Organizational Change and Intellectual Production: The Case Study of Hohokam Archaeology

Item Type text; Electronic Dissertation

Authors Harris, Cory

Publisher The University of Arizona.

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ORGANIZATIONAL CHANGE AND INTELLECTUAL PRODUCTION: THE CASE STUDY OF HOHOKAM ARCHAEOLOGY

By

Cory Dalton Harris

______Copyright © Cory Dalton Harris 2006

A Dissertation Submitted to the Faculty of the

DEPARTMENT OF ANTHROPOLOGY

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements For the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

In the Graduate College UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

2006 2

THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA GRADUATE COLLEGE

As members of the Dissertation Committee, we certify that we have read the dissertation

prepared by Cory Harris

entitled Organizational Change and Intellectual Production: the Case Study of Hohokam Archaeology.

and recommend that it be accepted as fulfilling the dissertation requirement for the

Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

______Date: March 24, 2006 J. Jefferson Reid

______Date: March 24, 2006 Jennifer Croissant

______Date: March 24, 2006 Paul Fish

Final approval and acceptance of this dissertation is contingent upon the candidate’s submission of the final copies of the dissertation to the Graduate College.

I hereby certify that I have read this dissertation prepared under my direction and recommend that it be accepted as fulfilling the dissertation requirement.

______Date: March 24, 2006 Dissertation Director: J. Jefferson Reid 3

STATEMENT BY AUTHOR

This dissertation has been submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements of an advanced degree at the University of Arizona and is deposited in the University Library to be made available to borrowers under rules of the library.

Brief quotations from this dissertation are allowable without special permission, provided that accurate acknowledgement of source is made. Requests for permission for extended quotation from or reproduction of this manuscript in whole or in part may be granted by the copyright holder.

SIGNED: Cory Harris 4

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First off, thanks to my committee—Jeff Reid, Jennifer Croissant and Paul Fish—for their assistance throughout the writing of this dissertation in complementary ways. Jeff’s interest in the history of the discipline provided the initial kick start to this project as well as guidance throughout. Paul’s personal experience with Hohokam archaeology added invaluable insight to the dissertation. This project would have never been finished without Jen’s expertise in the sociology of science and especially her attention to the details of the various iterations of this dissertation. John Murphy and John Chamblee provided essential help with the construction of the citation database and saved myself years of unnecessary data compilation. Finally, Tina Fortugno deserves special thanks for her limitless encouragement, patience, support and assistance throughout the duration of this project and beyond. 5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF TABLES...... 13

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS...... 16

ABSTRACT...... 18

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION AND ROLE OF DISCIPLINARY HISTORY...... 20

Role of Disciplinary History in Archaeology ...... 32

Historical Approaches...... 35

Study Approach and Organization...... 38

CHAPTER 2: SOCIAL, ORGANIZATIONAL, AND LEGAL CONTEXT—A BRIEF HISTORY OF AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGY ...... 44

Early Developments in Archaeology...... 45

Government and Archaeology ...... 49

Historic Preservation Legislation of the Late 20TH Century...... 57

The Beginnings of CRM in Arizona: Highway Salvage at ASM...... 66

Formalization of Highway Salvage into CRMD ...... 73

Organizational Environment of Contemporary American Archaeology...... 79

Conclusion ...... 85

6

TABLE OF CONTENTS – Continued

CHAPTER 3: ESTABLISHING CONTEXT, HOHOKAM ARCHAEOLOGY...... 87

Early Hohokam Archaeologists ...... 88

Gila Pueblo Archaeological Foundation and the Definition of the Hohokam...... 93

Lingering Questions...... 105

Between Snaketowns ...... 108

Conclusion ...... 120

CHAPTER 4: THEORY, METHOD, AND DATASET...... 122

Theoretical Approach...... 123

Social Environment...... 125

Consequences for Intellectual Production ...... 129

Organizational and Intellectual Change...... 132

Citation Methods...... 134

Citation Studies in Anthropology and Archaeology...... 136

Literature Sample...... 137

Co-Citation Analysis...... 142

Pathfinder Network Scaling...... 146

Citation Context Analysis...... 152

Conclusion ...... 154

7

TABLE OF CONTENTS – Continued

CHAPTER 5: EXPECTATIONS FOR PATTERNS OF INTELLECTUAL

PRODUCTION...... 155

Early Expectations from within Archaeology...... 155

Sociological Expectations...... 162

Conclusion ...... 168

CHAPTER 6: 1970S—INCIPIENT CRM IN SOUTHERN ARIZONA AND

ADAPTATION TO EXISTING INSTITUTIONAL ENVIRONMENTS...... 172

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1970-1974 ...... 183

Hohokam Origins...... 183

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation ...... 185

Culture Ecology ...... 187

Sedentary/Classic Transition ...... 189

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1975-1979 ...... 191

Culture History...... 192

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation ...... 194

Culture Ecology ...... 195

Sedentary/Classic Transition ...... 198

Hohokam as a Regional System ...... 200

Summary...... 201

Citation Analysis...... 202 8

TABLE OF CONTENTS – Continued

Pre-1970 Sample...... 202

Citation Analysis: 1970-1974 ...... 204

Co-Citation Analysis...... 205

Academic Sample...... 206

ASM Archaeological Series Sample...... 210

Highly Cited Sample ...... 215

Summary ...... 222

Citation Analysis: 1975-1979 ...... 222

Co-Citation Analysis...... 224

Academic Sample...... 224

Aggregate CRM ...... 228

Highly-Cited Sample...... 232

The 1970s and the Emergence of CRM...... 239

CHAPTER 7: 1980S, RISE OF THE PRIVATE FIRMS...... 242

Episode of Conflict ...... 247

The Closure of ASM’S CRMD...... 252

Hohokam Literature...... 264

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1980-1984 ...... 269

Site Structure...... 269

Variation in Subsistence ...... 270 9

TABLE OF CONTENTS – Continued

Hohokam as a Regional System ...... 273

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation ...... 275

Chronology ...... 277

Methodology...... 278

Summary...... 278

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1985-1989 ...... 279

Hohokam Origins...... 279

Dynamics of the Regional System...... 281

Political Organization—Communities...... 282

Production and Exchange ...... 285

Site Structure...... 287

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation ...... 291

Variation in Subsistence ...... 292

Summary...... 292

Citation Analysis...... 293

Citation Analysis: 1980-1984 ...... 293

Co-Citation Analysis...... 296

Academic Sample...... 296

Aggregate CRM ...... 301

Highly Cited Sample ...... 305

Summary ...... 311 10

TABLE OF CONTENTS – Continued

Citation Analysis: 1985-1989 ...... 311

Co-Citation Analysis...... 313

Academic...... 313

Aggregate CRM ...... 317

Highly Cited Sample ...... 321

Hohokam Archaeology in the 1980s...... 327

CHAPTER 8: THE 1990S, ORGANIZATIONAL STABILIZATION AND

INTELLECTUAL SYNTHESIS ...... 331

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1990-1994 ...... 336

The Regional System, Political Communities and Site Structure...... 336

Subsistence...... 341

Chronology ...... 342

Ideology ...... 343

Summary...... 344

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1995-2001 ...... 345

Origins...... 345

The Regional System and Political Communities ...... 345

Subsistence...... 350

Hohokam Collapse ...... 351

Summary...... 352 11

TABLE OF CONTENTS – Continued

Citation Analysis...... 353

Citation Analysis: 1990-1994 ...... 354

Co-Citation Analysis...... 356

Academic...... 356

Aggregate CRM ...... 361

Highly-Cited Sample...... 364

Citation Analysis: 1995-2001 ...... 369

Co-Citation Analysis...... 370

Academic...... 370

Aggregate CRM ...... 373

Highly Cited Sample ...... 377

The 1990s: Organizational Continuity and Intellectual Synthesis...... 383

CHAPTER 9: GENERAL PATTERNS AND CONCLUDING THOUGHTS...... 385

Historical Summary of Hohokam Archaeology ...... 386

Sociological Interpretations ...... 395

Trends in Intellectual Production...... 402

Intellectual Tension and the Middle-Place of Hohokam Archaeology...... 410

The Particular Case of Hohokam Archaeology ...... 415

Future Questions ...... 420

Tribal Considerations...... 421 12

TABLE OF CONTENTS – Continued

APPENDIX A: FIFTY MOST CITED PUBLICATIONS PER FIVE YEAR PERIOD—

1970-2000 ...... 426

APPENDIX B: PRACTITIONERS ACTIVE IN HOHOKAM ARCHAEOLOGY...... 461 . REFERENCES ...... 467 13

LIST OF TABLES

Table 3.1: Notable Hohokam Archaeological Projects prior to 1970...... 119

Table 4.1: Citing Literature Sample...... 138

Table 4.2: Number of Publications in the Sample over the Analyzed Period ...... 141

Table 4.3: Number of Cited Authors over the Analyzed Period...... 142

Table 4.4: Common Attendance at Hypothetical Events...... 149

Table 6.1: Literature Sample 1970-1974 ...... 205

Table 6.2: 50 Most Highly-Cited Authors, Academic Sample 1970-1974...... 208

Table 6.3: 50 Most Highly-Cited Authors, ASM Archaeological Series Sample 1970- 1974...... 212

Table 6.4: Cluster Membership, Academic and ASM Sample 1970-1974...... 213

Table 6.5: 50 Most Cited in Highly-Cited Sample 1970-1974...... 218

Table 6.6: Cluster Membership, Highly-Cited 1970-1974 ...... 219

Table 6.7: Literature Sample 1975-1979 ...... 223

Table 6.8: 50 Most Cited Authors in Academic Sample 1975-1979...... 225

Table 6.9: Cluster Membership, Academic 1975-1979...... 226

Table 6.10: 50 Most Highly Cited Authors, CRM 1975-1979 ...... 229

Table 6.11: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1975-1979...... 230

Table 6.12: 50 Most Highly Cited Authors—Highly Cited Sample 1975-1979 ...... 234

Table 6.13: Cluster Membership, Highly-Cited Sample 1975-1979 ...... 235

Table 7.1: Literature Sample 1980-1984 ...... 294

Table 7.2: 50 Most Cited Authors Academic Sample 1980-1984...... 298

Table 7.3: Cluster Membership, Academic 1980-1984...... 299 14

LIST OF TABLES – Continued

Table 7.4: 50 Most Cited Authors Aggregate CRM 1980-1984...... 302

Table 7.5: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1980-1984...... 303

Table 7.6: 50 Most Cited Authors, Highly Cited Sample 1980-84 ...... 306

Table 7.7: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1980-84 ...... 306

Table 7.8: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample—Context Limited

1980-84 ...... 309

Table 7.9: Citing Literature Sample 1985-1989 ...... 312

Table 7.10: 50 Most Cited Authors Academic Sample 1985-89...... 314

Table 7.11: Cluster Membership, Academic Sample 1985-1989...... 315

Table 7.12: 50 Most Cited Authors Aggregate CRM 1985-89...... 318

Table 7.13: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1985-89...... 319

Table 7.14: 50 Most Cited Authors Highly-Cited Sample 1985-89 ...... 322

Table 7.15: Cluster Membership, Highly-Cited Sample 1985-1989 ...... 322

Table 7.16: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1985-89 ...... 325

Table 8.1: Citing Literature Sample 1990-1994 ...... 355

Table 8.2: 50 Most Cited Authors from Academic Sample 1990-1994 ...... 358

Table 8.3: Cluster Membership, Academic Sample 1990-94...... 359

Table 8.4: 50 Most Cited Authors Aggregate CRM Sample 1990-1994...... 362

Table 8.5: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1990-1994...... 362

Table 8.6: 50 Most Cited Authors Highly Cited Sample 1990-1994 ...... 365

Table 8.7: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1990-1994 ...... 365 15

LIST OF TABLES – Continued

Table 8.8: Cluster Membership, Citation Context Limited 1990-1994...... 367

Table 8.9: Citing Literature Sample 1995-2001 ...... 369

Table 8.10: 50 Most Cited Authors Academic Sample 1995-2001...... 371

Table 8.11: Cluster Membership, Academic Sample 1995-2001...... 371

Table 8.12: 50 Most Cited Authors Aggregate CRM Sample 1995-2001...... 374

Table 8.13: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM Sample 1995-2001...... 375

Table 8.14: 50 Most Cited Authors Highly Cited Sample 1995-2001 ...... 378

Table 8.15: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1995-2001 ...... 379

Table 8.16: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1995-

2001...... 381

16

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Figure 1.1: Hohokam Region Relative to other Archaeological Cultures in the

Southwest...... 29

Figure 4.1: ACA Network for CRM Publications without Pathfinder Network

Scaling...... 147

Figure 6.1: Hohokam ACA for the Period 1930-1959 ...... 203

Figure 6.2: Hohokam ACA for the Period 1960-1969 ...... 204

Figure 6.3: ACA Academic Sample 1970-1974...... 209

Figure 6.4: ACA ASM Archaeological Series Sample 1970-1974 ...... 214

Figure 6.5: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Not Citation Context Limited 1970-1974...... 220

Figure 6.6: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Citation Context Limited 1970-1974...... 221

Figure 6.7: ACA Academic Sample 1975-1979...... 227

Figure 6.8: ACA Aggregate CRM Sample 1975-1979...... 231

Figure 6.9: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Not Citation Context Limited 1975-1979...... 237

Figure 6.10: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Citation Context Limited 1975-1979...... 238

Figure 7.1: ACA Academic Sample 1980-1984...... 300

Figure 7.2: ACA Aggregate CRM 1980-1984...... 304

Figure 7.3: ACA Highly Cited Sample, 1980-1984 ...... 307

Figure 7.4: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1980-1984 ...... 310

Figure 7.5 ACA Academic Sample 1985-1989 ...... 316

Figure 7.6: ACA Aggregate CRM Sample 1985-1989...... 320

Figure 7.7: ACA Highly Cited Sample 1985-89 ...... 323 17

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS – Continued

Figure 7.8: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1985-89 ...... 326

Figure 8.1: ACA Academic Network 1990-1994...... 360

Figure 8.2: ACA Aggregate CRM Literature 1990-1994...... 363

Figure 8.3: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Not Citation Context Limited 1990-1995 ...... 366

Figure 8.4: ACA Highly Cited Sample with Citation Context Limitation 1990-1994....368

Figure 8.5: ACA Academic Literature 1995-2001 ...... 372

Figure 8.6: ACA Aggregate CRM 1995-2001...... 376

Figure 8.7: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Not Citation Context Limited 1995-2000 ...... 380

Figure 8.8: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1995-2001 ...... 382

Figure 9.1: Academic ACA Networks over Time ...... 404

Figure 9.2: Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited ACA Networks over

Time ...... 405

Figure 9.3: Highly Cited Sample ACA Networks over Time...... 406

Figure 9.4: Aggregate CRM Literature Sample ACA Networks over Time ...... 407

18

ABSTRACT

Histories of archaeology increasingly focus on the role that the social context of the discipline plays in shaping its intellectual production. Of particular importance in the social context of American archaeology during the last half of the 20th century is the development of Cultural Resource Management (CRM) archaeology. The coalescence of the CRM industry has transformed archaeology—providing new sources of support, mandating new goals, and placing practitioners into newly emergent organizational environments. Drawing upon theory in the sociology of science, this project examines the case study of the recent history of Hohokam—archaeological label for the agricultural people of southern Arizona—archaeology, which has been shaped by CRM more than any other region in the United States. According to sociological expectations, such a dramatic change in the social setting of the discipline should be reflected in its intellectual production.

This dissertation documents patterns of intellectual production within Hohokam archaeology over the past century through both qualitative and quantitative means. In addition to providing a recent historical account of the region’s archaeological community, this project utilizes a range of citation analyses to elucidate patterns in a manner relatively independent of subjective assessments of the character of Hohokam discourse.

The analyses suggest that the changing organizational structure of Hohokam archaeology has impacted its basic intellectual structure. Changing patterns evident in both academic and CRM publications parallel reconfigurations in the social context of the 19

region’s archaeology. These findings offer substance for discussions of how archaeology

should conduct itself in the face of changing organizational environments to ensure that

the discipline continues to achieve its primary goal—the construction of knowledge about the past—in productive and intellectually rewarding ways.

20

CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION AND ROLE OF DISCIPLINARY HISTORY

Sociologists of science and many historians of archaeology have long argued that the social context of scientific activity significantly shapes the ultimate intellectual production of a discipline. Subsequently, only through a careful consideration of the

social setting of scholarship can practitioners gain a more complete depiction of the

history of their work.

Understanding the context of disciplinary work is essential to understanding the

products of that work. In this perspective, scientific disciplines are conceived as simply

another form of human social organization that is subject to the same sociological

pressures as any other (Fuchs 1992; Hess 1996). Just as the organization of work in the

production of a commercial item impacts the specific character of the object, the

organization of research efforts has consequences for the nature of the knowledge

constructed (Abbott 1998; Collins 1998; Fuchs 1992). Particularly, the source and

character of a discipline’s material support—its means of doing work—has significant implications for the production of scientific knowledge. Alterations in the structure of the environment—context—should be paralleled by changing patterns in the discipline’s intellectual structure—content. Subsequently, a discipline’s social environment

influences how necessary resources are distributed, scientific organizations are

structured, and ultimately the knowledge constructed. 21

A central problem for sociological studies of science is elucidating the relationships between the organization of research activity and its primary product— intellectual content. The significance of such a project lies in its ability to highlight these critical, dynamic interconnections of scientific activities that often remain overlooked.

The common ideology surrounding scientific activity espouses the impartiality of scientific methods and science’s exemption from the impact of social influences (Hess

1996). According to this ideology, science may be done by people, but scientific methods and activities ensure that social impurities are removed from the content of science. A logical application of this perspective to archaeology would state that the archaeological knowledge produced during 1930s era relief projects (Fagette 1996;

Jennings 1985; Lyon 1996) is essentially of the same character as that produced by

National Science Foundation sponsored research of the second half of the 20th century

(Yellen and Greene 1985). Any differences noted would be explained away as the result

of technical or theoretical innovations largely generated internal to the discipline. The

present study hopes to illustrate that a consideration of other factors is necessary.

Adopting the perspective that science is somehow elevated above the mundane

sociological world prevents a fully rounded understanding of what scientists actually do

and how they do it ignoring potential for further insight. Documenting the complex

relationships between social context and intellectual content provides practitioners with a

more comprehensive, realistic and nuanced understanding of the development of

scientific disciplines. Additionally, since such historical projects explicitly analyze the

nature of disciplinary discussions, and the exchange of information, practitioners can 22

more explicitly consider and remedy any perceived deficiencies in the process. In the

case of archaeology, several recent organizational developments have significantly

altered the character of disciplinary work, and so should have similar implications for its

discourse.

Over the past 40 years, American archaeology has undergone dramatic change in

its social environment and provides an excellent example for an examination of the relationships between social context and intellectual content. Archaeology is a relatively unique scientific endeavor because the source of data is a finite resource—the material remains of past people—which inspires both calls for preservation as well as urgency

when potential data are threatened by modern development. Gathering data through

excavation results in the destruction of that data, as that particular site can never be

excavated again, precluding the possibility of replication by another investigator.

Furthermore, unlike many other disciplines, both academic and applied archaeology have

the same craft the same product—knowledge.

Any discipline, including archaeology, must maintain effective linkages with

outside organizations to ensure support for work. Throughout its existence,

archaeological practice has been based in many arenas, including those of leisure, wealth

and privilege in its earliest forms, to government organizations and academic institutions,

and into private-sector firms dedicated to answering questions of the past, as well as

making a profit. In particular, archaeology has had to negotiate and maintain material

support for its endeavors, which often entail intimate articulation with government

support. Further, unlike many other scientific endeavors, the legitimate commercial 23

potential of archaeological research is limited ensuring archaeology’s dependence on

means of organizational support outside of the discipline’s control, which often takes the form of government support (Doelle and Phillips 2005:97; Fagette 1996; Mukerji 1989).

Embedded in an environment of governmental agencies, a tax-paying public, and

economic developers seeking to satisfy historic preservation legislation, archaeology has

had to maintain effective articulations outside of disciplinary boundaries. Subsequently,

the goals and motivations of extra-archaeological institutions, often governmental, have

remained central to the discipline (Hinsely and Wilcox 2002; Snead 2001).

One of the more recent developments in American archaeology’s social

environment that has required an evolution in relationships with government agencies is

the development of Cultural Resource Management (CRM). Several pieces of historic

preservation legislation passed in recent decades mandated archaeological research prior

to development activities that could negatively impact cultural resources (Green and

Doerschuk 1998; King 1998; McGimsey and Davis 1977). For example, when a state

department of transportation embarks on the construction of a highway on-ramp, the department must ensure that their activities do not inadvertently destroy archaeological resources. Usually, the department of transportation then contacts an archaeological consultant to ascertain if archaeological remains are present and if so, what course of action is necessary—avoidance or some form of data collection. Before the on-ramp construction plans, the archaeologist had no interest in this specific piece of land, so the

choice of archaeological data was an unintended byproduct of department of transportation activities, which represents somewhat of a encumbrance to archaeological 24 research as the investigator was not able to select data sources by internally developed criteria that are designed to answer questions about the past. On the other hand, funding and support is often available to conduct this research that would have been otherwise unavailable.

The ascendance of CRM archaeology signaled a transformation in the organization of archaeological research as archaeologists increasingly engaged in research that was not necessarily of their choosing, even if well supported. This support comes with a cost to the conduct of archaeological work, however. To secure this material base, CRM archaeology must maintain effective relationships, which can differ significantly from other arenas of archaeology, with a variety of extra-academic organizations. CRM practitioners still strive to meet the anthropological goals shared with academic colleagues—asking and answering questions about past human societies— but must also ensure they meet the requirements of their clients by providing compliance with historic preservation legislation.

CRM has reshaped the nature of archaeology’s organizational environment— creating new means of support and forcing decisions of data selection. These developments served to dramatically increase the level of archaeological research conducted in the United States, and CRM archaeology has emerged to assume expanding work (Green and Doerschuk 1998; Neumann and Sanford 2001). Since the 1970s, most archaeological fieldwork conducted in the United States has been in a CRM context. The

CRM environment is one of substantial sources of funding, or material support, which had been previously unavailable to archaeologists. Nationally, annual expenditures on 25

CRM archaeology in the United States have been over $250 million since the mid 1980s

(Doelle and Phillips 2005:97; King 1987; Zeder 1997). By contrast, the National Science

Foundation (NSF), a primary supporter of academic research, funded a comparatively paltry $5.5 million in projects during 2005, comparable to the average of $1.5-2 million during the 1980s (Yellen and Greene 1985:334). In southern Arizona, the Arizona

Department of Transportation (ADOT), one of the primary funding sources for CRM work, had an annual budget of $4,000,000 for cultural resource projects by the turn of the

21st century (Rosenberg 2004:31). This figure is significantly larger than ADOT’s initial

monetary commitment to archaeology in its 1964 CRM budget of $12,000. By the

1990s, estimates placed the percentage of archaeologists working in CRM contexts at

about 80% (Milanich 1982; Zeder 1987) and that funding for CRM work outpaced that of

academia by 20 to 1 (Stark 1992). One of the striking organizational trends

accompanying the growth of CRM archaeology is that practitioners based in private

sector organizations have rapidly come to dominate the practical landscape of

archaeology (Doelle and Phillips 2005; Roberts, Altschul and Roth 2004).

This organizational evolution impacting the discipline at a national level has been

especially apparent in the archaeology of the Hohokam—the archaeological label

assigned to the prehispanic, ceramic-producing, agricultural inhabitants of southern

Arizona (Figure 1.1). The Hohokam are famous for their large-scale, canal based

agriculture, red-on-buff ceramics, and large, intensively occupied sites. CRM ushered in

an era of explosive growth in both fieldwork and disciplinary discourse in Hohokam

archaeology. Before the 1960s, the excavated Hohokam database consisted of material 26

from a handful of sites including Snaketown, Casa Grande, Los Muertos, the Hodges site, the Grewe site, and Pueblo Grande. By the end of the 1970s, over 60 large CRM projects

had been undertaken in southern Arizona (Doyel 1985), compared to under 20 in the

preceding years. In tandem, funding skyrocketed—the Arizona Department of

Transportation, a major supporter of archaeological work, had an annual cultural resource

budget of $4 million (Rosenberg 2004), which did not include funding for specific larger

projects, such as the $3.5 million Pueblo Grande project by Soil Systems, Inc. (Foster,

Mitchell and Breternitz 2004). For comparison, one of the largest recent academic

projects in the region supported by a National Science Foundation $250,000 grant to Paul

and Suzanne Fish of the Arizona State Museum and James Bayman of the University of

Hawaii for the research at the Marana Platform Mound community north of Tucson. If

such dramatic changes have characterized the social environment of Hohokam

archaeology, sociologically minded readers would expect parallel changes in the content

of the discipline.

