Ancient Seeds
It had been about a month since I last heard from David Tejano when he called my office to tell me that the elders and the museum director had a project in mind. He asked if I could I come down early next month to meet with them and attend a community meeting in the afternoon.
“Yes,” I eagerly replied. “I wondered if anything might come of the initial meetings. I was about ready to call you. I would also like to spend a few days in Yuma. Before I left town last month, I stopped at that used bookstore near the entrance to the reservation. Do you know it?” I asked.
“One of my favorite haunts,” David affirmed.
“The owner helped me find a diary of an Army officer who was stationed at Ft. Yuma in 1851. I’ve read nearly all of it and have some questions for you.”
“Ah, yes, dear Mr. Whitestone. He has a sixth sense. I hope you know he can read minds…he put just the right book in your hands for this…environmental education program,” he said, laughing into the phone.
David’s pause and change in tone of voice when he said, “environmental education” communicated his understanding that it was I who was being educated. I kind of resented that, but I’d had the same thought not long after the first visit, so I let it go.
“Well, I have dozens of questions from what I’ve read so far. I’ll make sure to finish it before I see you next month,” I said, and we agreed on a meeting time and place.
Just before I was ready to hang up, David asked me to be prepared to describe the kinds of resources my center will bring to the project. The museum director wanted to know.
~~~
Later that day I met with my director. He was glad to learn there was some movement toward the education project, but he hadn’t planned on providing any resources other than me. We talked for some time about this until I convinced him we should make a show of good faith by offering a small grant to cover costs.
“It might be that the project is part of the larger language recovery efforts . . . perhaps by incorporating a lexicon on the wildlife and natural history of the area.”
“Uh-huh,” the director said tenuously with a stern glance in my direction. “I’ve seen a lot of money go down rabbit holes when working with tribes.”
“And they’ve seen their land and rights go down rabbit holes when working with us,” I said. “How about $5,000 to start?”
He took a quick breath, straightening his back and turning squarely toward me. “Alright. But that’s it.”
~~~
The Book Shop
Vicky returned to the Winterhaven bookshop a day before she was to meet with David and Marion. She wondered if there were other diaries, especially about the Gold Rush and how the city became known as The Crossing.
It was midafternoon when she entered the shop, jingling the bell that announced a customer. She spotted the proprietor reclining in a swivel chair whose spring-loaded base appeared to strain under his robust weight. He was sound asleep, snoring with his mouth open under his bushy white beard. Vicky decided not to disturb him and began to explore the dusty piles of books in the back of the shop where the proprietor had found Lt. Boatright’s diary.
After some time, the proprietor became aware of Vicky’s presence, sat up and cleared his throat.
“You caught me napping!” He grinned wiping a drool of saliva from his chin.
“Business is that good?” she teased.
“You’re here. I count that a banner day. Are you on the hunt for treasure?” He rose from his chair with effort and ambled toward her.
Vicky thought for a few minutes. “You know, I am curious about how the Yuman Indian tribes along the river changed over the years. I see the long-term results, but how did it all actually happen?”
The proprietor nodded, extending his hand to her, and said, “I am Vern.”
“Vicky,” she reciprocated.
Vern ran thick hands through his pure white hair and stroked his beard. “How much time have you got?” he asked, considering her almond eyes.
“Well, I have no appointments tonight, so the afternoon, let’s say.”
“Drink coffee?” he asked, turning toward his office area.
“Would love a cup,” Vicky replied, eagerly following him.
“Pull up a chair, my dear.” Vern pointed to one of two rockers. Vicky plunked down in one and sank into its velvet cushions, putting her feet up on the rest, realizing she was road weary.
Vern returned with two steaming mugs of coffee. “Cream or sugar?”
“Both, thanks.”
Once he settled in his chair, he related to Vicky that he’d collected many stories over the years of his proprietorship of the store, many from native people, others from history buffs. He frequented the local historical societies as well.
“There are other journals here, but how about if I just tell you some of what I’ve learned from hearsay and research about the earlier days?”
“That would be wonderful. Nothing I love more than a great storyteller.” She could not believe she’d lucked into an afternoon with a true spinner of tales.
Vern sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then began. “You know, if you could return to those times when settlers had not yet taken up residence here, you would find it a dynamic natural and human landscape. Its human nature to vie for your family’s safety and wellbeing, no matter one’s culture or race. That is just basic humanity. The other truth is that scoundrels rise and fall in every exploitable era.” He looked up. “The river would be the victim, whatever was said and done. From 1848 – 1855, the Yuma Crossing was everybody’s game.
“Both the River People and the citizens in Yuma saw in the gold seekers people with whom they could do business. Having the home court advantage, the People helped by providing food to exhausted, hungry travelers in exchange for goods such as shirts, blankets or mules. The men of the tribe were superb swimmers. They could easily pull mules through swift-moving water from one side of the river to the other. They knew to avoid the treacherous areas of the riverbanks where quicksand engulfed unwary animals and people. The men could do all this even while balancing baskets on their heads, loaded with supplies.”
