopi and Taos but also in the histories of group movement that appear to have led to this organizational convergence. The Hopi and Taos communities, much more than we previously realized, traveled along similar paths. We make three main points in this chapter. The first, quite simply, is that twentiethcentury ethnographers may have overstated the case for opposed Western (Hopi and Zuni) and Eastern (Tewa and Tiwa) forms of social organization (with the “Keresan Bridge” as a sort of muddle in the middle). As we emphasize later, the structures of both the Hopi villages and Taos Pueblo have emerged through the interplay of kinbased groups and supra-kin dual organizations and ritual sodalities. Matrilineal Hopi clans are paralleled at Taos by a complex organization of patrilineal “People” groups long overlooked in the ethnographic literature. And the ceremonial division of Taos

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Pueblo into north-winter and south-summer halves is paralleled on the Hopi Mesas by the division of clans into local and late-arriving components, the Motisinom and the Nùutungkwisinom. Our second point, building from the first, is that neither the kin-based groups (Hopi clans and Taos Peoples) nor the supra-kin groups (dual divisions or other ritual sodalities) can be properly understood outside the complex histories of immigration and assimilation that have strongly influenced the social organization of both regions. In each case, the successive immigration of groups with different linguistic, cultural, and geographic backgrounds introduced multiple lines of division that were preserved in the newly aggregated villages. But both the Hopi and Taos appear to have overlaid their particular histories of immigration with a broader contrast between the relatively autochthonous groups (the Hopi Motisinom and the Taos Winter People) and those who arrived more recently (the Hopi Nùutungkwisinom and the Taos Summer People). Dualism may be more pronounced at Taos (and even more so among the neighboring Tewa villages); however, in each case the dual divisions seem to have sprung from the process of immigration itself. Because of the nature of the immigration process in both the Hopi and Taos cases, this broad division of society into autochthons and newcomers also appears to have institutionalized a particular configuration of social power, and this is our third point. Intuitively (and often anthropologically; see Eggan 1966:124–125; McGuire and Saitta 1996), one might imagine that the earliest arrivals in a region held a certain advantage: first comers would have gotten the first shot at monopolizing key resources, building local traditions, and inscribing their ideologies into the landscape. But such was not the case in our examples. Both Hopi and Taos histories indicate that it was a group of immigrants or latecomers from the south (the Hopi Nùutungkwisinom and the Taos Summer People) who more or less took control of ritual life on the receiving end. The processes of “takeover” may have varied, but a combination of ceremonial clout and physical force provided the means. We review each case study in turn and conclude with a general discussion in which we offer a few more systematic statements on the relationship among immigration, history, and social organization in the pre-Columbian Southwest. Becoming Hopi Scales of Identity

The current anthropological understanding of Hopi social organization, derived primarily from the ethnographic work of Mischa Titiev (1944) and Fred Eggan (1950), emphasizes three primary scales of identity: clan, village, and tribe. The clan—a totemically named, exogamous matrilineal descent group—is “the outstanding feature of social life, in Hopi eyes” (Eggan 1950:62), the primary medium through which identity is expressed in the community. Each clan has a unique migration history that recounts its origins and legitimizes its control over a particular ceremony.2 Villages grew through the aggregation of clans, each of which (according to Hopi traditional knowledge) was required to demonstrate the efficacy of its ceremony before gaining entrance to 255

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the village (Eggan 1950:64; Fewkes 1900:585). Today, each village is a largely autonomous political, ritual, and subsistence unit, although “daughter” villages, which lack the full complement of ceremonies, are ritually dependent on “mother” villages (Connelly 1979). Above the level of the village, the Hopi population is united by a common clan and ceremonial system and a common language.3 With a few notable exceptions (e.g., the Pueblo Revolt and the destruction of Awat’ovi), however, there is little evidence of coordinated activity at the level of the “tribe” (what Titiev [1944:59] referred to as “the amorphous Hopi state”) outside the federally organized tribal government system. The ethnographic focus on Hopi clans has obscured a dual division in Hopi society that constitutes a fourth scale of identity. While each Hopi clan has a unique migration history, in Hopi traditional knowledge clans are grouped into two major categories: Motisinom and Nùutungkwisinom—literally, first people and last people, respectively (Anyon 1999:41; Dongoske et al. 1997:603; Ferguson 2003:63). Thus the MotisinomNùutungkwisinom distinction is in part chronological, with the Motisinom the clans that have always resided on the Colorado Plateau and the Nùutungkwisinom the clans that joined them at a later date. Together, the Motisinom and Nùutungkwisinom comprise the Hisatsinom, or “people of long ago” (Kuwanwisiwma 2002), with contemporary Hopi society the result of the merging of these two groups and their respective ideologies. Embedded in the chronological difference between Motisinom and NùutungÂ� kwisinom is a difference in origin. Although all Hopis share a generalized origin story that describes the emergence of all peoples into the current Fourth World from a common Sípàapuni in Öngtupqa, the Grand Canyon (e.g., Eggan 1971:x; Ferguson et al. 1993:27; Fewkes 1907:566), each clan also has a more specific origin place cited in its clan-specific migration traditions. Motisinom clans trace their origins to emergence points close to the Hopi Mesas such as Kishyu’ba, a mountain spring of the Katsina thirty miles northwest of Walpi (Stephen 1936:1072n4, 1158), or the San Francisco Peaks in Flagstaff, Arizona, about seventy-five miles southwest of the Hopi Mesas (Stephen 1936:539–540). Motisinom traditions mention local movements but do not emphasize stories of long, chain-like migrations (e.g., Stephen 1936:860n1). In contrast, Nùutungkwisinom clans trace their emergence to Palatkwapi (“red-walled city” [Hill et al. 1998:383]), believed by many Hopis to be far to the south, perhaps in Central America (Ferguson and Lomaomvaya 1999:78). Nùutungkwisinom clans have elaborate migration traditions, often detailing dozens of named, sequentially occupied villages (e.g., Fewkes 1900). The Motisinom-Nùutungkwisinom division in contemporary Hopi society is most visible in the structure of the annual ritual cycle. At each Hopi village, clan ceremonies are organized into a calendrical cycle, with “a fixed time of year during which a society is expected to celebrate the observances entrusted to its care” (Titiev 1944:103). The ritual cycle, however, does not simply comprise unrelated, clan-specific ceremonies. Instead, the Hopi ceremonial calendar is divided into two distinct halves: katsina and non-katsina ceremonies (Wright 1973:258, 1977:7). The katsina season is controlled by two Motisinom clans, Badger and Katsina. The non-katsina season is controlled by a series of Nùutungkwisinom clans.

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Historical Processes

The Motisinom and Nùutungkwisinom were geographically distinct populations, with different cultural traditions, religious practices, and languages. What was the historical process by which these groups entered the area of interest? Oral histories provide critical insight, but to what extent are these histories visible in the archaeological record? The Motisinom were the autochthonous inhabitants of the Colorado Plateau. The archaeology of northeastern Arizona records shifting populations of hunters and gatherers in the Paleoindian and Archaic periods, transitioning to a widely—if thinly—dispersed Basketmaker pithouse occupation exhibiting a relatively stable and homogeneous material culture beginning ca. 1300 BC (Adams 1989; Colton 1974; Ellis 1974a; Plog 1986). A shift to aboveground masonry architecture and small-scale aggregation of the population into small (ca. fifty-room) pueblos in the AD 900–1250 period can be attributed largely to local population dynamics. The Motisinom can thus be equated to at least the Basketmaker and pre-Basketmaker populations on and around the Hopi Mesas, potentially extending to ca. AD 1250. The autochthonous population of the Hopi Mesas apparently did not participate in the Chaco Phenomenon of the AD 900s to early 1100s (Adams 1996) or in the post-Chacoan developments of the later 1100s (unlike regions to the south [Herr 2001; Kintigh, Howell, and Duff 1996]). Many nearby Four Corners populations were active participants in Chaco; however, some of them joined villages on the Hopi Mesas in the diasporic migrations following the abandonment of the Four Corners region in the late thirteenth century. Hopi Mesa villages also appear to have received significant numbers of immigrants from the Kayenta region to the north—another area that opted out of Chaco—in the late AD 1200s (Dean 1996). Some late AD 1200s Four Corners migrants skipped over Hopi and moved further south into central Arizona (Clark 2001; Woodson 1999). It was not until the mid- to late AD 1300s that a number of these groups turned back toward Hopi, joined by large numbers of fellow immigrants from the Silver Creek, Homol’ovi, Chavez Pass, Sinagua, Salado, and adjacent regions (Adams 2004; Adams, LaMotta, and Dongoske 2004; Bernardini 2005; Ferguson and Lomaomvaya 1999; Lyons 2003) (see Figure 16.1). The arrival of these latest immigrants had a substantial demographic impact, at least doubling the population on the Hopi Mesas by AD 1400 (Adams, LaMotta, and Dongoske 2004; Bernardini 2005). While our understanding of the Hopi concepts of Motisinom and Nùutungkwisinom is still incomplete, Hopi use of the term “Nùutungkwisinom” appears to refer primarily to the last waves of immigrants from the south beginning in the AD 1300s. In the wake of these immigrations, the post–AD 1250 period on the Hopi Mesas witnessed significant changes. Large aggregated settlements of several hundred rooms began to dominate the landscape, and local pottery traditions incorporated styles from a variety of areas to the south (Adams 1996; Adams, LaMotta, and Dongoske 2004; Gilpin and LeBlanc 2007; Lyons 2003). By the early AD 1300s all of the villages that would become today’s “mother villages” had been established, and by AD 1450 almost all residents of the Hopi Mesas were living in one of these large settlements. Tension between autochthonous and immigrant groups is recorded in Hopi traditional knowledge. As Patkingyam informants told Alexander Stephen, “[W]e are 257

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recent comers here; when we came from Pala’tkwapi, the Wal’pitü [people of Walpi] were already here, and after we came here we had much trouble with them over the apportionment of land” (1936:943). The archaeological record of the late AD 1200s and early AD 1300s, when large numbers of immigrants were arriving at Hopi, may reflect some of this tension. Many sites from this time period are located on defensible buttes and cliff edges, although evidence of actual physical violence has not yet been documented. A number of Kiqötutuwutsi, or Hopi ruin legends, which recount conflict between neighboring villages, also date to this time period (e.g., the stories of Huk’ovi and Pivanhonkyapi [Malotki 1993]). Hopi consultants emphasize that the conflict between ancestral groups at this time was ritual in nature rather than physical, as people struggled to reconcile different ideologies (Leigh Kuwanwisiwma, personal communication, 2006). After AD 1350, sites on the Hopi Mesas no longer exhibit defensive positioning or layouts, indicating resolution of high-level tensions (Bernardini 1998). Social Impact of Immigration

What was the social impact of immigration, and to what extent can we read the existing organization of Hopi society as a partial response to the challenges immigration once presented? Here, traditional knowledge and ethnography combine to answer these questions. A common theme in Hopi migration accounts is the ranking of clan status according to order of arrival at a village. As Eggan noted: [A]t the head of the prestige hierarchy is the Bear Clan, the members of which arrived first in the Hopi region and made a compact with Masu’u, the god of life and death, in which he gave the Hopi land and crops in exchange for carrying out the proper rituals. Late-comers received portions of this estate in exchange for the performance of ceremonies for rain for the crops, but the “last” arrivals often possessed no rituals and offered their services as guards. Their position was marginal, and usually they were not assigned clan lands. (1966:124–125)

Although the Bear Clan is almost always listed as the first arrival at Hopi, in fact the Motisinom were the original occupants of the Colorado Plateau. The Motisinom clans were cautious, however, and ceded the responsibility (and prestige) of organizing subsequent immigrants to the Bear Clan (Leigh Kuwanwisiwma, personal communication, 2007). Thus despite the Motisinom clans’ primacy of place, the original mother villages were Nùutungkwisinom villages. The Nùutungkwisinom did not simply settle at Hopi freely, however. According to Hopi traditional knowledge, when Palatkwapi people arrived at Hopi they had to submit to Maasaw, the spiritual leader of the Motisinom. Thus, First Mesa informants told Alexander Stephen that “Masau’wu possessed this land” (1936:676, also 141). The manner in which Motisinom and Nùutungkwisinom groups combined to form contemporary Hopi society is largely a product of their historically informed ideologies and cosmologies. The primary contrast is between the katsina-based rituals of the Motisinom and the non-katsina rituals of the Nùutungkwisinom. Katsina and

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non-katsina ceremonies differ dramatically in their history, membership, content, form, power, and status. Today, Motisinom ritual is associated with the katsina religion.4 Contemporary katsina ritual is democratic, public, and benign. Katsina culture emphasizes a life of humility and hard work revolving around corn agriculture, embodied in the practice of hopivötskwani, “the Hopi path of life” (Hill et al. 1998:101). According to Hopi traditional knowledge, the Motisinoms’ deliberately simple life did not require elaborate ceremonies (Ferguson 2003:106). The power of Maasaw, the lord of the Fourth World and spiritual head of the Motisinom, stems not from any special ceremonial knowledge but instead from his mastery of simple but essential materials: a planting stick, water, and seeds. In contemporary Hopi society, admission to the Katsina society is universal for all village members. The composition of individual katsina performances includes members of many different clans and ceremonial societies, and katsina performances are public, held in village plazas with large audiences. Few katsina dances are subject to centralized control; during the bulk of the katsina season, dances can be sponsored by anyone in the village (Parsons 1939:138), and new katsina songs can be written by any member of the community. Both participants and the audience have open access to the full ceremonial content of katsina ritual. The non-katsina ceremonies of the Nùutungkwisinom, in contrast, are restrictive, esoteric, and dangerously powerful. These ceremonies were imported from Palatkwapi, which collapsed in part because of the abuse of ritual power by ceremonial leaders (Leigh Kuwanwisiwma, personal communication, 2007). So great was the power and risk of non-katsina ceremonies that Maasaw granted the Nùutungkwisinom permission to live with him only after they demonstrated that they could limit their ceremonial knowledge to the bringing of rain. Membership in many non-katsina ceremonial societies requires sponsorship by an existing society member, and many performances are private, held in proprietary kivas. Access to knowledge is restricted even among initiates, with the esoteric knowledge required to perform non-katsina ceremonies held closely by the core maternal household of the controlling clan. The different ideologies and histories of the Motisinom-Nùutungkwisinom map roughly to a status distinction in contemporary Hopi society. As discussed by Peter Whiteley (1988:65), the cardinal status division in Hopi villages is between pavansinom (“ruling people”) and söqavungswinom (“common people”) (see also Hill et al. 1998:398, 530). The status of the pavansinom stems from control of ritual knowledge and offices, with the highest-ranking pavansinom the Soyal chiefs and the Wuwtsim chiefs (Titiev 1944:59–60; Whiteley 1988:68). While there have been pavansinom at the head of both Motisinom and Nùutungkwisinom clans, high-status village offices were overwhelmingly held by members of Nùutungkwisinom clans, at least in twentieth-century Orayvi (Table 16.1). Thus Hopi village governance has been largely in the hands of the Nùutungkwisinom. While Motisinom have been underrepresented in formal village offices, they still contributed important parts of Hopi society. The principles of humility and hard work that define Hopi identity to insiders and outsiders alike are rooted in Maasaw and katsina culture. The ritual submission of all Hopis to Maasaw is also reflected in contemporary

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Table 16.1. Clan and dual-division affiliation of village offices at the Third Mesa village of Orayvi, 1906. Office Soyal officer

Clan Rabbit

Group Nùutungkwisinom

Aa’alt chief (two-horn chief )

Bow

Nùutungkwisinom

Qalèetaqmongwi (war chief )

Spider

Nùutungkwisinom

Soyal officer

Pikyas

Nùutungkwisinom

Soyal officer

Parrot

Nùutungkwisinom

Soyalmongwi (Soyal chief )

Bear

Nùutungkwisinom

Taatawkyam (singers) chief

Parrot

Nùutungkwisinom

Tsa’akmongwi (crier chief )

Greasewood

Nùutungkwisinom

Wuwtsimt chief

Sparrowhawk

Nùutungkwisinom

Kwaakwant chief (one-horn chief )

Maasaw

Motisinom

Source: Titiev 1944.

Hopi society in the fact that the first ritual any Hopi learns is Katsina. The Katsina initiation can be seen a symbolic reaffirmation of all Hopis’ obedience to Maasaw. Becoming Tiwa Compared with the Hopi, remarkably few ethnographic records exist for the Tiwaspeaking pueblo of Taos. True, Taos is one of the most visible pueblos (as a World Heritage Site, the community receives tens of thousands of tourists each year). Ironically, however, it also has the reputation of being among the most secretive. “Mysterious Taos, Taos out of which the anthropologists have never been able to get any information” is how Jaime de Angulo (1985:36) described the pueblo in 1924, and things have changed little since then. Indeed, despite repeated efforts, no true ethnography of Taos has ever been written, and the pueblo’s current leadership prefers to keep it that way. That said, we do know enough about the social organization, oral history, and archaeology of the region to make certain key comparisons with trends at Hopi. Scales of Identity

Taos Pueblo lies in the northeastern corner of the Pueblo world, near the Plains and far from the Hopi Mesas. Its closest neighbor, geographically and culturally, is Picuris Pueblo, although a great many social characteristics are also shared with the Tewa pueblos further south—the most significant of which is a village organization dominated by a dual division. Dualism is powerfully evident in the overall spatiality of Taos: Red Willow Creek runs through the heart of the pueblo, dividing the roomblocks, kivas, and middens into mirroring north-south groups (Figure 16.2). In recent times, this dual division has been only loosely institutionalized. While Taos’s architecture is divided 260

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16.2. Map of Taos Pueblo (based on Bodine 1979). Southside kivas: 1 = Feather, 2 = Water, 3 = Old Axe, 7 = “Disused” or Earth Mother. Northside kivas: 4 = Big Earring, 5 = Day, 6 = Knife. T = trash pile. R = race course. C = Catholic Church

explicitly into named North and South houses (Hlauuma and Hlaukwima, respectively), there are no recorded names for north or south religio-political divisions per se; therefore, individuals do not identify explicitly as members of a “moiety.” The situation may have been different in the past. As discussed later in this chapter, Taos oral histories refer to the early union of the Winter (or Ice) People from the north and the Summer People from the south, suggesting that the division once may have marked a viable cultural or ethnic division. At present, however, the most important aspect of Taos dualism is the way it divides the six active kivas into north and south groups, each of which assumes responsibility for certain seasonal ceremonies and is led by its own religio-political leader: the Big Earring Man of the north group and the Cacique (or Water Man) of the south group (Parsons 1936a; Stevenson 1906:file 3.1).

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These positions provide an informal means of balancing the overall distribution of power. Kiva affiliation, in contrast, is more overtly marked. All members of the Taos community, both male and female, are “given” or dedicated to a particular kiva by their parents soon after birth. For boys, association with a kiva also involves a lengthy initiation process at about age eight or ten, during which they are secluded from the larger community and schooled in the group’s sacred knowledge and religious prescriptions (Bodine 1979; Parsons 1936a:45–46). On the surface, kiva membership is not inherited, although strong patrilineal overtones point to a more complex relationship between kiva and kinship than past scholarship has acknowledged. The relationship between kiva and kinship is complicated further by the presence of numerous named clan-like groups embedded within the more visible kiva system. To speak of clans or lineages at Taos is to go against ethnographic orthodoxy, although the assumption of northern Tiwa clanlessness has always had a shaky foundation. Its source is Elsie Clews Parsons’s brief Taos monograph in which she argued (based on very little data) that the pueblo “had no conception . . . of any matronymic or patronymic exogamous group” (1936a:38). Parsons, it seems, was unaware of Matilda Stevenson’s (1906: file 3.1) earlier research that had clearly documented the existence of multiple patrilineal groups within each kiva. Stevenson referred to these groups as “gens”; in Tiwa they are referred to as different tai’na, or “People” (e.g., the Golden Warbler People, the Green Leaf People, Elk People, etc.) (see also Bandelier 1975 [1885–1888]:79; Hodge 1912). Much could be said about the People groups at Taos based on Stevenson’s notes, but let us underscore three key observations. First, while most Taos Peoples are associated with a given kiva, some are distributed over many kivas and others are the traditional leaders of kivas whose memberships are diverse. Clearly, then, this kin-based system is not just a subdivision of the kiva-moiety system but has a pronounced structural autonomy. Second, People groups, not the kivas or moieties, appear to own the ceremonies, songs, and ritual objects (e.g., flutes, fetishes, sacred bundles), even though the performative aspects of these lineage-based possessions may have come to be associated with particular kivas over time. Third, each People group has its own migration history prior to arriving at Taos and its own ancestral language given to it by Kwathlowúna, the creator deity (Stevenson 1906:file 3.1). In all these respects, the Taos People groups look surprisingly like Hopi clans. Individuals at Taos, then, have a complicated set of social identities derived in part through inheritance (their patrilineal People group, complimented by less formal affiliations with the People group of their mother) and in part through parental dedication (their kiva and, indirectly, their moiety affiliations). Historical Processes

As in the Hopi case, the contemporary social organization of Taos Pueblo prompts a number of historical questions. What were the processes by which different Peoples came to reside within the pueblo? How and why did Taos overlay its kin-based system of Peoples with a more elaborate supra-kin kiva-moiety system? How are we to explain

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in historical terms the structural similarities and differences between the Taos and Hopi cases? In the absence of extensive Native commentary on the Tiwa past, we must rely on archaeological evidence to flesh out the handful of recorded oral histories. The archaeological record of the Taos region extends back to Folsom times, and Pueblo members have recently indicated that their histories explicitly describe an early period characterized by atlatl use, suggesting that certain types of knowledge may indeed have been preserved over very long periods of time. Be that as it may, it is at the start of the second millennium AD that the resolution of both archaeological and oral historical accounts increases significantly. This period—the early Valdez phase, roughly AD 950–1150— saw the fairly abrupt establishment of the region’s first pithouse settlements. In most of the known Taos origin narratives, the Winter People (the Peoples of the Day Kiva) were the first of the Ancestral Northern Tiwa to emerge into the present world, after which they traveled from the Chimney Rock–Piedra district of Colorado to establish a community just north of Taos (Ellis 1974b:123; Ellis and Brody 1964:326). This area, in fact, is where the earliest pithouse settlements have been recorded (Fowles 2004; Loose 1974), and there are good reasons for relating the Valdez phase archaeological record to the early arrival of the Winter People. The end of the twelfth century witnessed another major wave of immigration, this time marked archaeologically by both population increase and abrupt stylistic shifts in unpainted pottery (Fowles 2005). These later immigrants were committed agriculturalists living in tight clusters of unit pueblos, and ceramic evidence indicates that their former home was to the south in the Tewa Basin near Española or Santa Fe (Fowles et al. 2007). Significantly, their appearance is broadly correlated with a pronounced peak in traumatic deaths at the last of the Valdez phase or Winter People pithouse settlements, suggesting that the relationship between locals and newcomers may have been violent (Fowles 2004). Much of the Taos origin narrative recorded by Stevenson (1906:file 2.29) focuses on an epic battle between a southern group of Summer People (Pilaína) who traveled north from the Tewa region to conquer the Winter People (Biänbäturna) of Taos, and we consider it likely that this battle references the late-twelfth-century developments just noted. “The Taos Indians have a tradition,” wrote David Miller in a late-nineteenthcentury letter to Lewis Henry Morgan, that when they first migrated to their present home “they found other Indians at this place (Taos). . . . [T]hese they ejected after much fighting, and took and have continued to occupy their place” (Morgan 1965 [1881]:166; see also Miller 1898:46–47). In the 1920s, Jeançon (1930:7–8) further learned from his Taos informants that it was the Winter People who originally occupied the region and were defeated when a group known as the Summer People arrived. Stevenson, however, recorded the most detailed account. “On reaching the land of the Winter People,” she was told, “the associate to the father of the Summer People was sent to the Winter People whom he questioned. ‘What have you to say? Are you friends or enemies?’ The representative of the Winter People replied, ‘We are not your friends.’ ‘It is well,’ said the man of the Summer People. ‘We will fight you’â•›” (as narrated to Stevenson 1906: file 2.29).

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Following a lengthy battle, the Winter People retreated to their kiva where the Summer People subdued them by throwing “medicine” (walö, or ritual substances) down the kiva entrance. Victory was finally achieved, in other words, not by brute physical force but by the immigrants’ superior ritual power. The Winter People were then at the mercy of their aggressors, and as the narrative continues, we learn that this meant accepting a new social order whose terms were to be set by the Summer People: “Then the father of the Summer People said, ‘It is well. Now you are my child. Now I have a good large family (referring to the Winter People). . . . Now we are as one family. If you desire, come to where I live. We will have summer and we will also have winter’â•›” (as narrated to Stevenson 1906:file 2.29). Here, then, is indigenous commentary on the birth of the Taos dual division: a merger of Summer People and Winter People, of ritually powerful immigrants and less organized autochthons, of conquerors and conquered, all in the wake of a period of extraordinary ethnic confrontation. Social Impact of Immigration

The neat narrative division between “summer” and “winter” is probably far too neat and undoubtedly represents a post facto means of conceptually structuring a more complicated set of encounters among a diverse array of groups in the highly unstable postChacoan landscape. Stevenson (1906:file 3.1) learned, for instance, that the Winter, or Ice, People actually represented a composite of the “Sun People,” “Day People,” and “Very Small Olivella Shell People,” all of whom are today associated with the Day Kiva. Similarly, she learned that the Summer People were composed of the “Golden Warbler People,” the “Macaw People” and the “Eagle People,” whose descendants are now in the Feather Kiva. These details are significant, for in the story’s grouping together of lineage or clan-like Peoples into supra-kin corporate entities, we gain insight into the long-term social impacts of late-twelfth- and early-thirteenth-century immigration. In this regard, we would do well to remember David Stuart and Rory Gauthier’s (1988:51) observation that both site and room counts point to a tenfold population increase across the northern Rio Grande between AD 1150 and 1250, and the Taos region was indeed part of this increase. The key point is that the Pueblo III period witnessed a punctuated period of immigration in much of the Eastern Pueblo world that would have created bold lines of cultural difference between a local Rio Grande population that had never really been part of the Chacoan sphere during Pueblo II and a large number of newly arrived immigrants who had. These new lines of division appear to have been resolved in structural terms within individual villages such as the Ancestral northern Tiwa site of T’aitöna (“People House” in Tiwa, or “Pot Creek Pueblo” to the archaeological community), located a short distance south of Taos. T’aitöna was established in the mid-thirteenth century as the region’s first large village, and Fowles (2005) has argued that by the start of the fourteenth century it already exhibited a spatial structure clearly ancestral to the kivaÂ�moiety organization of modern Taos Pueblo. The site is divided into northern and southern halves distinguished from one another by their overall roomblock morphol-

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16.3. Map of early-thirteenth-century T’aitöna (“People House,” aka Pot Creek Pueblo). Dashed lines indicate probable walls.

ogy and their different orientations toward the June and December solstice sunrise positions, respectively (Figure 16.3). Excavations have also revealed three corporate kivaroomblock complexes in the southern portion of T’aitöna (Roomblocks 2, 3 and 6), as well as two or three5 kiva-roomblock complexes in the north (Roomblocks 5 and 8). It is tempting, therefore, to read T’aitöna as the location where the three Summer Peoples 265

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and the three Winter Peoples banded together—significantly, under the leadership of the more powerful Summer father—to form “a good large family.” To form, in other words, a new model for Pueblo IV aggregated village life in the region. Of course, our archaeological narrative of emergent village dualism at T’aitöna may be too neat as well. Late-phase architectural additions at the site partly obscure the initially clear association of kivas and domestic roomblocks, and this may signal the growing autonomy of kiva societies from the kinship system as intermarriage between immigrants and autochthons increased. Patricia Crown (1991; Crown and Kohler 1994) has also drawn upon tree ring evidence to suggest that additional migrants joined the community in the early fourteenth century. This may have been the case; indeed, Taos oral history specifically refers to the continued arrival of new Peoples. The most commented upon of these later arrivals were the Water People, immigrants from Santa Fe who traveled north along the Rio Grande, “up the Taos River, and to the Ranchos de Taos creek until they arrived near the place where the Fiadaina [Feather or Summer People] and the Holdaina [Day or Winter People] were living together [presumably T’aitöna]” (Espinosa 1936:133). They traveled as fish: [M]any of the [Summer] People hurried to the river to learn something of the strangers. They saw many fish and the old men said, “Why these are the Ba tai’na [Water] People! . . . It is well, we guess all of the Water People will come.” . . . The Summer People threw much medicine water from large vases over the fish and covered them. .€.€. When the cover was finally removed, men, women, and children were found sitting beneath the vine. Then the Water People thanked the Summer People. (Stevenson 1906:file 2.19)

Thus were the Water People, like the Winter People before them, drawn into Taos society through the power of the Summer People’s “medicine.” Unlike the Winter People, however, the Water People’s initiation was entirely nonviolent, perhaps because they joined what by then was an established kiva-moiety system built precisely to overcome the challenges of immigration and cultural assimilation. T’aitöna was vacated shortly after AD 1319, with at least part of the village moving to Taos Pueblo where additional People groups continued to join (and occasionally leave) the community. The social identity of these groups—rooted in a common genealogy, migratory history, cultural heritage, and set of sacred possessions—has never been effaced, even though most Taos Peoples have become attached to one of the much more visible kiva societies and, through their kiva, to the ceremonial moieties. Rather than standing in opposition to clan organization, then, the kiva-moiety system appears to have been a strategy of providing each People group with a structured place in the ceremonial life of the pueblo. Conclusions Our comparison of Hopi and Taos histories has revealed a number of parallels in both pre- and post-contact social organization, complicating simple contrasts between Eastern and Western Pueblo patterns. Communities formed from distinct immigrant 266

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groups that curate migration histories and proprietary ceremonies—thought to be a distinctively Hopi pattern—also occur at Taos. Likewise, pronounced dualism in community ritual organization—thought to be a distinctively Rio Grande pattern—serves as an organizing principle of Hopi religion as well. What accounts for these parallels in community organization on either end of the Pueblo world? Twentieth-century ethnography, recall, tended to link geographic with social difference, broadly assuming that matrilineal clans gave way to non-kin sodalities as one moved from west to east. Indeed, in Eggan’s (1950) and Edward Dozier’s (1983) influential accounts, this east-west patterning was grafted onto a broad evolutionary model in which Hopi-style matrilineal clans served as models for Ancestral Pueblo societies, and the non-kin sodalities of the Eastern Pueblos were presented as recent adaptations to life in dense aggregates organized around irrigation agriculture. John Ware (2001, 2002) recently revisited this issue, offering the provocative thesis that the divergence of Eastern Pueblo sodalities from Western Pueblo clan organization began in the eighth century AD, five centuries earlier than Eggan and Dozier had proposed. Ware’s thesis is compelling in many respects—not least for the connections it draws between Tewa and Chacoan traditions—but, if accepted, it merely makes the similarities we have noted between Hopi and Taos that much more surprising. The answer, we suggest, lies in setting aside both sweeping evolutionary accounts of the shift from clan to moiety and our assumptions of a smooth, clinal change in organizational forms across the landscape. History has a way of making its own patterns, of shuffling the deck according to its own logic of contingency. In the case of Hopi and Taos, history appears to have dealt them similar cards. Both were characterized by an initial occupation of relatively small, dispersed populations. Both were at the receiving end of relatively rapid, large-scale immigrations by diverse post-Chacoan groups with recent experience in aggregated village life. Both came to be ceremonially dominated by these immigrants through the creation of dual divisions that bound society together but also institutionalized hierarchies. All this is to say that Hopi and Taos share aspects of social organization because they share comparable histories of immigration, assimilation, and social transformation. We suspect that an important variable explaining the nature of host-immigrant relations has to do with prior experience (or lack thereof ) with aggregated village life, regional ceremonial systems, or both. That is, the autochthonous populations of both regions were living in a relatively dispersed settlement pattern prior to AD 1250 when immigrant groups arrived at Hopi and Taos with prior experience in cosmopolitan centers such as Mesa Verde, Totah, and Chaco Canyon, among other places. Differences in participation in the Chaco Phenomenon may have been especially important in structuring the interaction of autochthonous and immigrant groups. The Taos region, along with the greater Rio Grande Valley of which it is a part, contains no Chaco era outlier great houses, and the Hopi Mesas contain only three debated outlier candidates and no great kivas (Gilpin 1989). In contrast, many of the immigrants to Taos and Hopi (or their ancestors) had likely participated in the Chaco and post-Chaco phenomena. This, we suggest, may have been a source of their influence and power in post-migration contexts.

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Our conclusions, then, have a broader significance insofar as they cut across the grain of a common archaeological assumption, namely, that Pueblo social organization was governed by a “first-to-come, first-to-lead” logic in which the order of arrival dictated each group’s social standing. Part and parcel of being classified as “tribal” perhaps, the Ancestral Pueblos are typically presented as strangers to any notion of “conquest” or “takeover,” in either a physical or ceremonial sense. Clearly, however, a more complex understanding of immigration and assimilation is needed, particularly when we are dealing with cases such as the movement of Chacoans or Mesa Verdeans into areas that formerly stood on the Pueblo periphery. In both our cases, we have found that indigenous histories provide a critical means of envisioning these complexities, but comparative examples from outside the American Southwest may be instructive as well. Godelier (1986), for instance, offers the remarkable ethnographic case of Baruya ceremonial hierarchies, which emerged when a number of immigrating clans conspired with one clan in the host community to physically overcome the others and institutionalize their (the immigrants’) sacred objects at the heart of social reproduction for the community as a whole. Our point here is not to say that the Hopi and Taos were necessarily “like” the Baruya but merely to open a space for envisioning much more complex host-immigrant relations. Having just argued for the common historical experiences at Hopi and Taos, we are left to account for the differences. Why did the immigrating Taos Peoples shrink from view rather than develop into true corporate clans, as among the Hopi? Why has Hopi dualism not become institutionalized and more explicitly emphasized? Parallel histories of immigration need not necessarily prompt communities to follow similar postmigration trajectories, and the emphasis on clans versus non-kin sodalities may simply represent two viable organizational solutions to the aggregation of different cultural groups. Nevertheless, the contrast becomes more salient when we note that it is linked to different tendencies toward matrilineality versus patrilineality within the ceremonial system. Contemporary Hopi society is strongly matrilineal (Eggan 1950; Titiev 1944), with group membership tied to residence in the maternal household (Parsons 1936b), a pattern that appears to have considerable time depth in the Hopi area (e.g., James 1994). Because Hopi ritual and domestic authority are both vested in the maternal line, the sacred physical and intellectual property of the clan resides in maternal clan houses. Although rituals are actually practiced in separate men’s houses (kivas) by ceremonial societies that can be categorized as either Motisinom or Nùutungkwisinom, the clear spatial segregation of Hopi ritual in maternal clan houses disguises the overarching duality of the ceremonial system. In contrast, while the domestic sphere at Taos is run by women, ritual is organized around largely patrilineal lines (as it is at Picurís), a pattern that appears to have been established during the fourteenth or fifteenth century AD when kivas were detached from the residential roomblocks with which they previously had unique relationships (Fowles 2006). When ritual authority came to be more centrally controlled by men, kivas appear to have assumed the position of both “clan houses” and men’s houses for ceremonial societies, eventually permitting the latter function to eclipse the former. With the ancestral link between

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ceremonies and Peoples masked, the overarching duality of the Taos ceremonial system appears more pronounced. We conclude with one final cautionary note. As we explore the cumulative history and hybridity of Puebloan cultures, it is important not to let our enthusiasm for deconstructing essentialist identities proceed at the expense of the modern-day descendants of populations under study. Many tribes are embroiled in land disputes and cultural patrimony conflicts with both other Native American tribes and the federal government, the outcomes of which depend heavily on perceptions of historical continuity (e.g., Gosden 2001:258). Modern Pueblo peoples embrace their multiethnic pasts as central to, not threatening of, their present identities. As scholars specializing in the study of cultural identity, we should strive to help others—especially those involved in decision making about cultural patrimony—become equally comfortable with these more complex understandings of identity. Notes 1. This is not to imply isolation of Eastern and Western Pueblo populations. Important and as yet understudied migrations in both directions characterize the Pueblo Revolt and post-Revolt periods (e.g., Dozier 1983; Riley and Manson 1983; Schroeder 1968; Spicer 1962). 2. Not all Hopi clans control ceremonies. 3. Except for the bilingual Tewa-Hopi speakers of First Mesa (Stanislawski 1979). 4. Current archaeological perspectives on the Katsina religion point to its emergence around AD 1300, along the Little Colorado River and in the Rio Grande (Adams 1991; Schaafsma 1994; see Lekson and Cameron 1995 regarding possible Katsina ritual in eleventh- and twelfth-century Mimbres villages). It is unclear how to reconcile archaeological evidence for post–AD 1300 emergence of Katsina iconography away from the Hopi Mesas with oral tradition of ritual practice of a pre–AD 1300 Motisinom population on the mesas. It is reasonable to expect that the nature and practice of Katsina religion changed over time (Plog and Solometo 1997), and Motisinom ritual may have been less visible, or visible in different ways, in the archaeological record of the pre–AD 1300 era than it was afterward (Bernardini 2008). 5. A third northern kiva-roomblock complex likely exists in the untested portion of the site.

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Adams, E. C., V. M. LaMotta, and K. Dongoske 2004 Hopi Settlement Clusters Past and Present. In The Protohistoric Pueblo World, A.D. 1275–1600, ed. E. C. Adams and A. I. Duff, 128–136. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Anyon, R. 1999

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Colton, H. Hopi History and Ethnobotany. In Hopi Indians, ed. D. A. Horr, 279–386. Gar1974 land, New York. Connelly, J. C. 1979 Hopi Social Organization. In Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 9, ed. A. Ortiz, 539–543. Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Crown, P. L. Evaluating the Construction Sequence and Population of Pot Creek Pueblo, North1991 ern New Mexico. American Antiquity 56: 291–314. Crown, P. L., and T. Kohler Community Dynamics, Site Structure, and Aggregation in the Northern Rio 1994 Grande. In The Ancient Southwestern Community, ed. W. Wills and R. Leonard, 103–117. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Cushing, F. Zuni: Selected Writings of Frank Hamilton Cushing. University of Nebraska Press, 1979 Lincoln. de Angulo, J. 1985 Jaime in Taos: The Taos Papers of Jaime de Angulo, comp. Gui de Angulo. City Lights Books, San Francisco.

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Dongoske, K., M. Yeatts, R. Anyon, and T. J. Ferguson 1997 Archaeological Cultures and Cultural Affiliation: Hopi and Zuni Perspectives in the American Southwest. American Antiquity 62(2): 600–608. Dozier, E. P. The Pueblo Indians of North America. Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, New York. 1970 The Pueblo Indians of North America. Waveland, Prospect Heights, IL. 1983 Eggan, F. 1950 1966 1971 Ellis, F. H. 1974a 1974b

Social Organization of the Western Pueblos. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. The American Indian: Perspectives for the Study of Social Change. Aldine, Chicago. Foreword. In Spider Woman Stories, by G. M. Mullet, ix–xiv. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. The Hopi: Their History and Use of Lands. In Hopi Indians, ed. D. A. Horr, 25– 277. Garland, New York. Anthropological Data Pertaining to the Taos Land Claim. In Pueblo Indians I, ed. D. A. Horr, 29–150. Garland, New York.

Ellis, F. H., and J. J. Brody Ceramic Stratigraphy and Tribal History at Taos Pueblo. American Antiquity 29(3): 1964 316–327. Espinosa, A. M. 1936 Pueblo Indian Folk Tales. Journal of American Folklore 49: 69–133. Ferguson, T. J. Yep Hisat Hoopoq’yaqam Teesiwa (Hopi Ancestors Were Once Here): Hopi-Hohokam 2003 Cultural Affiliation Study. Report prepared for the Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, Kykotsmovi, AZ. Ferguson, T. J., K. Dongoske, L. Jenkins, E. Polingyouma, and M. Yeatts 1993 Working Together: The Roles of Archaeology and Ethnohistory in Hopi Cultural Preservation. CRM 16 (special issue): 27–37. Ferguson, T. J., and M. Lomaomvaya 1999 Hoopoq’uaqam niqw Wukoskyavi (Those Who Went to the Northeast and Tonto Basin): Hopi-Salado Cultural Affiliation Study. Report prepared for the Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, Kykotsmovi, AZ. Fewkes, J. W. Tusayan Migration Traditions. In 19th Annual Report of the Bureau of American 1900 Ethnology for the Years 1897–1898, part 2, ed. J. W. Powell, 573–634. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. 1907 Hopi. In Handbook of American Indians North of Mexico, ed. F. Hodge, 560–567. Smithsonian Institution, Bureau of American Ethnology, Bulletin 30. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC.

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Fowles, S. M. 2004 The Making of Made People: The Prehistoric Evolution of Hierocracy among the North Tiwa of New Mexico. Unpublished PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Historical Contingency and the Prehistoric Foundations of Eastern Pueblo Moiety 2005 Organization. Journal of Anthropological Research. 61(1): 25–52. 2006 Our Father (Our Mother): Gender, Praxis, and Marginalization in Pueblo Religion. In Engaged Anthropology, ed. M. Hegmon and S. Eiselt, 27–51. Memoirs of the Museum of Anthropology. University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Fowles, S. M., L. Minc, S. Duwe, and D. Hill 2007 Clay, Conflict, and Village Aggregation: Compositional Analyses of Pre-Classic Pottery from Taos, NM. American Antiquity 72(1): 125–152. Gilpin, D. 1989

Great Houses and Pueblos in Northeastern Arizona. Paper presented at the 1989 Pecos Conference, Los Alamos, NM.

Gilpin, K., and S. LeBlanc 2007 Sikyatki Style in Regional Context. In New Perspectives on Pottery Mound Pueblo, ed. P. Schaafsma, 109–136. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Godelier, M. 1986 The Making of Great Men, trans. R. Swyer. Cambridge University Press, New York. Gosden, C. Postcolonial Archaeology: Issues of Culture, Identity, and Knowledge. In Archaeo2001 logical Theory Today, ed. I. Hodder, 241–261. Polity, Cambridge. Herr, S. 2001

Beyond Chaco: Great Kiva Communities along the Mogollon Rim Frontier. Anthropological Papers 66. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

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Malotki, E. Hopi Ruin Legends. University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln. 1993 McGuire, R. H., and D. J. Saitta Although They Have Petty Captains, They Obey Them Badly: The Dialectics of 1996 Prehispanic Western Pueblo Social Organization. American Antiquity 61: 197– 216. Miller, M. L. A Preliminary Study of the Pueblo of Taos, New Mexico. Unpublished PhD dis1898 sertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago, Chicago. Morgan, L. H. 1965 Houses and House-Life of the American Aborigines. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Originally published 1881, Government Printing Office, Washington DC. Ortiz, A. 1969

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[17] Standing Out Versus Blending In Pueblo Migrations and Ethnic Marking

Tammy Stone and William D. Lipe

Movement of varying distances across the landscape has long been recognized as an adaptation to Southwestern environments (Nelson 1999; Varien 1999). Larger-scale, longer-distance movements are often attributed to environmental and economic factors that exert a “push” or a “pull” (Anthony 1990, 1992; Lipe 1995). In reality, however, each movement involves complex social processes that may differ depending on the nature of information flows along preexisting social networks; whether the migration stream extends over a short or a long period; whether people move as individuals, families, larger groups, or entire communities; the distances involved; environmental and cultural similarities and differences between the source and host areas; and how migrants are socially integrated into their new homes (Anthony 1990; Burmeister 2000; Clark 2001; Stone 2003) . To understand the process of migration and the negotiations of identity that accompany it, we must examine the interplay of numerous factors, including structure-agency interaction, demography, and the social and spatial scales of the movement. Variations in these factors and their interplay may result in very different patterns of behavior and interaction. For example, the interaction between the indigenous, or host, population and the migrants may vary from complete assimilation to the maintenance of separate enclaves to open conflict (Stone 2003). The initial period of interaction appears critical

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17.1. Map of the regions discussed

in this process (Clark 2001), and outcomes can be affected by slight differences in any of these factors: size of the migrating group, distance of the move, social structure of the migrating group, the migrant group’s reason(s) for leaving its previous home region and moving to a particular area, the history of contact between the two groups prior to the migration, social structure and settlement pattern (dispersed versus aggregated) of the indigenous group, population density of the indigenous group, availability of land in the host area, and flexibility of the indigenous group’s land tenure system (Anthony 1990; Burmeister 2000; Clark 2001; Duff 1998; Lyons 2003; Stone 2003). An important dimension of how migrant groups become integrated into a new area is the degree to which they “stand out” as a distinct ethnic identity versus transforming their ethnicity to “blend in” with the host society. To illustrate this variability and complexity, we compare two well-documented cases of long-distance migration in the American Southwest in the late thirteenth century (Cameron 1995; Haury 1958; Lindsay and Dean 1983; Lipe 1995; Lyons 2003; Stone 2003). Specifically, we examine Central Mesa Verde (CMV) groups that migrated to the northern Rio Grande (NRG) region in New Mexico and Kayenta groups that migrated to the Point of Pines region of the Mogollon Mountains in Arizona (Figure 17.1). Both 276

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Table 17.1. Migration chronologies for Mesa Verde and Kayenta areas Variable

Mesa Verde

Kayenta

Depopulation begins

AD 1260

AD 1250

Depopulation complete

AD 1280

AD 1290/1300

Destination of migrants

NRG and elsewhere

Tusayan/Hopi Ancestral Pueblos; Mogollon Mtns.