Hohokam discourse has experienced significant change in the face of the

organizational change. Before about 1970, Hohokam archaeology was dominated by few

voices and characterized by relatively little fieldwork. A handful of practitioners

scattered through a variety of government, private and academic institutions offered

conflicting culture historical interpretations of Hohokam prehistory. Prior to the CRM

era, principal figures, such as Emil W. Haury, Charles Di Peso, Harold Gladwin, and

Albert Schroeder, had defined and directed the course of Hohokam archaeology from the

early 1930s through the 1970s. After 1970, however, the demographic growth of the 27

discipline and the development of CRM altered the archaeological landscape. New

generations of students assumed the growing amount of archaeological work mandated in

a CRM environment, but began to question the interpretations of their predecessors, particularly Haury. These developments have resulted in reversal of many earlier

interpretations, permanently changing the face of Hohokam archaeology.

By no means is this the first discussion of the impact of CRM on the discipline

(see Davis 1972; King et al. 1977; Lipe 1974; Lipe and Lindsay 1977; McGimsey 1972;

McGimsey and Davis 1977; Raab and Klinger 1977; Raab et al. 1980; Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004:11; Schiffer and Gumerman 1977; Schiffer and House 1975). From its

beginnings, many in the archaeological community have expressed considerable angst

about the implications of these changes. While recognizing expanded research

opportunities, archaeologists also worried about what they viewed as very negative

consequences for the discipline. Practitioners worried that the goals of the discipline

would conflict with those of developers and government agencies, the selection of data

sources was not under disciplinary control, mountains of research information would

become inaccessible, and work would suffer in an environment of competitive bidding.

Southern Arizona is the home to an archaeological community especially

impacted by the developments associated with CRM and provides a unique opportunity

to investigate such diffuse issues of context and content in a specific, localized and

manageable setting. The massive urban and infrastructural development stimulated by

recent intra-national migration to the region necessitated the conduct of massive levels of

archaeological research, unprecedented for the area, made possible by an institutional 28

environment transformed by CRM. The synergetic interaction of a robust archaeological

record, historic preservation legislation, combined with extensive urban development in

southern Arizona over the past 40 years, has led to a dramatic expansion of the Hohokam

database. Also, the organizations that conducted archaeological work experienced dramatic change as existing and newly developing archaeological institutions, such as universities, museums, private foundations and firms reconfigured to adapt to the new legal and work environment. So, southern Arizona provides an excellent natural, historical laboratory for examining a segment of the archaeology that was especially impacted by the organizational developments wrought by CRM.

29

Figure 1.1: Hohokam Region Relative to other Archaeological Cultures in the Southwest

30

Considerations of the relationship between intellectual and organizational change require procedures for documenting such change. While the evolution of archaeology’s organizational environment—the rise of CRM—is well-documented in the archaeological literature (Altschul 2004; Davis 1972; Doelle and Phillips 2005; Doyel 1985, 1991, 1994;

King 1971; King et al. 1977; Feinman 1991; Gumerman 1991; Lipe 1974; Lipe and

Lindsay 1977; Marmaduke and Henderson 1995; McGimsey 1972; McGimsey and Davis

1977; Raab and Klinger 1977; Raab et al. 1980; Roberts et al. 2004; Schiffer 1995;

Schiffer and Gumerman 1977; Schiffer and House 1975), though relatively independent evaluations of intellectual change remain more difficult to track.

Literature provides one of the most valuable records of a discipline’s internal content—where practitioners engage in formal discourse (Collins 1998:27; Fuchs

1992:57; LaTour and Woolgar 1979; Mukerji 1989:200). A discipline’s literature contains the concepts, issues, and questions that concern practitioners—a clear description of the knowledge produced. The rapidly increasing levels of new fieldwork resulted in the production of a voluminous literature, documenting the new findings and ideas of Hohokam archaeology. In the bibliographic database compiled for this project,

55 Hohokam publications were recorded prior to 1960, while 892 were published after that year until 2001. Subsequently, any discussion of evolutions in Hohokam thought must enthusiastically delve into this body of work.

Literature contains other important information—particularly records of patterns of influence in the scholarly community. Writers, while constructing their own arguments, repeatedly connect their work to peers and predecessors through citation 31

(Bayer et al. 1990; Braam et al. 1991; Collins 1998; Chen 1999; White 1999; White and

Griffith 1981). The act of citing positions a piece of literature in the larger context of

disciplinary discussions, by acknowledging, supporting, exemplifying, or criticizing earlier work. Subsequently, citation patterns create a quantitative record of the structure of intellectual discussions amenable to comparison through time and allow a relatively independent and replicable means of uncovering the basic structure of disciplinary discourse. A key benefit of the use of citation patterns is that they provide a view of the discipline from the discipline’s perspective in aggregate, not just from that of the analyst

(Chen 1999). Every piece of literature used as a data source adds another interlocutor that informs as to what practitioners and what research issues are important. Diachronic comparisons of this structure, coupled with qualitative assessments of intellectual content, can reveal important patterns of change. The present paper utilizes citation patterns to better understand how the intellectual discussions of Hohokam archaeology have changed over the last three decades of the 20th century.

In summary, this project examines the recent history of Hohokam archaeology as

an example of a subset of a scientific discipline that has experienced significant change in

its organizational environment. The history will follow both organizational and

intellectual change in Hohokam archaeology, couched in frameworks of the sociological

study of professions and disciplines, (Abbott 1988, 1998; Collins 1998; DiMaggio and

Powell 1991; Fuchs 1992; Mukerji 1989; Mullins 1972). While this narrative pursues an

individual subset of the archaeological community, it utilizes general theoretical

frameworks to elucidate patterns evident in this particular case (Schiffer 2005). The 32

impacts of these changes on the intellectual discourse of Hohokam archaeology are of

primary interest. To track the evolution of Hohokam thought, a variety of bibliometric

techniques are employed to provide a quantitative representation of these intellectual

discussions. Additionally, the bibliometric analyses are coupled with a qualitative consideration of the discursive content of Hohokam archaeology. Questions of Hohokam

prehistory serve as the connecting thread tying together practitioners, ideas and

institutions.

Role of Disciplinary History in Archaeology

Histories of scientific communities have become a common research genre and

serve a variety of scholarly purposes (Agassi 2002; Figueroa and Harding 2002).

Academic disciplines eventually enter a period of reflection and begin to examine their

histories, seeking to understand how its current body of knowledge coalesced, and serve a

variety of purposes for practitioners of a discipline. Many early histories of science

served to legitimize scientific activities as preeminent and worthwhile endeavors and

separate from more mundane ones, subsequently deserving public support (Laudan

1993). This variety of history often seeks to elevate scientific activities above mundane

social concerns and argues that such factors do not impact the actual conduct of research,

contributing to the common ideology of science described in the previous section.

Another common function of disciplinary histories is to communicate “the belief

system of a scientific group” (Mullins 1972:70) to the next generation of scholars—

detailing the concepts, issues, and individuals as well as assumptions central to the 33

community. This function maintains continuity between teachers and students as well as

between contemporary researchers and founding figures that shaped and defined the field,

providing practitioners with a greater understanding of the development, evolution, and

genealogy of the body of knowledge that binds the scholarly community together.

Beyond the reproduction of the discipline, appreciation of history fosters reflexivity on

the discipline’s direction and uncovers hidden problems and biases (Croissant 2000:186;

Trigger 1989). This exercise allows a more informed appreciation of disciplinary

knowledge and provides practitioners a valuable perspective as they themselves shape the

contemporary state of the discipline’s intellectual content. Additionally, historical

appreciation can foster assessments of the credibility and limits of a discipline, helping to

avoid the pitfalls of a naïve acceptance of epistemic immunity of science from social and

historical factors (Wylie 2002:19).

It is only appropriate that archaeology, a discipline explicitly concerned with

reconstructions of the past, has turned to its own history. Interest in archaeological history has continued to grow over the past few decades, even it remains relatively immature (see Trigger 1994:125). Both archaeological practitioners and disciplinary outsiders have begun investigating the people, concepts, events, and processes that have composed archaeology’s history (e.g. Chistensen 1989; Cordell and Fowler 2005; Daniel

1976; Downum and Bostwick 1993; Embree 1992; Fowler 1999, 2000; Hinsley and

Wilcox 1996; Judd 1968; Kehoe 1998; Kehoe and Emmerichs 1999; Lyman et al. 1997;

Lyon 1996; Nash 1999, 2000; O’Brien and Lyman 2001; O’Brien et al. 2005; Patterson

1995, 1999; Reid and Whittlesey 2005; Reyman 1992; Roberts et al. 2004; Snead 1999, 34

2001, 2002, 2005; Trigger 1989; Wilcox 1987, 1993a, 1993b, 2005; Willey and Sabloff

1993). The establishment of the Committee on the History of Archaeology by the

Society for American Archaeology (SAA), the Bulletin of the History of Archaeology,

American Antiquity’s associate editor for obituaries and history of archaeology (Reid

1991:195) and the convening of a growing number of symposia on the subject all indicate the expanding acceptance of archaeological histories as legitimate research projects

(Trigger 1994:116). Additionally, the literature of archaeological history continues to grow and exhibits a wide diversity of foci and approaches, from studies that are general and discipline-wide (e.g. O’Brien et al. 2005; Patterson 1995; Trigger 1989), to regional specialties (e.g. Fowler 2000; Snead 2001) to specific projects (e.g. Reid and Whittlesey

2005b) to the “iconoclastic” and “self-serving” (Wilcox 2005:221).

The position of the history of archaeology in the discipline remains tenuous, however, and Trigger (1994) cautions junior archaeologists to some of the attendant difficulties if these interests become primary pursuits. The writing of histories of archaeology, by archaeologists, represents a shift in energy away from traditional archaeological research, which could be the result of diminishing available resources

(Croissant 2000:205). As traditional research opportunities stagnate, practitioners pursue fine academic distinctions rather than completely new research directions, fostering an environment where “arcane distinctions will be elevated to matters of great importance to maximize originality within a highly constrained intellectual terrain” (Croissant

2000:205; see also Collins 1989; 1998). Others have more pointed disagreement with a historical approach, claiming it redirects energy from actual research toward the 35

accumulation of “brain sludge” (Rogge 2004:110) and useless reflection, a parasitic

byproduct of postmodern thought in archaeology (Schiffer 1976, see Trigger 1994:114).

Historical Approaches

One of the central debates for historians of archaeology, and science in general, is

whether to approach disciplinary histories from an internal or external perspective

(Trigger 1994:118). Internal approaches focus on the development of the discipline’s

knowledge—the dynamics of the evolution of method and theory, and such histories

document change in the product of scientists—knowledge. A fundamental component to

internalist histories is the analysis of a discipline’s discourse—the dynamic and

interactive production of intellectual content by practitioners—and a focus on the

changing understanding of particular issues within a scholarly community. Many of the

early histories of archaeology focused exclusively on internal intellectual developments and the dominant personalities of the discipline (e.g. Willey and Sabloff 1993), while neglecting the context seemingly “external” to scientific discourse—viewed as simply the particular state upon which events unfolded.

On the other hand, external approaches highlight the social factors affecting scientific research, such as the political, social or economic organization in which the discipline is embedded. They focus on the institutional context of scientific research to understand how communities of scholars organize themselves through time (e.g. Fagette

1996; Lyon 1996). In this genre, the establishment of the trappings of professionalism, 36 such as licensure and the establishment of professional organizations are of particular importance (Abbott 1988).

More recent approaches to the history of science acknowledge a critical relationship between the external variables and the internal content of the discipline, and that a more complete understanding of scientific change is only possible when an investigator considers the interplay between both realms resulting in the elimination of the divide between external and internal. This approach argues that no real gulf exists between the knowledge produced by a community of scholars and their social, organizational, economic, and political context, and that the character of these contexts significantly shapes the nature of intellectual production (Fuchs 1992; Shapin 1994).

From this perspective, a comprehensive account of archaeological disciplinary history considers not only the interaction of personalities and discourse, but also the interplay between thought and the many components of the social environment. Trigger notes the value of such studies in archaeology, stating that

a historical approach offers a special vantage point from which the changing relations between archaeological interpretation and its social and cultural milieu can be examined…permits the researcher to identify subjective factors by observing how and under what circumstances interpretations of the archaeological record have changed (1989:4)

—practitioners can more fully comprehend the context in which ideas and concepts were crafted. Historical projects allow a more complete understanding of how a discipline produced its body of collective knowledge—the creation of which is the ultimate goal of any discipline. 37

Histories of archaeology have been pursued by variety of scholars and through a

range of approaches, exemplifying the general approaches outlined above.

Archaeological histories have included those produced by practitioners themselves (e.g.

Daniel 1968; Judd 1968; Willey and Sabloff 1993), often describing internal intellectual development as a unilineal, progressive evolution (Laudan 1993:2) guided by the “great men” of the discipline (see Croissant 2000:193-194 for a critique of such approaches).

Many of these internal histories serve to educate new generations of archaeologists about

the landmarks of the discipline, as well as to legitimate or weaken specific intellectual

approaches to the study of the archaeological record (Trigger 1994:114). Croissant

(2000:203) notes the ironic tendency of mainstream histories of archaeology, by

archaeologists, to use implicit and uncritical models of professional development, though mainstream archaeological theory has tended to favor processual explanations in discussions of the cultural dynamics of past human groups. On the other hand,

archaeological outsiders have tended toward histories focusing on analysis and

explanation—the hallmarks of processual archaeology (Watson, LeBlanc and Redman

1971).

A more recent wave of archaeological history, increasingly written by

archaeologists, examines how the discipline is cumulatively shaped by its intellectual,

cultural, and social milieu (e.g. Snead 2001:xvii; Reyman 1992), and many

archaeologists have begun to explicitly analyze the impacts of social factors on the

conduct of their work (see Reid and Whittlesey 2005b). Practitioners have become more

aware that the social environment influences “not only the questions that they ask but 38 also the answers that they judge to be convincing” (Trigger 1989:1). These histories cover topics such as the ascendance of the middle class (e.g. Patterson 1995, 1999;

Trigger 1989), the reproduction of class hierarchies and gender stereotypes (e.g. Gero and

Conkey 1991; Kehoe 1998; McGuire and Walker 1999), changing organizational environments (e.g. Lyon 1996; Rogge 1983) social networks and competition (e.g.

Fowler 1999; O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005; Snead 2001), the stabilization of technique (e.g. Nash 1999), among others (e.g. Chistenson 1989; Kehoe and Emmerichs

1999). Disciplinary outsiders have also examined archaeological history, highlighting the interaction of the discipline and its organizational context (e.g. Embree 1992; Fagette

1996). Wilcox (2005:222) argues that there is much that the history of archaeology can offer to non-archaeological historians, sociologists and philosophers, but implies that the existing body of archaeological history inadequately addresses these larger, general interests. A definitive and conclusive history of a specific discipline will never exist and multiple histories, utilizing a variety of approaches and addressing various levels of subject matter, can only provide the discipline with a more complex and nuanced understanding of itself.

Study Approach and Organization

This project follows the pattern of the latter examples and strives to create a specific account of archaeological disciplinary history that considers not only the interaction of individuals and internal discourse, but also the interplay between thought and social environment. This study’s focus on the recent period of Hohokam 39

archaeology is primarily based on a qualitative assessment of the archaeological literature of the region for the past century and the bibliometric patterns contained within, coupled with archival research. The project is not a history per se, but a historically informed analysis that provides the organizational and institutional context of research to shed light on patterns of intellectual change in Hohokam thought.

Awareness of these relationships fosters a much more complete understanding of important contemporary concepts and issues (Kehoe 1999; Patterson 1995:1; Trigger

1994:115). Approaching history in this way reminds practitioners that knowledge is not produced transparently through data collection, but “against the background of their culture’s inherited knowledge” (Shapin 1982:196), significantly influencing interpretations. This study focuses on the articulations between context and discourse, and utilizes explicit theoretical frameworks, geared toward the explanation of disciplinary change (Croissant 2000:190), contributing to this growing body of literature through the creation of a detailed history of one segment of the discipline experiencing change in both ideas and organization.

This study is concerned with both internal—intellectual content—and external variables—social environment. While the distinction between the two is largely arbitrary, it serves a heuristic goal of categorizing a broad range of social and scientific phenomena. First, the social and organizational context of archaeology is considered.

Any discipline, but especially archaeology, has significant connections to its social environment, as “it is an expensive activity, continues to be sensitive to the interests of 40 institutions” and is “continually shifting and changing relations, so that a development in one can have profound consequences in another” (Patterson 1995:11).

The “social environment” of archaeology (Patterson 1995; Trigger 1989) can possess a slippery, vague and rather overwhelming definition. Undoubtedly, broader issues, like capitalism, the development of the middle class, and colonialism play important roles in the historical shape of scientific disciplines, including archaeology

(Trigger 1989:14; Patterson 1995, 1999). This study, however, focuses on a finer grained level of analysis, where the social environment clearly articulates with the internal dynamics of a scientific discipline. Broad social processes foster or discourage the institutional supports of scholarship—organizations that are the material base of practitioners—but change is most apparent in the proximate institutional and intellectual contexts (Collins 1998:381). For example, the relief archaeology of the 1930s, whose general environment was shaped by the massive economic downturn of the Great

Depression resulted in many specific intellectual and organizational developments in

American archaeology (see Fagette 1996; Lyon 1996). In this study, population growth, post-War economic development, and the expansion of university student populations during the 1950s and 1960s fostered concern for historic and cultural resources, as well as the means for addressing those concerns. These broad social trends created a context in which the basic organizational apparatus of CRM developed and it is within this proximate environment that Hohokam archaeology has operated over the past 40 years.

To understand Hohokam thought requires an explicit consideration of this historical context. 41

The present study attempts to make the social environment more manageable by

clearly defining two specific components of that environment that are considered relevant

(Snead 2001:xviii; Trigger 1994:122). First, changes in the legal environment of

archaeology have had tremendous impact of the discipline and this is where the analysis

of the social milieu begins. The 20th Century witnessed the passage of many significant

pieces of legislation that has had a direct bearing on the conduct of American

archaeology, shaping what work is done and by what means. One of the most important

developments stemming from this legislation was the substantial increase in levels of

funding into the discipline described earlier.

The second level of social influence concerns the structure of organizations

involved in the conduct of archaeological work (Trigger 1989:16). The institutional bases of archaeology have changed dramatically over the discipline’s history, often in

response to legal developments and to better articulate with other relevant non-

archaeological institutions, and such changes have altered the character of the

community. Returning to the example of Depression era archaeology, state involvement

and influence in archaeology significantly shaped the discipline. The suite of legislation

composing the New Deal created the organizational framework and means—Works

Progress Administration, Tennessee Valley Authority, Civilian Conservation Corps—of support for that era’s archaeology. During this period, field methods became much more standardized, academic credentials became essential for legitimate practice, articulations with government agencies were strengthened and practitioners became much more densely interconnected, resulting in the professionalized discipline that characterized 42

archaeology in the second half of the 20th century (Fagette 1996). For the purposes of the

present study, Hohokam archaeologists have moved through a number of institutions,

including private foundations, museums, universities, government agencies, and private

consulting firms. Each of these institutions possesses specific qualities that affect its

ability to successfully articulate with governmental and other non-archaeological

agencies in addition to its ability to conduct scientific research.

Hohokam archaeology provides an intriguing case study to sociologically

examine production of knowledge in an unusual area of scholarship. Unlike many other

disciplines with applied components, the product of CRM archaeology remains the

production of knowledge—corresponding to basic or academic goals—rather than some

more practically relevant product. Subsequently, CRM practitioners must continue to be

active in intellectual production if the discipline’s jurisdiction on this work is to remain

intact (Abbott 1988). In a CRM environment, the discipline has also had to professionally

and organizationally accommodate higher levels of work and funding to maintain control

of their jurisdiction of work. In many professions, such changes could result in an

intellectual division of labor between practice and more abstract, theoretical concerns.

However, Hohokam archaeology has become dominated by practitioners that must practice as well as make intellectual contributions. Hohokam archaeology is in a state of

conflict, pulled toward routinized and practical application while still being driven to produce knowledge.

The following eight chapters detail the context and content of Hohokam

archaeology over most of the 20th century with a particular focus on its last three decades. 43

The following chapter establishes the context of the general history of American

archaeology, paying special attention to legal and institutional developments—the

passage of individual pieces of historic preservation legislation and changing articulations

between archaeology and other organizations. While developments in the internal

content of archaeology are a central component of the Hohokam discussion, they are not addressed in detail at a national level. Similar in scope, Chapter 3 reviews the evolution of Hohokam archaeology until 1970 detailing the development of this regional variety of a national discipline. Chapter 4 outlines the basic theoretical approaches, bibliometric techniques employed in the analyses, and character of the literature sample. Building out this discussion of method and theory, Chapter 5 proposes a contrasting set of specific expectations for how Hohokam discourse may change in light of its evolving organizational environment. The heart of the analysis is contained in Chapters 6, 7, and

8, which cover each of the last three decades of the 20th century, focusing on a number of

issues, including organizational and intellectual developments. Additionally, these

chapters present the results of the citation analyses. The implications of these analyses

are discussed in the conclusion, Chapter 9. 44

CHAPTER 2: SOCIAL, ORGANIZATIONAL, AND LEGAL CONTEXT—A BRIEF HISTORY OF AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGY

A complex web of legal and institutional developments led to the emergence of

CRM archaeology in the United States, which has been responsible for the recent shift in

the discipline’s organization. The rapid expansion of CRM in southern Arizona during

the past 30 years had seeds in broader historical movements and the initial crafting of

historic preservation legislation a century ago. This body of legislation at the core of

CRM argues that remains from the past are “sufficiently important to society that they must be managed” (Neumann and Sanford 2001:6), and designated academically

credentialed archaeologists as major players in that management. Additionally,

archaeologists have navigated through a variety of institutional bases throughout the

discipline’s existence. The subsequent evolution of legislation and intersection with

archaeology’s institutional setting created the organizational environment in which

Hohokam archaeologists found themselves during the last three decades of the 20th century.

As noted, the institutional context and the interests and motivations of those in control of necessary material and social resources significantly shape the conduct of archaeology, or any other kind of research (Snead 2001:xix), and throughout its existence, a variety of institutions have housed archaeology. Traditionally, the discipline has been associated with academic settings, such as museums and universities, and a large number of prominent practitioners remain employed in these contexts. This context 45

is where disciplines define their content and boundaries as well as reproduce themselves

and is subsequently a vital component of scholarly communities. Academia, however, is

not the exclusive home of the discipline as archaeologists also have long and changing associations with other kinds of organizational and institutional bases.

Early Developments in Archaeology

In its earliest incarnations, archaeology was a diversion of interested and wealthy,

generalist practitioners without a specific institutional base (Trigger 1989:69). Thomas

Jefferson is commonly offered as a prime example of the gentleman-scholar

archaeologist—one who could engage in archaeological research simply because he had

the means to do so. The individualistic and idiosyncratic nature of such practice ensured

little continuity in research as no enduring institutions served to maintain such

connections over time. Also, the generalist interests of such practitioners fostered a

general archaeology with little focus on detail and specialization in favor of broader

interests. For example, many of the early entries into southwestern archaeology focused

on the grand culture evolutionary framework of Lewis Henry Morgan. Both ethnographic records of living Native American groups as well as archaeological data

served to support such an all encompassing framework.

During the late 19th century, archaeology made a critical move into a few

developing institutional environments, including government agencies. Some of the

earliest institutionally-based archaeologists were affiliated with private societies,

museums (Patterson 1999:159), federal agencies (Patterson 1995:48) and a small number 46

of university departments (Fagette 1996:xvii). The establishment of archaeologists in

these institutions helped to secure financial support and legitimacy for the discipline as

well as established some means of disciplinary continuity. However, the archaeological

community largely remained a fragmented collection of practitioners, based in these various institutions, until archaeologists accelerated their interactions with government

agencies (Fagette 1996).

While government bodies had long been involved in funding archaeological

research—conducting archaeology and ethnography through the Smithsonian Institution

and Department of the Interior—it was not until the late 1800s that direct involvement

began. Much of this early archaeological work was not done by archaeologists proper, but by surveyors, geologists, naturalists and artists assigned to collect information about newly-added territory in the growing nation (Patterson 1995:48). Archaeological information was sometimes included as a small component of larger comprehensive reports. During much of this time, however, the patronage of private individuals and foundations continued to be necessary to conduct many projects and expeditions (Snead

2001, Trigger 1989:128), suggesting archaeology’s institutional bases and disciplinary continuity remained somewhat tenuous (Collins 1998). During this early era of archaeology, many practitioners also maintained relationships with “relic hunters”— usually residents living near archaeological resources with no formal training—to build the artifact collections of growing museums (Snead 2001). These ties further underscore the “unprofessionalized” character of archaeology during this period. 47

Debates surrounding the identity of the “Mound Builders” instigated the first

direct involvement between government and archaeology (Willey and Sabloff 1993:41).

