Winter Camp

The second large snowfall of the season has covered Lassen Peak in a cystalline white blanket. The air is cool and fresh, scented with pine. Distant sounds of buzzing chainsaws echo through the woods. Winter is descending on our little foothill community. The nights are long. After work, men gather 'round the wood stove in the Manton Saloon, warming their hands by the crackling fire. At home, summer's harvest sits on pantry shelves in long rows of brightly colored Mason jars.... tomatoes, beans, peaches. The grapes are all picked, now slowly bubbling in fermentation vats, soon to be labeled pinot noir, sauvignon blanc, syrah.

I marvel at the thought of local tribes wintering in makeshift streamside villages this time of year, scarcely more than one hundred years ago. How did these people survive the cold winter nights for even one month, let alone the thousands of winters they occupied this land we now call Manton? Little remains of their culture which might shed some light on the answer, for their culture was simple and nomadic. Evidence of their daily lives has been decimated over the years by plunder of ancient village sites. Treasure hunters have dug up mortars, pestles, metates and arrowheads and taken them home to languish as souvenirs in dresser drawers and backyards. A few items are found in dusty display cases in corners of seldom-visited museums, a brief footnote in California history.

An interesting recently published book which describes in some detail the tribal culture of the southern Yana indians who called Manton home has the strange title, "Ishi's Brain," by Orin Starn, professor of cultural anthropology. I just read this book at the suggestion of my dear friend Scott. He and his hiking buddy Phil backpacked into the Ishi Wilderness last month in search of Grizzly Bear's Hiding Place, the last known winter camp of the Yahi band of indians. While they were unable to find the exact spot, they did have a great adventure in the difficult-to-access Deer Creek canyon, the last known habitat for a native American population still "living in the wild."

While Scott and Phil packed in their provisions and had the latest camping gear, Ishi and his companions had none of that. They lived off the land by their wits. However, Nature was bountiful. Winter run chinook salmon, some forty or fifty pounds in size, splashed up the creeks to spawn this time of year. The Tehama deer herd, still the largest migratory deer herd in California, came down off the mountain to enjoy the tender green shoots of new grass which always pop up after the first rains of the season. Abundant acorns at this lower foothill elevation were ground up and prepared as mush in tightly woven baskets. I learned that this cooking was accomplished by taking hot rounded river rocks from the campfire and putting them into the acorn mush. For shelter, simple huts were fashioned from the supple branches of creekside trees. Capes made from fox or raccoon pelts provided body warmth. Volcanic glass we call obsidian was used to make the necessary tools for hunting and cutting. These people lived close to nature, in harmony with the land and only took what they needed to survive.

During the dramatic influx of settlers to California in the 1850s and 60s, native American culture in northern California was largely destroyed. During this tragic time of transition, men, women and children were brutally murdered and forgotten. In the recorded instances of Indian resistance or retribution, white settlers were whipped into a frenzy of violence against the so-called "uncivilized savages." These brutal episodes are buried in the history books, but linger on in such local place names as Massacre Flats, Blood Island and Battle Creek.

I was very moved by the story of Ishi and what I learned about the plight of his people. As someone who lives in the same place occupied not so long ago by the southern Yana, I am haunted by their shadows and souls. I finished readng the book about the same time Scott and Phil emerged from their wilderness adventure in the heart of Ishi's homeland. As a result, I penned the following poem, which I hope you will enjoy.

Finders, Keepers...

Crossing the Milky Way
A shooting star splits in two...
Celestial heartbreak, then disappears
Foretelling heartache, pending fears
Near Grizzly's Hiding Place.

Coming up canyons to caves,
Sport-shooting, treasure-hunting,
They came to take baskets,
Volcanic glass blades to skin otters,
Raccoon capes, acorn grinders.

There are no more reminders.
Southern Yana left no trace,
Shivering in snow, watery graves.
Secrets of the Tuscan soul
Buried in black water hole.

Salt tears now wash far distant shores,
No footprints in warm sand remain.
Chants of brave hunts, fresh game galore,
Are silent in cold ash rain.
Vanished Yahi, red dust stain.

Tom Knight
October 22nd, 2010