Caitlin R. Beesley M.S. Historic Preservation • University of Oregon • Spring 2024 PRESERVATION PERSPECTIVES Cultural Resource Meaning, Memory, and Management at Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments, Arizona by Caitlin R. Beesley A terminal project in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Science in Historic Preservation University of Oregon Spring 2024 ABSTRACT Managing cultural resources in our modern world can be a delicate balance, where cultural resource managers bridge the past and the future amid the omnipresent atmosphere of contemporary financial, societal, and political pressure. Adding to this pressure is a demand from professionals or the public for unfettered access to tangible resources. Preservationists generally view tangible resources, the physical pieces of history, as the best way to interpret cultural and historical significance to an unfamiliar audience, who aren’t always able to grasp the intangible value of these resources—non-material experiences or traditions—absent a physical object to envelope them. The methods with which CR managers preserve and display tangible pieces of history is informed by their cultural perspectives; these methods say as much about how managers define cultural resources as it does the role of preservation in cultural heritage. This paper will explore cultural resource management using two sites to discuss larger themes of cultural resource definition and value. The sites in question: Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, managed by the National Park Service (NPS), and Hohokam Pima National Monument, overseen by the Gila River Indian Community (GRIC). Both preserve landscapes and infrastructure from a period of civilization in the Sonoran Desert of Southern Arizona known as Hohokam Culture. Each agency approaches management and preservation from different perspectives, leading to the paper’s general question: What can the different preservation efforts at Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments tell us about cultural resource management? CONTENTS 13 Acknowledgments 17 Introduction 23 Methodology 23 Why these sites? 27 Literature review 29 Sites as a primary source 31 Terminology 42 Who is this paper for? 42 Author perspective 47 Site Histories 47 Hohokam Culture overview 56 Casa Grande and Casa Grande Ruins National Monument 73 Snaketown and Hohokam Pima National Monument 93 Cultural Resource Meaning 93 What is a cultural resource? 96 Tangible and intangible cultural resources 102 Cultural and natural resources in NPS and tribal management 114 Identifying Casa Grande and Snaketown as cultural resources 121 Cultural Resources as Sources of Memory 122 Tangible resource memory—memory as an intangible resource 125 Ofelia Zepeda and her poetry of place 128 John Ruskin and the lamp of memory 131 Marcel Proust and the memory of material objects 132 Resource interpretation and the Park Service 135 Interpretation of O’odham culture by GRIC 145 Cultural Resources Management and Preservation Efforts 146 Introduction to archeological site management 148 Park Service management at Casa Grande Ruins 152 Resource management and preservation 158 Modern preservation efforts 160 Management of the Snaketown archeological site 164 Who gets to manage Native archeological sites? 165 Examples of Park Service mismanagement of Native resources 177 Conclusion 181 Bibliography 12 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS To my committee members (among many things), Larissa Rudnicki, Laurie Matthews, and Angela Sirna. Your dedication deserves more time and attention than I have space to commit to now. Larissa, you have carried this program and everyone in it for the last year, I only wish that was hyperbole. You shouldn’t have had to break your back for us all, but I’m very glad you did; Laurie, if I had taken one of your landscapes classes in undergrad I would have changed not only my major but likely my whole life trajectory—it is always a good day when I can talk with you about your work; Angie, you have helped me through so many transitions in the time that I’ve known you and I will always be grateful for it. To Lauren Kingston, archeologist with NPS-ORPI. I think of my time at Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument often, it has become one of the most formative periods of my life. To Sharlot Hart, archeologist with NPS, for helping with contacts and name-changes. To Chris Combel, archeologist and resource manager with NPS-CAGR, for the tour. To Kyle Woodson, cultural resource director for GRIC, for your work and being open to future dialogue. To family and friends who have encouraged me during this project and in the preservation field. And to my mother. It is the greatest understatement of my life to say that I would not have made it here without you. Dedicated to my grandfather, Wesley Carl Pishl (1927-2022). Hledej pravdu. 14 “The true story of this place recalls people walking deserts all their lives and continuing today, if only in their dreams. The true story is ringing in their footsteps in a place so quiet, they can hear their blood moving through their veins. Their stories give shape to the mountains encircling this place.”1 Ofelia Zepeda 1 Ofelia Zepeda, from “Proclamation,” in Where Clouds Are Formed (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2008), https://www. poetryfoundation.org/poems/53448/proclamation. 16 cultural resource divisions within NPS and GRIC. The contrasting management strategies of these separate entities provide us with an avenue to explore cultural resources—how they become significant over the course of their lives, and to whom. Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, initially set aside as an archeological preserve in 1892, is managed as a site significant to the larger patterns of history in American culture; peerless in the catalogue of historic Native structures, it was the first designated archeological site in the country, and similarly received the first instance of federal funding for historic preservation.4 For these and other reasons, the Park Service is mandated to preserve Casa Grande Ruins as a site of public enjoyment, education, and inspiration.5 Casa Grande also remains significant to the Native cultures that populate the Sonoran Desert, even while its management rarely reflects their traditions or interests the way Hohokam Pima National Monument does. For most of its history, the buried archeological site at Snaketown was hidden from the ravages of time, environmental decay and human destruction; the management strategy employed by GRIC ensures this is still the case, presenting the site as an indistinguishable, unassuming patch of desert. And yet, this patch of desert remains incredibly significant to O’odham members of GRIC, the inheritors of Hohokam Culture. Both Snaketown and Casa Grande are sources of sacred cultural memory to the various O’odham bands.6 This is reflected in the decision of GRIC managers to cut off visitor access to the Snaketown site. A discussion of these two sites requires much more than standalone dialogue involving the efforts of cultural resource managers. We must also inspect the insight into management, the implications of management, as well as impressions provided by the interpretation of both. The similarities and differences on display here invite a discussion on the management of these specific archeological sites and the nature of cultural resources in the abstract. The meaning and memory that is preserved within them guides visitor interpretation at Casa Grande Ruins while also informing Native beliefs and traditions of the O’odham, who consider both sites sacred. 4 Ronald F. Lee, The Antiquities Act of 1906, Department of the Interior, National Park Service, November 16, 1970), 20; Normal Tyler and Ilene R. Tyler, Ted J. Ligibel, Historic Preservation; An Introduction to its History, Principles, and Practice (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 1994), 40. 5 National Park Service, “Our Mission,” Department of the Interior, online resource, last updated October 20, 2023, accessed April 3, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/aboutus/index.htm#:~:text=The%20National%20Park%20Service%20preserves%20unim- paired%20the%20natural,education%2C%20and%20inspiration%20of%20this%20and%20future%20generations. 6 Daniel Lopez, “Huhugam,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 119. 19 20 “And you know that I’m looking back carefully ‘Cuz I know that there’s still something there for me.”7 Jackson Browne 7 Jackson Browne, “Something Fine,” track 6 on Jackson Browne (Saturate Before Using) (Asylum Records, 1972), 3:47. The album title is often mistakenly referred to as “Saturate Before Using,” owing to the record sleeve design, which was intended to look like a water bag, a canvas sack used for carrying water to drink or to cool down a car radiator (the words “Saturate before using” appear on the back of the bags made by the Ames Harris Neville Company in the 1940’s). The water bag was a popular item in the American Southwest during the 1940’s and 1950’s, before ultimately being displaced by plastic containers; they are now considered antique collectables. The misnomer is down to an odd design choice regarding the album cover, but also an unfamiliarity among the public with the water bag cultural phenomenon (something the southwestern-bred Browne was intimately aware of). Understanding the album title requires no small amount of explanation, leading to its use here, before a chapter explaining this paper. 22 2. METHODOLOGY This chapter is meant to provide you with an introduction to the larger paper—specifically, how to navigate it. Readers will be given explanations relating to framing, language use, and the author’s perspective, providing clarification as to the purpose and scope of the project. To begin, this paper is not a document meant to direct or guide cultural resource managers at either site, or any site that deals in cultural resources—neither is it intended to be a historical inventory of all the preservation work undertaken at either site. I will not be dating and describing the individual management efforts undertaken by the Park Service at Casa Grande Ruins National Monument or by GRIC at Hohokam Pima National Monument. My intent is to provide an analysis of cultural resource management, using as case studies two sites that are near identical in origin, the same in terms of federal designation, but very different in managerial style. To understand why these management strategies were chosen, we will explore the perspectives and values that define culture, the resources significant to a culture, and how this definition of cultural resource informs preservation efforts at either site. Why these sites? The question of site management and the discussion surrounding appropriate preservation of spaces that are sacred to some and considered important by others could be answered by looking at any number of historic sites around the country. The National Park Service (NPS or Park Service) is responsible for or referred to for the management of many of these sites; it is considered the preeminent agency for preservation in the U.S., for reasons beyond the fact that NPS established the guidelines which direct most preservation efforts Nonetheless, I was intrigued. This throw-away comment led to a greater interest in Hohokam sites. Both Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima are unique—but there are countless Hohokam sites sacred to O’odham peoples, meaning they are not necessarily singular sites within the Hohokam lexicon. The popular Phoenix tourist spot S’edav Va’aki (formerly Pueblo Grande Ruins) and the little-known Ho’oki Ki in Sonora, Mexico, are also sacred.12 While these additional Hohokam sites are significant and worthy of discussion, none are subject to the same level of scrutiny as Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima because they are not federally mandated to the same degree and do not fall under the same level of governmental regulation as Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima. Ho’oki Ki falls outside the jurisdiction of American governmental authority as it is located in Mexico.13 Similar to Casa Grande Ruins, S’edav Va’aki is designated as a National Historic Landmark, but it is managed as an open-air interpretive museum by the City of Phoenix.14 I chose to focus this paper on the Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments because of the designation status of both sites, and the contrast provided by the starkly divergent managerial methods on display there. Technically, both are managed, even if one is active and the other passive. The decisions around which sites receive more attention and preservation efforts than others, whether they be related to Hohokam Culture or another, is interesting, but it is not the topic of this paper. Of additional interest to me over the last five years have been the ethical considerations involved in decisions to put some sacred Hohokam resources on display while keeping others off limits. What were some of the reasons for these differences in management strategies, I wondered? The answer, I quickly discovered, came down to the day-to-day management of these sites. What distinguishes Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments is what preservation efforts are being carried out—and by whom. This paper is not a guidance document so much as a conversation, in which I attempt to apply the larger question of cultural resource management to specific sites. The conversation is compounded by an exploration of cultural resource definition and meaning by the managing entities at both sites. Any quantitative 12 Lopez, “Huhugam,” 119. 13 Bernard L. Fontana, Of Earth and Little Rain (Tucson: University of Arizona, 1989), 20, 28-30. Ho’oki Ki is so little-known outside of the Tohono O’odham community that there is nothing besides an O’odham oral tradition to identify it. Fontana was taken to the cave in 1980 by none other than Daniel Lopez; it is the home of a gruesome and greedy witch, the niece of I’itoi, in O’odham tradition. The traditional retelling names her as Ho’ok Muerta or “Dead Witch,” a blending of O’odham and Spanish. 14 City of Phoenix, “Se’edav Va’aki Museum Archeological Park,” City of Phoenix, Arts, Culture and History, online resource, accessed April 1, 2024, https://www.phoenix.gov/parks/arts-culture-history/sedav-vaaki. 26 analysis would result in a limited field of study and cannot be used to collect non-numerical data relating to cultural resources. The focus, then, is qualitative, using various written perspectives at hand that belong to the Park Service or to some of the various Native tribes tied to Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monument. We cannot produce a truly qualitative comparison of these two sites, their resources or the methods with which they are managed—even if that were possible, it raises the question of should this comparison take place. Dislodging black-and-white thinking is necessary for an undertaking such as this—but beyond discussions of practicality or ethical considerations, weighing these two sites in any context would result in an imbalance in either direction. The Park Service has set down its management strategy for Casa Grande Ruins National Monument— as a federal agency it is required to produce documentation not only of existing preservation efforts but of planned work in the future. Cultural resource managers with GRIC and the community’s Tribal Historic Preservation Office (THPO) have entered into an agreement with the Park Service, in receipt of funding—however there is no corresponding level of documentation by the community because there is no commensurate level of preservation happening at Hohokam Pima National Monument.15 How, then, do we gauge what guides this management strategy? By finding sources that discuss influence. Literature review A quick summary of literary sources on both sites reveals a writing deck stacked massively in favor of Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. This landscape, while existing for a shorter period of time, has been identified as significant by non-Natives in greater number and over a longer span of time. That these non- Native admirers wrote down their interpretations and made these interpretations public should not result in our considering Casa Grande Ruins as a site greater than any other to anyone but the author of those interpretations. Sites, as will be discussed later, are primal sources of memory – and memory is recorded in more than just one way. Volume does not confer value. Additionally, Native people are not required to make their perspectives publicly known to the rest 15 Tribal Historic Preservation Program, “FAQs,” National Park Service, online resource, last updated October 27, 2023, ac- cessed March 1, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/orgs/1460/thppfaqs.htm. 27 of the world; a dearth of written Native records, whether on Casa Grande Ruins or on Snaketown, should not be used to construe Native perspectives as indifferent to or hostile to these sites – as some non-Native perspectives have previously done. Where Native voices have discussed these sites, I make note of them. A more in-depth study of Native perspectives on Hohokam cultural resources would demand interviewing many individuals and a greater consideration of their place than I am able to give right now, considering my limited amount of time and scope of research. Additionally, Native perspectives should be allowed to account for themselves, not filtered as they potentially would be through my interpretation and writing. Firsthand narratives and personal accounts were essential in writing an accounting of the histories of both sites; where primary sources were either unavailable or inaccessible, I found archeological histories and compilations relating to the previous professional or casual undertakings at both sites. The Hohokam Millennium, edited by archeologists Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish, was useful for finding other sources relating to the histories of both sites and additional Hohokam sites around southern Arizona. Pima Indian Legends, produced in 1968 from oral histories collected and written by Anna Moore Shaw, Akimel O’odham, during the 1930’s, was recommended to me by an employee at the Huhugam Heritage Center, operated by GRIC. Several books cited in this paper were first introduced to me by my former supervisor, Lauren Kingston, archeologist and cultural resource manager at Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, another NPS-managed unit in southern Arizona; the monument’s cultural resource library was compact but well-rounded and I took full advantage of its availability while an intern there. These sources include A Natural History of the Sonoran Desert, edited by Steven J. Phillips and Patricia Wentworth Comus (and published by the Arizona-Sonoran Desert Museum in Tucson), Bernard L. Fontana’s Of Earth and Little Rain, and various quarterly publications produced by Archeology Southwest, a nonprofit organization within the archeology and preservation fields in southern Arizona. Despite a seemingly endless amount of literature compiled on Hohokam Culture, many sources had to be protracted for the purposes of this paper. I have had to be creative in finding material to support my conversation, even from sources that directly relate Hohokam and O’odham culture among their pages. Some of the literature read in preparation for and applied to this paper does not mention either Casa Grande Ruins or Hohokam Pima National Monuments; a few sources only tangentially mention one site or the other. 28 Appealing to my earlier statement, my interest is not to provide documentation of all preservation work done at either site. A. Berle Clemensen’s 1992 administrative history of Casa Grande Ruins has an excellent chapter detailing what is likely the bulk of preservation efforts suggested and applied to the Great House and surrounding archeological site; there exists so little preservation work done to Snaketown, not all of which has been excavated, as to make any detailed documentation pointless. Neither am I engaged in an exhaustive hunt for all published resources available on Casa Grande or the Snaketown site at Hohokam Pima. This paper is not a Historical Resource Study for either site—one already exists for Casa Grande Ruins; and whether one should be produced for Snaketown is a discussion more appropriately set aside for GRIC managers.16 Available sources of inspiration and insight have allowed me to engage in a conversation on cultural resource definition and management, using both sites as a foil for the other. In that vein, the specific sites themselves would normally be my most useful tool. However, only one site is accessible. Sites as primary source Like many cultures, the O’odham groups who are closely associated with Hohokam sites today see their heritage and identity as intimately connected to the landscapes they inhabit. Historically, place has only been a feature in the scientific study of human geography—but modern-day sociologists are starting to recognize the importance of place in forming and understanding lived experiences. Canadian geographer Edward Relph writes in his 1976 book Place and Placelessness that to be human “is to live in a world that is filled with significant places.”17 This idea is one that many groups, the O’odham included, have always inherently understood. For preservation professionals, experiencing a place first-hand is essential to understanding it; in other words, understanding a place is inescapable when able to be a physical part of it. As the American author Marilynne Robinson said recently, “We aren’t just drifting through the world, but the world is making itself transparent to us, making us interact with it in a way that has every kind of implication.”18 The physical world works on us, 16 Linnéa K. E. Caproni, “Becoming America’s Pompeii: A Historical Resource Study of Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, 1539-1918,” PhD diss. (Arizona State University, 2013). 17 Edward Relph, Place and Placelessness (London: Pion, 1976), 1. 18 Ezra Klein, “Marilynne Robinson on Biblical Beauty, Human Evil and the Idea of Israel,” The Ezra Klein Show, March 5, 2024. NYT Podcasts, website, 1:04:38. Accessed March 7, 2024. https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/05/opinion/ezra-klein-podcast-mari- lynne-robinson.html. 29 Hohokam was first put into its current scholarly use by Jesse Walter Fewkes around 1910. Fewkes, who will be discussed later, was an anthropologist and archeologist with the Bureau of American Ethnography, famous for his 1910 excavations at Casa Grande Ruins. Among other misappropriations, Fewkes believed the ruins at Casa Grande to have been constructed by the same people who established Four Corners sites like Chaco Canyon and Mesa Verde; Fewkes and other early archeologists believed the whole of the American Southwest to have been settled by the same group of people, and the only thing that distinguished the varied archeology and architecture was the different environments the people migrated to. This theory has been largely disproved.29 Before going further, we should acknowledge that there is a difference between “Hohokam,” used as a scientific term by archeologists, and Huhugam. Of additional confusion to our discussion is its use to describe O’odham who have died as recently as yesterday; its use among O’odham does not necessarily refer to historic people.30 Use of Huhugam by various O’odham groups or by individual Odham is also not consistent. Barnaby V. Lewis, Tribal Historic Preservation Officer with GRIC, says that Huhugam has never been used by the O’odham to describe anything besides the spirits of his people’s ancestors, and says any use of Huhugam by O’odham to describe anything other than one’s ancestors, such as the aforementioned comparison with tires, is down to misinterpretation and represents that individual Odham’s unfamiliarity with the English language.31 Lopez, of the related Tohono O’odham Nation, does not entirely agree, as evidenced by his defining of the word to also mean foodstuffs that are no longer available on the page above. Lewis specifies that use of “Hohokam” to describe the earlier inhabitants of the Sonoran Desert suggests that the Huhugam were different from modern-day O’odham, which he says is inaccurate.32 Lopez claims O’odham ancestry with the Huhugam, but does not shy away from use of Huhugam when discussing the earlier civilization, or from distinguishing between the O’odham people living today and “the long-ago people,” even while referring to them as ancestors.33 whose tangible artifacts remain for us to see be called extinct? What if their traditions and lifeways are still used by people living today? These are questions that should be asked of John D. Walker, and sadly, “extinct” people cannot provide us with answers. 29 Melinda Elliott, Great Excavations, (Santa Fe: School of American Research Press, 1995), 134. 30 Barnaby V. Lewis, “The Meaning of Huhugam,” in Archaeology Southwest Magazine 33, No. 4 (Fall 2019: The Casa Grande Community), 9. 31 Glen E. Rice and John L. Czarzasty, eds. Las Cremaciones: A Hohokam Ball Court Center in the Phoenix Basin (Phoenix: Pueb- lo Grande Museum, 2008), xvii. 32 Rice, Hohokam, xvii. 33 Lopez, “Huhugam,” 118. 33 Following Lewis’ interpretation above, it should also be noted that Native perspectives today on the meaning of “Hohokam” and Huhugam have likely changed from earlier times, and it is possible these changes will become better established in the future. Illustrating this possibility is the O’odham oral story, “Hohokam— The People Who Are Gone,” found in Anna Moore Shaw’s book on Akimel O’odham legends. In it, Shaw— who was Akimel O’odham and copied down stories told to her by Akimel elders in the 1930’s—sets down an account of the building of Casa Grande by “the noble Hohokam…whose achievements have left to all people a valuable lesson in patience and determination.”34 Shaw’s writing is almost a century-old and it could potentially represent a dominant non-Native influence, but it also possibly illustrates the evolution of the words Hohokam and Huhugam and their definitions, within the last century. There is nothing in linguistic evolution or language etiquette to say these changes should not happen and could not be driven by the cultural perspectives of various Odham, including Lewis, who want to use Huhugam to refer exclusively to their ancestors.35 It is very possible that someday “Hohokam” will go the way of “Anasazi,” a word meaning “Ancient Enemy” and originating with the Diné (Navajo) to describe the ancestors of today’s modern Puebloan people; use of Anasazi is now considered disrespectful by modern Pueblos and it is no longer used as a technical term. In place of Anasazi—which was entered into common parlance by archeologists in the late 1800s—most archeologists and academics refer to these same people as Ancestral Puebloan.36 I’ve included a broader introduction to the word “Hohokam” because it’s use in this paper is potentially contentious and deserves an explanation. Archeologists around the southwest still use Hohokam as a technical term to refer to a specific civilization, associated culture, and historic people that previously existed in southern Arizona between 300 and 1500 C.E., but opinions on Hohokam used in this way are not consistent.37 One definition from Archeology Southwest describes Hohokam as “a suite of material traits,” 34 Anna Moore Shaw, Pima Indian Legends (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1968), 28. 35 Lewis, “Huhugam,” 9. 36 “What Does ‘Anasazi’ Mean, and Why is it Controversial?” Indian Pueblo Cultural Center, online resource, accessed March 24, 2024, https://indianpueblo.org/what-does-anasazi-mean-and-why-is-it-controversial/. Some within the Diné (Navajo) tradition translate Anasazi as “Those who do things differently,” illustrating that translation is not always consistent within a tribe, and an indi- vidual word’s translated meaning among different peoples is rarely consistent either. 37 Archaeology Southwest, “Hohokam or Huhugam?” online resource, accessed March 22, 2024, https://www.archaeolo- gysouthwest.org/exhibit/online-exhibits/pieces-puzzle/piece-1/#:~:text=Archaeologists%20call%20the%20ancient%20people%20 of%20the%20Sonoran,spelling%20and%20pronunciation%2C%20they%20have%20distinctly%20different%20meanings. 34 not “’a group of people’.”38 The Park Service, in its interpretation of Casa Grande Ruins, does not refer to the specific people who lived during this period as “Hohokam” or “Huhugam.” Instead, the park refers to these people as “Ancestral Sonoran Desert People” on their website. While the park uses “Hohokam” to describe the ascribed period of time and the civilization that existed during it, NPS language argues the word has been misappropriated and should not be used to refer to people.39 Native tribes that associate or have direct ancestry with these earlier peoples have their own descriptors that can make settling on a single name difficult. The various O’odham bands will use “Ancestral O’odham,” but this phrase does not include the Hopi and Zuni Pueblos, who also claim affiliation with the people of the Hohokam period. Additionally, use of “Ancestral Sonoran Desert People” is dependent upon our modern-day definition of the Sonoran Desert; the ancestral people who lived during this Hohokam period would not have referred to their environment as the Sonoran Desert. While the word Huhugam was perhaps never intended as a proper noun, the modified “Hohokam” has come into usage as referring to the civilization that built the sites discussed in this paper; its use is well- established, and its meaning is relatively clear. “Hohokam” will be used when describing the civilization and its culture. To remain consistent with the Park Service, I will refer to the people who belonged to this culture and the desert landscape (note, not the people to whom the culture and landscape belonged) as “Ancestral Sonoran Desert People.” Huhugam will be used when discussing Native perspectives, with the caveat that it could be referring to the original inhabitants of Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments or used as a generalized term for distant or immediate ancestors. O’odham (Akimel, Tohono, Hia C-eḍ) There are several different tribal groups in the Sonoran Desert that claim association or ancestry with the Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples who built the settlements at Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima; these groups include farther-removed Pueblos of Hopi and Zuni, and the Maricopa peoples who have 38 Kyle Woodson and Archaeology Southwest, “Why You Should Experience Casa Grande Ruins National Monument,” YouTube video, 57:43, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62TUaFkFIN4; Leslie Aragon, “Life of the Gila: Hohokam Worlds,” Preservation Archeology Blog, Archeology Southwest, online resource, February 28, 2020, online resource, accessed April 7, 2024, https://www. archaeologysouthwest.org/2020/02/27/life-of-the-gila-hohokam-worlds/. 39 Casa Grande Ruins, “The Ancestral Sonoran Desert People,” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, online resource, last modified February 10, 2021, accessed January 20, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/cagr/learn/historyculture/the-ances- tral-sonoran-desert-people.htm 35 allied with local tribes since the 1800s, but this paper looks primarily at the various O’odham groups—the Tohono, Akimel and Hia C-eḍ O’odham (alternative O’otham)—who historically have had the most pronounced relationship to Hohokam sites. These groups were further distinguished by the Spanish upon their arrival, with the Akimel (“Pima”) being identified as living along the Gila River to the north; the Tohono (“Papago”) living in settlements near modern day-Tucson; and the Hia C-eḍ (“Areneños” or “Sand Papagos”) living in the more remote corners of the desert near modern-day Arizona towns of Ajo and Why (GRIC and the Salt River Pima- Maricopa Indian Community are both made up of Akimel O’odham, however the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community uses the praenomen of Onk to differentiate themselves from their Gila River Akimel O’odham relatives).40 It is unknown whether this is how the various O’odham groups would identify themselves had the Spanish not arrived, but they all claim kinship of some kind with the Ancestral Sonoran Desert People who constructed the historic landscapes at Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima. Ancestry is the dominant O’odham cultural interpretation; another, earlier one is that of a conquering people, throwing down the undeserving Huhugam who had destroyed the landscape of the Sonoran Desert. One O’odham creation story involves the O’odham being led by their creator god, Elder Brother (Se- eh-ha to the Akimel, I’itoi to the Tohono) up from below the earth, where they had taken refuge from the rapacious Huhugam, to destroy the “great houses” of their rivals.41 According to O’odham legends, Elder Brother, Earth Medicine Man, and Coyote had created the various people that populate the earth; Elder Brother had originally given the desert to the Huhugam, but they had become disobedient and he sought another people more deserving to take over stewardship of the land.42 Barnaby V. Lewis, introduced earlier, and Chris Loendorf write that the people in this tradition are “all very clearly O’Odham ancestors, and it is illogical to interpret the conquest narrative as an invasion of outsiders, or to suggest that any of the people… were somehow not O’odham.” This O’odham narrative of a dispute between groups of people is a tradition 40 National Park Service, “Native Peoples of the Sonoran Desert: The O’odham,” Department of the Interior, online re- source, last updated January 23, 2021, accessed March 24, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/articles/oodham.htm#:~:text=The%20 O%27odham%20Today%20Today%2C%20the%20various%20bands%20of,and%20the%20Salt%20River%20%28Pima%20Marico- pa%29%20Indian%20Community. 