Monumental earthen features were scattered across the eastern United States and their

daunting size attracted the attention of both the public and scholars. Importantly, the

government and other interested parties wished to determine if these ancient people who

built these massive structures were ancestors of living Native Americans or if they were

more closely related to European Americans, such as through one of the lost tribes of

Israel. In 1878, Congress mandated the Smithsonian Institution to utilize $5,000 to

answer this question (Neumann and Sanford 2001:6; Trigger 1989:126). Cyrus Thomas’

1894 report, arguing for Native American affinity, was the product of this funding.

Using archaeology to answer this historical question, the federal government engaged in

nation-building, creating a heritage for the still young nation (Fowler 1987).

The second half of the 19th century also witnessed the explicit emergence of cultural values that revered the past were important and argued that ties, including archaeological sites, to the past should be protected. As archaeology had and has little legitimate commercial value, prevailing values in a society are crucial to the discipline’s existence. Preceded by contests over the preservation of George Washington’s residence at Mount Vernon and Independence Hall in Philadelphia, the first major legal test of this value came in 1896 in a case before the Supreme Court (Fowler 1982:5). A group of

Civil War veterans brought suit against the Gettysburg Electric Railway Company in order to block the construction of a railroad through the Gettysburg Battlefield site. The

War Department had been involved in the preservation of battlefields since 1888, but this 48

represented the first legal contest. The Supreme Court sided with the veterans and

applied eminent domain, arguing that privately held land may contain historical resources valuable to society which should prevent potentially harmful activities. The historic remains were redefined as important societal resources (Neumann and Sanford 2001:7).

The federal government also began to offer explicit and codified protections to important archaeological sties. In 1892, Casa Grande—an important Hohokam site that is discussed in following chapters—was put under the control of the War Department and was the first prehistoric archaeological site to receive federal protection (Clemson 1992;

Fowler 1982:5). In this instance, the government created and applied a specific legal category for the purpose of preserving an archaeological site.

These actions fostered a growing appreciation of historic and prehistoric sites, but practical problems remained, such as the removal of antiquities, or looting, from such sites. Throughout much of the 19th century, archaeological material had been treated as

an economic resource that groups and individuals mined for economic profit (Snead

2001). The passage of the Antiquities Act of 1906 (16 U.S.C. 431-433), the first major

piece of federal historic preservation legislation, codified how materials at archaeological

sites on federal land were to be treated and who were legitimate custodians of such

resources. The law required a permit from the Secretary of the Interior in order for any

recovery of archaeological material from federal land as well as gave the government the

authority to set up national monuments (Fish 1980:686; Fowler 1982:5), further defining

how historic properties were to be treated. Importantly, this law formalized the

distinction between legitimate practitioners of archaeology from amateurs, creating 49

boundaries for the discipline. The act gave priority to practitioners who were established

at institutional bases and not residents that lived near such sites (Rothman 1989). The

development of distinct boundaries provides a community of scholars more common

interests and motivations and fosters a professional and communal perspective, rather

than that of a collection of fragmented practitioners. From this period on, government

would play a central role in the history of the discipline.

Government and Archaeology

While many of the previous developments were spurred by cultural imperatives,

valuing the past, other economic and political forces exerted dramatic effects on

American archaeology. The implementation of New Deal legislation throughout the

1930s marked one such significant turning point for American archaeology, augmenting relationships between the community of practitioners and creating the basic framework for the professionalized discipline characteristic of the second half of the 20th century

(Fagette 1996; Lyon 1996).

The New Deal, composed of a series of laws and organizations, was offered as a

federal remedy to the multitude of social and economic problems brought on by the Great

Depression. One of the central goals of the New Deal was the rapid infusion of large amounts of money into the economy, through the mechanism of large, labor-intensive projects in regions with high unemployment. New Deal projects covered a wide range of activities, including the construction of highways, bridges, and public buildings to the writing of local histories, photography, music, and education, as well as archaeology 50

(Fagette 1996). The qualities of archaeological work were attractive to New Deal administration, as projects utilized large amounts of unskilled labor, and did not compete with the private sector (Folwer 1986:145; Patterson 1999:161).

This substantial funding spurred unprecedented amounts of new archaeological work. Archaeologists working in the American Southeast experienced the most relief archaeology (Fagette 1996; Lyon 1996), which resulted in significant advances in knowledge of the region’s prehistory through the building of culture-historical sequences, formally established professional organizations out of preexisting informal networks, and standardized field practices (Fagette 1996). The American Southwest was also the scene of New Deal archaeology including in the Hohokam region with excavations under relief auspices occurring at University Indian Ruin in Tucson and Pueblo Grande in Phoenix

(Bostwick 1993; Downum 1993; Hayden 1957; Wilcox 1993a), though its impact was limited compared to other regions. However, these government-discipline interactions established precedent for later relationships that would be strengthened during the CRM era.

The developments instigated by New Deal archaeology did not only result in the excavation of more sites, but affected the basic structure of the discipline. The more bureaucratic and centralized character of relief work resulted in greater interaction between archaeologists, standardization in training practices (Fagette 1996; Patterson

1995:74), and articulation with government agencies—all of which formed the basis for a professionalized and more integrated archaeology in the second half of the 20th Century

(Fagette 1996). The establishment of the Society for American Archaeology (SAA), still 51

the major professional organization of the discipline, dates to this time (Griffin 1985).

Such networks were critical for furthering relationships with sources of material support.

The newly formed SAA extensively lobbied for the passage of the 1935 Historic Sites

Act , which would further augment the relationship between the government and

archaeology and maintain professional archaeology’s control of historic resources

(Patterson 1995:75).

Additionally, this period witnessed the development of university training as a

near necessity for legitimate practice. The boundary between amateur and professional had been explicitly drawn with the 1906 act and was augmented in the practice of New

Deal archaeology. The implementation of New Deal projects required a large pool of

competent practitioners to fill supervisory positions. Primarily, university and museum

anthropology departments provided this reservoir, though even this reserve was

insufficient, which spurred continued growth in these departments (Patterson 1995:74).

Combined with extant legislation, the jurisdiction of academically trained archaeologists

to archaeological work further solidified.

WPA archaeology is also associated with a suite of negative characteristics.

Retrospective assessments often paint relief archaeology as excessively bureaucratic,

plagued by poor quality fieldwork, more concerned with moving dirt than answering

questions about the past, and a marked lack of analysis and publication after fieldwork

(Neumann and Sanford 2001:10; Wendorf and Thompson 2002:318). While the relief

era was characterized by increasing technical standardization, archaeologists called for

even more systemization (Guthe 1939). 52

Throughout this same period, a variety of important pieces of legislation were

passed, building on the 1906 Act. These laws further cemented relationships between the

academic community and government agencies and strengthened the legitimacy of

archaeologists as the appropriate agents to manage and control archaeological resources.

In 1935, the Historic Sites Act (16 U.S.C. 461-467) assigned the Secretary of the Interior,

through the National Park Service (NPS), a managing role in a continuing program of

documentation, interpretation and commemoration of sites important to national history

(Fowler 1982:5; King 1998:14). The law sought to bring federal decisions concerning

historic structures, battlefields, and antiquities under one policy, though it largely

neglected prehistoric resources (Neumann and Sanford 2001:8). This act took

precedence over similar legislation, such as the 1906 Antiquities Act, but still applied

only to lands under federal management. By 1945, this legislation led to the formation of

the Inter-Agency Archaeological Salvage Program—combining the efforts of NPS, the

Smithsonian Institution, the Bureau of Reclamation, and the Army Corps of Engineers to

identify, evaluate and mitigate archaeological resources to be impacted by the construction of new reservoirs (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:159).

The 1935 act explicitly described archaeological remains as “significant” and deserving of preservation because of the benefits and inspiration they provided to living

Americans (Fish 1980:689; Fowler 1982:6). These sentiments represented the further codification of cultural values associated with archaeological resources. A year later, the

Park, Parkway, and Recreational Area Study Act passed, and National Park Service

(NPS) archaeologists hoped the law would encourage construction agencies to shoulder 53 part of the financial burden of archaeology (Wendorf and Thompson 2002:322). Placing some financial responsibility on non-archaeological bodies, often with much larger budgets, would ultimately play a pivotal role in the emergence of CRM.

While political and economic circumstances changed dramatically from the New

Deal to the post-World War II era, archaeology maintained critical linkages between the discipline and government agencies. The relative prosperity of the United States during the post-war period allowed significant industrial expansion, alarming those concerned with historic preservation, and further the continued relationship between the federal government and archaeology (Fowler 1982:6; Wendorf and Thompson 2002:320). Some of the results of this concern included post-war Corps of Engineer projects, such as the

River Basin Survey (RBS) archaeology, which salvaged archaeological data prior to dam construction along the Missouri River (Jennings 1985). RBS archaeology explicitly attempted to raise the quality of work done under extra-academic circumstances, hoping to remedy the perceived deficiencies of WPA archaeology, as many archaeologists described the massive relief projects as “not centrally planned or controlled, and the result was chaos” and “the onslaught of fast-moving relief archaeology appeared just at the time when American archaeology was becoming more concerned with excavation methods and standards, but before those standards were clearly articulated or accepted”

(Wendorf and Thompson 2002:318). RBS surveys were largely modeled on the what was seen as the most successful of the relief programs, the Tennessee Valley Authority

(TVA), and its structure of centralized planning (Wendorf and Thompson 2002:319). 54

The Missouri Basin Project, one of the first RBS endeavors, began in 1945 when

the Missouri River was to be dammed for flood control and energy production (Lehmer

1971). The Corps of Engineers, through archaeologists at the Smithsonian Institution

(SI), contacted the SAA, the American Anthropological Association (AAA), and the

Council of Learned Societies to organize archaeological work in preparation for dam construction. These academic associations each contributed members to the newly formed Committee for the Recovery of Archaeological Remains (CRAR) (Johnson,

Haury, Griffin 1945), which aimed to create efficient organizational interfaces between the government and archaeology to ensure the quality of archaeological work.

Additionally, this committee lobbied Congress through the explanation of the public benefits of federally funded archaeological work (Neumann and Sanford 2001:14;

Patterson 1995:79; Wendorf and Thompson 2002). This initial committee consisted of

Frederick Johnson of the Robert S. Peabody Foundation for Archaeology, James Griffin of the University of Michigan, and Emil Haury of the University of Arizona. Haury was not only involved in negotiating the discipline’s organizational environment, but also played a fundamental role in shaping the intellectual character of Hohokam archaeology.

A formal cooperative agreement between the NPS and SI allowed the beginnings of actual fieldwork by 1946. RBS archaeology also included the practice of subcontracting

aspects of work to private companies as a way to streamline project management

Like the relief archaeology of the Great Depression, the experience of RBS

archaeology also left an impressive legacy in the discipline. Most individuals involved

with RBS projects were primarily employed in universities or museums, though some 55

maintained government positions, continuing the intermingling of archaeology, government agencies, and legislation. In 1966, John O. Brew, CRAR member, urged

George B. Hartzog, director of the NPS, to combine several disconnected NPS historic

and archaeological programs into one. The result was the Office of Archaeology and

Historic Preservation (OAHP), which “created the infrastructure that supports federal

efforts in archaeological and historic preservation to this day” (Wendorf and Thompson

2002:326). Additionally, RBS archaeology affirmed the scientific value of the work,

created many state archaeological surveys, and began shifting costs from federal to local

and private agencies (Patterson 1995:80).

Two new pieces of federal legislation passed during the RBS era, which increased

levels of funding directed at archaeological work (Roberts, Ahlstrom, and Roth 2004:9).

The Reservoir Salvage Act of 1960 was a direct consequence of RBS archaeology and

secured funding and institutional support for salvage fieldwork—consultations, survey,

and fieldwork—before reservoir construction (Neumann and Sanford 2001:16).

Eventually, this law was amended to allow federal agencies to dedicate up to 1% of total

project costs to the mitigation of impacted cultural resources (Fowler 1982:9). Passed a

few years earlier, the Federal Aid Highway Act of 1956 required consideration of

archaeological resources prior to the construction of the new interstate highway system

(for a review of Mexican revolutionary, Pancho Villa’s role see Thompson 2004). This

act provided funds for survey and excavation for emergency archaeology (Fish 1980) and

made matching federal funds available for the excavation of sites to be impacted by new

highways. Both the 1956 and 1960 acts mandated consideration of archaeological data 56

recovery prior to the undertaking of federally sponsored projects that would impact those

remains—an important feature of later legislation (Neumann and Sanford 2001:16).

Additionally, these laws allowed for non-archaeological federal agencies to bear some of

the financial burden of archaeological research.

Another result of the United States’ prosperity and experiences during World War

II was the establishment of the National Science Foundation (NSF), whose support of

archaeological work began in 1954 (Yellen and Greene 1985). Seeking to continue capitalizing on the nation’s scientific talent that proved useful during the war, the NSF

supported basic research—the researcher defined the questions—through a system that

allowed a high degree of individual disciplinary autonomy (Mukerji 1989). This

organization would also fundamentally alter the character of the discipline, especially for

those based primarily in academia. The availability of NSF funding allowed

archaeology’s rapidly expanding numbers to more easily conduct new fieldwork

(Neumann and Sanford 2001:7). NSF had increased funding to archaeology projects

from $30,000 to $2 million through its first 12 years (Patterson 1995:80-81). The size of

American archaeology corresponded demographically during the same period and from

1951 to 1966, SAA membership grew from 710 to 1,707. NSF funding also offered

archaeologists much more freedom in the choice of region and research problem than

RBS work had (Kehoe 1998:126)—an obstacle that will reemerge with the development

of CRM. The research freedom allowed by such material support has largely defined the

manner in which archaeologists based in academia operate. Additionally, the presence of

NSF encouraged archaeologists to have a research plan in place well before going into 57

the field and to select sources of data according to research questions. Anthropological

archaeology increasingly positioned itself as a “scientific” discipline in response to the

creation of this funding source (Kehoe 1998:126). By the 1980s, however, archaeologists

warned that NSF would diminish in its ability to support domestic archaeological

research (Casteel 1980). While NSF has continued to fund archaeological research—

close to $5 million in 2005—the cautions highlighted the growing important of other,

contract sources of funding.

Historic Preservation Legislation of the Late 20TH Century

Developing along with RBS archaeology and continuing through the 1960s and

1970s, extra-academic archaeology became increasingly identified with CRM— stemming from the continuing proliferation and growing strength of historic preservation legislation (Fowler 1984:4). This period witnessed an accelerated proliferation of legislation that would continue transforming the discipline. Broad social processes were unfolding that would create the context for the development of CRM. The 1950s and 60s were the scene of national population growth—exemplified by the “Baby Boom,” and the consequent expansion of college enrollments and increases in urban development. These conditions gave rise to social movements, such as historic preservation interest groups, who highlighted emergent problems, such as the destruction of properties with historical value. The definition of “problems” is an important part of professional environments as such problems become subject of professional work (Abbott 1988:149). Codified by legislation, archaeologists redefined their work around the problems—destruction of 58

historic resources—created by economic development. The legislative developments of

the late 20th century shifted archaeological work associated with development from a

salvage footing to one where archaeological problems were more actively considered and

made part of the planning process (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:153).

The National Historic Preservation Act of 1966 (NHPA) became part of a

legislative remedy to the troubling issues created by accelerating economic development

(Fish 1980:690; King 1998:15-16). The law mandated the National Park Service to

maintain a register of historic places, to create an historical preservation advisory council

and to provide grants to states for the purpose of historic preservation. NHPA created a

system for the protection of archaeological resources by placing properties defined as

significant on the National Register of Historic Places (Fowler 1984:3). Properties were

deemed significant through application of four basic criteria; were associated with an

important historical (a) event or (b) person, (c)exemplified a distinctive historical style, or

(d) had the potential to address important research questions—the most common use of significance in the archaeology of pre-contact peoples.

Importantly, Section 106 of NHPA required any agency, using public funding or land, to assess the potential impact of proposed plans and projects on sites that were listed on the National Register of Historic Places. While NHPA does not always save cultural resources from economic development, it requires a process that alerts interested parties to possible impacts and allows those parties to mobilize in order to protect those resources (Fowler 1984:3). Additionally, NHPA marked a shift in perspective, because cultural properties other than just ones important to American history more explicitly fell 59

under legal protection, including prehistoric archaeological sites (Fowler 1984:7).

American archaeologists understood the potential for the discipline as the SAA had lobbied extensively for the passage of this legislation (Patterson 1995:108) and NHPA’s effects on “the scale of archaeological work…was staggering” (Neumann and Sanford

2001:17). By the late 1970s, CRM archaeological research was a $300 million a year industry, while NSF funded research in from 1975-1979 combined to a total of about

$10.5 million (Yellen and Greene 1985:334).

In 1971, Executive Order 11593 expanded the scope of Section 106 of NHPA to include sites potentially eligible for placement on the register and provided methods to determine eligibility (later amended into NHPA itself). This mandate forced land management agencies, like the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) and the United

States Forest Service (USFS), to create positions dedicated to managing cultural resources under their responsibility (Fowler 1982:8; O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer

2005:160), which became a major source of opportunity for the growing number of archaeologists with advanced degrees who had limited chances at academic positions.

These positions represented another employment avenue for archaeologists and crystallized an articulation between government agencies and academic archaeology.

NHPA created two other important organizations (Fowler 1982:7). The Advisory

Council on Historic Preservation (ACHP) served to advise the President and Congress on matters concerning historic preservation. ACHP suggestions were not originally binding, but the Carter administration mandated their statements as real legal requirements (King

1998:20), though agencies could still proceed with plans even if they are determined to 60

have an adverse effect (Fowler 1982:9). The ACHP consisted of 20 members, including presidentially appointed lay and expert members as well as members of several federal

agencies, local, and state governments. The ACHP and National Register were later

consolidated into the same organizational structure of the Office of Archeology and

Historic Preservation (OAHP).

Also, Section 110 of NHPA was responsible for the establishment of State

Historic Preservation Offices (SHPO), originally called State Liaison Offices, to administer federal grants to assist in historic preservation projects (Fowler 1982:9;

Gregonis and Hardy 2004:25). SHPOs further changed as a result of Carter’s 1979 memorandum. Agencies were encouraged to look to SHPOs during all stages of an undertaking involving historic preservation (King 1998:20). If any undertaking was deemed to have the potential of impacting archaeological resources, the SHPO was to be consulted.

As the SHPO evolved, it became one of the most important and consistently involved parties in CRM archaeological research. When a developing agency—such as a department of transportation or a private developer—decides that archaeological mitigation is necessary, it crafts a Scope of Work (SOW) plan that outlines the nature of necessary work. Often, the SHPO is actively involved in this process as SHPO satisfaction with the standards and quality of archaeological work will be necessary if legal mandates are to be met (Neumann and Sanford 2001:58). Inclusion of SHPO in the

SOW process helps to ensure that resulting work will meet those standards. The SHPO often served to facilitate a client’s understanding of why archaeological mitigation was 61

necessary (Gregonis and Hardy 2004:27). SHPOs also have their own conception of the

important questions and issues in the state’s archaeology—sometimes codified in historic

preservation plans—and shape the SOW, which in turn shapes the archaeology that is to

be completed. CRM archaeologists then respond with proposals to these calls and integrate their own research interests and concerns, however, the hand of both the SHPO and the needs of the client are embedded within, resulting in the loss of some research autonomy for a purely academic archaeology. The archaeological organization must tailor its interests to both those crafted by the interplay of SHPO and client, as well as to the pre-selected source of data that is to be impacted by the client’s activities.

SHPOs’ responsibilities also include the maintenance of lists that structure active practitioners and research directions. Amendments to NHPA called for SHPOs to develop comprehensive archaeological preservation plans (Gregonis and Hardy 2004:25).

Each SHPO was charged with developing a plan that outline basic culture history of the

state as well as identify central questions for the archaeology of the region. These

contexts can serve to focus disparate researchers on a central set of research questions.

Additionally, each state’s SHPO maintains a register of practicing CRM archaeological

organizations that clients who need such services can refer. Subsequently, this list serves

as an explicit limit of who will and who will not get CRM contracts. While it is possible

for a non-listed firm to win a contract, it is unlikely as most private clients are ignorant of

the CRM industry and require a guide to find needed specialists.

Other SHPO responsibilities include nominating properties to the National

Register, creating a statewide preservation plan, participating in Section 106 reviews, and 62

maintaining statewide inventories of historic places (King 1998:30). The establishment

of such clearing houses provided the results of disparate projects some manner of

integration—SHPOs serve as a centripetal force maintaining cohesion and focus in the

discipline. The SHPO represents a central network through which practitioners are

integrated.

Passed on the same day as NHPA, the Department of Transportation Act of 1966

required cultural resources be explicitly considered in the course of planning new projects

(O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:159). Section 4(f) of the act stipulates that any road

construction utilizing federal funds or lands should attempt to minimize any potential

destructive impact on natural, historic or cultural resources. Cultural resources should

only be impacted if all other feasible alternatives have been explored and planning strives

to minimize any possible damage to those resources.

Strongly conservationist, the National Environmental Policy Act of 1969 (NEPA)

paralleled much of the intent of NHPA, but expanded its scope to the entire environment

(Fish 1980:692), as cultural resources were explicitly a part of NEPA’s definition of environment. The thrust of NEPA was that potential projects must explicitly consider the wide range of consequences they may have on the total human environment (Fowler

1984:2) and that these considerations be a primary component of the planning process so that any consequences would be well known before a project was initiated. The more comprehensive concerns of NEPA required all federal agencies to develop organizational mechanisms to assess potential environmental impacts (King 1998:17). Other federal 63

legislation followed, and many state and local governments have followed the federal

lead and crafted similar legislation.

The Archaeological and Historical Preservation Act of 1974 (Moss-Bennett Act) further strengthened historic preservation legislation though its modification of the 1960

Reservoir Salvage Act. Intense archaeological interest surrounded the bill and

practitioners were active in its lobbying (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:162). All

federal agencies were required to archaeologically mitigate all properties that might be

destroyed through their activities (Fish 1980:693). Most importantly, the act authorized

Federal agencies to utilize up to one percent of a project’s funding to ensure the preservation of, or collection of data from archaeological resources that may be negatively impacted by any undertaking (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:162).

Kehoe (1998:147) argues this piece of legislation was the major catalyst shifting the center of archaeology’s gravity from academia to the private sector as the material support for archaeological work shifted. In 1979, the Archeological Resources Protection

Act (ARPA) replaced the 1906 Antiquities Act and provided stricter and more severe sanctions—forced repair or reparation for losses of cultural material—for the unlawful removal of historic or prehistoric objects from federal lands.

At a general level, this body of legislation requires that agencies considering actions with potential to damage archaeological resources mitigate those adverse effects, often through archaeological data collection. These laws led to the development of

Cultural Resource Management (CRM) (Green and Doershuk 1998; King 1998;

Neumann and Sanford 2001). CRM is dedicated to archaeological work in those areas 64 threatened by development. The onset of CRM ushered in an era of greatly expanded opportunities for professional archaeologists as new sources of employment and funding became available. Archaeological research that might never have been conducted in purely academic contexts, was mandated by law. These developments were not without cost to the discipline’s autonomy, however, as the role of non-archaeologists in the implementation of research increased—archaeological work was no longer solely directed by the questions of archaeologists, but also toward the satisfaction of legal requirements.

The definition of what qualifies an archaeologist as “professional” was also further codified into law. Guidelines stipulated that archaeologists working under

Federal contracts possess an academic degree in anthropological archaeology. This marks the continuation of a trend begun with the 1906 act and added to the division between who can be defined as a legitimate archaeological practitioner. So, while academic and CRM archaeologists were and are sometimes based in different organizations, they remained bound together by training required by this statute.

Interactions between CRM and academia continued past training, as some fundamental steps of legal compliance are continually shaped by academic concerns. Section 106 of

NHPA outlines the procedure for listing a property on the National Register of Historic

Places, otherwise known as determining a site’s significance. Most often archaeologists invoke criterion d, which states that a site can achieve significance if it “has potential to provide data important for addressing major research questions” (36 CFR 60.4). A critical source of major research questions is academic archaeology, as academics of a 65

profession “develop abstract, formal knowledge systems” (Abbott 1988:53) and define

for government agencies what quality research is (Mukerji 1989:6). Subsequently, the

everyday practice of CRM archaeology remains significantly shaped by the knowledge

systems constructed by academic archaeologists.