Dates of appearance in host communities

Large population increase, 1250–1300

Kayenta migrants at Point of Pines, AD 1265

migrations occurred in the mid- to late thirteenth century. For each case, we compare the conditions prior to migration, the nature of the migration, and short- and long-term social integration in the host area. Study Area Both the Mesa Verde and Kayenta regions were host to substantial populations at the beginning of the thirteenth century. However, by the end of the century both regions were depopulated, with residents migrating to other areas of the American Southwest (Table 17.1). Once at their new homes, the migrants interacted with existing communities in different ways. Mesa Verde migrants to the NRG appear to have largely blended in culturally, even when settling in areas with little or no year-round settlement, while Kayenta migrants at Point of Pines stood out as an ethnic enclave. Archaeology records only the “hard” evidence of these relationships, so many types of ethnic signaling may be lost. Despite this, an examination of the archaeological record provides a lens into at least some aspects of ethnic interaction and how cultural origins were either submerged or purposefully displayed in material culture, architecture, and community plans. The Mesa Verde Region

The CMV area1 extended from Mesa Verde proper in southwestern Colorado to Cottonwood Wash in southeastern Utah (Varien and Wilshusen 2002:4). Recent studies estimate that over 19,000 people occupied one part of the CMV area in the period AD 1225–1260 (Varien et al. 2007). Population decline started by 1260 and accelerated in the 1270s; construction activity ended about 1280 (Lipe 1995; Varien et al. 1996; Varien et al. 2007). Some have argued that people started migrating out of the area before 1260 (Ahlstrom, Van West, and Dean 1995; Duff and Wilshusen 2000), but evidently population did not decline. Evidence from Pueblo oral history (Ellis 1967; Ortiz 1969), physical anthropology (Ortman 2007), and concurrent increases in NRG population in the late 1200s (Cordell 1995; Crown, Orcutt, and Kohler 1996) indicates that many of the inhabitants of the CMV area migrated to locations in the NRG drainage basin. A specific connection between the CMV region and the historic Tewa pueblos is indicated by oral tradition (e.g., Ortiz 1969), Tewa place names for locations in southwestern Colorado 277

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(Harrington 1916), specific knowledge about the site of Yucca House ( Jeançon 1925), and conceptual metaphors expressed in Mesa Verde material culture and architecture, on the one hand, and in Tewa language on the other (Ortman 2000, 2003). This does not exclude the possibility that some migrants from the CMV or other parts of the Mesa Verde area migrated to areas other than the NRG (cf. Lekson et al. 2002)2 or joined with non–Tewa-speaking communities; in fact, we think this probable. Kayenta Region

The size of the Kayenta region varied considerably through time, but in the early 1200s it included northeastern Arizona and extreme southeastern Utah. It was bounded on the north by the San Juan River, on the west by the Colorado River, and on the south and east by Black Mesa. Kayenta-area population began to contract by 1250. As depopulation proceeded, occupation was largely limited to four areas: Laguna Creek, Marsh Pass, the Klethla Valley, and Navajo Mountain, with a largely empty landscape between these areas (Dean 1996). Villages aggregated around permanent water in the upper reaches of drainages with long histories of use, including the Long House Valley, Tsegi Canyon, the Shonto Plateau, the Kayenta Valley, and the Klethla Valley. By the end of the thirteenth century, the traditional Kayenta heartland was depopulated. Some Kayenta groups coalesced with closely related and archaeologically similar Tusayan groups in Ancestral Hopi villages, while others moved south to several locations in the Mogollon Mountains, including the Point of Pines region (Clark 2001; Dean 1996; Haury 1958; Lindsay 1987; Lindsay and Dean 1983; Lyons 2003). Kayenta migrations also extended farther south into Arizona desert regions (Clark 2001; Hartmann and Flint 2001; Lindsay 1987; Woodson 1999), although emphasis here is on the group that settled in the Point of Pines area. Dendrochronology indicates construction by Kayenta migrants at Point of Pines Pueblo by 1265 (Stone 2006). Conditions Prior to Migration Prolonged drought conditions in the late 1200s (Adams 1996, 2002; Cordell et al. 2007; Dean 1996) would have stressed the subsistence system in both the Kayenta and CMV areas. Carla Van West (1994) has argued that drought alone would not have caused disastrous crop failures for all communities in the CMV area. However, repeated droughts were probably accompanied by shorter growing seasons (Petersen 1994; Salzer 2000; Wright 2006), disruptions to the bi-seasonal rain pattern (Dean and Van West 2002), and arroyo cutting (Dean et al. 1985) that would have affected both areas. Impacts of human land use, such as deforestation as a result of prolonged harvesting of trees for building timbers and fuel, may have caused problems in some localities, including increased soil erosion (Ahlstrom, Van West, and Dean 1995; Kohler and Matthews 1988). Availability of some wild resources also appears to have diminished over time, as indicated by a switch from larger animals, such as artiodactyls to lagomorphs, and to domestic turkeys in the CMV area (Lipe 1995; Muir and Driver 2002). Finally, some scholars have argued that strains brought about by deteriorating environmental and 278

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Table 17.2. Comparison of conditions in the CMV and Kayenta areas prior to migration Variable

CMV

Kayenta

Settlement pattern and aggregation

Aggregation 1225–1280 into villages of >50 rooms; canyon-oriented settings

Small villages (50 structures; “cliff dwellings”; dispersed habitations

Plaza- and courtyard-oriented sites, pithouse villages, ad hoc forms

Site layout

“Front-oriented”; multiple roomblocks; informal plaza; bilateral division

Multi-roomblock layout

Room functions

Surface living and storage rooms; domestic/ritual kiva.

10 room types

Household structures

Complex of 2–10 surface rooms and a small kiva

Households have many rooms

Imported ceramics

White Mountain Red Ware, Tsegi Orange Ware (rare)

Few imported ceramics

economic conditions led to varying levels of hostility, as seen in the increasingly defensive nature of the location and layout of sites, evidence of physical trauma, and skewed gender demographics in the burial populations at some sites in both regions (Haas and Creamer 1996; Kohler and Turner 2006; Kuckelman, Lightfoot, and Martin 2002) and also in some migrant populations to the south (Lowell 2007). Linda Cordell and colleagues (2007; also see Lipe 1995) argue that although environmental problems and hostilities in the northern Southwest undoubtedly promoted emigration, the direction, scale, and character of these migrations were substantially affected by existing social networks linking populations in the donor and recipient areas, as well as by the environmental and social opportunities (“pull” factors) in the recipient areas. For example, Cordell and colleagues (2007) show that during much of the AD 1200s, the rainfall regimes of the CMV and NRG areas contrasted, with the NRG also showing less temporal variability. Despite the general similarities in environmental conditions and the occurrence of violent interactions in both the Kayenta and CMV areas, there are several differences between the two regions (Table 17.2). CMV Area

After a low point in the AD 900s and early 1000s, population increased rapidly after AD 1060, peaking at several tens of thousands in the mid-1200s (Varien et al. 279

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2007). During the earlier part of this episode, settlement was largely in small dispersed habitations located near arable upland soils (Varien 1999; Varien et al. 1996). In the late 1100s and increasingly through the 1200s, settlement shifted to locations on or near canyon rims, and aggregation increased as well. By the late 1200s the majority of people lived in or near canyon-oriented villages of fifty or more structures (Varien 1999; Varien and Wilshusen 2002); where natural shelters were present, “cliff dwellings” were built. Typically, communities were centered on a densely settled village but included varying numbers of small dispersed habitations (Mahoney, Adler, and Kendrick 2000). The mid-1200s aggregated villages of the CMV area displayed a distinctive layout and set of architectural features (Lipe and Ortman 2000). They were “front-oriented” (Reed 1956) in the sense of “facing” a particular direction. They typically had a bilateral layout, with two parts of the settlement separated by a drainage channel or, in some cliff dwellings, by a wall (Rohn 1965). A large bi-wall or tri-wall structure is typically present, as is a partial or complete site-enclosing wall, an informally bounded plaza, and a number of towers. Mesa Verde Black-on-white increased relative to McElmo Black-onwhite, and distinctive vessel shapes included mugs and “kiva jars.”3 Artifact assemblages include few items from outside the area, indicating decreased long-distance exchange relative to the late 1000s–early 1100s (Lipe 2006). Exotic materials such as shell, jet, and turquoise are virtually absent (Lipe 2002). Non-local pottery consists largely of rare occurrences of White Mountain Red Ware from east-central Arizona and Tsegi Orange Ware from northeastern Arizona. Obsidian is also rare; most sourced examples are from the Jemez Mountains in the NRG (Arakawa 2006). Despite little evidence of exchange, social networks linking the CMV and NRG may have strengthened in the early to mid1200s (Cordell et al. 2007; Roney 1995, 1996). Pottery design became more similar between the Mesa Verde and NRG areas than between the latter area and other parts of the northern Southwest (Cordell 1995; Cordell et al. 2007; Roney 1995, 1996). John Roney (1995, 1996) also documents Pueblo III period communities along the eastern edge of the San Juan (geologic) Basin that may have provided links between the Mesa Verde area, on the one hand, and the NRG region, on the other, by the mid-1200s (also see Cordell et al. 2007). As compared with the CMV communities of the AD 1200s, those from the eastern San Juan Basin are much more variable in architecture and site layout (Bice and Sundt 1972; Pippin 1987; Roney 1996). At some, small household kivas are as common as at CMV Pueblo III sites, while others have few, if any. Also, the more generalized McElmo style is more common than Mesa Verde Black-on-white. However, at Guadalupe Ruin, Lonnie Pippin (1987) documents an apparent late-thirteenth-century “site unit intrusion” from the CMV or Totah area, with Mesa Verde Black-on-white vessels and typical Mesa Verde mugs. These Mesa Verde–oriented communities of the eastern San Juan Basin appear to have been depopulated by the late AD 1200s or early 1300s (Roney 1996), with their inhabitants most likely moving into the Rio Grande drainage. CMV migrants may have been influenced by people (perhaps relatives) from these eastern San Juan Basin settlements who had already established ties to Rio Grande communities.

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Kayenta

The Mesa Verde and Kayenta areas contrast in several ways. Prior to 1250 the Kayenta area was dominated by settlements of fewer than 50 rooms and considerable variability in architectural style, site layout, room function, and kiva form, although kivas were restricted to relatively small sizes and great kivas were absent (Dean 1996). Both migration and aggregation began at the onset of the Tsegi phase (AD 1250–1300), resulting in sites ranging from 10 to 300 rooms. Regardless of site size, considerable variability remained in community layout, household construction, room function, and community integration, with great kivas present only at some aggregated sites (Dean 1996; Lindsay and Dean 1983), suggesting variability in community and possibly regional organization. This is further supported by the occurrence of at least four types of residential sites during the Tsegi phase: plaza-oriented villages, courtyard-oriented villages, pithouse villages, and what Jeffrey Dean (1996) refers to as ad hoc forms (where layout appears determined by topography rather than by a specific concept of community organization). Household makeup was similarly variable, with at least 10 different room types. Furthermore, households contained anywhere from 2 to 15 rooms linked by doors. Finally, pithouses were common architectural structures, appearing both in pithouse villages and in plaza- and courtyard-oriented sites along with masonry surface structures. Evidence of external relations in the Kayenta area is limited. Prior to 1250, trade pottery was rare; post-1250 imports were predominantly from the Hopi and Mesa Verde areas (Gumerman and Dean 1989). Connections between the Point of Pines and Kayenta regions were surprisingly lacking. Painted designs on locally produced pottery in the Point of Pines region were highly restricted prior to the entrance of the migrants, found only on McDonald Corrugated. In other words, stylistic traditions on painted ceramics were not shared between the two areas. In addition, survey collections (Stone 2002a) and excavations at Turkey Creek Pueblo (Lowell 1991) show a lack of Tsegi Orange wares (produced in the Kayenta region) in the Point of Pines region just prior to the migration. Rather, trade wares are dominated by White Mountain Red Ware and Cibola White Ware. Nature of Migration and Conditions in the Host Locations In the NRG, the lack of site unit intrusions suggests that Mesa Verde immigrants came as individuals, households, or other small groups. At Point of Pines, the evidence indicates immigration by an entire community or a substantial segment of a community (Haury 1958; Stone 2006). Migration into Grasshopper Pueblo was considerably different; migrants were predominately females, perhaps as a result of exogamous marriage patterns (Reid and Whittlesey 1999) or flight from violence in their homelands (Lowell 2007). The rate of movement and the social, political, and economic organizations Mesa Verde and Kayenta migrants encountered in their new homes were also different (Table 17.3).

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Table 17.3. Conditions along the Rio Grande and in the Point of Pines region when the migrants arrived Variable

Rio Grande

Point of Pines

Settlement pattern

Dispersed small habitations; plazaoriented villages in late 1200s

Both small villages and aggregated communities

Architectural style

Masonry or adobe surface structures; kivas, some cliff dwellings

One-story masonry pueblos

Village layout

Small habitations face east, often have a kiva; late 1200s villages oriented to plaza w/kiva

Massed roomblocks around formal plazas and great kivas

Size of the migrant group in the host area

Several thousand migrants, most moving as small groups

ca. seventy individuals

Mesa Verde–Rio Grande Migration

The substantial increase in NRG population that started in the early 1200s (Early Coalition) has often been attributed to immigration from the Mesa Verde area (Cordell 1989; also see Ahlstrom, Van West, and Dean 1995; Duff and Wilshusen 2000). Nevertheless, CMV population continued to grow, peaking between 1240 and 1260 (Glowacki 2006, 2007; Varien et al. 2007). Violence is evident in the last days at several CMV sites. The entire population of Castle Rock village—perhaps seventy-five people—was massacred in the late 1270s; at about the same time, violence also claimed lives at the much larger Sand Canyon Pueblo (Kuckelman 2002, 2007; Kuckelman, Lightfoot, and Martin 2000, 2002). Kristin Kuckelman (2007) also reports evidence of severe food stress (more wild foods in hearth samples, dramatic decline in turkey bones) among the last inhabitants of Sand Canyon Pueblo after the onset of the “Great Drought” in 1276. These individuals may have been unwilling or unable to migrate. Kuckelman (2007) estimates that 25 to 75 percent of the pueblo’s population departed in the last months or years of occupation at the site. Kuckelman’s analysis suggests that subsistence stress and violence resulted in increased rates of mortality and emigration in the late 1270s. However, the 1260s and early 1270s lack clear signs of subsistence stress, even though regional population appears to have been declining, presumably largely as a result of emigration. Construction continued at Sand Canyon Pueblo and other villages into the 1270s, turkeys continued to be raised in large numbers (and presumably were fed maize), and midden samples typically contain maize (Kuckelman 2007). The AD 1200s, particularly the late 1200s, saw rapid population growth in the NRG (Adams and Duff 2004; Cordell 1995; Cordell et al. 2007; Crown, Orcutt, and Kohler 1996; Hill et al. 2004). This growth began in some areas prior to 1250 (e.g., on the Pajarito Plateau [Orcutt 1999]). A common settlement pattern in the early to middle 1200s was loose clusters of small habitation sites of fewer than twenty-five rooms each (e.g., Kohler and Root 2004a; Schmidt 2006; Vierra et al. 2002). Some habitations 282

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had a circular kiva, and some had a corner room with special features that may have functioned as household or extended family kivas. These kivas generally lack the distinctive features of CMV forms (e.g., masonry lining, southern recess, bench, pilasters supporting a cribbed roof, northwest-southeast orientation) and have more in common with earlier pit structures from the Rio Grande (Lakatos 2003, 2007; Smith 1998). In the late AD 1200s, large plaza-oriented pueblos began to appear in the NRG. Unlike Mesa Verde and Chacoan aggregates, these were not “front-oriented,” and kivas were not built into the roomblocks; a striking difference from CMV villages of the 1200s is the lack of small household kivas and of the public architecture represented by bi-walls and groups of towers. A relatively small and early plaza-oriented pueblo in the NRG is Burnt Mesa Pueblo Area 1, on the Pajarito Plateau (Kohler and Root 2004b). Two-storied in some places, it had approximately sixty-five rooms in a square layout surrounding a central plaza, where there was a single Rio Grande–style kiva. Main construction probably began in the AD 1270s or 1280s (Kohler and Root 2004b:211), coincident with the final depopulation of the CMV region. By the very late 1200s and early 1300s, plaza-oriented pueblos with hundreds of rooms were being built in the NRG; for example, at Arroyo Hondo Pueblo, multiple roomblocks were constructed around several rectangular plazas between about AD 1315 and 1330 (Creamer 1993:12). A small number of Rio Grande style kivas were located in plaza areas. Plaza-oriented villages appeared in the Mimbres area in the late 1000s, in the Upper Little Colorado and Mogollon Rim areas by the early 1200s (Hill 1970; Lowell 1991), and in most other parts of the Pueblo Southwest in the very late 1200s and early 1300s. In the NRG, this type of village pattern was new to all residents, whether newly arrived migrants or longtime inhabitants. Kayenta–Point of Pines Migration

Kayenta-area abandonment was a complex activity that occurred over the entire fifty years of the Tsegi phase. Areas were abandoned differentially, and migrants moved to different locations. Some coalesced with Tusayan groups to form Ancestral Hopi villages, and others moved into the Mogollon Mountains, including the Point of Pines region. Prior to the arrival of migrants in the Point of Pines region, considerable changes occurred in the indigenous regional and community organization. Inhabitants of that region had lived in year-round masonry villages since at least AD 1000, but aggregation had begun at the start of the Tularosa phase (1150–1275). Survey has identified several large sites dated to this period, one of which has been extensively excavated. Information from the site survey (Stone 2002a) indicates that the Tularosa phase was dominated by masonry sites of from 1 to 16 rooms. In contrast, the 335-room Turkey Creek Pueblo (Lowell 1991) was founded during the late Tularosa phase and continued into the early Pinedale phase (AD 1225–1286). It consists of several tightly packed roomblocks with at least two formal plazas and a great kiva. Julie Lowell (1991) estimates that its abandonment occurred during and slightly after the construction of Point of Pines Pueblo, which began in AD 1265. Initial construction of Point of Pines Pueblo included at least 36 pithouses and the beginnings of several masonry roomblocks

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associated with kivas and a formal plaza (Stone 2006). The pithouses differ from those previously found in the region, not only because of their late date but also because of their small size, small postholes indicating insubstantial superstructures, and a general lack of floor features (Stone 2005; Wendorf 1950). After a brief use, the pithouses were filled in and built over with masonry structures (although the site’s earliest masonry structures are contemporaneous with the pithouses). The masonry structures were the start of three separate roomblocks. One of these early roomblocks and the pithouses contain both Kayenta painted ware and the Maverick Mountain Series (locally produced ceramics with Kayenta painted designs). Based on the number of pithouses and the size of the subsequent roomblock, Emil Haury estimated the migrant group to be around seventy individuals (Haury 1958, 1989; Lindsay 1987). Eventually, Point of Pines Pueblo grew to around 800 rooms (Haury 1989), although how many were occupied at any one time is difficult to estimate. Ceramics, household organization, room size, and construction methods indicate that the migrants occupied/used one D-shaped kiva and one 70-room roomblock (Haury 1958; Stone 2006) between 1265 and 1300 (based on ceramic and dendrochronological dates). Regionally, Point of Pines Pueblo is the only large pueblo occupied at this time that appears to have had a migrant population. Short-Term and Long-Term Interaction between Migrants and Hosts Differences in conditions in the CMV and Kayenta regions prior to migration and the nature of the migrations probably contributed to the nature of interactions between the migrants and their host communities. To a large degree, Mesa Verde migrants blended in with their NRG hosts, while the Kayenta migrants stood out as an ethnic enclave in their Mogollon host community. Mesa Verde–Rio Grande Migration

Despite the biological, linguistic, oral history, and ethnohistoric evidence of migrations from the CMV area to the NRG, the migrants themselves are archaeologically nearly invisible—something that has long been recognized (Cordell 1989; Duff and Wilshusen 2000; Wendorf and Reed 1955). The most distinctive traits in the CMV archaeological complex did not make the trip to the Rio Grande (Table 17.4). Most traits that were given up are fairly visible; hence they have high “message potential” (Clark 2001:12) and would have served as clear ethnic markers had they been retained. Jeffery Clark (2001), following Christopher Carr (1995), suggests that low-visibility characteristics associated with the domestic sphere may be the most reliable indicators of migration. These would include low-visibility aspects of domestic life, “technological style” in artifact production, and patterns of food preparation and disposal (Clark 2001:12–14). Studies of this sort have not been done systematically, but Timothy Kohler and colleagues (2004) report that turkey husbandry increased dramatically in the late 1200s on the Pajarito Plateau, something that may represent a link to the Mesa 284

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Table 17.4. Comparison of pre-migration CMV and post-migration NRG cultural complexes CMV (1250–1280)

NRG (1250–1325)

Large (50–750-room ) villages, some outlying small habitations

Clusters of small (5–25-room) habitations, then large (65 to hundreds of rooms) plaza-oriented villages

Villages front-oriented, assoc. w/ canyons, bilateral layout, site enclosing wall, informal plaza

Plaza villages not front-oriented, lack enclosing walls, not on canyon rims

Small kiva core of household habitation unit; kivas have bench, pilasters, north-south orientation

Few kivas, especially in plaza-oriented villages; kivas oriented east; roofs supported by posts, not pilasters

Cliff dwellings common

Cliff dwellings in some locales

Towers common

Towers rare or absent

Mesa Verde B/W design style common

Santa Fe and Galisteo B/W resemble McElmo B/W

Mugs, kiva jars, and artiodactyl humerus scrapers common

Mugs, kiva jars, and artiodactyl scrapers virtually absent

McElmo style masonry common

McElmo style masonry absent

D-shaped bi-wall or circular tri-walls

Bi-walls and tri-walls not present

Verde area. Kurt Anschuetz and Richard Wilshusen (2008) also note the appearance in the Tewa Basin after about 1250 of directional shrines similar to those recently documented in the CMV area (Scott Ortman, personal communication, 2008). Still, the disappearance of most elements of an archaeological complex present at fifty or more CMV communities occupied by several thousand people as late as the 1270s coincident with the depopulation of that area is remarkable. Although times were difficult in the CMV area in the late 1270s (Kuckelman 2007), we have no evidence for a truly massive die-off of population; in any case, migrations appear to have begun by AD 1260 and perhaps earlier. Multiple lines of evidence indicate that large numbers of people moved from the CMV area to the NRG, but instead of maintaining distinctive cultural patterns, these migrants appear to have adopted styles and practices already current in the NRG and modes of settlement organization (e.g., inward-looking plaza-oriented pueblos; increase in social scale of kiva use) that were spreading into the NRG by about 1250. What accounts for these dramatic and rapid cultural and, probably, social changes? Several speculations follow, some of which may serve as hypotheses for future research. •

Mesa Verde migrants moved in small groups and went to multiple localities in the NRG.4

•

The migrants did not present themselves as socially or militarily dominant, and host communities had social institutions for integrating newcomers.

•

General cultural similarities, information networks, and perhaps smaller-scale migration flows prior to AD 1260 (Roney 1995, 1996) provided a social context

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for decisions to migrate and for integration into existing populations (cf. Cordell et al. 2007). •

If there were Mesa Verde migrants before 1260, they could have served as role models as the pace of migration increased.

•

Mesa Verde–related groups in intervening areas (e.g., the eastern San Juan Basin) may have promoted acculturation through relationships previously established with individuals and groups in both the CMV and the NRG.

•

Not only the NRG’s agricultural opportunities but aspects of newly emerging religious practice and community organization as well were attractive to migrants who had lost confidence in their own social, religious, and subsistence patterns. Practices and patterns associated with the plaza-oriented pueblos may have offered such alternatives.

•

If warfare was escalating in the greater Rio Grande area (LeBlanc 1999; Schaafsma 2000), some NRG communities may have welcomed or recruited migrants to increase their military capability.

Kayenta–Point of Pines Migration

Unlike the Mesa Verde migrants in the Rio Grande region, the Kayenta migrants at Point of Pines made a conscious effort to stand out as an ethnic enclave, maintaining and visually displaying distinctively Kayenta ethnic markers (Table 17.5). For example, the migrant community’s Kayenta-style D-shaped kiva contrasted with the rectangular kivas long used by the indigenous Mogollon inhabitants (Stone 2002b). Religious practice and structures are particularly strong delineators of “we versus they” because they distinguish those who participate and who possess ritual knowledge and understanding from those who do not. In addition, ritual is intimately tied to concepts of history and self not shared with nonparticipants (McGuire 1986; Rothenbuhler 1998; Stone 2003). The migrants also built their domestic structures differently from those of the indigenous Mogollon population. In addition to using pithouses as temporary structures, their two-story masonry structures contrasted with the one-story buildings typical of the Point of Pines region. In addition, migrant rooms were larger and connected by doors into very large room-suites (Stone 2006), which were absent elsewhere in the Point of Pines region. Finally, Kayenta ceramic manufacturing methods (Lyons and Lindsay 2006; Zedeño 2002) and decorative patterns were used in the plain perforated plates and painted ceramics made of local materials. Thus in the form of ritual and domestic architecture, organization of domestic space, and methods of ceramic manufacture and decoration, the Kayenta migrants appear to have made a conscious effort to stand out from their Mogollon neighbors. The Kayenta migrants felt secure enough to signal their “otherness” actively for at least a generation. However, this did not result in long-term integration or security. In approximately 1300, the migrant roomblock was burned, in what appears to have been a purposefully set fire. An accidental fire would not have spread as rapidly or completely through a multi-story masonry structure with seventy ground-floor rooms, indicating that multiple fires were purposely set. In addition, large amounts of burned corn were

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Table 17.5. Comparison of Kayenta markers prior to and after migration to Point of Pines Pueblo Kayenta pre-migration (1250–1265)

Migrants at Point of Pines 1265–1300)

Small (< 50 rooms) settlements, aggregation after 1250

Migrants join newly forming aggregated village

Pithouses common by themselves and in sites with masonry structure

Pithouses along with (and then supplanted by) masonry rooms

Variety of small kiva forms (including Dshaped); no great kivas 2 days to a week)

Far (> 1 week)

Moderate (>2 days to a week)

Far (>1 week)

Far (>1 week)

Population impact in source area

Significant reduction in source area population

Depopulation of source area

Negligible effect on source area population

Significant reduction in source area population

Significant reduction in source area population

Socorro to southern New Mexico (Clark and Laumbach)

Household

Kayenta to lower San Pedro (Clark and Laumbach)

Social scale of moving unit

Dimension

Mesa Verde to southern New Mexico (Clark and Laumbach)

Mogollon Highlands to lower San Pedro (Clark and Laumbach)

Table 20.1. Case studies classified along dimensions of scale

the way migration works. But dimensionalizing is a process that needs to be followed by synthesis. We want to know how those dimensions intersect into recurrent patterns that help us understand why migration was different in one area over another. These recurrent patterns are the ones that help us frame the way migration works as an integrated process and that I think should be the ultimate goal of controlled comparisons. In this chapter I have two goals. First, I discuss the dimensions thematically by focusing on three overarching themes that run through the chapters: scale, connectivity, and transformation (Tables 20.1–20.3). Each of the dimensions identified by Ortman and Cameron fits into one of these themes (Table 15.1). Two of these themes, scale and connectivity, helpfully coincide with the overarching themes for both the symposium and this volume. In putting this section of my discussion together, each contributor of the case studies was asked to suggest where his or her specific examples fell along the continua shown in Ortman and Cameron’s Table 15.1, and I summarize their identifications in this chapter. The second goal of this chapter is to synthesize the papers presented in the migration session in light of current theoretical approaches to migration. I draw on both archaeological and ethnographic examples to illustrate contrasts among the cases I think are helpful in contextualizing the Southwest cases and making the work presented at the symposium of greater interest to those working outside the region.

346

Individual, household, lineage, clan

Individual, household

Individual, household, lineage, clan

Lineage, clan

Light

Light

Light

Light

Dense

Light

?

High

Balanced

Low

High

High

Long-term migration stream

Long-term migration stream

Singular event, short-term process

Long-term migration stream

Long-term migration stream

Long-term migration stream

Far (>1 week)

Far (>1 week)

Close, moderate, and far

Far (>1 week)

Far (>1 week)

Far (>1 week)

Depopulation of source area

Depopulation of source area

?

Negligible effect on source area population

Depopulation of source area

Depopulation of source area

Dinetah to SW (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Individual, household, lineage, clan

Mesa Verde to Tewa Basin (early) (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Northern Tiwa (Bernardini and Fowles)

Individual, household

Mesa Verde to Rio Grande (Stone and Lipe)

Hopi (Bernardini and Fowles)

Mesa Verde to Tewa Basin (late) (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Themes and Models for Understanding Migration in the Southwest

Scale (Social, Spatial, and Temporal) Scale is a pervasive theme that runs through all the chapters. Ortman and Cameron (this volume) discuss several dimensions that relate to scale, including the social scale of migrating groups, the number of people in the destination area, the ratio of immigrants to locals, and the pace of movement. Other important dimensions identified in the chapters include the distances moved, which can be scaled from a trip that could be made in one to two days to those that would take more than one week. Another is the extent of the overall depopulation in the source area. Migrations that leave empty landscapes behind are an order of magnitude different from ones in which only a portion of the population departs, leaving behind many others—who may or may not follow later and with whom the migrants may maintain connections. The chapter authors’ collective responses regarding their individual cases with respect to the dimensions of scale are summarized in Table 20.1. When considering the social scale of the migrating group, Ortman and Cameron’s caution must be borne in mind—we talk about migration at the household scale, but households rarely move alone. In the final Mesa Verde migration to the Rio Grande, we see clear examples of larger social scales in the construction of long rows of rooms added on to sites, a building pattern Cameron (1999) has identified as “ladder construction” and which we see in fourteenth-century sites throughout the plateau (e.g., Fourmile 347

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Ruin in the Mogollon Rim area, as well as many sites in the Zuni and Rio Grande areas). Many of the authors of the papers in this session identified social scales of the moving group at levels above the household. Only the migration from the Mogollon Highlands to the lower San Pedro described by Jeffery Clark and Karl Laumbach seems to have involved individual households moving alone. The paradoxes that come up with the issue of scale in these chapters are interesting. For example, long-distance movement resulted in both very high and very low visibility. The Athapaskan migration into the Southwest was probably the longest-distance migration, but it is relatively invisible because of the migrating groups’ small scale and footprint. Some of the other migrations discussed in the chapters involve people who moved over long distances, including the migration of the Ancestral Puebloans from northeastern Arizona who bypassed the Hopi (Tusayan) and Homol’ovi areas to settle in the Point of Pines, San Pedro Valley, and Safford-Aravaipa areas (Adams 2002:249; Haury 1958; Lindsay 1987; Lyons 2003; Neuzil 2005). The skipping over of large areas makes these migrations more visible in the archaeological record, as does their co-Â�residence in areas that were already occupied. A future research topic is why they “leap-frogged” over these other communities. For example, was it because of preexisting animosities or these communities’ inability or unwillingness to absorb new residents? A move from Kayenta to southern Arizona or from the Mesa Verde area to southern New Mexico was a longer distance than that of a move from Mesa Verde to the Rio Grande. But the number of people who moved from Mesa Verde to the Rio Grande was surely larger. The paradox of low visibility in the Rio Grande, despite the number of people who moved, is well articulated in the chapters, especially those by Kurt Anschuetz and Richard Wilshusen (Chapter 19) and Tammy Stone and William Lipe (Chapter 17), who point out that the number of people present in these areas as a result of previous migrations helped pave the way for integration of new migrants. Thus we can see the important effect of scale on the consequences of migration. The absolute size of the migrating populations is an important dimension of variation that affects consequences, but migration is a multidimensional process tempered by the number of prior migrants who set up migration streams and who most likely shared social, ritual, and possibly linguistic affiliations—dimensions of connectivity discussed in the next section. At some times migrations were parts of massive population displacements, especially in the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Whether in small or large groups, the number of people who moved over large distances in a short period created situations in which some Southwestern communities were composed of large numbers of people born elsewhere or who were first-generation migrants. These migrations were at such a different scale from other migrations that they helped define the historical trajectories of the rest of the Southwest. Connectivity (Social Networks) Connectivity is another broad theme that runs through the papers in this session. The authors’ cases summarized by the dimensions of connectivity are indicated in Table 20.2. Connectivity with respect to migration refers to the breakdown of networks in

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the homeland, the networks linking those who move, the networks that set up where migration streams will flow, and the economic, social, and ritual relationships established in the new areas. The breakdown of social networks is one of the causes of movement, whether based in environmental deterioration, conflict, economy, or ideology, because it eliminates the social safety net for those in the homeland. The authors mentioned ideological networks as the basis for some movement, such as migrations to Hopi (Bernardini and Fowles, this volume) and from the Mesa Verde area to the Tewa Basin (Anschuetz and Wilshusen, this volume). Although they did not explicitly identify ideological reasons as important, I also think the migrations from northeastern Arizona to Point of Pines, Davis Ranch, and Reeve Ruin in the San Pedro Valley and to Goat Hill in the Safford Valley (Neuzil 2005; Clark and Laumbach, this volume; Stone and Lipe, this volume) may also have had an important ideological component. In these areas the reproduction of kiva architecture in the destination communities was clearly important and seems to have continued to tie together migrant communities (Lyons, Hill, and Clark, this volume). Migration rarely occurs into areas where migrants have no connections (Anthony 1990). The connectivities may be through exchange, marriage, or prior migrations. For example, Anschuetz and Wilshusen ask how Athapaskan groups that were over 1,500 km from the Four Corners knew or learned about that distant place when there is no archaeological evidence of well-established north-south linkages 600 or more years ago. R. G. Matson and Martin Magne (2007) point out in their recent book that the Athapaskan migration down the Front Range and into northern New Mexico almost certainly took place with already acquired knowledge about the landscapes depopulated by Plains and Puebloan farmers a few centuries earlier. What we would expect from such a model is evidence for earlier networks, but because the groups were small in scale, they are archaeologically difficult to detect. Anschuetz and Wilshusen suggest that northern Wyoming was “the last good jumping-off spot for the Athapaskan entry into the northern Southwest between AD 1300 and 1450.” The occurrence of Wyoming chert in Arizona sites, including large bifaces at the thirteenth-and fourteenth-century sites of Kinishba, Q Ranch, and Point of Pines (Whittaker, Ferg, and Speth 1988), might be evidence of continental-scale networks to reconsider in this light. We tend to think of exchanges at this scale as the result of a series of short-distance exchanges, but they need not be. Long-distance pilgrimages could have been conducted by leaders who achieved power through the acquisition of distant items during their own journeys (for example, Helms 1988). The maintenance of connections between earlier Mesa Verde migrants to the Rio Grande and those still resident in the homeland is a significant part of the argument for the migration histories also discussed by Anschuetz and Wilshusen. These close connections between earlier migrants and those in the homeland are not as clearly seen in the Kayenta migrations to the southern valleys, as Stone and Lipe point out. The earlier small-scale migrations documented through indented corrugated ceramics in the late 1100s and early 1200s, discussed by Clark and Laumbach, may have established a migration pathway, but these migrations do not appear to have been from the Kayenta

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Kayenta to lower San Pedro (Clark and Laumbach)

Socorro to southern New Mexico (Clark and Laumbach)

Mesa Verde to southern New Mexico (Clark and Laumbach)

Kayenta to Point of Pines (Stone and Lipe)

Reasons for movement

Environmental, climatic, anthropogenic, economic, political?

Environmental, climatic, anthropogenic, economic, political

Environ� mental, climatic, anthro� pogenic

Environmental, climatic, anthropogenic

Environmental, climatic

Relations between immigrants and locals

Co-residence, blending, assimilation

Conflict, hostility, coexistence, enclaves

Coexistence, enclaves initially, then co-residence, blending, assimilation

Coexistence, enclaves

Conflict, hostility, coexistence, enclaves

Degree of regional interaction among migrants

Limited?

Economic and ritual

Economic

Economic

Unknown at this time

Basis for choice of destination

Exchange?

Limited exchange?

Kinship and exchange

Environmental

Unknown at this time

Dimension

Mogollon Highlands to lower San Pedro (Clark and Laumbach)

Table 20.2. Case studies classified along dimensions of connectivity

area proper, where later migrations have been posited to have originated. Thus although these earlier migrations may have set a precedent for more general Puebloan migration, possibly following networks of exchange from the plateau to the southern valleys, the late-thirteenth-century migration out of northeastern Arizona does not seem to have shared the same close social networks that were present between different waves of Mesa Verde migrants to the Rio Grande area. Indeed, another strong contrast is that the Kayenta migration was into a non-Puebloan area with stronger prior network linkages to the Hohokam region, creating what seems to have been a multiethnic situation in the destination. This necessitated new kinds of networks or connectivities between people who were quite different from each other. Following the Puebloan migration to southern Arizona, people may have continued their contact with others still living on the plateau. Hopi traditional histories speak to exchange with people living in the southern valleys (Ferguson and ColwellChanthaphonh 2006). The middle Gila is one of the best cotton-producing areas today, and AD 1250 seems to have been a major hinge point marking changes in trade routes for shell and macaw exchange, correlated with the Medio phase at Casas Grandes, which might have occurred up through these valleys. This was also a period in which textile

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Hopi (Bernardini and Fowles)

Northern Tiwa (Bernardini and Fowles)

Mesa Verde to Tewa Basin (early) (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Mesa Verde to Tewa Basin (late) (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

?

Ideological, religious

?

Environmental, climatic, anthropogenic, economic, political?

Environmental, climatic, anthropogenic, economic, political, ideological, religious?

?

Co-residence, blending, assimilation

Conflict, hostility, coexistence, enclaves, co-residence, blending, assimilation

Conflict, hostility, co-residence, blending, assimilation

Co-residence, blending, assimilation

Conflict, hostility

Conflict, hostility, coexistence, enclaves

?

Economic and ritual

Economic and ritual

Economic and ritual

Economic and ritual

Minimal to economic

?

Ideological, religious, kinship, exchange

?

Kinship, exchange

Ideological, religious, kinship, exchange

?

Dinetah to SW (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Mesa Verde to Rio Grande (Stone and Lipe)

Themes and Models for Understanding Migration in the Southwest

production surged on the plateau (Webster 1997), including areas in which cotton was difficult, if not impossible, to produce. The demand for cotton and its distribution networks surely must have been one of the ways connectivities across the Southwest were created and maintained, beginning in the late thirteenth century and continuing into the Protohistoric period. Another contrast between the Kayenta and Mesa Verde migrations is the ways networks between migrants in their heterogeneous host communities were maintained. In the Kayenta case, as Clark and Laumbach outline, obsidian source data show that networks between migrants transcended local community boundaries. In fact, these might be seen as a community of sorts—the community in diaspora, a point to which I return (see also Lyons, Hill, and Clark, this volume). Group networks are more certainly the basis for the migration histories of the Hopi and Tiwa, discussed by Wes Bernardini and Severin Fowles (Chapter 16), which they point out are based within an “idiom of kinship.” These ritual networks have a different form of connectivity, one based on social identities made through participation in religious practices. The authors also argue for structural similarities between the historical trajectories of migration at Taos and Hopi that involve distinctions between first-

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Socorro to southern New Mexico (Clark and Laumbach)

Mesa Verde to southern New Mexico (Clark and Laumbach)

Kayenta to Point of Pines (Stone and Lipe)

Long-term impact on destination society

Negligible

Pervasive in many areas

Pervasive in many areas

Focused in certain areas

Focused in certain areas

Expression of homeland identity after movement

Negligible?

Extended

Brief

Extended

Extended

Pervasiveness of regional conflict

Low

Moderate

Low

Moderate

?

Dimension

Kayenta to lower San Pedro (Clark and Laumbach)

Mogollon Highlands to lower San Pedro (Clark and Laumbach)

Table 20.3. Case studies classified along dimensions of transformation

cÂ� omers and latecomers, and they argue further that these supra-kin networks are the basis for dual divisions in both cases. Although I agree that the sequential migrations of people sharing ritual networks were fundamental to Puebloan migration, dualities in Puebloan social and ritual networks are easy to find. Especially in the Hopi case, the specific linkages of societies, their order of incorporation, and the directions of origin need to be investigated through detailed studies of oral traditions and ritual practices, including commonalities in the ways specific societies and other groups responsible for spiritual well-being made, used, and deposited objects and substances and created images (e.g., Ferguson 2003; Webster and Loma’omvaya 2004). Transformation (Ethnogenesis) A third overarching theme that ties together the social dimensions of migration is transformation (Table 20.3). I think it is safe to say that no migration results in the continuation of the status quo for either hosts or guests. In some cases the consequences may be delayed or they may be small in scale, but in other cases—especially those we are able to see archaeologically—the social, political, and ideological bases of communities were simultaneously transformed. Migrations involved new ideologies (Adams 1991; Crown 1994), the introduction or intensification of conflict, the creation of new layers of hierarchy, the ratcheting up of productive intensification including multi-crafting (Mills 2007a), and wider networks of exchange as the connectivities of migrants and hosts were negotiated within new social landscapes. These consequences of migration are, of course, interrelated. For example, Bernardini and Fowles show us how the tables can be turned on the first-comer/latecomer status interpretation many anthropologists have used. Latecomers were not 352

Mesa Verde to Rio Grande (Stone and Lipe)

Hopi (Bernardini and Fowles)

Northern Tiwa (Bernardini and Fowles)

Mesa Verde to Tewa Basin (early) (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Mesa Verde to Tewa Basin (late) (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Dinetah to SW (Anschuetz and Wilshusen)

Themes and Models for Understanding Migration in the Southwest

Negligible

Pervasive in many areas

Pervasive in many areas

Focused in certain areas

Focused in certain areas

Pervasive in many areas

None to brief

Extended

Extended

Extended

Extended

None

?

Moderate

Moderate

Moderate

Moderate

Low to moderate

merely stragglers but those who introduced fundamental and transformative social orders, new ideologies, and an additional layer of hierarchy. Internal conflict is also brought up as important in the case studies, such as for the Kayenta migration to the San Pedro Valley. In this case, migration resulted in the ratcheting up of architectural indicators for defense and what appear to be new forms of ritual and leadership. As Clark and Laumbach discuss, non-Puebloan local groups constructed platform mounds, and both Kayenta and non-Kayenta settlements were more apt to be built in defensive locations, some with protective walls. They also show how the production of Salado polychromes took place largely in the Kayenta communities, and it is not too much of a stretch to reconsider Patricia Crown’s (1994) Salado arguments in the light of the transformation of migrant communities, whose ideological connections were materialized through the production and decoration of new and distinctive ceramics (see also Lyons, Hill, and Clark, this volume). The Kayenta migrant communities were associated with specific ritual groups, specialized production of Salado Polychromes, and a mid-1300s revitalization (sensu Liebmann 2006) that affected migrants and hosts throughout the region. This revitalization included painting Gila and Tonto polychromes with a new design style, such as feathered serpent iconography. These styles co-occur in the same areas as Kayenta-inspired painted ceramics, with their white-line outlining and perforated plates. One of the most interesting concepts we must grapple with is, when is transformation an example of ethnogenesis? Several of the authors use this concept. Jonathan Hill (1996:1) defines ethnogenesis as “not merely a label for the historical emergence of culturally distinct peoples but a concept encompassing peoples’ simultaneously cultural and political struggles to create enduring identities in general contexts of radical change and discontinuity.” The term is used more often in historical situations directly resulting from

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colonial encounters. I like the concept and agree that it applies to the cases discussed in this session, although we should be careful not to think about it strictly as the formation of an ethnic group. Ethnogenesis, more broadly speaking, refers to the process of becoming, but it is applied more appropriately when major transformations affect the social, economic, and political dimensions of groups. These situations of culture contact are exactly what historical anthropologists point to as having major repercussions on social reproduction, but they need not be restricted to historic period culture contact. As Marshall Sahlins (1981:68) points out, “[S]uch effects as transformation and reproduction are maximally distinguishable in situations of culture contact.” The study of ethnogenesis also acknowledges the powerful ways situations of culture contact affect change. Migration and the resulting period of culture contact and reorganization provide some of the best situations in which to understand how ethnogenesis occurs, especially when migrations are large in scale and involve societies with very different backgrounds. Particularly interesting to consider in the chapters are the ways different forms of culture contact resulted in ethnogenesis. For example, in the Anschuetz and Wilshusen comparison, ethnogenesis among the Tewa resulted from drawing together “two different groups of related people.” In contrast, here is their description for the Diné: “Bounded by others, including Utes to the north and the Pueblos to the south, this landscape provided the physical and social setting for the Gathering of the Clans and the construction of the Diné as a distinct cultural community” (this volume, pp. 337–338). Once the Southern Athapaskans were in place and distinguished themselves from surrounding groups, with which they may have been in conflict, we see a dramatic transformation, which the authors discuss as ethnogenesis. This is similar to the way ethnogenesis is used in historical and colonial situations—migration and culture contact at relatively large scales that are so transformative as to be widely recognized, even by the archaeologist. Putting It All Back Together Again: Models for Migration Fred Eggan’s (1954) call for controlled comparison, used by Ortman and Cameron as an organizing principle for this session, was in part a reaction to the particularistic histories being produced by structural-functional social anthropologists. It was intended to help us understand how elements of social organization, such as moieties, were expressed in different groups. Eggan even referred to it as a form of middle-range theory (drawing largely on Merton’s definition). It may be worthwhile to tack back and forth between some of this middle-range theory and more general models of migration. One of the end products of dimensionalizing and producing case studies should be how we put the dimensions back together again. This is what will make our studies of interest to those working outside the Southwest and more relevant to today’s world, where migration continues to be an important process. There are many models of migration, but I have found three particularly helpful: the colonization of (relatively) unoccupied areas, migration to internal frontiers, and diasporas. These models take into account many of the intersections of the dimensions Ortman and Cameron and the other session participants discuss.

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Colonization of Empty Landscapes

A commonality in colonization models is that they generally apply to small-scale forager groups whose migrations were relatively rapid and often occurred over large expanses of territory (e.g., Barton et al. 2004; Rockman and Steele 2003). There are few ethnographic parallels to draw upon, and therefore some of the most innovative research has been conducted using computer simulations and biogeographic models. The importance of “landscape learning” to ensure survival in unfamiliar territories (Rockman 2003) has emerged as a key concept. How this learning takes place is particularly salient given the ways foragers move swiftly to colonize relatively empty landscapes. The colonization model is clearly applicable to the earliest migrations into the Greater Southwest, but it also applies well to the Athapaskan migration described by Anschuetz and Wilshusen (this volume) as people moved down the Front Range. Internal Frontier Migration

Another model in the anthropological literature is the internal frontier, most explicitly discussed by Igor Kopytoff (Kopytoff 1987; see also Herr 2001; Schlegel 1992). Once areas of occupation were densely packed, migration into the unoccupied spaces between them was common. From an ecological standpoint, many of these migrations are viewed as the way to fill different niches, with people practicing different forms of subsistence. The frontier model of migration has been applied to the eleventhand twelfth-century archaeology of the Mogollon Rim area by Sarah Herr (2001). She points out that the Mogollon Rim was a frontier between the Hohokam and Chacoan regions and was geographically located between areas with higher population densities. It was a place where dispersed households practiced extensive agriculture and where wealth in people, rather than land or goods, was most important. But this model also has relevance to several of the migrations discussed in this section. For example, once the Navajo reached the Southwest, they colonized the Dinétah—a landscape recently empty because of the contraction of agriculturalists in the late thirteenth century. Some of the migrations into the northern Rio Grande area discussed in the chapters in this volume may also fit this model, especially those into the northern portion of the Tewa Basin, which was emptier than other areas occupied by Mesa Verde migrants. I also think some of the smaller-scale, earlier migrations many of the authors discuss, such as the ones into southern New Mexico, may better fit this model. Diasporas

A third model is that of diasporas, a topic with a deep literature in social anthropology and related fields (e.g., Clifford 1997; Cohen 1997; Sheffer 2003; Van Hear 1998). Most scholars who discuss diasporas point out that the term comes from the Greek spiero, or “sow,” and dia, or “over,” meaning “to disperse” or “to scatter.” One of the most salient features is that these are migrations of large numbers of people into areas already settled. Recent work by James Clifford (1997) and a host of scholars writing about the “new diasporas” (e.g., Van Hear 1998) underscores the pervasiveness of migrations into 355

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already settled areas—one of the most salient characteristics of diasporas (Lilley 2004). Even though individuals or small groups may be the migrating units, diasporic migrations are part of much larger movements out of one area and into others. The absolute scale of these population movements may vary widely, as with all migrations. They result in situations in which many individuals, households, or other social groups find themselves far from home but together with other people of similar backgrounds living among people with dissimilar backgrounds. The diasporic migration model is important for archaeologists for a number of reasons. First, diasporas have been well studied historically and in contemporary society, providing ample comparative material. Second, they help provide political, economic, social, and religious contexts to the migration process. Finally, they help define migrations that are structured differently from other kinds of migrations. It seems to me that this model is the most appropriate one to apply to much of the Puebloan Southwest, especially from the thirteenth century on (Mills 2007b; Lyons, Hill, and Clark, this volume). Each case, especially before and after the “great migrations” of the thirteenth through fifteenth centuries, has a different historical trajectory. Nonetheless, these migrations involved all the hallmarks of diasporas worldwide: (1) relatively massive population displacements, (2) the movement of people into distant communities, (3) maintenance of interaction among the migrants, (4) creation of zones of hybridity and heterogeneity, (5) transformations in local historical trajectories, (6) differentials of power and access, and last but not least, (7) an ideology of return. The tremendous population movements of the late 1200s, followed by those of the late 1300s to mid-1400s, are the best known from these periods of widespread migrations. These are periods of diaspora and return migration, points of massive depopulation. They have been called “hinge points” in the cultural history of the Southwest, or points of tremendous change and reorganization (Cordell and Gumerman 1989:6). Although migrations into and out of these areas may have been organized by small groups and been carried out over the life of entire generations, they affected every community in each of their areas. These periods of diaspora were times in which vast areas of the Southwest became places of remembrance rather than residence. Many of the places left behind continued to be visited during pilgrimages, and their memories were perpetuated in the recitation of points on the landscape that have become parts of oral traditions. In sum, as we continue to dimensionalize our migration histories and compare and contrast them, I also urge that we think about these overarching general models that are now common in the migration literature—a literature that could learn much from the long-term dynamic histories of our Southwestern case studies. Acknowledgments I thank Cathy Cameron and Scott Ortman for organizing such an interesting session and for inviting me to comment. Their excellent introduction laid the groundwork for a highly coherent group of papers. I thank all the participants in the session for their help

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in compiling the comparative tables and for providing their chapters in a timely fashion. I also thank the volume editors for keeping us so well on track. References Adams, E. C. 1991 The Origin and Development of the Pueblo Katsina Cult. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2002 Homol’ovi, an Ancient Hopi Settlement Cluster. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Anthony, D. W. 1990 Migration in Archaeology: “The Baby and the Bathwater.” American Anthropologist 92(4): 23–42. Barton, C. M., G. A. Clark, D. R. Yesner, and G. A. Pearson (editors) The Settlement of the American Continents: A Multidisciplinary Approach to Human 2004 Biogeography. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Cameron, C. M. Migration and the Movement of Southwestern Peoples. Journal of Anthropological 1995 Archaeology 14: 104–124. 1999 Room Size, Organization of Construction, and Archaeological Interpretation in the Puebloan Southwest. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 18: 201–239. Clifford, J. 1997 Cohen, R. 1997

Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Harvard University Press, Cambridge. Global Diasporas: An Introduction. University of Washington Press, Seattle.