41 Thomas E. Sheridan, “Human Ecology of the Sonoran Desert,” in A Natural History of the Sonoran Desert, ed. Steven J. Phillips and Patricia Wentworth Comus (Arizona-Sonoran Desert Museum: University of California Press, 2000), 109; Donald M. Bahr, “O’odham Traditions about the Hohokam,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 125-126. 42 Shaw, Legends, 4-14; Chris Loendorf and Barnaby V. Lewis, “Akimel O’odham Cultural Traditions regarding the Past,” in Ar- chaeology Southwest Magazine 33, No. 4 (Fall 2019: The Casa Grande Community), 31-32; Clee Woods, “I Found the Cave of a Pima God,” in The Desert Magazine 8, No. 9 (July 1945), 10. 36 that has been told for some time by various storytellers of different generations, different perspectives, and different time periods. All traditions that involve oral narratives are living things that grow and change with time—as Gerald Vizenor, Ojibwe/Anishinaabe, explains, they are not static and are not scripture (not even biblical scripture, it should be noticed, has escaped changes in meaning and intention over the millennia).43 Interpretation of history, stories, and their meaning will be an ongoing theme in the paper. A brief discussion on storytelling to evoke cultural memory can be found in Chapter 5. This dispute, regardless of who it was between, is recorded in many stories as having occurred at the Great House, located in Casa Grande Ruins.44 The story’s setting fits within the chronological record – the buildings at Casa Grande having been built later and lived in towards the end of an identifiable Hohokam civilizational period. Casa Grande is significant among the O’odham for this reason, among others. As was earlier discussed, the O’odham have a strong sense of place-based history. Sacred sites maintain connections with recent and distant ancestors; these sites may also act as places for prayer, for reflection and for education. Traditional lifeways, referred to by the O’odham as Himdag (alternatively Him dak or Himdagĭ), are also preserved for similar, spiritual purposes; the various O’odham bands have historically grown similar foodstuffs and lived in similar architectural typologies to those established during the earlier Hohokam period.45 In modern times, the contemporary O’odham are attempting to retain these traditions to manage the spiritual health of the community, but also the physical health of individuals. O’odham groups have some of the highest rates of diabetes among the various ethnic groups in the United States, largely accepted as the fault of forced, widespread O’odham adoption of non-Native foods and food preparation methods due to a loss of control over their environment from outside forces.46 The reclamation of native O’odham traditions and resources, then, is important, beyond that of archeological artifacts.47 Tribal membership of GRIC is made up of Akimel O’odham but also of Maricopa, who sometimes refer to themselves as the Pee-Posh or Piipaash. These two tribal peoples have a trusted relationship dating back 43 Laura Cotelli, Winged Words: American Indian Writers Speak, (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1990), 164. 44 Shaw, Legends, 8-14, 28; Sheridan, “Human Ecology,” 109. 45 Daniel Lopez, Tristan Reader and Paul Buseck, Community Attitudes Toward Traditional Tohono O’odham Foods (Sells: Toho- no O’odham Community College, 2002), 11. 46 Gila River Indian Community, “About: 19th and 20th Centuries,” online resource, accessed March 23, 2024, https://www. gilariver.org/index.php/about/history 47 Ibid. 37 to the early 1800s, when the Maricopa migrated east along the Gila River to avoid raiding Apache groups.48 A similar partnership is seen in the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community in Scottsdale. I am most familiar with Tohono O’odham and Hia C-eḍ O’odham traditions and culture because I lived in the part of the Sonoran Desert that are the traditional lands of the Tohono and Hia C-eḍ, places where they still predominate.49 I discuss O’odham culture at large in various points, and do not want my use of “O’odham” when talking about the different bands to be taken as evidence that I have condensed all O’odham groups into a single category. Some of my sources discussing cultural O’odham resources involve Tohono O’odham voices, and I want to stress that the Tohono O’odham are not synonymous with the Akimel O’odham simply because they share a name. However, I use the writings and words of many O’odham, including Tohono O’odham, to explore cultural resource definition within the broader O’odham world. Daniel Lopez has written on oral traditions and histories within the larger O’odham community, which speak of the Huhugam as ancestors. The importance of place is illustrated in the sites that are considered sacred by various O’odham groups; Huhugam sites are places that remind modern-day O’odham of their past. In an essay on O’odham traditions, Lopez writes “…(W)e do not know how far our past generations go back in time. We just say that we go back to the Huhugam. We are here today, but we know that some time in the future we will also be called the Huhugam.”50 Native The descriptor “Native” will be used throughout this paper, to refer to people who have ancestry that date back to the Americas post-European Colonialism. People whose ancestors originated elsewhere will be described as such or else as “non-Native,” if their ethnicity is unknown. Historically, the term “Native” has been used to refer to populations with specific tribal affiliation that are not integrated into a larger, national 48 Gila River Indian Community, “About,” online resource, accessed March 23, 2024, https://www.gilariver.org/index.php/ about/culture. 49 These distinctions presents us with an understanding of how these O’odham groups identify themselves and each other— the Hia C-eḍ O’odham are very small in numbers and are not federally recognized as a distinct tribe because the federal government considers them to be so closely related to the Tohono O’odham as to make their own designation meaningless; Hia C-eḍ O’odham are able to enroll in the Tohono O’odham Nation and various other O’odham governmental entities, including the Ak-Chin Indian Community in Maricopa, Arizona. Beginning in 1984, the Tohono O’odham Nation provided space on their reservation for Hia C-eḍ O’odham, and established a committee dedicated to managing the Hia C-eḍ District by and for the Hia C-eḍ peoples. This partnership dissolved in 2015 following disagreements between the Tohono O’odham and Hia C-eḍ O’odham on management of the landscape and of the Hia C-eḍ O’odham’s role within the Tohono O’odham Nation. Many Hia C-eḍ O’odham desire to be independently identi- fied as their own group and not with their Tohono O’odham cousins. 50 Lopez, “Huhugam,” 118. 38 identity.51 Modern definitions now recognize the autonomy and “aspirations of (indigenous) people to exercise control over their own…ways of life…and develop their identifies, languages and religions, within the frameworks of the States in which they live.”52 I may use “Indigenous” as a placeholder on occasion to avoid overuse of “Native” in individual paragraphs, but they are not always considered synonymous. “Indigenous” is primarily used as an international definition to describe a self-identified group of people who live in one particular place and whose ancestors have not migrated from other places as recently as others groups (“Indigenous” is used to refer to many different groups around the world, including the Sámi in Scandinavia, and the Bantu in Africa). “Native” is used in this paper to refer to the people who view their ancestry as being directly tied to various landscapes in America. This paper will not discuss genetic heritage, racial makeup, historic migration, or blood quantum laws, for reasons beyond that these are very divisive issues that all tribal entities in the U.S. approach differently. Native experiences and perspectives will be discussed, but it should be stressed that there is no singular Native experience or perspective, either between tribes or within them; we will not be interpreting the experiences and perspectives explored in this paper as being shared by all Indigenous peoples in the U.S. Neither can we condense the daily expressions of joy, fear, grief, or gratitude to having been shaped solely by race or by the infliction of a racial hierarchy from outside forces—however we must acknowledge the harm caused by racism and colonialism in the past, and the ongoing issues these legacies perpetuate today. We will, at times, delve into the important question of what Native resources are, which cannot be answered without exploring who is defining such terms; however, this can be accomplished without probing too deeply into the self- determination that all humans possess—again, important, but not to the purposes of this paper.53 I should also acknowledge that there is no one word that Native people in the Americas prefer to be referred by. There are various phrases I am familiar with: Native American, American Indian, Indigenous, Native, First Nation, First Peoples, Aboriginal; and some phrases that I have only recently become aware of, including Original Peoples. I have a cousin who likes the term “American Indian” for the sardonic reason that he believes it best illustrates the stupidity of Christopher Columbus (who thought he had landed on the 51 Bill Sillar, “Who’s indigenous? Whose archeology,” in Conservation, Identity and Ownership in Indigenous Archeology, ed. Bill Sillar and Cressida Fforde (London: James & James, 2005), 73-74. 52 Sillar, “Archeology,” 74. 53 Sillar, “Archeology,” 71-72. 39 continent of India and so called the inhabitants “Indians”). I do not believe there needs to be one overarching term used, but I also admit that I cannot please every individual Native person through my choice of any of these descriptions. Furthermore, I recognize that the act of grouping Native peoples under a single term can reinforce racist and colonialist perspectives.54 Gerald Vizenor, introduced earlier, has written at length during his long career about the erasure of Native identity via the forced adoption of dominant terms such as “Native.” Vizenor offers as a solution the act of identifying peoples by their associated tribal group, distinguishing between Native peoples as one would the French, English and German-descendant peoples that also populate this country today. Following Vizenor’s example, I will refer to Native peoples by which tribe or tribal organization they are members of or associate with, where it is known. Use of “Native” will be relegated to the abstract, but it will still be used extensively throughout this paper. Abandoned When discussing historical settlements or other sites, archeologists generally use “abandoned” when discussing the conclusion of a sequence of human habitation. It is not a phenomenon reserved solely for catastrophic social events or natural disasters and as often describes a thoughtful and decided process of migration as it does a hasty exit. There are various causes of “abandonment,” and all require an in-depth understanding of the individual sites being described as “abandoned.”55 However, “abandoned” has historically been used among the American public to describe spaces that were considered deserted, empty of human habitation and thus available for non-Native settlement or designation by the federal government. These supposedly empty spaces were actually landscapes managed and maintained by Indigenous peoples for generations. Erasing the Native presence in these spaces made it easier for non-Natives to occupy and control them.56 The federal government, prior to the establishment of NPS, used it to great effect when identifying particularly desirable landscapes for use or for preservation, even while removing the Native inhabitants from these places.57 While it was most commonly used to discuss 54 Alicia Puglionesi, In Whose Ruins: Power, Possession, and the Landscapes of American Empire (New York: Scribner, 2022), 10. 55 Catherine M. Cameron and Steve A. Tomka, “Abandonment and Archeological Interpretation,” in The Abandonment of Settlements and Regions (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 3-8, https://www.cambridge.org/core/books/abs/abandon- ment-of-settlements-and-regions/abandonment-and-archaeological-interpretation/A11EC1C0060CD98210E0878803809A23. 56 Nicholas C. Laluk and Joseph Aguilar, “Archeological Tropes That Perpetuate Colonialism,” Sapiens, September 6, 2023, https://www.sapiens.org/archaeology/indigenous-people-archaeology/. 57 Sillar, “Archeology,” 84. As mentioned above, this way of thinking also led to the forced removal of Native peoples from their traditional lands, segregated to federally mandated and organized reservations; it created deadly destructive cultural practices 40 landscapes with the potential for agricultural development or tourism, “abandoned” also described places of former habitation by Indigenous peoples. “Abandoned” has erased Native connections—however tenuous, however dated—with the places their ancestors or other Native peoples had built. To Native people, the use of “abandoned” to describe ruinous places like those of Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples as no longer occupied is inaccurate. A dictionary might correctly define these spaces as lacking human inhabitants, but that does not mean they had been forgotten by Native peoples. Creating a corollary with use of the word “discovery,” which will also not be used in this paper, Native peoples retained knowledge of places like Casa Grande and Snaketown; these places were and still are of ongoing significance to Native peoples.58 I will not use “abandoned” to refer to places like Casa Grande Ruins or Snaketown. Similar language will be incorporated, to convey to the reader that these places were perhaps not inhabited on the same scale or perhaps by the direct matrilinear descendants of the people who first lived in them, but the word “abandoned” will not be used. This decision to not use one word when describing what it defines may seem like splitting hairs, but word choice should be done sensitively—especially when dealing with groups of people who have suffered metaphorical and literal erasure from physical places and from historical discussions. Ruins Use of the word “ruins” does not currently carry with it the same connotations as “discovered” or “abandoned.” My inclusion of it in this list is, rather, to open the door for a discussion of whether it should be used with apprehension. Admittedly, “ruin” is included in the very name of Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, so its use in this paper is inescapable. I will continue to refer to Casa Grande Ruins using such language, specifically to describe the monument (Casa Grande will be used to describe the physical Great House building). If anything, it adds weight to my intended purpose in writing out this lexicon— that management and designation of sites involves using language that is sometimes at odds with other perspectives. Acknowledging this reality is all I seek to do. Adding fuel to this argument is the designation factor itself. There is a town in Arizona named Casa Grande, which takes its nomen from the archeological site. However, Casa Grande Ruins the archeological site like the American Indian boarding school system, where Native children were removed from their homes and sent to be assimilated, forced to adopt non-Native lifestyles and stripped of their individual identities. The social damage done has been acknowledged in current years and is currently being grappled with by American society at large and American archeologists in particular. 58 Ibid. 41 is not located in Casa Grande the town; rather, it is located in Coolidge, Arizona, some 24 miles away. Including “ruins” when describing Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, which I will be shortening to Casa Grande Ruins in most instances, will help distinguish it for those unfamiliar with named places in Arizona and using Google Maps as a guide.59 Finally, “ruin” is overly broad and meaning very vague—but the same could be said of “abandoned” and “discovered.” Where these words converge is in their interpretation; while to “abandon” something is generally considered a negative thing, “ruin” does not carry similar weight. Depending on its usage or the perspective of the audience, “ruin,” when used as a noun, can be attractive—positively romantic. The romanticism found in crumbling settlements can be traced back to 19th-century ideas in European countries, specifically by the English Romanticism poets like Percy Bysshe Shelley and Williams Wordsworth, referencing the remains of gothic religious compounds, crumbling villas in the Italian countryside, or hulking sculptures in the Egyptian desert; these writers used the tangible history they saw as inspiration. Usage of ruin in these instances, or any other instance, including Casa Grande Ruins, can be construed as a product of colonialism, however, this is not always the case. “Ruin” and its earlier use were not used to suggest a loss of cultural affiliation with modern- day Native people, as “abandoned” was. So perhaps we should not prescribe the use of something as having disrespectful intent before we are told otherwise. You will find “ruin” used extensively through this paper, not only when describing the National Monument. Further discussion should be had of its place in cultural resource definition and management. For myself, I don’t find “ruin” is enough to denote abandonment or loss on its own; it can more appropriately be used to describe the absence of something once present. In this way, “ruin” is not unlike earlier usage of the O’odham word Huhugam. Who is this paper for? In short, anyone! While this conversation does require a certain amount of time and intellectual investment, I have tried to approach it like I would a conversation I might have with a friend or family member who was not familiar with the subjects of cultural resources and Native culture at large or the specific sites in 59 This amusing situation was once my own: after applying for, interviewing, and being offered an internship at southern Arizo- na’s Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, I was still Googling “Organ Pipes National Park”—which is real and located in Australia. I include it here to remind anyone utilizing the internet to always be as accurate in your Googling as is possible. Including “ruins” is one way I can illustrate that. 42 helpful in discussing the meaning, memory, or management of two archeological sites in southern Arizona—so I will leave them at the door. 44 “Still, it was an interesting story.”61 James McCarthy 61 James McCarthy, A Papago Traveler (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1985), 114. McCarthy, Tohono O’odham, was baptized Macario Antone. He writes that “the white people misunderstood ‘Macario’ and changed it to ‘McCarthy.’ I’ve used it many times in my lifetime.” Adopting a new name to pacify or gain admittance to the dominant culture is an unfortunate reality, both his- torically and currently, for many people in America. Macario was his Spanish name, given to him when he was baptized Catholic. He does not provide us with his O’odham name—but neither he does give us his father’s O’odham name, only his mothers, Lali. 46 3. SITE HISTORIES Approaching this discussion of cultural resources and their management involves two designated sites that are twinned in many ways but also starkly contrasted in style of management. We will explore both: their origins, their appearances, and their histories, in addition to how human users and caretakers have interpreted and interacted with them. These interpretations—extending from an older, historiographical perspective and the more modern, educational one—will be addressed throughout. While there is much to discuss about Hohokam Culture, scope will be largely limited to the architectural phenomenology of the Ancestral Sonoran Desert People—not only is their architecture of primary interest at both sites, it also illustrates a connection with modern-day O’odham peoples, as will be discussed under the subsection on Snaketown. Hohokam Culture overview Casa Grande Ruins National Monument and Hohokam Pima National Monument are products of the same people, a civilization known to the southwestern field of archeology as Hohokam Culture.62 The Ancestral Sonoran Desert People of the Hohokam period flourished for over a millennium, the advent of which is dated to between 450 and 500 C.E. Cultural practices linked to the Ancestral Sonoran Desert People first begin to appear in the archeological record at this time, and continue in a relatively consistent and thus identifiable pattern of society that resembles those of central Mesoamercia—the Aztec and the Maya. Ancestral Sonoran 62 Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish, “The Hohokam Millennium,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 2. Desert People were prolific builders, and their earthen infrastructure still exists today as evidence of a complex and coordinated civilization: adobe buildings, ball courts and platform mounds, constructed around centralized plazas that suggest a highly ritualized lifestyle.63 All of this was supplemented by the most extensive irrigation system north of Peru in the Pre-Columbian Americas.64 Even the earliest of Hohokam canals were so distinct and well established that, hundreds of years later, American settlers to Phoenix and the southwestern Sonoran Desert followed these historic canal layouts for their own agricultural ends.65 Arizona state map, with site maps highlighted in the center. It might be useful here to describe Graphic credit: C. Beesley (May 2024). the modern landscape for readers more familiar with Phoenix than they are the earlier Hohokam agricultural lands. Cutting through the separation of several centuries, cultural influences, civic development and spoken language, the people of the Hohokam period thrived in the northern part of today’s Sonoran Desert, the entirety of which covers southern Arizona, the southeastern corner of California, and the states of Sonora and Baja in Mexico. This bit of cartography is handy for visualizing, but it should be remembered that the Hohokam Culture recognized no international boundary—neither do the Native people who live in the Sonoran Desert today; the U.S.-Mexico border, as it was created, has cut through their homelands and creates issues for Native people today who want to continue their traditional cultural practices and way of life.66 63 Fish, “Millennium,” 6. 64 Sheridan, “Human Ecology,” 106. 65 Fish, “Millennium,” 1. 66 Chelsey Lugar, “How the U.S.-Mexico border has split the Tohono O’odham,” in High Country News, March 19, 2018, https://www.hcn.org/issues/50-5/tribal-affairs-how-the-u-s-mexico-border-has-split-the-tohono-oodham. Since the international boundary was last finalized, Native families have been separated by fault of living in one area of the desert over another. This has 48 Site maps of Hohokam Pima National Monument (identified by a circle as the site boundaries are not clearly identified), and Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. Graphic credit: C. Beesley (May 2024). The settlement at Casa Grande Ruins and Snaketown in Hohokam Pima both sit in the Valley of the Sun, dominated in ancient times by Hohokam settlements and agricultural fields, and by the metropolis of modern- day Phoenix.67 The Valley of the Sun is located roughly in the middle of the state. To the north is the Mogollon Rim, where the gateway city of Flagstaff sits on the edge of the Grand Canyon; to the southeast are the Santa Catalina Mountains and Tucson; and towards the southwest stretches the Gila River and the tri-state border city of Yuma. Snaketown is found on the Gila River Indian Reservation, which sits on almost 600 square miles of land in the Valley of the Sun, just south of Phoenix. Interstate 10, between Phoenix and Tucson, runs directly through the reservation from the northwest to the southeast. Only a few miles outside of the southern-most specifically impacted the Tohono O’odham. Men of the Tohono O’odham Nation historically completed an annual salt pilgrimage to the Gulf of California, some 60 miles from their lands which are now north of the U.S.-Mexico border. In recent years, the tribe has begun holding the pilgrimage again – however, this involves dealing with U.S. and Mexican regulations and getting permission from American federal agencies, such as the NPS and Border Patrol. These added frustrations make maintaining cultural traditions even more difficult. 67 Technically, Casa Grande Ruins National Monument is located in the smaller San Tan Valley, which is overlapped by the Valley of the Sun. 49 edge of the reservation sits Casa Grande Ruins National Monument. The Phoenix metropolitan area looms over both sites, and the last three decades have seen increased development in the surrounding area of the Sonoran Desert. While Phoenix is massive, it is still a relatively young settlement compared to those that existed before. To match the longevity of Hohokam Culture, the modern-day Sonoran Desert city will have to survive as an identifiable community in roughly its same geographic location until the year 3000 C.E.68 The Sonoran Desert is frequently called the greenest desert in the world for its heavy monsoons twice a year and the tropical inversions that come up from the Gulf of California in the fall.69 Many visitors to the desert are surprised to find it a verdant paradise overflowing with lush vegetation and abundant wildlife; these things are what attracted humans to the landscape since first arriving on the continent. These first people, as far back as 11,000 B.C.E., were hunter-gatherers, following big game animals that migrated through the desert.70 Eventually, humans established seasonal settlement in this area and began cultivating native plants and introducing new species from Central America. Maize was first introduced to the northern desert near modern-day Tucson from Central America around the year 2000 B.C.E., with humans using floodplains to sustain its cultivation. Native desert plants like agave and varieties of cholla were grown and utilized for food production or landscaping needs. Agave production was established on slopes, planted in rows along a series of terraces, which are identified today by the rockpiles intended to capture moisture and runoff from terraces above.71 Archeologists have discovered more than 42,000 rock piles associated with terraces on the western side of the Tortilita Mountains north of Tucson that supported the growing and roasting of agave, suggestive of a massive scale of agricultural industry.72 Cholla, meanwhile, was likely grown as a living fence and humans collected unflowered cholla buds to be eaten, similar to modern-day okra.73 Later, plants like cotton, amaranth, squash and drought-hardy beans like tepary were added to agricultural fields.74 68 David E. Doyel, “Irrigation, Production, and Power in Phoenix Basin Hohokam Society,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 89. 69 Mark A. Dimmitt, “Biomes & Communities of the Sonoran Desert Region,” in A Natural History of the Sonoran Desert, ed. Steven J. Phillips and Patricia Wentworth Comus (Arizona-Sonoran Desert Museum: University of California Press, 2000), 13. 70 Sallie Van Valkenburg, “The Casa Grande of Arizona as a Landmark on the Desert, a Government Reservation, and a Nation- al Monument,” in The Kiva; A Journal of the Arizona Archeological and Historical Society 27, no. 3 (February 1962), 3. 71 Suzanne K. Fish, Paul R. Fish, Charles H. Miksicek, and John Madsen, “Prehistoric Cultivation in Southern Arizona,” Desert Plants Journal 7, no. 2 (University of Arizona, College of Agriculture: 1985), 100, https://repository.arizona.edu/han- dle/10150/554214. 72 Sheridan, “Human Ecology,” 107. 73 Suzanne K. Fish and Charles H. Miksicek, Patricia L. Crown, “Ancient Lessons For Desert Farming,” Arizona Land and People 33, no. 4 (University of Arizona, College of Agriculture: 1982), 14, https://repository.arizona.edu/bitstream/handle/10150/295185/ alp-33-04_012_014.pdf?sequence=1. 74 Ibid; Sheridan, “Human Ecology,” 107. Cotton is a notoriously water-intensive crop; the successful cultivation of it in the 50 Artist rendering of daily life for the Ancestral Sonoran Desert People of the Hohokam Culture. Graphic credit: S’edav Va’aki digital collections, reprinted by the Smithsonian Magazine (March 2023). These people that lived just prior to the Hohokam Culture moved frequently, spending one or two growing seasons at their agricultural fields before moving to other locations to gather wild food and game. Their structures were easily manipulated—circular huts constructed out of bent poles buried in the earth.75 Evidence of these early pit houses is still found around southern Arizona. Over the ensuing generations, humans adapted to live in the desert—while altering the desert to suit their needs. The large agricultural fields of the Hohokam were made possible by their extensive canal system – a collection of lines coming off a main river source, either the Salt, Gila, San Pedro or Santa Cruz Rivers. The beginnings of this irrigation system were first dug out of the desert pavement 1500 years prior to the Common Sonoran Desert illustrates the sophistication of Hohokam irrigation systems. 75 Henry D. Wallace, “Hohokam Beginnings,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 13. 51 Era.76 They were undertaken entirely by hand. It’s estimated that the digging of just one trunk line to a main canal trough would have taken a million person-days of labor.77 For scale, the Salt River valley near Phoenix has an identified 14 irrigation networks, with several trunk lines for every system—totaling an estimated 300 miles of canals.78 These Hohokam canals irrigated between 30,000 and 60,000 acres of agricultural land in the Salt River valley.79 The construction of these canals, evidence of an increasing population that relied on agriculture to support itself, signals the start of more permanent settlement in the desert, where previously humans had only migrated through. New typologies were introduced to the desert, as humans began to invest in their network of subsistence. Ancestral Sonoran Desert People established housing alongside their agricultural fields—weather in the northern Sonoran Desert allowing for a year-round growing season. Their earliest permanent shelters were small, one-room, structures with rounded corners, built from saguaro cactus ribs and other long-armed vegetation like the ocotillo plant; the vegetation was woven vertically and horizontally together to form identifiable walls, which were then coated in mud—familiar to Western readers as waddle-and-daub or post-reinforced construction.80 These structures are best known today as Jacal (pronounced following the Spanish intonation). Later, the Hohokam added to their use of Jacals a typology of solid mud construction, layering baskets full of wet soil in a single horizontal line to create walls.81 This created a more permanent structure that could be repaired and maintained when necessary. These buildings, referred to as fieldhouses, were lived in year-round, and soon became grouped together in a sort of township, known to locals in today’s Sonora Desert as a rancheria. Archeologists undertaking survey work around the Valley of the Sun have determined that these communities almost always had an identifiable plaza.82 Ancestral Sonoran Desert People undertook tasks in their daily lives outside, therein influencing the organization of a central plaza for group activities.83 The constructed central plazas first start appearing between 500 and 700 C.E., which archeologists use to 76 Fish, “Millenium,” xi. 77 Fish, “Mllenium,” 5. This can be read as a single person working one million 8-hour days, or—easier to imagine—10,000 people working for 100 8-hour days. 78 Doyel, “Irrigation,” 83. 79 Sheridan, “Human Ecology,” 107. 80 Patricia L. Crown, “Classic Period Hohokam Settlement and Land Use in the Casa Grande Ruins Area, Arizona.” Journal of Field Archaeology 14, no. 2 (Summer 1987): 148; Elliott, Excavations, 147; Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 4. 81 Ibid. 82 Fish, “Millenium,” 6. 83 Clemensen, Ruins Chap. 1-6. 52 Graphic credit: C. Beesley (May 2024). pinpoint the beginning of an identifiable Hohokam Culture.84 Burial pits have been found in these plazas, suggesting the individuals buried were highly venerable within in the larger community. These burials were likely intended to amplify the ritualistic importance of the plaza space, but they also served as a type of place marker, tying people to the larger settlement.85 Around 700 C.E., Ancestral Sonoran Desert People introduce a new community typology referred to as ball courts from Central American cultures in their rancherias.86 To archeologists, the arrival of ball courts signals the Preclassical period of Hohokam Culture; this period straddles the earlier Colonial period, when Hohokam settlements were first established, and the Sedentary period, when Hohokam Culture starts to consolidate.87 After the Sedentary period, beginning around 1150 C.E., Hohokam habitation sites begin to grow larger and more populated. This period is known to archeologists as the Classic Period of Hohokam Culture, when ball courts suddenly fell out of fashion among the rancherias. At this time, smaller rancherias were abandoned or only lived in seasonally.88 The larger communities became compact, surrounded by high defensive walls; identifiable ceremonial spaces were established at the center of the city, an added feature of the larger communal plaza.89 These ceremonial spaces were raised above the desert floor in the shape of flat- topped earthen mounds, some perhaps as large as the earthen mounds of the southeastern United States or reminiscent of the stepped pyramids in central Mexico. The largest of Hohokam mounds contain an estimated 500,000 cubic feet of dirt and stand upwards of 12 feet tall.90 It was on these platform mounds that larger 84 Wallace, “Beginnings,” 19. 85 Wallace, “Beginnings,” 18. The Hohokam generally cremated their dead; burial suggests an individual was important. 