Archaeologists adapted to this new work environment, utilizing a variety of

organizational bases. Initially, practitioners at traditional archaeological institutions, such

as universities and museums accepted contracts to conduct needed archaeological work

(Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004). The salvage archaeology associated with the RBS

and highway salvage was very much mainstream in the sense that it was largely carried

out by academic institutions such as university anthropology departments and museum

with strong academic connections. These practitioners had strong anthropological

backgrounds and the goals were strictly archaeological ones—specifically to solve

archaeological problems, preserve archaeological data, and conserve archaeological sites for future study (Paul Fish personal communication).

Subsequently, for profit and some not-for-profit firms have also become major participants in CRM archaeology. This transition, which marks the appearance of modern cultural resource management, from academic to non-academic archaeology marks an important threshold in the preservation/conservation arena in the 1980s. With the appearance of this form of cultural resource management, traditional anthropological goals shift in important ways so that archaeology can appeal to a broader array of constituencies. Alliances with preservation institutions that are decidedly non- anthropological with historical were made and multi-cultural objectives often conflicting 66

or minimally separate from research ones became paramount. This shift correlates with

oversight of archaeological programs from the National Park Service to historic

preservation and heritage organizations. Legislation reflected in the legislation of the late

1970s such as the National Historic Preservation Act and early 1980s such as the Native

Graves Protection and Repatriation Act, highlighting the interests and role of non- archaeologists in archaeological work.

The preceding brief review of some of relevant historic preservation legislation and the attendant organizational changes represents a superficial glance to the myriad of laws, organizations and players important to the conduct of CRM in the United States.

Additionally, the CRM environment is a fluid one and has and continues to change.

Despite the brevity of discussion, the basic outlines of a new organizational structure have been sketched. My purpose in this project is to describe relatively general changes in the intellectual structure of Hohokam archaeology, so a relatively general depiction of its organizational structure is appropriate.

The Beginnings of CRM in Arizona: Highway Salvage at ASM

American archaeology had experienced tremendous change in its legal and institutional environment at a national level as the result of recent developments described above. The impact of this shift is evidenced in the history of archaeological research in southern Arizona and the responses of institutions to this changing context.

From an organizational perspective, the emergence of CRM entailed the strengthening of relationships between archaeologists and non-academic varieties of institutions, such as 67

government bodies and private organizations. The academic community became even

more deeply connected to those outside the discipline. In addition, the goals of CRM archaeology included both those of traditional archaeology—answering anthropological questions about human groups in the past—but also had to satisfy legal requirements, which were the goals of other parties with their own goals and motivations.

These changes were especially salient in southern Arizona. Post-war America witnessed tremendous economic booms and urban growth throughout the nation, especially in the West. Large numbers of people were migrating from traditional population centers in the United States, such as the East Coast and Upper Mid-West to the warmer climate of the American Southwest. The rapid growth entailed accelerated urban and infrastructural development to meet the expanding demands of the new immigrants (Gumerman 1991). This process coincided with much of the legislation described above and similar state law and resulted in the coalescence of CRM.

Subsequently, the archaeological workload of the region ballooned (Doyel 1985).

Southern Arizona had been the scene of earlier archaeological research that is detailed in

Chapter 3. Initially, existing archaeological institutions assumed responsibility for the necessary archaeological work, reconfiguring to adapt to the changing conditions.

For Hohokam archaeology before 1970, the primary institution participating in these dynamics was the Arizona State Museum (ASM) on the campus of the University of Arizona. ASM, since its founding as the Arizona Territorial Museum in 1893, had a long history with the archaeology of the state. ASM served and continues to serve as the agency responsible for the archaeological remains of the state. The institution issues 68

permits for archaeological work on state lands, as required by the 1927 and 1960 Arizona

Antiquities Act, and curates materials recovered.

Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, accelerated road construction led to the

increased disturbance of archaeological remains throughout Arizona, stimulating concern

among archaeologists. Discussions between the archaeological community—especially

Emil Haury, who was Director of ASM and Head of the University of Arizona’s

anthropology department, and the Arizona Highway Department (AHD), private

construction firms, and federal agencies, such as the National Park Service, led to an

agreement by which AHD contacted ASM when archaeological materials were recovered

during the course of construction. As early as 1938 Emil Haury began lobbying the

Arizona Highway Department (AHD) to accept a plan to mitigate the damage done to

archaeological resources by highway construction (Thompson 2004:122). The plan was

sporadically implemented, resulting in the continued destruction of sites by expanding

highway systems. The establishment of the program of highway salvage archaeology at

ASM marked the beginning of CRM in southern Arizona and played a significant role in further developments in of Hohokam archaeology. From this initial informal arrangement, Arizona’s archaeology would grow tremendously, as AHD, later the

Arizona Department of Transportation (ADOT), would be one of the major funding

sources of large CRM projects throughout southern Arizona over the next 40 years

(Altschul 2004; Rosenberg 2004). Additionally, ADOT acted as the local agent of the

Federal Highway Administration in the management of federal highway projects in the

state. 69

Haury noticed the increasing amounts of construction throughout the state,

understood its potential impact on archaeological resources, and envisioned a program

specifically dedicated to overseeing highway salvage projects. The growing number of

reports of potentially impact sites proved too many for Haury to manage individually. In

1954 he submitted a budget request for the following year to university administration for

the establishment of a position of State Archaeologist to respond to highway reports

(Thompson 2004:122). This request was ultimately funded allowing William Wasley to

assume the role.

A more formalized program of highway salvage was first agreed to through a meeting between Haury and AHD officer, Robert Stifler in 1955 (Crowley 1979:6;

Roberts, Ahlstrom, and Roth 2004; Wasley 1957). Haury’s plans were influenced by his

frequent exchanges with Fred Wendorf who had established the first funded highway

salvage program in the United States (Thompson 2004:123). The Arizona program was designed to inspect highway projects for archaeological remains before construction began, and was modeled on a similar program founded a year earlier in New Mexico.

Originally, Haury envisioned that the existing archaeological institutions in the state would take responsibility for the salvage work in their surrounding areas. These

institutions were ASM, the Museum of Northern Arizona (MNA), the Amerind

Foundation, and the Pueblo Grande Museum. In actuality, Amerind and Pueblo Grande

never became part of the salvage program, leaving the duties for ASM and MNA. MNA

covered salvage projects in the northern part of the state, and ASM the south. 70

Despite Haury’s efforts (Haury, Harvill, and Wasley 1956), outside funding

remained elusive in the first five years for Highway Salvage projects. However, Haury

forcefully pushed the Arizona state legislature to pass state historic preservation

legislation that resulted in the Arizona Antiquities Act of 1960 (Haury 1960)—revising

the 1927 version—reinforcing at a state level the further consideration of archaeological

resources. Wasley quickly utilized the legislation to petition the state for increased

funding for highway projects (Thompson 2004:124).

The program operated through the cooperation of several institutions. The

Arizona Department of Game and Fish, AHD, and many other city governments included

clauses in their construction contracts stating that officials at ASM should be notified

when archaeological materials were encountered. Beginning October of 1955, AHD started providing ASM with copies of roadway plans and in April 1956 with locations of material pits created during road construction. Usually, ASM personnel would then check site survey records to ascertain if any recorded archaeological sites were in those locations. Occasionally, reconnaissance surveys were conducted to physically check for sites in both future road ways and sources where construction materials were to be extracted. If sites required excavation, salvage personnel were committed to completing work without interrupting construction schedules and with a minimum of labor.

Individual contracts were negotiated for each section of highway excavated, but if excavations were considered impractical, construction would proceed without mitigation.

During this early incarnation, the salvage program basically tried to keep up with accelerating construction activities. 71

In its first year of operation, the salvage program was funded entirely by ASM

and MNA, with AHD merely providing construction plans for future projects. Some financial aid for highway archaeology finally arrived through the construction of the

Interstate road system. While, the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1938 marked the beginning of the Interstate’s development, actual construction did not begin until the mid-

1950s. The Federal-Aid Highway and Highway Revenue Acts of 1956 stipulated that

steps should be taken to minimize damage to archaeological resources and provided some funding for their treatment (Neumann and Sanford 2001:15). Federal matching funds were made available for the excavation of sites to be destroyed by Interstate construction,

but not for surveys, analysis, publication or curation. Federal money was unavailable for

salvage on non-Federal-Aid Highway projects, including Arizona’s system of state roads.

In 1957, the average cost of ASM salvage projects that included excavation was about

$500 (Wasley 1957).

This program relied on the effective communication of highway project location between AHD and ASM. This communication did not always occur, however, as ASM personnel often had to request project information from AHD only after learning that road construction had already begun. Known sites were sometimes destroyed, which ultimately led to a redefinition of the relationship between AHD and ASM (Wasley 1958

ASM Memo).

The first individual in charge of the salvage program would eventually have a significant impact on the content of Hohokam archaeology. William Wasley joined ASM

September 1, 1955 as an assistant archaeologist. Importantly, the position included the 72

administration of salvage archaeology activities. While Wasley the first position at ASM significantly dedicated toward salvage archaeology, he also attended to many other archaeological issues throughout the state. Wasley’s general position also charged him with the protection of archaeological resources on state and federal lands. This enormous task included investigating reports of archaeological materials and educating the public on the importance of the scientific documentation of archaeological remains.

While a primary function of the salvage program was to facilitate road construction, ASM was also concerned with getting the results of such research to the public and the academic community. Wasley noted that “when an authorized institution undertakes an excavation, it incurs an obligation to make available its findings to others

by means of a published report containing all of the pertinent data” (1957:7). A series,

Contributions to Highway Salvage Archaeology in Arizona, was designed to disseminate this information to the interested public. These reports would primarily be published through the journal of the Arizona Archaeological and Historical Society, The Kiva, or other relevant publications.

The initial formation of the salvage program represented an early attempt at articulating an archaeological organization with larger, and ultimately more powerful non-academic ones. This early period of ASM highway salvage represents a period of largely ad hoc adjustment to changing conditions. ASM served as the most capable and credible institutional candidate to take responsibility for the work, and within its institutional constraints, adapted to the new situation. Government agencies provided

ASM with attractive resources—knowledge of locations that may be destroyed and 73 sometimes funding to mitigate those locations. However, as the goals of these various organizations differed significantly, problems emerged. Work continued on a relatively sporadic basis for the first decade of highway salvage’s existence. Eventually the construction of ever growing networks of roads outstripped the ability of the museums to accomplish the necessary work. Communication problems between AHD and ASM sometimes resulted in construction project beginning before any archaeological clearance could occur. As previously noted, some road projects destroyed archaeological sites before an investigator could document them (Crowley 1979). Additionally, data processing and publication suffered because salvage time had to be dedicated to the basic activities of site file checks, survey, and necessary excavations. This situation finally led to a redefinition of highway salvage and of the relationship between ASM and AHD.

Formalization of Highway Salvage into CRMD

After roughly a decade of the informal program, the relationship between ASM at the state was restructured. The continued operation of the program stimulated efforts to formalize it from its ad hoc form and create more permanent organizational structures. In the early 1960s, Haury continued his lobbying efforts to increase state funding, resulting in a meeting attended by Haury, Wasley, Reynold Ruppe of ASU, Danson and Alan

Olson of MNA, the state highway engineer, the attorney general and an assistant to the governor. At this meeting, $25,000 was put into AHD’s administrative budget for the purposes of archaeological salvage work (Thompson 2004:125). The money was not authorized until 1964 and in June of that year, AHD also agreed to a six month trial 74

contract with ASM, giving the museum statewide responsibility to conduct

archaeological work prior to road construction activities. The Highway Salvage program was under the ultimate supervision of ASM Director, Raymond Thompson, but importantly, the contract created the position of State Highway Archaeologist that was funded by AHD. The museum agreed to employ a competent and qualified archaeologist

in the position, whose sole concern would be salvage related work. R. Gwinn Vivian was

hired as the first State Highway Archaeologist during the contract’s trial duration. As

presented in the contract, the duties of the Highway Archaeologist would include

determining if archaeological remains lay in the path of construction, providing AHD

with the location of any sites, and recommending provisions of additional contracts for

necessary excavations. Priority in salvage work was to be given to Interstate projects,

and then state primary and secondary roads. The highway archaeologist was also to work closely with the Advance Planning Division of AHD to coordinate archaeological activities prior to the beginning of road construction (Tolles 1973). The increased formalization and delineation of duties resulted in a more effective relationship between the two organizations.

In addition to the highway archaeologist’s salary, AHD agreed to provide funds for survey, transportation, per diem, short-term excavations, and the publication of reports. Other federal and state funds were still available for excavation, as per the

Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956. Excavation contracts for sites relevant to state projects would be negotiated on a per project basis. 75

Due to the project’s perceived success at streamlining the interaction between

ASM and AHD, the project was renewed on an annual basis beginning June 1, 1965. The

program benefited from consistent administration and coordination between AHD and

ASM increased. While the State Highway Archaeologist, Vivian, was based out of ASM,

MNA still participated in the program, continuing their coverage of projects in the northern parts of the state. During its first full year of existence, the State Program in

Salvage Archaeology (SPSA) surveyed 336.3 miles, 208 material pits, and ASM excavated 15 sites, including Hohokam sites in the Santa Cruz Valley (Vivian 1966).

The annual contract was renewed until 1981, though the program had changed significantly by that time and would continue to evolve under different labels.

The staff of SPSA grew during its first years to cope with formidable levels of work. Through correspondence with AHD, Vivian lamented the time necessary for

administrative duties, but expressed relief that Wasley would soon be back from

Snaketown and could again assist with SPSA duties. Wasley, however, quickly became

involved in other projects, including the search for Father Kino’s grave and the original

migration route of the Hohokam (Bowen 2002), leaving salvage work to Vivian. To

assist with the formidable backlog of projects, analysis, and reports, AHD authorized the

creation of the position of Assistant Highway Salvage Archaeologist, beginning in June

1966 (Vivian 1966). Laurens C. Hammack first held this position and concentrated on

unfinished projects as well as the survey of state primary and secondary roads. The

salvage program continued to experience rapid reconfiguration to adapt to the demands of

the new environment. Following DiMaggio and Powell (1991), the structure of SPSA 76

was evolving in order to more effectively interact with AHD, rather than only for the

conduct of archaeological work.

Taking advantage of the potential labor pool provided by the state’s graduate

student population, a summer survey position was also established through the contract.

A backlog of surveys existed during the initial operation of SPSA and Vivian wanted to

complete these during the summer, when student labor was available. Several notable archaeologists worked for SPSA during this period, including Paul Fish, Paul Grebinger,

Jonathan Haas, Bruce Harrill, E .Thomas Hemmings, Bruce Huckell, Peter Pillies, and

Carol Weed (Hammack 1968; Vivian 1967, 1969, 1970). While SPSA strived to satisfy

AHD goals, it also focused energies on meeting those of the archaeological community.

The leadership of ASM recognized that the results of salvage projects should be communicated to the discipline. Subsequently, new positions, funded by the museum, were created specifically for salvage work. In January 1966, ASM Director, Raymond

Thompson, created a part-time position titled Museum Assistant in Research for Highway

Salvage, to be held by a graduate student, first by Jeffrey Brown. Duties of this position included researching materials and data recovered through salvage projects with a goal of publishing the results. Thompson designated another similar position in May 1966, first held by Cameron Greenleaf (Vivian 1966). Additionally, James Ayres, Assistant State

Archaeologist, donated fieldwork and research time to salvage work. At this time, the availability of graduate student labor was an asset, but would become a liability during the period of its closure in the 1980s when the goals of CRM and academia came into conflict. 77

From 1966 to 1970, SPSA continued to engage in salvage archaeology throughout

the state. Salvage archaeologists undertook several projects involving Hohokam material remains, including excavation of Las Colinas (Hammack 1969) as well as sites near Gila

Bend (Wasley and Johnson 1965), San Xavier, Nogales (Reinhard 1978), the Tonto Basin and Paloparado (Vivian 1967). Highway Salvage Annual Reports during this period emphasized the importance of research and detailed the statuses of on-going projects, whether in the field, under analysis, or awaiting publication.

Highway Salvage work was directly responsible for the formulation of new ideas about the Hohokam past. William Wasley and Alfred Johnson’s excavations at Gila

Bend, specifically the documentation of platform mounds—traditionally diagnostic of the

Classic period—in pre-Classic contexts allowed a reevaluation of the transition (McGuire

1982:133). From this work, Wasley suggested that the cultural changes that marked the onset of the Classic period were the result of internal, indigenous cultural developments and were not imposed by immigrating populations (Wasley and Doyel 1980, originally a paper presented at a conference in 1966). This perspective is discussed in much greater detail in subsequent chapters.

By the end of the 1960s, SPSA was an active component of ASM, fulfilling contractual obligations with AHD, as well as documenting many important archaeological remains. An organizational interface between an archaeological and this government organization was in place, further strengthening linkages between these two very different kinds of organizations. By the beginning of the 1970s, the impact of legislation, such as NHPA and NEPA began to be felt and the organizational 78

infrastructure established by SPSA served as a logical place to meet these growing

demands. Salvage archaeology at ASM assumed much of this expanding workload,

further adapting to new conditions.

Other existing institutions also began to take advantage of archaeological

opportunities created through historic preservation legislation, though they were not as active during this early period in southern Arizona. The Museum of Northern Arizona

(MNA), Arizona State University (ASU), and ASM all developed divisions to conduct salvage or CRM archaeology (Dittert 1976; Dittert, Fish and Simonis 1969; Geib 1996;

Hammack 1973; Jennings 1966; Vivian 1969; Wasley 1957). Archaeologists based in these universities and museums had access to the necessary labor, equipment and credibility to quickly assume the new work. University administrations often strongly encouraged the pursuit of contracts to add further revenue to institutional coffers and anthropology departments could attract larger numbers of graduate students and subsequently supported archaeologists to go “digging for gold” (MacDonald 1976). ASU and MNA would become more active participants in Hohokam archaeology through the

1970s and 1980s. These institutions carried out most of the large projects that resulted from the increasing urban development of Phoenix and Tucson through the 1960s and

1970s.

79

Organizational Environment of Contemporary American Archaeology

The development of CRM has substantially altered the organizational, or external

context of archeology. There are many institutional bases for contemporary archaeology,

and all participate in the new legal environment. Enactment of many of these pieces of

historic preservation legislation stimulated the creation of positions for archaeologists in many types of organizations that had previously lacked them. Today, archaeologists are found in four basic organizational settings (Green and Doershuk 1998:124; Zeder

1997:46), and all of these settings have been differentially involved in CRM archaeology.

Academic archaeologists work in the discipline’s traditional context—universities or colleges—pursuing research agendas and training students. These practitioners are often supported through public and private organizations, such as the NSF or Wenner-Gren, designed to support scientific or other scholarly research. However, many academically based archaeologists have undertaken research contracted by developers or government

agencies. Other archaeologists are employed by federal, state, and local governments

and are often concerned with the management of specific cultural resources. Many of

these government positions take the form of staff archaeologists for a variety of federal

agencies, which oversee procedures of compliance with historic preservation legislation

(Fowler 1984:3). Museums, both public and private, also employ archaeologists, and are

variably involved in the active conduct of archaeology. Like their university-based

colleagues, museum archaeologists may also be active participants in CRM. Other

archaeologists work in private sector firms whose raison d’être is legal compliance. The 80

organization of such firms is directly shaped by the concerns of maintaining effective relationships with government or development agencies. Private firms, although developing through economic niches opened by CRM legislation, also may pursue more academically-oriented research through not-for-profit divisions and research publication

series. For example, Desert Archaeology, Inc. represents one of the more successful

private CRM companies operating in the Tucson area and is also organizationally linked

with the Center for Desert Archaeology, a non-profit institution that directs energy and

funding toward research and public education. Within the private firm category, an

additional distinction exists between smaller companies that are focused exclusively on

archaeological research, like Desert Archaeology, or large environmental and engineering

firms that have cultural resource divisions, such as Steven W. Carothers Associates

Environmental Consultants (SWCA). As discussed later, the former variety appears to be much more active in anthropological archaeological research.

The tremendous impact of CRM is clearly reflected in the changing demographic and financial structure of the discipline, as new opportunities for employment quickly shifted to the CRM sector (Kehoe 1998:147). A recent survey found the proportion of the archaeological community with M.A.s and PhDs who work in CRM settings is about

80%, and those in private sector firms comprise 50% of the entire discipline (Neumann and Sanford 2001:3). Additionally, CRM, especially private sector firms, receives significantly higher amounts of funding than non-CRM, traditional, academic archaeology. A relatively recent survey reports that from 1989 to 1994, CRM 81

archaeology received $300 million, while academic archaeology received $62 million

(Zeder 1997:170).

Tension between traditional and CRM archaeology has accompanied these

demographic developments (Berggren and Hodder 2003; Moss 2005:584-585). By the

late 1970s, two general communities had developed with archaeology—those that

worked in academia whose research was supported by grants from institutions like the

National Science Foundation or Wenner-Gren and those that made their living

completely within the CRM environment (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:166).

Many in the academic community question the research value of archaeological projects

under the auspices of CRM (Goodyear et al. 1978; Schiffer 1995). Critics contend that

many times the goals, methods, publication, and theoretical production of CRM

archaeology do not significantly contribute to the growth and development of the discipline’s knowledge base, as “CRM studies often fail to obtain substantial research

results” (Goodyear et al. 1978:160). The goals of archaeology as an academic discipline seriously conflict with many of the goals of agencies engaged in of development. These circumstances position CRM archaeology in a paradoxical situation—as archaeologists, they seek to collect and interpret data that can contribute to the general body of knowledge about the past, but as contractors, they attempt to accomplish their tasks

quickly and efficiently as to satisfy the compliance wishes of the client. In particular,

archaeologists worried about CRM contracts being awarded to low-cost bids resulting in

deficient effort toward the archaeological record and a loss of irreplaceable knowledge

for the discipline (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:155). Contemporary CRM 82

companies demonstrate a continuum approaches and could be grouped by research or

compliance orientation.

From an academic perspective, one of the primary problems with contract

archaeology is potential for digging for the sake of digging (Gumerman 1973:299;

Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004:11), without the implementation of a research design.

While most in the academic community would quickly admit the benefits of contract research—making previously impossible fieldwork possible (Goodyear et al. 1978)— they worry that the archaeology could ultimately not be worth doing. CRM introduces the problems of professional competition, and worries that contracts will go to the lowest bidder rather than the most competent archaeologist. Badly done archaeology is even worse than if it had been not done at all, as the site would at least be preserved for future excavation. Early critics note that even with the new funding for research, often insubstantial archaeological research was presented (Goodyear et al. 1978:160; Schiffer

1995). They cite such deficiencies in CRM archaeology like the lack of contributions in method and theory, utilization of outdated theoretical frameworks, and inadequate planning (King 1971; Gumerman 1973; Schiffer 1995:89). Much of the early criticism of lacking research designs was quickly allayed as such explicit plans became important in

CRM practice as many larger projects were so complex as to require a detailed plan of action to ensure that the archaeology be completed (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer

2005:168). In particular, common components of research designs, such as sampling strategies, were essential for the largest CRM projects. 83

Academic archaeology has also vigorously criticized the communication of the

results of contract research to the greater discipline. Contract reports, often termed “gray

literature,” are often of a limited run, of poor quality, and not widely available (Altschul

2004). CRM archaeology is also accused of an insular exchange of information. Schiffer

(1995:90) states that contract archaeological reports only cite reports dealing with very

similar materials, or outdated general theoretical and methodological statements.

The archaeological angst expressed over the developments of CRM were clearly

visible in the Airlie House Report (McGimsey and Davis 1977) resulting from a series of

seminars sponsored by the SAA and the NPS with instigation from Charles McGimsey.

Touching many subjects, this report especially called for the explicit use of archaeological theory in the conduct of CRM projects and for CRM publications to attempt to mirror more academic ones—particularly in general accessibility to the archaeological community and for the presence of peer review.

Conversely, advocates of CRM hold that there is no real distinction between it

and academic varieties (Athens 1993:6). Additionally, CRM is presented as stimulating

the development of new, sophisticated methodologies (Green and Doershuk 1998:130).

Others argue that CRM archaeology is now the primary source of new data, and

subsequently the most productive and important variety of archaeology (Marmaduke and

Henderson 1995).