Cordell, L. S., and G. J. Gumerman (editors) 1989 Dynamics of Southwest Prehistory. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Crown, P. L. Ceramics and Ideology: Salado Polychrome Pottery. University of New Mexico Press, 1994 Albuquerque. Eggan, F. 1954

Social Anthropology and the Method of Controlled Comparison. American Anthropologist 56(5): 743–763.

Ferguson, T. J. Yep Hisat Hoopoq’yaqam Teesiwa (Hopi Ancestors Were Once Here): Hopi-Hohokam 2003 Cultural Affiliation Study. Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, Kiqötsmovi, AZ. Ferguson, T. J., and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh History Is in the Land: Multivocal Tribal Traditions in Arizona’s San Pedro Valley. 2006 University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Haury, E. W. 1958 Evidence at Point of Pines for Prehistoric Migration from Northern Arizona. In Migrations in New World Culture History, ed. R. H. Thompson, 1–6. Social Science Bulletin 27. University of Arizona, Tucson.

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Helms, M. W. 1988 Ulysses’ Sail: An Ethnographic Odyssey of Power, Knowledge, and Geographical Distance. Princeton University Press, Princeton. Herr, S. A. 2001 Hill, J. D. 1996

Beyond Chaco: Great Kiva Communities on the Mogollon Rim Frontier. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 66. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Introduction: Ethnogenesis in the Americas, 1492–1992. In History, Power, and Identity: Ethnogenesis in the Americas, 1492–1992, ed. J. D. Hill, 1–19. University of Iowa Press, Iowa City.

Kopytoff, I. The Internal African Frontier: The Making of African Political Culture. In The Afri1987 can Frontier: The Reproduction of Traditional African Societies, ed. I. Kopytoff, 3–84. Indiana University Press, Bloomington. Liebmann, M. “Burn the Churches, Break up the Bells”: The Archaeology of the Pueblo Revolt 2006 Revitalization Movement in New Mexico, 1680–1696. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. Lilley, I. A. Diaspora and Identity in Archaeology: Moving beyond the Black Atlantic. In A 2004 Companion to Social Archaeology, ed. L. Meskell and R. W. Preucel, 287–312. Blackwell, Malden, MA. Lindsay, A. J. Anasazi Population Movements to Southeastern Arizona. American Archaeology 6: 1987 190–198. Lyons, P. D. 2003 Ancestral Hopi Migrations. Anthropological Paper 68. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Matson, R. G., and M. Magne Athapaskan Migrations: The Archaeology of Eagle Lake, British Columbia. Univer2007 sity of Arizona Press, Tucson. Mills, B. J. 2007a 2007b

Multicrafting, Migration, and Identity in the Greater Southwest. In Craft Production in Complex Societies: Multicraft and Producer Perspectives, ed. I. Shimada, 25– 43. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Puebloan Migration as Diasporic History. Paper presented at the 72nd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Austin, TX.

Naranjo, T. Thoughts on Migration by Santa Clara Pueblo. Journal of Anthropological Archaeol1995 ogy 14: 247–250. Neuzil, A. A. In the Aftermath of Migration: Assessing the Social Consequences of Late 13th and 2005 14th Century Population Movements into Southeastern Arizona. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson.

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Rockman, M. 2003 Knowledge and Learning in the Archaeology of Colonization. In Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation, ed. M. Rockman and J. Steele, 3–24. Routledge, New York. Rockman, M., and J. Steele (editors) Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation. Routledge, 2003 New York. Sahlins, M. 1981 Historical Metaphors and Mythical Realities: Structure in the Early History of the Sandwich Islands Kingdom. University of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor. Schlegel, A. African Political Models in the American Southwest: Hopi as an Internal Frontier 1992 Society. American Anthropologist 94: 376–397. Sheffer, G. 2003

Diaspora Politics, at Home and Abroad. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge.

Van Hear, N. New Diasporas: The Mass Exodus, Dispersal and Regrouping of Migrant Communi1998 ties. University of Washington Press, Seattle. Webster, L. D. Effects of European Contact on Textile Production and Exchange in the North 1997 American Southwest. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson. Webster, L. D., and M. Loma’omvaya 2004 Textiles, Baskets, and Hopi Cultural Identity. In Identity, Feasting, and the Archaeology of the Greater Southwest, ed. B. J. Mills, 74–92. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Whittaker, J., A. Ferg, and J. Speth Arizona Bifaces of Wyoming Chert. Kiva 53(4): 321–334. 1988

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Part IV Connectivity and Scale

[21] Connectivity and Scale in the Greater American Southwest

John Kantner

Archaeology is often maligned for focusing on seemingly myopic issues, whether topical, geographical, or methodological. Many an office door displays a tattered Calvin and Hobbes comic strip in which an exasperated Calvin, after having excavated for only a few minutes, exclaims, “Archaeologists have the most mind-numbing job on the planet.” Fortunately, in recent years the discipline has made a concerted effort to be more relevant, not only in interpreting the past in human terms but also in making more direct contributions toward understanding the future. The chapters in this volume reflect this trend. One area of inquiry allowing archaeology to contribute to public discourse on the human experience is considerations of connectivity and scale. Mirroring popular discussions inside and outside the academy on globalization and global economies—neoliberal or otherwise—and an intellectual trend toward considering global-local dynamics (e.g., Gunewardena and Kingsolver 2008; Lewellen 2002; Wolf 1982), archaeologists are increasingly interested in human movements, connections, and cultural landscapes across large, even continental spaces (e.g., Lekson 2005). To some degree enabled by new technologies that allow for multiscalar spatiotemporal analyses, tracking the cultural and environmental impacts of dynamic human interactions is also of considerable interest (e.g., Axtell et al. 2002; Kohler and van der Leeuw 2007). The underlying

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assumption of these approaches is that social change in any area is a combination of local, regional, and pan-regional dynamic interactions, the latter of which may occur at extremely broad scales. Some of these scaled forms of interaction are intentionally created; others are not. But they are all seen as creating contingent landscapes generated by humans and through which humans are influenced. In this section, several scholars discuss and investigate varying issues of connectivity and scale in the pre-contact, post-contact, and contemporary Greater American Southwest. Spearheading the topic is the chapter by Stephen Lekson, who for several years has been lambasting archaeologists for thinking “too small” and ignoring what he sees as compelling evidence of transcontinental connections among socio-cultural groups typically regarded as autonomous from one another (e.g., Lekson 1999, 2005). Lekson argues that connectivity should be our starting assumption—“interconnected until proven isolated”—and he invokes the recent intellectual trend in history known simply as “Big History” as a foundation for this argument (Christian 2004). Big History exhorts scholars to consider grand spatial scales of trans- and intercontinental analysis, broadening ideas of contingency to include more than just lengthy temporal connections. This approach, however, does not assume that connectivity is universally the same; nor does it equate contingency with connectivity. Instead, Big History attempts to demonstrate contingent relationships through interdisciplinary empirical studies at spatial and temporal scales larger than most historians have traditionally considered. Lekson’s point is that archaeologists will fail to identify important relationships if we refuse to consider grand scales of analysis. Fortunately, many scholars in the Southwest are embracing this challenge (e.g., Webster and McBrinn 2008). Several important questions that will move scaled assessments of connectivity from trendy platitude to a comprehensive and systemic area of analysis are being tackled, including by authors of chapters in this section. These questions include: How are connections across varying spatial and temporal scales created? Why and how are they maintained? What are the unintended and sometimes devastating consequences of connectivity? And, most important for archaeologists, how can we empirically identify connections and distinguish connectivity and contingency? In the remainder of this chapter I briefly consider these questions. How Is Connectivity Created? Connectivity, whether across space or through time, must be created through socioÂ�cultural or economic mechanisms that enable contingent relationships to emerge. Exchange and diffusion are classic explanations for archaeological evidence of human interaction across space; while these are undoubtedly powerful mechanisms of interaction, the assertion of exchange or diffusion assumes that some degree of connectivity was already in place. The flow of turquoise and other exotica from the northern Southwest deep into Mesoamerica (Weigand 2008; Weigand and Harbottle 1993), for example, could not happen if connections did not already exist, including the connections through which basic knowledge about the existence and location of these resources could be shared. Diffusion similarly assumes the preexistence of some form

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of connectivity, making these oft-cited mechanisms for interaction proximal forms of contingency rather than ultimate foundations of connectivity. Migration and diaspora are other ways connections across space are created. The distinction between these two forms of movement is a subject of debate among the many disciplines that discuss them (e.g., Brettell and Hollifield 2000; Clifford 1994; Stein 1999; Yelvington 2006), and unfortunately archaeologists have often employed the terms interchangeably. For most social scientists, migration refers to a willing movement of people into new areas, and very often their homeland continues to be occupied by the migrants’ socio-cultural group (see the chapters in Part III, this volume). Some scholars, for example, argue that connectivity between Mesoamerica and the Southwest was established long ago through a wave-advance migration of Uto-Aztecan populations to the north, providing a socio-cultural conduit for the diffusion of farming into the Southwest and other ideas in both directions (e.g., Hill 2001; LeBlanc 2008; but see Mabry and Doolittle 2008). Diaspora, in contrast, is generally regarded as a forced exodus of a majority of people from one area to another, often leaving the homeland empty (Clifford 1994). In this section, chapters by Ruth Van Dyke and by Patrick Lyons, J. Brett Hill, and Jeffery Clark invoke this definition of diaspora to represent the movement of peoples across the Southwest—and the resulting lines of connectivity—from two very different periods of pre-contact history (see also the chapters in Part III, this volume). For Van Dyke, these lines of connectivity are with past cultural landscapes largely devoid of people as a result of diaspora; for Lyons and his colleagues, connectivity is between diasporic groups and those people who stayed behind. The movement of people, however, as with diffusion and exchange, often follows conduits of existing socio-cultural relationships (Brettell and Hollifield 2000). When forced to move, people tend to go to places and in directions that are known, especially to places where friends, relatives, or other known or imagined associates already exist. Thus at the foundation of all this connectivity are small-scale processes of intermarriage and other interactions among neighbors that together create simple yet powerful mechanisms by which expansive webs of interaction can grow. The chapter by Lyons, Hill, and Clark provides an example in which localized and small-scale economic systems—in this case, communities that spring up along irrigation systems—created small networks of dependencies and interaction, even among disparate cultural groups. Networks such as these, formed from local processes and existing at increasing scales, generated connectivity and created the conduits through which diffusion, exchange, and even migration and diaspora flowed. Like the Hohokam irrigation systems, however, connections such as these can be structured in complex and unequal ways that must be understood before archaeologists can identify contingent relationships and their consequences for culture change. So far in this chapter, the emphasis has been on how connectivity across space emerges. Time, of course, provides another framework of connection, one archaeologists believe they understand well. However, connections across time are not simply represented by changing socio-cultural traditions that can be readily tracked through material culture; both landscape archaeology and historical ecology teach us that landscapes themselves are shaped by humans in such ways that they provide their own

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conduits of connection between the past and the present, even as populations move in and out of those landscapes (Kantner 2008). The essence of cultural landscapes, such as those referred to by Van Dyke—and arguably the genesis of most, if not all, pilgrimage locations, such as those discussed by Gregson Schachner and Stewart Koyiyumptewa and Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh—is indirect connections between people, even otherwise unrelated groups, mediated by a landscape through which they all have passed. Why Is Connectivity Maintained? No matter how it is first established, connectivity must be maintained since, in theory at least, some intentional or unintentional energy input is required to sustain it. “Why” questions are always a challenge to answer, as they engage issues of causality and intentionality that are often the subject of debate in archaeology (e.g., Boone and Smith 1998; Lyman and O’Brien 1998; Smith and Winterhalder 1992). But we can identify a number of causal factors that contribute to sustaining connectivity once it has been established. Economic reasons are certainly obvious candidates. Once super-regional resource distributions are known, for example—whether through migration, diffusion, or down-the-line webs of interaction—the procurement and exchange of these resources over long distances can contribute substantially to the maintenance of connectivity (e.g., Brumfiel and Earle 1987; Chase-Dunn and Hall 1991). At a more local scale, in their chapter in this section, Lyons and his colleagues describe the economic codependencies that developed along Hohokam irrigation systems and allowed larger numbers of people to occupy the Salt River drainage. Their example demonstrates that many, if not most, forms of connectivity exhibit self-perpetuating qualities once they have been established, which can ultimately lead to significant problems, as eventually happened along the Salt River. Economic reasons for maintaining connectivity are intertwined and often analytically inseparable from social ones. Lyons, Hill, and Clark further describe, at a broader scale than the irrigation systems, connections that were maintained between Puebloan diasporic populations in the Salt River Valley and their Puebloan homelands to the north with which they continued to identify. Lyons and his colleagues suggest that this connection enabled Puebloans in the Hohokam world to maintain their social and demographic viability, even as it allowed them to tap into northern systems of exchange through which they could obtain valuable resources such as obsidian. Belief systems also contribute to the maintenance of connectivity. The chapters by Van Dyke, Schachner, and Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh describe how connections with ancestral places and people are reinforced through ways of knowing the world (see also Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2003; Ferguson and ColwellChanthaphonh 2006). Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh note that the Hopi traditionalists they consulted “express deep and complex affinities that depend on spiritual and emotional relationships across space and time . . . with past spiritual agents.” Such affinities are mirrored in Van Dyke’s interpretations of Puebloan landscapes in the region of the San Juan Basin, through which identities are argued to have been anchored

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in ancestral places even as people moved across long distances. Similarly, Schachner’s assessment of pilgrimage places invokes this notion of ancestral places providing—and, for many Pueblo people, continuing to provide—fixed points of reference not just among descendant populations but also across different ethnic groups. For Schachner, such points facilitated additional forms of economic and social connectivity among disparate groups that shared pilgrimage locations in the past. His analysis, however, also illustrates the fact that cultural landscapes and pilgrimage are not immutable in the face of other socio-cultural and economic changes. How Is Connectivity Maintained? While the reasons connections at varying scales are maintained are difficult for archaeologists to reconstruct, the mechanisms by which they were sustained are often easier to describe because they are more readily visible in the archaeological record. Clearly, economic systems such as the Hohokam irrigation communities described in the chapter by Lyons, Hill, and Clark provide material evidence for how connections were maintained, as does exchange across varying spatial scales. Other mechanisms, however, might not be so obvious. Lyons and his colleagues, for example, as well as Schachner, identify feasting as particularly important for maintaining lines of interaction, especially among diasporic populations. For the Hohokam region, diasporic Kayentan populations are argued to have maintained connections with one another through a feasting tradition involving Roosevelt Red Ware pottery, with Lyons and his colleagues going so far as to wonder whether the iconography of these new pottery styles symbolized a reimagined homeland among groups in diaspora (see also Crown 1994; Triadan, Mills, and Duff 2002; Zedeño 1995). Pilgrimage similarly provides the means for connections to be maintained among dispersed groups, many of whom coordinate their ceremonial calendars to ensure that they assemble at the pilgrimage site at the same time of the year, thereby promoting webs of interaction across potentially vast spaces. Schachner, for example, suggests that Zuni Salt Lake pilgrimages may once have emphasized group interaction rather than ancestral connections but that the post-1200s growth of kachina religion and its emphasis on ancestors, as well as the depopulation of the Cibola region, may have reversed that focus. Van Dyke and Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh illustrate additional ways in which connectivity across both space and time is carefully maintained. Van Dyke, for example, argues that Puebloan groups in the San Juan Basin deliberately positioned their communities in places where they could see prominent features of the cultural landscape, no matter how often or where they moved (Doxtater 2002; Sofaer 2007). These places not only served to anchor their identity to ancestral landscapes, but they also sustained an entire geography of memories and stories occupied by the ancestors themselves. Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh further describe how these geographies of connection continue to define space and time for Hopi traditionalists who see the world as a single sacred feature, the homvìikya. Many of these scenarios for how connections were and are maintained tend to treat human groups as internally homogeneous. As archaeologists begin to elaborate

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these explanations at varying scales, considerations of social structure and political differences will enrich our understanding of how mechanisms such as feasting, pilgrimage, exchange, and intermarriage actually work in real human terms (e.g., Dietler and Hayden 2001; Mack 2004; Petersen 1994; Potter 2000). In addition, these elaborated explanations for how connectivity is sustained may in fact also answer why the connections exist in the first place, especially for those likely common instances in which extensive networks of connectivity form as unintentional by-products of actions undertaken at local scales. What Are the Unintended Consequences of Connectivity? Connectivity across space is often identified by archaeologists as having been created to sustain identities, to facilitate exchange, and perhaps even to ameliorate spatially unpredictable climatic conditions (e.g., Judge 1993). Certainly, as mentioned earlier, whether these are intentional, causal reasons for the construction of connectivity or unanticipated benefits of networks created for other reasons is a topic of debate. Such webs do provide recourse for social, political, and economic or environmental crises. They also, however, can lead to networks of dependency that can exacerbate and spread moments of crisis, leading to unintended consequences of connectivity. In their chapter, Lyons and his colleagues provide a clear example of this with their description of “core decay” in the lower Salt River Valley during the late AD 1300s and early AD 1400s. This case study focuses on irrigation canal networks whose headgates and trunk canals were extremely expensive to maintain and even more so to move, a problem further aggravated by degradation of fields near the headgates. This forced the core populations of the irrigation systems—the local Hohokam people—to move to the branches of the canals that had been relegated to immigrants, especially those from the Puebloan north. As a result, core populations came in conflict with previously marginalized immigrants on the edges of irrigation systems, ultimately leading to regional depopulation. While climatic changes leading to increased flooding were a factor, the structural dependencies of an irrigation system led to additional complications that apparently accelerated culture change—and, ultimately, regional depopulation. An irrigation system provides an obvious case of connectivity and its consequences, but such close-knit networks also exist in less readily identifiable contexts. The Chaco Canyon pilgrimage center, for example, and the networks of dependency it created across the northern Southwest, also likely contributed to system collapse and depopulation of the San Juan Basin (Kantner 2006; Kantner and Kintigh 2006). The central canyon formed social, political, and certainly economic connections with outlying communities in the San Juan Basin, creating networks that rapidly collapsed in the face of a relatively minor drought in the early AD 1100s. Not only was Chaco Canyon left largely vacant, but people also moved away from many of the outlying communities most closely tied to the pilgrimage center, even though many of those villages were located in comparatively well-watered areas.

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How Can Connections through Time and Space Be Identified? The greatest challenges for investigating and discussing different spatiotemporal scales of connectivity across time and space are methodological as well as epistemological. How do we identify and describe connections in a way that gives us confidence that we are identifying something that was once “real?” On the one hand, archaeologists feel comfortable working with material culture that can be identified as to source (e.g., clays, minerals, and rocks such as obsidian), and we are fairly adept at reconstructing networks of exchange. As Lyons, Hill, and Clark demonstrate, archaeologists can use this information as a framework for assessing stylistic elements of material culture, comparing material and stylistic analyses to identify migration, diaspora, and resulting processes of hybridity and syncretism, as they successfully do in their analyses of pottery at Las Colinas and Pueblo Grande. More difficult is the reconstruction of spatiotemporal connectivity across past cultural landscapes. Van Dyke, for example, invokes a phenomenological approach to estimate what experiences with the landscape were sought by Puebloan people in the Pueblo I period. She identifies prominent points on the landscape, and the visibility of these points from Puebloan communities, to reconstruct landscapes of meaning that persevered through time. While it is a valuable approach that has encouraged archaeologists to consider the role of landscape experiences and memories (e.g., Van Dyke 2003), the absence of an explicit methodology for determining the sets of points and sites with which to assess connectivity, and the reliance on ethnographic accounts from much more recent times, undermine the value of many phenomenological analyses. In his chapter, Schachner does acknowledge the difficulty in archaeologically identifying past networks of connectivity that involve both constructed places and natural points on the landscape. He suggests that the “pattern-oriented approach” advocated by Wesley Bernardini (2005) can be useful for reconstructing past cultural landscapes, in which “general patterns rather than the specific details in the ethnographic record of the use of natural places” (p. 424, this volume) frame the research. This, too, relies heavily on contemporary ethnography to identify the “tenets of Puebloan geography,” not unlike the “reverse archaeology” promoted by Koyiyumptewa and ColwellChanthaphonh. There is a danger here in making assumptions that the “tenets” have persevered unchanged through several centuries of climate change, diaspora, European colonization, and so forth; but, on the other hand, it is important to know, for example, that the Acoma once conducted semiannual pilgrimages all the way to Shipap near Cortez, Colorado, a 175-mile journey each way. A more formal assessment, such as provided by Maria Nieves Zedeño’s “behavioral cartography” of landscape (2000), holds some promise for acknowledging the value of ethnography while placing more evidentiary responsibility with the actual archaeological evidence. Concluding Thoughts As a concluding case of how scale and connectivity can—and perhaps cannot so easily—be assessed, consider my work in the Blue J community, a cluster of Puebloan 369

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households located near a large spring in the Red Mesa Valley. The community’s origins probably date back to early Pueblo I and perhaps earlier, as people began to increasingly rely on the spring, especially for farming. By Pueblo II the population had grown to over 100 people living in dozens of loosely clustered households. Work there has included various geochemical and mineralogical assessments of ceramics, ornamental materials, and lithics, as well as micro-stylistic analyses of pottery, which together have allowed for some tentative ideas about economic and sociopolitical connectivity across the landscape (Kantner et al. 2000). We have evidence suggesting where materials came from and with whom the inhabitants of Blue J traded. Lines connecting households with one another and with neighboring communities—including nearby Chaco Canyon—have been drawn. Yet to be determined, however, is how this connectivity is related to contingency; in other words, what codependencies and causal relationships existed, and how did they play out as the surrounding physical and human world changed over time? Simply connecting dots does not answer that question. When work first started at Blue J, we were assuming that it was a classic Chacoan “outlier”—causally linked to Chaco Canyon as evidenced by what previous archaeologists had recorded as a great house on the far western edge of the community. Aware of the various proposals about Chaco era cultural landscapes, we were especially excited about the fact that the location of the alleged great house was the only point in the community from which any part of Hosta Butte—a prominent geological feature regarded as sacred by some people—could be seen. We considered what this meant about connectivity with Chaco Canyon and with other distant communities in the Chaco world, as well as what it might indicate about links through time across the landscape. Was the great house built there to tie Blue J to a network constructed from locational intervisibility, ultimately connecting the villagers to Chaco? Many interpretations were made. The only problem was that after excavating portions of the badly pothunted structure, it became readily apparent that it was not, in fact, a great house. It was one of the smaller domestic households placed in a marginal location on the edge of the community. The Blue J example represents an ongoing project, and certainly more details will be revealed by the continuing work. It does, however, illustrate the cautionary points made in this chapter. First, archaeologists are good at empirically demonstrating some forms of connectivity, especially economic ones, while other undoubtedly important ways in which connections were built are still somewhat elusive. Second, establishing that connections existed does not explain their genesis, their operation, or their consequences. The chapters in this section provide excellent empirical and theoretical examinations of this topic, resulting in compelling case studies of scale and connectivity. Together, they encourage archaeologists to explore new approaches for addressing unresolved issues in methodology and epistemology and to think about space and time in new ways. References Axtell, R. L., J. M. Epstein, J. S. Dean, G. J. Gumerman, A. C. Swedlund, J. Harburger, S. Chakravarty, R. Hammond, J. Parker, and M. Parker Population Growth and Collapse in a Multiagent Model of the Kayenta Ana2002

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sazi in Long House Valley. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences 99(3): 7275–7279. Bernardini, W. 2005 Hopi Oral Tradition and the Archaeology of Identity. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Boone, J. L., and E. A. Smith Is It Evolution Yet? Current Anthropology 39(supplement): 141–173. 1998 Brettell, C., and J. F. Hollifield (editors) Migration Theory: Talking across Disciplines. Routledge, New York. 2000 Brumfiel, E. M., and T. K. Earle 1987 Specialization, Exchange, and Complex Societies: An Introduction. In Specialization, Exchange, and Complex Societies, ed. E. M. Brumfiel and T. K. Earle, 1–9. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Chase-Dunn, C., and T. D. Hall 1991 Core/Periphery Relations in Precapitalist Worlds. Westview, Boulder. Christian, D. 2004 Maps of Time: An Introduction to Big History. University of California Press, Berkeley. Clifford, J. 1994

Diasporas. Cultural Anthropology 9(3): 302–338.

Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C. Native American Perspectives of the Past in the San Pedro Valley of Southeastern 2003 Arizona. Kiva 69(1): 5–29. Crown, P. L. 1994 Ceramics and Ideology: Salado Polychrome Pottery. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Dietler, M., and B. Hayden (editors) 2001 Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Doxtater, D. A Hypothetical Layout of Chaco Canyon Structures via Large-Scale Alignments 2002 between Significant Natural Features. Kiva 68(1): 23–47. Ferguson, T. J., and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006 History Is in the Land: Multivocal Tribal Traditions in Arizona’s San Pedro Valley. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Gunewardena, N., and A. Kingsolver (editors) 2008 The Gender of Globalization: Women Navigating Cultural and Economic Marginalities. School for Advanced Research Press, Santa Fe. Hill, J. H. 2001

Proto-Uto-Aztecan: A Community of Cultivars in Central Mexico? American Anthropologist 103(4): 913–934.

Judge, W. J. Resource Distribution and the Chaco Phenomenon. In The Chimney Rock Archaeo1993 logical Symposium, ed. J. M. Malville and G. Matlock, 35–36. General Technical

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Report RM-227. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, Rocky Mountain Forest and Range Experiment Station, Fort Collins, CO. Kantner, J. 2006 2008

Religious Behavior in the Post-Chaco Years. In Religion in the Prehispanic Southwest, ed. C. S. VanPool, T. L. VanPool, and D. A. Phillips Jr., 31–52. Altamira, Lanham, MD. Regional Analysis in Archaeology. Journal of Archaeological Research 16(1): 37–81.

Kantner, J., N. Bower, J. Ladwig, J. Perlitz, S. Hata, and D. Greve 2000 Interaction between Great House Communities: An Elemental Analysis of Cibolan Ceramics. In Great House Communities across the Chacoan Landscape, ed. J. Kantner and N. M. Mahoney, 130–146. Anthropological Papers 64. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Kantner, J., and K. Kintigh The Chaco World. In The Archaeology of Chaco Canyon, ed. S. H. Lekson, 153–188. 2006 School for Advanced Research Press, Santa Fe. Kohler, T. A., and S. E. van der Leeuw (editors) The Model-Based Archaeology of Socionatural Systems. School for Advanced Research 2007 Press. Santa Fe . LeBlanc, S. A. The Case for an Early Farmer Migration into the Greater American Southwest. In 2008 Archaeology without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. L. D. Webster and M. E. McBrinn, 107–142. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Lekson, S. H. 1999 The Chaco Meridian: Centers of Political Power in the Ancient Southwest. Altamira, Walnut Creek, CA. Chaco and Paquimé: Complexity, History, Landscape. In North American Archae2005 ology, ed. T. R. Pauketat and D. DiPaolo Loren, 235–272. Blackwell, Malden, MA. Lewellen, T. C. 2002 The Anthropology of Globalization: Cultural Anthropology Enters the 21st Century. Bergin and Garvey, Westport, CT. Lyman, R. L., and M. J. O’Brien The Goals of Evolutionary Archaeology: History and Explanation. Current Anthro1998 pology 39: 615–652. Mabry, J. B., and W. E. Doolittle Modeling the Early Agricultural Frontier in the Desert Borderlands. In Archaeology 2008 without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. L. D. Webster and M. E. McBrinn, 55–70. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Mack, A. 2004

One Landscape, Many Experiences: Differing Perspectives of the Temple Districts of Vijayanagara. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 11(1): 59–81.

Petersen, A. 1994 The Archaeology of the Syrian and Iraqi Hajj Routes. World Archaeology 26(1): 47–56.

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Potter, J. M. 2000 Pots, Parties, and Politics: Communal Feasting in the American Southwest. American Antiquity 65(3): 471–492. Smith, E. A., and B. Winterhalder 1992 Natural Selection and Decision Making: Some Fundamental Principles. In Evolutionary Ecology and Human Behavior, ed. E. A. Smith and B. Winterhalder, 25–60. Aldine de Gruyter, New York. Sofaer, A. 2007

Stein, G. J. 1999

The Primary Architecture of the Chacoan Culture: A Cosmological Expression. In The Architecture of Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, ed. S. H. Lekson, 225–254. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Rethinking World-Systems: Diaspora, Colonies, and Interaction in Uruk Mesopotamia. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

Triadan, D., B. J. Mills, and A. I. Duff 2002 From Compositional to Anthropological: Fourteenth-Century Red-Ware Circulation and Its Implications for Pueblo Reorganization. In Ceramic Production and Circulation in the Greater Southwest: Source Determination by INAA and Complementary Mineralogical Investigations, ed. D. M. Glowacki and H. Neff, 85–97. Monograph 44. Cotsen Institute of Archaeology, University of California, Los Angeles. Van Dyke, R. M. Memory and the Construction of Chacoan Society. In Archaeologies of Memory, ed. 2003 R. M. Van Dyke and S. E. Alcock, 180–200. Blackwell, Malden, MA. Webster, L. D., and M. E. McBrinn (editors) 2008 Archaeology without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Weigand, P. C. Turquoise: Formal Economic Interrelationships between Mesoamerica and the 2008 North American Southwest. In Archaeology without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. L. D. Webster and M. E. McBrinn, 343–353. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. Weigand, P. C., and G. Harbottle 1993 The Role of Turquoises in the Ancient Mesoamerican Trade Structure. In The American Southwest and Mesoamerica: Systems of Prehistoric Exchange, ed. J. E. Ericson and T. G. Baugh, 159–177. Plenum, New York. Wolf, E. R. 1982 Europe and the People without History. University of California Press, Berkeley. Yelvington, K. A. (editor) Afro-Atlantic Dialogues: Anthropology in the Diaspora. School for Advanced 2006 Research Press, Santa Fe. Zedeño, M. N. 1995 The Role of Population Movement and Technology Transfer in the Manufacture of Prehistoric Southwestern Ceramics. In Ceramic Production in the American 373

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Southwest, ed. B. J. Mills and P. L. Crown, 115–141. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. On What People Make of Places: A Behavioral Cartography. In Social Theory in Archaeology, ed. M. B. Schiffer, 97–111. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City.

[22] Irrigation Communities and Communities in Diaspora

Patrick D. Lyons, J. Brett Hill, and Jeffery J. Clark

In this chapter we examine two related case studies. The first focuses on the collapse of the late Classic period (AD 1300–1450) Hohokam irrigation communities of the lower Salt River Valley (Figure 22.1) and reveals the downside of connectivity—unintended, sometimes gravely serious consequences. In the second, we posit the development of a feasting tradition among Kayenta groups in diasporic cells throughout the Hohokam world—an apparent attempt to create or maintain connections on a broad geographical scale. The research reported here is part of the Coalescent Communities Project, a largescale analysis of existing museum collections focused on more accurately modeling late Classic period demography in central and southern Arizona (Hill et al. 2004; Wilcox et al. 2003). The Lower Salt River Valley Case Study Irrigation canals in the prehispanic Phoenix Basin defined local communities by linking dispersed villages and their fields, anchoring them to key headgate locations (Figure 22.2). For centuries, these connections were at the core of creating and recreating social relationships, managing labor, and circulating goods (Abbott 2000, 2003; Gregory 1991; Howard 2006). We suggest, however, that given local geomorphology, 375

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22.1. Map of Arizona showing the locations of places mentioned in the text. Base map drawn by Ronald J. Beckwith

commitment to irrigation and to the network of canals it required had unintended negative consequences, including environmental degradation and increasingly energyintensive agriculture. Because each canal network connected the headgates to the demographic core and the core to the community outskirts, processes unfolding at one end of the system could have profound effects on conditions at the other end. We argue that environmental degradation making agriculture more precarious in the core reached a critical level coeval with the arrival of immigrants on the outskirts. We posit that many of those who joined outlier settlements were immigrants from the Kayenta region to the north, people born of Kayenta immigrant parents, and people of mixed parentage. Our model holds that groups from the core were thrust into competition and conflict with groups on the out-

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22.2. Lower Salt River irrigation canals and major archaeological sites discussed in the text. Canal alignments are based on Howard (1990), as digitized by McCartney and Arp (1999). Data on some features in the northern periphery were derived from Turney (1929)

skirts, with regional depopulation the ultimate outcome. We refer to this process as “core decay.” Core Decay in the Lower Salt River Valley

Since the 1920s (Turney 1924, 1929), researchers have hypothesized that the canal systems of the lower Salt developed through the construction of main canals, first in areas with optimal gradients for irrigation and later in areas with less favorable gradients. Protection from flooding, as well as population growth and soil degradation in lower areas, were important factors that led irrigators to shift main canals upslope over time. This has been confirmed through research conducted largely during the 1980s and 1990s (Howard 1991a, 1991b, 1993, 1994, 2006; Howard and Wilcox 1988). Canal System 2, on the north side of the Salt River (linking Pueblo Grande, La Ciudad, and Las Colinas, as well as other sites), grew northward and westward through the addition of a series of main canals, each constructed in such a way as to parallel the river but further upslope (north) of earlier main canals. Jerry Howard and David Wilcox (1988:934–936, figure 20.6) suggest, based on gross chronological data available from Canal System 1 (linking Las Acequias, Los Hornos, and Los Muertos, as well as other sites), that a similar pattern is evident in mirror image across the Salt River. Thus in Canal System 1, expansion was from north to south and from west to east. More 377

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important, a pattern of serial abandonment has been documented in Canal System 2. Villages located along and served by older main canals, close to the river, were vacated during the Sedentary and early Classic periods, and population shifted to the north and west, away from the system’s headgates and the early demographic core (Howard 1991b, 1993). Given this foundation, it is possible to begin to model the ecological, demographic, and social dynamics associated with the collapse of the system. Howard (1991b, 1993), however, has identified key obstacles in the path of researchers attempting fine-grained reconstructions involving Phoenix Basin irrigation communities: uneven data quality, characteristic difficulty in determining site boundaries, difficulty in perceiving the spatial extents of different temporal components, interpretive challenges associated with the difference between the ages of fieldhouses, hamlets, and villages and the ages of nearby canals, and the need to understand paleo-hydraulic constraints on each system. Given these challenges, rather than attempt a comprehensive demographic reconstruction, here we focus on presenting new chronological data and geomorphological insights that support a model of core decay in Canal System 2. Our discussion emphasizes robust patterns and strong cases, and we proceed from the premise that the process of serial depopulation of core area sites and concomitant population increase on the periphery that characterized the Sedentary and early Classic periods continued during the late Classic. We infer that the eventual depopulation of the region was a consequence of multiple environmental and social factors that made irrigation agriculture increasingly difficult. Environmental Degradation. Abundant evidence documents Classic period environmental degradation in the lower Salt. Decreasing faunal abundance indicates that economically useful species were overexploited, resulting in declining size and availability of valuable food resources (e.g., Dean 2003; James 1994, 2003; Szuter 1989, 1991). Studies of non-economic species indicate that anthropogenic disturbance and demographic stress in the vicinity of agricultural sites became especially pronounced by the late thirteenth century (e.g., Dean 2005; see also Szuter 1989, 1991). Floral remains likewise suggest subsistence stress and even declining agricultural production at sites such as Pueblo Grande (e.g., Kwiatkowski 1994, 2003; Miller 1994). Importantly, Rebecca Dean (2005) notes changing faunal proportions near large central population concentrations. Other relevant evidence includes geomorphological indexes of problems with the irrigation system itself and adjacent fields. Numerous instances of variability in canal properties have been documented, suggesting changes in flow efficiency through time related to canal deterioration, salinization, water logging, and sediment accumulation (e.g., Anderson, Huckleberry, and Nials 1994; Huckleberry 1991; Nials and Gregory 1989). One of the largest and most completely mapped anthropogenic soil features in the area is the Salt River Adobes (Means 1901), a layer of heavy, silty clays up to a meter thick (Figure 22.3). Early Anglo settlers characterized these deposits as difficult to cultivate and prone to salinization. Geoarchaeological analyses have identified irrigation during the Hohokam occupation as the origin of most such deposits (Anderson, Huckleberry, and Nials 1994; Huckleberry 1992).

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22.3. Lower Salt River irrigation canals and the extent of the Salt River Adobes as mapped by Means (1901)

Past studies (e.g., Ackerly 1988; Huckleberry 1992) have concluded that such factors cannot be considered causal in the Hohokam collapse, as the total area affected may have been relatively small in comparison to land available for cultivation. The ability to shift much of the irrigation system also likely helped ameliorate such problems. A shortcoming of these perspectives, however, is that they do not adequately consider the structural implications of localized impacts on the system as a whole—that is, the downside of connectivity. Unusually large floods along the Salt River, increasingly frequent during the 1300s, would have damaged canals, intake structures, and related features. Changing channel morphology may have rendered some system components unsalvageable following extreme events. A unicausal depopulation model driven by catastrophic floods, however, still leaves important questions unanswered. Uncertainty remains regarding the lack of complementary geomorphological evidence (Howard 1991c) and about how closely dendroclimatic records reflect peak stream flow (Waters and Ravesloot 2001). Compounding the mystery are three facts: (1) population decline began well before the largest floods (Hill et al. 2004); (2) simulations suggest that the Hohokam could have survived this period’s largest floods (Howard 2006); and (3) some irrigation communities remained inhabited for decades afterward (Howard 1991c). 379

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Puebloan Immigrants. Archaeological evidence of northerners among the Classic period Hohokam, itself a long-standing hypothesis (e.g., Gladwin 1928; Hawley 1928; Schmidt 1927, 1928; Turney 1929), has been debated for decades (e.g., Abbott 2000, 2003; Doyel 1975, 1981; Steen 1965; Wasley and Doyel 1980). Work over the last fifty years has shown that such evidence is robust in some areas, such as the San Pedro River Valley and the Safford Basin (Brown 1973; Clark and Lyons in press; Di Peso 1958; Gerald 1958, 1975; Lindsay 1987; Lyons 2004b; Neuzil 2008; Woodson 1999; also see Clark and Laumbach, this volume). More important, the quality of this evidence has improved as archaeological theory and method have evolved (Clark 2001; Lyons 2003; Neuzil 2008). Our research indicates that Puebloan immigrants were relatively few in number and were concentrated at peripheral sites in the Phoenix Basin, late in the prehispanic sequence. A Model of Core Decay

An essential quality of irrigation along the lower Salt was the degree to which it delivered water to large expanses of upper Pleistocene terraces, which supported numerous large population centers, including villages several kilometers from the river. The upper terraces along the lower Salt encompass much more irrigable area than the floodplain and lower terraces. Irrigation of the upper terraces allowed both a tremendous increase in arable land and great flexibility in the development and frequent movement of lower-order canal features to accommodate population change and declining local productivity during the early Classic period (Ackerly 1988; Howard 1993, 1994, 2006; Howard and Wilcox 1988; Masse 1991). Geoarchaeological documentation highlights the relatively short use life and frequent relocation of smaller canal segments. Regular movement of lower-order canal features and associated fields appears to have been an important strategy facilitated, and perhaps necessitated, by their location on higher ground not normally flushed and replenished by flooding (Anderson, Huckleberry, and Nials 1994; Huckleberry 1992; Nials and Henderson 2004). Higher-order irrigation features including main trunk canals and intake features could not be as easily moved, for two reasons. First, main canals typically had to be fairly large to provide water to many kilometers of fields downstream; consequently, they would have required significant labor to excavate and maintain. In some cases, relocating intakes would have been impossible without disrupting the entire system. A second reason specific to lower Salt canal systems, because of their emphasis on the upper terraces, is that potential intake locations were more restricted by floodplain geomorphology. The intake location for Canal System 2, for example, was constrained by a bedrock outcrop at Papago Buttes, which both limited its upstream movement and facilitated the high water tables that made it a productive location (Howard 1993, 2006; Nials and Gregory 1989). As a result of these constraints on the movement of higher-order features, land use in their vicinity was similarly restricted. Areas near the intakes and main canals had advantages that made them popular settlement locations, including first access to irrigation water, control over how that water was distributed downstream,

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and less effluent from upstream communities. These advantages helped make Pueblo Grande one of the valley’s largest and most powerful communities. These same qualities, however, contributed to the decline of the core, rendering the entire system unsustainable. The areas around the largest and longest-inhabited sites would have experienced the most intensive land use and consequently the greatest resource degradation. Thus large sites controlling the heads of irrigation systems were both the most attractive settlement locations and those most likely to become untenable through time. Because of the constraints of Hohokam irrigation technology and the geomorphology of the lower Salt, communities in these locations would have been the least able to respond to localized degradation by shifting the location of irrigation features without great effort and system disruption. Moreover, they would have been the most vulnerable to flooding and consequent destruction during periods of exceptional stream flow. As fields near large centers became degraded and productivity declined, farmers would have faced the dilemma of expending more labor for diminishing returns or abandoning these fields entirely for secondary locations. Continuing degradation in core locations would have been a strong push factor in the relocation of population farther from central irrigation features such as intakes, headgates, and main canals critical to system function. The cost of practicing irrigation agriculture under these conditions would have continued to increase, and overall productivity would have decreased. Health, nutrition, and other quality-of-life measures would have declined. The ability to respond to damage from flooding and incision would have diminished as cultivation efforts were focused farther from overexploited core areas. For the same reasons, responses to such hydrological problems would have been less effective through time. Without regular maintenance of core irrigation features, the system as a whole could not have functioned even though fields in the vicinity of these features were of diminished importance. The magnitude of this dilemma would have increased as land use continually moved farther down-canal from the intakes. Consider, for example, that Pueblo Grande is less than two km from the Salt River channel, whereas Las Colinas is approximately seven km distant. As residents of central villages were gradually forced to focus their subsistence efforts on peripheral locations, they would have come into conflict with populations already controlling those areas. Those cultivating distal locations would likely have included newcomers to the lower Salt, including immigrants from Hohokam hinterlands as well as Puebloan groups (Abbott 2003; Clark 2001; Haury 1945; Lyons 2003). Conflict between the traditionally powerful core communities and the newly empowered periphery would have led to social and ideological upheaval during an interval when cooperation was necessary to maintain increasingly labor-intensive irrigation systems. Ultimately, maintenance costs would have outweighed benefits, leading to system-Â�wide collapse. Archaeological Evidence of Core Decay in Canal System 2 Elements of the model described above are clear upon juxtaposing data from Pueblo Grande, at the headgates of Canal System 2, and Las Colinas, near the distal end. David

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Abbott’s (2003) recent synthesis of Pueblo Grande data documents early Classic period growth, environmental degradation, and consequent population decline. Radiocarbon and archaeomagnetic dates indicate occupation during the AD 1400s, and Abbott and Michael Foster (2003) suggest that the village was completely depopulated by circa 1425. Las Colinas has produced some of the latest archaeomagnetic dates in the area (Dean 1991:table 3.1), indicating occupation well into the 1400s. The model suggests that Pueblo Grande should have been vacated before Las Colinas. However, overlap between absolute dates at these sites complicates discussions of change through time in Canal System 2. In an attempt to rectify this situation, the senior author examined existing ceramic collections from these sites and applied a new Roosevelt Red Ware typology. Late Roosevelt Red Ware Types

Production of these types (Figure 22.4) began after the appearance of Cliff Polychrome (Lyons 2004a, 2005; Neuzil and Lyons 2006). Nine Mile Polychrome is similar to Cliff Polychrome. Both occur only as recurved bowls and exhibit a banded field of black-on-white painted decoration on the interior surface, at the rim. Nine Mile differs from Cliff Polychrome in that the remainder of the interior surface of the former is slipped red and bears no painted decoration. Nine Mile Polychrome bowl exteriors usually bear Gila- or Tonto-configuration decoration. Phoenix Polychrome lacks black-on-white interior decoration; the entire interior is slipped red. Only occurring in the form of recurved bowls, Phoenix Polychrome vessels exhibit either Gila- or Tonto-configuration exterior decoration. Recurved Roosevelt Red Ware bowls exhibiting Gila or Tonto exterior decoration and smudged interiors are referred to as Dinwiddie Polychrome. Los Muertos Polychrome is distinguished by the use of red paint alongside black paint on white-slipped surfaces and occurs in a variety of bowl and jar forms (Crown 1981:146–147, 1994:88; Haury 1945:65–66). Cliff White-on-red is characterized by a red-slipped exterior, a smudged interior, and white painted decoration on top of the red slip (Mills and Mills 1972:46–47). It occurs primarily in the form of recurved bowls and is distinguished from other white-on-red types based on technological traits and painted decoration. Each of these types has an areal distribution much smaller than that associated with Gila and Tonto Polychrome. Phoenix and Nine Mile Polychrome cover the largest area, spanning the apparently non-overlapping distributions of Los Muertos Polychrome to the west and Dinwiddie Polychrome and Cliff White-on-red to the east. This spatial pattern seems to reflect chronology, in that the more widespread types, Phoenix and Nine Mile Polychrome, are earlier than those with much more restricted distributions: Los Muertos Polychrome, Dinwiddie Polychrome, and Cliff White-on-red. Spatial patterns are also evident at the local level. In some site clusters, Gila and Cliff Polychrome may be present at many or even most sites, whereas only a few have yielded specimens of one or more of the five newly defined types discussed here. Work with archival materials and existing museum collections has resulted in the discovery of associations between the new Roosevelt Red Ware types and other