86 Fish, “Millenium,” 8. 87 Fish, “Millenium,” xi, 9. 88 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 1-7. 89 Fish, “Millenium,” 9. 90 Mark D. Elson, “Into the Earth and Up to the Sky,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa 53 multi-storied adobe buildings were constructed.91 The best example of these buildings can be found at Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, the so-called “Great House.” Each Hohokam community in the Sonoran Desert—estimates are that there were several dozen during the Classic Period—would have had at least one platform mound with an associated building on top.92 As of 2007, an estimated 120 platform mounds of varying size and scale have been identified at 95 sites around the Sonoran Desert.93 The mounds, certainly, were ceremonial, but the use or true purpose of these houses is still unknown (speculation from the archeological community will be discussed shortly).94 The manner in which they were constructed, however, is fairly concrete. Ancestral Sonoran Desert People labored to produce mud at their canals, carrying it in baskets back to the ceremonial mound, where they would heap the mud in a line, shaping it into the identifiable footprint of a wall. Successive layers of mud were compiled after each level dried, and the walls steadily grew to an imposing height.95 Archeologists define the 300 years between 1150 to 1450 C.E., when mound building was prevalent, as the Classic Period of Hohokam Culture.96 During this time, Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples experienced unprecedented population growth, developed previously unmatched infrastructure in the shape of larger and longer canals and bigger and taller architecture, and appreciated far-flung economic trade.97 This golden age was swiftly followed by largescale social and environmental collapse. By 1500, the human population of the Sonoran Desert had become decimated, and any evidence of a presiding Hohokam Culture disappeared. Southwestern archeologists have long speculated over the causes of such a mystery. Some point to the differentiation between large scale construction projects: the transition from ball courts (egalitarian spaces accessible to all members of society) to stratified earthen mounds suggests a hierarchical, unbalanced society at its height that produced political conflict.98 Others comment on the increasing diversification of the Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 52. 91 Crown, “Settlement,” 148; Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 152. 92 Paul R. Fish and Suzanne K. Fish, “Community, Territory, and Polity,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 44-45. 93 Elson, “Into the Earth,” 52. 94 Elson, “Into the Earth,” 53. 95 Crown, “Settlement,” 148. 96 Fish, “Millenium,” xi. 97 Fish, “Millenium,” 9. 98 Elson, “Into the Earth,” 52; Sheridan, “Human Ecology,” 108. 54 Hohokam basin, seen in the migratory patterns of Ancestral Puebloan Peoples from the north.99 Environmental disasters are also noted. Heavy flooding and subsequent droughts, as reconstructed from tree-ring data, impacted sites around the Sonoran Desert during the 1300s.100 These environmental crises led to a socialized instability by putting undue pressure on an infrastructure essential for human survival but costly and time- consuming to maintain amid ecological fluctuations.101 The agricultural unpredictability experienced by residents of the Sonoran Desert in the Classic Hohokam Period resulted in nutritional stress, as evidenced by human remains uncovered at various archeological sites—inhumation having become the trend over cremation by the end of Hohokam Culture.102 A loss in agricultural sufficiency may be explained by a loss of soil nutrients and a build-up of salts, i.e., alkalinity, due to over-farming.103 The Sonoran Desert is heavy in caliche, a limy hardpan known in the Spanish-speaking world as caliche, formed when soil loses moisture rapidly, settling calcium carbonate at a lower layer below the ground. Caliche will come into play when discussing the adobe construction of Casa Grande later. Lime- heavy soil isn’t suitable as farmland long-term, and some archeologists have speculated that caliche eventually seeped into the ground water in Hohokam canals, causing build-up and blockage over the generations. It also overwhelmed soil formerly suitable for agriculture.104 This is all conjecture undertaken by modern-day southwestern archeologists—the exact reason for the collapse of the Hohokam Culture is unknown. It simply vanished from the Sonoran Desert by the beginning of the 16th century; Hohokam canals started to fill with dirt and Hohokam rancherias began dissolving back into the desert pavement. It is important here to distinguish between a loss in identifiable culture and a continuance of human existence. While Hohokam society may have collapsed, survivors persisted, amending earlier cultural traditions or else adopting entirely new lifeways to continue living in the Sonoran Desert. Smaller bands of native peoples tended the landscape of southern Arizona, living in the remains of the Hohokam civilization. 105 By the 1680s and the entrance of Spanish conquistadors, these peoples had started 99 Fish, “Millenium,” 9. 100 Fish, “Millennium,” 9; Sheridan, “Human Ecology,” 108; John C. Ravesloot, “Changing Views of Snaketown in a Larger Land- scape,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 96. 101 Ravesloot, “Changing,” 96. 102 Patricia L. Crown, “Growing up Hohokam,” in The Hohokam Millennium, ed. Suzanne K. Fish and Paul R. Fish (Santa Fe: School for Advanced Research Press, 2008), 29. 103 Ravesloot, “Changing,” 90. 104 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 3. 105 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 3. 55 ponderosa pine tree trunks to support the building’s floors, ceilings and roof—these materials were brought from the Santa Catalina Mountains, 50 miles to the east near modern-day Tucson.114 Theories as to the purpose of Casa Grande have been varied: was it a place of refuge and defense?115 A castle for a monarch-like ruler?116 An early observatory to view the sun and track the stars?117 These narratives continue to filter cultural resources through a non-Native lens. Whether Casa Grande Ruins was the site of an O’odham Revolt, as was discussed earlier—almost in the style of the 1680 Puebloan uprising against their Spanish overlords—is more conjecture. It is, however, accepted among anthropologists and the O’odham peoples that the landscape at Casa Grande Ruins was no longer occupied as a place of permanent settlement by the arrival of the Spanish in the 1600s. The first European to document his time at Casa Grande is Eusebio Francisco Kino, a Jesuit priest who operated missions further south in today’s Sonora, Mexico.118 Kino is an important source in the history of the Sonoran Desert for many reasons, first among them that he was a skilled cartographer and avid adventurer.119 He traveled widely, using the full knowledge of his Native guides to give him a better understanding of the landscape he was living in and its resources. It is from Kino that Americans have been handed down the name “Casa Grande,” with Kino describing it as a “Great House” in his journals, written in Spanish.120 Kino apparently translated from what the building was referred to by the local natives, but this is ultimately just more conjecture. Kino makes note of this O’odham word, writing it as “hottai ki.”121 We know today that Ki is O’odham for “human abode,” so it may have been a fairly accurate translation.122 The legitimacy of mistranslation or attempted translations during 114 Lynda La Rocca, “Casa Grande Ruins a monument to greatness,” in The Pueblo Chieftain, February 4, 2012, https://www. chieftain.com/story/lifestyle/2012/02/05/casa-grande-ruins-monument-to/8763043007/. 115 Frank Pinkley and Edna Townsley Pinkley, The Casa Grande National Monument in Arizona, March 21, 1931, 11. The Pin- kleys write that the Native peoples who built Casa Grande most likely made the doors and windows small and narrow for defensive purposes. They rationalize this in several areas, suggesting doorways and windows in the building were filled-in because they proved to be indefensible when the building was under attack by combatants. 116 Pinkley, Monument, 5. 117 Ibid. 118 Kino worked for the Spanish, but he was Italian; his family name was Chini (KEY-knee). There’s some irony that his name too is forgotten in favor of the Hispanic influence over New Spain. 119 Kino was the first European to realize that Baja California was a peninsula not an island, as suggested by previous Spanish arrivals to the area. 120 Jesse Walter Fewkes, “Casa Grande Arizona,” in Bureau of American Ethnology, report no. 28 to the secretary of the Smith- sonian Institute (1906-1907), 33. 121 Valkenburgh, “History,” online resource. 122 Haury, Hohokam, 36; Logan Burtch-Buus, “’The people’s house’: A support network for Native American students living on 58 with the building acting as a backdrop to Kino’s performance.124 Both visits by Kino and his entourage have given posterity descriptions of the Great House and the buildings that surrounded it. The Great House was dilapidated, but identifiable as a grand structure—especially compared to the smaller ones around it, which signified to the Spanish that this site was once a community and that the Great House was important within it.125 Dimensions for the Great House range between accounts, depending on system of measurement used or person measuring, but all make note of the building’s walls, which appear polished and shone in the sun.126 While Casa Grande’s walls were largely intact, every description of the site includes comments about the roof missing from the top-most levels of the Great House, and the remaining timbers having been burned for an unknown reason.127 It’s here, in Kino and his compatriots’ descriptions, that Casa Grande is first identified with European images of civilization and social existence. The Spanish Entrada across the continent had centered solely on finding riches in the New World; initially this was gold and other precious metals, but later it became the conversion of native peoples, using their labor to expand the Spanish colonies and mine more valuable resources. Sites like Casa Grande fueled the search for valuables in the form of physical riches or a justification to continue mission work, with Europeans seeing the value in native production and aligning it with their own history. Kino calls the Great House a castle in more than one writing, comparing it in size to the mission churches he has established in Sonora.128 Kino’s friend Captain Juan Mateo Manje describes the canal system around the site at Casa Grande as a “defensive moat.”129 Also introduced to the conversation is a suggestion that the builders of Casa Grande were completely disconnected from the contemporary Native peoples occupying the area, who the Spanish were familiar with. Kino and his compatriots did not think local Native tribes like the Akimel O’odham to be capable of building a structure like Casa Grande; this was expressed in various ways.130 Kino refers several times to the 124 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-3. Archeologists today have suggested that ceremonial rituals were performed on the earthen mound in front of the Great House, making Kino’s Mass more appropriate than he probably recognized. 125 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-2. 126 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-3. 127 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-4. 128 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-2. 129 Ronald L. Ives, “Father Kino’s 1697 Entrada to the Casa Grande Ruin in Arizona: A Reconstruction,” in Arizona and the West 15, no. 4 (Winter 1973), 364. 130 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 6. 60 “ancient” origins of the site and the people who must have built it, suggesting he viewed it in a similar vein to his associations as a European with Ancient Rome or Ancient Greece—Casa Grande was barely 300 years old when Kino first saw it, making it significantly closer to the time of his writing than the ancient Mediterranean world.131 The locals, Kino wrote, were also incapable of appreciating it’s significance; they held the site in superstitious awe and avoided it.132 The burning of the site, according to another of Kino’s contemporaries who accompanied him in 1697, was the fault of pagan Natives. Almost a century later, in October of 1775, a group of about 250 Spanish colonists who were headed to the Pacific Coast made a point of stopping off at Casa Grande on their journey. The building by this time had become well-known among the Spanish, due in large part to Kino’s writings on it. The group’s leader, Lt. Col. Juan Bautista de Anza, allowed for a longer reprieve from travel, giving everyone in the company the “opportunity to see the celebrated ruin.”133 Anza’s party continues this tradition of projecting European perspectives upon the Great House; various accounts from travelers describe the building as a “castle,” and refer to the supporting canals as acequias, the Spanish term for a communal irrigation system. 134 Anza was one of many notable Westerners to stop and see Casa Grande on their travels around the Southwest in the years before Arizona became a U.S. state. General Stephen W. Kearny, commander of the “Army of the West,” stopped his forces along the Gila across from the Great House and was so taken with the structure that he assigned a contingent of soldiers to accompany William H. Emory, an army engineer, while he took a topographical survey of the landscape.135 Emory and his soldiers were less than impressed with the site; Emory describes the house as “a large pile” of mud, while a soldier describes the lower level of the building as being filled with “rubbish.”136 Additionally, graffiti on the walls at the Great House date back to the early 1800s, telling us that it was common practice while visiting the site to carve one’s name into the walls of the structure. One such name is legible today, belonging to Powell “Pauline” Weaver, a fur trapper in Arizona in the 1830s.137 Unlike Kearny and 131 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-2. 132 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-4. 133 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 7. 134 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 8 135 Emory famously mapped the international U.S.-Mexico border and gave Americans the first a detailed survey of the Colora- do River and the Grand Canyon. 136 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 9. 137 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-7. 61 Emory, these people may not have made it into any history books—but they left their mark on Casa Grande all the same. This movement of Europeans westward across America swelled during the middle of the 19th century, leading to increased interactions with Native Americans and the landscapes they had created and still maintained. It assisted in introducing the wider American public to native cultures, histories, and sites, places like Mesa Verde, but also eventually led to the Indian Wars in the decades following the American Civil War. Of particular impact to the landscape at Casa Grande was the acquisition by the U.S. of land south of the Gila River from Mexico in an 1854 agreement known as the Gadsden Purchase.138 Additionally, the construction of the railroad, with lines stopping at a station constructed for the nearby town of Casa Grande, also led directly to an increase in visitation at the site.139 And finally, the advent of the camera led to the production and distribution of photographs featuring places in the West that most Americans had never seen. The first photographs of Casa Grande were taken in 1877; to a Western audience, they looked strikingly like the ruins of ancient civilizations in Europe or Africa.140 One article in The Washington Post from January 17, 1909, proclaimed exactly that: “An American Pompeii Unearthed in Arizona,” crafting a parallel with the 1738 rediscovery of the Ancient Roman city of Pompeii by Italian workmen building a palace for the King of Naples.141 Americans had previously bemoaned a lack of ancient monuments, like those in Italy, Egypt or Greece. This need for places of significance in the New World on par with Old World resources played into a larger discussion of national identity and inheritance that Americans were grappling with in the 19th century.142 Landscapes like Casa Grande Ruins quickly captured the attention of Americans, who identified these ancient sites as evidence of an earlier civilization that was no more. Speculation around the fall of earlier civilizations was used to fuel manifest destiny, by justifying the displacement of contemporary Natives as evidenced by their supposed displacement of earlier people. The fact that many of these places were devoid of long-term 138 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 10. 139 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 10. 140 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 3-2. 141 The Washington Post, “An American Pompeii Unearthed in Arizona,” January 17, 1909, https://www.newspapers.com/arti- cle/the-washington-post/4768055/. Ignoring the fact that Casa Grande had not needed to be completely “unearthed,” the article is very illustrative of the American’s perspective on ancient Native architecture. 142 Puglionesi, Whose, 20. 62 Following work at archeological sites related to the Zuni and Hopi Pueblos, Fewkes was charged with the repair of Casa Grande and related excavation of its boundary. This tasked report was published in the 28th Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology.157 Fewkes chose specifically to leave his excavated work exposed, writing in his report that the goal was to provide an additional attraction for visitors.158 Also in his report are details of local native peoples and their interactions with the site, continuing the narrative from Kino’s time of the superstitious attitude that native peoples had for Casa Grande. According to Fewkes, writing in 1906, the local Akimel O’odham avoided the site when they could because they thought it was haunted. No native person would sleep near the Great House, and native women crossed themselves when passing by. Fewkes wraps this up with the anecdote of native peoples claiming to see flames in the building on auspicious occasions.159 Are these anecdotes narrative proof of the earlier O’odham and Hohokam fight at Casa Grande—or do they only represent the perspective of a non-Native academic whose interest was in furthering distinguishing ancient artifact from modern man? Many O’odham legends and stories, including some written down in the 1930s by Anna Moore Shaw, Akimel O’odham, speak of the Great House as the home of a powerful leader of the Ancestral Sonoran Desert People; the Akimel O’odham remember his name as See-van Vah-Ki and say he could see the future. Despite this gift, See-van Vah-Ki failed to see the arrival of Elder Brother, leading an army of O’odham from the other side of the world to destroy See-van Vah-Ki and the people at the Great House. The story goes that the battle was very fierce, and after the O’odham had destroyed See-van Vah-Ki and his followers, they left the Great House standing to remember the battle.160 Another legend written down by Shaw describes the building of Casa Grande “for the protection of our people” against an enemy tribe; Shaw writes that “(i)t took many days of back-breaking toil and blistered hands to build the Great House.”161 James McCarthy (baptized Macario Antone), Tohono O’odham, writes in his autobiography of O’odham storytelling, specifically of a story involving Casa Grande Ruins. McCarthy recalls hearing of “the old people who lived at Casa Grande ruins long ago” and “the fighting of the Casa Grande people against another tribe.” 157 Nichols, Biography, 2-3. 158 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 5-2. 159 Fewkes, “Casa,” 34. 160 Shaw, Legends, 8-13. 161 Shaw, Legends, 28. 68 Unfortunately for us, McCarthy provides little else, admitting that he was “so sleepy” during the story that he didn’t remember much of it. “Still, it was an interesting story,” he adds, despite having provided readers with very little of what we might have found interesting about it. McCarthy more vividly remembers the lessons handed down to those that dared to sleep during a storyteller’s oration: being jabbed at with sticks or having one’s face painted.162 Modern-day O’odham consider the place sacred because these legends and oral stories speak of the Great House or, as they refer to it, Siwañ Wa’a Ki.163 Daniel Lopez, in his essay on O’odham traditions, writes (t)he Big House, or Siwan Wa’a Ki:, is another site well known to all people and mentioned in O’odham legends. The world knows that Casa Grande Ruins has been there for hundreds of years. O’odham know that the place is ancient because it is mentioned in some of the tribal legends. Siwa(n) Wa’a Ki: is a place where O’odham can go to pray or sings songs to the Huhugam spirits.164 While Fewkes may have considered these Huhugam spirits to be synonymous with haunting and frightful ghosts, O’odham legends, first-hand recollections of O’odham storytelling, and Lopez’s words sounds more like the perspective of people who are reverent of the landscape at Casa Grande Ruins and the ancestors whose presence can still be found there. Pinkley, the person who wrote longest about the landscape at Casa Grande Ruins, has not left behind any writings that either agreed or conflicted with Fewkes’ understanding of contemporary Native perspectives of the Great House. He was more interested in material conservation at Casa Grande Ruins, not ethnology, during the early years of his tenure as custodian. Indeed, his annual reports show a desire to expand the boundary of the reservation and less on retaining control of artifacts found on the site (rather than have them sent to museums in east-coast American cities, he preferred that they remain in Arizona, to attract tourists).165 In 1910, after ten years of living in his framed tent, Pinkley used his own money to build a two-room 162 McCarthy, Traveler, 114. 163 The O’odham name for Casa Grande is Siwañ Wa’a Ki—there is likely a relation to the name of the leader who lived there, as identified in Shaw’s legends as See-van Vah-Ki. 164 Lopez, “Huhugam,” 119-120. Lopez refers to the Great House at Casa Grande Ruins as the Great House. This is sometimes used as the translation from Spanish to English. 165 Valkenburg, “History,” online resource. 69 work, and that the Park Service provide him with a car. Perhaps he thought it was too tall an order, but Mather proved to be of a similar mind; he agreed to Pinkley’s demands, on the condition that Pinkley buy his own gasoline for the car.172 NPS efforts that year began in earnest to improve assistance provided to Pinkley on the ground at Casa Grande Ruins. On August 3, 1918, a presidential proclamation changed the site’s designation from “Reservation” to “National Monument,” placing it alongside other historic sites managed by the NPS.173 This followed some contentious correspondence between Pinkley and Mather, on the point that Casa Grande Ruins Reservation was not a true unit of the Park Service, so jurisdiction and subsequent funding through the agency was difficult. Pinkley’s comment in one letter, “Simply declare us a Monument and let us get down to doing something,” illustrates his impatience with governmental bureaucracy.174 With these adjustments, the federal government allocated annual funding to the monument, enabling the superintendent’s position to transition from one focused on concessions and vandalism clean-up to visitor education and resource preservation. Pinkley, flush with funding and perhaps a renewed optimism in his role at the monument, turned to tackle the issue that had been at the forefront of his attention for the past two decades: finding a way to prevent the walls at Casa Grande from deteriorating further.175 With new funding from the Park Service, Pinkley started exploring and establishing preservation methods for the Great House’s earthen walls. One avenue explored in depth was to preventing the loss of material from the walls by spraying them with different hardening composites.176 He directed the removal of more recent graffiti at the site and produced detailed analyses and reports on the causes of wall disintegration.177 Soon, he began working with other Park Service sites around the Southwest that also featured adobe construction, sharing ideas and developing methods that would become common practice around the Service.178 172 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 4-2; Valkenburg, “History.” 173 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 18. 174 Valkenburg, “History.” 175 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 4-3. 176 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 18. 177 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 19. 178 Valkenburg, “Landmark,” 21. Pinkley quickly made himself indispensable to other site custodians, gaining the nickname “The Boss.” In 1923 he was made superintendent of all Southwestern monuments, a position that would later become that of region- al director. He maintained his position at Casa Grande, however, and remained in his adobe house despite this change in designation 71 which he had printed himself, to curious visitors.182 As the Park Service acknowledges publicly, the best way to preserve the resources at Casa Grande Ruins National Monument has been in debate since before it became part of the National Park System. Much of the early work done on Casa Grande has been discovered to be insufficient, or even damaging to the extant material still at the site—in defense of Pinkley and the Park Service, this could not have been realized except post factum.183 Today, conservation work undertaken by NPS archeologists and preservation specialists at the monument is experimental, and sometimes small sections of original material have been sacrificed to find the right mix for each individual project.184 However destructive this approach might be, it’s the only option available to the Park Service, which is mandated to preserve “unimpaired the…cultural resources and values” of its system.185 The conservation work described here is only undertaken on the surrounding archeological site, and is not carried out on the Great House, itself. Resource managers at the park have ceased more direct preservation efforts to the building at Casa Grande; except for the steel structure standing covering it, the Great House is largely left alone. Further discussion into this decision can be found in the following chapters. Snaketown and Hohokam Pima National Monument Hohokam Pima National Monument, as noted above, is located along the Gila River just north of the Santan Mountains, on land owned GRIC. The monument, established in 1972, preserves a Hohokam settlement, originally occupied by Ancestral Sonoran Desert People between 300 and 1200 C.E., commonly called Snaketown. The site was first excavated in the 1930s and again in the 1960s; following revelations during the second dig, it is usually referred to as the largest Hohokam settlement ever excavated. It is also the longest inhabited Hohokam site, with archeologists hypothesizing that it was first established by a small number of people.186 For these reasons, some consider it an atypical Hohokom settlement—however Emil Haury, the preeminent Hohokam archeologist who led both digs, viewed it instead as the “original and parent Hohokam 182 Rofida Khairalla, “The man behind the name: A brief history of Frank Pinkley,” in The Coolidge Examiner, March 18, 2020, https://www.pinalcentral.com/coolidge_examiner/news/the-man-behind-the-name-a-brief-history-of-frank-pinkley/arti- cle_4a944c52-0aa9-550f-adc6-a5ea76687311.html. Alongside the pamphlets, Pinkley, and later his wife and their two children would frequently give tours to visitors of the site. 183 Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, “Preservation; Learning From Past Missteps,” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, online resource, last updated May 18, 2019, accessed March 4, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/cagr/learn/historyculture/ preservation.htm. 184 Ibid. 185 National Park Service, “Our Mission.” 186 Elliott, Excavations, 160. 73 angled walls on the four cardinal sides. Early Hohokam archeologists speculated over these depressions, which had been found at other sites around the Valley of the Sun; suggestions ranged from water reservoirs to pits for threshing cotton or other plant materials. It wasn’t until an archeologist, specializing in Mayan culture, visited during Emil Haury’s first dig in the 1930s that the depressions were identified as ball courts similar to those found in central Mexico.196 This, along with a lack of earlier iterations on site, have led archeologists to assume the typology was brought north from cultures in Mexico and not established by Ancestral Sonoran Desert People on their own.197 Some modern O’odham community members reject the description of these depressions as ball courts. Interpretive signage at GRIC’s Huhugam Heritage Center refer to this interpretation as a “superficial” one and declare that the spaces were used for dancing, which is more in-line with contemporary O’odham traditions.198 Similarly, Shane Anton, Tribal Historic Preservation Officer for the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community does not accept the earlier archeological interpretation and says they were places for community meetings.199 Despite a wide array of residential styles, open plazas, the two depressions identified as ball courts, and something archeologists have speculated might be platform mounds, Snaketown is absent the “Great Houses” characteristic of later Hohokam development.200 The tight-knit development dramatically seen in aerial photographs of Snaketown’s landscape extends only until the 1100s.201 Given its near millennia-long occupation up to that point, Snaketown might have continued to expand and densify into the Hohokam Classic Period—but the unpredictable nature of the desert’s waterworks outmaneuvered the canal builders. Between 1020 and 1160 C.E., the centralized Gila, from which hundreds of irrigation canals were established below the Santan Mountains, supporting—among many—the community of Snaketown, cut down its banks to become a wide and shallow river, “triggering the rebuilding of canals and the loss of cultivated land.”202 The habitation of Ancestral Sonoran Desert People at Snaketown steadily dwindled until only the outskirts of the former 196 Elliott, Excavations, 153-154. 197 Elliott, Excavations, 153. Haury believed, in part because of the appearance of ball courts, that the Hohokam had migrated from central Mexico. 198 Gila River Indian Community, “The Ball Court,” interpretive exhibit, (Chandler, Arizona: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. 199 Debra Utacia Krol, “Archeological finds in Mesa, Tempe connect the history of O’odham peoples’ history to present day,” in The Arizona Republic, March 6, 2021, accessed March 24, 2024. https://www.azcentral.com/story/news/local/tempe/2021/03/06/ mesa-tempe-sites-reveal-new-details-oodham-first-peoples/4245346001/. 200 Gladwin, Snaketown, 7, 9; Elliott, Excavations, 158. 201 Elliott, Excavations, 158. 202 Ravesloot, “Changing,” 95. 76 the arrival of more settlers and the establishment of new infrastructure.205 Their ministrations earned them the nickname “Good Samaritans of the desert,” while their villages were known as the “granar(ies) of Arizona.”206 In return, the federal government granted the Native peoples of the Gila River land rights, and in 1859 formed the Gila River Indian Community, to be overseen by non-Native land agents.207 They were later given federal fiat as a recognized tribal organization in 1939, when they were able to form an independent system of tribal governance.208 Prior to 1939, a community of Akimel O’odham existed on the reservation near the Snaketown site, home to an estimated 50 people and 15 buildings who called the modern farming settlement Upper Santan.209 The term “Snaketown” comes from the occupants of Upper Santan, who referred to the nearby debris mounds Ska-kaik (alternatively the O’odham Ska’ KaÍk and anglicized “Skoaquick”) or “place of the snakes.”210 Snaketown’s snake-infested dirt mounds were identified as potential archeological sites by surveyors as early as 1927, but it would take a few years before the mounds were probed for potential artifacts by archeologists.211 Being overlooked spared the landscape at Snaketown the ignominy of an archeological smash and grab by early American surveyors with indelicate hands and indifferent opinions. Sites like Snaketown, still partially-occupied by Native peoples and without identifiable architecture had long been ignored—even while the “Great House” at nearby Casa Grande Ruins was essentially ransacked and defaced. The presence of the Akimel O’odham community at Snaketown likely acted as a deterrent for errant amateur archeologists, and they stewarded the landscape of their ancestors as much as they did their agricultural fields.212 The modern-day occupants of the landscape at Snaketown had settled there following the 205 Ravesloot, “Changing,” 93. 206 Jim Robbins, “This Native American Tribe Is Taking Back Its Water,” in Smithsonian Magazine, March 2023, accessed March 24, 2024, https://www.smithsonianmag.com/innovation/native-american-tribe-pima-indians-taking-back-water-180981542/. 207 Gila River Indian Community, “About.” 208 Ibid. Unfortunately, GRIC’s production of foodstuffs shifted drastically after the construction of dams and diversions to non-Native farmers upriver, destroying their ability to provide food to settlers or even themselves. The U.S. Government offered support in the form of non-native stock foods like wheat and lard, which, as discussed earlier, have led to modern-day food disparity and health issues among the O’odham and Maricopa peoples. More information on the Gila River Indian Communities attempts to restore their agrarian traditions can be found in the next sections. 