A further source of contention surrounds training—the means of the discipline’s

reproduction (Blanton 1995; Klein 1999; Schuldenrein 1995). Both CRM and traditional

archaeologists train in the same academic institutions, but many in the CRM community 84

argue that contemporary education does not properly prepare students for the realities of practicing archaeology in CRM contexts. CRM has also played a role in exaggerating social distances between senior and junior archaeologists (McGuire and Walker 1999;

Wilson 2001a, 2001b). As CRM companies seek to succeed in a business, they must use practices to save on expenses, such as the field technician labor force. CRM labor has

become increasingly devalued in this context, exemplified by the repeated attempts to

curb any attempts at unionization by this junior archaeological labor force (McGuire and

Walker 1999:174).

At some point, the interests of academic and CRM archaeologists began to diverge, as evidenced by the establishment of the American Society for Conservation

Archaeology and the Society of Professional Archaeologists (Fowler 1984:4; Patterson

1995:110). These organizations developed out of concern for maintaining a certain level of quality for work done in extra-academic circumstances. Much of the concern with standardized methodology espoused by processual or the “New Archaeology” was easily

incorporated into CRM because of its need to quickly apply routine procedures to new

projects (Patterson 1995:114). Processual archaeology emphasized the application of the

scientific method to archaeology, with its standardized and replicable procedures. Basic

philosophical and epistemological tenets of the “New Archaeology” lent themselves to

the bureaucratic procedures of CRM archaeology (Kehoe 1998:148). Exercises such as

random sampling, which were central to a scientific archaeology, also fit well within a

bureaucratic structure in the administration of archaeological work. Many felt that large-

scale CRM projects imposed false standards and expectations on all investigations— 85

creating an archaeology by rote, specified by a host of government standards, rules and

regulations, which require a wide range of approaches—from chemical composition to

phytolith analyses—regardless of the research questions posed.

Conclusion

While these processes have unfolded at a national level, the history of Hohokam

archaeology offers the opportunity to investigate the impact of these changes on

intellectual production in a specific, local context. Southern Arizona, being the

archaeological home to the Hohokam, has also been the scene of an extraordinary amount

of CRM archaeology. The 1960s and 1970s witnessed substantial population growth in

the Phoenix and Tucson Basins. This wave of urban development, combined with the

historic preservation legislation, stimulated the influx of hundreds of millions of dollars

into the region’s archaeology (Doyel 1994:208-209; Feinman 1991:474; Gumerman

1991:3). At the same time, the intellectual content of Hohokam archaeology has also

experienced dramatic change (Doyel 1987). Before this time, very few Hohokam sites

had received significant archaeological attention, while afterwards masses of new

information flowed from the local archaeological community. Many Hohokam

archaeologists were attracted to the region, not just by the archaeology, but because of the

funding (McGuire 1982:144). Subsequently, the history of Hohokam archaeology provides an excellent case study to engage the changes that affect the entire discipline.

The following chapter reviews developments both in the internal discourse and the external organizational context of Hohokam archaeology, though focusing on the latter. 86

Issues of content become more critical after means to measure such change in the

Hohokam discourse have been detailed. 87

CHAPTER 3: ESTABLISHING CONTEXT, HOHOKAM ARCHAEOLOGY

Hohokam research occupies a peculiar position in the archaeology of the

American Southwest. While investigators have long been aware of the tremendous potential of Hohokam research (Cushing 1890; Fewkes 1912), it remained a relatively neglected research area for decades by the archaeological establishment. Southern

Arizona’s brutally hot summers did not complement an academic schedule, while more obvious, and occasionally standing archaeological remains were present just a few hours drive to the north (Gumerman 1991). Sites such as Mesa Verde or those in Chaco

Canyon had long fascinated archaeologists, as well as the general public (Snead 2001).

Additionally, Anasazi (Ancestral Pueblo) archaeology boasted obvious historical relationships with living Native American groups, such as the Hopi and Zuni, easing archaeological interpretation with the presence of these ethnographic analogs. Because of the favorable climatic conditions in the north, this region was the scene of a number of early archaeological field schools, which were instrumental in defining the character of southwestern archaeology (Mills 2005; Reid and Whittlesey 2005a). As a result, the development of Hohokam archaeology lagged behind the study of the prehistoric cultures of Colorado Plateau. However, a small number of ambitious individuals, often privately funded, did engage in significant research that remains invaluable to contemporary archaeologists. With the emergence of CRM and the attendant increases in funding and fieldwork, however, the Hohokam archaeological record would become a primary focus of attention for many of the region’s archaeologists. Much like the relief era of the 88

1930s, government involvement in the archaeology of southern Arizona accelerated the development of an integrated community of scholars focused on the region’s past.

Only in recent decades has Hohokam archaeology received the attention it

deserves, primarily the result of the growing number of CRM projects (Bayman 2001;

Crown 1990; Doyel 1985; Gumerman 1991). Nevertheless, southern Arizona was the

scene of some important early archaeological research well before 1970 and this work

sets the stage for developments through the past 30 years.

Early Hohokam Archaeologists

Spanish and American explorers noted the presence of large, ancient sites

throughout Arizona (Burrus 1971). Rumors of the Casa Grande sparked Kino’s initial

exploration of southern Arizona, but 1883 Alfred Bandelier became the first anthropologically oriented researcher to systematically document any ruins in southern

Arizona (Wilcox 1993a; Wilcox and Shenk 1977:7-22). Like most early archaeological

explorers of the region during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Bandelier was a

Southwestern generalist, having field experience throughout the region. Bandelier’s

research was supported through the Archaeological Institute of America (AIA) via Lewis

Henry Morgan, to record sites throughout the Southwest in order to test Morgan’s theory

of social evolution. Bandelier surveyed numerous ancient ruins, including Casa Grande

along the Gila River and Pueblo Grande on the Salt River (Downum and Bostwick

1993:19; Wilcox 1993b). The most notable feature at Casa Grande was a towering, four-

story adobe structure, or great house, which still stands in contemporary times, and this 89

monumental construction became an obvious focus of research attention. Bandelier

interpreted the Great House at Casa Grande as simply a concentration of domestic

structures, much like an apartment building, with no exceptional ceremonial or political

purpose. This description meshed well with Morgan’s evolutionary scheme, which

conceived of the cultures of the New World only in egalitarian terms (Wilcox and Shenk

1977:24). Bandelier’s research focused on synchronic reconstructions that could be comfortably integrated with pre-existing anthropological theory. Later interpretations of southern Arizona’s prehistory shifted focus.

Another central figure in the region’s early archaeology was Frank Hamilton

Cushing who documented archaeological sites along the Salt River throughout 1888.

This research represented a more intensive investigation directed at southern Arizona than had been previously attempted (Brunson-Hadley 1989; Cushing 1890; Haury 1945;

Hinsley and Wilcox 2002; Wilcox 1993b; Wilcox, Howard and Nelson 1990). Cushing’s work at Los Muertos, in the modern city of Chandler, was designed as one aspect of a broad anthropological project to document the cultures of the Southwest, both ancient and modern (Cushing 1890; Haury 1945). Cushing’s project exemplified general patterns of support characterizing archaeology during this period, as the patronage of a wealthy individual, Mary Hemenway, made the research possible. Cushing viewed the ancient peoples of the Salt and Gila rivers as living in a stratified society with structures such as

Casa Grande’s Great House functioning as a residence for elite, religious leaders (Wilcox and Shenk 1977:25), and not as the egalitarian society described by Bandelier. While 90 differing from Bandelier in this respect, Cushing’s reconstruction was still largely a synchronic one that neglected change over time.

Jesse Walter Fewkes (1907; 1912) began his participation in southern Arizonan archaeology, when he succeeded Cushing as leader of the Hemenway Expedition. Years after that project, Fewkes returned to Casa Grande National Monument, which had received funding for research, repair and protection. Stemming from his experience with archaeological remains from the northern Southwest, Fewkes was one of the first archaeologists to explicitly note the major differences in material assemblages between the archaeological cultures along the Gila River and the better known ones on the

Colorado Plateau. Ceramics, architecture, and burial practices all distinguished the archaeological remains of the south from those of the north. Influenced by Pima mythology, Fewkes believed the builders of Casa Grande were ancestral to many of the cultures of the Southwest, including the Pima and the Hopi, and designated this ancestral stock the Ootam (Fewkes 1907). Fewkes proposed that the Ootam were ultimately driven from their homes by marauders and were scattered throughout the Southwest—to

Mexico, the Verde and Tonto valleys, Puebloan areas.

Bandelier, Cushing, and Fewkes were all affiliated with museums, private expeditions or government agencies, often based on the east coast of the United States and not local to the studied region. While contemporary “academic” researchers are often housed in colleges and universities, the institutional bases of these three archaeologists characterized the typical institutional contexts from which archaeologists worked during this early period (Patterson 1995; Snead 2001). Interest in the 91

archaeological remains of the Southwest, however, was not confined only to investigators

based out of eastern institutions. The growing populations of Southwestern states and territories were growing increasingly fascinated by the cultural resources of the region as local identities and regional pride grew (Snead 2001).

Private individuals and groups not affiliated with traditional archaeological institutions played a critical role in the early development of Hohokam archaeology. In

1901, medical doctor, Joshua Miller conducted the first scientifically structured excavations of Pueblo Grande, sponsored by the Arizona Antiquarian Association

(Wilcox 1993a:73). University Indian Ruin was donated to the University of Arizona for use in student training by a private individual in the 1920s (Hayden 1957), which it continues in to this day. In Phoenix, a City Engineer, Omar Turney (1929), compiled extensive and invaluable maps of the irrigation canals throughout the Salt River Basin.

Similarly, Frank Midvale (1968; Wilcox 1987) also drafted detailed maps of the irrigation systems around Phoenix. The work of this handful of practitioners has had continuing impact with present archaeological practice. Most Hohokam remains have been destroyed by mechanized agriculture or the urban sprawl of Phoenix. Subsequently, contemporary CRM investigations represent fragmented, isolated pieces. The research of private individuals like Midvale and Turney, however, provides the irrigation system framework that integrates many of these disparate data sources. These practitioners represented unusual participants as they were not associated with any enduring institution that was directed toward archaeological purposes. 92

Archaeologists based in established institutions continued to pay limited attention

to the archaeology of southern Arizona, though sometimes spurred by local residents.

The first attempt to create a chronological framework for the region’s archaeology fell to

Erich Schmidt (1928). After the site of Pueblo Grande had been acquired by the City of

Phoenix, Omar Turney contacted the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH) to

conduct an archaeological investigation. AMNH dispatched Schmidt, then a graduate

student at Columbia University (Wilcox 1993a:89-91, 1988). Schmidt produced a careful

and detailed stratigraphic record from his testing at Pueblo Grande as well as less

intensive excavations at La Ciudad, which served subsequent researchers and also formed

the basis of the first dissertation based on Hohokam data ever awarded (Wilcox

1993a:91). This episode highlights how archaeology in the Hohokam region, and other

parts of the Southwest, remained highly contingent on specific articulations between

interested private agents and established, semi-“credentialed” practitioners. Boundaries

between amateur and professional had begun to solidify, but were still somewhat permeable.

By the 1920s, the archaeological remains of southern Arizona had not yet been widely accepted as unique and the label “Hohokam” had also not yet been extensively applied. Many of the region’s archaeological pioneers had regional interests throughout the Southwest, of which the southern extents were only one component. The bulk of research was supported through private patronage, though the increasing role of government agencies was illustrated by Fewkes’ return to Casa Grande. Growing out of these early descriptions of the prehistoric residents of southern Arizona was a picture of a 93

socially stratified society. Additionally, Cushing, Fewkes, or Bandelier did not offer any

chronology for the region. Instead, they presented synchronic models, based on sites that archaeologists would eventually place at the tail end of the Hohokam sequence,

subsequently ignoring earlier diachronic variability. In subsequent years, Hohokam

archaeology would attract dedicated archaeological attention, most notably through the

operation of the Gila Pueblo Archaeological Foundation.

Gila Pueblo Archaeological Foundation and the Definition of the Hohokam

Harold Sterling Gladwin’s privately funded Gila Pueblo Foundation became the

next major player in this early history and would have a lasting impact on Hohokam

archaeology. It is difficult to overstate the importance of Gladwin and Gila Pueblo in the

history of Hohokam archaeology as the shadow cast by the man and organization still structure much of the region’s archaeological discourse. Archaeologists based out of

Gila Pueblo were directly responsible for most of the work on the Hohokam throughout

the 1930s. Gila Pueblo research would define many of the questions for Hohokam

archaeology for decades as many remain central concerns for contemporary practitioners

(Haury 1988).

Before founding Gila Pueblo, Gladwin had been a member of the New York

Stock Exchange, but moved to Santa Barbara California in 1922. While in California,

Gladwin developed a friendship with A.V. Kidder, a seminal figure in Southwestern

archaeology, as well as a fascination with Southwestern prehistory, which led Gladwin to

dedicate much of his sizable wealth toward pursuing archaeological research (Haury 94

1988:2). Following Fewkes, Kidder (1924) had highlighted that the archaeological culture, the “lower Gila valley culture,” in the southern portions of the Southwest demonstrated significant differences from the more intensively studied Colorado Plateau, and needed archaeological attention. Differences in ceramics and architecture warranted a distinction between the two archaeological regions. Gladwin, from his position at the

Southwest Museum in Los Angeles, set out to explore the region to further document and define the character of this lesser known archaeological culture (Gladwin and Gladwin

1931).

Kidder’s interest in stratigraphic excavation and chronology-building was well- known and influenced Gladwin (1928) to direct archaeological effort toward Casa

Grande, selected because of its apparent time depth. The site’s many trash mounds and large structures made it an attractive source of chronological data. Gladwin’s goal was to create a stratigraphic sequence from this large site that could be applied throughout the southern Southwest, allowing a more complete comprehension of regional culture- historical dynamics. Gladwin noted that polychrome pottery was recovered from the uppermost stratum of test trenches, indicating its more recent use. From this initial observation, Gladwin could date various mounds simply by the presence or absence of polychrome. By the fourth trench, he had acquired a wide sample of ceramic variability, which was used to develop a more refined chronological sequence (Gladwin 1928:15).

Plain ware ceramic proportions remained constant throughout stratigraphic layers, red wares showed subtle patterns, and polychromes were always late. Red-on-buff ceramics, however, exhibited significant variability through time that suggested their usefulness in 95

establishing a detailed Hohokam chronology. This ceramic variety provided an early

label for Gladwin’s archaeological society, which was named the “Red-on-Buff Culture”

before its later designation of the Hohokam. Gila Pueblo’s sizable resource base and the

dedication of Gladwin led to the most detailed ceramic chronology developed in the region (Doyel 1994; Haury 1988).

Gladwin’s focus on stratigraphic sequences led him to explicitly consider the importance of diachronic patterns evident in the archaeological record, a focus that had

been somewhat neglected by earlier researchers. Specifically, his work at Casa Grande

attempted to explain the marked cultural changes that defined his Red-on-Buff Culture

during what was termed the Classic period. Polychromes appear late in the site’s occupation, but no experimental stage was evident (Gladwin 1928:27). The lack of an introductory or experimental stage for polychrome manufacture and use suggested to

Gladwin that indigenous residents were not responsible, but that the technology and designs entered southern Arizona fully developed. Gladwin argued that the arrival of a newly migrating group best explained the sudden appearance of the new ceramics.

Additionally, he noted other lines of evidence—change in mortuary practice, from cremation to inhumation, and in architecture, from pithouses to adobe, above-ground, sometimes masonry structures—that coincided with the appearance of polychromes, to further support a migratory explanation (Wilcox and Shenk 1977). While Gladwin believed migration to be responsible for this later phenomenon, he viewed existing, local populations, the Red-on-Buff people, as responsible for the original occupation of the site

(Gladwin 1928). Gladwin’s approach differed from that of earlier researchers as he was 96

acutely interested in change over time rather than synchronic cultural variability. This emphasis meshed with the dominant cultural-historical concerns of the general archaeological community of the time.

After the completion of the Casa Grande work, Gladwin established the Gila

Pueblo Archaeological Foundation in 1928, in Globe, Arizona (Haury 1988). With the skeleton of a chronology built, Gila Pueblo focused on determining the spatial extent of the Red-on-Buff Culture—meeting the goals of culture-historical archaeology by defining both time and space systematics. Additionally, Gladwin hoped to find the prehistoric migration route that had originally brought these people to the Gila Basin.

Gila Pueblo survey teams spent five years exploring the southern Southwest—from

Sonora to Flagstaff and from the Colorado River to Texas—to systematically document the presence of the Red-on-buff pottery throughout the region, ultimately recording over

12,000 sites (Gladwin and Gladwin 1929a; 1929b; 1930; 1935). The initial interpretations of survey results described the Red-on-Buff Culture as originating in the south and arriving in the Gila Valley with a developed knowledge of agriculture, irrigation, and ceramic technology (Gladwin and Gladwin 1933:70). Ultimately, these people were to become the ancestors of the Pima and Papago (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and Gladwin 1937:17). Throughout its existence, Gila Pueblo also engaged in archaeological research on the Anasazi, Mogollon and Cochise cultures , though southern

Arizona remained its focus (Doyel 1994:200; Haury 1988:53). By 1933, Gladwin had presented ceramic descriptions, a basic chronology, comparisons with other cultures of 97

the Southwest, and a new cultural label, Hohokam, to describe the material culture of

southern Arizona (Gladwin and Gladwin 1933).

Archaeology could be easily described as a porous discipline before World War II

as boundaries between amateurs and professionals existed but remained tenuous. During

these early days, uneasy alliances often existed between those based in traditional

academic institutions and those outside (Fagette 1996; Patterson 1995). Archaeologists

based in established academic institutions possessed the credibility and legitimacy

attached to such bases as well as access to professional networks. On the other hand, many outside the traditional organizational boundaries had access to local knowledge or material support that was attractive to archaeologists. So each side had something to gain, but each possessed different goals and motivations planting the seeds of conflict.

Just this sort of alliance became central to the development of Hohokam archaeology.

To actualize Gladwin’s ambitious research plans, he sought the services and

credibility offered by a professional archaeologist. To meet this need, Gladwin turned to

Emil Haury—the archaeologist that would become the most dominant figure in Hohokam

archaeology for the next 50 years (Thompson et al. 1997). Haury’s field experience and

dendrochronological expertise led Gladwin to hire him as assistant director of Gila

Pueblo in 1930 (Doyel 1994:196; Reid and Whittlesey 2005). A young and ambitious

archaeologist, Haury had a number of career alternatives from which to select. Haury

chose Gila Pueblo over continuing teaching at the University of Arizona, where he had

received a Master’s degree, or taking a position with the U.S. National Museum. Gila

Pueblo offered Haury the opportunity to concentrate on fieldwork and publication, while 98 also allowing Haury to complete a PhD at Harvard (Thompson et al. 1997). Building on

Gila Pueblo’s survey work, Haury began excavations at Roosevelt 9:6, a site early in the newly developed Hohokam chronology and northeast of Phoenix in the Tonto Basin. The results of the excavation, contained in the first site report to use the label Hohokam, suggested to Haury that the Hohokam were a cultural group contemporary with Pueblo groups, but largely unrelated to them (Haury 1932).

The results of Gila Pueblo’s new spate of research reaffirmed many earlier interpretations. Gila Pueblo investigators determined the survey material from southern

Arizona differed significantly from that of the northern Southwest, reemphasizing the cultural distinctions noted by Fewkes, Kidder and Gladwin. Several traits distinguished the Hohokam from their northern neighbors, including desert living, irrigation farming, paddle and anvil pottery, red-on-buff pottery, single unit pit houses, cremation, and many distinctive craft items—ceramic figurines, stone and ceramic censers, stone palettes, pyrite mirrors, and marine shell ornaments (Gladwin and Gladwin 1933:3). The ceramic sequence developed at Casa Grande was further refined into five periods: Colonial,

Sedentary, Classic, Recent, and Modern (Gladwin and Gladwin 1933). Based on the presence of northern ceramics at Hohokam sites, Gila Pueblo inferred the Hohokam sequence paralleled that of the Colorado Plateau (Doyel 1994:197). However, Gila

Pueblo also argued that the Hohokam had attained advanced levels of achievement well before the other cultures of the Southwest, suggesting they were the original source of cultural development throughout the region, including agriculture and ceramic technology, for the entire region (Gladwin and Gladwin 1933). 99

Haury and Gladwin’s views structured much of Hohokam research during this

period and Gila Pueblo’s influence extended beyond its own doors. Between 1930 and

1931, Arthur Woodward of the Los Angeles Museum conducted excavations at the

Grewe Site, the pre-Classic site near center of early Hohokam research, Casa Grande

(Hayden 1931). Coming soon after Gladwin’s initial definitions of the Red-on-Buff

Culture, this project offered an opportunity to collected detailed data from a large site to test many of his assertions. Woodward was in regular contact with Gila Pueblo staff, and

the Grewe project followed many of the precedents that had been set (Gladwin, Haury,

Sayles and Gladwin 1937:15). Notably, Irwin Hayden, who would also work on the first

Snaketown excavations, served as a crew chief on this project. The economic volatilities

of the Great Depression resulted in a downturn for the project’s patron, Charles Van

Bergen, resulted in the termination of the project one year early. This project recovered a

wealth of information, from 50 houses, six trash mounds, three cremation areas, and numerous other features. The researchers also largely followed Gila Pueblo’s lead in interpretation as well, confirming many of their findings. While these findings were never formally published, Woodward and Van Bergen presented their findings at the

Pecos Conference and Gila Pueblo (Van Keuren and Coleman 2005).

While the database of Hohokam archaeology was expanding though such research and new models and concepts were being developed, certain questions posed questions to the region’s archaeological community. In particular, the puzzle of origin of the

Hohokam remained (Doyel 1994). The Hohokam had been defined as a distinct archaeological culture, but the development of Hohokam traits was poorly understood. 100

The suite of traits defining the Hohokam seemed to appear suddenly in the Colonial

period without any known antecedent. Gila Pueblo researchers believed that such an

antecedent, or Pioneer period had to exist. To resolve this problem, Gila Pueblo set out

to document the missing Pioneer period through intensive excavations in 1934-35 at the

site of Snaketown along the Gila River (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and Gladwin 1937).

Snaketown was selected because of its large size—it possessed at least sixty mounds—its

long occupation and its location near the center of the Hohokam distribution that had

been documented through survey.

This first excavation at Snaketown marked a seminal point in Hohokam

archaeology. Privately funded by Gila Pueblo, over the winter of 1934-35 volumes of

information were collected as forty houses, two ballcourts, a canal, several mounds, and over 500 cremations were excavated. The report (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and

Gladwin1937) defined Hohokam archaeology for the next 30 years (Reid and Whittlesey

1997:83) and remains important to contemporary researchers. Throughout subsequent

Hohokam research, investigators often continue to discuss new findings relative to the

Snaketown excavations. While Gladwin’s name appeared first on the report, the ideas advocated in the text were primarily those of Haury who directed the excavations.

Excavation of several Snaketown mounds produced stratigraphic samples that defined the Pioneer period that Gila Pueblo sought. This period was depicted as a time of

gradual development and elaboration of the Hohokam cultural inventory (Doyel

1994:198). The Pioneer period was divided into four phases—Vahki, Estrella,

Sweetwater, and Snaketown (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and Gladwin 1937:251-256). 101

Diagnostic traits of the Pioneer included certain house, ceramic, and craft types, as well

as cremation burial and agriculture. Only the Vahki phase did not contain decorated

pottery, while distinct design styles signaled the boundaries between all other phases.

Contact with the Basketmaker cultures of the northern Southwest did not seem to be

present, though ceramic evidence suggested significant ties with the Mogollon culture to

the east. Gladwin speculated that the Hohokam likely came from the east, though they

may have adopted a few traits from the local, earlier hunting and gathering Cochise

culture (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and Gladwin 1937).

This became one of Gila Pueblo’s many lasting contributions to Hohokam

archaeology—a chronology that could be applied throughout the region. While some

modification has occurred (e.g. Dean 1991), this chronology is basically the sequence

used by archaeologists today. Unlike the cultural sequences crafted on the Colorado

Plateau, the Hohokam sequence was based almost entirely on the excavation of this one

site (Fish and Fish 1991:153). As noted earlier, the Snaketown excavations created a

major center of gravity for Hohokam archaeology and the development of this chronology serves as one more example of this project’s influence.