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22.4. Late Roosevelt Red Ware types: (a) Cliff Polychrome from East Ruin (AZ V:9:68[ASM]), catalog number 74-87-30; (b) Nine Mile Polychrome from the Curtis site (AZ CC:2:3[ASM]), catalog number 7623CS; (c) Phoenix Polychrome from the Nine Mile site (AZ CC:15:1[AF]), catalog number 443; (d) Dinwiddie Polychrome from the Kuykendall site (AZ FF:2:2[ASM]), catalog number 1385K; (e) Los Muertos Polychrome from Las Colinas (AZ T:12:10[ASM]), catalog number A-37258; (f ) Cliff White-on-red from the Dinwiddie site (NM S:14:1[ASM]), catalog number 6148D. Photographs by Mathew A. Devitt (a) and Patrick D. Lyons (b–f ), reproduced courtesy of the Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona (a, e) in Tucson, and Eastern Arizona College in Thatcher (b–d, f )

Patrick D. Lyons, J. Brett Hill, and Jeffery J. Clark

types securely dated post–AD 1375 and post-1400. At Table Rock Pueblo, some of the white-on-red pottery described by Paul Martin and John Rinaldo (1960:208–210) is Cliff White-on-red. This site also yielded a small amount of Sikyatki Polychrome and Matsaki Buff Ware, and Martin and Rinaldo place the white-on-red pottery in the latest complex of types used at Table Rock. At Point of Pines, AZ W:10:47(ASM) yielded Nine Mile, Dinwiddie, and Sikyatki Polychrome. In the Tonto Basin, small quantities of Sikyatki Polychrome and Los Muertos Polychrome occur at the large platform mound sites. Sites in the Perry Mesa area with Los Muertos Polychrome have also yielded Sikyatki Polychrome (Wilcox and Holmlund 2007). Based on work with the Woodburys’ unpublished notes on material Frederick Hodge recovered from Hawikku, it has been possible to determine that Phoenix and Nine Mile Polychrome and Cliff White-on-red are present. Nine Mile Polychrome was recovered from a room floor in association with Kechipawan Polychrome and below a floor bearing Matsaki Polychrome. Other specific associations have not yet been ferreted out, but more general data provided by Watson Smith and colleagues (1966) and Geoffrey Bushnell (1955) are instructive. At Hawikku, Roosevelt Red Ware was found in cremations alongside Pinnawa Red-on-white, Kechipawan Polychrome, and Matsaki Polychrome (Smith, Woodbury, and Woodbury 1966:190). Unnamed white-on-red (which includes Cliff White-onred) appeared during the early 1400s, based on its associations with other types (e.g., Matsaki Polychrome) at Hawikku and elsewhere (Smith, Woodbury, and Woodbury 1966:191, 314–315). At Kechipawan, Roosevelt Red Ware was found in cremations with Pinnawa Glaze-on-white, Kechipawan Polychrome, and Matsaki Brown-on-buff (Bushnell 1955:659–662). Gregson Schachner’s (2006) analysis of stratigraphic data from Zuni Pueblo and Hawikku suggests that Roosevelt Red Ware first appeared there circa 1375–1400. This is consistent with the limited information available to retype Roosevelt Red Ware bowls from Hawikku. Although Sikyatki and Matsaki Polychrome and Rio Grande Glaze C are present in the San Pedro Valley, only traces of Nine Mile and Phoenix Polychrome occur. The other late Roosevelt Red Ware types are absent. Analysis of stratified trash at the Davis Ranch site (Gerald 1958) indicates that Cliff Polychrome was introduced after Gila and Tonto Polychrome and that Nine Mile and Phoenix Polychrome appeared after Cliff Polychrome became abundant. Sites in the Santa Cruz Flats–Picacho District and the Phoenix Basin with high frequencies of Los Muertos Polychrome have produced some of the latest archaeomagnetic and radiocarbon dates in the southern Southwest (Ahlstrom et al. 1995; CiolekTorrello, Callahan, and Greenwald 1988; Eighmy and Doyel 1987; Henderson and Martynec 1993). These indicate occupation well into the 1400s. Roosevelt Red Ware at Canal System 2 Sites

Kimberley Sonderegger (2001) has presented the most in-depth study of Roosevelt Red Ware frequencies at key Phoenix Basin sites. Her data support the inference of core

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Table 22.1. Roosevelt Red Ware data for key sites in Canal System 2 Site Pueblo Grande

% RRW (sherds)a

% RRW (burial vessels)a

1.40

0.65

Late type(s) presentb Cliff Polychrome, Phoenix Polychrome, Nine Mile Polychrome

Casa Buena

0.30

1.50

Grand Canal

0.70

—

—

Cliff Polychrome

Las Colinas

1.80

—

Cliff Polychrome, Phoenix Polychrome, Nine Mile Polychrome, Los Muertos Polychrome

Notes: a See Sonderegger (2001:table 4). b Based on collections curated by Pueblo Grande Museum and the Arizona State Museum.

decay in Canal System 2 and suggest that similar processes might have been at work in Canal System 1 (Table 22.1; also see Howard and Wilcox 1988). An examination of the distribution of late Roosevelt Red Ware types at Pueblo Grande and Las Colinas provides additional support. The Pueblo Grande assemblage discussed here consists of all Roosevelt Red Ware recovered by Soil Systems, Inc., between 1989 and 1990 (Peterson 1994) and curated by Pueblo Grande Museum. The Las Colinas assemblage discussed here consists of all Roosevelt Red Ware recovered from the site by the Arizona State Museum in 1968 (Crown 1981). Cliff Polychrome is present at both sites, as are Phoenix and Nine Mile Polychrome (Table 22.2). Los Muertos Polychrome is present at Las Colinas but was not found in the Soil Systems, Inc., sample from Pueblo Grande.1 As a group, the late types (Phoenix, Nine Mile, and Los Muertos Polychrome) are more than sixteen times more common in the Las Colinas assemblage than in the Pueblo Grande assemblage. These differences are consistent with the expectations of the core decay model, and less robust data from other Canal System 2 sites lend additional support. Based on available excavation data and an examination of collections curated by Pueblo Grande Museum, Casa Buena (Howard 1988) and the Grand Canal Ruins (Mitchell 1989) seem to have been depopulated before Las Colinas and Pueblo Grande.2 Both Casa Buena and the Grand Canal Ruins exhibit very low Roosevelt Red Ware percentages, although Cliff Polychrome was found at Casa Buena. The late types are absent from both assemblages. Although little is known about the late Classic period ceramics of La Ciudad, Frank Midvale (Wilcox 1987:62, 211, 220) described what is now called Los Muertos Polychrome. Recent work with the sample from La Ciudad curated by the Arizona Museum of Natural History (formerly the Mesa Southwest Museum) and sherds curated by Pueblo Grande Museum confirmed the presence of fragments from at least six vessels of this type. Cliff Polychrome and Phoenix Polychrome are also present, and a possible specimen of Nine Mile Polychrome was identified. The presence of the late types may mean that La Ciudad was occupied later than Casa Buena and the Grand Canal Ruins. Together, Casa Buena, the Grand Canal Ruins, and La Ciudad (along with other sites) comprise the La Ciudad Occupation Zone (Howard 1994). We suggest that the 385

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Table 22.2. Roosevelt Red Ware sherd data from Pueblo Grande (Soil Systems, Inc., excavations) and Las Colinas (1968 Arizona State Museum excavations) Pottery Type(s)a

Pueblo Grande

Las Colinas

Los Muertos Polychromeb

0

14

Nine Mile Polychrome

1

11

Phoenix Polychrome

2

34

Cliff or Nine Mile Polychrome

44

49

Cliff Polychrome

28

47

Tonto Polychrome

14

9

Gila Polychrome

123

92

TOTAL

212

256

Notes: aCounts for all types except Los Muertos Polychrome represent rim and neck sherds only. bCrown (1981:147) reported one reconstructible vessel and nineteen sherds of this type and suggested that a minimum of five vessels were present. Recent work with the collection has yielded an additional fourteen sherds (a total of thirty-three) and indicates the presence of at least fourteen vessels (ten bowls and four jars).

population of this area between the Pueblo Grande Occupation Zone (at the Canal System 2 headgates) and the Las Colinas Occupation Zone (at the periphery) decreased during the late Classic period. La Ciudad may have been the last holdout in its zone (except perhaps for Dutch Canal Ruin and Pueblo Salado). Indeed, the presence of Los Muertos Polychrome could indicate that La Ciudad was inhabited later than Pueblo Grande. Dutch Canal Ruin and Pueblo Salado may represent traces of an alternate response to core decay during the final decades of the late Classic period: the reclaiming of longabandoned parts of the floodplain by small groups. Dutch Canal Ruin yielded abundant Cliff Polychrome, whereas Cliff, Phoenix, Nine Mile, and Los Muertos Polychrome were recovered from Pueblo Salado. Evidence of Immigrants

Las Colinas yielded portions of sixty-nine locally produced perforated rim ceramic plates—pottery manufacturing tools used by groups native to the Kayenta region (Crown 1981; Lyons and Lindsay 2006), a local red ware tradition called Phoenix Red that exhibits Puebloan technological style (Abbott and Gregory 1988; Crown 1981), a presumably local red-on-brown pottery “micro-tradition” that combines Puebloan technological and decorative style with aspects of the local Hohokam ceramic tradition (Crown 1981), and evidence of the local production of Roosevelt Red Ware (Crown 1994; Crown, Schwalbe, and London 1988). A mealing bin characteristic of Puebloan groups was also encountered in one of the latest habitation structures at Las Colinas (Hammack and Hammack 1981:77). Few traces of Puebloan immigrants have been recovered from Pueblo Grande. The Hemenway Expedition recovered a single perforated plate from the site,3 and a frag-

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ment of a similar vessel was found on the surface during the 1990s. In addition, a single sherd of Tucson Polychrome, a Maverick Mountain Series type (Lindsay 1992), was excavated by Julian Hayden between 1936 and 1940 (Downum 1993; Pueblo Grande Museum collections). Feasting in Diaspora From an anthropological perspective, the key elements of the process of diaspora are population dispersal, preservation of identity, and a network of connections among dispersed enclaves and between these cells and the homeland (even if this homeland no longer truly exists in the same form or is more broadly conceived than in the past) (Clifford 1994; Cohen 1997; Gilroy 1997; Hall 1990; Safran 1991, 1997, 2004; Sheffer 1986; also see Mills, this volume). Diasporic networks allow cooperation on a large geographical scale, moving information, goods, raw materials, and ritual specialists (Sökefeld 2002, 2004; Vertovec 1994; Wellmeier 1998). In diaspora, a distinct group identity is often preserved through language and religion (Baumann 1995; Safran 2004). This identity survives through hybridity and syncretism (Clifford 1994; Gilroy 1997; Hall 1990). This is a theme we have explored before (Lyons and Clark 2008; Lyons, Hill, and Clark 2008) and one addressed by many contributors to this volume (Anschuetz and Wilshusen; Clark and Laumbach; Mills; Ortman and Cameron; Stone and Lipe). The process of choosing which traditions to maintain and which to discard, repeated by different groups of immigrants among different host populations, is the source of variability among diasporic cells that originated from the same homeland (Clifford 1994; Gilroy 1997; Tölölyan 1996). The ethnographic literature specifically tells us to expect the development of new ritual practices involving revival, invention, or reinvention of traditions (Parekh 1994; Sökefeld 2002, 2004; van der Veer and Vertovec 1991; Vertovec 1991, 1994). Economic specialization is also associated with diaspora (Cohen 1997). The ethnographic record shows that immigrants often find niches to exploit among host populations, including specialized craft production. Evidence of three key elements of diaspora—dispersal, network, and economic specialization—links the depopulation of the Kayenta region with the Salado phenomenon. The Kayenta Diaspora

One of the premises of this chapter is that the Salado phenomenon is best viewed as the material residue of Kayenta groups maintaining a shared identity in diaspora (Lyons 2007; also see Mills, this volume). We argue that groups of Kayenta immigrants mixing with disparate host groups under different local economic and political circumstances led, over generations, to varied, partially shared expressions of group identity (Lyons and Clark 2008; Lyons, Hill, and Clark 2008). In some places, such as the San Pedro Valley and the Safford Basin, immigrants were allowed to remake the homeland almost entirely; in others, such as the Tonto and Phoenix basins, they had to deemphasize certain differences. 387

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Previous research has linked Kayenta immigrants to both the origin and the spread of Roosevelt Red Ware (Crown 1994; Lyons 2003, in press; Lyons and Lindsay 2006). New data indicate that during the late 1300s and early 1400s, Kayenta immigrants and their descendants born in diaspora attempted to maintain widespread connections between dispersed enclaves in part by developing a Roosevelt Red Ware feasting tradition. Perforated plates, Maverick Mountain Series pottery, roomblock architecture, entry boxes, and kivas have been used to locate the dispersed cells that comprise the Kayenta diaspora (Di Peso 1958; Haury 1958; Lindsay 1987; Lyons 2003; Lyons and Lindsay 2006; Neuzil 2008; Woodson 1999). Enclaves are visible in nearly every major settlement cluster occupied between AD 1250 and 1450 in the eastern half of Arizona, bounded on the north by the Little Colorado River Valley and on the south by the U.S.Mexico border. Contact between these enclaves is easily demonstrated. Before Kayenta immigrants arrived in the San Pedro Valley, obsidian was extremely scarce. After the immigrant influx, obsidian became much more common in the valley and is most abundant in sites yielding traces of northerners. Obsidian was obtained through exchange between Kayenta enclaves in the Safford Basin and the San Pedro, and this material then moved to local groups in the San Pedro as a result of exchange between locals and immigrants (Clark and Lyons in press; Lyons, Hill, and Clark 2008; also see Clark and Laumbach, this volume). Sustained contact with the homeland is indicated as well. Government Mountain obsidian from the Flagstaff area is found in immigrant enclaves in both the San Pedro Valley and the Tonto Basin. In the San Pedro there is also palynological evidence of beeweed, which was used for pottery paint, moving through the diasporic network from the plateau or the mountains to the desert (Gerald 1975; Schoenwetter 1965). The genesis of Roosevelt Red Ware is evidence of the diasporic network in that it represents widespread immigrant exploitation of an economic niche through craft specialization. Dispersed enclaves chose to produce Roosevelt Red Ware and to exchange it with local host groups. The consistency of vessel forms and painted decoration across a huge geographical expanse and over generations also speaks to frequent interchange among diasporic cells. The Salado Feasting Tradition

Scott Van Keuren (2004) has recently reformulated Brian Hayden’s (1998) models of “practical” and “prestige” technologies in terms of “practical” and “presentational” aspects of the design of feasting vessels. Practical constraints act on performance characteristics related to serving and eating, for example, the nature of the contents the vessel will contain and the size of the group that will use the vessel. Presentational qualities relate to the vessel’s ability to communicate messages. The traits that set Phoenix Polychrome, Nine Mile Polychrome, Dinwiddie Polychrome, and Cliff White-on-red apart have both practical and presentational implications. We argue that bowls of these types were designed for serving food to large groups in public settings based on four performance characteristics: size, shape, decorative field, and decorative focus (see Crown 1994:55–57).

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Table 22.3. Mean maximum diameter for Roosevelt Red Ware bowls by type Type(s)

Mean maximum diameter (cm)

Standard deviation

N

35.33

3.98

26

Cliff Polychrome

26.26

7.59

89

Gila Polychrome

20.19

5.31

290

Late types

a

Note: a Includes Nine Mile Polychrome, Phoenix Polychrome, Dinwiddie Polychrome, and Cliff White-on-red.

Roosevelt Red Ware bowls increased in size through time, from a mean maximum diameter of twenty cm for Gila Polychrome to an average of thirty-five cm for the late types (Table 22.3). Cliff Polychrome straddles the two distributions (in fact, its distribution is bimodal) and straddles Gila Polychrome and the late types chronologically, suggesting that Cliff Polychrome represents a stage in the development of the later types or that many Cliff Polychrome vessels, like specimens of the late types, were specialized feasting bowls. These differences are statistically significant (Kruskal-Wallis test statistic = 100.9489, p < .0000, with 2 df ). Patricia Crown (1994), using the traditional Roosevelt Red Ware typology, discerned that bowls exhibiting certain shapes became larger over time. She found that a class of very large bowls was virtually absent from burials, suggesting that such objects were not associated with individual users—a conclusion that follows if such vessels were used for feasting. Four of the late types are defined in part by their shared form, the recurved bowl. This is the same shape exhibited by contemporaneous Rio Grande Glaze Ware and Biscuit Ware bowls, which many infer were used as serving vessels in supra-household feasts (Graves and Eckert 1998; Spielmann 1998). This form is well-engineered for carrying stew (a likely feasting food) without spilling (Kidder 1915:423) and allows easy access to the contents of a container by a large number of people. These, like increased volume, are practical performance characteristics. Crown (1994:57) noted an increase over time, from 8 percent to 95 percent, in exterior surface decoration on Roosevelt Red Ware bowls. We argue that the temporal shift in decoration that defines these late types represents recognition of presentational constraints in container design related to ritual commensalism. Because feasting vessels were used in public contexts and their interiors were usually obscured by their contents, painted decoration was moved to the exterior surface and the interior surface of the rim, above the point of constriction where participants could still observe it when the vessel was full (see Van Keuren 2004). As noted above, many Biscuit Ware bowls exhibit the same form, and from the beginning of the sequence, the interior rims of such vessels were decorated in a manner similar to that exhibited by late Roosevelt Red Ware types. Furthermore, the transition from Biscuit A to Biscuit B is marked by the addition of exterior painted decoration (Kidder and Kidder 1917). Why Feasting?

Creating and sustaining relationships outside the household are the main goals that drive feasts (see, e.g., Dietler 1996, 2001; Hayden 1996, 2001). Kayenta groups 389

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in diaspora developed the Salado feasting tradition in the context of a falling regional population and overall demographic flux. In this social environment, the members of the diaspora were likely concerned about sustaining connections on a broad scale and perhaps with maintaining viable communities. Van Keuren (2004) emphasizes that historical factors underlie both the practical and presentational qualities of artifacts used in feasting. An example of this phenomenon is the consistent association of red ware bowls and feasting in the northern Southwest (Blinman 1989; Mills 1999; Spielmann 2004). In a sense, then, the late precontact development of feasting ritual associated with Roosevelt Red Ware represents a (re)invention of tradition (Hobsbawm 1983). According to Eric Hobsbawm, such phenomena are to be expected under conditions of rapid social transformation and signify attempts to create something seemingly unchanged or unchanging, in the context of upheaval. Such strategies most often make deliberate claims to continuity with the past and legitimize action (Hobsbawm 1983:12; see also Connerton 1989). Many large, late vessels exhibit “classic” Kayenta motifs, such as the batwing with corbel-and-hatch filler. Like Crown (1994:206–207), we suggest that this phenomenon may mark a revival of northern identity (also see Mills, this volume). Alternatively, or perhaps in addition to maintaining ties among diasporic cells, Salado feasts may have been designed to create political relationships among culturally diverse groups amid the waning ideological importance of platform mounds built by locals and kivas built by immigrants. Comparing Feasting Traditions

A comparison of Rio Grande Glaze Ware, Biscuit Ware, and White Mountain Red Ware feasting vessels (Graves and Eckert 1998; Mills 2007; Spielmann 1998) with the Roosevelt Red Ware feasting tradition yields interesting similarities. Parallel developments in form and decoration suggest sharing of ideas and strong connections between groups in the Rio Grande and those who occupied the late pre-contact settlements of the Hohokam region. Crown (1994) has interpreted these patterns in terms of a regional cult. There is a potential point of divergence to explore as well. Rio Grande Glaze Ware feasting vessels have been described as “pieces of places”—objects imbued with the importance of their place of origin and thus appropriate for use in ritual contexts (Bradley 2000). Whereas Rio Grande Glaze Ware production was centralized, Roosevelt Red Ware was made just about everywhere. Does this mean Roosevelt Red Ware feasting vessels were not pieces of a place? Could the iconography on the late vessels—recalling the Kayenta pottery of the late 1200s—be the symbol of a reimagined homeland among groups in diaspora? Barbara Mills (2007) links changes in White Mountain Red Ware bowl exterior decorations to the scales of ritual architecture used, and the sizes of social groups participating in public performances, during different periods. However, Roosevelt Red Ware feasting bowls look the same regardless of architectural context: platform mound, pueblo, compound, cliff dwelling. Thus the scale of the social group involved is unre-

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lated to architecture. We suggest that a regional social group was signaled, a diasporic community rather than a local community. Summary and Conclusion The core decay model explains the depopulation of the lower Salt River Valley in terms of a combination of environmental and social factors. The model holds that (1) the same qualities that made core areas attractive for settlement made these locations the most untenable for habitation in the long term; (2) environmental degradation led groups living in core areas to move to villages on the periphery; (3) the movement of groups out of the core created the potential for conflict with populations already established on the periphery and increased the distance between the bulk of the population and critical systemic infrastructure, such as headgates; and (4) eventually, the costs associated with these shifts outweighed the benefits, leading to regional depopulation. An examination of environmental and archaeological data (including ceramic chronology based on a newly developed Roosevelt Red Ware typology) revealed patterns that conform to the expectations of the model. The core decay model highlights the importance of appreciating the downside of connectivity: unintended consequences. Inflexible commitment by the Hohokam to the networks and technology that structured their communities ultimately caused their communities’ demise. The diasporic feasting tradition that developed in the context of the Hohokam collapse may have represented an attempt to create, maintain, or strengthen connections at a regional scale during a time of turmoil. It was ultimately unsuccessful, however. Eastern and western Roosevelt Red Ware sub-traditions developed. Dinwiddie Polychrome and Cliff White-on-red are associated exclusively with the eastern sub-tradition, and Los Muertos Polychrome only occurs in western sub-tradition assemblages. Nine Mile and Phoenix Polychrome are found in both areas. This suggests that social boundaries became more pronounced through time as Nine Mile and Phoenix Polychrome were replaced by Los Muertos Polychrome in the west and by Dinwiddie Polychrome and Cliff White-on-red in the east. The material traces of the Salado feasting tradition are similar to those associated with feasting in the Rio Grande, and there is also similarity in terms of iconography. Nonetheless, differences in the organization of production very likely signal differences in the social dynamics of commensalism in these two areas. Notes 1. A single sherd of Los Muertos Polychrome was recovered from Pueblo Grande as part of a later project (Foster 1995). 2. This is an example of a comparison of site chronological information that would benefit greatly from a better understanding of the representativeness of the samples available for analysis (see Howard 1991b, 1993). 3. Haury’s (1945:186) “La Ciudad” is Cushing’s “La Ciudad de los Pueblitos,” the site now known as Pueblo Grande (Wilcox 1987:12–16).

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References Abbott, D. R. 2000 Ceramics and Community Organization among the Hohokam. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Abbott, D. R. (editor) Centuries of Decline during the Hohokam Classic Period at Pueblo Grande. University 2003 of Arizona Press, Tucson. Abbott, D. R., and M. S. Foster Site Structure, Chronology, and Population. In Centuries of Decline during the 2003 Hohokam Classic Period at Pueblo Grande, ed. D. R. Abbott, 24–47. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Abbott, D. R., and D. A. Gregory Hohokam Ceramic Wares and Types. In The 1982–1984 Excavations at Las Colinas: 1988 Material Culture, by D. R. Abbott, K. E. Beckwith, P. L. Crown, R. T. Euler, D. A. Gregory, J. R. London, M. B. Saul, L. A. Schwalbe, M. Bernard-Shaw, C. R. Szuter, and A. W. Vokes, 5–28. Archaeological Series 162(4). Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. Ackerly, N. W. 1988 False Causality in the Hohokam Collapse. The Kiva 53(4): 305–319. Ahlstrom, R.V.N., M. L. Chenault, M. Zyniecki, and D. H. Greenwald Chronology, Compound Growth, and Demography. In The Sky Harbor Project, 1995 Early Desert Farming and Irrigation Settlements: Archaeological Investigations in the Phoenix Sky Harbor Center, vol. 3: Pueblo Salado, ed. D. H. Greenwald, M. L. Chenault, and D. M. Greenwald, 369–381. Anthropological Research Paper 4. SWCA, Inc., Environmental Consultants, Flagstaff, AZ. Anderson, K. C., G. Huckleberry, and F. L. Nials Canals and Related Features. In The Sky Harbor Project, Early Desert Farming and 1994 Irrigation Settlements: Archaeological Investigations in the Phoenix Sky Harbor Center, vol. 1: Testing Results and Data Recovery Plan, ed. D. H. Greenwald, 117–147. Anthropological Research Paper 4. SWCA, Inc., Environmental Consultants, Flagstaff, AZ. Baumann, M. Conceptualizing Diaspora: The Preservation of Religious Identity in Foreign Parts, 1995 Exemplified by Hindu Communities outside India. Temenos 31: 19–35. Blinman, E. Potluck in the Protokiva: Ceramics and Ceremonialism in Pueblo I Villages. In The 1989 Architecture of Social Integration in Prehistoric Pueblos, ed. M. Hegmon and W. D. Lipe, 113–124. Occasional Papers 1. Crown Canyon Archaeological Center, Cortez, CO. Bradley, R. 2000 An Archaeology of Natural Places. Routledge, London. Brown, J. L. The Origin and Nature of Salado: Evidence from the Safford Valley, Arizona. PhD 1973 dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson.

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Dietler, M. 1996 Feasts and Commensal Politics in the Political Economy: Food, Power, and Status in Prehistoric Europe. In Food and the Status Quest: An Interdisciplinary Perspective, ed. P. Wiessner and W. Schiefenhövel, 87–125. Berghahn Books, Providence, RI. Theorizing the Feast: Rituals of Consumption, Commensal Politics and Power in 2001 African Contexts. In Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power, ed. M. Dietler and B. Hayden, 65–114. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Di Peso, C. C. 1958 The Reeve Ruin of Southeastern Arizona: A Study of a Prehistoric Western Pueblo Migration into the Middle San Pedro Valley. Amerind Foundation, Inc., 8, Dragoon, AZ. Downum, C. E. Relief Archaeology: Excavations at Pueblo Grande from 1929 to 1940. In Archaeol1993 ogy of the Pueblo Grande Platform Mound and Surrounding Features, vol. 1: Introduction to the Archival Project and History of Archaeological Research, ed. C. E. Downum and T. W. Bostwick, 139–192. Pueblo Grande Museum Anthropological Papers 1. City of Phoenix Parks, Recreation, and Library Department, Phoenix. Doyel, D. E. Excavations in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona, rev. ed. Archaeological 1975 Series 37. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 1981 Late Hohokam Prehistory in Southern Arizona. Contributions to Archaeology 2. Gila, Scottsdale, AZ. Eighmy, J. L., and D. E. Doyel 1987 A Reanalysis of First Reported Archaeomagnetic Dates from the Hohokam Area, Southern Arizona. Journal of Field Archaeology 14(3): 331–342. Foster, M. S. (editor) The Pueblo Grande Museum Expansion Data Recovery Project. Technical Report 1995 95–17. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. Gerald, R. E. 1958 Davis Ranch Site (ARIZ:BB:11:7 AF). Manuscript on file, Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, AZ. 1975 Drought Correlated Changes in Two Prehistoric Pueblo Communities in Southeastern Arizona. PhD dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Chicago, Chicago. Gilroy, P. 1997

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Gregory, D. A. 1991 Form and Variation in Hohokam Settlement Patterns. In Chaco and Hohokam: Prehistoric Regional Systems in the American Southwest, ed. P. L. Crown and W. J. Judge, 159–193. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Hall, S. 1990

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Hammack, L. C., and N. S. Hammack 1981 Architecture. In The 1968 Excavations at Mound 8, Las Colinas Ruins Group, Phoenix, Arizona, ed. L. C. Hammack and A. P. Sullivan, 15–86. Archaeological Series 154. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. Haury, E. W. The Excavation of Los Muertos and Neighboring Ruins in the Salt River Valley, South1945 ern Arizona, Based on the Work of the Hemenway Southwestern Archaeological Expedition of 1887–1888. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology 24(1). Harvard University, Cambridge. 1958 Evidence at Point of Pines for a Prehistoric Migration from Northern Arizona. In Migrations in New World Culture History, ed. R. H. Thompson, 1–6. University of Arizona Bulletin 29(2), Social Science Bulletin 27. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Hawley, F. M. Pottery and Culture Relations in the Middle Gila. Unpublished MA thesis, College 1928 of Letters, Arts, and Sciences, University of Arizona, Tucson. Hayden, B. Feasting in Prehistoric and Traditional Societies. In Food and the Status Quest: 1996 An Interdisciplinary Perspective, ed. P. Wiessner and W. Schiefenhövel, 127–147. Berghahn Books, Providence, RI. 1998 Practical and Prestige Technologies: The Evolution of Material Systems. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 5(1): 1–55. 2001 Fabulous Feasts: A Prolegomenon to the Importance of Feasting. In Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power, ed. M. Dietler and B. Hayden, 23–64. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Henderson, T. K., and R. J. Martynec (editors) Classic Period Occupation on the Santa Cruz Flats: The Santa Cruz Flats Archaeologi1993 cal Project. Northland Research, Inc., Flagstaff, AZ. Hill, J. B., J. J. Clark, W. H. Doelle, and P. D. Lyons 2004 Prehistoric Demography in the Southwest: Migration, Coalescence, and Hohokam Population Decline. American Antiquity 69(4): 689–716. Hobsbawm, E. Introduction: Inventing Traditions. In The Invention of Tradition, ed. E. Hobsbawm 1983 and T. Ranger, 1–14. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Howard, J. B. Paleohydraulics: Techniques for Modeling the Operation and Growth of Prehis1990 toric Canal Systems. Unpublished master’s thesis, Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe.

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1991a

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The East Papago Canal Study: A Synthesis of Turney’s Canal System 2. In The Operation and Evolution of an Irrigation System: The East Papago Canal Study, ed. J. B. Howard and G. Huckleberry, 1.1–1.7. Publications in Archaeology 18. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. Charting the Past: Mapping the Prehistoric Canals and Sites of the Salt River Valley. In The Operation and Evolution of an Irrigation System: The East Papago Canal Study, ed. J. B. Howard and G. Huckleberry, 2.1–2.19. Publications in Archaeology 18. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. System Reconstruction: The Evolution of an Irrigation System. In The Operation and Evolution of an Irrigation System: The East Papago Canal Study, ed. J. B. Howard and G. Huckleberry, 5.1–5.32. Publications in Archaeology 18. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. A Paleohydraulic Approach to Examining Agricultural Intensification in Hohokam Irrigation Systems. In Economic Aspects of Water Management in the Prehispanic New World, ed. V. L. Scarborough and B. L. Isaac, 263–324. Research in Economic Anthropology Supplement 7. JAI, Greenwich, CT. Dutch Canal Ruin: Spatial and Temporal Context. In The Sky Harbor Project, Early Desert Farming and Irrigation Settlements: Archaeological Investigations in the Phoenix Sky Harbor Center, vol. 1: Testing Results and Data Recovery Plan, ed. D. H. Greenwald, 65–71. Anthropological Research Paper 4. SWCA, Inc., Environmental Consultants, Flagstaff, AZ. Hohokam Irrigation Communities: A Study of Internal Structure, External Relationships and Sociopolitical Complexity. PhD dissertation, School of Human Evolution and Social Change, Arizona State University, Tempe.

Howard, J. B. (editor) 1988 Excavations at Casa Buena: Changing Hohokam Land Use along the Squaw Peak Parkway. Publications in Archaeology 11. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. Howard, J. B., and D. R. Wilcox The Place of Casa Buena and Locus 2 in the Evolution of Canal System 2. In Exca1988 vations at Casa Buena: Changing Hohokam Land Use along the Squaw Peak Parkway, ed. J. B. Howard, 903–939. Publications in Archaeology 11. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. Huckleberry, G. 1991 A Geoarchaeological Study of Canal System 2. In The Operation and Evolution of an Irrigation System: The East Papago Canal Study, ed. J. B. Howard and G. Huckleberry, 3.1–3.73. Publications in Archaeology 18. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. 1992 Soil Evidence of Hohokam Irrigation in the Salt River Valley. Kiva 57(3): 237– 249. James, S. R. 1994 Hohokam Hunting and Fishing Patterns at Pueblo Grande: Results of the Archaeofaunal Analysis. In The Pueblo Grande Project, vol. 5: Environment and Subsistence, ed. S. M. Kwiatkowski, 249–318. Publications in Archaeology 20. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. 2003 Hunting and Fishing Patterns Leading to Resource Depletion. In Centuries of Decline during the Hohokam Classic Period at Pueblo Grande, ed. D. R. Abbott, 70–81. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

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Kidder, A. V. 1915 Pottery of the Pajarito Plateau and of Some Adjacent Regions in New Mexico. Memoirs of the American Anthropological Association 2(6): 407–462. Kidder, M. A., and A. V. Kidder 1917 Notes on the Pottery of Pecos. American Anthropologist 19(3): 325–360. Kwiatkowski, S. M. Some Thoughts about the Prehistoric Environment and Subsistence Practices at 1994 Pueblo Grande. In The Pueblo Grande Project, vol. 5: Environment and Subsistence, ed. S. M. Kwiatkowski, 335–348. Publications in Archaeology 20. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. 2003 Evidence for Subsistence Problems. In Centuries of Decline during the Hohokam Classic Period at Pueblo Grande, ed. D. R. Abbott, 48–69. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Lindsay, A. J., Jr. Anasazi Population Movements to Southeastern Arizona. American Archaeology 1987 6(3): 190–198. 1992 Tucson Polychrome: History, Dating, Distribution, and Design. In Proceedings of the Second Salado Conference, ed. R. C. Lange and S. Germick, 230–237. Arizona Archaeological Society, Phoenix. Lyons, P. D. 2003 Ancestral Hopi Migrations. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 68. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2004a Cliff Polychrome. Kiva 69(4): 361–400. 2004b José Solas Ruin. Kiva 70(2): 143–181. Regional Varieties of Roosevelt Red Ware. Paper presented at the Arizona Archaeo2005 logical Council Fall 2005 Symposium, Thatcher, AZ. 2007 The Kayenta Diaspora and Group Identities in the American Southwest. Paper presented at the 72nd Annual Meeting of the Society for American Archaeology, Austin, TX. In press Ceramic Typology, Chronology, Production, and Circulation. In Migrants and Mounds: Classic Period Archaeology of the San Pedro Valley,ed. J. J. Clark and P. D. Lyons. Anthropological Papers 45. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Lyons, P. D., and J. J. Clark Interaction, Enculturation, Social Distance, and Ancient Ethnic Identities. In 2008 Archaeology without Borders: Contact, Commerce, and Change in the U.S. Southwest and Northwestern Mexico, ed. L. D. Webster and M. McBrinn, 185–207. University Press of Colorado, Boulder, and INAH, Chihuahua. Lyons, P. D., J. B. Hill, and J. J. Clark 2008 Demography, Agricultural Potential, and Identity among Ancient Immigrants. In The Social Construction of Communities: Agency, Structure, and Identity in the Prehispanic Southwest, ed. M. D. Varien and J. M. Potter, 191–213. Altamira, Lanham, MD. Lyons, P. D., and A. J. Lindsay Jr. 2006 Perforated Plates and the Salado Phenomenon. Kiva 72(1): 5–54. Martin, P. S., and J. B. Rinaldo 1960 Table Rock Pueblo, Arizona. Fieldiana: Anthropology 51(2). Chicago Natural History Museum, Chicago.

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Masse, W. B. 1991 Systems and Systematics: A Critique of Interdisciplinary Study of Hohokam Irrigation. In Prehistoric Irrigation in Arizona: Symposium 1988, ed. C. D. Breternitz, 155–172. Publications in Archaeology 17. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. McCartney, P. H., and R. Arp Pre-Historic Canal System in the Phoenix Metropolitan Area. International Institute 1999 for Sustainability, Arizona State University, Tempe. Means, T. 1901 Miller, J. 1994

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Soil Survey in Salt River Valley, Arizona. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Division of Soils, Washington, DC. Pueblo Grande Flotation, Macrobotanical, and Wood Charcoal Analyses. In The Pueblo Grande Project, vol. 5: Environment and Subsistence, ed. S. M. Kwiatkowski, 127–204. Publications in Archaeology 20. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. Ceramics and the Social Contexts of Food Consumption in the Northern Southwest. In Pottery and People: A Dynamic Interaction, ed. J. M. Skibo and G. M. Feinman, 99–114. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Performing the Feast: Visual Display and Suprahousehold Commensalism in the Puebloan Southwest. American Antiquity 72(2): 210–239.

Mills, J. P., and V. M. Mills The Dinwiddie Site: A Prehistoric Salado Ruin on Duck Creek, Western New Mex1972 ico. The Artifact 10(2): i–50. Mitchell, D. R. (editor) Archaeological Investigations at the Grand Canal Ruins: A Classic Period Site in 1989 Phoenix, Arizona. Publications in Archaeology 12. Soil Systems, Inc., Phoenix. Neuzil, A. A. 2008 In the Aftermath of Migration: Renegotiating Ancient Identity in Southeastern Arizona. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 73. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Neuzil, A. A., and P. D. Lyons An Analysis of Whole Vessels from the Mills Collection Curated at Eastern Arizona 2006 College, Thatcher, Arizona. Technical Report 2005-001. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Nials, F. L., and D. A. Gregory Irrigation Systems in the Lower Salt River Valley. In The 1982–1984 Excavations at 1989 Las Colinas: Environment and Subsistence, by D. A. Graybill, D. A. Gregory, F. L. Nials, S. K. Fish, R. E. Gasser, C. H. Miksicek, and C. R. Szuter, 39–58. Archaeological Series 162(5). Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. Nials, F. L., and T. K. Henderson The Sky Harbor Project Canals. In Hohokam Farming on the Salt River Floodplain, 2004 ed. T. K. Henderson, 125–152. Anthropological Papers 43. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Parekh, B. 1994

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Schachner, G. The Decline of Zuni Glaze Ware Production in the Tumultuous Fifteenth Century. 2006 In The Social Life of Pots: Glaze Wares and Cultural Dynamics in the Southwest, A.D. 1250–1680, ed. J. A. Habicht-Mauche, S. L. Eckert, and D. L. Huntley, 124–141. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Schmidt, E. F. A Stratigraphic Study in the Gila-Salt Region, Arizona. Proceedings of the National 1927 Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 13(5): 291–298. 1928 Time-Relations of Prehistoric Pottery Types in Southern Arizona. Anthropological Papers 30(5). American Museum of Natural History, New York. Schoenwetter, J. Pollen Studies at Reeve Ruin and the Davis Ranch Site: Preliminary Report. Manu1965 script on file, Arizona State University Libraries, Tempe. Sheffer, G. 1986

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[23] Anchoring Identities Iconic Landforms across San Juan Time and Space

Ruth M. Van Dyke

Place attachments are one dimension through which groups of individuals may set themselves apart from others. Common social identities may be forged around past or present associations with real or imagined places. As ancient peoples moved across the Southwest landscape, highly visible landforms may have provided one way for people to retain symbolic connections to homelands, distant relatives, and each other. In this chapter I explore the relationships between some highly visible landforms and site locations during the Pueblo I period north and south of the San Juan River as peoples moved through the Montezuma and Chuska valleys. Landforms such as the La Plata Mountains, Sleeping Ute Mountain, and Shiprock could have helped anchor identities as the migrants’ social and physical worlds shifted and realigned. Identities, Places, and Meanings Identity is a continually negotiated, situational, multidimensional understanding of one’s relationships to others (Bourdieu 1977; Butler 1990; Cohen 1978; Meskell 2001, 2002; Mills 2004). In the context of recent work on cultural affiliation, ethnogenesis, and migration, “social identity” has become more than a proxy for bounded cultural groups or ethnicities (Duff 2002; Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006). Rather, 403

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identities are seen as fluid, coming together and moving apart like braided streams in a wash (Bernardini 2005; Ferguson 2004); they need not and often do not correspond with spatial proximity. We now see the indigenous Southwest past not as a static collection of bounded social units but rather as an ever-changing tapestry. The threads of the weaving include language groups, genders, clans, factions, allies, and other identities of varying strengths and durations. Communities and settlements were dynamic and were continually reconfigured. Group identities were negotiated, maintained, and transformed across time and space and across both physical and social landscapes. The term “landscape” can refer to a wide range of archaeological approaches. In the Southwest, some of us have collaborated with Native Americans to identify cultural landscapes (e.g., Anschuetz 2007; Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006; Ferguson and Hart 1985; Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, this volume). In Britain and elsewhere, social landscape studies have been developed by archaeologists who recognized that spaces are not merely neutral containers full of resources; rather, spaces are constructed, meaningful, emotional, socially inhabited places. With theoretical roots in Pierre Bourdieu (1971, 1977), archaeologists (Ashmore 1989; Ashmore and Knapp 1999; Bender 1993, 1998; Bradley 1998, 2000; Ingold 2000:153–288; Thomas 1996) have followed the lead of geographers such as Harvey (1989) and Soja (1988, 1996) and anthropologists (e.g., Basso 1996; Lawrence and Low 1990; Low 1997) to recognize that humans construct meanings through experiences in places. Some archaeologists, myself included, have adopted a phenomenological approach to help work toward an understanding of past spatial experiences (Cummings and Whittle 2003; Hamilton and Whitehouse 2006; Scarre 2002; Thomas 2004; Tilley 1994, 2004, 2008; Van Dyke 2007). Phenomenology posits that we know the world through the process of living, or dwelling, in it (Heidegger 1962; Merleau-Ponty 1962). The human body is the point of dialectical mediation between consciousness and the physical world. Because all bodily experiences are spatially situated, place—the intersection of time, space, and self—is the most fundamental form of embedded experience (Casey 1996). People actively construct knowledge of the world by moving through places (De Certeau 1984:91– 130). Although spatial experiences are culturally constructed, we share similar bodies with the past peoples who we study. Thus as we move through archaeological spaces today, we should be able to learn about how ancient builders intended their world to be perceived. Phenomenological investigations have tended to focus on movement and intervisibility (but see Hamilton and Whitehouse 2006 for other recent directions). Critics of phenomenological archaeology (Brück 2005; Fleming 2005, 2006) point out that experiences of landscape are culturally constructed, not universal. They charge that phenomenologists privilege the sensual over the political and produce nothing more than the researchers’ own contemporary perceptions of contemporary landscapes. But advocates counter that phenomenological approaches, if employed judiciously and supported by multiple lines of material evidence, can be fruitful ways to bring memory, meaning, identity, and emotion into our interpretations of the past. Many past peoples have imbued features of the natural landscape—such as boulders, caves, springs, and mountain peaks—with meaning (e.g., Boivin 2004; Brady and Ashmore 1999; Nabokov 2006; Sharma 1992; Snead 2006, 2008; Taçon 1999). Stories,

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histories, and oral traditions create emotional connections and social memory, attaching peoples to places (Silko 1986; Schachner, this volume). Place attachment is a sensuous phenomenon (Kus 1992; Tarlow 2000). Meaningful places are felt, remembered, and experienced, emerging from “right-brained” intuition as well as “left-brained” analyÂ� sis (Webmoor 2005; Witmore 2005). Thus in this chapter I represent place not only through prose but also through images and poetry. Indigenous peoples of the Southwest use landscape features as metonyms to evoke stories and values (Basso 1996; Young 1988:4–9). Past identities are likely to have been similarly bound up with places. In the words of Andrew Duff, “The social landscape [is] made up of important places where historical or mythical events occurred, where ancestors lived, and where daily life transpired. This sense of place, manifestly unique but shared by community members and larger social groups, presents an important component of social structure and understanding” (2002:14). The Colorado Plateau is a land of long horizons punctuated by dramatic buttes, mesas, and mountain ranges, where light and sky are important components of any phenomenological experience (Tuan 1974). Here, Pueblo and Navajo peoples have long inscribed particular mountain peaks with social, ritual, and political meanings. Many dramatic high places on the plateau are considered central to indigenous religious practices, histories, and oral traditions (Linford 2000; McPherson 1992). For example, the horizontal and vertical divisions of Tewa society and cosmology have counterparts on the physical terrain marked by concentric tetrads of shrines and natural features (Ortiz 1969, 1972). At the outermost level, four sacred mountains associated with cardinal directions delimit the Tewa world. Each is associated with an earth navel or opening between worlds, a lake, a color, and various supernatural beings. People go to these distant high mountains to hunt, gather, or make pilgrimages. Indigenous groups attach diverse meanings to specific landforms. For example, twin spires on the Piedra River in southwestern Colorado—Chimney Rock and Companion Rock—are a shrine to the Twin War Gods of Taos Pueblo. Cabezon Peak, a volcanic plug in northern New Mexico, is the head of a slain giant in Diné stories. Huerfano Mountain, or Dzilth Ná’oodithlii, in northwestern New Mexico is an isolated, hoganshaped sandstone mesa—the Navajo consider it one of the homes of First Man and First Woman. Mount Taylor, the remnant cone of an ancient volcano, is Tzoodzil for the Navajo, home of Turquoise Boy and Yellow Corn Girl, decorated with turquoise, dark mist, and female rain. The same peak is Kaweshtima for the Acoma, home of the rainmaker of the north. These landforms and many others are more than locations in stories or backdrops for historical events. They are integral to the identities of those who live within their viewsheds. The Acoma writer Simon Ortiz (2002:86) evokes this sense of connection in a poem entitled “Kaweshtima Sharing Its Existence with Me and Me Sharing My Existence with Kaweshtima”: Looking North seeing Kaweshtima, the strong mountain is a prayer. On cold winter days, the Mountain is tall, huge, strong, and sacred.

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On hot summer days, the Mountain is sharp, clear, and forever. On all days of Creation’s seasons there is always clarity. It occurs to me again that wherever I have been I have never seen another Mountain which has stood more clearly in my mind and heart. When I have needed to envision my home, land, family, when loneliness for myself has overcome me, the Mountain has occurred. And now it prays its being with me. And now I share my being with it.