209 Gladwin, Snaketown, 1. 210 Ravesloot, “Changing,” 91; Elliott, Excavations, 140; Haury, Hohokam, 9. 211 Gladwin, Snaketown, 4; Haury, Hohokam, 9; Elliott, Excavations, 142. If any questions have been raised about the appropri- ateness of the name “Snaketown,” accept Haury’s anxious memory of the first dig: there were so many snakes and rodents present in burrows amid the soft mounds of the site that the acuity of all dig staff were heightened.” 212 Elliott, Excavations, 138. 78 secretary.226 The group was supported by two dozen or so Akimel O’odham from nearby settlements; the Native members of the dig did most of the heavy lifting, and provided an insight that the non-Native members did not possess.227 O’odham stories relating to floods, ceremonies and other tales reinforced scientific dating and identification of sites, including the aforementioned flooding that resulted in Snaketown’s abandonment, and re-discovery of one of the site’s ball courts, which the Akimel O’odham referred to as “Bat Man’s Dancing Place.”228 The crew spent the winter season between 1934 and 1935 at Snaketown, undertaking the excavation of a few mounds in that time; this dig is now known as Snaketown I (compared to the later Snaketown II dig). A large portion of the excavated remains of Snaketown’s ancient Hohokam community were “filled back,” as Reed referred to the process in a 1939 survey, carried out with the National Park Service. While most of the site’s resources had been covered, the team from the Gila Pueblo Foundation left the larger ball court and a trench through one of the site’s bigger mounds uncovered, resulting in their significant dilapidation over the four years between the Gila Pueblo dig and the NPS survey.229 In 1937, a few years after the success at Snaketown, Haury left the Gila Pueblo Foundation for a position at the University of Arizona. The next year, Gladwin published the findings from Snaketown I in a book titled Excavations at Snaketown: Material Culture as part of his Medallion Papers publications, which published research undertaken by the Gila Pueblo when the research foundation was active; 39 publications were issued from between 1928 and 1950, with Excavations at Snaketown serving as Issue No. 25.230 The Gila Pueblo research center closed in 1950, with Gladwin donating his research archives and collections to the University of Arizona’s archeology program, then-led by his former employee, Emil Haury. Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 33-34. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75609554. 226 Gladwin, Snaketown, 7; Elliott, Excavations, 143. Nancy is wrongly identified as “Margaret” by Elliott in the text, but accurately in an associated photo caption. Frank and Edna Pinkley did not have a second daughter named Margaret; they had two children, Nancy (middle name: Margaret), and a son, Addison. 227 Gladwin, Snaketown, 11. 228 Elliot, Excavations, 144. 229 Erik Reed, “Archeological Site Report on Snaketown, Arizona,” National Park Service, Historic Sites Survey (Region III; Santa Fe, NM), November 1939, 2, in “Arizona SP-Hohokam Pima National Monument,” NAID: 75610610, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 55. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75610610. Reed refers to the dilapidation as “washed and caved.” 230 Harold S. Gladwin, “Medallion Papers,” Globe: Gila Pueblo, Arizona State Museum, online resource, accessed March 27, 2024, https://asmla.org/collection/medallion-papers. 82 The pair had not remained on good terms following Haury’s dig between 1934 and 1935, as Gladwin very publicly disagreed with Haury’s conclusions regarding Snaketown’s chronology.231 Haury may have left his research at Gila Pueblo in 1937 but he remained at the forefront of Arizonan archeology, undertaking and overseeing research of material not only of Hohokam Culture but also the northern Mogollon; by the 1960s, Gladwin’s challenges, and more recent discoveries at other Hohokam sites around Arizona, had convinced Haury to return to Snaketown to find more material. With funding from the National Science Foundation, he undertook a second dig in the winter of 1964/1965, exactly thirty years after his first.232 It was during Snaketown II that Haury and his team excavated evidence of platform mounds, a typology not previously identified at the site. As platform mounds had been previously believed to be later additions to the Hohokam architectural database, the chronology of Snaketown could be further thrown into some question. It is one archeologists have yet to answer.233 Of additional reinforcement from the second dig was Haury’s belief that the archeology at Snaketown and its modern-day occupants illustrated a comprehensive relationship between Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples and O’odham, based on the remnants of historic architecture and the architecture still in-use. This connection, Haury wrote, was broken only by the short period of multi-storied development at Casa Grande during the Classic Period.234 Does the return to the earlier typology of building individual post-reinforced residences further enforce the belief among some archeologists that Casa Grande represented an increasingly stratified society, one which the masses later rebelled against, abandoning the Great House and returning to earlier egalitarian lifeways? While Haury likely considered this possibility, he was noncommittal in putting it to paper. Perhaps because of the new mysteries being unearthed, the work on the reservation was drawing national attention from those inside the field of conservation and beyond. The New York Times and various regional newspapers using the Associated Press wire service published articles on the Snaketown II dig; one AP brief published in The Washington Post was given the comically broad title “Signs of Ancient Life in U.S.” by an unthinking copy editor.235 Despite inaccurate or misapplied language, the attention in the press 231 Elliot, Excavations, 155-157; Gladwin, Snaketown, 7, 260. Gladwin famously rejected any suggestion that Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples had built Casa Grande, disbelieving their abilities or interest in establishing structures larger than a single story. 232 Elliott, Excavations, 157. 233 Elliott, Excavations, 159-160. 234 Haury, Hohokam, 45. 235 The Washington Post, “Signs of Ancient Life in U.S.,” May 7, 1965, in “Arizona NHL Snaketown,” NAID: 75609554, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the 83 translated to increased public interest in the archeological landscape on display just south of Phoenix. As with other nationally authorized historic sites, this interest led to new and expiated protections, to stave off the associated ills that sometimes come with the public’s attention. While Snaketown had been documented as part of the National Park Service’s National Survey of Historic Sites and Buildings (a precursor to the National Register) in 1939 after the first dig, it wasn’t included in any official NPS inventory until 1962.236 In 1964, the site was one of seven archeological sites in Arizona named a National Historic Landmark on July 19. Also listed was the nearby S’edav Va’aki, another Ancestral Sonoran Desert settlement, this one located next to the Sky Harbor Airport.237 Interestingly, the Park Service mailed the National Historic Landmarks plaque and certificate to Emil Haury in Tucson, and not to the tribe.238 Some months later, the tribe appealed to the Park Service for their own plaque and certificate, which was granted.239 A dedication ceremony on the ground at Snaketown was proposed by the Park Service for the spring of 1965.240 On April 3, 1965, shortly after Snaketown II had wrapped up, Haury presented Gila River Indian Community Governor Loyde A. Allison with the National Historic Landmarks plaque and certificate during the ceremony. 241 It included music performed by the junior high band from Oasis School in Sells, Arizona, on the Tohono O’odham reservation and, despite National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 44. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75609554. 236 Reed, “Site Report,” “National Survey of Historic Sites and Buildings,” National Park Service, September 21, 1962, title page, in “Arizona SP-Hohokam Pima National Monument,” NAID: 75610610, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and Nation- al Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 40, 48, 52-76. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75610610. The site was surveyed by NPS archeologists in 1939, but it wasn’t logged as part of the inventory until 1962. Schroeder, an archeologist with NPS, helped Reed with the survey, and Schroeder finalized the inventory 22 years later. Aerial photographs were taken by Fairchild Aerial Surveys out of Los Angeles on March 28, 1936. 237 United States Department of the Interior news release, “Early Indian Farmers and Village Communities,” in President Kenne- dy’s Birthplace Heads Latest National Historic Landmark List, National Park Service no. 343-4214 (July 19, 1964), 2, in in “Arizona NHL Snaketown,” NAID: 75609554, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 10-26. https://catalog.archives. gov/id/75609554; National Park Service Advisory Board, “50th Meeting minutes,” Attachment No. 10 D-4 (April 13-16, 1964), 49. 238 George B. Hartzog, Jr., letter to Dr. Emil W. Haury, August 7, 1964, in “Arizona NHL Snaketown,” NAID: 75609554, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 27. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75609554. 239 Alexander Lewis, Sr., letter to George B. Hartzog, Jr., October 7, 1964, in “Arizona NHL Snaketown,” NAID: 75609554, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 28. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75609554.; Robert M. Utley, letter to Alexander Lewis, Sr., October 15, 1964, in in “Arizona NHL Snaketown,” NAID: 75609554, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 31. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75609554. 240 Robert M. Utley, letter to Alexander Lewis, Sr., October 15, 1964, in National Archives Electronic Records, 29. 241 Aubrey F. Houston, “Snaketown Landmark Presentation,” Memorandum to William “Bill” Brown, April 8, 1965, in “Arizona SP-Hohokam Pima National Monument,” NAID: 75610610, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 12. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75610610. 84 the benefit and inspiration of the people.”246 Prior to this, the Park Service had drawn up a draft Master Plan for the administration of the monument, illustrating the agency’s assumption that it would be given control of the landscape.247 The site was included in the National Register of Historic Places in 1974.248 It was this nomination, along with presumed efforts by the Park Service to gain control of the landscape, that brought sharp rebuke from Gila River Indian Community administrators. “We do not support the nomination,” then-Governor Alexander Lewis, Sr., wrote in an August 16, 1977 letter to Cecil Andrus, then-Secretary of the Interior, speaking in longhand of his frustrations with the required government regulation of the historic site and the impact it was having on the reservation community of Upper Santan. Without some adjustment in these rigid rules, we are facing an endless procession of situations such as the present one. Our ancestors inhabited this valley long before the time of Christ and where they chose to live tends to be where we choose to live. Without some relaxation… development at Gila River will inevitable (sic.) be contingent upon decisions made by outsiders ---- and this we find intolerable. … When we consider that the modern cities of Phoenix, Scottsdale and Tempe have been superimposed upon ancient Hohokam sites no less significant than the one in Upper Santan, we cannot help but wonder why the Indians seem to be singled out as the only people obligated ---- at whatever cost ---- to make major contributions to the study of mankind. Considering the history of our people, there are times such restrictions as the one we are now facing serve no purpose but to add insult to injury. Are we expected to delay essential development for months at a time when an archeologist prepares a work plan, arranges for its implementation and then carries out his work?249 246 U.S. Congress, “Public Law 92-525: To provide for the establishment of the Hohokam Pima National Monument…,” October 21, 1972. 247 Roland Richert, letter to Dr. Emil W. Haury, January 10, 1969, in “Arizona SP-Hohokam Pima National Monument,” NAID: 75610610, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 24-27. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75610610. 248 Arizona State Museum, “National Register of Historic Places Inventory – Nomination Form: Snaketown,” National Park Service, July 1969, in “Arizona SP-Hohokam Pima National Monument,” NAID: 75610610, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 1-5. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75610610. 249 Alexander Lewis, Sr., letter to Cecil Andrus, August 16, 1977, in “Arizona SP-Hohokam Pima National Monument,” NAID: 75610610, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 14-15. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75610610. 86 Tribal opposition effectively trounced NPS plans to turn Snaketown into a Park Service-managed site. The excavations of Snaketown I and Snaketown II remain buried, as has been done with most archeological sites for the last century. The matter of managing the dormant landscape remains in the hands of the people who inherited the land from their ancestors. NPS representatives have noted this fact previously, that the landscape at Snaketown has been occupied, almost uninterrupted for nearly 2,000 years by these same people.250 Any attempt to erase the modern-day Akimel O’odham from the landscape at Snaketown was largely moot, considering the landscape’s ongoing subsistence by members of the Gila River Indian Community. This connection between Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples and modern-day Native peoples who still tend the landscape reinforces O’odham beliefs that they are linked by cultural heritage, not just by geography. While Snaketown remains off-limits to archeologists not affiliated with the Gila River Indian Community, GRIC has continued with archeological monitoring of identified archeological sites, including Snaketown.251 Most of this survey work, undertaken beginning in 1993 and continuing into the present, has been in advance of the tribe’s ambitious new irrigation system, called the Pima-Maricopa Irrigation Project (P-MIP). The survey work identified over a thousand new sites that represent almost 5,000 years of occupation by Native peoples; the identification and documentation of cultural resources potentially affected by construction was a requirement of federal funds going to assist GRIC with construction of the new canal system.252 The project, almost a century in the making, is bringing water back to the reservation on a scale that will allow the community’s agricultural production to rise to levels not seen since the late 1800s. Modern water canals, lined with concrete, are being established alongside the historical Huhugam ones—following the older network in a deliberate mirroring of the earlier effort and paying homage to the inherited landscape.253 For GRIC, this project is a step towards repairing the wrongs done to generations of O’odham and Maricopa farmers through diversion of the Gila River and a loss of their water rights. As was briefly introduced, O’odham’s agriculture, adopted from the Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples, has been an essential part of 250 Roland Richert, “Trip Report, Snaketown, July 24-26, 1967,” Memorandum to Southwest Archeological Center, August 14, 1967, 4, in in “Arizona SP-Hohokam Pima National Monument,” NAID: 75610610, Arizona Files, National Register of Historic Places and National Historic Landmarks Program Records Series, Record Group 79: Records of the National Park Service, National Archives Electronic Records, 17-22. https://catalog.archives.gov/id/75610610. 251 Kyle Woodson, email. 252 Ravesloot, “Changing,” 93-94. Surveying by archeologists led to identification of 15 settlements and 28 ball courts between them. 253 Robbins, “Water.” 87 their way of life or Himdag. A loss of water through upstream diversion and dam construction disrupted these lifeways and corresponded with more than just a change in livelihood for the Akimel O’odham and Maricopa members of GRIC. Many died on the reservation during a decade-long famine between 1891 and 1904 because they could not grow the crops upon which they had relied for generations past.254 Anthropologist Frank Russell blames the death of so many on their pride in refusing to accept handouts from the U.S. government in Washington—but could this rejection also be related to their sense of being, their Himdag. The traditional O’odham way of doing things could not be so easily supplanted and replaced by the intervention of Federal foodstuffs and non-Native crops.255 The feeling among many GRIC members, and other O’odham groups, is that this acceptance of external help not only led to a loss of sovereignty, but also negatively impacted the physical and spiritual health of the tribal communities.256 GRIC took up court battles, beginning in the 1920s, to regain the water rights which it claims from time immemorial. When Arizona was first admitted to the United States in 1912, the established water law was called “the doctrine of prior appropriation,” and held that whoever first used water has beneficiary rights to that water source—however, original claims had to be registered with the state. The administrators of GRIC assumed their water rights were indisputable, due to their continued use of the 2,000-year-old Hohokam canals.257 GRIC’s struggles against the state and federal government against upstream diversions and dam construction are perhaps one reason why the community was loathe to relinquish control over the landscape at Snaketown to the National Park Service; another could be the community’s continued investment in their traditional lands as a primal source for their cultural connection with their Huhugam ancestors. While designated as a national monument, Hohokam Pima is not managed as one. Snaketown is not a site open to visitation by anyone outside of the Gila River Indian Community. In lieu of developing Snaketown’s archeological remains for visitor interpretation, GRIC constructed a museum and cultural center—the Huhugam Heritage Center—on reservation land near Chandler, Arizona. The large complex, which opened 254 The Florence Tribune, “Indians Starving: Six Thousand Perishing on the Gila Reservation Because of Lack of Water,” July 14, 1900, reproduced by Gila River Indian Community, interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. The article mentions the federal government appropriated $30,000 for GRIC during the drought but goes on to say that no method of distributing the money was stipulated so it was “tied up” in governmental bureaucracy at the cost of Native lives. 255 Robbins, “Water.” 256 Gila River Indian Community, “About.” 257 Kris Polly, “The Pima-Maricopa Irrigation Project: Nation-Building through Irrigation Infrastructure,” in Irrigation Leader Magazine, accessed March 25, 2024. https://irrigationleadermagazine.com/the-pima-maricopa-irrigation-project/. 88 in 2003 and was designed by Donald J. Stastny of Stastny-Brun Architects Inc., with David N. Sloan, Diné, of D. Sloan Architects, provides a place for the surrounding tribal communities to come together in celebration and continuation of Himdag, their lifeways, while also acting as a museum and interpretive center for curious tourists.258 Exhibit spaces display Hohokam and O’odham artifacts, including some from Snaketown and Casa Grande Ruins; state-of-the-art collection storage is used for artifact conservation efforts by the tribe’s cultural resource management. The center is open during the weekday, free of charge.259 The method with which the Gila River Indian Community chooses to manage its inheritance will be discussed in the next sections. Suffice it to say, the landscapes at Hohokam Pima and Casa Grande Ruins National Monuments present a multitude of opportunities to explore cultural resources definition and management. 258 Joyce Monice Malnar and Frank Vodvarka, New Architecture on Indigenous Lands (Minnesapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2013), 146. 259 Arizona tourism, “Huhugam Heritage Center,” online resource, accessed April 3, 2024, https://www.visitarizona.com/direc- tory/huhugam-heritage-center/; Gila River Indian Community, “Huhugam Heritage Center,” online resource, accessed April 3, 2024, https://www.gilariver.org/index.php/enterprises/huhugam-heritage-center. 89 90 “Our lives are fragile things, built on creaky foundations. You chip away at the edifice of history, and you weaken one of the few spiritual timbers we have left.”260 Henry Bromell 260 Henry Bromell, Joshua Brand and John Falsey, “The Body in Question,” in Northern Exposure ep. 6, s. 3. 29:30. 92 4. CULTURAL RESOURCE MEANING The stage has been set for us to discuss these resources in greater detail. The various perspectives introduced in the previous section will be explored here, having already piqued our interest. Some of the questions addressed earlier are all-too familiar to people tasked with introducing these sites and their resources to the public: “Who, What, Why, Where, When?” In this section, such questions will be restated, rephrased, and redirected. What makes these sites significant, why have they been chosen—not just as the subject of this paper, but for documentation and designation? Who made these decisions, and when, and for what purpose? Finally, the very act of asking these questions will be investigated. What is a cultural resource? The remains of Hohokam Culture settlements at Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monument are managed as resources, the purview of cultural resource staff with NPS and the Gila River Indian Community. There are various ways to define the resources at either site, including historic property and archeological site; definitions depend entirely on the perspectives of those managing both. We have discussed their physical histories and descriptions at length—now we’ll discuss how they function as “resources” for the people managing them. Distilling both sites down to their most basic descriptors establishes a baseline from where to begin our analysis. The definition of resource is multi-hyphenate and can be approached from various angles, depending on the context of its use. For our purposes, the definition pertaining to a collection of some abstract thing is sufficient, and Merriam-Webster’s definition is the most comprehensive: a) a source of supply or support: an available means – usually used in plural; b) a natural source of wealth or revenue – often used in plural; c) a natural feature or phenomenon that enhances the quality of human life; d) compoundable wealth – usually used in plural; e) a source of information or expertise.261 These definitions work together to give us the broadest understanding when discussing resources. For example, a resource that enhances the quality of human life can range from oxygen—through which life is possible—to music—which is perhaps not as essential to life as air but makes it more worthwhile. At present, we do not put a price tag on oxygen, while many of us will pay thousands of dollars to see a musician perform on stage for two hours. For something to be a resource, it must be important. As stated in the definition above, it must have a value we can define through the benefits we receive from it. This value may be analyzed through an economic lens, or it may transcend currency. But is the value of a resource inherent, or is it conveyed? Do we imbue that thing with value or are we simply identifying value when we designate something as a resource? Does value transcend our attempts to capture it? Again, the answer is multi-faceted. The value we place on that resource is commensurate with how much benefit it brings to us, or what we will pay for it. Further value may be accumulated through other measures—for music, these include awards, milestones, popularity, etc. Finally, resources must be used. The act of using a resource leads us back to its definition: something sourced that supports human life. As Thomas King writes, quoting an unknown dictionary definition, a resource is “something that lies ready for use or can be drawn upon for aid.”262 If a resource were not useful, it would, unironically, not be a resource. This dichotomy leads to a most sticky of resource descriptors—that because of their value or a perceived lack of value, most resources have the potential to be exploited beyond 261 Merriam-Webster, s.v. “Resource,” last updated March 1, 2024, accessed March 2, 2024, https://www.merriam-webster. com/dictionary/resource. 262 Thomas F. King, Thinking About Cultural Resource Management (Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 2002), 5. 94 use. Intimately related to this is the fact that all resources, ultimately, can be extinguished; they become all used up—Huhugam if you will. In a way, this potential threat transfers additional value on them—when there is a limited amount of something, that something becomes worth more. Discussions of resource exploitation usually revolve around resources related to the natural world. Precious minerals used in the development and production of technology, the refining of petroleum into fuel, natural gas and synthetic fibers (compared to the smaller-scale harvesting of plant or animal fibers) for the manufacture of clothing, cutting timber for building construction. The balance between resource consumption and exploitation has historically been tenuous—and in our modern-day culture, we tend to walk an even finer line in the consumption of natural resources that support our lifeways.263 For the bulk of its four-hundred-year history of usage, “resource” has referred to these natural assets that prove essential or important to human existence. It’s only been in the last half-century that “resource” has also been used to refer to the products of human existence as well. If natural resources refer to those useful items sourced from the natural environment, then the same logic can be applied to resources that inform and influence culture. But before we explore cultural resource definition, it might be helpful to first establish what culture is; it will help us understand how we identify the resources that define it. Turning again to our Merriam Webster dictionary, we find another pluralistic definition. a) the customary beliefs, social forms, and material traits of a racial, religious, or social group; b) the set of shared attitudes, values, goals, and practices that characterizes an institution or organization: c) the set of values, conventions, or social practices associated with a particular field, activity, or societal characteristic; d) the integrated pattern of human knowledge, belief, and behavior that depends upon the capacity for learning and transmitting knowledge to succeeding generations.264 For the purposes of academic study by professionals in the fields of anthropology, archeology and history, culture is the way a self-identified group of people understand the world around them, informing how they fit 263 Jared Diamond, Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (New York: Penguin Books, 2005), 6-8. 264 Merriam-Webster, s.v. “Culture,” last updated March 2, 2024, accessed March 4, 2024, https://www.merriam-webster.com/ dictionary/culture. 95 into that worldview. Cultural resources are those that are important to the existence of these groups; like all resources, they are useful, but they can also have a utility that transcends the temporal. Resources, Martin Donougho writes in his 1987 article “The Language of Architecture,” “should not merely be…useful or not: (they) should also mean.” In the article, Donougho explores the way physical resources project information to viewers, about their origins but also about their context and why they are considered resources.265 Tangible and intangible cultural resources It might be helpful to introduce to this discussion on resources the difference between tangible and intangible. Tangible resources are easy to identify and define because they are physical objects; identifying and defining intangible ones presents us with a challenge for the simple reason that intangible resources are the manifestation of knowledge, emotional connection and creativity as derived from a physical source. Intangibility also describes the value attached to tangible resources—value which we cannot see; this makes it a subjective descriptor, one that depends on perspectives surrounding use of the resource.266 Culture can be relegated to the tangible resources of a group, but also the intangible experiences, behaviors, or beliefs of that same group. Together the intangible and tangible work together in “a symbiotic relationship” to provide us with the overarching “message” of culture properties.267 Intangible aspects of cultural heritage are those that represent the practices, knowledge, and skills of a particular culture, representing traditional and contemporary ideas of the cultural community.268 This definition of culture does not only describe the past then; it is the past, working in concert with the present to define the future.269 The Park Service’s definition of culture has been adopted for wide-scale use outside the agency 265 Martin Donougho, “The Language of Architecture,” in The Journal of Aesthetic Education 21, No. 3 (Autumn 1987), 53. 266 Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, “Intangible Heritage as Metacultural Production,” in World Heritage and Cultural Economics, ed. Ivan Karp and Corinne Kratz (2018), 52. 267 Mounir Bouchenaki, “The Interdependency of the Tangible and Intangible Cultural Heritage,” ICOMOS 14th General As- sembly and Scientific Symposium, keynote address, October 27, 2003, accessed March 1, 2024, https://openarchive.icomos.org/id/ eprint/468/1/2_-_Allocution_Bouchenaki.pdf. 268 UNESCO World Heritage Conservations, “Intangible Heritage,” online resource, accessed March 2, 2024, https://ich.unesco. org/en/what-is-intangible-heritage-00003. 269 George F. MacDonald, “What Is Culture?” in The Journal of Museum Education 16, No. 1 (Winter 1991), 9, https://www. jstor.org/stable/40478873?searchText=what+is+culture&searchUri=%2Faction%2FdoBasicSearch%3FQuery%3Dwhat%2Bis%2Bcul- ture%253F%26so%3Drel&ab_segments=0%2Fbasic_search_gsv2%2Fcontrol&refreqid=fastly-default%3A008fab820d9980fbecd6f23c- 4ca31a73&seq=2. 96 and is helpful for our purposes: “a system of behaviors (including economic, religious, and social), beliefs (values, ideologies), and social arrangements.”270 This is expanded upon by King, introduced above, in his book, Thinking about Cultural Resource Management. These “behaviors, values, ideologies, and social arrangements…help humans interpret their universe as well as deal with features of their environments, natural and social.”271 King is a prominent figure in the short history of cultural resource definition, having coined the phrase in 1974 to better distinguish landscapes dominated by archeology and all its adjacent artifacts from the wider natural environment.272 Originally an anthropologist, he has become an expert on cultural and historic preservation in the last half century; he previously served in oversight positions for preservation-related agencies in addition to teaching and writing. He has worked extensively with NPS to better manage cultural resources.273 Conversely, the authors of Tribal Cultural Resource Management; The Full Circle to Stewardship have allowed their definition of cultural resources to remain largely undefined, allowing the idea to be “many things to many people.”274 Cultural resources range from buildings to archeological sites to the places where traditional foods were harvested.275 The examples given in the book echo those produced by King: “wild rice harvesting of a Native American community in Wisconsin,” “traditional basketmaking and the plant resources it requires,” and “the importance of open space to a Navajo and the need for propinquity to relatives in a Pueblo community.”276 We can easily add to this list cultural resources identified by the various O’odham groups in Arizona. As their culture revolves around agriculture, having been established and handed down by their ancestors, the Huhugam, cultural resources may include construction and maintenance of irrigation canals to support agricultural fields, oral histories and the telling of traditional stories, among others.277 270 Cultural Anthropology Program, “What Is Cultural Anthropology?” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, last updated February 25, 2016, accessed March 4, 2024, https://home.nps.gov/orgs/1209/what-is-cultural-anthropology.htm#:~:- text=The%20National%20Park%20Service%20uses%20an%20equally%20simple,and%20social%29%2C%20beliefs%20%28val- ues%2C%20ideologies%29%2C%20and%20social%20arrangements.” 271 King, Thinking, 5. 272 King, Thinking, 5-6. He also admits not wanting to be associated with the “blue-haired little ladies who tut-tutted over their sherry about the demolition of old buildings,” finding them “largely ignorant of archeology in general and prehistory in particular.” 273 King, Thinking, backcover. 274 Darby C. Stapp and Michael S. Burney, Tribal Cultural Resource Management; The Full Circle to Stewardship (Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 2002), 5. 275 Stapp, Tribal, 5. 276 King, Thinking, 5. 277 Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, “Agriculture/Farming,” interpretive exhibit (Scottsdale: Huhugam Ki Museum), accessed March 29, 2024. 