By Tom Wessels
It’s 1993 and I am about four miles north of where we are camped in the Pinacate region of Mexico. It is what we call “solo day” — a chance for students on this Antioch desert ecology field study trip to explore and connect to this unique landscape in their own way. I’m using the day to explore a new area of the Pinacate—the most glorious hot desert landscape that I have ever encountered.
It’s been a wet winter and spring so the desert is lush. Fields of brilliant apricot-colored desert mallows cover black cinder substrates. Older, reddish lava flows are carpeted by the yellow bloom of brittlebush. Most appealing of all is the ocotillo with its emerald green wands topped by flaming crimson flowers. In most deserts with light substrates, these colors would look washed out during the day, but in contrast to the black cinders and lava flows of this rugged landscape, the colors are brilliant. It is the combination of this geologically young, volcanic landscape and its exquisite mix of vegetation that places the Pinacate at the heart of our desert experience.
I crest a ridge formed by an old lava flow, descend into a desert basin dominated by creosote bush, and cross a large arroyo — a dry streambed. As I start to climb out of the drainage, I see a pile of lava rocks about 200 feet to my left up on the lip of the arroyo. I alter my course to check out the cairn. As I approach it I stumble upon a significant find— something I have only previously read about— an ancient footpath.
The path is a distinct trough in the desert floor. Large and small rocks glistening with desert varnish line its sides. Desert varnish is a coating of manganese and iron oxides that ever so slowly coats desert rocks that remain set in place. I pick up one of these rocks; its dark-chocolate colored varnish is as smooth to the touch as enameled covered porcelain. Such a layer of desert varnish takes millennia to form if the rocks remain fixed in their positions during that time. The varnish confirms that this footpath is thousands of years old. I try to imagine how many generations and how many feet traversing this path pushed the rocks to their present places of rest?
The last native people to walk this path were the O’odham, also known as the Papago. Before them it may have been the Hohokam. Both were agrarian cultures. The footpaths of the Pinacate link lava-lined water holes, called tanks, and eventually lead to the Sea of Cortez for the gathering of salt. But the paths predate Hohokam culture. Varnish-covered Colvis spear points dating back to 12,000 years ago have been found embedded in these footpaths. Based on microscopic inspection of the desert varnish that covers rocks associated with the Pinacte paths, some researchers have pushed their origins back to 35,000 years ago. This assertion has sparked a lively debate, but even if these footpaths are only 12,000 years old, it still makes them the oldest landscape antiquities in North America.
Instinctively, I step onto the footpath and start walking in my thick-soled boots. I see up ahead that the path is going to enter one of the Pinacate’s youngest lava flows. The realization abruptly stops me in my tracks, because I remember reading that the first Spaniards to encounter the O’odham in the 17th Century mentioned that they crossed this landscape barefoot. The vibrum soles of my boots are chipped and scraped by just a few days of exploration of the Pinacate’s lava flows; one lug has been cut right off. What kind of feet did the O’odham people have? And then, in that moment opened by my question, a second more profound one arises in my mind. What was life really like for the ancient hunting-gathering people who used to walk these paths?
I’m sure life was physically tough, and very hard times were common. Summer temperatures regularly climb to more than 120 degrees; on the black cinder flats ground temperatures can burn exposed skin. During some years this desert region receives less than an inch of rainfall. At such times food and water would be scarce, demanding deprivation and long desert treks. The Spanish explorers of the 17th Century couldn’t comprehend why native people chose to live here. From the European perspective, this region of the Sonoran was not only a wasteland, but also the very vomit of the earth — an entirely unwholesome and unclean place. I have a strong sense that even though life was physically hard, with short life expectancies, the experience of life for the people that lived here thousands of years ago was extraordinarily rich. I base this on following suppositions.
Hunting-gathering desert culture was based in nomadic clans of a few dozen people. Within the clan group each person had a specific role — their own place — and the entire clan group relied heavily on each other and shared all that they had. Like all hunting-gathering groups, if someone was successful in a hunt, the meat was shared with those who didn’t have success. If any individual accumulated too many possessions, a giving away ceremony took place so that no one individual had too much. In this way these ancient people practiced reciprocal altruism as a means to survive in this harsh environment. This meant there was no room for personal greed. All individuals had a direct voice in how the affairs of the clan would develop—whether they should move to the next tank, celebrate a particular occasion, or conduct a sacred ritual. For these people the idea of needing to create community would have been absurd. They were community on the deepest of levels. Through stories and rituals, in joy and sorrow, they shared the very core of their lives. I believe that this very strong sense of community, where each member was truly an integral part, greatly enriched their experience of life.