Phenomenological archaeologist Julian Thomas exhorts us to strive to understand how past peoples “made themselves at home in their worlds” (2006:22). These dramatic landforms were one dimension through which past peoples “made themselves at home,” constructing identities as they moved across the terrain of the San Juan Basin during the late ninth and early tenth centuries. I now turn to a narrative description of this movement. From the Four Corners to the Flanks of the Chuskas in the Pueblo I Period Historically, many archaeologists have tended to treat the area north of the San Juan River (including the Mesa Verde region) and the area south of the San Juan River (including Chaco) as two discrete study areas. Differences among four states in site recording procedures and databases have fostered this artificial separation. However, developments in the Mesa Verde region, southeastern Utah, or the Animas–La Plata Valley cannot be understood in isolation from Chaco Canyon, and vice versa. In Pueblo I times, thousands of settlers from across the Colorado Plateau aggregated in large villages in the northern San Juan (Kohler 1992; Wilshusen 1999; Wilshusen and Blinman 1992). Aggregation would have posed new social and logistical challenges, and villagers from diverse backgrounds likely brought a variety of rituals, ideas, and practices to the mix. In the last decades of the 800s, as the large settlements north of the San Juan River succumbed to conflagration and collapse, people began moving south of the river to the Chaco region, bringing ideas and tensions that contributed to Classic Bonito phase Chaco (Van Dyke 2007:61–104; Wilshusen and Van Dyke 2006). After the collapse of Chaco as a center place in the mid-twelfth century, many people appear to have settled once again in the northern San Juan. These migrations, aggregations, and dispersals are not strange or anomalous; rather, we are starting to understand that ancient peoples

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in the Southwest frequently moved across the landscape in groups of varying sizes and compositions (Bernardini 2005). Many areas of the San Juan Basin, including Chaco Canyon, show evidence of a dramatic increase in settlement between AD 875 and 925, as the villages north of the river were depopulated (Wilshusen and Ortman 1999; Wilshusen and Van Dyke 2006; Windes n.d.). By the early 900s, migrants had gathered in more than thirty large communities south of the San Juan River (Figure 23.1; Table 23.1). These communities stretched from the Montezuma Valley down the flanks of the Chuska Mountains, across the western and southern San Juan Basin, through Chaco Canyon, and into the Red Mesa Valley. Communities probably did not move about in toto but came into being and fluctuated in composition as families, clans, or other factions joined or left. It seems unutterably challenging to try to understand how these groups would have perceived themselves as they negotiated multifaceted identities, yet we have some clues. If high places held meanings and stories for these early San Juan Basin farmers, as they do for Navajo and Pueblo peoples today, then dramatic landforms along this travel corridor may well have been touchstones for settlers, connecting them with real or imagined pasts. We will never know the substance of these ancient meanings, but I offer here some possibilities. My interpretations, while speculative, are grounded in data—in relationships among sites and visually dramatic peaks that appear to be more than coincidence. High Places, Pueblo I Sites, and Visibility There are many highly visible landforms across the San Juan Basin. Ethnographically, landforms tend to be ascribed special significance when they take unusual shapes, are framed by other landforms, or dominate the horizon from a particular direction (Boivin 2004; Sharma 1992; Taçon 1999; Williams and Nash 2006). Visually dramatic high places along the route between the Montezuma and Chuska valleys that may have been important to Pueblo I period farmers include the La Plata Mountains, Sleeping Ute Mountain, and Shiprock, Ford Butte, and Bennett Peak. The La Plata Mountains in southwestern Colorado form a saw-toothed, snowcapped expanse that dominates the eastern horizon in the Montezuma Valley. The La Platas contain several peaks in excess of 13,000 feet, most notably Hesperus Peak, or Dibé Nitsaa ( Jet Mountain), the northernmost of four territorial boundary peaks for Navajo peoples. Dibé Nitsaa is connected to the sky by a rainbow, and it is the home of Pollen Boy and Grasshopper Girl (Figure 23.2a). Although Sleeping Ute Mountain in southwestern Colorado is just under 10,000 feet high, it is undoubtedly the most prominent topographic feature in the Montezuma Valley, rising over 4,000 feet above the surrounding terrain. The distinctive mountain is visible for 100–150 km toward the north, west, and south. The Navajo call this place Dzil Naajini, or Black Mountain Sloping Down. The Weeminuche Ute band considered Sleeping Ute a sacred place, and today it is part of the Ute Mountain Ute Reservation. In Ute tradition, the mountain is a reclining deity who went to sleep with rain clouds in his pocket (McPherson 1992:22) (Figure 23.2b).

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23.1. San Juan Basin, with locations of landforms and sites discussed in the text

Along the eastern flanks of the Chuska Mountains, three jagged volcanic dykes and plugs reach between 600 and 1,500 feet into the sky. The largest and best-known of these is Shiprock, with its great volcanic dykes stretched out like sails, fins, or wings. Englishspeaking settlers thought Shiprock resembled a clipper ship. In one set of Navajo stories,

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Table 23.1. Settlements along the Shiprock Valley–Chaco Wash travel corridor, AD 875–925 Site

Location

Dates (AD)

Visible landmarks

References

Morris 33

La Plata Valley

831

Mesa Verde, Shiprock, Sleeping Ute Mountain

Marshall et al. 1979:303–304; Morris 1939:75–84

Squaw Springs (Morris 40)

La Plata Valley

“Pueblo I”

Hosta Butte, Huerfano Mountain

Marshall et al. 1979:304; Morris 1939:55–56

Hogback

Chaco River Valley

early 900s

Bennett Peak, Ford Butte

Marshall et al. 1979:241–245

Newcomb

Chuskan slopes

850–early 900s

Bennett Peak, Ford Butte, Hogback, Huerfano Mountain, Shiprock

Gilpin, Dykeman, and Reed 1996; Morris 1959

Skunk Springs

Chuskan slopes

late 800s– early 900s

Bennett Peak, Ford Butte, Hosta Butte, Huerfano Mountain, Shiprock, Sleeping Ute Mountain

Gilpin, Dykeman, and Reed 1996; Marshall et al. 1979:109–113; Peckham 1969; Windes and Ford 1992:78–79

Great Bend

Chaco River corridor

850–950

Bennett Peak, Ford Butte

Marshall et al. 1979:33–36; Windes n.d.

Willow Canyon

Chaco River corridor

late 800s–950

Bennett Peak, Ford Butte, Shiprock

Marshall et al. 1979:91–94; Windes n.d.

El Llano

Chaco River tributary

875–925

Bennett Peak, Ford Butte, Hosta Butte, Shiprock

Bradley and Sullivan 1994; Windes n.d.

Casa Abajo (Indian Creek)

Chaco River tributary

875–1000

Bennett Peak, Hosta Butte, Shiprock

Bradley and Sullivan 1994; Marshall et al. 1979:48–49; Windes n.d.

Lake Valley

Chaco River corridor

875–1000

Hosta Butte

Marshall et al. 1979:73–75; Windes n.d.

Kin Bineola

Chaco River tributary

890–1025

Hosta Butte

Marshall et al. 1979:57–68; Van Dyke and Powers 2002; Windes n.d.

Kin Bineola South (29Mc 291 and 261)

Chaco River tributary

890–1025

Hosta Butte, Bennett Peak

Van Dyke and Powers 2002

Ruth M. Van Dyke

23.2a. La Plata Mountains, looking east

23.2b. Sleeping Ute Mountain, looking west-southwest

Monster Slayer destroyed monster birds who lived atop Tsé Bit’a’í; in another, the great rock brought settlers to the area who were fleeing from their enemies. Until recently, the formation was an important location for Enemyway rituals (McPherson 1992:33–35). To the south of Shiprock, two companion plugs—Bennett Peak and Ford Butte—also rise sharply above the surrounding terrain (Figure 23.3). The Pueblo I period inhabitants of this region appear to have attached particular importance to some or all of these landforms. They placed sites to have dramatic viewsheds of these places. These viewsheds were often visible from special features, such as dance courts. In the remainder of this section, I follow the migrants from north to south and from earlier to later in time as I briefly discuss some examples of these ninth-century sites: Alkali Ridge, Martin 1, Morris 33, Skunk Springs, and Willow Canyon (Figure 23.1). Alkali Ridge Site 13, the Pueblo I period type-site, is a sizable eighth-century village atop a sage-covered ridge in southeastern Utah (Brew 1946). The well-known portion of Alkali Ridge excavated by J. O. Brew consists of four large, linked crescents of slab-footed surface rooms opening toward the southeast to create four large plazas; the actual village is much larger ( Jason Chuipka, personal communication, October 2007). At Alkali Ridge and other large northern San Juan Pueblo I period sites, farmers from different locales aggregated into large villages for the first time, necessitating new kinds of social relationships. Farming intensified, and agricultural rituals increased in impor-

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23.3. Shiprock (top), Bennett Peak (lower left), and Ford Butte (lower right)

tance (e.g., Lipe and Hegmon 1989; Wilshusen and Ortman 1999). In the northern San Juan, Sleeping Ute Mountain is visible from nearly every mesa top; thus it might come as no surprise that it is clearly seen on the southern horizon from Alkali Ridge (Figure 23.4). Sleeping Ute Mountain is a consistent backdrop, an iconic symbol of the northern San Juan region. Regardless of whether Sleeping Ute had particular mythic or ritual significance in the Pueblo I past, its darkly indented shape on the horizon would have been a familiar feature in these farmers’ lives. Shiprock’s sharp-edged, unique shape is also visible in the southern distance on clear days at Alkali Ridge. Martin 1 is a large mid-800s settlement located on a finger of land bounded by Cahone and Little Cahone canyons in southwestern Colorado (Martin 1939; Richard Wilshusen, personal communication, October 2007). Wilshusen relocated, mapped, and re-documented the site during the fall of 2007 with Colorado College students. Martin 1 is slightly later in time than Alkali Ridge; here we see what looks like a deliberate attempt to orient special features toward distant, prominent landforms—in this case, the La Plata Mountains. The unexcavated site contains two odd circular features; the northernmost of these may be a great kiva. This circular, open, great kiva–like structure is situated to provide a spectacular view of the La Plata Mountains on the eastern horizon, as framed through Cahone Canyon (Figure 23.5). The second unusual circular feature is an enclosure lined with a double row of upright slabs. Similar so-called dance circles appear at a number of 800s sites in the Greater San Juan Basin, including Willow Canyon (Marshall et al. 1979:91–94, and see discussion later in this chapter), 411

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23.4. Sleeping Ute Mountain, looking south from Alkali Ridge Site 13 in southeastern Utah

23.5. La Plata Mountains, looking east from the great kiva at Martin 1

South Fork (Windes n.d.), and White Mound Village (Gladwin 1945). At South Fork, approximately 12 km south of Chaco Canyon, the dance circle is situated to provide a dramatic view of Fajada Butte through Fajada Gap. The relationship between the fea-

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23.6. At Morris 33, looking south-southwest to Shiprock (top) and west to Sleeping Ute Mountain (bottom)

ture at Martin 1 and the framed view of the La Plata Mountains does not appear to be mere chance. Morris 33 is at the heart of one of the largest Pueblo I period settlements in the Four Corners region (Morris 1939:75–85; Wilshusen and Blinman 1992). Here, atop Mesa Verde between Johnson and Greasewood canyons, arced roomblocks stretch for 413

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hundreds of meters in the sage. Earl Morris remarked upon the dramatic visibility at this site (Figure 23.6): From their housetops the occupants of Site 33 would have viewed a comprehensive panorama of the surrounding country. On every hand there rolls away the undulating roof of the evergreen forest, broken here and there by gray meanders of sage-clad glades and white lines of cliff at canyon rims. To the northeast the tall peaks of the La Platas rise majestically. From north to west lies the whole sweep of the Mesa Verde, with the cone of Ute Mountain floating in the blue distance beyond. Low timbered hills of the La Plata divide bound the eastern horizon, while from south to west the sky begins above the terrace crest of an escarpment, beyond which the terrain breaks abruptly toward the San Juan. Framed by a gap in this rim, the spire of Ship Rock stands gaunt and ghostly against the purple haze of the Chuska range. (Morris 1939:76)

The key words in this evocative passage from Morris are “framed by a gap in this rim.” Although many sites atop Mesa Verde afford spectacular vistas of landforms in every direction, the builders of Morris 33, like the builders of Martin 1, located their settlement in a spot where high places and low places meet, where the oddly shaped spire of Shiprock bisects a gap in the visible horizon. The sighting suggests that the volcanic plug may have held special significance for the inhabitants of Morris 33. So, Sleeping Ute Mountain, the La Plata Mountains, and Shiprock would have been familiar shapes to northern San Juan dwellers. As Mount Taylor does for Simon Ortiz and other Acoma today, the sight of these landforms on the horizon may have evoked a sense of home and family for residents of the northern San Juan. Some of these shapes remained in view as people began to move south during the late 800s, crossing the San Juan River. The Montezuma and Chuska valleys would have been logical corridors for travel across the river and down the western edge of the San Juan Basin. As Stewart Koyiyumptewa and Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh discuss (this volume), the San Juan River itself has sacred significance today and figures prominently as a migration corridor in Hopi history. Migrants would have passed Shiprock, then the similarly odd, yet slightly lower volcanic plugs of Ford Butte and Bennett Peak. Some of the new settlements founded in the late Pueblo I period include Skunk Springs, along the flanks of the Chuska Mountains, and Willow Canyon, in a drainage just south of the Chaco River. In both cases, settlers seem deliberately to have positioned new sites to be able to see the familiar iconic landmarks to the north. On the eastern slopes of the Chuska Mountains, Skunk Springs was a favored spot for four centuries, in part because it offered access to a wealth of resources—wood, lithic raw materials, pottery temper, big game, and well-watered, arable farmland (Cameron 2001; Durand et al. 1999; King 2003; Mills, Carpenter, and Grimm 1997; Ward 2004). During the late 800s, people built an extensive community here atop Grey Mesa, high above the San Juan Basin floor (Marshall et al. 1979:109–113; Peckham 1969). The focal point was a proto–great house of upright slab foundations—a south-facing crescent of at least twenty rooms fronted by a sixteen-meter-diameter great kiva within an enclosed plaza. The Skunk Springs locale provides exceptional vistas to the north, east, and south. As the new residents looked back toward their old homeland to the north, they would

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23.7. Shiprock, Bennett Peak, Sleeping Ute Mountain, and Ford Butte rise to the north behind Grey Mesa, location of the Skunk Springs community

have seen Shiprock, Bennett Peak, Sleeping Ute, and Ford Butte rising prominently on the horizon (Figure 23.7). Perhaps a visual connection with Shiprock and Sleeping Ute helped them maintain their northern San Juan identity, evoking memories of northern places, people, and stories. Willow Canyon is located in an area of badlands along the Chaco River, approximately midway between the Chuskan slopes and Chaco Canyon. Here, late-ninthÂ�century peoples settled in an extensive community spread across a valley floor (Marshall et al. 1979:91–94; Windes n.d.). They built a proto–great house and a large, slab-lined enclosure atop a nearby mesa. Visibility in the badlands is highly variable, as a traveler dips and rises through numerous eroding shale ridges and swales amid remnant mesas and spires of sandstone. However, the mesa top provides a vista up the valley to the north-northwest. From this vantage point, the viewers’ gaze is directed toward three dramatic landforms in the distance—Bennett Peak, Ford Butte, and Shiprock. As at Morris 33, the proto–great house at Willow Canyon seems to have been situated purposefully to sight two of these volcanic spires through a gap in the mesas (Figure 23.8). Might the sight of these peaks have created a sense of connection back to Skunk Springs or to a northern San Juan homeland? Or might they have evoked mythic stories relating to life in the north or the journey south? In total, of twelve San Juan Basin communities founded between AD 875 and 925 along a postulated travel corridor linking southwestern Colorado and Chaco Canyon, nine can see Shiprock, Bennett Peak, or Ford Butte (Table 23.1). The other three settlements, interestingly, are focused on Hosta Butte, another major landmark and focal point for Chaco and for sites in the southern San Juan Basin (Van Dyke 2007). I posit that these peaks may have been meaningful landmarks in the construction of some ninth-century migrants’ social identities. Discussion and Conclusion Like many later peoples on the Colorado Plateau, the Pueblo I period inhabitants of the San Juan Basin seem to have attached meanings to highly visible landforms. Lines of sight to these landmarks may have helped anchor identities across time and space 415

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23.8. Bennett Peak (left) and Ford Butte (right), looking northwest from Willow Canyon

in multiple, overlapping ways. Migrants who had once looked south toward Sleeping Ute and Shiprock now looked north, at the opposite faces of the same prominent geologic features. The sights of these and other familiar peaks may have created an emotional connection with distant dwelling places—places where the migrants may have lived in the past, places perhaps still inhabited by friends and relatives. The peaks may have reminded them of particular stories, events, and social mores. Furthermore, when people from different backgrounds found themselves as neighbors in new communities, some may have discovered that they held different stories or histories attached to the same highly visible peaks. Shared connections with high places may have contributed to the construction of new social relationships. As peoples continued to shift southward across the San Juan Basin, new high places appeared on the horizon. New stories, values, and meanings may have emerged from these relationships, and old stories may have been transposed onto new places. The lure of dramatically visible high places—such as Fajada Butte—seems to have been one powerful shared element in the eleventh-century coalescence of basin peoples around Chacoan ceremonialism. But that is a story for another time. Acknowledgments Thanks to John Kantner for inviting me to participate in the Scale and Connectivity session at the 2008 Southwest Symposium. I appreciate insights and comments on the 416

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chapter offered by Andrew Duff and two anonymous reviewers. I am much indebted to Rich Wilshusen, whose ideas concerning a demographic shift from the northern San Juan to the Chaco area in the late Pueblo I period have been formative for me and are greatly in evidence here. I also thank Rich for taking me to visit Morris 33 and Martin 1. As always, any errors or misunderstandings are my own responsibility. References Anschuetz, K. F. 2007 The Valles Caldera National Preserve as a Multi-Layered Ethnographic Landscape. In More Than a Scenic Mountain Landscape: Valles Caldera National Preserve Land Use History, by K. F. Anschuetz and T. Merlan, 129–162. General Technical Report RMRS-GTR-196. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, Rocky Mountain Research Station, Fort Collins, CO. Ashmore, W. 1989 Construction and Cosmology: Politics and Ideology in Lowland Maya Settlement Patterns. In Word and Image in Maya Culture: Explorations in Language, Writing, and Representation, ed. W. F. Hanks and D. S. Rice, 272–286. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Ashmore, W., and B. Knapp (editors) Archaeologies of Landscape: Contemporary Perspectives. Blackwell, Oxford. 1999 Basso, K. H. 1996 Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language among the Western Apache. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Bender, B. (editor) Landscape: Politics and Perspectives. Berg, Oxford. 1993 1998 Stonehenge: Making Space. Berg, Oxford. Bernardini, W. Hopi Oral Tradition and the Archaeology of Identity. University of Arizona Press, 2005 Tucson. Boivin, N. 2004

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Wilshusen, R. H. 1999 Pueblo I (A.D. 750–900). In Colorado Prehistory: A Context for the Southern Colorado River Basin, ed. W. D. Lipe, M. D. Varien, and R. H. Wilshusen, 196–241. Colorado Council of Professional Archaeologists, Denver. Wilshusen, R. H., and E. Blinman Pueblo I Village Formation: A Reevaluation of Sites Recorded by Earl Morris on 1992 Ute Mountain Ute Tribal Lands. Kiva 57(3): 251–269. Wilshusen, R. H., and S. G. Ortman 1999 Rethinking the Pueblo I Period in the San Juan Drainage: Aggregation, Migration, and Cultural Diversity. Kiva 64(3): 369–399. Wilshusen, R. H., and R. M. Van Dyke Chaco’s Beginnings. In The Archaeology of Chaco Canyon: An Eleventh Century 2006 Regional Center, ed. S. H. Lekson, 211–259. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Windes, T. C. Early Puebloan Occupations in the Chaco Region: Excavations and Survey of Basketn.d. maker III and Pueblo I Sites, Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. Reports of the Chaco Center 13, National Park Service. Manuscript on file, Department of the Interior, Santa Fe. Windes, T. C., and D. Ford The Nature of the Early Bonito Phase. In Anasazi Regional Organization and the 1992 Chaco System, ed. D. E. Doyel, 75–86. Anthropological Papers 5. Maxwell Museum of Anthropology, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. Witmore, C. L. Four Archaeological Engagements with Place: Mediating Bodily Experience 2005 through Peripatetic Video. Visual Anthropology Review 20(2): 57–71. Young, M. J. 1988 Signs from the Ancestors: Zuni Cultural Symbolism and Perceptions of Rock Art. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque.

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[24] Ritual Places and Pilgrimages Movement, Connectivity, and Landscape

Gregson Schachner

The American Southwest is often signified in popular imagination by spectacular and unusual places like the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, and White Sands. Many of the Southwest’s iconic natural places are not simply amazing feats of geomorphology, however. They are also vitally important in the cosmology, self-image, and ritual practices of Native peoples (Anschuetz 2007; Basso 1996; Ferguson and Hart 1985; Nabokov 2006:70–145; Silko 1986; Snead 2008; Snead and Preucel 1999; Swentzell 1997; also see Duff, Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, and Van Dyke, this volume). Thousands of natural features in the Southwest are described in song and prayer, visited to perform rituals and collect ritual paraphernalia, and imbued with meaning that sits at the very core of Native identity and worldview. Despite the importance of these places for Native groups, recently exemplified by the protracted legal battles to protect and control places such as the San Francisco Peaks, Zuni Salt Lake, and Taos Blue Lake, archaeologists have rarely attempted to understand how natural places—especially those located far from residential sites—were used in the ceremonial life of past societies. This lack of study is not surprising given the methodological and theoretical challenges of the endeavor (see Bradley 2000). Archaeologists’ reticence to address the past ceremonial use of natural places unfortunately closes off an avenue of study that has the potential to yield unique and important insights into cultural processes, such

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as pilgrimage, that may have been important conduits of information and connected ancient societies in time and space. In addition, the use of natural places in the past represents an important topic of shared interest for archaeologists and American Indians that can serve as a fruitful springboard for collaboration (see Duff, Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, this volume). Some of the challenges of studying natural places can be addressed by focusing on general patterns rather than specific details in the ethnographic record of the use of natural places by modern and historical groups in the Southwest (see Fox 1997 for a basic overview of Southwest pilgrimages). Wesley Bernardini (2005) recently utilized a similar pattern-oriented approach in examining Hopi oral tradition as a means to understand processes of migration in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Arizona. His emphasis on general structural patterns rather than specific details of migration traditions avoids some of the problems associated with the early efforts of Jesse Walter Fewkes and others and is probably more true to the intention and content of Native oral tradition (Whiteley 2002). Through an examination of general patterns in ethnography, coupled with a discussion of what Maria Nieves Zedeño (2000) has termed a behavioral cartography of landscape, I provide a preliminary illustration of how Southwest archaeologists can examine some of the relationships between pilgrimage practices and social connectivity in the past. In doing so, I juxtapose potential patterns of use of a few natural places with our archaeological knowledge of ancient settlement patterns to assess how pilgrimages would have enabled and maintained contacts between different social groups across broad geographic expanses. I also suggest that the form and role of pilgrimage to natural places may have been radically transformed as a consequence of pan-regional settlement pattern changes that began in the AD 1200s (see Adams and Duff 2004; Adler 1996 for a general overview of these changes). Before addressing ancient connections, however, I briefly summarize the study of natural places in Southwest archaeology, the ethnographic record of pilgrimage among the Pueblos, and evidence of connectivity among historical groups rooted at least in part in shared patterns of past landscape use. Archaeology and Ethnography of Natural Places in the Southwest Natural places are the primary features of Puebloan geography and cosmology; they define the topography of the world, mark the homes of deities and ancestors, and provide spatial referents for important events (Anschuetz 2007; Ferguson and Hart 1985; Nabokov 2006:73–90, 129–145; Ortiz 1969; Silko 1986; Snead and Preucel 1999; Swentzell 1997). Numerous ethnographic accounts of Pueblo societies illustrate the central role of natural places in ceremonial life and practices (Cushing 1896; Douglass 1917; Fewkes 1906; Harrington 1916; Parsons 1918; Stephen 1936; Stevenson 1904). Travels to natural places are associated with nearly all Pueblo ceremonies, either for the actual conduct of ritual or for the collection of materials necessary to perform ceremonies in home villages (Parsons 1996 [1939]). Natural features visited for Pueblo rituals vary dramatically in scale, ranging from small rock formations to springs to mountain

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ranges. Although features located close to residences may be visited more frequently, many of the natural features most prominently mentioned in Puebloan cosmologies are great distances from pueblos, often in areas not permanently settled by Pueblo people for centuries (Ferguson and Hart 1985; Harrington 1916). Although Puebloan geography and the use of natural places are well documented in the ethnographic record, archaeological study of the use of natural places for ritual is much more difficult. Many ritual activities do not modify the land or leave behind artifacts archaeologists can find later. In other cases ritual features, such as shrines, are often subtle and easily mistaken for natural features, especially given the ravages of time and the propensity at these places for reuse by multiple groups over time (Ellis 1994). One way archaeologists can address these problems is to examine general behavioral patterns in Puebloan ritual that structure landscape use, which in turn can be used to identify places that were important in the past even when material remains are sparse or difficult to interpret (Carroll, Zedeño, and Stoffle 2004; Snead 2008; Snead and Preucel 1999; Zedeño 2000; Van Dyke, this volume). As Stephen Lekson notes elsewhere in this volume, archaeologists need to rethink and reinvigorate our approaches to processes that leave slight material traces, such as mobility and ceremony, if we are to fulfill the promise of a truly anthropological archaeology. Greater attention to the linkage between ceremonial practices and natural places also provides an important avenue for studying facets of ancient worldview that influenced the use of a variety of different types of material culture at multiple scales. As Alfonso Ortiz (1969) has noted, Puebloan geography of ritual places often has a nested quality. Natural places of various sizes and distances from villages sometimes serve as metaphors for other places and more expansive visions of cosmology (also see Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, this volume). Although his case study is derived from Inuit ethnography, Peter Whitridge (2004) noted that the fractal quality of traditional geographies results in coherent, metaphorical notions of place and space that pervade social practices and experiences as different as describing the body, producing tools, distributing food, and traveling through a landscape. Thus by more closely examining the tenets of Puebloan geography, we may improve our understanding of cultural practices that structure material experience at diverse scales, in different contexts, and across media (see Kuwanwisiwma and Ferguson 2009; Ortman 2000, 2008; Sekaquaptewa and Washburn 2004; Snead 2008; Snead and Preucel 1999; Swentzell 1997 for examples). Concepts of space and place are not limited to mediating interactions with the natural world or examining relationships across vast distances. Despite difficulties in studying the ceremonial use of natural places, Southwest archaeologists have long noted the use of some natural locations for ritual activities and have made successful attempts to identify shrine locations and local cultural landscapes. Caves have been the natural features archaeologists have most commonly studied as loci of ritual activity. Caves are powerful points of intersection with the underworld in Puebloan cosmology (Ellis and Hammack 1968:30). Archaeological interpretations of their use for ceremony are often supported by the discovery of ritual paraphernalia made from perishable materials usually not present at open-air sites (Ellis and Hammack 1968; Fulton 1941; Haury 1945; Hough 1907; Kidder and Guernsey 1919; Wasley

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1962). Because of strong ethnographic analogs and the unique preservation of cave assemblages, archaeologists are often more comfortable interpreting behaviors at these locations as ritual practices related to the use of natural places. More recently, archaeologists have begun to examine closely the local landscape around residential sites, in some cases demonstrating the existence of local shrine complexes similar to those associated with the historic pueblos. Scott Ortman (2008), working in southwestern Colorado, and James Snead and Robert Preucel (Snead 2002, 2008; Snead and Preucel 1999), studying the Rio Grande, have noted the similarities between ancient local landscapes and shrine complexes and those known from the historical record of the Rio Grande pueblos. Shrines in these ancient communities often have morphologies and construction techniques that echo historic period examples, but perhaps more important, different shrines and residential sites exhibit highly structured spatial relationships. The parallels between ancient and historic constructed landscapes and shrine usage attest to the continuity of deeply rooted structural ideas in Puebloan cosmology despite radical changes in mobility, demography, and land tenure during intervening periods. In a slightly different vein, John Stein and colleagues (2007) make a convincing argument for the use of local natural features to create ritual spaces even in areas with abundant ceremonial architecture. Their study of central Chaco Canyon identifies a number of natural features that were explicitly incorporated into the highly structured landscape of tenth- and eleventh-century Chaco, including a massive natural amphitheater located between Pueblo Bonito and Chetro Ketl and a few terraced hills enveloped in unusual architecture. Stein and colleagues’ research demonstrates that Native perspectives, which conceptualize the nature-culture divide in non-archaeological terms, may provide powerful insights for understanding enigmatic features that do not translate well into traditional archaeological categories. Their study illustrates that archaeological studies that under-conceptualize the use of natural spaces may overlook the complexly intertwined relationship between culture and nature in Puebloan architecture and local landscapes, even in areas such as Chaco Canyon that have received intensive archaeological study. Finally, rock art is an avenue long underutilized by professional archaeologists for exploring the use of natural places for ritual. Although rock art studies often explicitly theorize rock art locations as ritual places associated with the natural world (see Schaafsma 1990 for an example), these places are often overlooked in other studies of landscape processes that focus on more traditional archaeological remains, including architecture and artifact scatters. Rock art imagery, particularly from more recent times, can be interpreted in light of the ethnographic record. Perhaps of more utility to the study of ancient ceremonial landscapes, however, is that rock art marks points of activity and routes of travel (Bradley, Boado, and Valcarce 1994). Greater attention to the location of rock art, at both local and regional scales and in relation to other landuse practices, is one avenue for rock art studies to make continued contributions to understanding the ritual use of natural places (see Chippindale and Nash 2004). James Potter’s recent analysis (2004) of rock art locations near Prescott, Arizona, is a good example of this approach in the Southwest. By studying both the spatial location of

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rock art in relation to other sites and the phenomenology of experiencing particular rock art sites in their natural context, Potter is able to argue convincingly for the role of rock art in imbuing landscapes with meaning and defining the spatial structure of cultural worlds. The archaeological study of natural places will require tacking back and forth beÂ�tween diverse approaches and scales of analysis (Bradley 2000). In the Southwest, archaeÂ� ologists often work with a detailed record of locations of residence and subsistenceÂ�related activities, but our lack of attention to other processes—such as ritual practices and beliefs that drive landscape use and serve as important structuring principles— yields incomplete views of past behavior and society. As archaeologists expend greater effort on identifying ceremonial aspects of landscape use and pursue further collaborative work with Native peoples, our understanding of the role of natural places within cultural worlds should only increase. In the next section I outline how pilgrimages and travels to regional shrines—both aspects of ceremonial landscape use—serve as important processes in engendering connectivity across space and time. Regional Shrines, Pilgrimage, and Connectivity As Snead (2008) has noted, Southwest archaeologists have infrequently studied the role of natural features distant from residential sites, which he terms regional shrines, in ancient settlement systems and culture. Snead’s ongoing research in the Galisteo Basin has begun to examine the role of some regional shrines, such as Petroglyph Hill, in shaping Ancestral Pueblo practices related to social power and memory. Petroglyph Hill is a natural feature well marked as a locus of human activity by thousands of petroglyphs. Snead also notes the importance of other factors, such as the hill’s visibility and proximity to settlements, in determining this landmark’s prominence in the ancient Galisteo Basin. Snead’s insights suggest that the study of regional shrines should be a larger component of our research on regional connections, as these features materialize social relationships among people spread across wide geographic expanses. While in some cases activities conducted at regional shrines will be clear, such as the creation of petroglyphs at Petroglyph Hill, archaeologists should also follow Snead’s lead by examining the context of natural places on the surrounding landscape, just as they analyze the context of artifacts within sites to infer meaning. Archaeologists can explore the ethnographic record of travels to regional shrines during historic Pueblo pilgrimages to better understand the context of ancient features and the ways natural places connected people in the ancient past. Connectivity, which is engendered by historic Pueblo pilgrimages through frequent joint use of natural features, should be considered in our archaeological studies of cultural affiliation among historic groups and between historic populations and those of the ancient past. Pilgrimages Connect Pueblo Histories and Peoples

Pilgrimage to natural places is, and has been, a prominent part of ritual practice at many pueblos in the Southwest. Travels by the Hopi to the Grand Canyon (Colton and 427

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Colton 1931; Eiseman 1959, 1961; Michaelis 1981; Page 1982), by Taos people to Blue Lake (Bodine 1988), and by the Zuni to Kołuwala:wa (Zuni Heaven) and Ma’kyayanne (Zuni Salt Lake) (Ferguson 2002; Ferguson and Hart 1985; O’Neill 1986; Stevenson 1904) have been prominently recorded in the ethnographic literature of the Pueblos. Pilgrimage events certainly occurred at other pueblos, but these events have not been the subject of such intensive study, despite their importance in defining Puebloan geography, cosmology, and ties to the past. An intriguing example of one of these lesser-known ritual events is the Acoma pilgrimage to Shipap recorded by Florence Hawley Ellis (see Ellis and Hammack 1968:32; Fox 1997:38). In the 1950s Acoma elders told Ellis about a tradition of semiannual pilgrimage from Acoma that had lapsed around 1900. During this pilgrimage Acoma people traveled to Chaco Canyon, then to Jackson’s Butte near Mesa Verde, and finally on to Shipap, a lake or spring near Cortez. The trip covered roughly 175 miles each way, visited some of the storied locations of archaeology and Pueblo oral tradition, and ceremonially reenacted the travels of at least some of the ancestors of the Acoma. Nearly all Pueblo pilgrimages share this strong emphasis on maintaining connections to sacred geography, ancestral homes, and peoples. In many respects, historic pilgrimages emphasize connections through time, as people often visit locations associated with ancestors, deities, or both. Scattered references to travels to distant shrines are present in other ethnographic accounts (see Fox 1997 for a summary), and collaboration with Native peoples in the study of landscape use is likely to improve anthropological understanding of how pilgrimage connects people, places, and time periods. The prevalence of pilgrimage during the historic period and the fact that many travels are linked to areas last settled well before Spanish colonization suggest that this long tradition of ceremonial travels originated in the ancient past. Evidence for the shared use of certain natural features by people from multiple Pueblo groups is derived from ethnography, language, and the examination of historic trails. This shared use of natural features for ritual is a good indicator of past social and ritual connections. For example, people from multiple Pueblo groups, including at least Hopi, Zuni, Acoma, and Laguna, made trips to Zuni Salt Lake during the historic and modern periods (Ferguson, Berlin, and Kuwanwisiwma 2009). These trips are still undertaken today, and evidence for earlier travels is present in Native traditions and on the ground in the form of trails radiating north from the lake. Intriguingly, T. J. Ferguson and colleagues (2009) noted the presence of possible trails leading south into areas that were not settled by Pueblo people during the historic era. In the Rio Grande, people from multiple pueblos in different linguistic groups travel to the same world quarter shrine in the Jemez Mountains, and joint use of other natural features is common (Douglass 1917; Harrington 1916), again illustrating the importance of natural features in maintaining social and historical connectivity. People from all the Western Pueblos also traveled to Zuni Heaven near the confluence of the Little Colorado and Zuni rivers. This area, which contains natural features that are unusual in the Southwest—such as small ponds—is known by versions of the Keresan word Wenimatse at Hopi (Wenima), Acoma, and Laguna (Fewkes 1902:500; Kelley 1988:2–9; White 1943:314). The use of a Keresan loan word by Hopi speak-

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ers suggests close connections to Keresan speakers that must be related in part to the joint use of Zuni Heaven at some point in the past (Ferguson 2002). In fact, this is just one of a number of examples of Hopi speakers’ use of Keresan-derived words to denote geographic features (Whiteley 1988:328, 2002:413), suggesting that Hopi and Keresan land use and cosmologies are at least in part intertwined. Perhaps surprisingly, given the use of a common term for Zuni Heaven among most Western Pueblos, the shared name is not derived from the Zuni term Kołuwala:wa, as the Zuni are the tribe with which the area is most closely associated historically. A variation of the Keresan name for Zuni Heaven is used at Zuni during songs associated with certain ceremonies (Bunzel 1932:482), however, illustrating that social connections created through the use of ceremonial places are often deeply encoded within multiple practices, beyond simply use of the places themselves. Identification of common linguistic terms for geographic features among historic and modern groups may provide one means of tracing ritual connections between social groups that originated sometime in the past. Although the sharing of place names may be derived from myriad mechanisms and, as the Zuni Heaven case shows, varies by context, the usage of a shared name does suggest some connection either through coÂ�residence or common ritual practice. Although historic linguistic evidence is often of little help when pursuing purely archaeological studies, it is of great use in studies of cultural affiliation and for tracing the complexly intertwined histories of the modern pueblos (also see Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, this volume). The Behavioral Cartography of Pueblo Pilgrimage

Pilgrimage among the Pueblos also has a few general behavioral characteristics important for thinking about how these travels would have connected social groups and how we can identify pilgrimage routes in the archaeological record. Zedeño (2000) noted that although archaeologists are often unable to define specific cultural beliefs and ideologies that drive landscape use, they should be able to examine constructively the formal properties, performance characteristics, life history, and formation processes of places to understand landscape use in ancient societies (see Carroll, Zedeño, and Stoffle 2004 for an example from the Great Basin). Historic Pueblo pilgrimages have general archaeological signatures, performance characteristics, and spatial properties that provide insight into how natural places may have connected societies in the ancient past. Although the meaning of places may have changed over time, consistent patterns in the practice of pilgrimage would have had persistent and identifiable effects on the physical landscape and connections between social groups, both synchronically and diachronically. First, pilgrimage routes are often marked by well-worn trails and the presence of intermediary shrines, such as rock art locations, springs, and revisited ancestral villages (Colton and Colton 1931; Ferguson 2002; Ferguson, Berlin, and Kuwanwisiwma 2009; O’Neill 1986; Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh, this volume). Some historic trails are morphologically similar to Chacoan roads, and some, such as the Salt Woman trail to Zuni Salt Lake, potentially follow earlier Chacoan features. Ferguson

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and colleagues (2009) noted that the paths converging on Zuni Salt Lake are currently used by different cultural groups, including, at a minimum, the Hopi, Zuni, Acoma, Laguna, and Navajo. If these paths, or at least their general routes, originated in the ancient past, however, the existence of multiple pathways may also be linked to shifting concentrations of settlement along the Zuni River drainage. Evidence for the time depth of historic and modern paths to Zuni Salt Lake includes their association with Chaco period roads and the fact that trails with similar morphology connect the lake with areas last settled during the prehispanic era. Thus although trails are often identifiable in the archaeological record of the Southwest (Snead 2001), in cases of travels to prominent natural features likely used for thousands of years, such as the Salt Lake, separating ancient from historic and modern use may not be straightforward. Archaeologists working in the Zuni region have long recognized significant spatial discontinuities in the concentration of regional settlement over time (Kintigh 1985; Spier 1917). Earlier observations of this pattern were derived from analyses of large settlements (generally larger than fifty rooms), but more recent work synthesizing the data from all habitation sites—recorded during block surveys in the Zuni area since the 1970s—provides even stronger support for inferring patterned shifts in the focus of settlement beginning in the Basketmaker III period and continuing to the Protohistoric period (Peeples and Schachner 2008). The combined Zuni survey data suggest that the highest concentration of settlement in the region slowly shifted upstream (to the east) along the Zuni River and its tributaries from roughly AD 500 to 1300. This shift was followed by a dramatic regional transformation as populations shifted back to the west, near the modern Arizona–New Mexico border, where they remained until contact (Kintigh 1985; Spier 1917). A consideration of the trails identified by Ferguson and colleagues (2009) in light of these shifts suggests that the initial, prehistoric emergence of multiple pathways to Zuni Salt Lake may have been driven by changes in the location of pilgrimage routes as the centers of regional settlement shifted. The historic paths head to the focal areas of Cibola region settlement during different time periods (Figure 24.1). For example, the Wenima trail, in addition to connecting the Salt Lake to Wenima, also connects it to the densest concentration of Zuni settlement from the AD 600–900 period, while the Salt Woman trail heads toward the El Morro Valley, an area that was heavily settled for only a little over a century in the late Pueblo III and early Pueblo IV periods. In part, the multiple paths converging on Zuni Salt Lake can be interpreted as an archaeological signature of shifting population densities in the Cibola region and resulting changes in the spatial properties of the use of Salt Lake from the mid-first millennium AD to the present. If Zuni Salt Lake has been an important landscape feature for residents of the Cibola region during most periods—which seems likely given its unique physical qualities, the fact that it contains large quantities of a vital mineral, and its prominence in the traditions of the descendants of people who resided in the region—successive phases of landscape use were probably always structured by prior patterns, and the historic period use is simply the latest phase of that tradition. Thus by examining what appear to be physical manifestations of historic period landscape use, Ferguson and colleagues (2009) may also have been indirectly documenting shift-

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24.1. Historic trails to Zuni Salt Lake (redrawn from Ferguson, Berlin, and Kuwanwisiwma 2009:figure 2.7). Era and location of demographic peaks in areas of potential trail origins are noted.

ing spatial patterns in Cibola pilgrimage practices from ancient times to the present. Further work to identify the age of relevant trails and the history of settlement and landscape use around the Salt Lake, currently pursued by Andrew Duff of Washington State University, should provide key data for evaluating this observation. A second facet of the ethnographic record that is useful for thinking about pilgrimage as a connecting factor in the past is its timing. The timing of pilgrimage travels is a key performance characteristic (Zedeño 2000:108) that should be considered when examining general patterns of pilgrimage and their potential social effects. Although Pueblo people undertake pilgrimages for unplanned events, such as to conduct rainmaking rituals in response to prolonged droughts, most large-scale pilgrimages are scheduled during certain points of the calendar year or at fixed intervals (Fox 1997:38). For example, the Zuni pilgrimage to Kołuwala:wa usually occurs every four years during the summer solstice and occasionally in response to extreme droughts in an effort to bring rain (O’Neill 1986:11); travels to Blue Lake by people from Taos Pueblo occur annually during August and are timed to coincide with the initiation rituals of the kiva societies (Bodine 1988:94). The emphasis on travels at specific times of the year would have enabled the coordination of pilgrimage travels among the much more widely dispersed settlements of the Ancestral Pueblo past. By timing travels to natural places, pilgrimages would have provided important venues for social contacts, the sharing of

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information and ideas, and at least short-term instances of co-presence necessary for linking dispersed groups in traditional societies. Coordination of timing ensures the creation of social connections beyond the immediate group involved in a pilgrimage by greatly increasing the probability of encountering people from other places at the pilgrimage destination and along converging routes. Given the regularity in timing of historic period ritual travels, it is reasonable to surmise that pilgrimages in the past would have been similarly scheduled. Recent research suggesting that many of the habitation sites in Chaco Canyon were occupied primarily during the summer months (Windes et al. 2000) indicates that coordination of timing may have been an important behavioral characteristic associated with pilgrimages to the canyon. Scheduling would have greatly facilitated the development of social connections between people from widely different parts of the Chacoan sphere, which has been considered one of the primary functional characteristics of Chaco period pilgrimages ( Judge 1989:241; Malville and Malville 2001). The fact that many Pueblo pilgrimages were timed suggests that one of their important, intended effects was to provide opportunities for normally geographically dispersed and socially distant groups to converge. By the historic period, the emphasis on coordination of travels was still required for the proper performance of ritual, but it may have become less important in fostering social connections across space, as larger-scale social units became increasingly associated with historic tribal identities and smaller geographic areas. Unfortunately, another aspect of timing—the usually short duration of many pilgrimage and ritual events at natural features—greatly limits the visibility of these events in the archaeological record. Unlike the Chaco case, many locations of Pueblo ceremonies—particularly those distant from year-round habitations—likely have sparse archaeological signatures. Alex Carroll and colleagues’ (2004) study of nineteenth-Â�century Ghost Dance sites in the Great Basin provides a useful illustration of the difficulty of identifying the remains of ceremonies at natural features that involved hundreds of people participating in rituals for a few weeks or less. Despite written accounts of the location of Ghost Dances, Carroll, Zedeño, and Stoffle (2004) note that traditional surface artifact–based approaches to identifying site locations are ineffective in defining Ghost Dance sites. Instead, their analyses focus on identifying the general physical and performance characteristics of places chosen for Numic rituals as one means to determine probable ceremonial locations. After reviewing the ethnographic record of Numic ritual performance, they identified “three essential features” that define Numic ritual locations, including “a cool water spring, a salient rock outcrop, and petroglyphs” (Carroll, Zedeño, and Stoffle 2004:147). Only the latter would be considered a marker of human activity in most archaeological studies. Similar studies focusing on the general performance characteristics of Pueblo ritual at natural places are certainly possible. By identifying patterns in how ritual locations are selected based on their natural characteristics or even the presence of prior human activity (i.e., archaeological sites), archaeologists may be able to better identify potential ritual sites for closer investigation using more traditional methods. If a place is used for repeated pilgrimages, one potential archaeological signature may be the presence of artifact scatters that contain diagnostic material from multiple

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time periods resulting from repeated short-term stays in an area. These types of sites are often frustratingly difficult for archaeologists to interpret, but this frustration may result in part from not considering the generation of sites through pilgrimage or other ceremonial events repeated over time. An excellent example of this type of site is an unrecorded, diffuse artifact scatter surrounding the base of the prominent Los Gigantes rock formation in the El Morro Valley. This scatter contains a greater diversity of ceramics than is found at most sites in the area, including White Mountain Red Ware, Zuni Glaze Ware, Matsaki Buff Ware, and Rio Grande Glaze Ware types rarely found in the region. In addition to its diversity, the ceramic assemblage contains material from several centuries spanning at least the Pueblo III through late Pueblo IV (AD 1200–1630) period. The diversity and temporal span of artifacts present are unlike other scatters in the valley that date predominately to the late Pueblo III period and are nearly entirely composed of White Mountain Red Ware and Cibola White and Gray Ware types. Los Gigantes is a prominent and unusual rock formation visible for miles and located near one of the major travel routes between Zuni and Acoma, making it a good candidate for periodic visits for ritual practices. The geographically and temporally diverse artifact scatter associated with it is likely a product of repeated short-term visits that continued well after the El Morro area was depopulated in the mid–AD 1300s. Finally, by thinking about changes in the spatial relationship between pilgrimage destinations and habitation sites, archaeologists may be able to infer key shifts in pilgrimage practices. At a base level, all pilgrimages involve traversing geographic space. When settlements shift on a landscape, the distances to pilgrimage sites change, as does the question of whether the area to be traversed is inhabited and the number of starting points from which travelers begin their journeys. By examining the location of pilgrimage destinations in relation to habitation sites, archaeologists can indirectly address how pilgrimage practices may have changed in relation to shifts in settlement patterns and in doing so learn how the meaning of pilgrimage may have changed, especially in relation to its role in connecting past societies across space. An excellent example of a period during which pilgrimage practices may have changed dramatically as a result of settlement shifts is the Pueblo III–Pueblo IV transition on the Colorado Plateau, when many areas were depopulated and populations became much more strongly clustered in space (Adams and Duff 2004). Many of the natural features to which modern Pueblo people travel are either in areas poorly suited for habitation, such as mountain ranges, or in areas that have not been used for residence for centuries. Valle Caldera and the San Francisco Peaks exemplify the former, and places like Zuni Salt Lake and Zuni Heaven illustrate the latter. Many of the places I discuss here—including Zuni Salt Lake, Zuni Heaven, Chaco Canyon, Mesa Verde, and the Grand Canyon—were at least sparsely settled during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries AD and in some cases, such as Mesa Verde, were densely occupied. The social importance of these places would have been inexorably linked to how they were used when people resided nearby, often in a much more dispersed pattern than during later periods. By the AD 1300s, many of the areas that were likely important pilgrimage destinations were devoid of permanent villages, and their usage would necessarily have shifted.