Vicky listened intently, imagining the scene Vern was painting.
“Remember the river at that time was a half mile wide with strong currents. But the People navigated the river with apparent ease. Not so for the emigrants, who feared for their lives and their livestock.”
“That sounds like a great exchange between the two peoples,” Vicky reflected.
“Well, there were also the scoundrels. It was not uncommon for some members of the tribe to drown a mule or direct it far downstream where they slaughtered the beast and roasted the meat on bonfires. Journals from travelers record how the native people regarded mule meat as a delicacy.”
Vern paused. He stared at the sagging flooring, shaped by the sheer weight of the books and papers that filled every flat surface. His eyes widened in thought. Then he appeared to come back to present time.
“Well, the gold hunters learned. When their wagon trains reached the river and they negotiated a crossing, men were positioned on the bank of the river with rifles pointed at the heads of native swimmers. That eventually put an end to the theft of mules.”
“More coffee?” He was already on his feet to retrieve the coffee pot.
“It gets even stranger,” Vern said, refilling Vicky’s coffee mug.
She grinned up at him in anticipation.
“The People asked the emigrants to write letters of recommendation stating that they were reliable river guides which they showed to wagon trains in hopes of promoting their business. The problem was that the People couldn’t read, so many times they handed a letter to a potential customer that read something like, ‘This man is a scoundrel who will steal your cattle and rob you blind.’”
Vicky thought about a time when the two groups seemed to be on somewhat even ground; how lively the interactions must have been to everyone. For the travelers it was about life and limb just as it was for the People. And both sides were vying for economic opportunities, taking risks.
“But that time was short-lived because the migrant flow became overwhelming. By the time the emigrants arrived at the Crossing they were half starved and their emaciated animals needed grain and fodder. The People shared melons, squash, and greens from their gardens, but soon the emigrants discovered the mesquite bean. It was a perfect food for their livestock. Later the emigrants learned to grind the beans for flour and a kind of coffee. Many emigrants realized that the People depended on the mesquite harvest as a main staple, and thus they foraged in the scrublands to avoid competing for the harvests under the main canopy of the mesquite forests. However, as I said, there are always scoundrels. Many of the emigrants hauled off loads of beans for their journey into the California gold country.”
Vicky imagined the scene. “It must have occurred to the tribe that these exchanges had consequences.”
“Indeed,” Vern confirmed. “The native people who visit my shop say the elders long realized their country was becoming occupied by a foreign people. It was the younger members of the commnity who took advantage of short-term gains…plus, the natural generosity of the people promoted the gifting of food and grains that grew abundantly along the river. It was their way.”
Vern got up and walked to the back, pulled out a couple of books from the prodigious stacks, and returned to his easy chair.
“Read these, on me,” he said, handing them over ceremoniously. “Once the U.S. built Ft. Yuma on the California side of the river, the wild territory of the lower Colorado River and its communities of life would undergo huge changes. For one thing, the ferrying of people and livestock to and fro would no longer line the pockets of early military men assigned to protect travelers. In fact, these early Army officers milked everybody crossing the river, demanding high fees and gold booty until the U.S. Army put a stop to it. 1855 marked the official end of the Gold Rush, Verned stated and then sighed. “And the end of the River People’s claims to their homeland.”
After a thoughtful silence between them, Vern said, “By the time the Gold Rush fizzed out, the People’s daily life was permanently disrupted. That realization spurred great animosity among them. What followed were years of skirmishes up and down the lower Colorado that took the lives of U.S. cavalry and the lives of Colorado tribes alike. Alliances among tribes formed and fumed. The River People avoided much of that warfare, but when it came to protecting life, limb, and hunting grounds, they too fought and were mighty warriors. Murder, abduction, rape, and violence were perpetrated on both sides. It was a desperate fight to hold onto the natural rights to land, water, food … identity. Everything of one’s life.”
Vern appeared spent at that declaration. Vicky understood how personally the old bookshop proprietor had embraced the history of the region and felt responsibility for what the U.S. had done to the local people he had come to know and respect.
Vicky thumbed through the pages of the journals in her lap, stopping to look at portraits of the River People in photographs taken by travelers and ethnologists during all those years of change. She teared up. When she looked up at Vern, he was staring out the window at the sunset which lit the interior of the little bookstore in gold.
At her motel, Vicky returned to Lt. Boatright’s diary. She was beginning to understand the long history of disruptions in the River People’s lifeways. Settlers of the young United States and their government dreamed of shaping a river to become the artery for the nation to turn deserts into gardens and grow the nation to encompass the whole of the Southwest. Western capitalism had sunk its roots in the mighty Colorado River.