97 Many of these cultural identifiers mentioned are intangible, but they provide us with tangible resources that can help define the importance they hold to a culture. Anthropologists have made them cultural resources through a desire to define the culture they belonged to, and yet cultural resources provide us with more than just tangible pieces of the past. For many Native peoples, they represent a strong spiritual connection to ancestors and ancestral knowledge. To the modern-day O’odham, maintaining their connection to their agrarian roots is as much about the physical health of tribal members as it is the spiritual health of the larger O’odham community. Continuing with traditional cultural practices is also a way modern Native peoples exercise personal and communal sovereignty.278 As Jeff Van Pelt, cultural resource manager and member of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, writes in his foreword to Tribal Cultural Resource Management, “there is a purpose (to cultural resources) beyond research.”279 The intangible value of cultural resources is measured differently, depending on who is doing the measuring. Van Pelt admits expressing doubt that non-Native people can understand the connection Native people have to Native cultural resources, describing the archeologist’s obsession with physical artifacts.280 It is a sentiment mirrored by Angela Garcia-Lewis, Cultural Preservation Compliance Supervisor with the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community, with connections to Casa Grande Ruins and the Snaketown settlement at Hohokam Pima National Monument. Garcia-Lewis was highlighted as part of an exhibit on the sacred nature of cultural resources to tribes in the Phoenix Metropolitian area at the S’edav Va’aki Museum in Pheonix. A lot of times when people think about archeology and museums and what’s in their collections, the tendency is to look at objects in terms of materials and workmanship. That’s objectification, and the sense of the object being tied to antiquity, rather than contemporary people. … People are still tied to these objects. … We need these objects to maintain a sense of belonging to one another and to the landscape. … We still have a really strong tie to (them). … we’re using them as they were intended, rather than in some way that doesn’t make use of their spiritual value and doesn’t promote continuing between living people and the ancestors.281 278 Gila River Indian Community, “They Don’t Love You Like I Love You: Indigenous Perspectives on Sovereignty,” interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. 279 Stapp, Tribal, xiii. 280 Stapp, Tribal, xiii. 281 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Sacred Objects and Cultural Patrimony, A Discussion with Angela Garcia-Lewis,” interpretive exhibit (Phoenix: S’edav Va’aki Museum), accessed March 28, 2024. 98 intangible beliefs and traditions of individual cultures certainly have the potential to be more malleable than the physical products of history—but does that make them ephemeral compared with the eternality of—using Gladwin’s logic—pottery? Have we impoverished our understanding of culture because we feel the need to define it by tangible terms, to measure it by value? Besides deepening our understanding of how tangible cultural resources provide intangible cultural connections, this perspective adds to our overarching discussion of value and use of cultural resources. Is a resource only valuable if it has gone through this process of characterization and designation as a resource? Are we overlooking the intangible value a resource has by focusing our attention on defining its tangible attributes? It is arguably easier for professionals in cultural resource management to identify the tangible elements of culture resources over the intangible ones—tangible resource identification usually involves only scholastic authority and can be undertaken outside cultural hegemony, while knowledge of the intangible is usually held and maintained by tradition-bearers within the specific culture. Identification of the intangible, then, requires that managers be inclusive and approach identification as a collaborative, cooperative effort, rather than as an impartial survey separate human interaction; collaboration is something cultural resource managers have been reluctant to do until recently.286 None of this is to say that identification of tangible resources is unimportant or a wasted effort. Identifying tangible resources gives us a framework to recognize their importance within a culture; and the tangible property—following identification—can provide new insight into the intangible cultural values imbued within the resource. “People value these resources, which provide ties to their ancestry, contain important information, and teach people about their past, about the past of others, and about the places they live,” Darby Stapp and Michael Burney, the authors of Tribal Cultural Resource Management write in their opening chapter.287 One aspect is not more important than the other—usually, as Stapp and Burney point out, the tangible and intangible work hand-in-hand to define culture, so the identification, definition, and categorization of both is important. Furthermore, this work of identification makes the organization and administration of these resources easier for those tasked with managing them, and it benefits this paper’s 286 Bouchenaki, “Heritage,” 1. 287 Stapp, Tribal, 1. 100 exploration of cultural resource management. Still, cultural resource identification—most of it undertaken by the Park Service, the preeminent agency within the realm of cultural resource management—remains overly fixated on the tangible. To illustrate this, we can explore the limits of the National Register of Historic Places, the largest inventory system of historic properties in the country; both Casa Grande and the site at Snaketown are included in the National Register.288 The National Register, created in 1966 as part of the National Historic Preservation Act, catalogues historic properties significant to American history that exist as historic buildings, structures, objects, sites, or districts. These cultural properties are all tangible (there are some properties included in the National Register that are no longer extant—however, their once physical forms, located in an identifiable place, is what led to their ascension).289 The Park Service has been attempting to correct a lack of category for intangible resource identification by introducing resource types like “Traditional Cultural Property” as eligible for listing on the National Register.290 Traditional cultural properties (TCPs), first introduced to NPS rhetoric in 1990, are those “central to the way a community or group defines itself,” taking on such “vital significance” to the community “that any damage to or infringement upon them is perceived to be deeply offensive to, and even destructive of, the group that values them.”291 TCPs are frequently referred to as “the intangible elements” of culture and cultural heritage. Identifying them is a collaborative effort that requires discussion and dialogue to take the place of surveying; oftentimes, TCPs are only identified through the testimony of community members.292 The process of including TCPs in the larger NPS framework is ongoing; as of April 2024, the NPS bulletin on TCP 288 National Historic Landmarks, “Frequently Asked Questions,” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, last updated December 27, 2023, accessed March 4, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nationalhistoriclandmarks/faqs.htm. National Historic Landmarks or NHLs have been administered by NPS since 1935, with the passing of the Historic Sites Act. It is an older method of identification and documentation than the National Register of Historic Places, but the process was subsumed within the National Register upon its creation in 1966 as part of the NHPA. All NHLs are in the National Register, however only 2,500 National Register listings are NHLs—the two are not synonymous. 289 Federal Archeology Program, “Legal Authorities,” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, last updated April 3, 2023, accessed March 4, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/orgs/1187/legal-authorities.htm#:~:text=The%20Historic%20Sites%20Act%20 declares%20that%20preservation%20for,to%20acquire%20and%20preserve%20archeological%20and%20historic%20sites. 290 American Indian Liaison Office, “National Register of Historic Places—Traditional Cultural Properties (TCPs),” Department of the Interior, National Park Service (2012), accessed April 27, 2024, https://ctclusi.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/11/NPS_Quick- Guide_TCP.pdf. 291 Patricia L. Parker and Thomas F. King, “Guidelines for Evaluating and Documenting Traditional Cultural Properties,” in Na- tional Register Bulletin No. 38 (National Park Service, 1992), 2, https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nationalregister/upload/NRB38-Com- pleteweb.pdf. 292 Parker, “Guidelines,” 8. 101 documentation and evaluation for National Register listing is under revision following public comment.293 Even with the introduction of TCPs to the conversation, the emphasis within cultural resource definition is still very much on the tangible. TCPs generally revolve around cultural connections that are embodied in or sustained by the value of resources.294 In order for these TCPs to be eligible for inclusion in the National Register, their significance must be tied to tangible elements in a larger landscape; intangible resources involving a community’s practices or beliefs cannot be included as part of the National Register.295 Culture, we have established, cannot be distilled to the purely “tangible.” The Park Service’s bureaucracy may not allow for the flexibility desired by many perspectives—Native and non-Native alike— when it comes to recognizing the role resources play in sustaining culture. As King admits, most cultural resources have little to do with the National Register of Historic Places and many have nothing to do with archeology.296 Following King’s admission and returning to our definition of resource and culture, cultural resources are not only a mix of tangible and intangible—they expand beyond the bounds of social production, conventions and practices. To put it another way, culture is not necessarily human-centric nor are its resources relegated to those produced by humans, as our definition of culture has thus far alluded to. Individual cultures are largely shaped by environmental factors and in return shape their environments. Cultural resources frequently overlap with natural ones, presenting us with another question: What is the difference between cultural resources and natural resources? Cultural and natural resources in NPS and tribal management Woven throughout discussions of cultural resource definition is the accepted fact that cultural and natural resources are intimately inseparable.297 The examples introduced in the subsection on cultural resources above, provided by King and by Stapp and Burney in their book Tribal Cultural Resource Management, bridge any gap between the two disciplines; many cultural resource managers who represent tribal perspectives or are knowledgeable of tribal resources have worked to winnow down the differentiation. 293 National Park Service, “National Register Traditional Cultural Places Bulletin Update,” Department of the Interior, online resource, accessed April 27, 2024, https://parkplanning.nps.gov/projectHome.cfm?projectId=107663. 294 Thomas King, Places That Count; Traditional Cultural Properties in Cultural Resource Management, (Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press, 2003), 1. 295 American Indian Liaison Office, “TCPs.” 296 King, Thinking, 7. 297 Stapp, Tribal, 5. 102 For many, framing cultural resources and natural resources as interrelated could be used to redirect support for the conservation of both. Stapp and Burney see the relationship of cultural and natural resources reflected in public awareness: “In many ways, the growing awareness of the importance of cultural resources and the need to manage them has paralleled the increase in environmental awareness, though natural resource management has achieved much greater public awareness to date.”298 A multi-disciplinary approach to resource management can only strengthen both fields, they continue—including in their perspectives those of varying ethnic groups as well. Limiting our understanding of resources to a narrow lens of focus prevents us from understanding the larger cultural picture. For example: the growing and collecting of specific plants, the conservation or hunting of specific species of animals, the shaping of landscapes using traditional methods such as fire or dam construction. These acts may seem like the dominion of natural resource managers alone—as is represented in the positions of botanist, wildlife biologist and wildland firefighter in the natural resource departments of the Park Service and other federal agencies. But for Native peoples, the stewardship of the natural world and its resources, utilized to physically and spiritual strengthen Native communities, is a cultural phenomenon, intimately tied to the propagation and proliferation of Native lifeways.299 Many Native communities view their lifeways, their culture as intimately connected to the natural world and its resources—there is no division between the two as there is in NPS. This division is often reflected in the modern management of landscapes, and in the language surrounding the establishment of protected areas like “Wilderness.” The Wilderness Act, signed into law in 1964 by President Lyndon B. Johnson, best illustrates this, describing certain landscapes as “untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” Language like this erases the centuries of Native stewardship, but it also further separates the natural world from the cultural one. Many Native tribes in the U.S. reject “Wilderness” as a word, saying they do not recognize its definition of places without people as being possible. “What you call ‘wilderness’ we call our backyard,” says Patricia Cochran, Iñupiaq, executive director of the Alaska Native Science Commission. Some Native peoples have had to adopt other traditional words to fit—and even then, it usually reflects their views on community stewardship, and does not describe places that are barren or uninhabited. The O’odham 298 Stapp, Tribal, 1. 299 Stapp, Tribal, 8. 103 grew the cotton on their settlements near the Gila River.303 The saguaro cactus has become an iconic figure representing the desert ecosystem at large, despite the fact that its range is limited to the Sonoran Desert. O’odham peoples and their ancestors before them utilized all aspects of the saguaro—eating saguaro fruit, grounding saguaro seeds into flour for baking, and incorporating the ribs of dead saguaro into building construction and tool design; saguaro ribs even make up the poles used by the O’odham to harvest saguaro fruit. The saguaro is so integral to O’odham life that it is given the same respect as people in the O’odham culture.304 In some oral histories, saguaros are O’odham ancestors.305 The traditional harvesting of saguaro fruit has seen a resurgence among O’odham peoples in the past few decades due to an interest in identifying and maintaining significant aspects of their cultural identity.306 Daniel Lopez, expert on O’odham heritage, wrote treatises, including the one referenced in the above paragraph, that discuss traditional foodways and the importance they hold to the Himdag, the physical and spiritual health of the O’odham community. The O’odham word Himdag refers not only to cultural heritage but also a way of life that involves land use, the changing of the seasons and natural elements like rain; this definition conveniently bundles the tangible and intangible elements of cultural resources and heritage.307 Himdag reintroduces us to our previous discussion of resources use—that a cultural resource must function somehow for the betterment of the people using that resource. It also further cements for us the inextricable relationship between cultural and natural resources in discussions of Native heritage. 303 Sewport, “What is Pima Cotton: Properties, How its Made and Where,” accessed March 10, 2024, https://sewport.com/ fabrics-directory/pima-cotton-fabric. Pima was the response given by the Akimel O’odham when the Spanish asked for their name, leading to its long-term use by non-Native peoples. Pima means “I don’t know” in O’odham. 304 Desert Discovery Program Activities, “Desert People and the Saguaro,” interpretive pamphlet (Tucson: Arizona-Sonoran Desert Museum, 2012), accessed March 10, 2024, https://www.desertmuseum.org/center/edu/docs/1-2_SaguaroTales_people.pdf. 305 Gila River Indian Community, “Sikol’O Him eth Thoa:Kag; Life is a Circular Path,” interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. GRIC member Joe Giff is quoted as saying, “It would be wrong for us to do something like that, to injure, you know, to shoot at a Saguaro, because that would be like shooting at a person. See, in our way of thinking, the Saguaro is a person. What’s where Saguaros come from: in the stories it was somebody who turned into a Saguaro.” Arizona has commemorated the plant’s significance to regional culture by making its blossoms the state flower. It is also illegal to shoot at the cacti in the state, carrying a significant fee and jail time, however this and other forms of defacement is still a common occurrence. The Austin Lounge Lizards, a comedy band from Texas, recorded a song about David Grundman, a man who infamously died after shooting a saguaro, which dropped one of its arms on him, squashing him death (the band had already recorded the song before they learned the “G” in saguaro is pronounced as a “W”). 306 Desert Discovery Program Activities, “Saguaro.” 307 Gila River Indian Community, “Salt River’s Farming Story,” in Shu:Thag: Rekindling Our Connections, interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024; Tohono O’odham Community College, “Himdag Policy; Valuing the Tohono O’odham Himdag,” online resource, accessed March 14, 2024, https://tocc.edu/himdag/#:~:text=What%20is%20Him- dag%3F%20The%20Tohono%20O%E2%80%99odham%20Himdag%20consists,as%20a%20people.%20It%20is%20a%20lifelong%20 journey. 105 The Gila River Indian Community’s choice to keep the landscape at Snaketown buried represents the O’odham definition of Himdag: maintaining sovereignty over the landscapes and the resources located within their reservation for the betterment of the community. At the same time, their efforts to re-established irrigation canals and regain water rights are considered imperative to the continuation and expression of their cultural identity. In fact, the economic and spiritual wealth of GRIC members is seen as largely contingent upon the success of the Pima-Maricopa Irrigation Project, a way for them to flourish and return to their earlier traditions pertaining to Himdag.308 Retaining or reclaiming authority over these irreplaceable natural resources is viewed as improving the physical and spiritual health of their communities.309 It can also be seen as an act of sovereignty and resiliency against outside forces of assimilation and oppression, and it further illustrates the connection between cultural and natural resources within the larger umbrella of heritage. The management of these natural resources, as the Park Service would define them, should also be identified as cultural resources, eligible for inclusion in the National Register under the auspices of TCP or cultural landscape definition—provided the act of harvesting tepary beans, cotton or saguaro fruit was done in an identifiable place. Other natural resources around the Sonoran Desert are similarly identified as culturally significant or sacred by contemporary O’odham peoples. Individual mountains or even entire mountain ranges that encompass the Phoenix and Tucson metropolitan areas are recounted in numerous oral stories. South Mountain, known as Greasy Mountain to the Akimel O’odham, and Baboquivari Peak are both said to be homes of the O’odham creator god, Elder Brother.310 Of particular interest to this paper is GRIC’s ongoing use of irrigation canals, like the ones unearthed at Snaketown. Water, an essential natural resource—especially in the desert environment—is also viewed as a significant cultural resource by the various O’odham groups around southern Arizona. It’s loss, keenly felt on 308 Robbins, “Water.” 309 Winona LaDuke, Recovering the Sacred (Cambridge: South End Press, 2005), 11. 310 Betty Reid, “Phoenix’s mountains are religious sites for Valley tribes,” AZCentral.com, Dec. 20, 2014, https://www.azcentral. com/story/news/local/phoenix/2014/12/20/phoenixs-mountains-religious-sites-valley-tribes/20712065/; Kris Christensen, “Most Sacred Place of the Tohono O’odham,” Wordpress, online resource, May 6, 2013, accessed April 14, 2024, https://krischristensen. wordpress.com/2013/05/06/most-sacred-place-of-the-tohono-oodham/. In O’odham stories, Baboquivari Peak, west of Tucson, is home to the O’odham creator god, Elder Brother (Se-eh-ha or I’itoi). The mountain, considered sacred to the O’odham, is located in the Baboquivari Peak Wilderness, just outside the Tohono O’odham Nation reservation; it is popular with rock climbers and moun- tain bikers. The tribe has long petitioned the federal government to return Baboquivari Peak to their reservation lands so they can remove access to these groups, whose activities the tribe views as disrespectful. 106 the Gila River Indian Reservation during the first half of the 1900’s, meant physical death—but also a kind of cultural death. Without water, GRIC members were forced to abandon their agricultural fields. As an exhibit panel at the Huhugam Heritage Center states: Without the ability to irrigate and sustain our crops, we began to chop and sell wood to townsfolk for survival. Today, you can still see the tree stump remnants that remind our community members of the hardships we faced as our environment and livelihood changed. These also remind us that our ancestors always found a way to thrive and that we are still here.311 The tribe’s century-long fight for water rights in the aftermath of this catastrophic period has become a point of pride that reinforces the important cultural role water plays for the O’odham and Maricopa members of GRIC. Another panel reads: We Akimel O’odham have had to learn how to exert our water rights. We have sued local, state, and federal governments to protect our underground and surface water. We have taken our federal water settlement allotments and let them sink back into the ground to recharge our aquifer. Today, we invest in time-tested and innovated farming techniques that ensure our community always has access to this life-giving water source.312 In August 2022, the tribe’s governor, Stephen Roe Lewis, announced that the tribe would stop contributing part of its water allotment to the state reservoir at Lake Mead, a direct refutation of local, state and federal management strategies for this all-important resource. Lewis’ justification is simple. “We cannot continue to put the interests of all others above our own when no other parties seem committed to the common goal of a cooperative basin-wide agreement.”313 Lewis’ words return us to perspective among Native peoples that resource management is a sacred community trust. If natural resources can be considered cultural resources, then the responsibility of those 311 Gila River Indian Community, “Water Is Life,” interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. 312 Gila River Indian Community, Shu:Thag: Rekindling Our Connections, interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. 313 Gila River Indian Community, “Water Today,” interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. 107 who manage and steward them should be to consider how these resources impact the overarching culture. Misuse of these resources is cultural neglect, even destruction. Following this, and Van Pelt’s concern about non-Native stewards being overly fixated on the scientific processes of identification, categorization and future research, we should address the following supposition: Can we assume that, as with natural resources, cultural resources can be misused, exploited, damaged, or even destroyed? Can the intangible values of a cultural resource be lost through mismanagement and misuse? Is the value of a resource only found in its tangible characteristics? The authors of Tribal Cultural Resource Management address this, writing that anthropologists and archeologists have, for most of the field’s histories, been overly interested in the tangible, at the expense of the intangible and of the people who value them.314 Angela Garcia-Lewis echoes this sentiment in her aforementioned quotes. “(The reliance is) on those objects to tell a story, rather than the people telling the story and the objects illustrating it. … (Take away the object and) what’s going to be left is a greater understanding of who we are as a people today. And our connection to the past, our connection to this spot.”315 Centuries of exploitation of Native resources, both natural and cultural ones, at the hands of non- Native peoples has resulted in very few federal protections, compared to those which have been provided for non-Native cultural resources in spades and were addressed earlier in this chapter. One of the few legal protections provided to tribes to prevent cultural resource destruction and desecration is the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA), passed in 1990.316 In the case of NAGPRA, these sites and resources are identified by Native peoples as belonging to or significant to their culture, frequently involving the regulation and return of items patriated (read: stolen) by non-Natives in recent history. We find something of a response to this question of cultural resource exploitation in the language of NAGPRA, which deals with Native repatriation of sacred cultural items relating to human remains and burial rites. Prior to NAGPRA, Indigenous human bones and the sacred resources buried with them were exhumed 314 Stapp, Tribal, 48. 315 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Objects;” Vine Deloria, Custer Died For Your Sins; An Indian Manifesto (University of Oklahoma Press, 1969), 81. Vine Deloria, Jr., Standing Rock Sioux author and activist, had a more critical way of explaining this in his book, Custer Died for Your Sins: An Indian Manifesto. “The fundamental thesis of the anthropologist is that…people are considered objects for experimentation, for manipulation, and for eventual extinction.” 316 National Park Service, “Facilitating Respectful Return,” online resource, last updated January 5, 2024, accessed March 12, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nagpra/index.htm. 108 during archeological digs. Rather than be respectfully reburied, these remains and their accompanying objects were usually shipped off to universities or museums, where they would be curated and put on public display next to the aforementioned Native ceramics, sourced in a similar way.317 Such practices have been justified in the past by the scientific community as furthering the education or research of Native peoples and the anthropological history of whichever geographical region they were sourced from. A general lack of regard was shown to the skeletal remains of Native ancestors, and modern Native descendants were frequently not included in discussions about the collection or use of these items.318 For decades prior to NAGPRA, the ancestral remains of modern-day Native peoples had been displayed at museums across the country. The remains of O’odham ancestors, the Huhugam, had not escaped similar treatment; S’edav Va’aki Museum in Phoenix was among the interpretive centers that had previously kept Huhugam skeletal remains beneath glass for visitors to view, as recently as 1990 when the remains were finally taken out of curatorial rotation. Ida Redbird, a Maricopa member of GRIC recalled staying overnight at the S’edav Va’aki Museum with her cousin, Mary Juan, while the two gave pottery demonstrations to museum visitors during the day; the two women were terrified of the skeletons in the exhibit cases, but also fearful that someday they would have to suffer a similar fate. According to Ida, “(s)omeday you’ll be lying along one side of him and I’ll be on the other.”319 Ida and Mary’s horror, and the righteous outrage of Native peoples at seeing themselves reflected on the skeletons put on display, illustrates this vast chasm between cultural resource identification and cultural resource meaning. Museums have removed the very human element from their cultural resources—even human remains—attempting to be impartial and objective. However much this attempt at impartiality was based on standard practices, it still resulted in the erasure of modern Native peoples from modern interpretational efforts. NAGPRA, for all its faults, is a step towards righting this wrong.320 Even with NAGPRA, it has taken more than 30 years for some of these tangible resources—human remains and objects—to be identified by the tribes they were taken from. Thousands of ancestral remains 317 LaDuke, Recovering, 11. 318 Stapp, Tribal, 48-49. 319 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Owning Our Complicity—The Sordid Past of Museums,” interpretive exhibit (Phoenix: S’edav Va’aki Museum), accessed March 28, 2024. 320 S’edav Va’aki Museum, NAGPRA. 109 The sun was there. They are all silent witnesses. They do not know of affidavits, they simply know. This is what I really want to tell her. But I don’t. Instead I take the forms she hands me. I begin to account for myself.325 Zepeda’s queries provide us with further insight into how the O’odham understand their place in the larger world, echoing earlier discussions of Native beliefs around culture. “They simply know.” One of the more famous—and more controversial—cases involving NAGPRA was the discovery and ensuing legal battle over the body of a 9,000-year-old well-preserved male corpse, found by college students in the boggy shallows of the Columbia River near Kennewick, Washington, in 1996.326 The body, now colloquially known as “the Ancient One” by some Native tribes and “the Kennewick Man” by non-Natives, was subsequently fought over between the American anthropologist community and representatives of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation, the Yakama Nation, Nez Perce Tribe, Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation and the Wanapum Band of Indians. The court cases lasted two decades, ultimately ending in a victory for the tribal representatives. In February 2017, the tribes reburied the man’s remains at an undisclosed location on the Columbia Plateau, not far from where he had been pulled from the river.327 “A wrong had finally been righted,” Chuck Sams, then-communications director for the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation said, referring to not only the two decades of scientific probing 325 Ofelia Zepeda, “Birth Witness,” in Where Clouds Are Formed (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2008), https://www.bain- bridgepubliclibrary.org/pdfs/Poem%20Birth%20Witness.pdf. Zepeda’s parents were Tohono O’odham, born in Mexico, illustrating the O’odham people and their cultural transcendence of international borders; despite this, borders still act as barriers for O’odham traditional cultural practices. Zepeda’s “Birth Witness” poem was born from an attempt to travel to Mexico to visit relatives; as she does not have a U.S. birth certificate, she cannot receive a U.S. passport, meaning she could travel to Mexico, but potentially may not be permitted return. 326 Douglas Preston, “The Kennewick Man Finally Free to Share His Secrets,” in Smithsonian Magazine, September 2014, https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/kennewick-man-finally-freed-share-his-secrets-180952462/. 327 Sara Jean Green, “’A wrong had finally been righted’; Tribes bury remains of ancient ancestor known as Kennewick Man,” in The Seattle Times, February 19, 2017, https://www.seattletimes.com/seattle-news/tribes-bury-remains-of-ancient-ancestor-also- called-kennewick-man/. 111 carried out on the Ancient One but the historical testing of human remains and the collection of cultural resources by non-Native scientists in centuries past.328 Scientists, meanwhile, argued that these tests, including those done on the Ancient One, were necessary to further scientific understanding of human migration and cultural identity.329 Alternative methods for establishing these things were little explored; the story of human history could not be told, archeologists and anthropologists seemed to say, without tangible resources like the remains of long dead humans. In March of 1990, the curator at S’edav Va’aki Museum circulated a memo in response to NAGPRA that stated just that. While not opposed to the repatriation of some remains, the curator said, “(i)t is absolutely necessary that we curate these materials in perpetuity. … Anthropological and historical collections are records of human existence.”330 Professional organizations in the fields of archeology and anthropology, including the Society for American Archeology (SAA), had outwardly opposed NAGPRA when it was first proposed. SAA produced a policy that actively rejected the reburial of human remains; the policy was in effect until 2021.331 In the wake of the successful use of NAGPRA by Northwest tribes to repatriate the Kennewick Man, archeologists and anthropologists decried regulations like NAGPRA, claiming they endanger scientific research and require “far too little evidence proving…cultural connection(s) to modern-day native communities.”332 This is exactly the sort of language that causes concern for tribal authorities over the non-Native defining and management of Native cultural resources. As Garcia-Lewis’ earlier statement illustrates, museums have long relied on objects, rather than people, to tell a story of Native culture and history.333 Native accounts and perspectives, long dismissed, are still struggling to be accepted, even with federal intervention.334 328 Green, “Wrong.” Chuck Sams, a longtime administrative official for the Umatilla Tribes and then-tribal communications director during the reburial of the Ancient One, is now director of the National Park Service. 