Using ceramic cross-dating evidence, the Gila Pueblo team also assigned absolute

dates to the sequence. As tree specimens suitable for dendrochronological analysis are

typically rare at most Hohokam sites, archaeologists have relied on ceramics from regions where they do occur. Many sites in the northern Southwest have produced both dated tree rings and distinctive ceramic types. The correlation of dates to pottery suggested the latter are diagnostic of those times. The Gila Pueblo team believed the 102

Santa Cruz and Sacaton phases were safely cross-dated with diagnostic sherds with each phase lasting about 200 years. The security of dates for earlier periods, however,

remained more tenuous. A Basketmaker III—a culture-historical period of the Colorado

Plateau—type sherd was the earliest found at Snaketown in association with Gila Butte

deposits of the Colonial period. However, the Pioneer period could not be cross-dated, as

no intrusive sherds appeared that early. Based on the length of the dated Santa Cruz and

Sacaton phases, Haury postulated that preceding phases must also be 200 years, pushing

the beginning of the Pioneer period to 300 B.C. (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and

Gladwin1937). The use of 200 year lengths for all phases was based on the assumption

that all phases would be of equal length. This model would come under substantial

criticism by many later practitioners including Gladwin (1942, 1948) because of its basis

on assumptions of gradual, progressive cultural change (Plog 1980; Wilcox and Shenk

1977), but represented the initial state of the Hohokam chronology.

Returning to the Gila Pueblo chronology, the Colonial period followed the

Pioneer and contained the Gila Butte and Santa Cruz phases. These phases were already

fairly well known prior to Snaketown, though the project facilitated their further

definition (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and Gladwin 1937:256-260). Culturally, the Colonial

period was seen as a time of expansion out of the Salt and Gila basins into environments

that were suitable for Hohokam subsistence, including significant sections of southern

Arizona (Doyel 1994:197). Colonial Hohokam culture was seen as more culturally

developed than Puebloan groups, reinforcing Gladwin’s opinion that the Hohokam were

the prime cultural mover in the Southwest. The Colonial period also witnessed the 103

addition of several new archaeological traits to the Hohokam inventory including ball courts, palettes, and figurines. Gladwin believed the Colonial period was a time of elaboration and crystallization of definitive Hohokam elements and a diminution of traits

that had been shared with the Mogollon.

The next period, the Sedentary consisted of the Sacaton and Santan phases

(Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and Gladwin 1937:260-264). During this period, the Hohokam were thought to have contracted back to the Salt and Gila rivers, where large villages grew (Doyel 1994:197), which were presented as the pinnacle of Hohokam achievement

(Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and Gladwin 1937:260). Public architecture, such as ballcourts, mounds and central plazas became more common. The Sacaton phase represents the peak of Snaketown’s occupation.

As already noted, the onset of the Classic period was signaled by several dramatic changes in the Hohokam assemblage. Changes in ritual technology, public and domestic architecture, and mortuary behavior occur across the region around the same basic time

(Gregory 1988; Haury 1945a; Wasley and Doyel 1980). Platform mounds replaced ballcourts as the primary form of public architecture; figurines, palettes and censers fell out of use; mortuary behavior shifted from cremation to inhumation; and new varieties of ceramics came into favor as red-on-buffs became less common. Following Gladwin’s earlier argument, these shifts were often explained through the arrival of pueblo immigrants from the north, the Salado. The Soho phase—the first of the Classic period— was a time of interaction between the Hohokam and the Salado as foreign ideas diffused throughout local Hohokam populations. However, during the next phase, the Civano, the 104

Salado settled alongside the Hohokam in the Salt and Gila valleys. Explanations for the

transition between the Sedentary and Classic periods would become a center of debate in

Hohokam archaeology. Later opinions have disagreed with this early interpretation, as

research focused on the indigenous emergence of the Classic through a fundamental

internal reordering of Hohokam social organization (Doyel 1981; Wasley and Doyel

1980; Weaver 1972; Wilcox 1979).

According to the early Gila Pueblo narrative, around A.D. 1400-1450, the Salado

left the region, while the Hohokam reverted to simpler lifeways, ultimately culturally

transforming into contemporary Pima and Tohono O’odham groups (Gladwin and

Gladwin 1930:160; Haury 1934:521). Other scholars believe the Hohokam were driven

out by other local groups who became the ancestors of the contemporary Pima-speaking

people of the region (Di Peso 1956; Schroeder 1960).

Gila Pueblo’s unique position as a well-financed organization independent of

political influence allowed it a wide choice of research direction (Haury 1988:51). By

the close of the 1930s, Gladwin, Haury, and Gila Pueblo had made unprecedented strides in defining the archaeological culture of the Hohokam. A chronology of periods and

phases was established, and absolute dates had been assigned to this sequence. The

Hohokam were seen as developing locally, through a slow and gradual progression.

Sweeping changes at the onset of the Classic period were attributed to the influence and

migration of a new culture, the Salado. And the modern descendents of the Hohokam

were thought to be the O’odham (Pima and Papago), contemporary Native American 105

groups living in southern Arizona. After the Snaketown project, Gila Pueblo faded from

the scene and new participants become involved in Hohokam research.

Lingering Questions

The legacy of Gila Pueblo still reverberates through Hohokam archaeology as

many contemporary researchers continue to argue the questions and issues first posed by

Haury and Gladwin.

Almost from the first moment it was proposed, the Hohokam chronology has been a major source of disagreement. This situation has changed little in recent years (Cable

and Doyel 1987; Dean 1991; Doyel 1994:198, 201; Eighmy and Doyel 1987; Eighmy and

McGuire1989; Gladwin 1942, 1948; Haury 1976; Plog 1980; Schiffer 1982; Wallace et

al. 1995). The structure defined by Gila Pueblo still defines the current discourse, though

its specific character is argued. The chronology debate can be broken down into two basic arguments. The first concerns the sequence and reality of archaeological phases; units of cultural homogeneity restricted to specific periods (Doyel and Fish 2000:4). For example, the presence of exclusively plain ware ceramics is the traditional diagnostic of the Vahki phase, predating the rest of the Hohokam sequence. Plog (1980) argued, however, that these ceramics are present throughout the entire span of Hohokam occupation, and are indicative of something other than a discrete period of time such as the presence of a distinct ethnic group. Several Hohokam phases have been proposed

(Cable and Doyel 1987; Chenault 1996; Doyel 1991; Mabry 2000), discarded and 106

rearranged (Di Peso 1956; Doyel 1994:203; Gladwin 1948:50; Haury 1976:97-110, 325-

340).

Another aspect of Hohokam chronology concerns the absolute dating of the

various phases. At the heart of this argument are the competing models of a long or short

chronology. Most notably argued by Haury, the long count places the beginning of the

Hohokam sequence around 300 B.C. (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and Gladwin 1937:216;

Haury 1976:338). The more numerous short chronologies all situate the origin of the

Hohokam after A.D. 100 (Cable and Doyel 1987; Eighmy and McGuire 1988; Gladwin

1942; Plog 1980; Schiffer 1982; Wilcox and Shenk 1977). More recent chronologies

place the beginning of the sequence between the two extremes (Dean 1991; Doyel and

Fish 2000:4).

The nature of Hohokam origins also continues to be a focus of debate. Were they

an indigenous development of preceding Archaic populations, or were they immigrants

from other areas? The Pioneer period, established during the first excavation of

Snaketown (Doyel 1994:198; Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and Gladwin 1937), suggested a

relatively developed and distinct cultural tradition, though surrounding regions, such as

Mesoamerica (Doyel 1994:202), did not offer suitable cultural sources for the Hohokam.

Haury’s later work at Ventana Cave in the early 1940s suggested cultural continuity with

the earlier Cochise culture and supported the indigenous growth of the Hohokam (Doyel

1994:200; Haury 1943:222, 1950). Other models described the Hohokam as developing

through varying forms of immigration from existing cultures (Di Peso 1956: 561,

1958:12-13; Doyel 1994:203-204; Gladwin 1948:231; Haury 1976:355; Schroeder 1966). 107

Hohokam origins are still a subject of debate, with some scholars arguing for local development (Cable and Doyel 1987; Ensor 2001; Henderson 1995; Mabry 1998; 2000;

Martin and Plog 1973; Wallace 2001; Wallace, Heidke and Doelle 1995; Wilcox 1979;

Wilcox and Shenk 1977; Wilcox and Sternberg 1983) and others for migration (Haury

1976).

Consensus on these opinions has changed dramatically over the course of the last

70 years (Doyel 1994:209). These issues, however, are only some of the concerns of

Hohokam archaeologists. Recent research, partly associated with topics in the current of the broader archaeological community has turned its attention to many other topics, including environmental adaptation, site and settlement structure, community/political organization, craft production, and exchange (Abbott 2000, 2003; Bayman 1995, 2001;

Craig 2000; Crown and Fish 1996; Crown and Judge 1991; Di Peso 1956; Dittert and

Dove 1985; Doelle et al. 1987; Doyel 1974, 1981, 1987, 1998; Doyel and Fish 2000;

Doyel and Plog 1980; Fish 1989; Fish and Fish 2000; Gregory 1991; Gumerman 1991;

Howard 1985; Mabry 2000; Masse 1991; McGuire 1992; McGuire and Howard 1987;

Mitchell and Brunson-Hadley 2001; Nicholas and Feinman 1989; Nicholas and Neitzel

1984; Plog 1980; Preucel 1996; Rice 1998; Rice and Redman 2000; Schiffer 1982;

Seymour 1987; Sires 1987; Teague 1985; Upham and Rice 1980; Wallace et al. 1995;

Wasley and Doyel 1980; Whittlesey 1995; Wilcox 1979, 1991; Wilcox and Shenk 1977;

Wilcox and Sternberg 1983). The intertwining of these and older issues—origins, historic continuity, Classic transition, Colonial expansion—comprise the theoretical landscape of contemporary Hohokam archaeology and are returned to in later sections. 108

Between Snaketowns

While Gila Pueblo’s active program of Hohokam research slowed after the

excavation of Snaketown, other archaeologists conducted research pertinent to southern

Arizona. The Hohokam framework defined by Gila Pueblo continued to structure

archaeological discussions, but others began questioning many of the initial

interpretations of the Hohokam offered by Haury and Gladwin.

The work by Gila Pueblo at Snaketown had documented the Hohokam presence

in the Gila Basin, but another important investigation was taking place in the Tucson

Basin. Excavations at the Hodges site from 1936 to 1938 were directed by Isabel Kelly.

Financial and institutional support for this project came from a private individual,

Wetmore Hodges, as well as Gila Pueblo (Hartmann 1978). The results from the Hodges

site largely paralleled those from Snaketown and illustrated the power of the framework

developed by Gila Pueblo. The occupation of the Hodges site was estimated at about

1000 years, beginning at A.D. 300 and containing successions of ceramic types, designating phases and periods (Kelly 1978). Ceramics from the earliest occupations of

Hodges were similar enough to those of the Gila Basin that they are placed into the same phases, Sweetwater and Snaketown. With the onset of the Colonial period, Hodges site’s ceramics began deviating from the Gila Basin pattern and the Canada del Oro and Rillito were defined to roughly correspond with Gila Butte and Santa Cruz. The Sedentary period was represented by the Rincon phase, the Tucson version of Sacaton. Unlike

Snaketown, the Hodges site extended into the Classic period, composed of the Tanque 109

Verde (Soho equivalent) and Tucson (Civano) phases. The phase sequence developed

from the work at Hodges became the phase sequence for Hohokam archaeology in the

Tucson Basin (Hartmann 1978). No evidence for a Salado presence at Hodges was noted

(Haury 1978:127). The influence of Gila Pueblo on Kelly’s work at Hodges is obvious as the report generally maps the existing Hohokam chronology onto the Tucson area. While

Kelly’s findings supported the basic prehistoric sequence established by Gila Pueblo,

other archaeologists began to challenge these existing reconstructions.

Other practitioners worked within the existing institutional structures available for archaeological research in southern Arizona. While not as dramatic as in the southeastern

United States, the impact of New Deal archaeology was felt in the Hohokam region.

Already the site of several investigations, Pueblo Grande was and is one of the largest

Hohokam sites and contains enormous amounts of potential information. Throughout his

tenure as director, Odd Halseth—who had been publicly critical of Gila Pueblo’s research

(Haury 1988)—supervised several notable archaeologists on WPA projects, including

Julian Hayden (Downum 1993), Albert Schroeder (Bostwick 1993), and Paul Ezell. Like

those in other parts of the country, WPA projects at Pueblo Grande were criticized for a

lack of analysis and publication on the materials recovered through excavation (Downum

1993; Wilcox 1993a). For example, Julian Hayden’s excavations at both Pueblo Grande and University Indian Ruin conducted in the late 1930s and early 1940s were not published until 1957. However, the Pueblo Grande Museum maintained much of the basic field data, allowing later researchers access to this irreplaceable information

(Downum and Bostwick 1993). John McGregor’s (1941) report from Winona and Ridge 110

ruin was another example of WPA activity in the Hohokam area and was influential in

the definition of the extent of the distribution of Hohokam material culture. As noted in

the previous chapter, such projects set the stage for later interactions between the

discipline and government bodies.

Albert Schroeder, based at the Museum of Northern Arizona (MNA), engaged in

research in western Arizona, the Verde Valley, and areas surrounding Flagstaff (Doyel

1994:204). As noted, Schroeder had previous experience working at Pueblo Grande, supervising relief archaeology projects (Bostwick 1993). Schroeder, though adhering to the original Hohokam chronology, offered new interpretations of the cultural dynamics of the prehistoric peoples involved through that history. Schroeder believed the Hohokam were not responsible for the cultural patterns of the Pioneer period. Instead, he argued that cultural patterns from Mesoamerica diffused to the Salt and Gila Rivers around 300

B.C. (Schroeder 1965:302). The newly arriving cultural traits were believed to filter into the region erratically, rather than as a unified whole, likely from formative Maya peoples.

The new ideas and indigenous archaic peoples combined to form what Schroeder labeled the Hakataya (1957). The Hakataya occupied south-central and western Arizona and were associated with many new material traits, including cremations, brown ware ceramics, figurines, and possibly maize agriculture. Schroeder thought Pioneer period

Hakataya were the first sedentary, ceramic using people in the Southwest (Schroeder

1965:300).

According to Schroeder, Hakataya occupation of Arizona continued until about

A.D. 600, when a new group, the Hohokam, entered the region from Mexico. While the 111

Hakataya represented the blending of disparate Mesoamerican ideas into a local culture, the Hohokam were immigrants, bringing both ideas and people. The appearance of the

Hohokam is marked by canal irrigation, trash mounds, ball courts, new ceramic and craft styles, as well as new forms of social organization (Schroeder 1966:686). The Hakataya and Hohokam coexisted, with different patterns of material traits commingling at common sites (Schroeder 1966:683). Eventually, the Hakataya were eventually assimilated into the new culture. Throughout the Colonial and Sedentary periods, the

Hohokam were seen as growing increasingly socially complex. Social stratification, institutionalized craft specialization, and extensive trade networks grew throughout these times. The Hohokam stimulated and maintained many of these trade networks, spreading

Hohokam cultural traits throughout the Southwest.

Schroeder (1952; 1953) also attributed the changes at the onset of the Classic period with a prehistoric group not considered by Gila Pueblo (1952; 1953). Gladwin and Haury’s work suggested that Salado influence and immigration to the Gila and Salt rivers were responsible for the emergent cultural patterns of the Classic period.

Schroeder argues that the only real evidence of Salado presence in southern Arizona is the appearance of Gila Polychrome and that this ceramic type should be instead treated as an intrusive. In his opinion, Gila Polychrome in the Hohokam area is the result of ceramic trading facilitated by the Sinagua of central Arizona (Schroeder 1952).

Additionally, the Sinagua had a developed specific cultural pattern by A.D. 1070, including red ware, extended burials, and masonry in pit houses. Schroeder proposed that this pattern of material traits was a much better precedent for the changes occurring 112

throughout the Hohokam region during the Classic than the Salado. This pattern could

also be traced from Flagstaff, down the Verde Valley and into the Phoenix area

(Schroeder 1952:333). Schroeder’s explanation for Classic period change, like Gladwin

and Haury’s, stemmed from the stimulus of another cultural group. Schroeder simply

offered another source for that stimulus.

While, Charles Di Peso is most notably associated with his work around Casas

Grandes, Chihuahua, he also made significant contributions to Hohokam research.

Charles Di Peso began working at several sites along the Santa Cruz and San Pedro rivers

and used this research to support a very different model of the region’s prehistory than

had been previously offered. Like Schroeder, Di Peso (1956) proposed a cultural group

other than the Hohokam as responsible for the assemblages from the earlier portions of

the Hohokam sequence. In his model, the first ceramic using people of southern Arizona

were the O’otam, who had descended from the earlier Cochise culture (the O’otam were

associated with the desert branch of the Hohokam and Pioneer material at Snaketown).

The early O’otam were characterized by small clusters of oval structures, sheet trash,

possible ceremonial rooms, inhumations without offerings, distinctive plain and

decorated ceramics, and unsophisticated stone working (Di Peso 1956:561-562). Di Peso also believed the initial O’otam subsisted through foraging as he found no convincing evidence of agriculture associated with these occupations.

According to Di Peso (1956), after the local development of the O’otam culture,

southern Arizona witnessed repeated episodes of immigration, domination, and revolution. The Hohokam, immigrants from Mesoamerica, arrived in southern Arizona 113

around A.D. 1000 and founded large villages and massive irrigation systems soon after.

Additionally, new levels of social stratification were characteristic of the Hohokam,

contrasting sharply with the more egalitarian patterns of the O’otam. Archaeologically,

the Hohokam were associated with large sites, trash mounds, cemeteries, sophisticated

stone and shell working, cremations with offerings, and ball courts (Di Peso 1956:563).

Di Peso collapsed the entire Hohokam sequence into 250 years based on the mixed

occurrence of early ceramic types with Santa Cruz and Sacaton varieties at the Palo

Parado Site (Doyel 1994:205). These observations led Di Peso to argue the various types

were not diagnostic of certain periods, but in use contemporaneously. Like Schroeder, Di

Peso offered a reconstruction that explained the record’s variability as the result of the

mixing of two distinct cultural patterns.

Di Peso’s (1956) reconstruction ends in a time of rebellion. After only about 250

years, the O’otam, rose up and overthrew the Hohokam oppressors, again reasserting cultural dominance over southern Arizona. The O’otam resurgence may have been aided

by both inflexible Hohokam subsistence practices, as well as by support from Anasazi

populations to the east (Di Peso 1956:565). Traits, such as compound villages, were thought to be incorporated from these Anasazi groups, rather than from the Salado or

Sinagua. Other markers of the O’otam Reassertion period represent a blending of

O’otam and Hohokam traits. Around A.D. 1300, some group, either a segment of

O’otam or remnant Hohokam, began constructing great houses at old Hohokam sites and reactivating the massive irrigation systems. Again, the O’otam revolted and drove the great house builders from the region in A.D. 1600. 114

While different in the particulars, both Schroeder and Di Peso offered

reconstructions of southern Arizonan archaeology that challenged the indigenous development of the Hohokam. Both researchers described local populations, associated with Pioneer period material, which were faced with the arrival of an immigrant group from Mesoamerica, the Hohokam. This cultural interaction produced a mixture of different archaeological patterns. Interestingly, both had been trained at the University of

Arizona under Haury. Both, also gained positions at private organizations dedicated to academic research—Schroeder at the Museum of Northern Arizona and Di Peso at the

Amerind Foundation. These organizational bases may have allowed some latitude in research direction that may not have been possible in other contexts.

These archaeologists were not the only ones still participating in discussion about the Hohokam, however. The pioneers of the field, Gladwin and Haury, continued their own efforts, although no longer presenting similar archaeological explanations. Gladwin dramatically revised many of the interpretations originally offered in the first Snaketown volume. The first major reevaluation involved a significant shortening of the Hohokam chronology (Gladwin 1942). Gladwin challenged Haury’s estimation that pre-Santa Cruz phases were each 200 years long. He now proposed that each of these phases were only

50 years long, pushing the beginning of the Pioneer period to A.D. 600. Gladwin also significantly transformed what the Hohokam archaeological culture meant. Like

Schroeder and Di Peso, Gladwin reinterpreted Pioneer period materials in non-Hohokam terms (1948). Instead, he posited that a Mogollon occupation in the desert was responsible for the Pioneer period, based on similarities in ceramics. Additionally, he 115

questioned the reality of the Pioneer period phases. Through a reanalysis of Mound 29 from Snaketown, he believed that Pioneer ceramics were actually contemporary with

Santa Cruz and Sacaton pottery.

The compression of the Hohokam sequence created a different picture of

Hohokam development, one of accelerated change, and not gradual and progressive. The

Hohokam were now seen as Mesoamerican migrants into southern Arizona, arriving with a complete set of cultural traits (Gladwin 1948). These immigrants lived together with the desert Mogollon, with the latter adapting many of the practices of the Hohokam.

Gladwin’s positions were subsequently critiqued by both Schroeder (1965) and Haury

(1976).

Throughout this period, Emil Haury remained active in Hohokam archaeology, as well as in the Southwest generally. In 1936 Byron Cummings offered Haury the position of head of the Department of Archaeology at the University of Arizona in 1937 and the

Director of the Arizona State Museum (ASM) in 1938, which he accepted (Doyel

1994:200; Haury 1988). His exit from Gila Pueblo created tension in his relationship with Harold Gladwin, one mirrored in their academic disagreements over the Hohokam.

This separation also mirrored the larger discipline-wide patterns of increasing professionalization and the strengthening of boundaries between “professionals” based in academic institutions and “amateurs” who lacked the credibility and legitimacy provided by association with such institutions.

After the first Snaketown project, Haury’s next major Hohokam work was centered in the Papaguería, most notably Ventana Cave, of southern Arizona (Haury 116

1950; McGuire 1982:120). Ventana Cave contained five meters of deposits, ranging

from Paleoindian hunters with extinct animal remains, through the Hohokam, and ultimately historic Tohono O’odham (Papago) remains. The seeming gradual progression revealed in Ventana Cave led Haury to speculate that the Hohokam developed from pre-existing, local, populations, likely the Cochise culture, and not through a dramatic cultural shift. While Haury did not now believe them to be immigrants, the Hohokam still evidenced many similarities to Mesoamerica, including artifactual and architectural forms (Haury 1945:62-65). By noting the dates associated with the introduction of various Mesoamerican traits, Haury states they did not originate from the same source, route, or time, further lessening the possibility of a migratory origin for the Hohokam (1945). The Ventana findings reinforced Haury’s view of

Hohokam cultural evolution as gradual.

Based on the findings from Ventana Cave, Haury (1950) also noted significant variability and proposed that two varieties of the Hohokam cultural pattern could be distinguished: river and desert. Hohokam ceramics were present in Ventana Cave mortuary deposits, but with inhumations rather than cremations. Additionally, many of the distinctive Hohokam craft items were absent. Haury argued that these Hohokam represented segments of the river Hohokam population that had adapted to a desert way of life. The very different environmental conditions of the desert forced the people to live without the full material cultural assemblage of their river counterparts. While these categories would later be criticized as simplistic, they offered an early interpretation of

Hohokam culture that emphasized the relationships between environmental and cultural 117

variability. Also, Haury offered a slight modification of the Hohokam chronology during this time. He believed the Cochise culture practiced a relatively sedentary way of life and

experimented with some cultivation by 4000 B.C. These circumstances facilitated the

ultimate adoption of maize, coming from Mesoamerica (Haury 1994:29). Increased

cultivation in the desert environment led to the need for water control, and ultimately

irrigation. In Haury’s opinion, irrigation first appeared at the beginning of the Pioneer

period, which was now pushed up to A.D. 1 (Doyel 1994:201). Otherwise, Haury

remained loyal to the original Snaketown chronology, despite the criticisms of Gladwin

and others.

Haury’s river and desert dichotomy was one form of an interpretative framework

that organized Hohokam discourse through much of its history—the concept of a core

and periphery. The most elaborate manifestation of the Hohokam cultural pattern was

seen to be present in the Hohokam “core,” the Salt and Gila River Basins. A “periphery”

of colonial areas surrounded this core where Hohokam cultural patterns were more dilute.

Additionally, any cultural dynamics were often thought to have originated in the core

with the peripheral areas acting as relatively passive recipients (Fish and Fish 1991:154;

McGuire 1991:347; Whittlesey 1998; Wilcox and Shenk 1977). While this base

framework developed in the early period of Hohokam archaeology, it would color newer

interpretations of recent decades (McGuire 1991; Wilcox 1979).

Never one to leave an archaeological controversy unsettled (Reid and Whittlesey

2005), Haury set out to collect the necessary archaeological data. Supported by a

substantial NSF grant in the winter of 1964, Haury returned to Snaketown to address 118

many of the criticisms leveled at him since the previous project. Like the first Snaketown

volume, this would become another seminal landmark in Hohokam discourse (see

Appendix A). Haury’s team excavated over 180 houses, hundreds of mortuary deposits,

a ballcourt, and a platform mound. As its findings were published in 1976, the specifics

of this work are discussed in the following chapter.