Not only did each individual have a critical place within the clan, they also clearly knew their place within the world. Through rich traditions, in the forms of stories, rituals, and sacred practices that had been passed from generation to generation for hundreds possibly thousands of years, these people were seamlessly woven into their landscape. As hunter-gatherers they saw themselves as a part of the land, not apart from it, sharing it with all the other plants and creatures on whom they depended for survival. Their world made sense — it was truly their home. Even though the desert is harsh, it holds a beauty and mystery that I have found in no other landscape. I can vividly sense the vitality in this place as a once-a-year visitor. It has a deep impact on me, but I can’t begin to imagine the depth of the ancients’ experience of, and connection to, this land. I am confident that their experience of life was also greatly enriched due to this intimate connection to this landscape.
Finally, like all hunter-gatherers, they had lots of time to socialize, tell stories, make crafts, and reflect on their existence. Reflective practice is essential to convert knowledge into understanding and eventually wisdom.
Knowledge and understanding are often used interchangeably, but I see them as being distinctly different. Knowledge is the acquisition of factual information. It is strictly a mental phenomenon. That our bodies comprise more than thirty trillion cells is a piece of my knowledge. Understanding, on the other hand, is being able to comprehend the meaning or implications of knowledge. Just how many is thirty trillion? In addition to thinking, understanding is characterized by both an emotional and physical response.
Where knowledge is black and white, right or wrong—the sort of stuff that is tested for in objective exams—understanding is the many-layered lotus blossom. There is always room for deeper understanding. It runs from AH HA! depicted in cartoons as a light bulb going off over someone’s head, to epiphany, to deep revelatory experience. Where knowledge is static, understanding is dynamic, multifaceted, and always carries with it some level of fulfillment. Understanding is an experience that inflates us.
On the other hand if we carry too much unprocessed knowledge, it can deaden us. I used to teach a Concepts of Biology course at Antioch. It was a class for students who never had a college level biology course. The two most common reasons that these students didn’t take biology as undergraduates were that they either got the mistaken impression in high school that they just weren’t good at science, or their experience with high school biology was utterly boring. For me, it’s hard to imagine biology as boring. When we start to have a glimmer of understanding regarding the complexity of biological systems and how beautifully they function, it becomes completely engrossing. How could anyone be bored by biology? The answer for the Antioch students lies in high school courses, based on a linear mode of instruction, that were geared solely toward the acquisition of knowledge through the memorization of endless facts and terminology. Without any opportunity to reflect on that knowledge, and translate it into understanding, their experience was deadening.
Reflective practice is not solely based on contemplation; it is also fostered through the arts. Painting, sculpting, composing and playing music are all means of reflective practice that don’t involve verbal articulation. Artistic works help process knowledge and directly impact the emotional and physical centers of both the practitioner and the audience. As such, the arts also work for the promotion of understanding. The Pinacate’s hunter-gatherers had ample time for reflective practice through their arts and stories, as well as time for contemplation, which would have forged a rich experience of life.
Just as our hands and recessed eye sockets are the direct result of our arboreal past, our need for real community, traditions that help us find our way, connection to our place, and ample time for reflective practice are a direct result of our cultural legacy. As such they are intrinsically necessary if we are to have a rich, fulfilled experience of life. Since these things are essential to being human, they are essential if we are to have real progress.
As we have been drawn away from connection to community, place, and reflective practice, a void has developed — what I call a hollowness of experience. That void is presently being filled by a need to consume. Yet, ever-increasing consumption doesn’t make us happier or more fulfilled; it does just the opposite. As we have become isolated from community and place, reciprocal altruism and stewardship have been replaced by personal greed. When we are connected to community and place, we care about them and our actions reflect that caring as we work for their well-being. Without those connections we lose awareness of how our actions impact others or the environment, and without reflective practice any sense of responsibility for our actions is lost as well. Greed becomes possible and when linked to the need to consume, the combination allows for dramatically selfish behavior. How else can we explain the callousness displayed by CEOs and CFOs of bankrupt corporations like Enron, Tyco, or WorldCom? The isolation of people from community, place, and reflective practice has become a crisis of culture.
To be able to engage in an economic system not based on continued growth, we need to find ways to sustain ourselves that are not based on materialism. Our attention needs to be turned toward fostering community, traditions that link community to place, and reflective practice to generate understanding and eventually wisdom. These are the only means to bring forth true, sustainable progress for humanity.
Tom Wessels will be leading a workshop at Rowe December 2-4. Click for further info.