329 Tasneem Raja, “A Long, Complicated Battle Over 9,000-Year-Old Bones is Finally Over,” National Public Radio, May 5, 2016, https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2016/05/05/476631934/a-long-complicated-battle-over-9-000-year-old-bones-is-finally- over. 330 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “The SAA, the AAM, and the Museum,” interpretive exhibit (Phoenix: S’edav Va’aki Museum), ac- cessed March 28, 2024. 331 Ibid. 332 Raja, “Battle.” 333 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Objects.” 334 Preston, “Secrets.” Armand Minthorn, then-spokesman for the Umatilla Confederacy wrote in a press brief in 1996, re- sponding to the cries of American anthropologists over the potential loss of valuable information if the Kennewick Man was repa- triated and lost to science. “We view this practice (of scientific study) as desecration of the body and a violation of our most deep- ly-held religious beliefs. From our oral histories, we know that our people have been part of this land since the beginning of time. We 112 The Ancient One illustrates several things: the potentially divisive framework we encounter when discussing cultural resource definition; the various forms of value found in cultural resources; and the ongoing contention that is resource ownership. This exploration of cultural resource authority and the value resources divine was, funnily enough, predicted in a tv dramedy two years before the Ancient One was first unearthed. Northern Exposure, an hour-long program broadcast on CBS between 1990 and 1995, addressed this question of cultural resource exploitation in the sixth episode of its third season, “The Body in Question.”335 The synopsis is this: a body, found frozen solid in a hunk of ice floating downriver, is revealed to be a French man from 1814, with a journal that has Napoleon Bonaparte—yes, that Napoleon Bonaparte—visiting Alaska, where the show is set. The plot quickly unravels into a debate between characters, some of whom want to put the body on display for economic benefit to the community (and themselves), while others would like to return it to the place it was found. The body, meanwhile, remains frozen, unceremoniously stuffed into the walk-in freezer of the town’s local bar. The main character, Dr. Joel Fleischman, a Jewish doctor from New York City (forced to work in Alaska to pay off his medical school debt), is visited in a dream by the Jewish prophet, Elijah; Elijah tells him the body should be returned to a local native tribe who claim to be descended from Bonaparte. Larger questions asked in the episode include impacts to the historical record; whose version of historical events is considered accurate and accepted; using science to prove historical facts otherwise supported by oral history; history and historical artifacts belonging to a specific cultural group; and the rejection of self-identified ownership from outside voices. At a community meeting in the episode’s penultimate scene, a character asks, “What about [the body], how would he feel?” This is dismissed by another character, who snaps, “he’s dead…he doesn’t feel anything.” “That’s more than just a body in a freezer,” one money-minded character muses, concerned about the body’s economic value. The other side argues the same thing: that the body is worth more than its tangible form. In the concluding scene, a handful of Native men who claim heritage with Bonaparte and view the body as proof of their ancestry, steal the Frenchman’s body and paddle away with it into the fog, although do not believe that our people migrated here from another continent, as the scientists do.” 335 Moosechick, “3.6: The Body in Question,” accessed March 10, last updated February 2, 2013. https://www.moosechick. com/36.html. While the show was set in a fictional Alaskan town, it was shot on location in and around the small town of Roslyn in Washington State, making its connections to this discussion of the Kennewick Man all the more auspicious. 113 as significant in some way or another since Europeans first arrived in the area. Father Kino, among others, was quick to recognize this– but why? Humans frequently subscribe value to things that are significant to us, but that, of course, is a subjective truth. The act of conferring significance on a thing usually says more about us than about the thing itself and has as much to do with cultural acceptance as it does value. Our definition of culture translates to the familiar, and in the case of Casa Grande, familiar was an identifiable building. It had value, because it reminded the people who saw it of other buildings that they themselves considered significant.337 This is best illustrated by 20th-century Americans associating Casa Grande with buildings from ancient civilizations in Europe, sites with identifiable infrastructure like Pompeii.338 The early Spanish conquistadors assumed its importance because it reminded them of their castles.339 On the other hand, we have the Ancestral Sonoran Desert settlement of Snaketown; its identifiable infrastructure had been reclaimed by the earth long before non-Native people started probing in search of valuable resources. To non-Native archeologists like Emil Haury and Howard Gladwin, the site at Snaketown held no significance until certain items—resources, things with value to them—had been found. Prior to the dig, it was only ever identified by non-Natives as a collection of dirt piles. Buried, it was safe from the natural elements, from treasure hunters or curious visitors, from the ill-effects of archeologists’ best intentions. We might consider this ironic, that the thing protecting the resources at Snaketown today was what kept it safe for hundreds of years previously; to the O’odham, this is evidence of the success of Himdag. To the O’odham, this question of identifying significance has a simple answer, one best given by Tohono O’odham member and heritage preservationist, Daniel Lopez: These places are what we consider sacred places because they are the evidence that reminds us of the long-ago people, or Huhugam. We do not excavate sites and date the artifacts that we have, but we have faith in our elders, in the sacred places, in our stories, and in I’itoi. The earth gives us a sense of connection to the people of the past. That is why we say that the earth is 337 Puglionesi, Whose, 20. This fixation of non-Natives on familiar tangible cultural resources is related to non-Native gov- ernments and their history of preferential treatment of Native peoples with agrarian cultures and more permanent infrastructure over Native tribes that were more migratory with ephemeral housing typologies who subsisted on hunting and gathering—familiar cultures are easier to identify with. Similarly, the reservations of some desert-dwelling tribes were made so large because non-Native government officials considered the land’s desert ecosystem to be worthless with little-to-no potential resources. 338 The Washington Post, “Pompeii.” 339 Clemensen, Ruins, Chap. 2-2. 115 holy and should not be disturbed, because the land belongs to the spirits. Even in the mountains we can feel the power of the Huhugam spirits as we journey to the mountain villages. As we breathe the holy air that gives us life, we can feel the power of our ancestors. When we see the stars at night and hear the owl, some of us feel strongly that we are a part of the ancient past.340 Lopez’s words echo those of Angela Garcia-Lewis, of the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community when discussing water rights, and the Umatilla tribal members during their fight to reclaim control over the Ancient One’s remains: destruction of sacred resources for purposes other than cultural affinity is desecration. From a non-Native standpoint, I believe we can all understand that studying human remains, regardless of their origin, demands serious ethical consideration. We are also witnessing in our modern culture how destructive the search for certain resources is to the landscapes and ecosystems we are part of. Beyond this, Lopez argues that the very act of searching for new resources—be they cultural or natural ones—signals a loss of faith in heritage, a loss of trust in the institutions and beliefs that cultures rely upon to perpetuate themselves—a loss of Himdag.341 The Gila River Indian Community is invested in a continuation of the O’odham Himdag, the lifeways passed down from their ancestors. The community’s Pima-Maricopa Irrigation Project is the perfect example of this relationship between the natural and the cultural, between tangible and intangible. It also illustrates their desire to maintain sovereignty over their own land rather than follow the dictates of an outside governmental agency like the Park Service—agencies whose methods of land and resource management that have not always resulted in the best interest of tribes like the GRIC. Altering their management of the reservation landscape could be seen as a diversion from Himdag—even a rejection of it. The meaning they take from the landscape at Snaketown does not translate into a shared vision for its management with NPS precisely because they never needed to unearth it to know it was there—and they never needed to see it to know it was significant to them. Again, we have expected Native peoples to provide or produce tangible resources as proof that their culture is real—that their history is significant. GRIC’s rejection of the development of Hohokam Pima as an accessible 340 Lopez, “Huhugam,” 120-121. 341 Lopez, “Huhugam,” 120-121. 116 site is more than just a refutation of the Park Service’s mission, it is a rejection of the perspective that tangible resources are required to convey intangible meaning. 117 118 “But when from a long distant past nothing persists, after the people are dead, after things are broken and scattered, still alone, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time like souls, ready to remind us, waiting, hoping for their moment amid the ruins of all the rest, and bear unfaltering in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence the vast structure of recollection.”342 Marcel Proust 342 Marcel Proust, trans. C.K. Scott Moncrieff, “Swann’s Way,” in Remembrance of Things Past (Arcturus Publishing: London, 2020), 60. In this instance, “long distant” was Proust’s childhood; “the people” were his deceased parents. “Ruins” here refers to the vast collection of Proust’s personal memories, fighting with each other for a chance to be recovered somehow by their owner. 120 5. CULTURAL RESOURCES AS SOURCES OF MEMORY It is a universal human characteristic to find significance in our surroundings—whether that significance is found in the extraction of tangible resources or in a deeper, spiritual cultivation. But as we have already explored, it is not universally accepted that the land and all its resources should be available for spiritual connection or physical use by anyone. To some, using what the land provides requires investment, stewardship—a sacred trust between specific individuals, their ancestors, and their future descendants; it represents an agreement between the past and the present. As Bruce Ballenger writes, “Here again is the conflation of time past and time present, and the mere act of remembering is invested with the power to see and perhaps shape the future.”343 In the previous chapter we explored how these sites of cultural value are identified, and how their value is conveyed in tangible and intangible ways. Before moving on to understanding how Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments are managed as sites of cultural importance, we’ll introduce one of the more intangible ways cultural resources are significant by exploring the perspectives of people to whom these sites are significant. Also introduced will be written musings on the potential for places to act as a 343 Bruce Ballenger, “Methods of Memory: On Native American Storytelling,” in College English 59 No. 7 (November 1997), 790, https://www.jstor.org/stable/378636?seq=1. source of memory by several authors, including one who inspired the beginnings of our modern preservation movement and is still associated with it today. Together, these perspectives compel us to ask a question along the lines of interpreting value: how do resources mean? How do we interpret a resource’s importance? How is management and preservation involved in that interpretation? To beg a question of Cicero, do resources speak for themselves?344 Tangible resource memory—memory as an intangible resource One way that tangible resources make themselves essential to culture is by assisting cultural authorities in interpreting the intangible aspects of individual cultures, as Angela Garcia-Lewis explained in the last chapter.345 This is traditionally accomplished by using buildings, landscapes or objects in the recounting of personal and collective memories, as part of oral stories. Building from the previous chapter, we shouldn’t limit a resource’s definition by only associating it with a culture’s past—culture is a living process, and resources are part of that process. As Veysel Apaydin writes in his pamphlet on cultural heritage and memory, “material culture of the past (does not) exist only for purposes of ‘remembering.’”346 O’odham cultural traditions like farming, dancing, and oral storytelling aren’t continued by modern-day GRIC members solely out of respect for their Huhugam ancestors. Sacred cultural resources, like artifacts repatriated through NAGPRA or the landscapes at Hohokam Pima and Casa Grande Ruins National Monuments, are important sources of past memory, but they also provide Native peoples like GRIC with the promise of continued cultural growth, and the unrealized memories of future descendants. In that way, the memories found in these resources become intangible resources on their own. It should be said that memory is not the same as history, as different as history is from heritage (History is ownerless and studied, heritage is defined and bound to a collective identity).347 History presents the past as an abstract idea; memory, on the other hand, is the reconstruction of past events through lived experiences.348 344 Cicero proclaimed the now standard point of legal doctrine, Res ipsa loquitur, “the thing speaks for itself,” in his defense of friend and accused-murderer, Titus Milo, in 52 B.C.E. 345 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Objects.” 346 Veysel Apaydin, Critical Perspectives on Cultural Memory and Heritage: Construction, Transformation and Destruction (Lon- don: UCL Press, 2020), 14, https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctv13xpsfp. 347 Jessica Moody, “Heritage and History,” in The Palgrave Handbook of Contemporary Heritage Research, ed. Emma Waterton and Steve Watson (Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 113. 348 Martin T. Dinter, “Introduction: What is Cultural Memory?” in Cultural Memory in Republican and Augustan Rome, ed. Mar- tin T. Dinter and Charles Guérin (Cambridge University Press, May 2023), 2. 122 Some Native groups have no word for “history” in their language; for example, the Yuchi in modern-day Oklahoma use their word for memory in history’s place.349 Cultural memory is more than just the remembering of past experiences that define culture—it is the information found in those experiences, transformed to produce personal and collective identity.350 Memory is divided into two types: the personal and the collective. These two types work together, with personal memories communicating between themselves to produce the larger collective memory, and the collective laying a foundation for the personal.351 Memory is the place that cultural material is stored, to be called on or used when the need arises— in this way, memory is an intangible cultural resource.352 For Native peoples, memory is the embodiment of traditional knowledge, shared collectively by communities.353 Tangible resources, those existing in both natural and cultural spaces, provide modern peoples with a touchstone to past generations by continued use. They are tools for maintaining connections within a culture, beyond their ability to interpret that culture to an outside audience. Resources are particularly useful in keeping culture alive, especially cultures that have suffered through external conflict or oppression.354 Resources that provide these sources of memory for Native communities are all the more integral to Native culture because they assist Native peoples in finding and holding onto their identity. Native memory, then, is another avenue towards cultural sovereignty. The poet Anna Lee Walters, Pawnee, writes of the role memory has in maintaining Native identity in her poem “Come, my Sons:” “My sons, it is important to remember. It is in remembering that our power lies, and our future comes. This is the Indian Way.”355 For contemporary members of GRIC, maintaining cultural connections invokes the collective memory of their ancestors, the Huhugam, and the personal memories of those still living. The role memory plays in 349 Paul Chaat Smith, Everything You Know about Indians is Wrong (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press), 200. 350 Dinter, “Memory,” 1. There is some contention in cultural memory’s role in this procedure—are memories naturally oc- curring or deliberately constructed? Memory can also be manipulated to dictate culture, as seen in some oral histories and written histories; in Dinter’s case, he is discussing Imperial Roman “histories” and their role in subtly (or not so subtly) influencing the Roman public. 351 Dinter, “Memory,” 2. 352 Ballenger, “Memory,” 792. 353 Sandy Grande, Timothy San Pedro and Sweeney Windchief, “Indigenous Peoples and Identity in the 21st Century: Remem- bering, Reclaiming and Regenerating,” in 21st Century Indigenous Identity Location: Remembrance, Reclamation, and Regeneration, ed D. Koslow and L. Salett (Washington, D.C.: NASW Press, 2015), 117. 354 Apaydin, Perspectives, 13. 355 Anna Lee Walters, “Come, My Sons,” in The Man to Send Rain Clouds, ed. Kenneth Rosen (New York: Viking, 1974) 15-2,. https://rosevoc2.wordpress.com/2017/01/11/come-my-sons; Ballenger, “Memory,” 790. 123 ongoing Native culture within the community is apparent when listening to tribal members discuss resource management—be it natural or cultural. Wesley Miles, Akimel O’odham and an archeologist with GRIC’s Cultural Resource Management Program, was quoted in an article published in the Smithsonian Magazine, referring to surveying as part of his job with the tribe: “As a member of the community, it’s not a discovery for me. It’s a remembering. It’s staying in touch with my ancestors.”356 Personal and collective sources of memory are essential to understanding decisions surrounding the development or maintenance of cultural traditions. Older members who lived through the periods of drought and for-profit agricultural practices at the turn of the 20th century use their memories to illustrate how these disruptions to cultural traditions caused havoc for the community. Over time, the Akimel O’odham, once a proud agricultural people, began to associate farmwork with harsh working environments, starvation, land loss, and loss of autonomy. Some elders and community members today feel shame about this part of our history (having) forgotten that our fields, our agricultural knowledge, and our ceremonies arose from a place of sustainment and nourishment. Our culture has been, and continues to be, interwoven with these practices.357 Resources, as has been established, are not limited to historical uses, and cannot be restrained to a narrow lens of human memory alone. To some Akimel O’odham, resources are more than the intangible inspiration of human memory or the tangible vessels for human memory—they have memories of their own. Frances Manuel Peters, Akimel O’odham, had this to say, translated by his grandson, Aaron Sabori: “Water has a memory. It knows where to go and how to give just enough. It is we humans who have interrupted its patterns and paths.”358 Peters’ words remind us that resources are frequently defined by human terms, rather than humans looking at a larger ecological system for purpose and meaning. They also illustrate how our understanding of culture is potentially hobbled by language, specifically cultures and languages that we are unfamiliar with. For the purposes of this chapter, the use of language is integral to understanding the memories resources covey or contain. It also presents us with an opportunity to explore alternative 356 Robbins, “Water.” 357 Gila River Indian Community, “Intrusion of Profit-Based Agriculture,” interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Cen- ter), accessed March 28, 2024. 358 Gila River Indian Community, Shu:Thag: Rekindling Our Connections, interpretive exhibit (Chandler: Huhugam Heritage Center), accessed March 28, 2024. 124 perspectives when discussing culture and memory, including those that are indirectly related to the settlements at Casa Grande and Snaketown. Understanding how cultural memory and a historical use of resources shape modern O’odham culture is imperative to this wider discussion of resource management. Being present in place, able to read the language of landscapes informs this understanding of memory translation. It also requires that we not only have access to these landscapes, but also understand the language being utilized. The language spoken by tangible resources is not a phonetic one—rather, it communicates in nonphysical ways. As Martin Donougho argues in his 1987 essay, “The Language of Architecture,” this language is interpreted by an already-familiar audience, the message a type of code that is only cracked via cultural knowledge of an individual or collective group.359 The following subsections explore how tangible resources “mean” through an appeal to human memory. All sources reference the indelible mark left on places and objects by humans—and the memories formed in humans by those same things. Ofelia Zepeda and her poetry of place Ofelia Zepeda, introduced in the previous section, didn’t learn to speak English until starting elementary school in Stanfield, Arizona.360 Born in 1952, Zepeda, a member of the Tohono O’odham Nation, grew up speaking O’odham, the language of the Akimel, Tohono, and Hia C-eḍ O’odham; it is a language she uses to full effect in her position as a poet and professor of linguistics at the University of Arizona.361 Some of her poems are bilingual—all make full use of language that reflects the power of memory and the role that landscapes and culture have on those memories. Her introduction to the book of poems, Ocean Power, is titled “Things That Help Me Begin to Remember”; it explores the cultural artifacts and traditions that possess memories and provide her with a sense of belonging.362 While none of her poems speak directly to the sites of Snaketown or Casa Grande Ruins, Zepeda’s work revolves around the O’odham relationship with the wider 359 Donougho, “Language,” 55-56, https://www.jstor.org/stable/3332870?searchText=the+language+of+architecture&- searchUri=%2Faction%2FdoBasicSearch%3FQuery%3Dthe%2Blanguage%2Bof%2Barchitecture%26so%3Drel&ab_segments=0%2Fba- sic_search_gsv2%2Fcontrol&refreqid=fastly-default%3A67360222cfb2cb44fd38d7058b5f7044&seq=1. 360 Logan Burtch-Buus, “Regents Professor and poet Ofelia Zepeda named USA Fellow,” University of Arizona News, January 30, 2023, https://news.arizona.edu/story/regents-professor-and-poet-ofelia-zepeda-named-usa-fellow. 361 Julie Swarstad Johnson, “Ofelia Zepeda and the Poetics of Vision,” The University of Arizona Poetry Center, October 19, 2012, https://poetry.arizona.edu/blog/ofelia-zepeda-and-poetics-vision. 362 Ofelia Zepeda, Ocean Power (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995), 1-5. 125 Sonoran Desert. These references are all-encompassing and aren’t limited to individual sites.363 The lines printed at the beginning of this paper are taken from Zepeda’s poem “Proclamation,” her love poem to the landscape around Tucson, the Spanish derivation of Cuk Son as the O’odham have historically called their settlement under Black Mountain (now Sentinel Peak). Throughout the poem, Zepeda’s words refer to a story being told by the landscape at Tucson to the ancestors of its first inhabitants. The story, she writes, is in the many languages still heard in this place of Black Mountains. They are in the echo of lost, forgotten languages heard here even before the people arrived.364 Her words in “Proclamation” describe the role a landscape plays in the development of culture, but also the formation of that culture’s language, communicated to cultural descendants like an intergenerational memory. Even without the presence of humans, she writes, landscapes form memories. “Birth Witness,” introduced in the previous section, contains the line “pulling memory from the depths of the earth.” Zepeda introduces us to the belief in O’odham culture that intangible memory, tied to physical places, can be extracted or harnessed like tangible resources.365 “Not the Intent of This Desert” explores the impact of humans on landscapes, giving physical places memories in a description not unlike Frances Manuel Peters’ thoughts on water maintaining memory. The poem is told from the perspective of the desert landscape, which experiences the lives and emotions of the humans who exist in it. “Each tiny blade of creosote leaf has a memory of the people that have come through. The sand absorbs the tears, nightmares, sorrows of the walkers. It muffles their cries. No one can hear them. This was never the intent of this desert.”366 In other poems, Zepeda suggests that generational, cultural memory provides the only connection 363 Johnson, “Poetics.” 364 Zepeda, “Proclamation.” 365 Zepeda, “Witness.” 366 Ofelia Zepeda, “Not the Intent of This Desert,” in Where Clouds Are Formed (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2008), https://voca.arizona.edu/track/id/70295. This poem was written primarily about the migrant crisis on the border in Arizona, with the tears, nightmares, and sorrows representative of the migrant experiences, juxtaposed with the O’odham who have learned over gen- erations to survive and thrive in the desert. Considering this paper, I re-read the poem, identifying the tears, nightmares, and sorrows as those of the Native peoples during the early 1900s, experiencing a loss of traditional lifeways and in some extremes, life itself. As Zepeda states, this period was not the life-giving landscapes of earlier O’odham generations. 126 necessary to culture for those who belong to that culture. In “Smoke in Our Hair,” these memories are recalled through the sound, sight and smell of burning the sacred wood of the Mesquite, cedar, piñon and juniper trees during a ceremony. The ceremony itself is not described—illustrating for us our earlier discussion surrounding a fixation on resource definition at the expense of meaning. The ceremony is not what’s important to Zepeda’s point because the ceremony will eventually end; she only describes the smoke from the fire, and the way the people taking part in the ceremony carry this bodiless smoke with them. In the poem, “smoke,” as intangible as it is, is symbolic for the O’odham’s connection to their culture, their history, and desert—for Himdag. The people know that smoke is what’s important and they carry it with them wherever they go. The sound of the crackle of wood and spark is ephemeral. Smoke, like memories, permeates our hair, Our clothing, our layers of skin. The smoke travels deep to the seat of memory. We walk away from the fire; no matter how far we walk, we carry this scent with us. New York City, France, Germany— we catch the scent of burning wood; we are brought home.367 We can extrapolate from Zepeda’s poems a wider understanding of the way a landscape and its resources are used to serve identity and a sense of belonging. As fellow poet (and former Poet in Residence at Gettysburg National Military Park) Julia Swarstad Johnson has remarked, Zepeda presents readers with personal and collective memories of one’s place in a larger natural, cultural or even political environment.368 Beyond her poetry works, she is currently spearheading “The Poetics and Politics of Water,” a graduate student series at the University of Arizona that explores the cultural role of the Sonoran Desert’s most sought-after resource in Native and non-Native communities. 367 Ofelia Zepeda, “Smoke in Our Hair,” in Where Clouds Are Formed (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2008), https://www. poetryfoundation.org/poems/53449/smoke-in-our-hair. 368 Johnson, “Poetics.” 127 Age, and in that deep sense of voicefulness, of stern watching, of mysterious sympathy, nay, even of approval or condemnation, which we feel in walls that have long been washed by the passing waves of humanity. It is in…their quiet contrast with the transitional character of all things, in the strength which, through the lapse of seasons and times, and the decline and birth of dynasties, and the changing of the face of the earth, and of the limits of the sea, maintains its sculptured shapeliness for a time insuperable, connects forgotten and following ages with each other, and half constitutes the identity…of nations.373 Here, Ruskin is discussing the importance of cultural resources, buildings specifically, to a shared cultural identity—individual generations come and go, but a culture’s connections to the past are maintained in the resources or ideas that it values, even if those values shift and evolve. We can use Ruskin’s language to bridge the views of NPS and GRIC on the significance of the cultural resources both entities are overseeing. The difference comes down to management, and again, Ruskin provides us with his perspective, still used today. Ruskin was famously opposed to forms of preservation that did not involve a continued use of a historic property in its original purpose. He does not tell caretakers to ignore a historic property outright, or to avoid cleaning its tangible features occasionally and removing graffiti, vegetation, and garbage when the situation demands; these are forms of maintenance, he says, which all buildings, regardless of historic significance, deserves and require.374 However, any attempts to maintain a historic building beyond its life are seen as dishonorable to both the building and the people who constructed it. Ruskin anthropomorphizes the cultural resource here, referring to the time when it is no longer useful or when its significance is no longer clear as its ultimate death. That “evil day (when that resource dies) must come at last; but let it come declaredly and openly, and let no dishonoring and false substitute deprive it of the funeral offices of memory.”375 In his writings, he specifically calls any attempts to prevent this death from happening as desecration. Specifically, he refers to the act of restoration as “a Lie from beginning to end,” but his opposition extends beyond restoration to involve any alteration or inclusion of new materials to a historic property.376 These 373 Ruskin, Lamps, 186-187. 374 Ruskin, Lamps, 196. 375 Ruskin, Lamps, 196-197. 376 Ruskin, Lamps, 196. 129 efforts are “destruction accompanied with false description of the thing destroyed.”377 “Do not let us deceive ourselves in this important matter,” he continues, “it is impossible, as impossible as to raise the dead, to restore anything that has ever been great or beautiful in architecture.”378 Ruskin’s perspective on the caretaker’s role for historic properties, again speaks to the Park Service’s interest in preserving spaces “for the enjoyment, education, and inspiration of this and future generations” while also referring to the view of the Gila River Indian Community, that the Snaketown site belongs to their ancestors.379 “We have no right whatever to touch them. They are not ours,” Ruskin writes at one point. “The dead have still their right in them: that which they laboured for, the praise of achievement or the expression of religious feeling, or whatsoever else it might be which in those buildings they intended to be permanent, we have no right to obliterate.”380 Nevertheless, he encourages us to steward the same buildings “with anxious care.” (G)uard it as best you may, and at any cost, from every influence of dilapidation. Count its stones as you would jewels of a crown; set watches about it as if at the gates of besieged city. Bind it together with iron where it loosens; stay it with timber where it declines; do not care about the unsightliness of the aid: better a crutch than a lost limb; and do this tenderly, and reverently, and continually, and many a generation will still be born and pass away beneath its shadow.381 Since publishing his works in the 1800s, Ruskin has been intimately influential on the preservation field; his writing is still used when discussing conservation efforts of historic spaces and many preservation professionals and artists continue to provide pride of place for his words in their work.382 And yet our modern preservation methods are still directed towards preserving the tangible—these places that provide us with more than just a cosmetic understanding of place and our role in it; Ruskin’s thoughts on intangible heritage 377 Ruskin, Lamps, 194. 378 Ruskin, Lamps, 194. 379 National Park Service, “Our Mission.” 380 Ruskin, Lamps, 197. 381 Ruskin, Lamps, 196. 382 Ryan Roark, “The Afterlife of Dying Buildings: Ruskin and Preservation in the Twenty-First Century,” in The Courtauld, July 2021, https://courtauld.ac.uk/research/research-resources/publications/courtauld-books-online/ruskins-ecologies-figures-of-rela- tion-from-modern-painters-to-the-storm-cloud/14-the-afterlife-of-dying-buildings-ruskin-and-preservation-in-the-twenty-first-centu- ry-ryan-roark/. 