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24.2. Stylized representations of changes in the spatial complexity of potential Puebloan pilgrimage routes during the Chaco through historic periods as a result of increasing settlement clustering and a decline in the overall number of villages

Travels would have become more arduous because of the increased distances between residences now clustered on the landscape and pilgrimage destinations located far away. In addition, travels to these unsettled areas, which Steven LeBlanc (1999) has argued became essentially “no-man’s lands” as a result of the threat of conflict in the early Pueblo IV landscape, may have become more dangerous. Pilgrimages into areas devoid of permanent settlement would have become more common after the onset of the Pueblo IV period, especially in the less densely settled Western Pueblo area. They may have been one of the practices for maintaining contact between people in different settlement clusters—including kin and ritual practitioners—scattered by frequent migrations during this interval. Coordinated timing would have enabled groups from multiple areas to converge on landmarks at the same time and provided at least short temporal periods during which groups were reconstituted as face-to-face, tangible entities. The spatial dimensions of pilgrimage also likely underwent significant shifts toward the linear, point-to-point form we see in the historic period. As the Zuni Salt Lake example illustrates, during pre–Pueblo IV eras, when residential settlements were far more dispersed and a greater proportion of the landscape was settled, pilgrimages likely had a convergent, web-like character, drawing people from many points of the compass along multiple pathways that converged on destinations (Figure 24.2). As settlement became more clustered during later periods, the number of routes utilized would have decreased. Although people from multiple settlement clusters probably continued to use the same places, networks linking settlements to natural places were likely greatly simplified in comparison to earlier eras. By the historic period, when Pueblo populations were concentrated in a much smaller geographic area and at fewer villages, pilgrimage networks would have been even more simplified—in some cases, as at Zuni, consist-

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ing of single routes connecting pueblos to pilgrimage destinations. Thus although we may not be able actively to trace ancient pilgrimage routes on the ground, archaeologists should be able to offer hypotheses about changing aspects of social connectivity and networks of movement related to pilgrimage by thinking about how they may have been used in relation to settlement patterns,. The implications of these changes can then be explored through more intensive attention to the chronology of ancient trails, the sources of objects left at pilgrimage sites, and the social relationships among people who traveled to the same pilgrimage destinations. An additional aspect of the shift toward pilgrimage into unsettled areas in the Pueblo IV period may have been a change in the type of connectivity emphasized by pilgrimage ritual itself. Pilgrimages during periods when much of the Southwest was settled by dispersed populations, such as the Chaco and post-Chaco periods, may have been oriented largely toward connecting disparate groups across space. These pilgrimages would have provided the co-presence necessary for creating functioning social groups larger than individual residences and settlement clusters and helped facilitate the movement of people and information over broad geographic expanses, as proposed for pilgrimages to Chaco Canyon ( Judge 1989; Malville and Malville 2001). By the Pueblo IV period, however, pilgrimages may have been increasingly focused on places occupied in the past and oriented toward connecting societies through time rather than space. By this time period, pilgrimages had likely taken on much of their historic period spatial form and ritual connotation. Many of the historic period pilgrimages were oriented strongly toward connecting people to past places, societies, and ancestors rather than to people residing in other pueblos or areas, as may have been the case during the Chaco period. The Pueblo IV shift in the orientation of pilgrimage was likely associated closely with the rise of the katsina cult among the Western Pueblos, which places strong emphasis on ancestral beings (Adams 1991). In fact, Pueblo people consider some destinations of historic pilgrimages, such as Zuni Heaven, the homes of katsinas (Ferguson 2002). Direct archaeological evidence for a shift in the meaning of pilgrimage may be difficult, if not impossible, to identify. Considering shifts in the general spatial characteristics of pilgrimage, its historical development, and ethnographic accounts of the meaning of historic period pilgrimages, the dramatic changes associated with the onset of the Pueblo IV period may have engendered a significant change in the ideological basis of traditional Puebloan pilgrimage patterns. These changes may have paralleled concurrent changes in ritual ideology, including the rise of katsina religion, that appear to have contained a greater emphasis on connections to ancestral beings. Greater attention to the use of natural places for ritual during the Pueblo IV period may add an additional spatial component to the rich record of Ancestral Puebloan ritual practices in this key time period. Conclusion Although methodologically challenging, studies of ceremonial landscape use have often revealed key insights into cultural processes in traditional societies (Bradley 2000).

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Movement upon the landscape was essential to maintain social and physical connectivity prior to the advent of modern communications. Unfortunately, movement is also one of the behaviors most difficult to trace in the archaeological record, requiring creative techniques, a little luck, and in some cases efforts more akin to thought experiments than data analysis. Movement occurs in a social context and has consequences that are fundamental for maintaining and transforming social practice and groups. Travels to ceremonial places, which are so closely tied to the cosmology of traditional societies, should receive greater attention if we are to provide richer accounts of ritual practice in the past. In this chapter I have attempted to argue that natural places would have been key nodes of connectivity across space and time in the ancient Southwest. The connections engendered by travels to these natural places in the ancient past are encoded in the shared traditions of pilgrimage among historic Pueblo groups. By examining the behavioral cartography of ancient pilgrimage practices, including their potential destinations, timing, and spatial relationship to residences, archaeologists can infer the role of pilgrimages in engendering social connectivity and cosmology in the past. One of the substantive conclusions of this type of endeavor is that the massive changes in regional settlement during the Pueblo IV period not only involved fundamental shifts in residence patterns, economics, and communal ritual but also likely resulted in significant transformations in Puebloan pilgrimage practices and ideology. Pilgrimage may have shifted from a practice aimed at overcoming space to one oriented toward spanning time. These changes were likely implicated in the rise of katsina religion among the Western Pueblos, which in turn is closely associated with some of the important pilgrimage destinations in the Pueblo world. Although Southwest archaeologists have rarely examined pilgrimages in contexts other than Chaco, the study of pilgrimages may provide one way for us to explore how social connections were maintained by practices other than those, such as the movement of pottery, upon which we have become more reliant in recent years. Pilgrimage and travels to natural places are key facets of Pueblo religion, and the roots of these practices surely originated in the ancestral past. Southwest archaeology is providing increasingly nuanced and analytically strong examinations of mobility practices related to migration and subsistence but should also continue to revisit the myriad forms of short-term movements necessary for maintaining social connections in similar societies. Acknowledgments Thanks to Andrew Duff, Wes Bernardini, and T. J. Ferguson for insightful discussions of this subject. T. J. shared a number of in-press works that were vital in shaping my thinking about Western Pueblo landscape use. I also thank John Kantner for inviting me to participate in the session from which these chapters arose. Peggy Nelson and Colleen Strawhacker also deserve praise for running an excellent conference and shepherding this volume toward publication. Of course, any errors of fact or interpretation are my own.

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Hough, W. 1907 Antiquities of the Upper Gila and Salt River Valleys of Arizona and New Mexico. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 35. Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Judge, W. J. 1989 Chaco Canyon–San Juan Basin. In Dynamics of Southwest Prehistory, ed. L. S. Cordell and G. Gumerman, 209–261. Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Kelley, K. 1988

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Parsons, E. C. War God Shrines of Laguna and Zuni. American Anthropologist 20: 381–405. 1918 1996 Pueblo Indian Religion. 2 vols. University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln. Originally published 1939, University of Chicago Press, Chicago. Peeples, M., and G. Schachner 2008 Long-Term Patterns of Settlement along the Zuni River Drainage. Poster presented at the 20th Anniversary Southwest Symposium, Tempe, AZ. Potter, J. M. The Creation of Person, the Creation of Place: Hunting Landscapes in the Ameri2004 can Southwest. American Antiquity 69: 322–338. Schaafsma, P. The Pine Tree Site: A Galisteo Basin Pueblo IV Shrine. In Clues to the Past: Papers 1990 in Honor of William M. Sundt, ed. M. S. Duran and D. T. Kirkpatrick, 239–257. Papers of the Archaeological Society of New Mexico 16, Albuquerque. Sekaquaptewa, E., and D. Washburn They Go along Singing: Reconstructing the Hopi Past from Ritual Metaphors in 2004 Song and Image. American Antiquity 69: 457–486. Silko, L. M. Landscape, History, and the Pueblo Imagination. Antaeus 57: 83–94. 1986 Snead, J. E. 2001 Ancestral Pueblo Trails and the Cultural Landscape of the Pajarito Plateau, New Mexico. Antiquity 76: 756–765. 2002 “An Imperishable Record”: History, Theory, and Cultural Landscapes of the Northern Rio Grande. In Traditions, Transitions, and Technologies: Themes in Southwestern Archaeology in the Year 2000, ed. S. H. Schlanger, 16–32. University Press of Colorado, Boulder. 2008 History, Place, and Social Power in the Galisteo Basin, A.D. 1250–1325. In The Social Construction of Communities: Studies of Agency, Structure, and Identity in the Southwestern U.S., ed. M. D. Varien and J. M. Potter, 155–170. Altamira, Walnut Creek, CA. Snead, J. E., and R. W. Preucel The Ideology of Settlement: Ancestral Keres Landscapes in the Northern Rio 1999 Grande. In Archaeologies of Landscape: Contemporary Perspectives, ed. W. Ashmore and A. B. Knapp, 169–197. Blackwell, Oxford. Spier, L. 1917

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Stevenson, M. C. 1904 The Zuñi Indians: Their Mythology, Esoteric Fraternities, and Ceremonies. In Twenty-Third Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology for the Years 1901–1902, 3–634. Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Swentzell, R. An Understated Sacredness. In Anasazi Architecture and American Design, ed. B. H. 1997 Morrow and V. B. Price, 186–189. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Wasley, W. W. 1962 A Ceremonial Cache on Bonita Creek, Arizona. American Antiquity 27: 380–394. White, L. A. New Material from Acoma. Bulletin 136, Anthropological Papers 32. Bureau of 1943 American Ethnology, Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Whiteley, P. M. Deliberate Acts: Changing Hopi Culture through the Oraibi Split. University of Ari1988 zona Press, Tucson. 2002 Archaeology and Oral Tradition: The Scientific Importance of Dialogue. American Antiquity 67: 405–415. Whitridge, P. Landscapes, Houses, Bodies, Things: “Place” and the Archaeology of Inuit Imagi2004 naries. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 11: 213–250. Windes, T. C., R. M. Anderson, B. K. Johnson, and C. A. Ford Sunrise, Sunset: Sedentism and Mobility in the Chaco East Community. In 2000 Great House Communities across the Chacoan Landscape, ed. J. Kantner and N. M. Mahoney, 39–59. Anthropological Papers 64. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Zedeño, M. N. 2000 On What People Make of Places: A Behavioral Cartography. In Social Theory in Archaeology, ed. M. B. Schiffer, 97–111. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City.

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[25] The Past Is Now Hopi Connections to Ancient Times and Places

Stewart B. Koyiyumptewa and Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh

Imagine for a moment a beautiful late summer day in the desert of northwestern New Mexico. Billowy white clouds amble on the horizon, set against a translucent indigo sky. A gentle, cool wind presses against our skin. We are standing at the edge of the Chaco River at a bend, the muddy-blue water flowing softly, steadily below. We are with four Hopi cultural advisers at the beginning of a week-long study of traditional cultural places. We have just gotten out of the truck after the long drive and are standing together in silence, enjoying the peace of the land. Then, suddenly, the river begins to rumble, waves cresting, the water tumbling over itself. After a few moments, as quickly as it began, the waves subside, and the river returns to its placid drift. We stand in silence a moment longer. “As we are acknowledging them here, they are acknowledging us,” Marvin Lalo quietly says. “It’s a positive sign.” This chapter centers on the question of how the past is experienced in the present. When archaeologists think of connection or connectivity, they typically think about the correspondence among material objects across space and time. This may take the form of ceramic typologies or architectural sequences, but whatever form, the mode of analysis depends on correlating existing physical remains with past social agents. In contrast, when Hopi traditionalists think about connectivity, they often express deep affinities that depend on spiritual and emotional relationships across space and time.

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For Hopis, understanding the past—as for archaeologists—is materially based, but reasoning can also be grounded in correlating present spiritual knowledge with past social agents. Recognizing these different ways of knowing the past is important for furthering the legal protection of traditional cultural properties. As T. J. Ferguson and Roger Anyon (2001:113) observed, too often “cultural resource management based on scientific values . . . tends to focus on the ‘cultural islands’ (i.e., archaeological sites),” while Hopis and other Puebloans “perceive archaeological resources to embody vital life forces.” According to the National Environmental Policy Act of 1969, projects with federal funding must be evaluated as to how they will adversely impact the environment, including aesthetic qualities of the environment (40 C.F.R. §1508.8). The National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) of 1966 similarly stipulates that federal agencies must consider the effects of proposed projects on any district, site, building, structure, or object that is eligible for inclusion in the National Register. In 1992 Public Law 102575 amended the NHPA and, among other things, specified that “properties of traditional religious and cultural importance to an Indian tribe or Native Hawaiian organization may be determined to be eligible for the inclusion on the National Register” (16 U.S.C. §470a(d)(6)(A)). Notably, the law states that when considering the adverse effects of a proposed course of action, project proponents and the federal government must consider direct or indirect effects that would impact the integrity of the property’s feeling (36 C.F.R. §800.5(a)(1)). The spiritual and emotional connections Hopi cultural advisers express regarding sacred and traditional locales can be included as these feelings of place. In this chapter we offer insights gathered during two such applied projects administered by the Hopi Tribe that sought to use anthropological research to protect Hopi traditional cultural properties in the path of two development projects: a power plant in northwestern New Mexico and a major transmission line from New Mexico across Arizona to Nevada. Over the course of these projects between 2006 and 2007, we worked closely with more than two dozen Hopi cultural advisers, conducting sit-down interviews as well as place-based interviews carried out at the sites to be affected. (All quotes of cultural advisers in this chapter come from these interviews.) In addition, archival research and literature reviews were undertaken. We present a small portion of our original research, as the larger project involved addressing multiple aspects of the living landscape—named places, shrines and offering places, ancestral villages and sites, trails and pilgrimage routes, stones and minerals, plants, raptors, animals, and water— that at once embody past and present. Hopitutskwa Hopi affinities for the past are expressed through affinities of space, interlinked expressions of time and place. Perhaps this is most powerfully expressed in the concept of Hopitutskwa, which literally means “Hopi land” (Hill et al. 1998:101). Hopis characterize Hopitutskwa in different ways but always as extending far beyond the confines of the modern Hopi Reservation. There is often reference to the historical Hopi heartland,

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which is demarcated by a series of shrines. Clan members from Second Mesa visit these shrines annually along a homvìikya (pilgrimage trail, literally corn meal route) to make offerings, traveling to eleven or more shrines over the course of eight days (Ferguson, Koyiyumptewa, and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2005:4). Significantly, these shrines encircle the “plaza” of Hopi lands, implying that the “village” of Hopi lands extends much further—in fact, encompassing all of the Greater Southwest ( Jenkins, Ferguson, and Dongoske 1994). As elder Morgan Saufkie explained to us in an interview, “It’s a homvìikya area. The place we’re at is the plaza and the houses surrounding it then go way out there.” Hopitutskwa is the literal homeland and metaphorical heartland of the Hopi people. “Land has always been the mainstay of Hopi culture,” Richard O. Clemmer (1979:533) has written. “The Hopi ceremonial cycle . . . expresses a philosophical imperative mandating proper preparation, use, and appreciation of land and its generative powers.” The traditional land claimed by Hopis should not be confused with the political land claims made in more recent years. For example, the land the Hopi Tribe claimed during the Indian Claims Commission process could not encompass the entirety of Hopitutskwa largely because of the legal stipulations that tribes could seek compensation only for exclusive aboriginal territory and, in the case of the Hopi, land the United States took when it assumed sovereignty over northern Arizona in 1848 (Ferguson and Dongoske 1994:15). Florence Hawley Ellis (1974:140) warned that land descriptions that encompass narrow boundaries should not be taken literally because “the Hopi claim—and justly— that they are a people made up of groups from many and often distant areas; we know that in the historical period they received additions from the Tewa, Tano, Tiwa, Keres, Jemez, and Zuni speaking pueblos of New Mexico.” Gordon Page has emphasized that the Hopi claims to land are not merely political but also deeply symbolic: The Hopis, first of all, claim the North American continent from ocean to ocean. This claim is always presented as being a basic consideration in boundary discussions. The second claim is more conservative and approximates the area formerly occupied by the ancestors of the clans which now make up the loosely organized “Hopi tribe.” .€.€. It is an area of shrines, sacred natural features, eagle trapping locations, and regions where salt is obtainable. It is necessary to realize, concerning this second claim, that actual [capitalist] use is not the important thing. What is important is that this area be recognized as a sacred area. (1954:8)

The Hopi experience geography as cultural landscapes that constitute the memory of the people (Ferguson and Anyon 2001:103). Named Places

For many American Indians, named places are vital cultural sites that recall past events and honor the ancestors who named them (Thornton 1997). Naming is also a potent mechanism to claim ownership; names imbue the land with power as expressions of possession and right. Unlike Euro-Americans, who have long inscribed names on maps, Native cultures often create “maps in the mind” (Basso 1996:43). For Puebloans, 445

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named landscape features are metonyms that evoke the image of places and the values and stories associated with those places (Young 1988:4–9). Even after years or generations have passed, the cultural process of memory can be renewed by actively visiting a place, by uttering its name once again (Morphy 1995). This is not an invention or “reinterpretation of landscape but a process of discovery and revelation in which ancestral presence is tangible and immutable” (Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006:31). Scores of places within and surrounding Hopitutskwa have Hopi names. Names are a complex social phenomenon, used variously in different contexts by different community members. One example of an intricate and subtle Hopi place name involves the appellations for Tsegi Canyon and the Ancestral Puebloan villages of Betatakin and Keet Seel associated with it. Many refer to Tsegi Canyon as Kawestima (Snowy Place), while others refer to Betatakin or Keet Seel by this name; others call Betatakin Talastima; while still others call Tsegi Canyon Lenaytupqa (Flute Canyon). The use of multiple names for one place or of one name for several places should be understood as a complex layering of meaning over the land, not as contradictory evidence or evidence of fabrication. After all, most Americans know that New York City— the Big Apple—is also simultaneously Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, the Bronx, and Staten Island. One example of a place name and a place that intersects past and present is Yotse’vayu (Ute River), the San Juan River. Yotse’vayu is highly significant in Hopi history as a river on which many ancient pueblos depended, as both a clan migration route and a tributary of the sacred Pisisvayu (Colorado River). Numerous ancient pueblos adjoin the San Juan River, from large villages such as Salmon Ruin to smaller sites (Reed 2006). Notably, archaeological evidence suggests that before the Tewa-Hopi were in the Rio Grande region, they likely lived in the area of the upper San Juan River around AD 1000–1200 (Stanislawski 1979:600). At one village site along Yotse’vayu visited during our fieldwork, Hopi advisers located rock art, which, when combined with their traditional knowledge of clan migrations, indicated that several clans had migrated through the area. When asked who lived in the village, Harold Polingyumptewa said, “Me. My ancestors. Probably Parrot Clan, Kachina Clan, Badger, Rabbit, Butterfly, Porcupine clans.” Significantly, Owen Numkena Jr. added that the San Juan River constituted an ancient migration trail. “They follow the rivers on the migration,” he said. The fact that Yotse’vayu flows into the sacred Pisisvayu only adds to its religious and cultural significance. Morgan Saufkie, a Bear Clan member from Songòopavi, explicated his views of Yotse’vayu: A lot of clan people went up through that area, the Bear Clan went up through there, and the Tobacco Clan and Bear Clan lived near Farmington. The San Juan River is our aboriginal land. We claim up to the San Juan, our Songòopavi claim. They used the water from the San Juan in different ceremonies here at Songòopavi. And they took a portion of that river and planted it here. And there’s a seep right in the Pinyon area, Kiisiwu. That was a long time ago. The San Juan River is still a sacred place. When you’re smoking, you think about these places and make prayers to bring their water here.

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Trails and Pilgrimage Routes

Trails and pilgrimage routes are important features of the landscape, as they physically and conceptually link the Hopi Mesas to areas of cultural significance. For centuries, trails were used for trade with the Zuni, Acoma, Rio Grande pueblos, Navajo, Walapai, Havasupai, Paiutes, and Apaches (Beaglehole 1937:82–86; Colton 1941; Colton 1951:2–3). These trails are often conceived of as links between landmarks, such as hills or shrines, rather than what we might think of as highways or well-worn roads. Trails used by Hopis are consequently historical markers that trace the relationship between different places. A number of trails radiating out from the Hopi Mesas have been previously recorded, if loosely described, such as the Navajo trail to Fort Defiance, the Zuni trail, Salt Lake trail, Hopi trail to Verde Valley, Apache trail, Ute trail, Supai trail, and the trail to the San Francisco Peaks (Ferguson and Dongoske 1994). The Grand Canyon Salt Pilgrimage trail is a sacred homvìikya that connects the village of Orayvi on Third Mesa and a natural salt mine on the Colorado River. The salt mine is situated in a dangerous place, so “long ago the War Twins had set up shrines and established rules to make the journey safe for the Hopi” (Simmons 1942:233). It is a well-known trail used in ritual journeys associated with societies (Colton 1946; Ferguson and Dongoske 1994:63; Titiev 1937). The journey is profound, for “Hopis believe that the Grand Canyon is the abode of the spirits of the dead. Here the unseen spirits are believed to live in invisible pueblos and carry on their daily life like living Hopis in the world above” (Colton 1946:3). This homvìikya is intimately connected to a series of shrines—some named, such as Kyeekeltuy Kii’am (Fledgling House) and Totolospi (a gambling game)—as well as ancient legends and stories. The trail and the shrines that dot it, although spread over a vast landscape, constitute one feature, the sacred homvìikya. All of these parts make up the whole; thus damage to one shrine threatens the entire pilgrimage route. As Leigh J. Kuwanwisiwma explained, “The trail is a whole. You impact one part, you impact everything. It’s all connected, spiritually and physically. It’s not just a trail—it’s a pilgrimage trail. It’s the difference between a naapvö, a foot trail, and a homvìikya.” Stones and Minerals

Hopis traditionally use a variety of rock, sand, and clay in their ceremonial and everyday lives (Ellis 1974:139–144). Clay is collected to make pottery, sand is used in food preparation and rituals, and minerals are used as dyes and paints. Rocks of various types have myriad uses, including metates, manos, piiki stones, rubbing stones, abraders, and house and kiva construction tools and materials. “The Hopi are assiduous collectors,” anthropologist Walter Hough (1902:465) recorded more than a century ago. “Every house is a museum of the environment, with specimens from the mineral, animal, and vegetal kingdoms, and every Hopi is a repository of knowledge as to the places where minerals may be secured. Time and distance are of little thought when it comes to procuring the materials desired.” During our fieldwork, advisers often identified stones and minerals and their uses. Once while standing at the edge of the Chaco River, advisers observed that the coarse 447

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sand brought in by the flowing water is used in the mortar that binds stones together in pueblo construction. The coarse river sand is also used in the adobe that covers roofs because, reportedly, rainwater easily runs off of roofs when adobe is tempered with good, coarse river sand. Advisers emphasized that these are cultural resources, past and present. “There are plenty of resources here if you know what you’re looking for,” Marvin Lalo explained. “These were the things our ancestors used, and we can still use them today.” Raleigh H. Puhuyaoma Sr. added by way of an example, “If we’re doing a Katsina initiation, we could come out here for the ‘colors’ [minerals for pigments]. I can see over there red and white. If there’s none at Hopi, then maybe we could come out here and gather them.” Puhuyaoma was referring to visible minerals just north of where we were standing, minerals Hopis call palatsqa (red clay) and tuuma (white clay) and use on ritual paraphernalia. Elsewhere along the Chaco River, Puhuyaoma identified a talvitapi (polishing stone) that could be used for pottery production. Talvitapi are also used in house construction and maintenance, to smooth the adobe applied to house (and kiva) floors and walls. In this same area, Lalo pointed to a tusanowa (exfoliating rock), which is “used to wash the dirt that’s really stuck on your knees or elbows. It’s mostly women who would use these to beautify themselves.” Still other stone and mineral resources were identified, such as rùupi (quartz crystal) used for fetishes and silakinowa (petrified wood), which is integral to the Snake Dancer kilt. Advisers suggested that even if these exact stones were not archaeological artifacts—that is, not used by their ancestors in the past—they remain an affirmative cultural resource today because they are traditional items still used in the retention and transmission of Hopi culture. Plants

As agriculturalists and indigenous botanists, Hopis traditionally have an extensive knowledge of plants throughout Hopitutskwa. “Curiously enough, every Moki is a botanist,” Hough (1898:137) observed long ago, and he then detailed Hopi use of around 150 plant species, including one source gathered 644 km distant from the Hopi Mesas. Subsequent studies have supported Hough’s claims and further documented the scores of wild plant species Hopis have utilized for consumption, domestic, and ritual activities (Beaglehole 1937:50; Colton 1974; Fewkes 1896; Lomaomvaya, Ferguson, and Yeatts 2001; Stanislawski 1979:592; Whiting 1966). In a recent study, Hopis documented 367 important plant species found across northern Arizona (Albert and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2007). Plants are obviously natural resources as objects constituted by nature, but the Hopi have imbued them with deep and complex cultural meanings. Thus plants are not easily separated from other phenomena in Hopi thought. As Alfred F. Whiting (1966:3) observed, the juniper is used for washing post-natal women, newborns, and the dead, as well as in “punishments” by holding a misbehaving youngster next to a juniper fire. Whiting explained further how these seemingly disconnected practices are integrated into a holistic explanatory framework:

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In much of Hopi thought, juniper and fire are closely associated. For example, the Juniper clans belong to the Fire-Coyote phratry. Through this association juniper as well as fire is thought to cleanse and protect. Thus the water in which juniper has been soaked will purify the man contaminated by handling the dead, and will protect the mother, who is close to death in child birth. Similarly the ash of juniper protects the newborn child while in later years the smoke purifies him of his naughtiness. (1966:3)

In one spot adjacent to the Chaco River, advisers recognized multiple plants important to Hopi lifeways. Sivaapi (rabbitbrush) is used as a yellow dye in making wicker baskets and plaques; women generally collect it after Niman (Home Dance). Tamarisk, although introduced after European contact, is a plant Hopis now use to form the ngöla, the core ring of a yucca basket. Wukokungya (sagebrush) has ceremonial uses and is used in ritual cleansing, in which it is chewed and then applied over one’s body. Teptsoki or teeve are the names for greasewood, also present in this rich area and used for rabbit sticks, piiki batter sticks, and rasps for Katsina. It is also a fuel source for cooking and one of the prescribed kiva wood fuels. The cottonwood tree has multiple ceremonial and domestic uses. Different parts of the tree are used at different times. For example, when a Snake House is built during the Snake Dance, branches are used; for a tihu (kachina doll), the paako (cottonwood root) is collected. Cottonwood, like willow, is occasionally transplanted and thus is not always or merely a “wild” botanical resource (Whiting 1966:17). Yöngö (prickly pear cactus) was also identified here, a ritual item and traditional Hopi food source, particularly when crops fail. Later, during the same research project, advisers distinguished different kinds of qahavi (willow), including sakwaqahavi (blue willow) and masiqahavi (gray willow). Advisers related that qahavi is used for various ceremonial and everyday purposes. The ancient Pueblo use of willow is indicated by archaeological research—for example, the discovery of sewn willow burial mats at Chaco Canyon, Aztec Ruins, and Salmon Ruin (Webster 2006). Hopis today use qahavi ceremonially to make paaho, Katsina paraphernalia, ritual bows, and the wedding kit, as well as in kiva and home construction. Kuungya (mountain sagebrush) is used in paaho and as a medicine to cleanse the body. Paatso (Third Mesa dialect) or paatsotso (First and Second Mesas) are the names for cocklebur, used by Katsinas and during initiation and employed domestically in the manufacture of rugs. Hopi advisers stated that plant resources are important today because the mere presence of these plants makes traditional areas potential collection zones. They explained that at present maa’övi (snakeweed) is difficult to find around the Hopi Mesas, so gatherers must either use supplies stored in kivas or travel to distant areas around Hopitutskwa. Hough (1898:138) recorded that even before the adoption of automobiles, Hopis traveled extensively to collect plant materials; one trip to collect birch bark took them more than 400 miles from the Hopi Mesas. Raptors

Raptors—eagles, hawks, falcons, and other birds of prey—are highly valued by Hopis for their spiritual associations and their key role in Hopi religious life. Raptors

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are believed to be the living reincarnation of clan relatives and as such are a vital link between Hopis and ancestral spirits. Young raptors, typically eaglets and hawks, are collected each spring from designated gathering areas, then taken to villages where they are welcomed—ritually washed, given names, and offered gifts. They are well cared for through spring and summer and are fed small game, such as squirrels and rabbit. After Niman they are ritually “sent home” to communicate with the ancestral spirits about whether and how the Hopis are fulfilling their responsibilities as stewards of the land. Their feathers are removed and stored, and their bodies are buried in a kwaatu’ami, a special cemetery. “When we came to this world, Màasaw chose us to be his caretakers,” Floyd Lomakuyvaya explained to us when asked about the origin and responsibilities of gathering eagles. “The Creator created those birds for this purpose. We didn’t choose this. Màasaw gave us this for our church so we could send messages to the spirit world, to the six directions. And they carry messages back the other way, messages for health, for plants, for water, for all humankind—to care for all the earth.” The feathers and other parts of the raptors are employed in a multitude of religious contexts: ceremonial altars, costumes, and objects. Documented ceremonial uses include the Powamuy and Paalölöqangw ceremonies, Sa’lako, Flute ceremony, Snake Dance, and Basket Dance (Fewkes 1903; Parsons 1936). Anthropologist Alexander Stephen alone documented the fact that eagle feathers are used in dozens of ritual objects, such as altars, Katsina staffs, talwìipiki (lightning frames), tala’vaiyi (calendar sticks), standards, rattles, and baskets (Parsons 1936). Among eagle feathers’ important roles are their uses in paaho (prayer sticks), nakwakwusi (prayer feathers), and pöötavi (road markers), which deliver spiritual messages to the ancestors. Because prayer sticks and prayer feathers are not reused, every year thousands of new feathers are needed to make the offerings for bringing moisture and thus sustaining all life on earth. The collection of eagles is a highly ritualized practice. Selected clan members gather in their designated gathering area, first designated to clans based on their ancestral migrations (Fewkes 1900; Voth 1912). Strict rules govern the collection of raptors, making the practice sustainable over centuries. It is difficult to overemphasize raptors’ importance to Hopis. When asked what would happen if eagle gathering was curtailed or stopped, Harlyn Monongye, an eagle practitioner for the Greasewood Clan, said, “If there are no eagle feathers, then that’s the end of our customs. We won’t have any rain because that’s what we use for rain and snow.” In another interview Norman Albert, an eagle practitioner for the Sun Clan, explained, “Eagles are a part of our religion, part of our equipment. When you die, you need eagle feathers to carry you to the next world.” Albert’s nephew Kevin Crooke elaborated, “The eagle is the symbol for all Hopi because all Hopis practice the religion. Hopis would die without the eagle. It’s the basis of our culture.” Adverse Effects and Archaeological Research The research described here was undertaken to document Hopis’ connections to their ancestral past for the express purpose of protecting places threatened by development projects. Dread over these projects is a driving motivation for all the Hopi cultural

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advisers with whom we work to record their traditional histories. “It’s an impact all the way through, from the beginning to the end,” Ferrell Secakuku said about one power line project. “It’s an eyesore and takes away from the natural beauty of the land. It takes away from the spirits, the shrines, and archaeological sites.” Theodore Namingha Sr. expressed a similar opinion about the same project: “Whatever they do, it’ll affect everything—the ground, animals, water. It will have effects a long time from now.” By participating in the National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA) and National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) process and documenting the Hopi landscape, Hopis can at least attempt to prevent, or possibly mitigate, adverse effects, even as they recognize that the laws do not guarantee protection for identified traditional cultural properties (see Parker and King 1998:4). The implementing regulations for NEPA define “effects” and “impacts” synonymously, and both the direct and indirect effects of proposed projects must be considered (40 C.F.R. §1508.8). Effects are broadly construed to include “ecological . . . aesthetic, historic, cultural, economic, social, or health [effects], whether direct, indirect, or cumulative” (40 C.F.R. §1508.8). Regulations for the NHPA conceive of adverse effects as occurring “when an undertaking may alter, directly or indirectly, any of the characteristics of a historic property that qualify the property for inclusion in the National Register in a manner that would diminish the integrity of the property’s location, design, setting, materials, workmanship, feeling, or association” (36 C.F.R. §800.5(a)(1)). These impacts can be short-term, long-term, or cumulative: “Adverse effects may include reasonably foreseeable effects caused by the undertaking that may occur later in time, be farther removed in distance or be cumulative” (36 C.F.R. §800.5(a)(1)). Many of the direct effects that concern Hopis can be avoided with careful and thoughtful planning. Roads can be built around known archaeological sites and shrines; power lines can be constructed away from eagle nesting areas; weed prevention programs can be implemented to leave gathering areas unaffected. Many potential indirect effects can be avoided or mitigated—for example, by building avian-safe structures to reduce noise, the electromagnetic field, and the probability of collisions and electrocutions; employing a Hopi cultural monitor during construction; and creating emergency response programs in case of oil spills from equipment. All these approaches are aimed at avoiding or mitigating adverse impacts to traditional cultural properties by focusing on the physical preservation of landscapes. Still, with massive development projects, such as transmission lines, even though the footprint of individual towers is relatively small, the cumulative effect of thousands of towers, staging areas, substations, and roads can negatively impact tens of thousands of acres. A consideration only of biological effects or impacts on heritage resources, however, does not address the full issue of the adverse impacts on Hopi traditional places. Hopis hold the land to be sacred, laced with plants, animals, stones, and ancestral sites that are religious instruments, connections to culture and history. The violence done to one feature of the land is thus a kind of violence to the entirety of Hopi culture, history, and religion. In analogous terms, imagine that the world is a church. The entire building is respected and adored for its symbolic religious meanings and as a place people go to be healed and offer prayers. Imagine a careless, disrespectful child throwing a rock at the

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church and breaking a window. In the overall view it is just a window, perhaps even a window that can be repaired. But the act of throwing a rock at a sacred place is a careless act with an undercurrent of violence and disrespect. The Hopi advisers, then, recognize that some development projects may not permanently alter the region’s biota or other resources, but the project nonetheless undermines Hopi feelings of sacredness, stewardship, and respect. What about the less concrete impacts of development projects, the impacts on a place’s aesthetic qualities (NEPA) and feelings (NHPA)? Can these impacts be accounted for and measured? If so, what is the role of archaeology? Concerns about these kinds of shapeless impacts are central to Hopi concerns about development projects. “Any project in this area would have an impact because it would diminish the spiritual strength that we have there,” Ferrell Secakuku told us. “People can see [that] the power lines are distracting. It’s a beautiful land, a spectacular land. It’ll take that away.” But how can one protect feelings of beauty, specialness, and spirituality? For Hopis, these intangible feelings are grounded in the tangible. To protect the spiritual integrity of eagles, we have to protect eagle habitat. To preserve the ancestors’ spirits, we have to avoid destroying graves and shrines. To save beautiful places, we have to maintain viewsheds. To respect water, the source of life, we must not pollute it. Of course, real-world solutions are never this straightforward, but the point is that while Hopis express concern about how projects may impact feelings of place, we can protect feelings by protecting places. For Hopis, the immaterial essence of spirit is inextricably linked to the concreteness of place—to maintain spiritual connection to the land is to maintain physical connection to the land. As we have suggested in this chapter, we can account for these concerns, although not by any easy quantitative measure. The concerns are documented during collaborative research, as expressed by traditional religious and cultural leaders, and are supported by earlier generations of anthropological research. The key is for researchers to undertake a broad methodology that intersects ethnology, ethnohistory, and archaeology while embracing a holistic and humanistic theoretical approach that begins with how Native Americans view and value the land. In this way, we hope this kind of work is not only useful for tribes and that it enables the protection of important places but that it can also help provide productive new avenues for archaeological inquiry. Conclusion Recognizing Hopi connections to the past is a simple yet rewarding experience. From a Hopi perspective, the key word here is “simple”—the simplicity of holding on to these connections. These connections to the past are a vital part of the Hopi because their culture and everything it encompasses is still a living culture. Hopi traditionalists believe a culture that has thrived for thousands of years will continue to flourish only with lessons learned from the past. The Hopi people have always been stewards of the earth first. The land, or Hopitutskwa, is a key to its culture, and Hopi people know firsthand that if people do not take care of the land, it does not take care of them. The Hopi have taken on this responsibility for all who roam the earth, a simple but rewarding benefit.

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Acknowledgments. For their participation and contributions to this research, we gratefully acknowledge the Hopi Cultural Resources Advisory Task Team, in particular Norman Albert (Sun Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Kevin Crooke (Sun Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Donald Dawahongnewa (Water/Corn Clan, Songòopavi, Second Mesa), Harold Dawvendewa (Sun Clan, Upper Munqapi), Jerry Honawa (Tobacco/Rabbit Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Wilton Kooyahoema (Fire Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Leigh J. Kuwanwisiwma (Greasewood Clan, Paaqavi, Third Mesa), Marvin Lalo (Tobacco/Rabbit Clan, Wàlpi, First Mesa), Floyd Lomakuyvaya (Bear Clan, Songòopavi, Second Mesa), Lee Lomayestewa (Bear Clan, Songòopavi, Second Mesa), Victor Masayesva Jr. (Water Coyote Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Harlyn Monongye (Greasewood Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Agustine Mowa Jr. (Sun Clan, Songòopavi, Second Mesa), Harlan Nakala (Flute Clan, Wàlpi, First Mesa), Theodore Namingha Sr. (Corn Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Gilbert Naseyowma (Sun Clan, Lower Munqapi), Owen Numkena Jr. (Corn/ Water Clan, Musangnuvi, Second Mesa), Harold Polingyumptewa (Sand/Snake Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Raleigh Puhuyaoma Sr. (Sun Forehead Clan, Supawlavi, Second Mesa), Morgan Saufkie (Bear Clan, Songòopavi, Second Mesa), Ferrell Secakuku (Snake Clan, Supawlavi, Second Mesa), Michael Sockyma (Corn Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Sharon Sockyma (Corn Clan, Third Mesa), Herschel Talashoma Jr. (Greasewood Clan, Hotvela, Third Mesa), Jim Tawyesva Sr. (Roadrunner Clan, Polacca, First Mesa), Max Taylor (Sun Clan, Songòopavi, Second Mesa). We especially thank T. J. Ferguson for his support, guidance, and participation in this work, as well as Leigh J. Kuwanwisiwma for allowing us to pursue this work and share it with our colleagues. References Albert, S., and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2007 Hopi Cultural and Natural Resources Report for the Navajo Transmission Project. Manuscript on file, Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, Kykotsmovi, AZ. Basso, K. H. 1996 Wisdom Sits in Places: Landscape and Language among the Western Apache. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. Beaglehole, E. Notes on Hopi Economic Life. Publications in Anthropology 15. Yale University 1937 Press, New Haven. Clemmer, R. O. 1979 Hopi History, 1940–1974. In Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 9, ed. A. Ortiz, 533–538. Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Colton, H. S. Prehistoric Trade in the Southwest. Scientific Monthly 52: 308–319. 1941 1946 Fools Names Like Fools Faces. Plateau 19(1): 1–8. 1974 Hopi History and Ethnobotany. In Hopi Indians, 279–386. Garland American Indian Ethnohistory Series, Garland, NY. Colton, M.R.F. 1951 The Arts and Crafts of the Hopi Indians. In Museum of Northern Arizona Reprints Series No. 3, 1–30. Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. 453

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Ellis, F. H. 1974

The Hopi: Their History and Use of Lands. In Hopi Indians, 25–278. Garland American Indian Ethnohistory Series, Garland, NY.

Ferguson, T. J., and R. Anyon 2001 Hopi and Zuni Cultural Landscapes: Implications of Social Identity and Cultural Affiliation Research for Cultural Resources Management. In Native Peoples of the Southwest: Negotiating Land, Water, and Ethnicities, ed. L. Weinstein, 99–122. Bergin and Garvey, Westport, CT. Ferguson, T. J., and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh History Is in the Land: Multivocal Tribal Traditions in Arizona’s San Pedro Valley. 2006 University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Ferguson, T. J., and K. E. Dongoske 1994 Navajo Transmission Project EIS Hopi Ethnographic Overview. Manuscript on file, Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, Kykotsmovi, AZ. Ferguson, T. J., S. B. Koyiyumptewa, and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2005 Hopi Traditional Cultural Properties along the US 160 Highway Corridor. Manuscript on file, Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, Kykotsmovi, AZ. Fewkes, J. W. A Contribution to Hopi Ethnobotany. American Anthropologist 9(1): 14–21. 1896 1900 Property-Right in Eagles among the Hopi. American Anthropologist 2(4): 690– 707. 1903 Hopi Katcinas Drawn by Native Artists. In Twenty-First Annual Report of the Bureau of Ethnography for the Years 1899–1900, 15–190. Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Hill, K. C., E. Sekaquaptewa, M. E. Black, E. Malotki, and M. Lomatuway’ma (editors) 1998 Hopi Dictionary/Hopìikwa Lavàytutuveni: A Hopi-English Dictionary of the Third Mesa Dialect. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Hough, W. Environmental Interrelations in Arizona. American Anthropologist 11(5): 133– 1898 155. 1902 A Collection of Hopi Ceremonial Pigments. In Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution for the Year Ending June 30, 1900, 463–471. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. Jenkins, L., T. J. Ferguson, and K. E. Dongoske 1994 A Reexamination of the Concept of Hopitutsqwa. Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the American Society for Ethnohistory, Tempe, AZ. Lomaomvaya, M., T. J. Ferguson, and M. Yeatts 2001 Öngtuvqava Sakwtala: Hopi Ethnobotany in the Grand Canyon. Manuscript on file, Hopi Cultural Preservation Office, Kykotsmovi, AZ. Morphy, H. Landscape and the Reproduction of the Ancestral Past. In The Anthropology of 1995 Landscape: Perspectives on Place and Space, ed. E. Hirsch and M. O’Hanlon, 185– 209. Clarendon, Oxford.

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Page, G. B. 1954 Hopi Land Patterns. In Museum of Northern Arizona Reprints Series No. 5, 8–15. Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. Parker, P. L., and T. F. King Guidelines for Evaluating and Documenting Traditional Cultural Properties. National 1998 Register Bulletin 38. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. Parsons, E. C. (editor) 1936 Hopi Journal of Alexander M. Stephen. Columbia University Press, New York. Reed, P. F. (editor) Thirty-Five Years of Archaeological Research at Salmon Ruins, New Mexico, 3 vols. 2006 Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. Simmons, L. W. Sun Chief: The Autobiography of a Hopi Indian. Yale University Press, New Haven. 1942 Stanislawski, M. B. Hopi-Tewa. In Handbook of North American Indians, vol. 9, ed. A. Ortiz, 587–601. 1979 Smithsonian Institution, Washington, DC. Thornton, T. F. Anthropological Studies of Native American Place Naming. American Indian Quar1997 terly 21(2): 209–228. Titiev, M. 1937

A Hopi Salt Expedition. American Anthropologist 39(2): 244–258.

Voth, H. R. Notes on the Eagle Cult of the Hopi. Field Columbian Museum Anthropological 1912 Series 11(2): 105–109. Webster, L. D. Ritual Uses of Textiles and Basketry. Archaeology Southwest 20(3): 11. 2006 Whiting, A. F. Ethnobotany of the Hopi. Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. 1966 Young, M. J. Signs from the Ancestors. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 1988

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[26] Historiography and Archaeological Theory at Bigger Scales

Stephen H. Lekson

To decide who gets the money, the National Science Foundation (NSF) evaluates two criteria: “intellectual merit” and “broader impacts.” Intellectual merit is demonstrated by archaeologists convincing other archaeologists that their research is hot. That is as it should be. Broader impacts typically address several proximate audiences: closely related academic disciplines, our students, descendant communities, newspapers, and the Kiwanis Club. That, too, is as it should be. I would like to see a third category: “broader intellectual impacts”—the world of arts and letters, popular philosophy, literate journalism, PBS, nonfiction best-sellers, and perhaps even policy making. I think the ancient Southwest has implications for American intellectual life in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries comparable, in some ways, to the “Mound Builders” in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries (e.g., Kennedy 1994). The Mound Builder controversy was hardly central to American thought, but it formed a recognizable theme in intellectual life. So, too, the ancient Southwest: a minor theme, but at least a theme. Two examples: Ruth Benedict and Lewis Henry Morgan. Neither was a SouthÂ�Â�western archaeologist, and both have been dead for many decades, but their thoughts about the ancient Southwest influenced American thinking far beyond their times and far beyond the confines of archaeology and anthropology. I have

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written elsewhere about Benedict and Morgan (Lekson 2005, 2006, 2009); I summarize here. Benedict’s Patterns of Culture, published in 1934, is a foundational text for the mythical Southwest that is sold by the quart in Santa Fe and Sedona: a Southwest of uniquely peaceful, communal, egalitarian, eternal, and unchanging Pueblos. That vision had enormous appeal in the interval between the world wars: the first war demolished the Gilded Age and its optimism; the Depression and the rise of dictators in Europe scuttled any hopes for a better future. There was consolation in a utopian past, however foreign and exotic. Benedict’s version of Zuni, as they say, resonated. As Eliza McFeely (2001) makes clear in Zuni and the American Imagination, the Pueblos held a particular fascination for American intellectuals. Benedict’s book had legs: it is still in print, translated into scores of languages. Patterns of Culture was (and remains) the single most influential anthropological study of the Southwest—and only one quarter of it is about the Southwest. Her vision of Zuni has been grafted onto all the Pueblos of both the present and the past. We hear Benedict’s Zuni in ranger campfire talks at Mesa Verde. Patterns of Culture and its derivatives provide the basic understanding of the Pueblo Southwest, modern or ancient, for thinking people outside of anthropology. Turns out, Ruth was wrong—certainly for the ancient Southwest and probably for the modern Pueblos. Ruth, having writ, moved on; and all our piety or wit cannot cancel half a line of Patterns of Culture. Benedict was a Great Woman. Her influences were wide, strong, and long. Great Men make mistakes, too, and similarly deflect archaeology from something like the truth. Think of Alec Hrlicka and Paleo-Indian, Sir Eric Thompson and the Maya, and Lewis Henry Morgan and the ancient Southwest. Morgan (my second Southwestern intellect) is generally acclaimed as the Father of American Anthropology. His scholarship, social influence, and political acumen raised anthropology to a science, even in the eyes of real scientists. Without Morgan’s early spade work, the NSF might not now be funding anthropology. He deserves our accolades. Morgan actually did a spot of fieldwork in the Southwest, at Aztec Ruins, just before he died. But long before that visit, he read all that had been written about its ruins, especially the early accounts of Chaco Canyon. Those interests were clear in his final major work, Houses and House-Life of the American Aborigines (1881), which devoted much space to Chaco and Southwestern ruins. This study was published as an appendix to an obscure government survey. Compared to Patterns of Culture, Houses and House-Life is a footnote in intellectual history (it, too, remains in print, for an anthropological niche market). Its influences were largely confined to social scientists—a club that ultimately included Marxist theoreticians—and it was particularly significant for archaeology, right down to today (Lekson 2006). In Morgan’s day, most American intellectuals knew each other, and many knew Morgan. Houses and House-Life crystallized Morgan’s thinking on the Native peoples of North America, prefiguring and complicity supporting Benedict’s utopian dreams. Morgan was utterly convinced that no New World society, Aztec to Iroquois, ever achieved the status of a state—the golden ring at the end of his global evolutionary schema for human societies. Not everyone was enthusiastic about Morgan’s social evo-

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lution, but many welcomed his conclusions about Native America. Restated, he presented an America untroubled by kings and emperors. All government was communal and quasi-democratic. Yet the Aztecs had accomplished Great Things. Morgan’s communalism sat well with the young republic, five score years into its constitutional experiment. But Morgan’s argument was racist: he believed Native American societies were communal because Native Americans themselves were racially incapable of achieving civilization (his term) or states (my term) (Harris 1968). Mexican archaeologists ignored Morgan. Morgan was wrong; the Aztecs were a state. They had kings and emperors and bureaus and ministers and taxation and armies and all that stuff. Indeed, Mesoamerica had states for almost two millennia before Aztecs—or Chaco or Cahokia (of which more later). Mexican archaeologists dismissed Morgan outright, but American archaeologists bought his beliefs hook, line, and sinker. That was important. Remember, Morgan was the Father of American Anthropology. He taught our teachers’ teachers’ teachers. Key figures in American anthropology carried Morgan’s communal beliefs forward— explicitly, even for Aztecs—well into the mid-twentieth century (Lekson 2009). Morgan’s views failed to find purchase in Mexico, but they became fundamental to American anthropology and archaeology. No states existed north of Mexico. That is, no Native societies within the continental United States ever had kings or governments or any of the trappings of state-level politics. We learn that in Archaeology 101 (I did). It is axiomatic, unquestioned—as basic to American archaeology as mass and energy were to nineteenth-century physics. Morgan, in effect, hung a glass ceiling over Native societies, past and present, in the United States. His views, brought forward over the generations, limit a priori what ancient people may or may not have done. This was particularly important in the Southwest. Morgan’s brightest student was Adolph Bandelier, the first real Southwestern archaeologist (Lange and Riley 1996). Bandelier, in his formative years, read a lot about Aztecs. He balked at first at his mentor’s teachings. But Morgan must have been a mighty preacher; Bandelier accepted his views as gospel, in something like a religious conversion (Bandelier was susceptible to epiphanies). Thereafter, he faithfully proselytized his mentor’s peculiar position: no states existed in North America, Central America, South America. Bandelier was thick with the journalist Charles Lummis, who is credited with inventing the mythic Southwest Benedict later perfected. More important, Bandelier mentored Edgar L. Hewett, who grew to be the biggest fish in the small pond of New Mexico archaeology. Hewett was a man of strong opinions and stronger loyalties; he revered Bandelier and Morgan throughout his long career. He was also a man of remarkable ambition and energy, establishing and then leading the Museum of New Mexico, the School of American Research, and the Department of Anthropology at the University of New Mexico. He trained cohorts of second-wave Southwestern archaeologists (and lectured to hundreds of non-archaeologists) in the formative decades of the early twentieth century. Hewett was also without question the widest scholarly popularizer of the ancient Southwest. Lummis and the journalists were important too. But Hewett wore the robes of a scholar. He wrote many accessible books and gave countless public lectures across

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the country. While others were writing monographs, Hewett wrote magazine articles. He got little credit for popularizing—archaeologists in eastern museums and universities detested him—but his “broader intellectual impact” was huge. Hewett’s interpretations were doctrinaire Morgan, taken right from the source but, more important, through the teachings of Bandelier (Chauvenet 1983; Lekson 2009). To his dying day, Hewett held to Morgan’s view of Aztecs. Of course, Hewett’s Pueblos, ancient and modern, were communal societies with decisions reached by rude, healthy, American democracy. He held them up as exemplars for a nation and a world buffeted by war, economic collapse, and dictatorships. Morgan really messed things up. Let us detour briefly from the Southwest to an exceptionally clear example of Morgan’s long shadow: Cahokia. Cahokia was the first and greatest Mississippian city, about the same time as Chaco Canyon: AD 900 to 1300, with an astonishing peak run between AD 1000 and 1200 (Pauketat 2004). Estimates vary, but Cahokia itself had at least 20,000 people, with tens of thousands more in the greater Cahokia “metroplex” (an unbroken string of mound centers reaching from Cahokia across the Mississippi to St. Louis, Missouri). Cahokia’s region (in my estimation) stretched from Georgia to Wisconsin—far larger than any Southwestern “regional system.” The city itself had huge pyramids, a vast central plaza, an elite quarter, and kingly burials. There were probably regional economies, armies, and wars (again, my reading). If Cahokia was somehow transported to Mexico or Mesopotamia, it would not eclipse the biggest capitals, but it would be no mean city. The Mound Builder question was resolved when early archaeology established that places like Cahokia were built by Indians (and not by vanished civilizations). More specifically, mounds were built by the ancestors of Indians living in the eastern United States. Since the Indian societies the colonists first encountered seemed simpler than European or Mexican states, it seemed reasonable that the ancient Mound Builders, too, were not states. Morgan accepted this interpretation and made it doctrine: no states existed north of Mexico. Yet there was something about those “mounds.” Cahokia’s were larger than most Mexican pyramids. Subsequent anthropological theory offered a solution: Mississippian societies were “chiefdoms”—more than hunter-gatherers but substantially less than states. Chiefdoms became an idée fixe in Mississippian archaeology (Pauketat 2007). Great Cahokia was demoted, a mountain of a site made a molehill (Milner 1998). To me, that seems unfair: if Cahokia wanted to be a state, perhaps we should let it be one? Cahokia makes you wonder about Morgan. Maybe there were states north of Mexico. Cahokia (probably) was a state. If it was, it was a secondary state—an important distinction I discuss later. Back to the Southwest. If Cahokia cracks the ceiling, what are the implications for Southwestern societies? They were unquestionably smaller, but they had points of their own. Consider: Phoenix’s astonishing canals exceeded anything in Mesoamerica. Chaco’s region was smaller than Cahokia’s but larger than many post-Classic Mesoamerican states. Paquimé’s preciosities rivaled those of many Mexican cities. Southwestern cities were negligible compared to Teotihuacán and Tenochtitlan, but so were most of the post-Classic states to the south—all secondary states.