Some archaeological research, other than that directly associated with Haury, was also conducted during the 1960s by a number of researchers and institutions (McGuire

1984:133). Richard Woodbury (1960, 1961) excavated several canals in Phoenix and near Gila Bend through the support of the Rockefeller foundation. Woodbury’s research would provide important evidence for Hohokam scholars interested in irrigation

subsistence—the hallmark of the Hohokam lifestyle. Cameron Greenleaf, supported by

NSF funding, documented the Fortified Hill site, also near Gila Bend (1975). Richard

Ambler (1961, 1962) conducted a survey of the area surrounding Casa Grande and Jack

Zahniser (1966) excavated portions of Tanque Verde village in Tucson as part of M.A.

degree requirements at the University of Arizona. Donald Morris’ (1969) excavations of

the Red Mountain site would have implications for the origins of the Hohokam cultural pattern and are discussed further in subsequent chapters. As noted in the previous chapter, ASM’s highway salvage was another active participant (Hammack 1969). 119

Year(s) Principal Archaeologist Project Funding Organization 1883 Bandelier, Adolf Pueblo Grande AIA 1887 Cushing, Frank Hamilton Los Muertos and Hemenway Expedition Pueblo Grande 1901 Miller, Joshua Pueblo Grande AIA 1907 Fewkes, Jesse Walter Casa Grande Casa Grande National Monument 1925 Schmidt, Erich Pueblo Grande American Museum of Natural History; Columbia University 1928 Gladwin, Harold S. Casa Grande Southwest Museum 1929 Turney, Omar Salt River Canal Private Individual (publication) Mapping Midvale, Frank Canal Mapping Private Individual 1928-1930s Gladwin, Harold S. Survey throughout Gila Pueblo Arizona, New Mexico and Texas 1930 Haury, Emil W. Roosevelt 9:6 Gila Pueblo 1930-31 Woodward, Arthur Grewe Site Private Individual, Los Angeles Museum 1934-35 Haury, Emil W. Snaketown Gila Pueblo 1936-38 Kelly, Isabel Hodges Site Private Individual, Gila Pueblo 1938-39 McGregor, John C. Winona and Ridge Works Progress Ruin Administration, Museum of Northern Arizona 1934-1940 Simmons, James W., and Pueblo Grande Public Works Odd Halseth, Julian Administration, Civilian Hayden, Albert Schroeder, Conservation Corps, Paul Ezell Works Progress Administration 1940-42 Haury, Emil W. Ventana Cave University of Arizona 1940 Hayden, Julian University Indian Civilian Conservation Ruin Corps 1950s Di Peso, Charles Amerind Foundation 1959 Woodbury, Richard Park of Four Waters University of Arizona 1960 Ambler, Richard Casa Grande University of Arizona 1960 Wasley, William Gatlin Site ASM 1961 Johnson, Albert and William Painted Rocks ASM Wasley Reservoir Survey 1964 Wasley, William and G. Lower Gila Survey ASM Vivian 1964-1965 Haury, Emil W. Snaketown UA, NSF 1965 Zahniser, Jack Tanque Verde Village UA 1969 Hammack, Laurens Las Colinas ASM 1969 Morris, Donald Red Mountain Site ASU Table 3.1: Notable Hohokam Archaeological Projects prior to 1970 120

Conclusion

The preceding discussion sets the stage for the recent developments in Hohokam

archaeology. By the 1960s, practitioners based in a variety of institutions had

participated in the construction of knowledge about the Hohokam. Haury, the dominant

archaeological figure in the region, represented the most traditional of the various actors

as much of his career was spent in the traditional settings of academic archaeological research, namely the University of Arizona and ASM. His formative years were spent at

Gila Pueblo, a privately funded organization shaped by Gladwin’s forceful personality.

In addition to Haury, several others academically positioned archaeologists, such as Di

Peso, Schroeder and Woodward remained active in Hohokam studies. This period coincided with the increasing professionalization of the discipline and boundaries between legitimate practitioners and amateur continued to solidify making it more difficult for those without established institutional affiliations to make significant impacts. Also important, however, were the efforts of private individuals without traditional bases of support, such as Turney and Midvale. The early history of Hohokam archaeology is an intersection of many different practitioners coming from many different perspectives scattered amongst many different organizations. As detailed in chapter 6, this appears to have resulted in an intellectual structure that mirrors this fragmentation.

The interim period between Snaketown and the emergence of CRM witnessed a few important contributions to the Hohokam discourse. Haury (1950) at Ventana Cave, 121

Hayden (1957) at University Indian Ruin and Pueblo Grande, and Di Peso (1956) and

Schroeder (1947, 1965, 1966) all offered their own perspective on the prehistory of

southern Arizona. However, the amount of new data collected was significantly less than

in other regions of the Southwest, forcing Hohokam scholars to discuss important issues

with only the aid of existing data.

Interest in the changing internal content of Hohokam archaeology is not new (see

Dean 1991; Doyel 1994; Doyel and Fish 2000; Gumerman 1991:1-7; Schiffer 1982).

Most studies focus on the internal evolution of Hohokam thought, without reference to the articulation of this thought with the organizational contexts of archaeology. A subsequent chapter explores in detail the organizational changes taking place throughout the Hohokam archaeological community, as well as the internal content of archaeological discussions. Chapters 6, 7, and 8 explicitly address the evolution of consensus and debate about these issues.

Before addressing the rest of the story, frameworks and techniques of analysis are necessary. Disciplinary histories can be approached with explicit theoretical frameworks and methods in order to explain the unfolding of that history. The social context of science holds significant ramifications for the internal content of that discipline. Change in the organizational environment of Hohokam archaeology has been established, and continues, so a primary mission of the present project becomes to untangle the nature of the products of Hohokam archaeology—its literature. Subsequently, methods to document changing patterns of discourse are required before further consideration of

Hohokam archaeology’s history. 122

CHAPTER 4: THEORY, METHOD, AND DATASET

The relationship between scientific production and the social context of disciplines is a central question of many disciplinary histories (Laudan 1993; Mullins

1972). In several histories of archaeology, investigators have focused on such

relationships by seeking broad connections between the discipline and larger social

forces, such as capitalism or the rise of the middle class (Kehoe 1998; Patterson 1995;

Trigger 1989). While larger social contexts play an ultimate role in a discipline’s social environment (Collins 1998), the present study focuses on a meso-level of linkages between the discipline and its immediate institutional context (Abbott 1988; Collins

1998; DiMaggio and Powell 1991; Fuchs 1992). The following section details the general framework shaping this study, which explicitly focuses on the consequences of proximate organizational change for the intellectual activities of scientific practitioners, specifically how disciplinary knowledge is constructed.

While the historical record is brimming with evidence of organizational and legal change affecting Hohokam archaeology (Ahlstrom et al. 2004; Bayman 2001; Crown

1990; Doyel 1985; Feinman 1991; Gumerman 1991; Rogge 1983), including the fact that the vast majority of publications discussed in following chapters were produced CRM contexts, detailed attention to changes in the Hohokam intellectual landscape has not been as common. Documenting broad patterns in intellectual structure is elusive, so such

related changes in its literature remain more difficult to track. To accomplish this task, a 123

series of analyses are employed that can relatively objectively document changing

patterns of archaeological discourse. Specifically, citation, co-citation in conjunction

with Pathfinder network scaling, and citation context analyses are utilized in an

integrative fashion to develop representations of Hohokam discourse that can be compared diachronically. These quantitative measures are then tempered with a

qualitative consideration of the intellectual content of Hohokam archaeology to provide a

comprehensive account of its development over the last three decades of the 20th century.

Theoretical Approach

The sociologies of science, organizations, and professions offer valuable perspectives for examining disciplinary histories and investigating relationships between knowledge and social context of work (Abbott 1988; Ben-David and Collins 1966;

Collins 1989, 1998; DiMaggio and Powell 1991; Fuchs 1992; Gieryn 1999; Latour and

Woolgar 1986; Mullins 1972; Shapin 1982, 1994). Traditionally, science has been portrayed by some historians of science and many scientists themselves as rising above the usual factors affecting human social life (Fuchs 1992:1-3). In this perspective, science changed only through the successful forward progression of the scientific method, with social forces playing no significant role in the construction of actual scientific knowledge. Subsequently, such sociological studies of science treated knowledge as a kind of “black box,” for with the inputs and outputs were open to analysis, but whose contents remain locked away. Investigators could examine the 124

institutional developments such as the establishment of professional societies, but such changes did not have any impact on the production of intellectual content.

However, more contemporary approaches to the sociological examination of science emphasize that science is no different from “mundane” social interactions and that the black box must be opened. Science is not exempt from sociological analysis, but instead, can be framed as one more variety of human knowledge that shapes and is shaped by its social environment. Because scientific disciplines are housed in specific kinds of patterned organizations, “there is a good deal about them that is predictable”

(Collins 1992:xvi). Subsequently, the character of the construction of scientific knowledge should exhibit patterned regularities following patterned regularities in organization (Collins 1998; Fuchs 1992). One of the critical questions in the sociology of science becomes “what is the relationship between cognitive structure and social structure?” (Cozzens 1985:128). The organization of scientific work does not just structure mundane aspects of research like funding, schedules, and numbers of practitioners working, but also impacts the content of science.

While this project is historical in nature, it does not focus on individuals and personalities beyond their contributions to Hohokam research and their affiliations with relevant archaeological organizations. The focus here is on the shape of intellectual discussions and organizational environments, not the motivations, interests, successes or failures of individual archaeologists. In the language of archaeological theory, this project is processual in nature, examining the dynamics of systemic aggregations of people and the effects of changing ecological (institutional and organizations) 125 relationships, rather than conflict and agency. I follow this approach for two reasons.

First, it works for the analyses presented in this paper. Second, many of the important figures of Hohokam archaeology are still active and influential members of the archaeological community and the purpose of this project is not to comment on them.

Social Environment

Before addressing patterns in the construction of knowledge, we must define the immediate environment of scientific activity. How does culture, society, laws, or extra- scientific organizations shape how scientists are organized in relation to this environment and to each other? A critical reason that a scientific organization—or any organization— changes originates with changes in its environment. The environment of any organization consists of all those other organizations with which it articulates in a given social system. While large-scale societal forces ultimately shape the character of scientific disciplines, it is in the specific connections between science and other organizations that proximate factors in change can be identified. For instance, the mass education provided to many returning military personnel following World War II reflected larger national social, economic, and demographic forces, and which ultimately played a major role in the growth of archaeology and establishment of CRM (Patterson

1995). This study focuses on more proximate articulations between archaeological institutions and other organizations developing and changing in the context of those more general social forces. 126

Organizations, including scientific ones, are structured in order to effectively

interact with this environment (DiMaggio and Powell 1991) in addition to performing

professional work. Usually for scientific disciplines, such an environment is composed

of other organizations—government bodies, funding agencies, lawmakers, or associations

of interested citizens. Using a Darwinian analogy, organizations that are structured like

those organizations with which they interact have a selective advantage over others. Even

organizations that carry out significantly different work may be structured in similar ways because they operate in similar institutional environments. Subsequently, organizations tend to look like one another, rather than exhibiting a diversity in structure related to their diversity in work. Following this premise, the character of a scientific discipline is strongly influenced by the nature of its social and organizational environment and not its research subject (Abbott 1988; Fuchs 1992). Furthermore, scientific research with little commercial value is especially tied to outside agencies for necessary support (Mukerji

1989:4) and the nature of such organizations will exercise significant influence on the work of the discipline. Subsequently, a discipline like archaeology, which is especially

dependent on public sources of support should be structured in such ways to effectively interact with sources of that funding, whether through academic grants or contracts won

in CRM research.

These processes result in varying organizations possessing similar components that are termed isomorphisms (DiMaggio and Powell 1991). Isomorphisms are structural similarities between different organizations that allow organizations to more effectively interface with one another, easing the exchange of information and resources. When a 127 profession’s work is dependent on support from other organizations, the development of appropriate isomorphisms is a primary strategy used by professions to protect control, or jurisdiction, over the group’s work (Abbott 1988). In the case of archaeology, the creation of effective isomorphisms ensures continued material support and continued professional practice—the organizational structure of a university or that of a private firm affects how practitioners articulate with sources of support.

One variety of coercive isomorphism occurs when organizational similarities are mandated by law or by influence from powerful organizations upon which another is dependent (DiMaggio and Powell 1991:67). In many cases the continued existence of a dependent organization relies on successful articulation with the more powerful one. A dependent organization models its structure on that of another to ensure effective exchanges of information and resources. The various sectors of archaeology interact with different types of organizations. Generally, academics interact with universities/museums and granting agencies, such as the National Science Foundation, in order to conduct their work. CRM archaeologists primarily deal with government and private agencies that wish to satisfy issues of legal compliance, though research requirements of compliance are often crafted by those in academic institutions. CRM archaeology must accommodate the situations presented by sponsor agencies. Specific sites of research and standards of reporting are defined by sponsors and legislation, with which archaeological research interest must intersect. Effective relationships between these organizations and archaeology are critical for the continued recovery of archaeological data prior to destructive activities. This breed of isomorphism is 128

especially important to the present study as the basic nature of CRM archaeology is

determined by its relationships with non-archaeological and non-scholarly organizations, such as government agencies and private developers. As discussed in later chapters, the growing dominance of private firms in the CRM world is directly related to their more efficient interface with outside organizations.

Another type of normative isomorphism develops when a profession acts to

“define the conditions and methods of their work” (DiMaggio and Powell 1991:70) and control recruitment and training. This process encourages organizational and intellectual similarity among practitioners, though they may be based in very different institutions.

These forces operate is through formal education, and participation in professional networks and associations, as well as common interaction with external organizations

(DiMaggio and Powell 1991:71). It follows that practitioners with similar training and interacting through professional networks will have similar perspectives on the proper way to conduct and organize the work of a profession or discipline. Active participation in intellectual discussions reinforces group solidarity and professional identity (Collins

1998:28). This process acts in concert with the establishment and protection of boundaries between those who can legitimately engage in a professional activity

(professionals) from those who cannot (amateurs). In archaeology, this kind of isomorphism ensures continued interaction between practitioners based in academia and those based in CRM. No matter the organization of employment, practitioners train in

academic institutions and many continue to participate in professional organizations and

discussions that cross-cut boundaries of CRM and academia. 129

Consequences for Intellectual Production

Because no real distinction between the “external” and “internal” components of

science exist, relationships between scientific disciplines and the organizational

environment also have implications for the nature of scholarship produced (Abbott 1998;

Collins 1989, 1998; Fuchs 1992). Different organizational environments tend to produce scholarly communities with different structures and this variable situation results in consequences for the product of practitioners. This is not a unique situation. For example, farmers are producers of food and auto manufacturers the producers of cars, just as scientists are producers of knowledge. Both a ceramic artisan and a ceramic factory produce similar objects. However, these products are manufactured in very different environments, resulting in variation in the character of specific products. The same basic phenomenon applies to the production of knowledge. Following this line of reasoning, science conducted in a traditional academic environment results in a different intellectual structure than that conducted in a context of legal compliance.

The distribution of material support for scientific activity has enormous impacts on the organization of a discipline and subsequently for the character of its intellectual activity. Without a material base of support, much scientific activity would be impossible. Fuchs argues that scientific organizations, and their intellectual production, are not different due to their subjects, but because “scientific practices covary with the social-structural arrangements of scientific communities” (1992:15) and “they do their 130 work in different ways” (1992:177) related to different organizations of work, which in turn are tied to the environment of material foundation.

Fuchs proposes two critical variables for organizing the nature of the relationship between science and social environment—task uncertainty and mutual dependence

(1992). Task uncertainty refers to the degree to which knowledge production is

“routinized and predictable” (Fuchs 1992:82). Low task uncertainty is evident in much of the research conducted in the “harder” sciences where practitioners ask a common set of questions utilizing similar approaches, exemplified by routinized research in which investigators are filling in the gaps of a generally agreed upon theoretical framework. On the other hand, disciplines with high task uncertainty do not have clearly defined research questions, problems and issues—a situation more characteristic of scholarship in the social sciences and especially in the humanities.

Mutual dependence refers to “the extent to which scientists are dependent on particular networks of collegiate control that organize the distribution of reputational and material rewards” (Fuchs 1992:81). The more concentrated resources—material and symbolic—are, the more mutually dependent the discipline. Disciplines characterized by high levels of mutual dependence should exhibit similar discursive styles, while those with low dependence would more often demonstrate variability in approaches and questions. Mutually dependent communities often exhibit high social density, such as when practitioners are dependent on particular and limited technologies, such as in research laboratories. This co-presence of scientists in the same laboratory using the same equipment encourages the construction of “more uniform ways of perceiving the 131

world” (Fuchs 1992:97). An example on the other side of the mutual dependence

spectrum is provided by the scholarly community of poetry. Poets often work in isolation

and circulate their products through extremely fragmented networks of collegiate control, which ensures a diversity of poetic approaches.

The particular combination of these variables within a scholarly community shapes the way its intellectual discussions are structured. Various scientific disciplines have different styles of intellectual discourse, for example, most would agree that discussions present in physics journals significantly differ from those found in sociology ones. The former would be more likely to produce an ever expanding corpus of facts, while the latter would be more prone to heterogeneous and pluralistic intellectual conversation. When such support is fragmented in loosely connected networks (low

mutual dependence) and little consensus on specific research issues exists (high task

uncertainty), academic discourse often follows a pattern of a conversational style

allowing multiple perspectives (Fuchs 1992). Alternatively, when scholarship is tied to

centralized networks of support (high mutual dependence) and common questions and

techniques are followed (low task uncertainty), practitioners tend to engage in “fact

production”—new contributions fit into existing frameworks—resulting in a more unified

discourse (Fuchs 1992). These variables represent polar types, so instances of actual

science exhibits a mosaic of characteristics.

132

Organizational and Intellectual Change

The organizational context of science and the character of scientific production do not necessarily remain static, but can and often do change over time (Fuchs 1992:14).

Significant change in a discipline’s social environment can have profound implications on its discourse, as “organizational turning points are intellectual turning points as well”

(Collins 1998:94). From this sociological perspective, evolution of disciplinary thought is a two-step process—“political and economic changes bring ascendancy or decline of the material institutions which support intellectuals…then readjust to fill the space available” (Collins 1998:381). When change occurs, scholars expend intellectual energy, exploring the new structural opportunities and adapting to their new organizational context.

Collins (1989, 1998) argues that practitioners intellectually adapt to the growth or decline of material foundations of support in patterned ways. Fractionation occurs when scholars emphasize intellectual difference from others, while synthesis involves the combination of previously disparate perspectives (Collins 1998:81, 131-133). In a fractionated environment, individuals construct novel concepts through ignoring or attacking existing ideas. A fractionated academic landscape would contain several distinct centers of intellectual gravity. This discursive pattern tends to occur when scholarship has relatively robust material support, allowing practitioners the luxury of intellectual diversity (Collins 1989:122-123). For example, the emergence of the

Christian Church as a major foundation of material support spurred a tremendous burst of creativity and sharpening of various philosophical positions (Collins 1998:120). On the 133

other hand, scholars synthesize by attaching themselves to existing ideas through support

or minor modification. Synthetic discourse is illustrated by a network with a limited

number of intellectual foci. This discursive style is characteristic of disciplines with

weaker material support, as practitioners synthesize ideas and concepts in an attempt to

strengthen their position. Collins (1998:117-119) notes that after the collapse of the

Athenian schools of philosophy in the first few centuries AD, philosophical discourse

entered a period of synthesis, where previously divergent ideas were combined into

similar, complementary concepts.

Collins’ pattern is apparent in the structure of many academic departments

throughout the United States. While indirectly relevant to the present study, consider the

structure of American anthropology and sociology departments. In universities where

departmental funding is relatively high, these disciplines are housed in separate

departments, or in a fractionated environment. However, when support is scarce, they are

often merged into one, synthetic department (Abbott 1998:127).

Collins framed this approach through a consideration of world wide schools of

philosophical thought through long stretches of time. However, the same basic patterns

can illustrate processes occurring at a much shorter window of time. One avenue to

document fractionation and synthesis in intellectual discussions is through publications

(Collins 1998:38-39), as scientific literature is a central place where the questions that shape disciplines are exchanged, modified, supported or rejected (Croissant 2000b:187).

Literature also provides an easily accessible store of disciplinary knowledge. 134

The social and organizational context of archaeology did experience a

fundamental shift during the rise of CRM, so the intellectual activities of practitioners

should have also experienced dramatic change. Chapter 5 outlines the expectations for change in the production of archaeological knowledge in the face of these organizational transformations. The following section details the methods utilized to untangle the discursive patterns evident in the region’s scientific literature.

Citation Methods

Texts play a fundamental role in scientific and scholarly endeavors. Writing and

publishing papers is the primary productive activity of scientists (Collins 1998:27;

LaTour and Woolgar 1986; Mukerji 1989:200), serve as special resources (Fuchs

1992:57) and few would argue against its importance within academic communities. The

material nature of texts allows them to serve as the ties that bind disconnected situations

into disciplines that transcend local experience (Collins 1998:27). Out of the contingent

and mundane reasoning in concrete scientific activities, texts form the timeless,

authoritative statements of science. With texts, ideas are not confined to particular times

and people or fraught with inconsistencies and imperfections that plague spoken

interactions. Instead, the written word seems to speak for itself and lasts beyond its

original utterance (Fuchs 1992:59). Often, the style of scientific writing is passive,

suggesting that the written words are simply the representational accounting of what is

going on in the real world. Archaeologists themselves have noted that a major strategy 135

for the continuance of scientific communities is the control and use of a discipline’s

literature (Clarke 1968:xiii; Trigger 1989:5).

Doing science should lead to the creation of texts as these are the building blocks

of future knowledge as well as the means of rewards and recognition in a scientific

community. Ideas are not yet fully real until they are part of a discipline’s literature

(Collins 1998:25). In texts, scientists combine or discard the ideas of those who came

before. Writers can criticize earlier ideas, creating a springboard for their own work, or

they may incorporate pervious research as foundations for their own statements, or

scientists may simply ignore the ideas of their predecessors. The only concrete evidence of a discipline’s existence is in texts and the aggregate collection of ideas represented in that literature. A critical consequence of the focus on publication is that it provides a

clear record of scientific discourse through time and permits studies of intellectual

structure and change.

Beyond the presentation of important intellectual ideas, texts contain evidence of

relationships of influence and recognition through the use of citations. Citations are

statements, explicit or implicit, of what the citing author views as important landmarks

(Hutson 2002:331), and provide a record of a discipline’s intellectual geography. They

serve to acknowledge the work of others, direct others to additional information,

contradict other statements, provide supporting data, and places a document within the

broader disciplinary environment, leaving a “paper-trail” for other researchers

(Whittlesey and Reid 2004:117). They position a scientific work within the broader

intellectual environment, and in the process define what that environment is. 136

The analysis of citation patterns within a discipline’s literature allows a somewhat independent examination of its discursive structure. These approaches have been developed and refined primarily in the fields of information science and have seen profitable application in studies of various scientific fields (Chen 1998; Chen et al. 2001;

Garfield 1979; Garfield et al. 1964; Hjerppe 1978; Price 1969; White 2003b; Yermish

1975). Some approaches to citation studies attempt to uncover the basic structure of scientific knowledge by mapping networks of concepts, ideas and practitioners (Small

1993:5). Instead of relying solely on the interpretation of a work’s content, a citation analyst has access to the unambiguous building blocks of any scientific publication. The totality of a discipline or specialty’s body of citations represents a map of the intellectual character of that group. This kind of representation is not created by the analyst, but displays how the body of practitioners defines their discipline. Each piece of literature adds the perspective of another scholar as to the important ideas and figures of the discipline.

Citation Studies in Anthropology and Archaeology

While originally developed in other disciplines, citation analyses are not foreign to studies of archaeology and anthropology (e.g. Beaudry and White 1994; Choi 1988;

Garfield 1984; Hutson 2002; Lyman et al. 2005; Moore 1973; Rogge 1976; Sterud 1978;

Victor and Beaudry 1992; Zubrow 1972). These studies have approached the discipline with a number of interests and approaches. Investigators have utilized citation patterns in anthropology’s content to uncover basic descriptive data (e.g. Garfield 1984), 137

communications between sub-disciplines (e.g. Choi 1988), the popularity of specific

methodological and theoretical approaches (e.g. Sterud 1978; Zubrow 1972), the

influence of specific archaeological approaches (e.g. Lyman et al. 2005), the influence of

gender in citation practices (e.g. Beaudry and White 1994; Hutson 2002; Lutz 1990;

Victor and Beaudry 1992), as well as to reveal patterns in how anthropologists actually utilize citations (e.g. Sandstrom 1999). While most of these studies focus on understanding the basic content of the discipline, some highlight how the act of citing is a social practice and citations are resources that are subject to structural relations of power and that citations are not just measures of relative scholarly impact, but can uncover networks of interacting practitioners (Lutz 1990).