130 him in, to illustrate for us readers his larger story of childhood. It echoes Garcia-Lewis’ words: people—not objects—tell stories; objects only assist in the storytelling. For Proust, these individual memories, significance, and other intangibilities transcend a physical space; a place only generates memory through deeper, cultural connection. Unlike Ruskin, whose writing refers to the collective memory of humanity, Proust is speaking narratively, of personal experiences that have shaped his perceptions of place. His views on memory are focused on the individual, namely, himself; he is interpreting for the reader the formation of his own memories. Ruskin is more interested in understanding the role a significant historic property plays in the development of a larger culture, not an individual’s psyche. This is all well and good, but how can we understand a place that exists outside our cultural index? How do we interpret places that we have no personal or collective memories of? Is interpretation the only role these places are allowed to play? Resource interpretation and the Park Service Interpretation is the act of explaining the meaning of something in understandable terms, to paraphrase from Merriam-Webster.388 We are most interested in interpretation as a method of making the unknown accessible, but interpretation is also the conception of understanding based on personal experience or belief.389 Much of what we understand about culture is filtered through this personal lens—the production of this paper by myself and its subsequent examination by you are also acts of interpretation. Interpretation frequently involves constructing narratives for easier communication to a larger audience. Oral stories, myths, sagas, folktales, old wives’ tales. These are constructive narrative methods, used by any number of historical or contemporary cultures to communicate the personal and collective memories and experiences of members of a larger culture to the uninitiated. Narratives are not intended to be replicated word-for-word; the story—the memory—within the narrative is what is repeated. Interpretation is a recent addition to this set of descriptors. Like other methods of storytelling, interpretation involves more than the regurgitation of facts and figures, names or places; it is done “by exposing the soul of things—those truths that lie behind what you are showing your visitors…not by instruction but by provocation.”390 388 Merriam-Webster, s.v. “Interpret,” last updated April 13, 2024, accessed April 16, 2024, https://www.merriam-webster.com/ dictionary/interpret. 389 Ibid. 390 Freeman Tilden, Interpreting Our Heritage, third edition (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1977), 38. 132 have not known. This person’s greatness is not so much in himself as in what he unveils.395 His definition of this interpretive method is simple. It is “an educational activity which aims to reveal meanings and relationships through the use of original objects, by firsthand experience, and by illustrative media, rather than simply to communicate factual information.”396 Tying this back to our discussions of resources, interpretation in the Park System communicates the intangible histories of tangible resources, of vast landscapes or historical buildings, and does it in a way that speaks to visitors from various backgrounds and cultures. For Park Service employees, interpretation is specifically an educational tool for visitors, but its intent is also one of preservation. Tilden takes from the NPS Administrative Manual this line to illustrate his meaning: “Though interpretation, understanding; through understanding, appreciation; through appreciation, protection.”397 (T)he fruits of adequate interpretation is the certainty that it leads directly toward the very preservation of the treasure itself, whether it be a national park, a prehistoric ruin, an historic battlefield or a precious monument of our wise and heroic ancestors. Indeed, such a result may be the most important end of our interpretation, for what we cannot protect we are destined to lose.398 For these reasons, many Park Service employees consider interpretation to be the most important service provided to visitors.399 The creation of Park Service interpretive ranger dates to this time, a position devoted entirely to the visitor-oriented education and communication; it is distinct from that of natural or cultural resource management. NPS interpretive rangers play the agency’s most public-facing role, with visitors interacting with interpretive rangers on a much greater scale than other Park Service employees. Interpretive rangers use the physical landscape and other tangible elements on display at a park to tell the story of the people who lived there. While “interpretive ranger” is a professional career within the Park Service, the public’s interpretation of parks and their resources is a “leisure” activity. Visitors to national park units stay for a few hours, a day, 395 Tilden, Interpreting, 4-5. 396 Tilden, Interpreting, 8. 397 Tilden, Interpreting, 38. 398 Tilden, Interpreting, 37-38. 399 Hartzog, Jr., forward to Tilden’s Interpreting, xiii. Including Hartzog himself, director of the Park Service between 1964 and 1972. 134 regional office in Santa Fe, to make a site report of the Hohokam settlement at Snaketown. Erik Reed had been one of Emil Haury’s assistants during Haury’s Snaketown I dig some four years early during the winter season of 1934 and 1935. Reed’s report, published in November of 1939, rejects any future interpretation of the site, saying that it would likely hold no interest for the general public. Unlike Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, Reed posited, the site had no outstanding features that would make itself attractive to visitors unfamiliar with Hohokam civilization.402 “It is, however, a site of outstanding scientific importance.”403 Despite its presumed disinterest among the public, Reed reported on the potential for a park at Snaketown, noting its proximity to circulation corridors and population centers and the future need to excavate and restore archeological features for use as interpretive tools.404 Snaketown, unlike Casa Grande with its prominent and identifiable architectural keystone, was not a place the Park Service thought could adequately tell its story to visitors. While Reed acknowledged its importance, stressing points archeologists had been making since Snaketown I, he could not see that importance being understood by people who were not already intimately connected to the landscape— namely, the contemporary Native peoples, still living near the Snaketown site on the Gila River Indian Reservation.405 By the 1970s, the National Park Service reconsidered this earlier declaration of Reed’s, as evidenced by its investment in transforming Snaketown into an authorized national monument and its interest in making the site a place for visitor interpretation of the Hohokam civilization like Casa Grande.406 To reiterate, the proposed removal of a significant cultural resource from Native peoples, who were continuing to use the land around that resource in traditional ways, was seen as an affront by the Gila River Indian Community of this time.407 Of additional outrage, incorporating language used by Angela Garcia-Lewis to describe the display of O’odham cultural resources at museums, was likely the suggestion that the resource would be put to best use as an interpretive tool for the education of non-Native visitors. Native cultural resources—those resources put on display as interpretive tools for National Park visitors—are things still being utilized in Native cultures and communities; they cannot be distilled down into mere interpretive tools. 402 Reed, “Site Report,” 2, in National Archives Electronic Records, 55. 403 Reed, “Site Report,” 2, in National Archives Electronic Records, 55. 404 Reed, “Site Report,” 13-14, in National Archives Electronic Records, 66-67. 405 Reed, “Site Report,” 3, in National Archives Electronic Records, 56. 406 Richert, letter to Haury, January 10, 1969, in National Archives Electronic Records, 25-26. https://catalog.archives.gov/ id/75610610. 407 Lewis, Sr., letter to Andrus, August 16, 1977, in National Archives Electronic Records, 14-15. 136 There is a fundamental disconnect in this—between the managers who seek to preserve tangible resources to tell a larger cultural story, and those who incorporate cultural resources in their lives to maintain cultural connections and ancestral memories.408 The most destructive practices of colonization resulted in the theft of these resources and the loss of institutional memory they provided to cultural practitioners.409 The interest in prizing certain cultural resources over others is related to this. The collection of more desirable resources or properties over others further illustrates the power imbalance and imposed colonial hierarchy on Native sites, the same way this power imbalance was wielded over Native peoples; it could be viewed as another extension of colonialism.410 Having fought so strongly to regain control of these resources that inform their culture and identity, Native people are under no obligation to share them with anyone outside their communities, especially not when the sacred nature or deeper meaning behind these resources requires interpretation. This interpretive process relegates Native peoples to sources of cultural cache, their resources or experiences relegated to reservoirs of meaning for an outside audience. Evidence of this is seen in GRIC’s decision to stop adding to Arizona’s state water supply because of perceived mismanagement of water, as much a sacred cultural resource as it is an essential natural one.411 It is also reflective of the community’s choice to keep the Snaketown site buried. In lieu of interpretation on the ground at Snaketown, GRIC has constructed the Huhugam Heritage Center, located near Chandler, Arizona, on the Gila River Indian Reservation. They established the center as a place, in part, to educate the public on the community’s blended O’odham and Maricopa culture. However, the center exists as more than just a place to interpret the Snaketown site. Rather, the center’s museum—a small sliver of the larger complex—is intended to interpret the community’s culture, thriving in modern-day. Online, the community refers to it as “more than a museum.”412 The center is a 68-acre campus, composed of an interchange between dynamic buildings and a large earthen berm which together represent the large-scale earthen works undertaken by the O’odham and 408 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Objects.” 409 LaDuke, Recovering, 12-13. 410 Sillar, “Archeology,” 77. 411 Gila River Indian Community, “Water.” 412 Gila River Indian Community, “Center.” 137 large collection recovered as part of the Bureau of Reclamation’s Central Arizona Irrigation Project, which ended in the 1990s.416 Some resources are on display in the museum, including large numbers of woven baskets, shell jewelry, weaving tools, and a trombone belonging to Russell “Big Chief” Moore, Akimel O’odham and popular jazz musician in the mid-1900s. None of these resources or others at the museum are identified as having come from the Snaketown site (it is possible they are incorporated and not referred to, but this is unknown—likely an intentional choice by the tribe and museum curators); similarly, there is no exhibit dedicated specifically to Snaketown, or to the Hohokam Pima National Monument, which is not mentioned. A similar experience is found at Huhugam Ki in Scottsdale, Arizona, a museum dedicated to the interpretation of the Salt River Pima- Maricopa Indian Community’s culture. Both museums emphasize the modern O’odham culture over the older Huhugam, with more recent items displayed over the more historic—to the chagrin of some employees. Luis Barragán, a member of the curatorial staff at Huhugam Heritage Center, is quoted in Joy Monice Malnar and Frank Vodvarka’s book New Architecture on Indigenous Lands, as hopeful that some of the center’s Huhugam artifacts can be put on display for the public in the future, a decision ultimately left to GRIC’s Tribal Council. This place has such potential. Not just in terms of the building, because the building is one thing but there are so many artifacts back there. There are so many museum-quality pieces begging to be displayed. One of the biggest traditions for the ancient ones, the Huhugam, was shell carving, shell beading, and shell jewelry. And there are just some pieces that are exquisite.417 Barragán’s wish to display more resources as interpretive opportunities for visitors inverts the center’s purpose. The center—as Barragán, himself, points out a page earlier—was constructed to archive these resources and make them available to the community—not to interpret them to an outside audience.418 The tribal council and the staff at the center have likely made strategic decisions about what to display and what not to display, choosing items that reflect their living culture. We should consider the center—more than just a museum—as distinct from the National Park Service’s visitor center, a typology dedicated to the recreational 416 Malnar, Indigenous, 147, 149. 417 Malnar, Indigenous, 150. 418 Malnar, Indigenous, 149. 139 incorporation of Native voices and memory. The goal of the center, Stastny says, is to use design to “tell stories, that provide places to gather and teach, that incorporate ceremony and process—and most of all, give the native people a voice.”422 Other regional centers and museums dedicated to the interpretation of Hohokam Culture—specifically the visitor center at Casa Grande Ruins and the museum at S’edav Va’aki—do an excellent job of making cultural memory accessible to the uninitiated, but they are reserved as places to interpret a tangible culture of the past and incorporate very little of modern-day culture or intangible memory in their permanent exhibits. Visitors to these places are constantly reminded that the physical landscape exists for their benefit alone, as illustrated by the language found on trail markers at S’edav Va’aki in Phoenix: “As you walk this short trail, be mindful that these walls are extremely fragile and have been left uncovered for your benefit. Please stay on the trail and leave any artifacts untouched and in place.”423 Resource interpretation at S’edav Va’aki or Casa Grande Ruins is very clearly for the benefit of an audience, often at cost to the resource itself. The resources on display are fragile, as the management at both sites stress. The Park Service has established methods for preserving these resources, so they can continue to be displayed as interpretational tools; the Gila River Indian Community, on the other hand, has erased any need to actively preserve the landscape at Snaketown by keeping the site covered and off limits to visitors. These management efforts will be explored in the next chapter. 422 Malnar, Indigenous, 150. 423 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Bright Ancient House,” interpretive exhibit (Phoenix: S’edav Va’aki Museum), accessed March 28, 2024. 141 142 “When we build, let us think that we build forever. Let it not be for present delight nor for present use alone. Let it be such a work as our descendants will thank us for; and let us think, as we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come when those stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched them, and that men will say, as they look upon the labor and wrought substance of them, ‘See! This our fathers did for us.’”424 John Ruskin 424 Ruskin, Lamps, 186. 144 5. CULTURAL RESOURCE MANAGEMENT AND PRESERVATION EFFORTS In his book on cultural resource management, Thomas King describes the efforts of professionals in the field as an unanswerable question, one that constantly asks: “how to hold on to what people value about the cultural past and present (which is often the natural world as well) while getting on with the future.” In place of an answer, King says, this question demands balance.425 Looking at Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments, one could argue King’s balance is represented in how the sites unintentionally relate to one another—they balance each other out. There is no real need to open the site at Snaketown to the public when the public can drive 30 miles to visit Casa Grande Ruins and see evidence of Hohokam Culture there. The question of management balance, as displayed in the preservation efforts and visitor access at Casa Grande Ruins compared to the off-limited Hohokam Pima National Monument which is managed in the default, will more appropriately address King’s question. Taken together, our discourse will culminate in the ongoing debate among cultural resource managers regarding the use of fragile resources for public enjoyment. The findings will be used to conclude this paper. 425 King, Thinking, xiv. The dichotomy produced between the two sites, separated by approximately three decades, illustrates the professional development of the archeological field that bridges the two periods of excavation. The management of archeological sites, following excavation and documentation, involves responding to site deterioration, which begins to happen during excavation; archeological sites are generally more fragile above ground than they are below, hence the dangers of excavation (or over-excavation). Deterioration has many causes, but predominantly involves exposure to environmental conditions above ground, including temperature changes, solar impacts, weather patterns and humidity.429 Additional causes of deterioration at excavated sites include indirect damage from human interaction (walking on fragile remains), direct damage from human looters or impending human development, and a lack of resources, means, or legal parameters to adequately protect the site’s vulnerable material.430 To prevent deterioration, archeologists have two options for managing a site: to leave it unexcavated and actively preserve material in perpetuity, or to rebury and passively preserve the material this way. There are any number of factors that impact either decision, beginning with the site itself and its potential for deterioration: as no two archeological sites are the same in terms of resource, conditions and threats, management of individual sites cannot be distilled to a one-size-fits-all mentality. With deterioration more prevalent above ground than below, it might seem as though reburial is the best option for all sites—however, this is not always the case. The most famous known reburied site is northern Tanzania’s Laetoli Trackway, which preserves the world’s oldest hominid footprints (approximately 3.6 million years old). The tracks were reburied in the 1970s following excavation, however a lack of monitoring allowed for the growth of dense trees across the site, threatening the footprints and leading to an improved system for managing plant growth and soil erosion in the 1990s.431 The Park Service has chosen to manage some of the archeological remains at Casa Grande Ruin exposed above ground, preserving material in situ as best it can; at the Snaketown site, GRIC has taken the opposite route, using a preservation method that was previously deployed—however unintentionally—at the site for a thousand years. The differences in managerial styles further compounds what we have already 429 Walas, “Excavations.” 430 Alexandria Sivak, “Why Would We Rebury Ancient Sites?” Getty Magazine, April 13, 2021, https://www.getty.edu/news/ why-would-we-rebury-ancient-sites/. 431 Sivak, “Rebury.” 147 established as the impetus behind preservation efforts at archeological sites and historic properties like Casa Grande Ruins and Hohokam Pima National Monuments: overarching cultural traditions surrounding resource utility. Park Service management at Casa Grande Ruins In an article originally published in Antiquity magazine, Christopher Tilley explains that managing an excavated site is largely theatrical. Excavated sites provide curious people with an exercise in interpretation, compared to mere information collection which does not require that the site be actively left on display.432 Keeping with this perspective, theatricality, albeit an abstract one, is a primary directive at Park Service sites, with management working behind the scenes to make sure sites and resources are presented in alignment with interpretive values—although the act of staging such a production is not intended to be obvious to visitors most of the time. Casa Grande Ruins National Monument is no different, with the Great House treated as a carefully choreographed background for visitor interpretation; panels around the site depict the daily lives of Ancestral Sonoran Desert Peoples as occurring directly in front of Casa Grande, conveniently giving us a framed view of the site. This kind of set staging is nothing new. Kino’s Mass in 1697 was one such act of theatricality with the Great House as essential set design; later, between 1926 and 1930, Pinkley held four pageants at the site, crafting fake adobe sets and hiring Native peoples to perform dramatic scenes, intending to “perpetuate the legends of Arizona and especially the legends of the Indians” in an effort to attract tourists and gain notoriety.433 Additionally, ongoing excavation at the site was historically used to cater to visitors, with Pinkley writing in a letter at one point that he liked “to keep a little new work under way all the time, for I find that it doubles the interest of visitors to see something in the act of being opened.”434 Visitor needs clearly dictated early management decisions. 432 Christopher Tilley, “Excavation as Theater,” in Archeological Sites: Conservation and Management, ed. Sharon Sullivan and Richard Mackay (Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2012), 734, https://www.getty.edu/publications/resources/virtualli- brary/9781606061244.pdf. 433 Tobi Lopez Taylor, “The Perils of Pageantry at Casa Grande Ruins,” in Archaeology Southwest Magazine 33, No. 4 (Fall 2019: The Casa Grande Community), 37. 434 A. Berle Clemensen, Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, Arizona: A Centennial History of the First Prehistoric Reserve 1892-1992, Department of the Interior, National Park Service (March 1992), 137. This is the same source used primarily in the earlier chapters, however that version was a hard copy accessed through library archives while this version has been digitized online (the page numbers are different because of printing edition, photocopying). Access to the hard copy was not immediately available, lead- ing to use of the digitized version. 148 Site map Casa Grande Ruins Nationa Monument. The Great House, inside Compound A, is the only excavated site within the monument that remains partially-above ground and open to the public. Graphic credit: C. Beesley (May 2024). None of this is to say that managers at the site today are consciously making decisions that present the site as a permanent side show, although that perspective isn’t entirely wrong either. Resource management in the Park Service has come of age since Pinkley’s time—when gimmicks were deployed to satisfy the interests of visitors out of a misguided desire to raise money or improve awareness of the need for preservation efforts. Early Park Service management decisions were often made to provide visitors with a consistent experience, often at the expense of resources themselves.435 While resource managers today are ever beholden to the demands of public interpretation (which still involves a certain amount of theatricality), resource protection is 435 Robert E. Manning and David W. Lime, Marilyn Hof, Wayne A. Freimund, “The Visitor Experience and Resource Protection Process: The Application of Carrying Capacity to Arches National Park,” in The George Wright Forum 12, no. 3 (1995), 41, https:// www.jstor.org/stable/43597433?seq=1. 149 Compendium, an annual report published by the management at individual parks, references the 1918 Presidential Proclamation, revealing that the park’s purpose hasn’t changed in the 106-year period of NPS management. The protection, preservation and care of those resources, however, has changed drastically since the Great House was first designed as a national monument. Resource management and preservation As the Park Service’s dedication to interpretation illustrates, resources like those on display at Casa Grande Ruins are used to tell their story to unfamiliar visitors; NPS relies on resources to assist in that interpretation. Cultural resource management is intimately dependent on preservation efforts applied to these resources, and preservation is one of the primary objectives for monument managers.443 Casa Grande Ruins is significant in the history of cultural resource management for several reasons. It was the first archeological landscape set aside by the federal government for preservation, the $2,000 allocated to its protection was the first instance of federal preservation funding, and the early work of its managers has directly or indirectly influenced the rest of the park service.444 It’s position as a preservation precedent compounds its importance, but also informs the largely experimental work carried out at the monument in its early years. Preservation work undertaken today is highly standardized, following the 1966 National Historic Preservation Act which has since established many of the responsibilities and methods utilized by preservation specialists. Preservation at Casa Grande Ruins is ongoing, and understanding how the NPS-managed monument fits into preservation trends will assist in establishing a larger context for preservation management. Preservation treatments are codified as part of the National Historic Preservation Act; as of 1992, when the Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for the Treatment of Historic Properties was published, there are four treatments used by preservation professionals on historic buildings and properties around the country: preservation, rehabilitation, restoration and reconstruction. These four treatment standards remain in use today and are carried out on federally owned properties or properties that utilize federal funds.445 They are 443 Clemensen, Ruins, 107. 444 Lee, Antiquities, 20; Tyler, Preservation, 40. 445 National Park Service, “The Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for the Treatment of Historic Properties: History of the Standards,” Department of the Interior, online resource, last updated September 22, 2022, accessed April 20, 2024, https://www.nps. gov/articles/000/treatment-standards-history.htm. 152 Informing preservation efforts, historic and modern, are the studies produced every few years on the Great House and its structure. Studies and reports produced during the last half century of management by various organizations including the engineering department at the University of Arizona in 1974, and a two-volume structural report by the University of New Mexico in 2019; Studies of the archeological sites surrounding the Great House have similarly been carried out, most recently by the University of Arizona’s Drachman Institute.459 The consensus has been, thus far, that “there is no immediate danger of structural failure” of the Great House’s walls. In the 1970’s, park management discounted this conclusion of the engineers at UA and stressed the need to “strengthen and preserve the ruin since failure is not predictable.” The structure was also roped off in the 1970s and 80s, due to concerns that unfortunate visitors might fall victim to a loose chunk of caliche (“90 pound” was one reference).460 This fear of unpredictability has lessened somewhat in recent decades, as evidenced by the Great House no longer being roped off. The reasoning behind keeping the building closed to the public has also changed in recent decades. In the 1977 “Statement for Management,” the park refers to potential danger to the public of falling caliche wall material; in addition to roping off the building, park management also cut off interior access to visitors.461 In recent years, this narrative has shifted—park management now recognizes that the interior is a sacred space for Native peoples, reflected in access to the building’s interior being withheld except with permission of the superintendent.462 Additionally, park management notes that 50,000 annual visitors tramping through the Great House would “greatly accelerate the deterioration of what is one of the monument’s primary archeological resources.”463 The fragile nature of the interior has not seemingly impacted the exterior structure, which is now more accessible to visitors. The rope barrier from the 1970’s is no longer in place to prevent visitors approaching the building; visitors can not only approach the building but go so far as to lean against it—clearly, structural issues are not as pressing as they were four decades earlier.464 459 Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, “Statement for Management: Casa Grande Ruins,” Department of the Interior, Na- tional Park Service (1977), 8, https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=ien.35556030165070&seq=5; Sharlot Hart, email to the author, January 16, 2024. 460 “Management,” 8. 461 “Management,” 8. 462 “Compendium,” 2; Combel. While I was allowed to enter two rooms in the Great House with Combel, I was told that taking photographs from the interior would require consultation with GRIC’s Tribal Historic Preservation Officer, Barnaby Lewis, as it is a sacred space. I took no photos of videos of the space and the ones I have included in this document are property of the National Park Service. 463 “Compendium,” 2. 464 Combel; Author visit to site, March 29, 2024. 157 Modern preservation efforts To the four treatment standards, NPS has informally introduced another standard—a secret fifth thing, as it were: benign neglect. Benign neglect, the name suggests, is less an active preservation treatment than it is a passive managerial choice. Neglect, relating to the property’s lack of active preservation application; benign, referring to the belief among preservationists and cultural resource managers that the absence of preservation treatments is neither beneficial nor harmful.465 The aforementioned four preservation standards fail to respond to the management of archeological sites in a way that falls in line with the Native peoples and cultures who see these sites as sacred, significant, and existing beyond the realm of active preservation efforts. Some Native cultures find the preservation of sacred sites disrespectful, using arguments similar to what Ruskin has written: reconstruction, in particular— even using the same materials found in archeological excavations—is not acceptable because it was not done by the original builders and is therefore an empty vessel, a tangible form with no intangible value. The inability among cultural resource managers to recognize this perspective is, essentially, a cultural failure to recognize the requirements of other indigenous practices including religious ones.466 The Park Service has developed benign neglect as an unofficial preservation treatment for some archeological sites that contain sacred Native properties, primarily at Chaco Culture National Historical Park in New Mexico which features the remains of Ancestral Puebloan architecture; most of these structures at Chaco Culture were reconstructed following excavation by archeologists and preservationists in the early- to mid-1900s.467 Benign neglect as a preservation strategy is the best way to describe NPS management efforts at Casa Grande Ruins to the Great House, which is currently not the recipient of any of the four standard preservation treatments; the decision by management to forgo active preservation was a collaborative decision, undertaken with the consultation of partner Native tribes, including the Gila River Indian Community. While the material property of the Great House is important to the Park Service’s mission of resource interpretation, its intangible and ancestral connections are what fuel the property’s significance to Native 465 Chaco Culture National Historical Park, “Benign Neglect,” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, online resource, last updated February 24, 2015, accessed April 27, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/chcu/learn/historyculture/benign-neglect.htm. 466 Stephanie Hall Barclay and Michalyn Steele, “Rethinking Protections for Indigenous Sacred Sites,” in Harvard Law Review 134, No. 4 (February 2021): 15, https://harvardlawreview.org/print/vol-134/rethinking-protections-for-indigenous-sacred-sites/. 467 Chaco Culture National Historical Park, “Benign.” 158 for neither, focusing instead on preservation of material AND of meaning.471 By focusing on one over the other, Molina-Montes says, a site fails to do either and damages the site out of a desire for “purity” and short- sightedness.472 Molina-Montes’ view is well represented in the management of Casa Grande Ruins. The Park Service manages the historic nature of the site while also presenting visitors—the intended users of its resources— with opportunities for education and connection, thus preserving its meaning. Also deserving of recognition are the visitors themselves, who help to preserve the site through tax dollars and increased awareness of the site’s significance through interpretive efforts by Park Service staff. Preservation efforts at the site might not be necessary if visitors weren’t given access to it, but this is the reality of sites managed by NPS. Excavation theater, such as is done at Casa Grande Ruins, is not the only possibility for archeological site management, but it is the only option for Casa Grande Ruins so long as it remains managed by the agency. Management of the Snaketown archeological site As introduced at the beginning of this chapter, archeological sites do not have to be publicly displayed. Burial is the alternative to leaving sites unexcavated and is most often chosen when active preservation is not possible or desirable for any number of reasons. Erik Reed’s NPS report on the site at Snaketown from November of 1939 illustrates the need for reburial as a management strategy at Snaketown, and how the vulnerability of unexcavated sites factors into decision-making. In the report’s second section, titled “Condition and Possibilities of Preservation,” Reed writes: The excavated portions of the site were filled back, except for the excavated portion of the larger ball-court and a large cut through the biggest-trash-mound, upon completion of the work. This is the only known procedure for saving adobe structures and most archeological features not of stone. The unexcavated portions are best protected and preserved by being left untouched. The only alternatives to leaving the excavated houses filled back are (1) re-excavating them and completely restoring them, or (2) re-excavating them and erecting shelters over them for 471 Molina-Montes, “Misrepresentation,” 485-486. 