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What is so important about “secondary”? I will not claim that any Southwestern polities were great and mighty empires, and—most important—I do not claim that any political formation north of the Mexican border was a primary state, that states “evolved” parthogenetically in situ at Chaco or Cahokia, in the old neo-Â�evolutionary progression from band to tribe to chiefdom to states. Other, older, greater states in MesoÂ�america had already gone through all that. They had done the heavy lifting. The Southwest and Southeast did not have to invent this stuff. Chaco and Cahokia (and Paquimé and Phoenix) were secondary states, inspired by the historical, economic, ideological examples of Mesoamerica. Primary, secondary: these are not just semantics. The difference is huge. Primary states are evolutionary miracles; secondary states are historical by-products. And they are curiously understudied. The contributors to the staunchly neoevolutionary volume Archaic States asked two telling questions: “How do third- and fourth-generation states differ from first- and second-generation states . . . and what to call the polities on the periphery of states when they acquire some of the trappings of that state but are never really incorporated into it” (Marcus and Feinman 1998:6). The contributors had no answers because, like those who conduct most archaeological surveys, their focus was on primary states. Adam Smith, in his deconstruction of states, lamented that “the processes of secondary state formation is [sic] . . . woefully undertheorized” (Smith 2003:82–83). While I doubt that a deluge of unrestrained theorizing will get us very far, the study of actual cases might help—for example, Cahokia, Chaco, Hohokam, and Paquimé. To realize this potential requires revisioning ancient North America. We draw a line somewhere near the modern border between the United States and Mexico and extend it out beyond our territorial waters into the Gulf of Mexico. That boundary—a relic of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century colonial wars—is variably permeable in the Southwest (e.g., McGuire 1980; McGuire and Villalpando 2007). It remains a secure border for the Southeast (see White 2005 for hopeful developments). That modern boundary has no place in our thinking about the ancient past. If we are to evaluate Chaco and Cahokia as secondary states, we must look toward their likely historical predecessors: post-Classic Mesoamerica. [A superb, concise compendium on the post-Classic is Smith and Berdan (2003); this book should be required reading in any graduate seminar on Southwestern or Mississippian archaeology.] American archaeologists are accustomed to drawing archaeological inspiration from Benedict’s Zuni or John R. Swanton’s (1946) Indians of the Southeastern United States. Certainly, ethnohistory and descendant communities have much to offer archaeology (and, one hopes, vice versa). But are Indians nine or ten centuries after Chaco and Cahokia more relevant than Chaco’s and Cahokia’s contemporaries, the post-Classic polities of Mesoamerica? One thousand years or 1,000 miles—surely, both modern ethnology and post-Classic archaeology will be useful. Currently, Chaco’s and Cahokia’s contemporaries are left out of the picture. Few of us routinely think about the postClassic when writing about the Four Corners or the American Bottom. Aztatlan and Mesa Verde? Huasteca and Moundville? Leave that sort of thing to armchair theorists; it has no place in practical prehistory. I strongly disagree; the social, political, linguistic,

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and intellectual barriers erected during the Mexican War still structure the way we view ancient North America. How to proceed? We can begin with simple de-programming, ridding ourselves of Morgan and Benedict. Raze (and raise) Morgan’s glass ceiling; let them be states, if that is what they wanted to be. (What purpose is served, really, by keeping Cahokia down?) That seems easy and, given the racist basis of Morgan’s thinking, almost an obligation, a duty to the ancient people we study. I think Cahokia can be usefully considered a state, and I think Chaco and Paquimé can too (and I think all this matters, as I explain later). But I am not insisting that the reader accept my interpretation, and I am certainly not suggesting that if the reader rejects my views, he or she is somehow racist. I am simply suggesting that Native American societies north of Mexico not be limited a priori to “chiefdoms” or (worse yet) “intermediate societies,” a locution that means nothing, a palliative for the neoevolutionary defeat that deprived us of tribes and chiefdoms. We do not need tribes and chiefdoms, and we will also do much better without “intermediate.” How many proposals, articles, term papers, and conference presentations begin axiomatically with the premise that societies north of Mesoamerica were always and everywhere “intermediate”? That cuts off the conversation before it can even start. It should be possible to suggest that Cahokia is a state without sacrificing one’s career—the current situation; it should also be possible to suggest that Chaco and Paquimé were trying to be postClassic polities without being hooted off the podium. Let them do what they did, not what Morgan taught us they could or could not do. De-program. In addition, keep Benedict’s book in its proper period. Her Zuni was Zuni of the 1920s, and even then we should read her with caution. Do not project her book’s utopian vision, crafted for the battered between-wars audience, back into the distant Native past. Both archaeological evidence and Native traditions strongly suggest that in that past, things were different. The direct historic approach—still very much in play—leads to anachronisms. Zuni did not, I think, emerge from a long, unbroken, organic, gradual evolution toward Pueblo lifestyles. The communal traditions Benedict noted at Zuni were a reaction against grimly hierarchical arrangements, in place for several centuries prior to 1300 (Lekson 1999, 2005, 2006, 2009). Where did Pueblos come from? Not from a gradual evolution but instead from a wrenching historical event or series of events. Keep Benedict for the 1920s and for the marketing firms of Santa Fe; let the Southwestern past have real history. De-program. Those two steps are relatively simple. It will be harder to shed colonial geographies. They structure our lives today, playing out in immigration debates and economic policies. Anthropology may not help us here. I honestly believe American anthropology—as internalized by archaeology—brings too much colonial baggage. Not anthropology taken broadly but the peculiarly American institution that has been rightly called “Indianology” (Adams 1998:193)—a colonial fascination with “our” Indians in their aboriginal nobility. It is Morgan’s anthropology, brought forward by Franz Boas and the Bureau of American Ethnology. Cultural anthropology and linguistics moved past Indianology to “applied” engagements with postcolonial tribes and nations.

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Archaeology—particularly of the last 3,000–4,000 years—may be the last refuge of Indianology, an intense, almost fixated study of pre-colonial Indians. And that is the wrong framework—a colonial framework—for thinking bigger. Instead of anthropology, try Big History or World History (e.g., Bentley 1993, 2002; Curtin 1984; McNeill and McNeill 2003), not the detailed agendas of individual practitioners (adieu World Systems) but instead their underlying confidence that the histories of past, preindustrial societies were densely and importantly intermeshed on continental and intercontinental scales. Practitioners of Big History see exactly that in the Old World: Eurasia, Africa, and the Pacific were histories hinged on interconnection. Big History’s working supposition is that societies may well have been—probably were—connected in important ways. And it is surprising when they were not. That happens, of course, but isolation is a situation that requires explanation. American anthropological archaeology, in stark contrast, assumes isolation. Connection is an extraordinary claim, requiring extraordinary proof. We begin our thinking diametrically opposite to that of Big History. We are required to demonstrate that Indians on one side of the mountain knew about Indians on the other side of the mountain. If I say “Chaco knew about Hohokam,” the response might be: there are few, if any, Hohokam sherds at Chaco, and they may have come down the line. (This summarizes real exchanges, repeated in many conversations.) That is indicative of our attitudes toward distance and interaction—but those attitudes reflect, however distantly, colonial themes in American anthropology, carried over from Morgan and his ilk. Indian tribes were savages (in Morgan’s terms), incapable of the interconnection that brought Columbus to the Caribbean. That is not right. It is a strange and demeaning assumption that needs to be weeded from our garden of ideas. Native America did not have blue-water ships or horses, but those people got around. It would be foolish to transplant Old World patterns and practices to the New World—that would be like projecting Benedict’s Zuni on Chaco Canyon—but we would do well to adopt the working assumptions and attitudes of Big History: interconnected until proven isolated. Doing so would change everything. Here is where this matters, at least to me. If we can move from anthropological to Big Historical attitudes about distance and interconnection, that shift would open up an important, untapped opportunity for “broader intellectual impacts.” Archaeology north of Mesoamerica offers a remarkable, perhaps unique opportunity for the study of secondary states. I noted earlier that our understanding of secondary states lags far behind that of primary states—despite the fact that almost all the states studied by archaeology and history are secondary. The emphasis on primary over secondary states reflects the obvious importance of the former and the super-abundance of the latter. There are too many secondary states with too broad a range of variation to allow any comprehensive study—indeed, entire fields of scholarship tackle small segments of the problem (I am thinking of political science). North America offers an opportunity to look at a manageable number of possible cases—the Mississippian “chiefdoms” and the Southwest polities—that rose not in isolation but at an analytically helpful distance from larger primary states. North American secondary states were truncated comparatively early in their careers—only a few rise-and-fall cycles. European intervention sealed their

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archaeology like a cornerstone time capsule, and the vagaries of colonial history resulted in their intense study. We have thrown a lot of money at Chaco and Cahokia. American archaeology has created a “record” of secondary state formation exemplary in its scale, detail, and precision. Chaco and Cahokia were not cultures each in its own petri dish; rather, they were corners of a very large terrarium. Cahokia and Chaco will not be understood outside the context of Mesoamerica. That is why the word “state” is important. Mesoamerica had states. We must not consign North America to the dustbin of “intermediate societies” because doing so cuts off any useful analysis that might bring them to the table with Aztatlan or the Huasteca. Cahokia was not a Huastec colony; Toltecs did not build Chaco. But both of those North American cities rose within the context of the larger post-Classic world, and neither can be comprehended without considering Mesoamerica. The lords of Chaco and Cahokia knew of the great cities and states to the south: how could they not have known? Their petty polities engaged or rejected or negotiated places on the far periphery of that larger world. But they did the things they did in or out of or around that post-Classic context. How to write a Big History of that world? I experimented on a relatively small scale with Chaco Meridian (Lekson 1999) and later broadened the scope to encompass the Mississippi Valley and Mesoamerica in A History of the Ancient Southwest (Lekson 2009). I certainly would not claim that I got it right. No archaeology beyond the dimensions of a posthole or a count of sherds is “right.” Time will tell if the ideas and approaches in Chaco Meridian prove useful. The reviews were good, but so far the returns have been negative. The “meridian” itself seems to have been more right than wrong, at least in the North; it now extends back in time to AD 500, if not earlier, with extraordinarily large Basketmaker sites at Chaco followed by even larger and more extraordinary Pueblo I sites near Durango, Colorado—but that is another story (Lekson in press). In A History of the Southwest, I have tried to write a narrative of the Greater Southwest from 2000 BC to AD 1500 with conscious and continuous reference to events in Mexico and the Mississippi. Again, only time will tell if that attempt will prove useful. We have a saying in Boulder, Colorado: “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a trip to the airport.” Fly away to any time zone where they have never heard of “intermediate societies.” If we can shed the axiomatic assumption that everything north of Mexico was “intermediate”—a holdover from Morgan—the rest may follow. References Adams, W. Y. 1998 The Philosophical Roots of Anthropology. Center for the Study of Language and Information, Stanford University, Palo Alto, CA. Benedict, R. 1934 Patterns of Culture. Houghton Mifflin, New York. Bentley, J. H. Old World Encounters: Cross Cultural Contacts and Exchanges in Pre-Modern Times. 1993 Oxford University Press, Oxford.

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2002

The New World History. In A Companion to Western Historical Thought, ed. L. Kramer and S. Maza, 393–431. Blackwell, Oxford.

Chauvenet, B. 1983 Hewett and Friends: A Biography of Santa Fe’s Vibrant Era. Museum of New Mexico Press, Santa Fe. Curtin, P. D. Cross Cultural Trade in World History. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 1984 Harris, M. 1968

The Rise of Anthropological Theory. Thomas Y. Crowell, New York.

Kennedy, R. G. 1994 Hidden Cities: The Discovery and Loss of Ancient North American Civilization. Free Press, New York. Lange, C. H., and C. L. Riley Bandelier: The Life and Adventures of Adolf Bandelier. University of Utah Press, Salt 1996 Lake City. Lekson, S. H 1999 The Chaco Meridian: Centers of Political Power in the Ancient Southwest. Altamira, Walnut Creek, CA. 2005 Complexity. In Southwest Archaeology in the Twentieth Century, ed. L. S. Cordell and D. D. Fowler, 157–173. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. 2006 Chaco Matters. In The Archaeology of Chaco Canyon: An Eleventh-Century Pueblo Regional Center, ed. S. H. Lekson, 3–44. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. 2009 A History of the Ancient Southwest. School for Advanced Research Press, Santa Fe. In press The Southwest in the World. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Marcus, J., and G. M. Feinman Introduction. In Archaic States, ed. G. M. Feinman and J. Marcus, 3–13. School of 1998 American Research Press, Santa Fe. McFeely, E. Zuni and the American Imagination. Hill and Wang, New York. 2001 McGuire, R. H. 1980 The Mesoamerican Connection in the Southwest. Kiva 46: 3–38. McGuire, R. H., and M. E. Villalpando The Hohokam and Mesoamerica. In The Hohokam Millennium, ed. S. K. Fish and 2007 P. R. Fish, 57–63. School for Advanced Research Press, Santa Fe. McNeill, J. R., and W. H. McNeill 2003 The Human Web: A Bird’s-Eye View of World History. W. W. Norton, New York. Milner, G. R. The Cahokia Chiefdom: The Archaeology of a Mississippian Society. Smithsonian 1998 Institution Press, Washington, DC. Morgan, L. H. Houses and House-Life of the American Aborigines. Contributions to North Ameri1881 can Ethnology 4, Department of the Interior, U.S. Geographical and Geological Survey of the Rocky Mountain Region. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC.

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Pauketat, T. R. 2004 Ancient Cahokia and the Mississippians. Case Studies in Early Societies. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 2007 Chiefdoms and Other Archaeological Delusions. Altamira, Lanham, MD. Smith, A. T. The Political Landscape: Constellations of Authority in Early Complex Polities. Uni2003 versity of California Press, Berkeley. Smith, M. E., and F. F. Berdan (editors) 2003 The Postclassic Mesoamerican World. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Swanton, J. R. The Indians of the Southeastern United States. Bulletin 137, Bureau of American Eth1946 nology, Smithsonian Institution. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. White, N. M. (editor) Gulf Coast Archaeology: The Southeastern United States and Mexico. University Press 2005 of Florida, Gainesville.

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[27] Connectivity, Landscape, and Scale

Andrew Duff

The 2008 Southwest Symposium was a fitting tribute for the twentieth anniversary of the conference, with a series of papers that reconsidered key issues and provided new perspectives on Southwestern archaeology. My task here is to provide commentary on the five papers presented in the conference’s final session on Connectivity, organized by John Kantner. For the session, connectivity was defined as “the influence of actions and processes across broad spatial and temporal scales,” with the papers designed to examine connectivity “as an intentional phenomenon as well as the unintended consequences of change in other places and times.” With an interesting topic (introduced by Kantner, this volume) and an impressive cast, I was looking forward to the papers; while doing so, I reconsidered several previous Southwest Symposia I attended or read as proceedings and the role they played in shaping my outlook and research. When first asked to participate in this session, I was immediately brought back to the first Southwest Symposium I attended. The 1992 Southwest Symposium was held in Tucson, and it popped into my mind because the discussant followed Steve Lekson’s paper. In Tucson, Chuck Redman (1996) was the discussant in a session on demographic and spatial scale, organized by Lekson, and Chuck’s commentary followed a paper by Steve. Steve’s paper was a fast-paced and occasionally glib discussion of scale, with illustrations comparing the size of Chaco to that of New Jersey and England

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(Lekson 1996:82). In other words, it was classic Lekson—wry, provocative, and a substantive contribution to the debates of the day. Redman’s comments started with something along the lines of “I should know better than to have to follow Steve,” a feeling I understand completely. As was true then, Steve Lekson is still a tough act to follow, and he continues to prod us to think harder about connections between people in the past and to do so at much larger scales. There are other reasons to hearken back to the 1992 meeting, especially that session on scale. Three things emerged from the 1992 meeting that I think relate to the chapters in this section—a measure of connectivity in a different realm. I use the resulting volume Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underlying Principles and Overarching Patterns, edited by Paul Fish and Jeff Reid (1996a), as a proxy for the meeting. That volume ended up including only three of the four regular sessions from the conference. In their preface, Fish and Reid noted that the session “Beyond Eco-Determinism: A Glimpse of the Role of Ritual and Symbolism” was not included, stating “that only one of the papers from that session appears here is testimony to the obstacles facing investigators pursuing new and undeveloped research directions” (1996b:ix). The session that was not included was organized by John Stein, someone I would argue helped define the archaeological approach to Southwestern cultural landscapes that several chapters in this volume, especially in this section, draw upon. Stein had been writing about the ritual landscapes and ideology of those who had inhabited the Chacoan and post-Chacoan world. In addition to his earlier work as part of the outlier searches (Marshall et al. 1979), Stein presented empirical observations about the archaeology of Manuelito Canyon and expanded this into a conceptual model of sacred landscapes that provided a “A Glimpse of the Role of Ritual and Symbolism” that I still find compelling (Fowler and Stein 1992; Fowler, Stein, and Anyon 1987; Stein and Fowler 1996; Stein and Lekson 1992). Based on the chapters in this section and the papers of the last decade, it is safe to say that we have come a long way in tackling these issues since the 1992 Southwest Symposium. Elsewhere in this volume, Randy McGuire also noted the ascendancy of research that privileges ideas of ritual, identity, power and gender—another indication that Stein was on the right track. The second part of the 1992 conference that serves as a point of reference was a plenary session titled “Native American Perspectives on Archaeological Interpretation” (Fish and Reid 1996b:ix), in which several Native Americans from different SouthÂ� western groups were invited to address archaeologists. Jeff Reid later wrote about the session with concern, noting that his starkest realization from their participation was a comment by one of the participants along the lines of “the archaeology of the Southwest had no relevance to southwestern Indians” (Reid 1992:195). I believe we have made significant progress on this front, as illustrated by the chapters in this part of the present book. There are many more Native colleagues among us today, and Native presenters at professional conferences, although not plentiful, are increasingly common. More archaeological projects have a collaborative component—whether mandated by law or funded through grants—both in the Southwest and in archaeology more generally, and we take collaboration and oral history more seriously than we did previously (e.g., Anyon et al. 1997; Bernardini 2005; Colwell-Chanthaphonh and

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Ferguson 2006; Duff et al. 2008; Ferguson 2000, 2003; Ferguson and Anyon 2001; Ferguson and Colwell-Chanthaphonh 2006; Kuwanwisiwma 2004; Watkins 2003; Whiteley 2002). The legal requirements for consultation and input have become more productive, and tribes have increasingly worked to ensure the relevance and sensitivity of archaeological research conducted both on and off reservations. While we still have significant work to do to make archaeology relevant to Native populations as a whole, some of the questions and issues we now address, particularly in this group of chapters, have a greater—if not direct—relevance to Native American communities. I also recognize that we have yet to make a difference in the daily lives of many Native peoples, but we are making progress with the groups regularly engaged by archaeology. With persistent efforts at dialogue and dissemination of the results of archaeological research to the general public and descendant communities, we can continue to make progress on this front. Finally, those us who were graduate students through the 1990s were eager consumers of the debates and discussions from the first several Southwest Symposia. In short, the participants in this session—myself included—were raised with the Southwest Symposia proceedings as mainstays of the Southwestern literature. The exception is Steve Lekson, who was already contributing to this literature and shaping the debates. This is a compliment, but Steve is still prodding us today with much the same message he was conveying in 1992—scale matters, we think too small, and the Southwest generally and Chaco specifically were more complex than we are willing to admit (e.g., Lekson 1999, 2005, 2006; Lekson and Peregrine 2004). I have enjoyed reading and listening to Lekson since I entered the field—much of what I have addressed in my work has been because people like Steve, Stead Upham (1982), Steve LeBlanc (1999), and David Wilcox (e.g., 1993) have raised big issues, Southwestern archaeology’s smaller version of big history. They shift the terms of the debate and the focus of what we do. From my perspective, this is a valuable and important thing. However, it sometimes resembles recent foreign policy, where regime change is more important than the details of the chaotic aftermath. The details are left to others. I am not arguing that Lekson ignores details (see, e.g., 1986, 1991, 2002); what I suggest is that they are not as central a feature, with the type of specificity I (and I assume many others) would like and require to be convinced, in some of his more widely read and cited works. Details are important; they are what allow us to know what we want to know about the past and are essential for the evaluation of arguments. Details are what we need to enrich the contributions of archaeology, to make them more relevant to the public at large and to descendant communities—as much, I argue, as incorporating larger scales. So what can we do? In what follows, I will make some modest suggestions in this direction while touching on the chapters from this section. The content of the chapters suggests a tripartite grouping, each largely discussed separately: first, the chapter by Patrick Lyons and colleagues; then the three chapters by Ruth Van Dyke, Greg Schachner, and Stewart Koyiyumptewa and Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh; and finally the chapter by Lekson. In so doing, I will return to the themes of needing details, paying increased attention to ritual, and continuing and expanding Native American involvement. I will also suggest that we stick with some of the tried and true of archaeology—detailed

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mining of the cross-cultural literature and controlled comparisons to learn more about the range of behaviors associated with analogous social situations or processes. However, before I do so, Lekson issued a challenge at the conference for us to better contribute to big history. I think the chapters in this section can already be considered contributions of the sort Lekson is calling for, so I digress briefly to highlight what I mean by this. Big History and the National Science Foundation’s Broader Impacts Lekson suggests that Southwestern archaeology has done very little to contribute to larger discussions of broad importance and that we should work harder to make contributions at this scale, perhaps by considering a category larger than the National Science Foundation’s (NSF) “Broader Impacts” used in proposal evaluation. I counter that NSF’s Broader Impacts criteria are a reasonable place to start in such an evaluation, and I hope to show that the chapters in this section do make contributions to some of these broader discussions, especially the first three of the NSF’s criteria. These are the five areas the NSF highlights (National Science Foundation 2008): •

How well does the activity advance discovery and understanding while promoting teaching, training, and learning?

•

How well does the proposed activity broaden the participation of underrepresented groups (e.g., gender, ethnicity, disability, geographic, etc.)?

•

To what extent will it enhance the infrastructure for research and education, such as facilities, instrumentation, networks, and partnerships?

•

Will the results be disseminated broadly to enhance scientific and technological understanding?

•

What may be the benefits of the proposed activity to society?

I explore these points in the chapters presented in the Connectivity session. Interconnected Communities in the Desert Southwest The irrigation-based communities of the Gila and Salt River drainages present an ideal setting to examine the intended and unintended consequences of connectivity, as canals were and are an important engineering mechanism entailing social mediation. The Hohokam had many demonstrated connections, some of which were confined to hydraulically linked intake and distribution systems while others cross-cut these structures (e.g., Abbott 2000; Howard 1993). The incredible databases that have emerged from over three decades of mitigation research represent a nearly unparalleled opportunity for data and interpretive synthesis, an endeavor currently undertaken by a number of scholars (e.g., Abbott, Smith, and Gallaga 2007; Hill et al. 2004). Given the numbers of people now residing in the Phoenix metropolitan area, archaeologists are uniquely positioned to communicate what they have learned about past uses of this landscape

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and their outcomes to educate current residents, as policy decisions made now will have long-term consequences. Likely related to this wealth of information, the chapter by Lyons, Hill, and Clark is the most archaeological and empirical contribution in this section. It represents elaboration on the demographic and social model presented as part of the Coalescent Communities study (Hill et al. 2004)—admirably meshing the vision of Dave Wilcox, the interest and practical infrastructure provided by Bill Doelle, and the hard work by the authors and many others to fill in the details. Within the larger context of Salt River Basin demography, Lyons and colleagues tackle the issue of late-arriving northern immigrants. Their distributional and temporal assessment of late Roosevelt Red Ware types has made the most of curated collections, shows that typology remains an important and useful archaeological skill, and becomes central to their later argument for feasting. The process of “core decay” is linked with aspects of environmental degradation that increasingly affected communities by the later 1300s, clearly an unintended outcome of long-term irrigation connectedness that had ramifications for all sectors and segments of Hohokam society. In this data-rich part of the case study, I would like to know more about the social details behind the decay—what did it mean for those in positions of leadership? For interdependent relationships among communities? For opportunities for migrants? Asking and answering these and similar questions can help us bridge to the larger lessons and details Lekson would have us create as part of a bigger Southwestern history. It is against the backdrop of “core decay” that Lyons, Hill, and Clark highlight the presence of connections between small numbers of northern migrants, primarily in peripheral communities structurally disadvantaged by environmental degradation and their place within the canal network. Why might migrants wish to join communities experiencing these elements of distress? Motivations are notoriously suspect in archaeological reconstructions, but they nevertheless are worthy of consideration. Usefully beginning to mine the literature on diasporas, an approach also advocated by Barbara Mills (this volume), the authors argue that groups of migrants maintained connections across communities, in part as an aspect of identity maintenance within a transformed social setting. They did so through the circulation of late Roosevelt Red Ware vessels and a tradition linked to communal consumption. Vessels themselves are the primary tangible measure of migrant presence, but, as demonstrated in other sections of this volume, many other material correlates suggest distant roots for members of some desert communities. The case for feasting presented here rests largely on increases in the overall size of late Roosevelt Red Ware types, but I would like to know more of the details of context. What foods were prepared? Who prepared them? What was the nature and scale of the consumptive events? For better or worse, the feasting literature has exploded, but within it are useful distinctions related to scale, audience, periodicity, and power relations that are worth looking into more (e.g., Dietler and Hayden 2001). What complementary lines of evidence can be used to support the feasting interpretation? The reaction of those who had long resided there is also a useful avenue of inquiry. Were these interlopers welcomed or seen as competition? Migrant enclaves could have had an active

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strategy to better their situation, taking advantage of an apparently deteriorating set of circumstances, but a large component of local behavior was certainly relevant to better understand these developments. The research of the Coalescent Communities Project has presented impressive, larger-scale demographic data (Hill et al. 2004), and I have no doubt it will continue to produce refined understanding of large-scale processes. We now need the complementary fine-grained reconstructions that permit greater understanding of more of the social behavior related to the larger-scale process of core decay. The arguments for feasting and the role of migrants presented here might best be considered tentative and useful for developing testable implications as this research program continues to mature. I look forward to learning more about the details of these processes as this research program unfolds in the years to come. Living Landscapes The chapters by Van Dyke, Schachner, and Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh touch on interrelated issues of Southwestern landscapes, both now and in the past. Clearly, the landscapes of the Southwest were and are central to experience and would have formed the core of identity for groups in the past. To some degree it becomes a matter of time, as Kantner noted earlier. With time, landscapes become storied places. Places and people might move, but those features that remain visible or visited are more likely to become imbued with social importance, living alongside the residents of past communities. Some places remain in people’s thoughts and experience through oral history, while other places are re-experienced periodically through pilgrimage. Prominent features are especially likely to hold a place in people’s minds and senses of place, imbued with names and storied with events. Now that I am settled outside the Southwest, I am acutely aware that the region is replete with dramatic and highly visible features that dominate the viewsheds of many places where the people of the past lived out their days. As Van Dyke notes, these places have the potential to become anchors of identity, enshrined in story and actions, such as ritual visitation. The challenge comes when we wish to reconstruct the importance of landscape features in particular cases. One key way to help us envision this living landscape is through the kind of collaborative work Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh present in their chapter. Ruth Van Dyke highlights the fact that thousands of people moved through Southwestern landscapes, and we are increasingly able, we think, to map some of these progressions. From the vantage of the high mesas of the Mesa Verde region, many natural features to the south would have been visible, capable of being layered with experience as people traveled through these spatial referents. Clearly, natural features become touchstones, supporting the idea of routes of travel linked to prominent landscape features. For example, Octavious Seowtewa, one of the members of the Zuni team involved in a collaborative project T. J. Ferguson and I have been conducting on the history and importance of the landscape around Zuni Salt Lake (Duff et al. 2008), noted that from the peak of a local cinder cone he could see other natural features—all of which were connected back to the place of emergence. These features can also be places of destination and future settlement. Van Dyke highlights the deliberate emplacement of an

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emergent great house to see several prominent volcanic plugs, potentially referencing visible points along the path of migration. Communal features from several Chuska Slope communities appear to be located with reference to these and other natural landmarks. Visibility can be evaluated through GIS, and we can use GIS friction surfaces to identify likely travel routes, but this requires us to assume rational, cost-minimizing beings. That is possible but not always true. As we think of the utility of GIS, we can build them to measure the viewsheds of natural features and other settlements, but perhaps as important, we might wish to program in behavioral sensibilities. It should be possible to build route algorithms that not only measure the least-cost surface but retain lines of sight to important topographic locations that could have served as guides along various migration or pilgrimage routes. I am arguing for the development of a more culturally sensitive and behaviorally aware GIS. We should bend the GIS tool to our needs. We should also consider and try to incorporate the effects of shadows cast by prominent landscape features with respect to settlements, the rising and setting of the sun, and the course of the moon across the night sky at critical times in the calendar as viewed from different locations. Cosmologies involving landscape features consider them to be living, as KoyiyumpÂ� tewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh highlight in their contribution. So we need to give landscapes complex lives in our models and in our minds. Those exceedingly fluent with GIS can figure out how to do this, although the work will not be simple. If we can also use these tools to evaluate a full range of locational phenomena of interest to Pueblo peoples, we can have greater confidence that they were as important as we might reconstruct them to have been in the past. We can also use landscapes to make predictions about places we have yet to investigate. Ruth Van Dyke has already been doing some of this with viewsheds. The results of such efforts have the potential for visual representation that would allow us to connect with wider audiences, which should include groups from descendant communities—potentially getting us closer to an archaeology relevant to Southwestern Native people and having a broader societal impact that will please the NSF. Greg Schachner calls attention to powerful natural features that have become revered in prayer, thought, and action by Pueblo people over time, often as distant locations visited as part of central rituals. Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh’s Hopi collaborators note that the distance of some features from residences adds to their power, as greater sacrifice is required to visit them. Pilgrimages to such features are a prominent part of the historic period record, but Schachner also notes that they must have been somewhat different in the past, when people were dispersed over a much larger portion of the landscape. As populations contracted in the 1300s and 1400s, pilgrimages to distant features—some of which were probably within the former home ranges of groups that had relocated—likely took on increased importance. In part, this is what motivated the work Ferguson and I have done with Pueblo groups near Zuni Salt Lake—a desire to learn more about how they thought people would have used this landscape when there were many more communities within the area and how this process changed over time (Duff et al. 2008). All of the Western Pueblo groups emphasized

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their cultural affiliation to sites in the area but acknowledged that uses must have been different in the past as earlier groups or clans were on migrations, some passing through the area. In some cases, use of these features may have originally developed when people lived closer to them; once populations consolidated into fewer settlements during the Pueblo IV period, people were likely to revisit powerful and important locations in their former homelands, setting in motion pilgrimage practices that may persist to the present. An examination of how people in the Pueblo IV period and later villages visited and used these sites may provide clues about the geographic histories of member groups. In other words, the study of features with shared ritual importance commemorated in pilgrimage or encoded in prayers may be another productive avenue for untangling past connections. As Schachner notes, if visits by different groups were timed to coincide, connectivity between groups would have been enhanced; episodes of co-presence would have helped maintain connections. However, over time, somewhat more proximate regional shrines—locations of natural features often some distance from settlements themselves and occasionally elaborately marked with rock art—came to be central to local identity. As Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh note, shrines can stand in for an actual place in ceremonial practice, highlighting the potential connections between regional shrines and highly revered, but less frequently visited, distant locations. Various contemporary Pueblos identified several of the trails that converge at the north end of Zuni Salt Lake as among the routes used during their pilgrimages. Hopi consultants in particular wanted to ensure that land managers understood the critical importance of protecting trails along their entire route, a point Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh echo. Although Hopi members noted the network character of trails that brought people to different places, we did not ask about, nor did they mention, scheduled convergences. If pilgrimage to Chaco Canyon was a part of past social interactions, coincident timing and travel to distant locations is something we should examine and attempt to identify. To learn more about the process of pilgrimage and how we might detect it archaeologically, Native consultants’ knowledgeable detail about different types of stone features—shrines and trail markers—can be combined with archaeological reconnaissance to evaluate potential routes. In this arena, mining cross-cultural literature would be profitable. Pueblo people are not the only groups to experience landscape through prayer and visitation. The way distant groups use social action, such as pilgrimage, to forge or maintain connections has been the topic of anthropological inquiry elsewhere, although not in perfectly analogous cases. Stewart Koyiyumptewa and Chip Colwell-Chanthaphonh’s chapter notes that trails form networks and links among natural cultural landmarks—such as shrines and trail markers—plant and raptor collection areas, and homes of ancestors. The examples note the deeply held knowledge and feelings Hopis possess for the landscape and emphasize the importance of this research within the legal framework of protections. As we begin to build a series of cases to document these landscapes and the feelings and sentiments associated with them, we are building a public record that can be used

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to argue for greater compliance with the intent of the laws. The work of Chip, T. J. Ferguson, and others better positions us to address what impacting “the integrity of a property’s feeling” means to Native people. We can all learn to be more aware of Native perspectives and incorporate them into site evaluations, even when projects do not have a collaborative or Native input component. As Koyiyumptewa and Colwell-Chanthaphonh note, we can protect feelings by protecting places—something of interest to both Native communities and archaeologists. I argue that these chapters satisfy the NSF’s second criteria by “broadening the participation of underrepresented groups” directly and indirectly. As we build a corpus of Native-written, Native-informed, and relevant history, archaeologists are helping larger audiences to be aware of, understand, and appreciate the history and contributions of “underrepresented groups”—the Native peoples of the Southwest. Upping the Ante—History at Continental Scales Steve Lekson bemoans the lack of original theory emerging from Southwestern archaeology, attributing some of this to Ruth Benedict and Louis Henry Morgan, humorously bedeviled in the graphics that accompanied his delivered presentation. In a roundabout way, the point he makes is that we have been hamstrung by past researchers and their ideas. We have failed to consider the importance of state-like formations in North America because our intellectual ancestors long ago decreed that there were no states north of Mexico. Lekson urges us to reconsider; we should investigate Chaco and Cahokia through the lens of secondary states and a continental perspective. Doing so, he argues, will provide us with new insights and understandings and help us contribute to big history. Linked to the session theme, we should assume that contemporaneous developments were aware of their continental-context brethren and that this connectivity made a difference in these societies, something we must learn more about to fully appreciate. While I am sympathetic to his call and remain a skeptical but dogged admirer of his earlier attempts (Lekson 1999, 2005; Lekson and Peregrine 2004), the details to which I alluded earlier are missing. Specifically, what insights do we gain from this perspective? If we call Cahokia a state—a secondary state—does it change the way we understand it? Steve would argue that it does, I remain skeptical without more details. Leaders from Cahokia may well have been greeted courteously if they appeared at El Tajin (mentioned in an earlier incarnation of Lekson’s chapter) or some other Mesoamerican complex polity, but El Tajin is a complex place in part because it is surrounded by dozens of other complex places and thousands of people persisting for several hundred years. Chaco and Cahokia were powerful and widely compelling locations, but they came to prominence relatively rapidly, lasted five or ten generations, and exited the stage as direct participants—although they clearly lived on in the memories of groups over a large area (Cameron and Duff 2008; Duff and Lekson 2006; Pauketat 2005). Lekson and Peregrine (2004) note that Cahokia was seemingly uninterested in Mesoamerican items, although Chaco leaders presumably used them as a source of power and connection. Although North American societies were clearly aware of, and impacted by,

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developments a few thousand miles south, saying so is not enough by itself. A few hundred copper bells, several macaws, and one small piece of obsidian from Mexico at Spiro (Barker et al. 2002) make neither theory nor an overly compelling story. What we need from Lekson is details. Some of these can be gleaned from oral history, and we can learn more from collaborations. But we need more. big history assumes connections—now we need to theorize, if not demonstrate, them. This is a gauntlet Steve Lekson has thrown down and one that will require the combined attention of many researchers. It is time for him to provide enough details to make this challenge more compelling. When he does, I am sure that I and others will get to work. References Abbott, D. R. 2000 Ceramics and Community Organization among the Hohokam. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Abbott, D. R., A. M. Smith, and E. Gallaga 2007 Ballcourts and Ceramics: The Case for Hohokam Marketplaces in the Arizona Desert. American Antiquity 72(3): 461–484. Anyon, R., T. J. Ferguson, L. Jackson, L. Lane, and P. Vicenti Native American Oral Tradition and Archaeology: Issues of Structure, Relevance, 1997 and Respect. In Native Americans and Archaeologists: Stepping Stones to Common Ground, ed. N. Swidler, K. Dongoske, R. Anyon, and A. Downer, 77–87. Altamira, Walnut Creek, CA. Barker, A. W., C. E. Skinner, M. S. Shackley, M. D. Glascock, and J. D. Rogers Mesoamerican Origin for an Obsidian Scraper from the Precolumbian Southeast2002 ern United States. American Antiquity 67(1): 103–108. Bernardini, W. 2005 Hopi Oral Tradition and the Archaeology of Identity. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Cameron, C. M., and A. I. Duff History and Process in Village Formation: Context and Contrasts from the North2008 ern Southwest. American Antiquity 73(1): 29–57. Colwell-Chanthaphonh, C., and T. J. Ferguson 2006 Memory Pieces and Footprints: Multivocality and the Meanings of Ancient Times and Ancestral Places among the Zuni and Hopi. American Anthropologist 108(1): 148–162. Dietler, M., and B. Hayden (editors) Feasts: Archaeological and Ethnographic Perspectives on Food, Politics, and Power. 2001 Smithsonian Institution Press, Washington, DC. Duff, A. I., T. J. Ferguson, S. Bruning, and P. Whiteley Collaborative Research in a Living Landscape: Pueblo Land, Culture, and History 2008 in West-Central New Mexico. Archaeology Southwest 22(1): 1–24. Duff, A. I., and S. H. Lekson 2006 Notes from the South. In The Archaeology of Chaco Canyon, an Eleventh Century

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Pueblo Regional Center, ed. S. H. Lekson, 315–337. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Ferguson, T. J. 2000 NHPA: Changing the Role of Native Americans in the Archaeological Study of the Past. In Working Together: Native Americans and Archaeologists, ed. K. Dongoske, M. Aldenderfer, and K. Doehner, 25–36. Society for American Archaeology, Washington, DC. 2003 Anthropological Archaeology Conducted by Tribes: Traditional Cultural Properties and Cultural Affiliation. In Archaeology Is Anthropology, ed. S. Gillespie and D. Nichols, 137–144. Archaeological Papers 13. American Anthropological Association, Washington, DC. Ferguson, T. J., and R. Anyon Hopi and Zuni Cultural Landscapes: Implications of Social Identity and Cultural 2001 Affiliation Research for Cultural Resources Management. In Native Peoples of the Southwest: Negotiating Land, Water, and Ethnicities, ed. L. Weinstein, 99–122. Bergin and Garvey, Westport, CT. Ferguson, T. J., and C. Colwell-Chanthaphonh History Is in the Land: Multivocal Tribal Traditions in Arizona’s San Pedro Valley. 2006 University of Arizona Press, Tucson. Fish, P. R., and J. J. Reid 1996b Preface. In Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underlying Principles and Overarching Patterns, ed. P. R. Fish and J. J. Reid, ix. Anthropological Research Papers 48. Arizona State University, Tempe. Fish, P. R., and J. J. Reid (editors) 1996a Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underlying Principles and Overarching Patterns. Anthropological Research Papers 48. Arizona State University, Tempe. Fowler, A. P., and J. R. Stein 1992 The Anasazi Great House in Space, Time, and Paradigm. In Anasazi Regional Organization and the Chaco System, ed. D. Doyel, 101–122. Anthropological Papers 5. Maxwell Museum of Anthropology, Albuquerque. Fowler, A. P., J. R. Stein, and R. Anyon An Archaeological Reconnaissance of West-Central New Mexico: The Anasazi Monu1987 ments Project. Report submitted to the State of New Mexico, Office of Cultural Affairs, Historic Preservation Division, Albuquerque. Hill, J. B., J. J. Clark, W. H. Doelle, and P. D. Lyons Prehistoric Demography in the Southwest: Migration, Coalescence, and Hohokam 2004 Population Decline. American Antiquity 69(4): 689–716. Howard, J. B. 1993 A Paleohydraulic Approach to Examining Agricultural Intensification in Hohokam Irrigation Systems. In Economic Aspects of Water Management in the Prehispanic New World, ed. V. Scarborough and B. Isaac, 263–324. Research in Economic Anthropology 7. JAI, Greenwich, CT. Kuwanwisiwma, L. J. Yupköyvi: The Hopi Story of Chaco Canyon. In In Search of Chaco: New Approaches 2004 to an Archaeological Enigma, ed. D. Noble, 41–47. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe.

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LeBlanc, S. A. 1999 Prehistoric Warfare in the American Southwest. University of Utah Press, Salt Lake City. Lekson, S. H. Great Pueblo Architecture of Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. University of New Mexico 1986 Press, Albuquerque. Settlement Patterns and the Chaco Region. In Chaco and Hohokam: Prehistoric 1991 Regional Systems in the American Southwest, ed. P. L. Crown and W. J. Judge, 31–55. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. 1996 Scale and Process in the Southwest. In Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underlying Principles and Overarching Patterns, ed. P. Fish and J. Reid, 81–86. Anthropological Research Papers 48. Arizona State University, Tempe. 1999 The Chaco Meridian: Centers of Political Power in the American Southwest. Altamira, Walnut Creek, CA. 2002 Salado Archaeology of the Upper Gila, New Mexico. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 67. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 2005 Chaco and Paquimé: Complexity, History, Landscape. In North American Archaeology, ed. T. Pauketat and D. Loren, 235–272. Blackwell, Malden, MA. 2006 Chaco Matters: An Introduction. In The Archaeology of Chaco Canyon, an Eleventh Century Pueblo Regional Center, ed. S. Lekson, 3–44. School of American Research Press, Santa Fe. Lekson, S. H., and P. N. Peregrine 2004 A Continental Perspective for North American Archaeology. The SAA Archaeological Record 4(1): 15–19. Marshall, M. P., J. R. Stein, R. W. Loose, and J. E. Novotny Anasazi Communities of the San Juan Basin. Public Service Company of New Mex1979 ico and the State of New Mexico, Historic Preservation Bureau, Santa Fe. National Science Foundation Grant Proposal Guide. Electronic document, available at http://www.nsf.gov/ 2008 pubs/policydocs/pappguide/nsf_08/gpg_index.jsp. Accessed January 10, 2008. Pauketat, T. R. The Forgotten History of the Mississippians. In North American Archaeology, ed. 2005 T. R. Pauketat and D. Loren, 187–211. Blackwell, Malden, MA. Redman, C. L. Adding Content to Patterns: Comments on Geographic and Demographic Scales 1996 in the Ancient Southwest. In Interpreting Southwestern Diversity: Underlying Principles and Overarching Patterns, ed. P. Fish and J. J. Reid, 115–118. Anthropological Research Papers 48. Arizona State University, Tempe. Reid, J. J. 1992

Editor’s Corner: Recent Findings on North American Prehistory. American Antiquity 57(2): 195–196.

Stein, J. R., and A. P. Fowler Looking Beyond Chaco in the San Juan Basin and Its Peripheries. In The Prehis1996 toric Pueblo World A.D. 1100–1300, ed. M. Adler, 114–130. University of Arizona Press, Tucson.