Lt. Boatright’s Diary Entry
March 15, 1852
Demands have been made by the River People to protect their hunting and fishing lands, and to not use the mesquite forests for a stretch along the east side of the river near their main village. Chief Joe came in today to make the case. He has met several times with the elders and men who wish to become steamboat pilots. Joe shared these concerns slowly in a soft voice that communicated this was a negotiation. His demeanor called me to my own best action, though I spoke for those of higher rank, without authority to make any final decisions. I suppose we were both in similar positions. I thanked him for bringing these conditions to me and assured him I would take them to my superiors. We agreed to meet again at the end of the week.
The matter of time is problematic with the tribe, even Joe. They do not measure the passage of time by hours and days or weeks, but by some mysterious knowing when the right time has come for a meeting or function. Chief Joe explained to me that he was not sure when he would return—that it might be what we call a week, or not. Several old people had passed away and their traditional cremation ceremonies, lasting days, would be initiated soon.
On this visit, he brought me a large basket of rice, gathered along marshland in the delta region. I reciprocated by giving him a container of tobacco and a box of rolling papers. He does not drink but loves a good smoke. I also gave him a bag of white flour and one of sugar.
~~~
Chief Joe had never seen anything on the scale of the steamboat. His people traveled on small rafts, even a single log, to navigate their river. On the pilot’s deck, the captain demonstrated how the ship was steered, the strange ways the pilot could mark the depth of the river from below his deck, and the pattern of bells that signaled the crew to various tasks. When the captain invited Joe to take the wheel and move the throttle, he felt the large ship move away from shore into the river, and he was oddly thrilled while also terrified. A million thoughts flew through his mind. Images flashed on his People’s simple ways, as he compared them with this feat of engineering. Surely this way was a miracle.
That night he shared his experiences with the elders of the tribe who gathered in their meetinghouse. They, too, had seen the amazing creature. Everyone tried to say it: steeam boooat. Joe related the way the men from their village would be hired to work as pilots to navigate up and down the river, carrying supplies for the Army to places where whites were settling. The men would be paid money, American coins and dollars, Joe said. Others in the tribe could be hired to help harvest wood to burn in the engines that produced steam. Then, there was silence—silence like a thundercloud moving over the low desert before a deluge. Silent strokes of lightning arched out across the room, lighting up the drawn faces of the River People as they began to fully comprehend the storm gathering around them that would threaten their very existence.
Lt. Boatright Journal Entry
June 16, 1853
Today the Gadsden Purchase was signed into law. It will cede 30,000 square-miles to the U.S. from Mexico. The border will separate Chief Joe’s People, who lived primarily in what is now Mexico, in the delta of the Colorado to Sea of Cortez. These are the traditional lands. The river and its people know no artificial borders, lines drawn on an occupier’s maps.
I must let him know, but this will be hard. It is another blow to the integrity of the tribe. Not much will change for a while. It’s just a line on paper right now, but changes will come in due time. In the meantime, Chief Joe and the men of his tribe are able pilots. We have a thriving operation delivering needed supplies. The forests along the river are disappearing, but we’ve honored our agreement with the River People to not harvest any of the forest they need. If the water flows, those forests should continue to produce the wood and food needed to maintain their way of life. But I must confess that I’ve been the principal proponent for honoring this agreement. I am sure that I will soon be reassigned, as my work here is done.
Chief Joe
My people still farm in the old way, after the spring floods recede. But we are more and more surrounded by a sea of military buildings and roads, and by thousands of settlers streaming into our region or passing over the river to California and back. All of them stop in Yuma—what the growing settlement is now called, after our People. We are from the Yuman-speaking peoples. Many other tribes north of us are distant relatives, though over many generations we have our own languages and ways.
Last winter there was a gathering of our peoples near Parker. Concerns that the U.S. military may seize our lands and move us onto what they call reservations have energized our warriors and leaders. My People will never move, never leave their traditional homelands. I will fight to the death if I must.
A woman, a schoolteacher, is helping our sons learn to read and write. They are making progress. But many in our community ostracize the teachers, believing our sons’ brains have been ruined with white thinking and ideas. I really do not know, myself, whether it may end up doing so, but I know of no other way than to prepare them for what is here now, their reality.
My parents have passed into the next world. I talk to them often and occasionally they request something for use in their world. It comes to me in dreams. We give ceremony and burn the clothing or object they request to send to them. In this way, I stay connected until I will join them.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steamboats_of_the_Colorado_River#/media/File:Fort_Yuma_California_1875.jpg; public domain;
Yuma and Fort Yuma across the Colorado River (circa 1875 lithograph).[1] Steamboat is downriver from the ferry crossing that is equipped with masts on both banks to raise the ferry’s tow cables above the smokestacks of passing steamboats. Note two of the cables holding the mast up are tied to discarded boilers, presumably taken out of George A. Johnson & Company or Colorado Steam Navigation Company (C.S.N.C) steamboats when they were rebuilt or dismantled here.
Susan Feathers 