472 Molina-Montes, “Misrepresentation,” 487. 160 passive management strategy of reburial, archeologists and other tribal divisions actively monitor these sites in different ways. The Gila River Indian Community uses trail cameras mounted within the site at Snaketown to detect unauthorized access.477 This primarily seems to come in the form of innocent tourists—National Park Service Geeks—eager to check another NPS site off their list, to collect another visitor center stamp in their Park Passports. These guileless Park Service Geeks are able to find directions to where Hohokam Pima National Monument should be, using the Google or Apple maps platform; they arrive at the buried Snaketown site, at the end of a dirt road, eager to run into an NPS visitor center, and instead trigger an immediate response from tribal police who tell the confused visitors that they are, in fact, trespassing. There are a handful of travel blogs that detail this exact scenario—somewhat humorous for us, but possibly traumatic for the authors and aggravating for the tribe. Many of the blogs have included in their post on Hohokam Pima National Monument some variation on the phrase “It’s the one national park unit you can’t technically visit,” bannered as a warning for others.478 Burial also prevents prospective looting by those with more sinister ambitions—namely, modern day looters and treasure-hunters.479 Without guided directions from a satellite app that takes you to where Hohokam Pima National Monument should be located, the buried settlement looks no different from any other patch of desert alongside I-10 on the Gila River Indian Community reservation. Some Park Service Geeks have posted random (and blurry) photos from I-10 on their blogs, proclaiming “the area that we are pretty sure is the park” but these photos, full of saguaros and palo verde are suggestive of very little, to say the least.480 While this management strategy does an excellent job of hiding the site from interested parties, we should not adopt the perspective that burying Snaketown is tantamount to wanting to ignore it—we could just as easily compare it to the act of shielding something that is vulnerable. This type of resource management should be understood alongside other curatorial strategies: paintings at museums are placed behind UV- protectant glass; delicate tapestries and other handicraft are often located in spaces away from direct sunlight. 477 Kyle Woodson, email. 478 Park Chasers, “Hohokam Pima National Monument: The One National Park Service Site We Couldn’t Visit,” online resource, last updated September 23, 2019, accessed May 4, 2024, https://www.parkchasers.com/2019/09/hohokam-pima-national-monu- ment/; John Tillison, “Hohokam Pima National Monument,” , online resource, published June 15, 2021, last updated September 22, 2023, accessed May 4, 2024, https://www.parkrangerjohn.com/hohokam-pima-national-monument/; Spell, “Monu- ment.” 479 Walas, “Rebury”; Molly Enking, “Archeologists Rebury ‘First-of-its-kind’ Roman Villa,” in Smithsonian Magazine, August 8, 2022, https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/archaeologists-rebury-first-of-its-kind-roman-villa-180980535/. 480 Tillison, “Monument.” 162 These managerial efforts are carried out in decisive response to a resource’s fragile nature and should not be misconstrued as representing management’s feelings towards that resource. After all, it is a management strategy, albeit a very different one from the one deployed at Casa Grande Ruins. This contrast introduces another potential reason for the more passive management strategy to be adopted. Historic properties like Casa Grande that are in use or operation continuously are more frequently subjected to additions and alterations with little consideration for the building’s overall historic nature, known to preservationists as integrity. Properties that have escaped constant use—whether because they were boarded up or because they were buried as in the case of Snaketown—actually benefit from this passive management; their historic fabric is intact, their historic materials having suffered less modification.481 Conversely, Casa Grande is a veritable swatch of material additions and well-intended preservation efforts, with viewers able to almost date parts of the building due to its extensive restoration. Casa Grande’s pockmarked façade presents yet another reason to forgo active preservation efforts, many of which are found to be destructive or damaging in the future.482 There are parallels here with Ruskin as well: opposing the destruction of historic fabric or materials through alteration or replacement, considering it a sacrilege and disrespectful to the original authors. Is active preservation just destruction by another name? The resource managers at Casa Grande Ruins continue to grapple with this question.483 Meanwhile, the Gila River Indian Community has removed this concern surrounding the legitimacy of active preservation efforts like those at Casa Grande Ruins by choosing to rebury the site. Ruskin’s views on letting a building “die,” this being the best way to honor it, is one perspective we can take when looking at the management of Snaketown. The site has been given the equivalent of a respectful burial. Alternatively, we can view reburial as an attempt to extend the site’s life.484 This depends entirely on our perspectives of the site: is it something dead and sacred, deserving of peace from the ravages of modern tourists; or is it something very much alive and deserving of the best measure of care in order to continually 481 Katherine Malishewsky, “The Modern Preservationist: A Manifesto,” Madame Architect, online resource, July 8, 2020, ac- cessed April 27, 2024, https://www.madamearchitect.org/the-expert/2020/7/7/the-modern-preservationist-a-manifesto. 482 Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, “Preservation.” 483 Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, “Preservation.” 484 Sivak, “Rebury.” 163 support modern Native culture? Does this split in perspectives on the nature of Native sites like Snaketown lead us to see NPS management of Casa Grande Ruins in a new light? Is it a living resource that informs the culture of Native people and justifies its existence through value and interpretation; or are we interacting with the remains of something long dead, propped up through preservation efforts and put on display in an open-air museum? These questions are ultimately left to the managers of sites that contain Native resources; answers intimately depend on the perspectives of those managers. Who gets to manage Native archeological sites? Another important consideration for resource managers at archeological sites, beyond decisions that impact the resources themselves, is the identification of stakeholders and their cultural values.485 For NPS, these stakeholders are most often Native tribes who have ancestral connections to the landscapes or resources managed within them. The Park Service ultimately views their managing partnerships with tribes as “bringing people from different perspectives closer together.” However, these management partnerships are ultimately in service to sustaining the NPS mission of resource accessibility, which the Park Service acknowledges sometimes places it in direct conflict with the perspectives of Native peoples. This difference in perspective often dissolves to what to preserve, how to preserve it, and for whom?486 Consideration of these perspectives is necessary for resource managers. As David Ruppert writes in his article for Ecological Restoration, “While various federal agencies, including the National Park Service, seek to preserve cultural resources under their respective management, they need to take seriously the idea that living Indian cultures offer cultural resource protection that goes far beyond the protection of archeological sites or abandoned ruins.”487 The Park Service recognized Snaketown as representing the ancestors of modern-day Akimel O’odham peoples, as evidenced in one survey report, produced in 1964. Snaketown has three key attributes that qualify it for addition to the National Park System: (1) it 485 Martha Demas, “Planning for Conservation and Management of Archeological Sites: A Values-Based Approach,” in Arche- ological Sites: Conservation and Management, ed. Sharon Sullivan and Richard Mackay (Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2012), 656, https://www.getty.edu/publications/resources/virtuallibrary/9781606061244.pdf. 486 David Ruppert, “Building Partnerships Between American Indian Tribes and the National Park Service,” in Ecological Resto- ration 21, no. 4 (December 2003): 261, http://www.npshistory.com/publications/conservation-stewardship/er-v21n4-2023.pdf. 487 Ruppert, “Partnerships,” 261. 164 encompasses an important culture, area and time not now represented in the system; (2) it preserves a broader variety of evidence for this culture than is known for any other site; and (3) it represents the prehistoric ancestors of a living Indian tribe.488 However, NPS opinion that Snaketown needed to be transformed into a national monument and made accessible to the public failed to recognize the desires and perspectives of the Native people who physically owned and culturally claimed the archeological site. This is not a flaw in the system, but a feature. The Park Service’s management of natural landscapes and cultural resources has historically been done without consideration for the Native peoples whose culture and lives are intimately connected to them. Native stakeholders have historically been treated like visitors to these places by NPS; during partnership discussions, NPS has historically deployed interpretive language to educate tribal representatives on the value of agency management and preservation practices, rather than engage in a discussion between equals—each with valuable insight to inform management. Native perspectives on resource management—cultural or natural— have rarely been sought by Park Service managers, leading in some cases to lasting damage to sites.489 The Park Service is attempting to incorporate Native perspectives into resource management, but these efforts are still heavily dependent on individual site makeup and site managers. Examples of Park Service mismanagement of Native resources One example of this, close in proximity to Casa Grande Ruins, is the landscape at Quitobaquito, a desert oasis in southern Arizona, less than half a mile from the U.S.-Mexico border. Quitobaquito is managed as part of Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, a park unit that preserves the natural features of the Sonoran Desert. The landscape at Quitobaquito is made up of a pond the size of a “postage stamp” (in reality, a bit smaller than a football field) fed by natural springs which support diverse wildlife and vegetation in one of the driest, least vegetated places of the desert. The landscape around the pond, an important part of the desert for thousands of years, has supported Native people for just as long; evidence of indigenous habitation at Quitobaquito dates back 12,000 years and is found in various archeological sites around the pond. The most recent inhabitants include bands of Hia C-eḍ O’odham; the pond also supported a small settlement of Native 488 National Park Service, “Survey,” 3. 489 Kate Clark, “The Bigger Picture: Archaeology and Values in Long-Term Cultural Resource management,” in Archeological Sites: Conservation and Management, ed. Sharon Sullivan and Richard Mackay (Los Angeles: Getty Conservation Institute, 2012), 109- 110, https://www.getty.edu/publications/resources/virtuallibrary/9781606061244.pdf. 165 transform the oasis into a deeper, perennial pond. Managers also built a parking lot and trails around the pond to support visitor access to the site.492 These management decisions, among others, have left Quitobaquito in a quagmire of contention today; Hia C-eḍ O’odham resent the loss of the landscape and the destruction of the settlement, and the work done by park managers has placed the resource in a strange state of limbo with fluctuating water levels and other issues with native species of animals and plants. Management of the site as a purely aesthetic attraction is a constant struggle. Using Molina-Montes’ framework, we can recognize a focus on aesthetics over history, materiality over meaning. The park has made strides in recent years towards incorporating stories of the desert’s earlier caretakers in visitor interpretation—and groups of Hia C-eḍ O’odham are working to promote the area as a place that has historically sustained their culture and continues to sustain it today.493 “We are not extinct. We are here, and we are still bringing our knowledge to bear in our ongoing, evolving relationship with this landscape,” Lorraine Eiler, Hia C-eḍ O’odham, wrote in a 2022 editorial on the management of Quitobaquito for Emergence Magazine. Eiler and other voices interested in interpreting the whole history of the Sonoran Desert’s most famous oasis are optimistic that the pond will start to reflect the history of Native stewardship, and that park management incorporate Native perspectives on resource management.494 A string of more recent—and better documented—management disasters involving Native resources occurred at Effigy Mounds National Monument, an NPS unit in northeastern Iowa, between 1990 and 2011. The story begins with 78 illegal maintenance projects that damaged archeological sites around the park; it ends with revelations that, in 1990, just prior to the passage of NAGPRA, a former superintendent had stolen the remains of 41 Native ancestors, part of the park’s cultural resource collections, to prevent repatriation of funerary objects. An NPS documentary, called In Effigy, was produced in 2018, detailing the chaos caused by both scandals, reverberating through the Park Service and tribal partners.495 492 Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, “Quitobaquito Springs,” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, online resource, last updated June 24, 2018, accessed May 4, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/orpi/learn/historyculture/quitobaquito-springs. htm. 493 Nick, “Legacy.” The landscape is currently threatened by the introduction of a bollard wall along the border during the Trump administration in 2019-2020. 494 Eiler, “Rights.” 495 National Park Service, In Effigy, Documentary (May 2018). Internet Archive, accessed May 3, 2024, https://archive.org/de- tails/in-effigy-NPS-documentary/In+Effigy+-+01+-+00+-+Introduction+-+Welcome+to+Effigy+Mounds.mp4. 167 to be made part of somebody’s zoo.”498 As others in the documentary note, a failure to include Native voices (among others) has led to the long-lasting impacts. “Once (resources) are damaged, they’re damaged forever,” David Barland-Liles, an NPS special agent who oversaw both investigations, said in the documentary, referring to the damage done to the burial mounds by wrongful management.499 During the park’s construction controversy, tribal representatives began questioning the park’s management of other cultural resources. The park’s NAGPRA repatriation inventory records were requested by the NAGPRA representative for the Iowa Tribe of Kansas and Nebraska. The request led to the discovery that materials from the park’s curatorial collection, including human remains—excavated during the early years of the park’s history—had gone missing in July of 1990, several days after congress began deliberations on NAGPRA. A subsequent Park Service investigation led to Tom Munson, superintendent of the park at the time. Munson had directed a subordinate to place the artifacts and remains into trash bags and cardboard boxes, which he subsequently took home.500 The boxes containing the human remains were left in his garage for more than 20 years. Munson later admitted that he had carried out the crime because he personally opposed NAGPRA, viewing it as a threat to the National Park Service’s management of cultural resources and to his professional career. Earlier, during nation-wide discussions on repatriation, he had spoken of his anxiety surrounding the loss of resources in a letter to a colleague at the regional NPS office, wondering whether Native peoples could repatriate the park itself.501 Some within NPS consider the scandals at Effigy Mounds to be isolated incidents caused by bad management at an individual park, however it illustrates one of the larger dangers present in management of archeological sites: human failing. Even with guiderails and bureaucratic bumpers for preventing these sorts of management disasters, personal perspective, interests, and objectives are often what drive management decisions. Some employees at Effigy Mounds attempted to raise red flags about mismanagement at the park, but NPS command failed to do anything to disrupt the damage being done until it was too late. “I’m not here to get involved with your guys’ petty fights,” was the response from one regional official when park 498 National Park Service, In Effigy. 499 National Park Service, In Effigy. 500 Investigative Services Branch, “A former superintendent of Effigy Mounds National Monument has been sentence to serve prison time, home detention, and pay restation for stealing and damaging the remains of more than 40 Native American people,” Department of the Interior, National Park Service, news release, July 11, 2016, online resource, last updated July 14, 2016, accessed May 3, 2024, https://www.nps.gov/orgs/1563/efmo-sentencing.htm. 501 National Park Service, In Effigy. 169 staff attempted to bypass the superintendent and include him in their discussions about the legality of the boardwalk projects.502 An interagency investigation eventually led to the involvement of the U.S. Attorney’s office, however the office ultimately declined to prosecute anyone involved at the park because they recognized it would be difficult to hold individuals accountable for illegal activities when the regional office and the agency as a whole had failed to act in the face of ample evidence of criminal activity. Clearly, this is not an issue limited to individuals or individual parks, it signals a larger administrative problem within the National Park Service, which has historically been criticized for being too insular and overly concerned with its reputation.503 What happened at Organ Pipe Cactus presents the danger of allowing agency-level ideas of aesthetic or resource purity (as well as the split between natural and cultural resources) to dictate management decisions; Effigy Mounds is a much more pernicious scenario that involves individual management choices destroying resources, with those choices being shielded from public criticism out of fear that it will damage the entire agency’s reputation. While the Effigy Mounds scandal may be an “extreme case” of mismanagement, the situation at Organ Pipe Cactus reveals that it is not unique.504 The Park Service is still hesitant to admit to these sorts of managerial missteps; a lack of candor surrounding the Effigy Mounds scandals and its internal reports led to public outrage that still haunts the Park Service today.505 Both examples further illustrate the need for recognition of all resources as valuable, regardless of origin or interests of individual managers, and for the incorporation of Native voices when making management decisions involving Native resources. Future co-management of Native sites with Native partners In December 2023, the Department of the Interior announced new federal regulations regarding the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, effective January 12, 2024. Per the regulations, museums and other repositories of Native cultural resources are now required to obtain consent from the tribal authorities closely affiliated with collections before displaying them; whereas before the new requirements, tribal entities had to facilitate repatriation by establishing ownership, now their rights must be 502 National Park Service, In Effigy. 503 National Park Service, In Effigy. 504 National Park Service, In Effigy. 505 Ryan J. Foley, “National Park Service buries report on Effigy Mounds scandal,” in The Des Moines Register, August 3, 2015, https://www.desmoinesregister.com/story/life/2015/08/03/national-park-service-buries-report-effigy-mounds-scandal/31073151/. The Park Service has failed to make its documentary on Effigy Mounds public; it is only accessible online as a bootleg version. 170 deferred to.506 In the wake of the new regulations, exhibits that contain sensitive and sacred items have been closed or covered until consent can be obtained. While some institutions continue to criticize the pace of repatriation, the move has been lauded by Native groups and non-Native curators across the country.507 The recent changes to NAGPRA reflect the ongoing fight of Native communities to regain control of resources that inform their culture—presenting themselves as people of the present, not just the past. This struggle, referred to as “survivance” by Gerald Vizenor who developed the term (a portmanteau of survive and resistance), can best be defined as the living presence of Native cultures, following generations of attempted cultural genocide.508 The repatriation of cultural resources and properties should be seen as an extension of survivance, defying the default interpretive value they are stamped with under the guise of cultural resource management by authorities outside the Native cultural sphere. The new NAGPRA regulations dictate that management decisions surrounding cultural resources, including ones that primarily exist as interpretive tools, reflect the beliefs and desires of the Native people to whom a resource is sacred. There are currently discussions surrounding repatriation of sacred Native sites, present in the “land back” discussion happening today. Should all National Parks—ones that feature natural landscapes once the home of Native peoples, and cultural parks like Casa Grande Ruins—be returned to their original owners?509 Could NAGPRA be amended to include larger cultural properties like Casa Grande Ruins, primarily relegated to the interpretive template? This suggestion of collaborative management is already a reality for other agencies. Bears Ears National Monument in Utah is 1.35-million acres of dense canyons and rock formations, punctuated here and there by ancient cliff dwellings and petroglyphs. Established during the Obama administration, the monument is jointed managed by five tribal nations, the Ute Indian Tribe, Ute Mountain Tribe, Zuni Tribe, Hopi Tribe and the 506 Matthew J. Strickler, “Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act Systematic Processes for Disposition or Re- patriation of Native American Human Remains, Funerary Objects, Sacred Objects, and Objects of Cultural Patrimony,” Department of the Interior, Federal Register, online resource, last updated December 13, 2023, accessed May 1, 2024, https://www.federalregister. gov/documents/2023/12/13/2023-27040/native-american-graves-protection-and-repatriation-act-systematic-processes-for-disposi- tion-or. 507 Julia Jacobs and Zachary Small, “Leading Museums Remove Native Displays Amid New Federal Rules,” in The New York Times, January 26, 2024, https://www.nytimes.com/2024/01/26/arts/design/american-museum-of-natural-history-nagpra.html. 508 Jessica Landau, “An Indigenous Presence: Cultural Survivance and Contemporary American Indian Art & Design,” Carnegie Museum of Natural History, online resource, accessed April 27, 2024, https://carnegiemnh.org/an-indigenous-presence/. 509 David Treuer, “Return the National Parks to the Tribes,” in The Atlantic, April 12, 2021, https://www.theatlantic.com/maga- zine/archive/2021/05/return-the-national-parks-to-the-tribes/618395/. 171 Navajo Nation, along with the Bureau of Land Management and the U.S. Forest Service. Tribal participation in management efforts was acknowledged from the outset, with tribal representatives petitioning for management based on knowledge of tribal lands and cultural practices.510 “Our tribal lands and resources extend far beyond our current reservation boundaries,” Christopher Tabbee, Ute and co-chair of the Bears Ears Commission, said in a statement. “We have always lived and traveled through these lands and used our expertise to sustain these resources. Tribal knowledge and involvement in managing these lands is needed now more than ever.”511 Today, the Park Service is attempting to include Native voices more directly in the management of cultural resources, like those at Casa Grande Ruins, which it preserves for the benefit of Native peoples and non-Native visitors. Park Service management is also focused on hiring Native or tribal-affiliated employees, especially ones with knowledge of and care for cultural heritage and connections to specific sites (Native representation within the Park Service extends to the directorial position, held by Chuck Sams, Cayuse and Walla Walla, a member of the Confederated Tribes of Umatilla in Oregon).512 At Casa Grande Ruins, the park is working to recruit employees from local tribes, and has established internships with National Park Service partners that focus on bringing Native youth into the Park Service system.513 The immediate impact of these changes might be questioned by some, but they depict efforts towards incorporating Native culture and perspectives into resource management. There are other ways for Casa Grande Ruins National Monument to be managed in ways that are more cognizant of Native claims and ownership. Like S’edav Va’aki, a name change is one way to honor the origins of the site, while continuing to use it for interpretation. Renaming would signal a reorientation of the site’s management—not to mention existence—away from one of settler-colonialism.514 Discussions surrounding name changes within the Park Service are internal and ongoing, but because of political and bureaucratic 510 “Draft Plan Released to Collaboratively Manage Ancestral Lands,” Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition, March 8, 2024, accessed May 4, 2024, https://www.bearsearscoalition.org/five-tribes-join-federal-agencies-to-manage-bears-ears-national-monument/. 511 “Collaboratively,” Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition. 512 Alex Schechter, “Meet the New Man Behind the National Park Service,” in The New York Times, June 24, 2022, https://www. nytimes.com/2022/06/24/travel/national-park-service-director.html. 513 Christopher Lomahquahu, “GRIC members help preserve Huhugam history at Casa Grande Ruins,” in Gila River Indian News, May 6, 2022, https://www.gricnews.org/index.php/grin-articles/2022-articles/may-06-2022-articles/gric-members-help-preserve- huhugam-history-at-casa-grande-ruins#1. 514 Grande, “Identity,” 118. 172 framework, nothing will happen overnight.515 Similarly, some managerial changes could assist the Gila River Indian Community with issues currently plaguing Hohokam Pima National Monument. The tribe could prevent the unintentional acts of trespassing by Park Service Geeks by requesting to have Hohokam Pima National Monument taken off map platforms or Parks Passports. Alternatively, the community could even consider working with Google and Apple engineers to move the geotag for the monument to the Huhugam Heritage Center. The Huhugam Heritage Center could also produce a stand-alone exhibit or informational pamphlets for curious visitors about the tribe’s preservation of the Snaketown site and its decisions around the monument’s management. Afterall, interpretation is meant to instruct visitors—the Huhugam Heritage Center’s decision to not interpret the history surrounding the creation of Hohokam Pima National Monument or the digs at Snaketown means their narrative is simply not known— leading to general misunderstanding among the public. An example of a successful historiographical exhibit that centers tribal interests and choices regarding the management of Native cultural resources is on display at the nearby S’edav Va’aki, established with assistance from Phoenix-area tribes, including the Gila River Indian Community. These suggestions are superfluous to the everyday management at Casa Grande Ruins or Hohokam Pima National Monument. More direct changes to site management are unlikely to reverse course anytime soon. The entirety of Casa Grande Ruins will not suddenly become off-limits, even if managers move forward with plans to partially-refill the interior of the Great House as it was prior to excavation; and the already excavated portions of Snaketown will not be re-excavated, nor is it likely to be made open to the public. This paper is not arguing for either scenario. Casa Grande Ruins is dedicated to the needs of the visitor, even while Park Service managers are constantly amending how they preserve the historic resources. Managing Snaketown preserves the tangible property, but also responds to cultural beliefs on disrupting ancestral sites; visitor interest in O’odham history and culture is fulfilled in other ways at the Huhugam Heritage Center. Both respond to King’s theory of cultural resource management as a question of balance and to Molina-Montes’ interest in preserving material and meaning. 515 S’edav Va’aki Museum, “Name?” The process for officially changing names at the federal level won’t happen as quickly as occurred at S’edav Va’aki, managed by the City of Phoenix. Their name change was finalized little over a year after a name change was proposed. 173 174 “We are here today, but we know that some time in the future we will also be called the Huhugam.”516 Daniel Lopez 516 Lopez, “Huhugam,” 118. 176 6. CONCLUSION To those of us interested in history, a fascination with peoples of the past has led us to seek out the tangible evidence of their enduring legacies. Both sites central to this paper provide us with an opportunity to do that—albeit in very different ways that reflect cultural values, traditions and perspectives on resource meaning and accessibility. The opposing forces of visitor interest and material preservation are brought together at sites like Casa Grande Ruins National Monument, which provides access to the past while presenting that past as an accessible thing, simultaneously producing supply and demand.517 Preservation efforts to tangible material, undertaken for visitor stimulation, are also dependent upon ongoing site use and valuation. Without visitors, the site’s reason for being preserved would dry up like rain in the desert, and its mass could presumably melt back into the desert; alternatively, the loss of tangible features at the site would result in the loss of visitor interest. The opposite is true of Hohokam Pima’s Snaketown, representing our earlier discussion—that intangible value by Native stakeholders is not defined by tangibility, and open-air interpretation does not have to be the default management method when it comes to preservation of Native archeological sites. 517 Pierre Diaz Pedregal and Anya Diekmann, “Is It Possible to Reconcile Protecting Archeological Sites with Opening Them to the Public?” in Archeological Sites: Conservation and Management, ed. Sharon Sullivan and Richard Mackay (Los Angeles: Getty Con- servation Institute, 2012), 743, https://www.getty.edu/publications/resources/virtuallibrary/9781606061244.pdf. Understanding the potential of cultural resource utility beyond interpretation becomes more important for non-Native peoples involved in the management and preservation of these resources. It is also important to convey this deeper meaning to visitors, those not included in cultural or managerial decision-making. It is something the Gila River Indian Community succeeds in doing with their Huhugam Heritage Center, preserving ongoing cultural traditions while also providing space for curious visitors to learn more about the longevity of the Native cultures that constructed Snaketown and Casa Grande. The resources we see at both sites possess significance beyond the tangible, the interpretable, and even the identifiable. Casa Grande, long identified as significant to Native and non-Native peoples alike, has defined preservation efforts at other sites around the country. Snaketown, long buried, was nonetheless significant to the O’odham, who retained the cultural mantle of their ancestors that developed Hohokam Culture and established Snaketown. The meaning and memories found in the enduring legacies of each site are not always tangible. The corollary between sites like Casa Grande and Snaketown—strikingly similar in material but vastly divergent in terms of management—illustrates the relationship between resources and culture, between Native existence and Park Service interpretation, between the search for archeological truth and the retention of cultural memory. These places have defined their management as much as they have defined the cultures of the Park Service and O’odham people who care for them; they have shaped the patterns of culture and history as much as culture and history have shaped them; and they have shaped people as much as people have shaped them. In her 1930’s ethnographic study of Maria Chona, a Tohono O’odham woman, the anthropologist Ruth M. Underhill mused that the O’odham did not believe land ownership was possible—or desirable. In their use of the O’odham language, Chona and her family still referred to their relationship with the desert landscapes of southern Arizona as possessive, however it was not people who possessed the land and its resources, they told Underhill. “(I)t is the land that possesses the people.”518 518 Ruth M. Underhill, Papago Woman (Long Grove: Waveland Press, Inc., 1979), 3. 178 179 180 BIBLIOGRAPHY Allaback, Sarah. “Introduction: The Origins of Mission 66.” In Mission 66 Visitor Centers; the History of a Building Type. Department of the Interior, National Park Service, 2000. 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