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Stein, J. R., and S. H. Lekson 1992 Anasazi Ritual Landscapes. In Anasazi Regional Organization and the Chaco System, ed. D. Doyel, 87–100. Anthropological Papers 5. Maxwell Museum of Anthropology, Albuquerque. Upham, S. 1982

Polities and Power: An Economic and Political History of the Western Pueblo. Academic Press, New York.

Watkins, J. E. 2003 Beyond the Margin: American Indians, First Nations, and Archaeology in North America. American Antiquity 68(2): 273–285. Whiteley, P. M. Archaeology and Oral Tradition: The Scientific Importance of Dialogue. American 2002 Antiquity 67(3): 405–415. Wilcox, D. R. The Evolution of the Chacoan Polity. In The Chimney Rock Archaeological Sympo1993 sium, ed. J. Malville and G. Matlock, 76–90. U.S. Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, Fort Collins, CO.

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Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations

Accidental Archaeologist ( Jennings), 97–98 Acoma, 78; landforms, 405–6; pilgrimages, 428, 430 Acoma-Laguna area, 313 Adams, E. Charles, 76 AFNM. See Agua Fria National Monument Agave, 111, 128; on Perry Mesa, 208–10, 210 Aggregation, 189–90, 257, 266, 306; northern San Juan, 406–7; Pueblo I villages, 410–11; A.D. 1200s, 278, 280 Agriculture, 110, 129, 182, 188, 221, 330; archaeobotanical evidence of, 121–24; diversification, 141–42; early, 29–32; and foraging, 32–34; Hohokam, 378, 381; irrigation, 125–26; Perry Mesa, 111–12, 202–7, 210–12; soil changes, 142–53 Agroecosystems, 142 Agua Fria National Monument (AFNM), 199, 202 Ak-chin fields, salinization, 152 Ak Chin Reservation, 87 Akimel O’odham, irrigation agriculture, 125 Albert, Norman, 450

Aldenderfer, Mark, 98 Alkali Ridge 13, 410–11, 412 Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehispanic Southwest (Mills), 62 Amaranth, domesticated, 30 American Antiquity, obituaries and biographical essays in, 97–98 American Archaeology Past and Future: A Celebration of the Society for American Archaeology 1935–1985 (Meltzer et al.), 96–97 AMS dates, early Apache sites, 82 Anasazi Origins Project, 27 Ancestral Puebloans, 126, 127, 267, 303; migrations, 297–98, 298, 310–12, 323–24, 334; in Rio Alamosa area, 308–10. See also various regions; sites; time periods Animals, human impacts on, 110–11, 179, 181–83, 186–91, 221 Anthropology, colonialism and, 462–63 Apaches, early, 34, 82–83, 331 Apaches de Nabaxu, 333 Aravaipa District, 304

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Archaeobotanical record, vegetation changes recorded in, 121–24 Archaeology: changes in, 2–3, 18–20; and Native Americans, 443–44, 468–69; relevance of, 6–7, 20–22, 468–69 Archaic tradition, foraging technology, 27–29 Architecture, 280, 281, 358; feasting traditions and, 390–91; and migration, 303–4, 347–48, 353; northern Rio Grande region, 282–83, 326; on Perry Mesa, 207–8; Point of Pines Pueblo, 283–84; Rio Alamosa, 307–8, 311–12 Arizona, 30, 189; early Apache sites in, 82–83; impacts of agriculture in, 148, 149; migrations in, 49–50, 278. See also various cultures; locations; sites Arizona Archaeological Council, Protohistoric session, 76 Arizona State Historic Preservation Office, prehistoric-Â�historic transition research, 76 Arizona State University, archaeological site on, 17 Arroyo Hondo, 185, 283 Artiodactyl indexes, 182–83, 184; and village aggregation, 189–90 Artiodactyls, 186; hunting, 189–91 Artists’ colonies, 59 Athapaskans, 34, 244, 354; arrival of, 80, 81–83; migration of, 328–31, 334–35, 348, 349, 355; in northern San Juan, 335–36 Avonlea phase, 330 Aztecs, as state society, 458, 459 Baby Canyon Pueblo, 203 Badger House, 182 Bajada points, 26, 27 Bandelier, Adolph, 459 Basket Dance (Hopi), 450 Basketmaker groups, 29, 30, 257 Basketmaker II period, 186, 330 Basketmaker III period, 430 Bayham, Frank, 182–83 Beans, 30, 31 Becoming Aztlan (Riley), 76 Beeweed, 124 Behind Painted Walls (Hibben), 99 Belief systems, and maintenance of connectivity, 366–67 Benedict, Ruth, 59, 457, 475; Patterns of Culture, 458, 461, 462 Bennett Peak, 410, 411, 414, 415, 416 Betatakin, 446 Big History, 364, 463–64, 470, 475 Bighorn sheep, 186 Biographical essays, 97 Biological diversity, 125; and farming, 182, 187; maintaining, 220–21

482

Biotic communities, 120 Birds, and farming practices, 182, 188 Bishop, Ron, 65 Bis Sa’ani, 307 Blue J community, 369–70 Blue Lake, 423; pilgrimages to, 428, 431 Bohrer, Vorsila, on Hohokam use of fire, 125 Bow and arrow technology, 28–29 Brandt, Elizabeth, 60 Brew, J. O., 97, 99 Building, impact on vegetation of, 207–8 Bulletin of the History of Archaeology, 98 Bull Tank Agricultural Area, 203–4, 204, 206 Burnt Mesa Pueblo Area I, 283 Cabezon Peak, 405 Cahokia, as state, 460, 462, 464, 475 Camp Grant massacre, 99 Cañada Alamosa Project, 305, 306 Canals, 147; environmental degradation and, 378– 80; expansion and abandonment of, 377–78; Hohokam, 375–77, 377; in southern Arizona, 48, 125–26 Canal System 2, 377, 378, 380; and Pueblo Grande, 381–82; Roosevelt Red Wares at, 384–86 Canutillo complex, 87 Cartography, 369; pilgrimage, 429–35 Casa Buena, 385 Casa Grande, 58 Casas Grandes, trade networks, 350 Cascabel District, Kayenta migrants in, 303–4, 306 Castle Rock Pueblo, directional shrines, 239 Castle Rock village, violence at, 282 Cattle grazing, 200, 222 Caves, as ritual features, 425–26 Center for Desert Archaeology, 65, 84; Protohistoric studies, 76, 85 Central Mesa Verde (CMV) groups, 311; environmental degradation and, 278–79; migrations of, 276, 281, 282–83, 288; in northern Rio Grande, 284–86, 289(n4); population growth in, 279– 80; and Tewa pueblos, 277–78 Ceramics, 31, 237, 281, 284, 289(n2), 313, 367, 433; central Mesa Verde region, 280, 289(n3); corrugated, 302–3, 310, 349–50; feasting, 388–89; late Hohokam area, 382–84; lower San Pedro Valley, 304, 353; northern San Juan migration, 324–26; Rio Alamosa, 306, 307–8, 309, 311, 312 Ceremonial cycle, Hopi, 256, 445, 450 Cerro Juanaqueña, 46; labor organization at, 30–31; sedentism at, 48–49 Chaco Canyon, 60, 61, 368, 370, 406, 407, 426, 428; important landforms, 415, 416; pilgrim-

Index

ages, 432, 433, 435, 474; as secondary state, 461, 464, 475–76; social organization in, 64–65 Chaco Phenomenon, 267; social organization, 64–65 Chaco River, 443; mineral resources on, 447–48 Changing Woman, 332 Chavez Pass, 59, 257 Chavez Pass–Grasshopper debate, 59–61 Cheno-ams, 31, 124 Chichilticale, 83 Chihuahua, 20; Late Archaic sedentism in, 48–49 Chimney Rock, 405 Chimney Rock–Piedra district, 263 Cholla, 124, 127, 130 Christianson, Andy, 97 Chuska Valley, Pueblo I sites, 403, 407 Cibola region, pilgrimages, 430–31 Cienega phase, 47–48 Cienega Valley, Late Archaic sedentism in, 47–48 Cities, impacts of, 223 Clan houses, Hopi, 268 Clans: Hopi, 254, 255, 256, 260(table), 446, 450; Navajo, 331–33 Clark, Jeffery, on Tonto Basin migration, 237 Classic Bonito phase, 406 Classic period (Hohokam), faunal assemblages, 191 Clearwater site, maize at, 29 Cliff dwellings, central Mesa Verde region, 280 Cliff Polychrome, 382, 383, 385, 389 Cliff White-on-red, 382, 383, 384, 391 Climate, 21, 110, 112, 120, 278, 279 CMV. See Central Mesa Verde groups Coalescent Communities Study/Project, 471, 472; database, 77–78 Collaboration, 7–8, 22, 88 Colonialism, of American anthropology, 462–63 Colonial period (Hohokam), faunal assemblages, 191 Colonization, 235, 354, 355 Colorado Plateau, 27, 188, 192, 405; textile production, 350–51 Colorado River, soil salinization along, 152 Companion Rock, 405 Competition, Hohokam core area, 376–77 Conflict, 282, 353, 388, 434; in Hohokam area, 376–77; Hopi migrants, 257–58; Tiwa migrants, 263–64 Connectivity, 5, 363, 369, 427, 435, 436, 468; Big History view of, 463–64; creation of, 364–66; Hohokam, 470–72; Hopitutskwa, 444–50; landscape, 474–75; maintenance of, 366–68; migration and, 348–52; past-present, 443–44 Conservation, 88, 142 Contract archaeology (CRM), 18–19 Cordell, Linda, 98

Coro, El, 86 Coronado expedition, 83–84 Cortaro points, 28 Cosmology: landscapes in, 405–6, 473–74; natural features in, 423–27, 436 Cotton production, and exchange networks, 350–51 Cottontails, 111, 168, 170, 171–72, 186, 187, 188 Cottonwood, Hopi use of, 127, 449 Craft production, in diaspora, 387 CRM. See Contract archaeology Crooke, Kevin, 450 Crown, Patricia, 65 Crumley, Carole, 62 Culture-area concept, 237 Cushing, Frank Hamilton, 58 Dance circles, viewsheds of, 411–13 Databases: education value of, 6–7; Protohistoric, 77–78 Davis Ranch site, 349 Deer, 111, 186 Deforestation, 278 Demographic changes, prehistoric, 76–81 Depopulation, 297, 311, 312; of Hohokam core area, 382, 391; San Juan Basin, 323–24, 326, 368 Development projects, impacts of, 450–52 Diasporas, 354, 355–56, 365, 367; Kayenta, 387–88 Diet, Early Agricultural, 31–32 Diffusion, and connectivity, 364–65 Diné, 335, 354; early, 331–33; important landforms, 405, 407 Dinétah, 321, 355; establishment of, 331–33, 335–36; as landscape, 333–34 Dinétah phase, 333 Dinwiddie Polychrome, 382, 383, 384, 391 Di Peso, Charles, 59, 97 Disease, in northwestern New Spain, 77 Dismal River aspect, 330 Division of labor, Early Agricultural sites, 30–31 Dolores Project, faunal assemblages, 182, 186, 187 Dolores River Valley, 126, 186 Domestication, plant, 128 Douglas fir, Puebloan use of, 126, 128 Downum, Chris, 97 Doyel, David, 97 Dozier, Edward P., biography of, 99 Droughts, 26–27, 32, 278, 368 Dryland farming, 142, 144 Dualism, 352; ritual, 268–69; Taos, 255, 260–62, 264–65, 267 Dual process theory, 62, 64 Duff, Andrew, Protohistoric Pueblo world, 76 Dutch Canal Ruin, 386

483

Index

Eagles, 191, 450 Early Agricultural period, 32; labor organization, 30–31; spread of maize, 29–30; Tucson Basin, 47–48 Early Archaic period, projectile point technology, 28 Earth as Modified by Human Action: Man and Nature, The (Marsh), 107–8 Eastern Fremont, 330 Eastern Pueblos, social organization, 60, 253–54, 267 Ecological change, 3–4, 21, 28; human-induced, 219–23; Paleoindian/Archaic transition, 26–27 Ecology, 21, 108, 180, 365; anthropogenic, 109– 10, 124–32, 201–2 Economic specialization, in diaspora, 387 Ecosystems, 6; fire and, 223–24; human impacts on, 124–30, 199–201, 219–20 Egalitarian societies, 60, 63, 66 Elites: at Chaco Canyon, 64, 65; at Chavez Pass, 59–60 El Malpais tree-ring chronology, 120 El Morro Valley, 430, 433 El Paso phase, 34 El Tajin, 475 Enemyway rituals, at Shiprock, 410 Ensoulment, 323 Environment, 3, 23, 142, 186, 190; degradation of, 278–79, 376, 378–79, 381; human impacts on, 181–83, 199–201, 219–20; human relationships to, 20–21, 107–8, 179, 180 Environmental change, anthropogenic, 108–9, 126–27, 128–30, 181–82, 221–23 Environmental conservation movement, 108 Environmental science, and archaeology, 20–22 Erosion, agricultural practices and, 147, 148, 150 Ethnogenesis, 4, 7, 246(n1), 323, 352–54; Diné, 335–36; landscape and, 321–22 Exchange networks, 280, 309, 350–51, 366; Kayenta, 281, 388; lower San Pedro migrants, 304, 306 Extinctions, 219, 221, 223 Fajada Butte, 412, 416 Famine foods, 129, 282, 449 Farmers, and foragers, 32–34. See also Agriculture Faunal assemblages: indirect human impacts on, 186–87; zooarchaeological studies of, 183–86 Feasting, 181, 367; and leadership, 62–63; lines of evidence for, 471–72; Salado phenomenon, 388–90 Feathers, religious use of, 450 Feminism, 63 Fewkes, Jesse Walter, 58 Fields, 126; garden hunting and, 186–87; pollen analyses of, 123–24

484

Field systems, Rio Grande Valley, 126; and soil enhancement, 145–48 Fire, 207; North American ecosystems and, 223– 24; human use of, 124–25; at Point of Pines Pueblo, 286–87 Fire regimes, 112, 223 First Man and First Woman, 405 Fish, 186, 191 Flaked stone technology, Archaic tradition, 28 Floods, 51, 126, 379 Floodwater fields, 146, 152 Florence Junction, 33 Flotation samples, 121–22 Flute ceremony, 450 Foraging societies, 25, 31; Archaic, 27–29; and farmers, 32–34; Paleoindian/Archaic transition, 26–27 Ford Butte, 410, 411, 414, 415, 416 Fossil fuels, 112, 224–25 Four Corners region, 34, 311, 321, 328; as landscape, 322, 335; migrations from, 49, 247 Fowler, Don, 96, 97, 98 Frances Mesa, 333 Fremont culture, 330; faunal analyses, 185–86, 190 Fresnal Shelter, Late Archaic period, 29 Fried, Morton, 59, 63 Frontier People, The (Riley), 76 Frontiers, 235–36; migration to internal, 354, 355 Fruitland Project, early Navajo sites in, 81, 82, 332, 333 Fuel use, 121–22, 126–27, 129 Galisteo Basin, regional shrines in, 427 Gallinas Springs site, 309, 310, 312, 313 Garden hunting, 186–87, 188 Gathering of the Clans, 332–33, 335 Gaybanipitea, 86 Gender, and migration, 242–43 Gender roles, 63 Geography, sacred, 367, 369 Ghost Dance sites, 432 Gila Polychrome, 304, 313, 353, 389 Gila River, 87, 152, 350 Gila River Indian Community, 87 Givens, Douglas, 97, 98 Goat Hill, 349 Gobernador phase, 333 Government Mountain obsidian, 388 Grand Canal Ruin, 385 Grand Canyon, 152, 433; Hopi pilgrimages to, 427, 447 Grasshopper Girl, 407 Grasshopper Pueblo, 60, 95, 182; migration into, 238, 244–45, 281 Grazing, 222

Index

Great Basin, Late Paleoindian period, 26 Great house, Blue J community, 370 Grey Mesa, 414, 415

Hunting, 183, 221; artiodactyl, 189–91; garden, 186–87, 188; impacts of, 110–11; lagomorph, 170–74

Haury, Emil, 59, 96, 97, 99 Haury, Hulda, 99 Hawikku (Hawikuh); Battle of, 83; Roosevelt Red Ware at, 384 Hayes, Alden, 182 Hearths, flotation samples from, 121 Hero Twins, 332, 333 Hesperus Peak, 407 Heterarchy, 62, 64; feasting and, 62–63 Hewett, Edgar L., 459–60 Hibben, Eleanor, Behind Painted Walls, 99 Hibben, Frank, 99 High Mesa site, 304 Hill, Jane: on Proto-Kiowa-Tanoan, 330; on Zuni language, 84 Hinsley, Curtis, 98 Hisatsinom, 256 Histories: Hopi, 255, 256–58, 450–52; landforms in, 404–6; of Southwestern archaeology and archaeologists, 95–100; Taos, 261–62 Hogans, early, 333 Hohokam, 50, 59, 84, 127, 128, 146, 152, 350, 461; canal systems, 125–26; connectivity issues in, 470–72; core decay, 368, 378–82, 391; faunal assemblages, 187, 188, 190, 191; and immigrant populations, 50, 366, 386–87; irrigation systems, 367, 375–78, 384–86; Roosevelt Red Wares, 382–84 Homol’ovi, 257, 313, 348 Homviikya, 367, 445, 447 Hopi, 78, 127, 242, 367; identity, 255–56; kinship networks, 351–52; landscape connectivity, 5, 424, 444–50, 474–75; migration histories of, 241, 253, 256–58, 349, 414; past-present connectivity, 443–44; pilgrimages, 427, 428, 430; recording histories, 450–52; social organization, 254, 258–60, 267, 268–69; Tusayan-Kayenta migrants, 283, 348 Hopi Mesas, Motisinom, 257 Hopi Tribe, affiliation studies, 84 Hopitutskwa, 444; features in, 445–47; plants, 448–49; raptors, 449–50; stones and minerals in, 447–48 Hosta Butte, 370, 415 Households, 242, 348; lagomorph hunting, 170– 74; Village Ecodynamics Project, 162–64 Houses, Early Agricultural, 30, 48 Houses and House-Life of the American Aborigines (Morgan), 458–59 Huerfano Mountain, 405 Human remains, Early Agricultural sites, 30

Identity, 4, 82, 366, 387, 423; Hopi, 255–56; Kayenta, 286, 287, 311; material culture and, 238–39; and migration, 65, 243, 275–76, 288, 313–14, 321–22, 334; NAGPRA and, 63, 84–85; place and, 403, 405–6; social, 237, 404; Tewa, 327–28; Tiwa, 260–62 Immigration, 266; at Hopi, 241, 253, 256–58; in Phoenix Basin, 386–87, 471; and social organization, 267–68; Tiwa, 264–65 Indian Claims Commission, Hopi and, 445 Indians of the Southeastern United States (Swanton), 461 Inequality, 61, 62, 63; in Chaco societies, 64–65 Instituto Nacional de Antropología y Historia (INAH), 20 Intellectuals, impacts of, 457–60 Irrigation, 142; impacts of, 125–26, 152 Irrigation systems: environmental degradation and, 378–79; Hohokam, 366, 367, 368, 375–78, 380–81, 384–86 Jackrabbits, 186; human predation on, 111, 172, 188; in Mesa Verde area, 168, 170, 171, 182 Jackson Butte, Acoma pilgrimage, 428 Jay points, distribution of, 26–27 Jemez Mountains, 26, 127, 428 Jemez Pueblo, early Diné at, 331 Jennings, Jesse, Accidental Archaeologist, 97–98 Jornada Mogollon area, 25, 31, 35 Journal of the Southwest, historical themes and issues, 99 Juniper, in Hopi, 448–49 Katsina religion, 259, 269(n4), 436; Maasaw and, 260, 450 “Kaweshtima Sharing Its Existence with Me and Me Sharing My Existence with Kaweshtima” (Ortiz), 405–6 Kayenta Anasazi, 281, 311; diaspora, 387–88; environment, 278, 279; feasting, 389–90; migrants, 243, 244, 245, 257, 276, 277, 283–84, 286–87, 288, 303–6, 313, 353, 376–77, 387–88; social networks, 349–50 Kechipawan Polychrome, 384 Kelly Canyon site, 305 Keresan speakers, Zuni Heaven pilgrimages, 428–29 Kidder, A. V., 96 Kiet Siel (Keet Seel), 127, 446 Kinishba, Wyoming chert in, 349 Kino, Eusebio Francisco, 78, 86

485

Index

Kinship, 262; networks, 351–52 Kiowa, Athapaskan relationships, 329–30, 334 Kiowa Apache, 329–30 Kiqötutuwutsi, 258 Kishyu’ba, 256 Kivas, 259, 262, 280, 283, 304; Point of Pines, 284, 286; Rio Alamosa area, 307–8 Koluwala:wa (Zuni Heaven), pilgrimages to, 428–29, 431, 433 Kuwanwisiwma, Leigh J., 447 Kuykendall site, 83 Kwahe’e Black-on-white, 324 Kwathlowúna, 262 Labor organization, Early Agricultural period, 30–31 La Ciudad Occupation Zone, 385–86 Ladder construction, as migration indicator, 347–48 Lagomorph index, 182–83, 184, 185, 186 Lagomorphs, 110, 111, 161–62, 167–68, 182; hunting impacts, 170–74 Laguna, Zuni Salt Lake pilgrimages, 428, 430 LA 55979, 81 Land Conveyance and Transfer (LC&T) archaeological project, 130, 131 Landforms, landmarks, 436, 472–73; as metonyms, 404–6, 446; pilgrimage cartography, 429–35; pilgrimages to, 427–29; sacred, 424–27; San Juan Basin, 403, 407–15 Landscape(s), 3–4, 5, 109, 141, 332, 333–34, 365, 367; anthropogenic, 124–30; ethnogenesis and, 321–22; features with meaning on, 404–5; Hopi, 444–47; human modification of, 107–8, 110, 226; living, 472–75; of Perry Mesa, 111– 12, 202; productivity of, 164–70; Puebloan, 366, 369; ritual use of, 423–27; San Juan Basin, 407–15 Landscape changes, 109; archaeobotanical record, 121–24 Landscape learning, 355 Landscapes of memory, 322, 335 La Plata Agricultural Area, 203, 205 La Plata Mountains, 407, 410, 411, 412, 414 La Quemada, 61 Las Capas site, 29, 30, 48, 125 Las Colinas, 385, 386; and Canal System 2, 381–82 Las Playas, early villages at, 30 Late Archaic period, 28, 29, 31, 32, 35; sedentism, 46, 47–49, 51 Late Paleoindian period, 26 LC&T. See Land Conveyance and Transfer archaeological project Leadership, feasting and, 62–63

486

Legacies on the Landscape Project, 199–201; agave research, 208–10; agriculture, 202–7; architecture, 207–8 Lekson, Steve, 60–61, 97 Linares, Olga, on garden hunting, 186–87 Linguistics: pilgrimage site terms, 428–29; place names, 428–29 Lithic scatters, in New Mexico, 34–35 Little Archaeology, Big Archaeology: The Changing Context of Archaeological Research (Rogge), 96 Livestock, environmental changes, 221, 222 Lomakuyvaya, Floyd, 450 Longacre, William, 96 Long House (Mesa Verde), wood use, 127 Los Gigantes (El Morro Valley), 433 Los Muertos, 58, 383 Los Muertos Polychrome, 382, 384, 385, 391 Los Pozos site, 48 Lower San Pedro Valley. See San Pedro Valley Lummis, Charles, 459 Maasaw, 258, 259–60, 450 McDowell Mountains, Protohistoric period, 87 McGregor, John, memoir, 99 Maize, 121, 149, 172; Early Agricultural period, 29–30, 32; as marker of landscape change, 124, 130; at Sand Canyon Pueblo, 128, 129 Ma’kyayanne. See Zuni Salt Lake Mammals, small, 188 Manje, Juan Mateo, population estimates, 78 Mansos, 34 Marsh, George Perkins, 112(n1), The Earth as Modified by Human Action, 107–8 Martin, Paul, 96 Martin 1, 410, 411, 412, 412–13 Masse, W. Bruce, Protohistoric conference, 75–76 Material culture, as migration evidence, 237, 238–39, 244, 302–3 Matrilineal societies, Hopi, 268 Matsaki Polychrome, 384 Maverick Mountain series ceramics, 304, 313, 387, 388 Memoirs, 98–99 Mesa Verde, 128, 147, 182, 433, 472; Morris 33 viewshed, 413, 413–14 Mesa Verde region, 187, 190, 289(n1), 326, 347; lagomorph hunting, 110–11, 170–74; migrants, 289(n2), 308–10, 311–12, 334, 348, 349; mobility and sedentism in, 50–51; Village Ecodynamics Project, 161–70. See also Central Mesa Verde groups Mescal Wash site, 50 Mesoamerica, connectivity with, 365 Mesquite pods, nutritional value of, 31 Metates, at Cerro Juanaqueña, 49

Index

Metonyms, landforms/places as, 404–6, 446 Mexico, 19, 20, 30, 77 Middle Archaic period, 28, 29 Middle Holocene, drought, 26–27 Migration, migrants, 4, 6, 30, 46, 49–50, 233, 235, 237, 266–67, 281, 289(n2), 312, 365; Ancestral Pueblo, 310–12; Athapaskan, 82, 328–31, 334–35; attributes of, 237–39, 299–300; causes of, 240–42; dimensions of, 345–46; ethnogenesis and, 352–54; gender and, 242–43; Hopi clan, 255, 256–58; and identity, 65, 275–76, 313–14, 321–22; Kayenta–Point of Pines, 283–84, 286–87; to lower San Pedro Valley, 300–306; Mesa Verde–Rio Grande, 282–83, 284–86; models for, 354–56; from northern San Juan, 324–26; Pueblo histories of, 253–55; routes of, 409(table), 414–15, 473; San Juan Basin, 406–7; scale of, 347–48; social consequences of, 243–45, 288; social networks, 348–52; to Tewa Basin, 324–26; Tewa language and, 277–78; Tiwa, 263–64 Mills, Barbara, Alternative Leadership Strategies in the Prehispanic Southwest, 62 Mimbres area, 189, 283; agricultural terraces, 145, 148; jackrabbit distribution, 182, 186; Rio Alamosa area, 306, 307; soils degradation at, 149, 151; wood use, 126–27 Mineral extraction, 112, 221 Minerals, Hopi connectivity to, 447–48 Minnis, Paul, 97 Mobility, 85; research on, 45–46, 49, 51–52; San Pedro Sobaipuri, 86–87; social contexts of, 50–51 Moieties, 254; Taos, 264–65 Mogollon Highlands, Ancestral Puebloan migration from, 303, 348 Mogollon Mountains, Kayenta groups in, 276, 283–84, 288 Mogollon Rim, 192, 283, 355 Monongye, Harlyn, 450 Monster Slayer, 410 Montezuma Valley, Pueblo I sites, 403, 407 Montoya site, 305, 310 Morgan, Lewis Henry, 457, 460, 475; Houses and House-Life of the American Aborigines, 458–59; social evolution, 58, 462 Morris, Ann Axtell, 59 Morris 33, 410, 413, 413–14 Motisinom, 255, 256, 257, 268; social roles of, 258–60 Mound Builders, 460 Movement, 4, 7, 26, 327; causes of, 240–42; forms of, 242–43; identifying, 236–40; population, 233–34, 275; Pueblo histories of, 253–55; social consequences of, 243–45, 246(table). See also Migration

Movement studies, terminology used in, 234–36 Museum of Northern Arizona, Zuni origins, 84 NAGPRA. See Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act Nambe, 324 Naming, of places, 445–46 Namingha, Theodore, Sr., 451 Nash, Steve, 98 National Environmental Policy Act (NEPA), 444, 451, 452 National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA), 444, 451, 452; impacts of, 34–35; and Protohistoric period sites, 84–85 Nationalism, of Southwestern archaeology, 20 National Register of Historic Places, 444, 451 National Science Foundation (NSF), 470 Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), 63, 237 Native Americans, 88, 233; relevance of archaeology to, 468–69. See also various groups; tribes Natural features. See Landforms, landmarks Navajo, 244, 321, 328, 430; and Dinetah, 331–33, 335–36; early, 34, 81, 82; important landforms, 405, 407, 408, 410 Nelson, Ben, 61 Neusius, Sarah, on garden hunting, 186, 187 New Archaeology, 58 New Mexico: Athapaskan arrival in, 81–82; huntergatherer research, 34–35. See also various cultures; natural features; regions; sites; traditions New River Mountains, plant management, 128 Nine Mile Polychrome, 382, 383, 384, 385, 391 Non-native species, 112, 223 Northern San Juan. See San Juan Basin Northern Rio Grande (NRG) region, 279, 326, 347; Mesa Verde migrations to, 276, 277, 280, 281, 282–83, 284–86, 288, 289(n4), 334, 348 Nusbaum, Jesse, 99 Nusbaum, Rosemary, Tierra Dulce, 98–99 Nutrition, 31; and lagomorph hunting, 172–73 Nùutungkwisinom, 255, 256, 257, 268; social organization and, 258–59 Obituaries, 97, 98 Obsidian, 29, 304, 306, 326, 366, 388 Ohkay Owingeh (San Juan), 324 Oil Age, 224–25 Old Corn site, 29 Opata speakers, 78 Optimal foraging theory: lagomorph hunting, 170–74; Village Ecodynamics Project, 161–64 Oral histories/tradition, 96; Hopi, 256–58, 424; Navajo, 332–33; of population movement, 242, 253–55; Taos, 261–62

487

Index

Origin narratives: Hopi, 256; Taos, 263–64 Ortiz, Simon, “Kaweshtima Sharing Its Existence with Me and Me Sharing My Existence with Kaweshtima,” 405–6 Osteology, Early Agricultural sites, 30 Paalölöqangw ceremony, 450 Packrat middens, as vegetation record, 119–20 Pajarito Plateau, 130, 283; Mesa Verde migrants in, 284–85 Palatkwapi, 256, 258 Paleoenvironmental data, Jemez Mountains bogs, 26 Paleoindian/Archaic transition, 26–27 Papaguería, 50, 313 Paquimé, as secondary state, 461 Parezo, Nancy, 98 Parsons, Elsie Clews, 262 Patterns of Culture (Benedict), 458, 461, 462 Perforated plates, 304, 313, 353, 386–87, 388 Perry Mesa: agaves on, 208–10; agricultural systems on, 110, 111–12, 202–7, 210–12; architecture and plant communities on, 207–8; human impacts on environment, 199–201 Petroglyph Hill (Galisteo Basin), 427 Phenomenology, 404 Phoenix Basin, 33, 87, 462; irrigation systems, 377– 78; Puebloan immigrants in, 313, 380, 386–87; Roosevelt Red Wares in, 384–86 Phoenix Polychrome, 382, 383, 385, 391 Piedras Marcadas Pueblo, 83 Pilgrimage routes: cartography of, 429–35; Hopi, 445, 447 Pilgrimages, 8, 349, 366, 367, 424, 436, 473–74; Chaco Canyon, 65, 368; historic Pueblo, 427– 29; timing of, 431–32 Pilgrimage sites, archaeological identification of, 432–33 Pima Indians, The (Russell), 59 Piman speakers, 78 Pimería Alta, population changes in, 78, 80 Pine, as marker of landscape change, 124 Pinnacle Ruin, 305, 306, 309, 310, 312, 313 Pinnawa Red-on-white, 384 Piñon harvest, 29 Piñon-juniper woodlands, 28 Pitaitutgam, 86 PKT. See Proto-Kiowa-Tanoan Place(s): and identity, 403, 405–6; named, 445–46; sacred natural, 423–29 Place names, linguistics, 428–29 Plains-Pueblo trade, 32 Plains Upper Republican culture, 330 Plant communities, plants, 31, 48, 125, 222; Hopitutskwa, 448–49; human impacts on, 109–

488

10, 121–30; on Perry Mesa, 207–10; research on, 119–20; Village Ecodynamics Project, 166–67, 169(table) Platform mounds, lower San Pedro, 304 Plazas, in Puebloan, 283 Plog, Fred, social hierarchy, 59–60 Point of Pines Pueblo, 313, 384; Kayenta migrants at, 283–84, 349 Point of Pines region, 236; Kayenta migrants at, 243, 245, 276, 277, 278, 281, 283–84, 286–87, 288, 348 Pojoaque, 324 Polingyumptewa, Harold, 446 Polities, Southwestern, 460–61 Pollen analysis, 120, 125; archaeological samples, 122–24; LC&T project, 130, 131 Pollen Boy, 407 Population, 33, 281; central Mesa Verde region, 279–80; changes in, 76–81; northern Rio Grande region, 282–83 Pot Creek Pueblo, 264 Powamuy ceremony, 450 Predation, impacts of human, 110–11 Predators, extermination of, 221 Prickly pear, as famine food, 129, 449 Processual archaeology, Chavez Pass–Grasshopper debate, 59–60 Projectile point technology: Archaic, 28, 29–30; Late Paleoindian, 26, 27 Pronghorns, distribution of, 186 Protein, lagomorph hunting and, 173–74 Protohistoric period, 34; Athapaskans in, 81–83; Coronado expedition, 83–84; demographic changes in, 77–81; NAGPRA issues and, 84–85; syntheses of, 75–76 Proto-Kiowa-Tanoan (PKT), 330 Proto-Northern Uto-Aztecan speakers, 330 Pueblo Grande, 378, 385; Canal System 2, 381–82; Puebloan immigrants at, 386–87 Pueblo La Plata (NA 11648), 203; plant community around, 207–8 Pueblo I period, 5, 50, 186, 369, 370, 406, 407; important landforms, 403, 410–16 Pueblo II period, 370; Rio Alamosa, 307–8 Pueblo III period, 187, 280, 433; artiodactyl hunting, 189, 190–91; subsistence strategies, 128–29; turkey raising in, 191–92 Pueblo IV period, 50, 266; artiodactyl hunting, 190–91; pilgrimages, 433, 434, 435, 474; turkeys, 191–92; village structure, 85, 86 Pueblo Pato, 208; agricultural complex, 203, 204–5 Pueblos, 32, 126, 369, 458; ancient, 57–58; histories of movement, 253–55; pilgrimages, 427–29; Protohistoric period/site, 76, 88; sacred natural

Index

features, 424–27; social context of, 58–59; social organization of, 59–60, 268–69 Pueblo Salado, 386 Puhuyaoma, Raleigh H., 448 Q Ranch, Wyoming chert in, 349 Queen Creek, Hohokam fire manipulation of, 125 Querecho, 331 Quiburi, 86 Quimby, George, 97 Rabbitbrush, Hopi use of, 129, 449 Rainfall regimes, northern Southwest, 279 Ranching, impacts of, 200, 221–23 Raptors, in Hopi religion, 449–50 Redman, Charles, 97 Red Mesa Valley, 370, 407 Red Mountain phase, use of maize, 33 Reed, Erik,99 Reeve Ruin, 304, 349 Reff, Daniel, on disease and demographic change, 77 Refugees, 235, 240–41 Relational thinking, 66 Relevance, of archaeology, 6–7 Research: intellectuals’ impacts of, 457–60; interdisciplinary, 8, 201–2; mobility and sedentism, 45–47, 51–52; on New Mexico hunter-gatherer sites, 34–35; population movements, 233–36; Protohistoric period, 87–88 Reservoirs, 147 Resources, 29, 180, 226; depletion of, 142, 220, 278; Hopi connectivity to, 447–48; household access to, 163–64 Reverse archaeology, 7–8 Richinbar Ruin, 208; terrace soils at, 205, 207 Riley, Carroll, 76 Rio Alamosa, Ancestral Pueblo migrations in, 297, 306–10, 311–12, 313 Rio Grande Glaze Ware and Biscuit Ware, feasting, 389, 390 Rio Grande Gorge, rock art, 253 Rio Grande, 28, 29, 33, 78, 126, 149, 152, 182, 190, 236, 239, 264, 426; early agriculture in, 31, 32; Late Paleoindian/Archaic transition, 26–27; San Juan migrants in, 49, 243, 244, 311. See also Northern Rio Grande region; Tiwa, North Rio Puerco, Pueblo II expansion into, 307 Rio Puerco of the East, Late Paleoindian/Archaic transition, 26 Rio Salado, Ancestral Pueblo migration in, 306, 307, 308–9, 311 Ritual cycle, Hopi, 256, 445, 450 Ritual networks, 351–52

Rituals: Chaco Canyon, 64–65; Hopi, 258–59; natural features and, 424–27; Pueblo, 268–69 Roads, Chaco, 429, 430 Rock alignments, soil changes, 151 Rock art, 253, 330, 333, 429, 446; and ritual landscape, 426–27 Rock piles, soil changes, 146, 151 Rocky Mountains, Late Paleoindian period, 26 Rodents, 183, 186 Rogge, Gene, Little Archaeology, Big Archaeology, 96 Roosevelt Red Wares, 65, 313; at Canal System 2 sites, 384–86; and feasting, 367, 388–89, 390, 391, 471; late types, 382–84; in lower San Pedro Valley, 304, 353 Ruins and Rivals (Snead), 98 Runoff fields, 146 Russell, Frank, The Pima Indians, 59 Sacramento Mountains, 186, 190 Safford area, Safford Basin, 147, 306, 313, 348, 387 Sagebrush, big, 129, 449 Salado Phenomenon, 65, 84, 257; feasting, 388–90; and Kayenta diaspora, 387–88 Salado Polychromes. See Roosevelt Red Wares Sa’lako ceremony, 450 Salinization, irrigated agriculture and, 152 Salt Pilgrimage trail, 447 Salt River Adobes, 378, 379 Salt River Valley: Hohokam core decay in, 368, 377–81, 471; irrigation systems in, 375–78, 382 Salt Woman trail, 429, 430 San Carlos Red-on-brown, 304 Sand Canyon Pueblo, 282; subsistence strategies, 128–29 San Francisco Peaks, 423, 433; tree-ring chronology, 120 San Ildefonso Pueblo, 324 San Juan Basin, 26, 189, 280, 366, 367, 368, 426; Diné ethnogenesis, 335–36; high landforms in, 407–16; migration from, 236, 244, 323–26, 334; settlement cycles in, 406–7 San Juan River, 5, 414, 446 San Luis Valley, Jay points in, 27 San Manuel District, 303 San Pedro phase canals, 48 San Pedro Valley, 88; Ancestral Pueblo migrations in, 297–98, 298, 300–306, 310, 313–14, 348– 49, 353, 380, 387, 388; Sobaipuri in, 85–87 San Salvador de Baicatcan, 86 Santa Clara Pueblo, 324 Santa Cruz Flats–Picacho District, Roosevelt Red Ware in, 384 Santa Fe, artists’ colony, 59 Santa Fe Black-on-white, 325

489

Index

Santa Fe District, migration into, 325–26 Santa Rosa Valley, soil salinization, 152 Sarsi, Kiowa and Kiowa Apache relationships with, 329–30 Saufkie, Morgan, 446 Scale, 4–5, 363, 467–68; of migration, 347–48 Second Canyon Ruin, corrugated wares at, 303 Sedentism, 183; research on, 45–46, 51–52; social contexts of, 50–51; transition to, 46–49 Sedimentation, in agricultural fields, 147, 150 Serrana Province, early historical populations, 78 Service, Elman, 59 Settlement patterns, 280, 300, 430; Kayenta, 278, 281; northern Rio Grande region, 282–83; Tewa Basin, 327–28 Seymour, Deni: on Protohistoric populations, 76, 85; on Sobaipuri mobility, 86, 87 Sheep ranching, Perry Mesa, 200 Shipap, 428 Shiprock, 407, 408, 410, 411, 413, 414, 415 Shrines, 405, 427, 428; directional, 239, 285, 326, 327; Hopi, 445, 447; natural features and, 425, 426 Sikyatki Polychrome, 384 Silver Creek (Ariz.), 257, 312, 313; artiodactyl hunting, 190–91; migration into, 238, 244 Sinagua, 257 Site unit intrusions, 236 Skunk Springs, 410, 414–15 Sleeping Ute Mountain, 407, 410, 411, 412, 413, 414, 415 Smith, Watson, 96 Snake Dance (Hopi), 450 Snead, James, Ruins and Rivals, 98 Sobaipuri, in San Pedro Valley, 85–87 Social change, 5; connectivity and change in, 363– 64; northern Rio Grande, 285–86 Social complexity, Salado, 65 Social evolution, 58, 59–60, 458–59, 462 Social hierarchies, 58, 66; artiodactyl use, 190–91; Chavez Pass, 59–60; Hopi, 259–60 Social networks, 29, 280, 365; feasting, 390–91; migration and, 348–52 Social organization, 62, 66; ancient Pueblos, 58, 267; artiodactyl use, 190–91; Chavez Pass– Grasshopper debate, 59–60; Hopi, 258–60; immigrants and, 267–68; prehispanic Pueblos, 60–61; Pueblos, 253–55; studies of, 64–65; Taos, 260–62; Tiwa, 264–66 Social power, 57, 62, 63; Hopi, 258–60; subsistence strategies and, 180–81; Taos, 261–62 Society for American Archaeology, 76; on history of archaeology, 96, 97–98 Socorro Tradition, in Rio Alamosa, 307–8, 310 Sodalities, Rio Grande Pueblos, 254

490

Soil fertility, human management of, 126, 147 Soils: agricultural impacts on, 111, 141–45, 150– 53; degradation of, 148–50; enhanced quality of, 145–48; on Perry Mesa, 205–6; Village Ecodynamics Project, 163, 165–66 Sonora, Protohistoric period, 78 Sonoran Desert, 125 Sonora Valley, Río, 84 South Fork site, 412 Southwest Symposium, 1–2, 17–18, 60, 97, 467–68 Spears, continued use of, 28, 29 Spielmann, Katherine, 60 Springs, pilgrimage routes, 429 Squash, 30, 31, 124 States, 462; in Morgan’s social evolution, 458–59; secondary, 460–61, 463–64, 475 Stewart Brickyard site, canals at, 125 Stones, Hopi connectivity to, 447–48 Storage features, at Early Agricultural sites, 30–31 Subsistence, 32, 180; Sand Canyon Pueblo, 128–29, 282 Sumas, 34 Summer People: at T’aitöna, 265–66; at Taos, 261, 263, 264 Superior, forager-farming relations in, 33 Swanton, John R., Indians of the Southeastern United States, 461 Szuter, Christine, 182–83 Table Rock Pueblo, 384 T’aitöna, dual structure of, 264–65 Tamarisk, Hopi use of, 449 Tanoans, 331; and Kiowa, 329, 330 Taos, 59, 241, 253, 405; dualism at, 260–62, 267; kinship networks, 351–52; origin stories, 263– 64; pilgrimages, 428, 431; social organization, 254–55, 268–69 Taphonomy, faunal assemblages, 183 Taylor, Walter, 96 Taylor, Mount, 405 Terraces, 148; enhanced soil quality, 145, 146, 147; Perry Mesa, 202–7, 210 Tesuque, 324 Tewa, 330, 336, 405; cultural community, 327–28; ethnogenesis of, 321, 335, 354 Tewa Basin, 285, 335, 355; Ancestral Puebloans in, 324–26, 349; composite societies in, 326–28; as landscape, 333–34 Tewa-Hopi, 446 Tewa pueblos, central Mesa Verde migrants at, 277–78 Tewa speech community, 238; place names, 277–78 Texas Panhandle, Athapaskans in, 331 Textile production, on Colorado Plateau, 350–51 Thompson, Raymond, 97

Index

Tierra Blanca complex, Athapaskans at, 331 Tierra Dulce: Reminiscences from the Jesse Nusbaum Papers (Nusbaum), 98–99 Tiguex, and Coronado, 83 Timber industry, 112 Timber use, 128; archaeobotanical record, 122, 126–27 Tiwa, Northern, 254, 330; identity, 260–62; migration history, 253, 263–64; social organization, 264–66 To’aheedli, 332 Tohono O’odham (Papago), agricultural systems, 126, 147, 152 Tonto Basin, 50, 65, 128, 384; Kayenta immigrants in, 387, 388; Pueblo migration to, 237–38 Tonto National Forest, Apache sites, 83 Towa, 330, 331 Trade, 280, 281, 326; between foragers and farmers, 32–33; and social networks, 350–51 Trails: Hopi pilgrimage, 445, 447; as networks, 474–75; pilgrimage, 429–31, 431 Transformation, of migrants, 352–53 Tree-ring studies, 120; dating Athapaskan sites, 81, 82 Tsegi Canyon, 446 Tucson Basin: Archaic tradition in, 29, 30, 31, 33, 46, 125; Late Archaic/Early Agricultural sedentism in, 47–48 Tucson Polychrome, 387 Tularosa phase, 283, 312, 313 Turkey Creek Pueblo, 281, 283 Turkey index, 184 Turkeys, 191–92; Mesa Verde region, 111, 128, 129, 174, 187, 278, 282, 284 Turquoise Boy, 405 Tusayan region, 244, 283, 288 Twin War Gods, 405

Village Ecodynamics Project (VEP), 111, 161; households and resources in, 162–64; lagomorph hunting, 170–74; landscape productivity, 164–70 Villages, 85, 283, 429; aggregated, 189–90, 257, 266, 278, 280, 306, 406; Hopi, 255–56, 283; Late Archaic/Early Agricultural sites, 30, 47–49; on Perry Mesa, 210–11; Pueblo I, 410–11 Vint, James, San Pedro Sobaipuri study, 85–86 Violence, 282; at Point of Pines, 286–87

Ubiquity measures, of faunal assemblages, 184 Upham, Steadman, 60 Upper Little Colorado, plaza-oriented villages, 283 Urbanization, 112, 223, 224 Utah, bighorn sheep in, 186 Ute Mountain Ute Reservation, 407 Utes, Sleeping Ute Mountain, 407 Uto-Aztecans, 30, 365

Yavapai, 34, 87 Yellow Corn Girl, 405 Yellowstone area, Kiowa in, 329, 330 Yucca House, 278

Valdez phase, 263 Valle Caldera, 433 Ventana Cave, projectile point sequence at, 28–29 VEP. See Village Ecodynamics Project Verde Valley, 50, 151 Victorio site, 305, 306, 308, 309, 310, 312 Viewsheds, Pueblo I sites, 410–15

Walpi, 127, 258 Ware, John, 60 Warfare, Rio Grande area, 286 Water control features, and landscape changes, 125–26. See also Canals Water People, Taos, 266 Watson, Patty Jo, 96 Weeminuche Utes, 407 Wenima trail, 430 Western Pueblo: Chavez Pass–Grasshopper debate, 59–60; pilgrimages, 428–29, 436, 473–74; social organization, 61, 253–54 White Mound Village, 412 White Mountain Red Ware, feasting and, 390 Wilcox, David, 98; Protohistoric conference, 75–76 Wilder, Joseph, 99 Willow, Hopi use of, 127, 449 Willow Canyon, 410, 411, 415, 416 Wills, Chip, 97 Windbreaks, in agricultural systems, 148 Winter People: at T’aitöna, 266; at Taos, 261, 263 Wissler, Clark, New Archaeology, 58 Wood, 129; use of, 126–27 Woodbury, Richard, 96, 97 World History, 463 Wyoming, Athapaskans in, 330, 349

Zooarchaeology: methodologies, 183–86; studies, 182–83 Zuni, 78, 83, 126, 192, 312, 384; agricultural systems and soils at, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 151– 52; Ruth Benedict’s views of, 458, 462; origins study, 84–85; pilgrimages, 428, 429, 430, 431 Zuni Cultural Resource Enterprise, 83 Zuni Heaven, 433; pilgrimages to, 428–29, 431 Zuni Salt Lake, 423, 433, 472; pilgrimages, 367, 428, 434–35; research on, 88, 473–74; trails to, 429–30, 431

491