The present study utilizes a similar approach to citation analysis to those that treat patterns as reflective of social networks present within the discipline. I assume a historical approach and focus on changing patterns of citation through time, and explicitly focus on citation behavior as reflective of social relationships and changing social contexts, particularly the changing organizational environment associated with the development of CRM. While this study utilizes some of the citation analyses used in the preceding examples, it also employs other techniques for accurately elucidating comprehensible patterns from volumes of citation data.

Literature Sample

Hohokam archaeology is a relatively small subset of the discipline and its discourse is scattered through a number of publication types. Subsequently, a number of 138 different kinds of literature are included in this analysis—journal articles, chapters, monographs, and site reports. The criterion for the selection of this sample was if the subject of the publication included pre-contact, ceramic-using, agricultural people in southern Arizona.

In this study, an almost complete sample was collected, including 924 publications and 82,000 individual citations (Table 4.1). While this analysis focuses on those works published between 1970 and 2001, publications predating this period were also collected and analyzed for comparative purposes. Both publications produced through CRM organizations and those originating in more traditional academic settings are included. This sample did not include archaeological publications detailing recent research in and around the Tonto Basin. While this area undoubtedly has implications for understanding Hohokam history, this study focuses only on those areas that have traditionally and more unambiguously defined as occupied by the Hohokam cultural group.

Academic CRM Highly-Cited Aggregate Number of Source Citations Source Citations Source Citations Papers Papers Papers Pre-1970 59 1523 N/A 31 400 1970-1974 23 591 51 13 318 1975-1979 38 3799 79 4440 21 478 1980-1984 50 2075 65 8024 43 1020 1985-1989 60 3224 88 15,994 89 2106 1990-1994 65 4730 100 18,091 65 2187 1995-2001 49 3671 187 16,857 65 2190 Total 354 18,513 570 63,406 296 8699 Table 4.1: Citing Literature Sample 139

Many citation based studies utilize databases such as the Institute of Scientific

Information’s Atlas and Web of Science to quickly assemble data. Unfortunately, many

of the central publications in Hohokam archaeology, such as CRM reports, chapters in

edited volumes, and regional journals, are not included in such databases. Subsequently,

citation was collected on a publication by publication basis for subsequent analyses. For

this project, citation data was collected in a project-specific Microsoft Access database.

The database stores basic bibliographic information for each sampled publication,

including author, title, year, publication type, volume, and page number.

To conduct any citation analysis, a sample of source publications must be defined

and data collected. These works serve as the citing publications, while the publications

they reference are the cited ones. Initially, major publications in Hohokam archaeology

known to the author were selected for analysis. This included publications from all the

categories discussed below. This sample provided a basis for utilizing a snowball method

to collect additional publications for the sample. Citations from the first sample were

reviewed to discover additional important Hohokam publications. A number of different

kinds of citing literature were utilized for the present study.

1) Traditional Academic. This data set includes journal articles—such as American

Antiquity, Kiva, Journal of Field Archaeology, World Archaeology, American

Anthropologist—books, and chapters in edited volumes. These publications are designed

primarily to communicate scientific information about anthropological questions and not 140

to fulfill a CRM contract. Most of this sample is available to the archaeological

community. Dissertations, theses, and conferences papers, however, are not included.

2) CRM Publication Series. Many organizations that conduct CRM archaeology

maintain publication series to broadcast research findings. These primarily serve

traditional academic functions of information exchange, and are sometimes requirements

of contracts. Not every CRM project produces one of these publications—only those

deemed important enough to deserve more extensive dissemination. These volumes often

follow a similar or standardized format, with chapters focusing on different aspects of the

research, such as research background, architecture, artifact types, and specialized analyses. Additionally, one or more synthetic, interpretive chapters serve to tie the various studies together into a coherent whole.

The collection of another relatively complete sample is possible for the various series produced by the ten major organizations involved in Hohokam archaeology:

Arizona State Museum (ASM), Arizona State University (ASU), Museum of Northern

Arizona (MNA), Northland Research, Inc. (NRI), Soil Systems, Inc. (SSI), Center for

Desert Archaeology/Desert Archaeology, Inc. (CDARC) also known as the Institute for

American Research (IAR) before 1989, Statistical Research, Inc. (SRI), Steven W.

Carrothers Associates Environmental Consultants (SWCA), Archaeological Research

Services (ARS), and Archaeological Consulting Services (ACS).

CRM organizations also produce many technical reports that detail very descriptive project findings and do not usually include significant discursive 141

contributions (Longacre 1981:487). This genre of literature is extraordinarily large—by

1981 annual CRM reports numbered close to 2000 (Longacre 1981:487)—so the

collection of a complete citation sample of this body of literature is nearly impossible, so

only a small subset is included in the present study. Only those technical reports that are

highly cited, as defined by the original sample, are included.

For analytical purposes, the literature types are grouped into basic categories,

whether CRM or academic. While this masks some variability, it provides a useful

framework for comparing citation patterns through time and elucidating general trends.

This framework allows a consideration of broad citation practices and intellectual trajectories through time.

Hohokam Citing Literature Sample

160 140 120 100 Academic 80 CRM 60 40 20

Number of Publications of Number 0 1970 1975 1980 1985 1990 1995 Year

Table 4.2: Number of Publications in the Sample over the Analyzed Period

142

Cited Authors Per Period

1800 1600 1400 1200 1000 Academic 800 CRM 600 400 200

Number of Cited Authors Cited of Number 0 1970 1975 1980 1985 1990 1995 Year

Table 4.3: Number of Cited Authors over the Analyzed Period

Co-Citation Analysis

In order to map networks of intellectual relationships, connections between ideas, concepts, or figures need to be uncovered. Co-citation analysis serves this purpose by creating a geographic representation of a discipline’s discourse in a relatively easily understood graphic of intellectual structures. Co-citation analysis utilizes citing documents as the unit of analysis and records what other documents the citing ones cite

(Marshakova 1973; Small 1973). The number of times other documents are cited together, or co-cited, gives some indication of the relationship between the two. For example if a publication cites both Lewis Binford’s 1962 “Archaeology as

Anthropology” and Michael Schiffer’s 1976 “Behavioral Archaeology,” then a co- citation relationship exists between those two documents. The links between documents 143

can be graphically represented by a series of nodes and linkages between those nodes.

The maps of co-citation relationships are spatial representations of how various fields are

structured, illustrated by the relative positions of various nodes (White 1999: 799). In

essence, “the more two documents are cited together, the closer the relationship between them, as perceived by the citing authors, and the closer they would appear” (White and

Griffith 1980:163) in a map depicting the discipline’s literature.

In addition to mapping relationships between cited documents, an analyst can also uncover relationships between cited authors, or Author Co-citation Analysis (ACA)

(Bayer et al. 1990; Braam et al. 1991; Chen 1999; White 2003a, 2003b; White and

Griffith 1980). One of the primary goals of ACA is “to epitomize a field of learning

through meaningful arrangements of its key authors’ names” (White 2003b:424) and can

provide a useful graphic approximation of the intellectual structure of a research

community. If a citing document cites any paper by Binford as well as any other by

Schiffer, then a co-citation relationship exists between the two. Compilations of such ties

between practitioners provide a simplified representation of the structure of a discipline

and can illustrate the presence of implicit social networks such as invisible colleges

(White 2003b:424). These co-citation measures are stored in a symmetric matrix format,

with identical lists of authors composing both axes. When maps are produced that

illustrate these relationships, authors that are consistently cited together appear tightly

clustered, while those rarely cited in common are situated far apart. A critical advantage

of this approach is that the resulting maps are “based on the composite judgment of 144 hundreds of citers, rather than on any one person’s judgment…it is ‘the field’s view’”

(White and Griffith 1980:163), and not of just one individual.

Pearson’s correlation coefficients have proved useful in determining the overall similarity of nodes within a matrix relative to all others within the set (White 2003a;

White and McCain 1998:331). This measure establishes the strength of the linear relationships between two entities, in this case, authors. Some citation analysts have criticized the use of Pearson’s coefficients (see Ahlgren, Jarneving and Rousseau 2003) and while the measure is characterized by some interpretative and computational problems, White (2003a) demonstrates Pearson’s continued utility in compiling co- citation maps that are simplified and easily interpreted depictions of a disciplines intellectual structure. One apparent problem for the use of Pearson’s r in citations studies is that is typically used for normally distributed observations, which citation patterns are not an example of. Citation counts are highly skewed with a few authors cited many times, while the vast majority of cited authors in a sample cited only once rather than exhibiting a normal distribution. However, other ACA studies have revealed that normalizing co-citation measures does not significantly alter mapped results suggesting that the additional computation step of lognormalization of raw counts is unnecessary

(White 2003a). Subsequently, this study does not normalize raw citation counts before computing Pearson’s r. Pearson’s correlation coefficients are extracted from the matrices to develop each author’s citation profile, a technique profitably utilized in other studies

(Small 1999; White and McCain 1998; White and Griffith 1981) including anthropology

(Sandstrom 1999). 145

To eliminate less relevant citations and make the data sets more manageable,

authors that were cited relatively few times were eliminated from further analysis. This

was accomplished by using thresholds of citation where authors cited less than a certain

number were pruned from analysis. In order to ensure comparability between various

sized data sets, the threshold was determined as a percentage of total citations. The

threshold selected for each data set was usually established between 70-80%, depending

on the character of the particular matrix. In other words, the authors included in the

analysis were among the 70-80% most cited authors in that subset.

In the present study, the sample was divided into six five-year segments (see also

Sterud 1978), from 1970 to 2000, so that a diachronic consideration of discursive

practices was possible. This procedure is somewhat arbitrary as each period’s map “is a

snapshot of a distinct point in time of what is actually a changing and evolving structure

of knowledge” (Small 1993:5). Even so, change in structure as revealed by five year

periods can capture the basic patterns of change characterizing the discourse (Small

1999:800). Citation data from publications prior to 1970 are included in some analyses

for comparative purposes, though they contain aggregates of publications greater than

five years. Multiple co-citation matrices are compiled for each period based on the

publication type analyzed, whether of an academic or CRM source.

In addition to co-citation networks, other basic citation analyses are conducted.

Information about the attributes of various authors and publications are recorded, including citation counts, affiliation, institution of training, and subject. Citing tendency is analyzed to investigate what types of publications the citing works tend to utilize. For 146

example, do Arizona State Museum (ASM) publications tend to cite other ASM works

and not Arizona State University reports? Average citation year and citation half-life is also calculated to determine if authors favor citation of foundational works or those on a research front. These methods allow a quantitative look at how discursive practices in

Hohokam archaeology have changed along with the dramatic changes in the

organizational context of the discipline.

Pathfinder Network Scaling

Hohokam archaeology is a subset or specialty in archaeology and anthropology as

a whole—it would form its own distinct cluster in a map of the entire discipline—so

many interconnecting co-citation relationships exist. The density of these linkages in raw

author co-citation counts often makes interpretation of relationships difficult, as networks

contain tens of thousands of links between hundreds of authors (nodes) (Figure 4.1). An

important step in this analysis is to limit the number of links, without diminishing the fundamental interpretive integrity of the network (Chen 2004:2). Pathfinder network scaling (Chen 1998; Chen et al. 2001; White 2003b) is one valuable method to prune such dense networks (Chen and Paul 2001). After Pathfinder network scaling is applied, the number of links drops dramatically, significantly aiding interpretation (compare figure 4.1 to figures in chapters 6-8).

147

Figure 4.1: ACA Network for CRM Publications without Pathfinder Network Scaling

Pathfinder network scaling models the structural relationships between entities

based on proximity (Chen 1999). This procedure eliminates redundant and weaker

connections between entities in a network and retains only the strongest connections,

considering both direct and indirect linkages between nodes. The networks created

through Pathfinder scaling are called Pathfinder networks (PFNETS). PFNETS retain only those links that satisfy the triangle of inequality d(a,c) ≤ d(a,b) + d(b,c), where d is

the distance between nodes a, b and c (White 2003). The triangle of inequality “requires

that the length of a path connecting two points in the network should not be longer than

the length of other alternative paths connecting the two points, but go through extra 148 intermediate points” (Chen and Paul 2001:66). The application of this criterion to a co- citation dataset results in the perseverance of only the strongest ties between authors in a network.

For purposes of illustration, consider the following example. We will examine the common presence of three individuals at various state dinners. George W. Bush,

Dick Cheney, and Shaquille O’Neal all attended a series of events. Bush and Cheney have attended 15 events in common, Bush and O’Neal five and Cheney and O’Neal only one event, producing a 3x3 matrix (Table 4.2). These measures must be converted to proximity metrics before Pathfinder scaling can be utilized. Obviously, Bush and Cheney have the highest number of events in common, so we would want their relationship to reflect a relatively close proximity. So, each number of common attendance will be subtracted from a constant (White et al. 2004:3). A constant is determined relative to the specific matrix, in this example 16. Subtraction from this constant results in a distance of

1 between Bush and Cheney, as they share closest relationship, while the other relationships are Bush/O’Neal=10, and Cheney/O’Neal=15. When we submit these measures to the triangle of inequality, all links remain except for that between Cheney and O’Neal—15 is not less than the sum of Bush and Cheney’s links—10+1.

Subsequently, the link between Cheney and O’Neal is pruned from the network, and a simpler map is produced that illustrates the more meaningful relationships. This procedure becomes much more complex when considering matrices of hundreds of individuals with hundreds of co-citations—as is the case with Hohokam archaeology— rather than just three. For the present study, authors’ correlation profile matrices are 149

submitted to Knowledge Network Organizing Tool—KNOT software (Schvaneveldt

2005)—in order to create the PFNETS. Using additional software tools, Ucinet and

NetDraw (Borgatti, Everett. and Freeman 2002), the PFNETS are displayed as connected networks of nodes and links through a spring-embedding algorithm that meaningfully places the nodes around a given display space.

George Bush Dick Cheney Shaquille O’Neal George Bush Dick Cheney 15 Shaquille O’Neal 5 1 Table 4.4: Common Attendance at Hypothetical Events

Two parameters, r and q, determine the number of links present in the resulting

PFNETS. In this study, they are set to create the sparsest possible network, so r is set to

infinity and q is n-1—n being the number of nodes in the matrix (White et al. 2004:3).

Having q=n-1 ensures that the each relationship between nodes is subjected to the

strictest possible triangle of inequality.

The remaining links represent the more salient connections in the co-citation

universe, with less meaningful links eliminated. This procedure simplifies co-citation

diagrams by more clearly depicting the basic intellectual structure of the discipline as

“authors in the center of the Pathfinder network tend to be ones who have made profound

and fundamental contributions to the field, whereas authors located in areas remote to the

center tend to be known for their special and unique works” (Chen, Paul, O’Keefe 150

2001:319; Chen and Paul 2001:68). On the other hand, disciplines without dominant figures “can show looser, less hierarchical structure” (White 2003b:425).

In addition to links between nodes (authors), attribute information, such as the number of times an author is cited, is coded into the nodes themselves. In the co-citation diagrams illustrated in subsequent portions of this paper, the size of nodes indicates the average co-citation count for each individual author. For example, Emil Haury’s node, a frequently cited author, appears larger than others in the network. This allows an easy inspection of where the dominant figures in the field fit into the network. Highly-cited authors clustered together at the center of the network indicate a relatively centralized structure—most publications cite a common group of central figures. On the other hand, if highly-cited authors are dispersed or clustered into several different groups across the network, the basic structure is much more fragmented and decentralized. In subsequent networks, highly cited authors are indicated by a larger node size.

As noted above, this study utilizes Pearson’s correlation coefficients to compile

PFNETS. White (2003b) has criticized the use of this measure for use in conjunction with PFNETS and suggests raw co-citation counts provide better results. In this study, however, Pearson’s coefficients are used in conjunction with PFNETS. After some initial testing of co-citation matrices, the researcher found that Pearson’s r provided a more useful measure for creating PFNETS than did raw co-citation counts. Ideally, Pathfinder scaling results in significant link reduction so that ratios of nodes to links approach 1. In preliminary analyses, raw co-citation counts were used to compute PFNETS but this process failed to remove enough links to make easily interpretable maps—node to link 151

ratios fell between 0.15 and 0.2. In Pathfinder scaling, tied path weights between authors are not pruned and these results may be due to the relatively small sample sizes of

literature for each period and the greater possibility of ties (White 2003a:428). When

Pearson’s coefficients were used, however, Pathfinder scaling pruned many more links—

0.85 to 0.9 node-link ratio—and subsequently created much clearer maps. Subsequently,

Pearson’s coefficients are used in the construction of all the PFNETs discussed in the remainder of this paper. The purpose of any co-citation study is to simplify the intellectual structure of a research community in meaningful ways and this measure much more clearly simplifies such structures than do raw counts.

PFNETS have created meaningful depictions of the intellectual landscape in a variety of disciplines (e.g. Chen 1998; Chen et al. 2001; White 2003b) and can be profitably utilized to document change through time at a smaller scale. In this study, the networks produced illustrate whether a synthesized or fractionated structure characterize the literature in various periods.

Often, Pathfinder modeling is used to develop better information retrieval strategies, as it produces a structure representational of the intellectual landscape of a discipline. In this way, PFNETS can provide outsiders—those with no disciplinary expert knowledge—an interpretable interface to access such knowledge. For the present study, I argue that the converse is true—Pathfinder network scaling provides insiders with a more external perspective on their community’s discursive structure.

Internalist histories of archaeology have been rightly criticized for being overly particularistic and whiggish (Croissant 2000b; Rogge 1983), as such histories neglect 152

external social forces and instead focus on the personalities of the “great men” of the

discipline. The use of the methods previously described allows self-reflexive

considerations of disciplinary history that can avoid some of the pitfalls of insider

histories. Practitioners that conduct “insider” historical investigations are thoroughly

embedded in that specific social and discursive structure. This intimate knowledge

allows such an historian to easily navigate the discipline’s landscape of ideas, institutions

and personalities. However, such close association can entail unconscious biases and

may blind researchers to processes more easily seen by an outsider. Citation analyses provide these insiders important tools to mitigate this dilemma, allowing investigations of disciplinary change from a quantitative and more independent perspective, while retaining the advantages of expert knowledge within the discipline.

Citation Context Analysis

While the above analyses address the basic use of citations, scholars have long

recognized that all citations are not created equal (Cozzens 1989; Fuchs 1992:65;

Hargens 2000; Shadish et al. 1995). Subsequently, a comprehensive consideration of the

citation character of a body of literature requires attention to such information. This procedure is often termed “citation context analysis” and requires an investigator to examine the text surrounding a citation within the body of a publication (Bazerman 1988;

Cozzens 1985:133; Hargens 2000:856; LaTour and Woolgar 1979; Small 1978).

Citations can be conceived of as symbols that allow authors to quickly incorporate particular ideas within their own work without elaborate explication. Similar use of 153

particular citations among a group of authors can serve as a boundary marking process,

whereby various groups of scholars demarcate different social groups within the

academic community (Cozzens 1982; Small 1978). Cozzens examines the manner in

which authors utilize citations to create new claims of knowledge, allowing her to ascertain if disciplines of varying social organizations produce knowledge in perceptibly different ways. Her analysis finds that a highly-cited work in the sociology of science is most often utilized to orient the reader to the general themes espoused by the article. On the other hand, a paper in neuropharmacology’s use through time changes—initially for details of experimental procedure and findings, to use for its main knowledge claim. A similar approach serves to more fully explore the nature of the intellectual structure of

Hohokam archaeology.

A smaller sample of Hohokam source publications is subjected to contextual citation analysis (Table 4.1). This sample is utilized as another citing set and represents the most-cited Hohokam publications as identified in the larger group. Cited publications from this subset are analyzed for usage within the text—support with specific example/data, support with general theme, general orientation, simple acknowledgement, modification, or dismissal. (Cozzens 1985; Hargens 2000; Lutz 1990). Returning to a previous example, a citing paper may include citations to both Binford and Schiffer, thus establishing a co-citation relationship. However, the citing paper may agree with the ideas of one author and not the other. Citation context analysis is used to tease out such variability in citation behavior. After collection of citation context, Pearson’s correlation

coefficients are calculated from the data, which are also subjected to Pathfinder network 154

scaling to create networks that can be compared to those developed from the larger

sample. In the networks produced from citation context limitation, both CRM and

academic publications are grouped into an aggregate sample. Contextual analysis serves

as a check to test if patterns documented in the larger sample actually represent intellectual structure, or mask more discrete relationships of actual support. While

citation context analysis is subject to some subjective interpretation, the basic data are

accessible for replication by other interested practitioners (Cozzens 1985:135).

Conclusion

The preceding discussion presented the basic framework that orients the

remainder of this project. Additionally, this section detailed the methodological tools that allow the illustration of intellectual patterns through time. This method and theory allows a comprehensive consideration of how the intellectual discussions of Hohokam archaeology paralleled evolution in the organizational change surrounding the development of CRM. By tracking change in the citation structure, as revealed by author co-citation analysis, we have some reliable measure of the intellectual structure of the

Hohokam archaeology and can compare these developments to those occurring in the organizational environment of the discipline. The following chapter explicitly discusses expectations we would have, based on this sociological framework, as well as those based on early discussions of prominent archaeologists. 155

CHAPTER 5: EXPECTATIONS FOR PATTERNS OF INTELLECTUAL

PRODUCTION

The previous chapter outlined the general perspective utilized in this study, while

this one focuses on how such an outlook can be specifically applied to the Hohokam case

study. A fundamental relationship for any sociological study of science, including the

present one, is the complex interconnections between the social context and the

product—knowledge—of scientific research. The organizational developments that created the environment of CRM as well as contemporary evolution in Hohokam thought represent an example of such interaction between scientific context and content. The present chapter presents expectations for emergent patterns in the intellectual discussions of Hohokam archaeology, in light of the dramatic organizational changes taking place at the same time. I will consider both the sociological perspective introduced in the last chapter, as well as that of practitioners embedded in the discipline, who since the beginnings of CRM, have offered commentary, criticism, and predictions for the state and future of archaeological research.

Early Expectations from within Archaeology

From the initial stages of modern CRM, archaeologists have pondered its consequences for their discipline, worrying about the directions archaeology would take.

The 1970s witnessed a flurry of commentary, discussing the implications of these new

organizational forms for the conduct of archaeological research (Davis 1972; King et al. 156

1977; Lipe 1974; Lipe and Lindsay 1977; McGimsey 1972; McGimsey and Davis 1977;

Raab and Klinger 1977; Raab et al. 1980; Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004:11; Schiffer

and Gumerman 1977; Schiffer and House 1975). Archaeologists noted the discipline was

“undergoing a subtle but pervasive organizational transformation…This change…is

caused by the shift in funding away from grants for ‘pure research’ to contract studies in

the service of preservation or resource management goals” (Schiffer and House 1977:43).

The addition of “preservation” and “resource management” goals were often thought to

conflict with those that had traditionally served a scientifically relevant archaeology.

Practitioners worried that the demands of contract work could result in the sacrifice of

rigorous academic standards, the pursuit of anthropological questions, and scientific

quality in favor meeting the legal requirements of contracts. Would CRM continue to

serve the general research goals of archaeology, or would it primarily devote itself only

to the satisfaction of clients (Fitting and Goodyear 1978; Raab et al. 1980)? Would

archaeology ask and answer questions about the past or only produce assembly-line site

reports that met legal requirements?

One development that particularly troubled many in the discipline was the

changing organizational base of archaeological research. For most of the second half of

the 20th century archaeology had been housed in traditional, academic institutional contexts such as universities and museums, where practitioners exercised considerable freedom in the selection of questions, methods and data (see Collins 1998) allowed by funding sources such as the NSF. Many celebrated this institutional home, stating that

“independent research institutes housed within universities offer the most appropriate 157 base for large-scale research” (Goodyear et al. 1978:162, emphasis in the original; see also Brown and Struever 1973:263-264; Schiffer and Gumerman 1977:84; Stephenson

1977:312-319). This ideal situation changed considerably with CRM. CRM’s organizational evolution included the incorporation of many non-academic institutions into disciplinary activities with interests that significantly influenced the research directions of practitioners, and to successfully defend the jurisdiction of their work

(Abbott 1988), archaeologists were forced into relationships with the interlopers. CRM further altered the scene as archaeologists found positions in an institutional mosaic of universities, museums, as well as government agencies and private contracting firms, fragmenting the organizational and disciplinary landscape.

Another area of concern was the tremendous explosion of archaeological data engendered by CRM became a primary concern for the archaeological community

(Goodyear et al. 1978). At one level, this was a boon to archaeology, as significant injections of funding—$300 million per year for CRM— made possible numerous field projects that resulted in the collection of volumes of data that would have remained silent under the means of traditional academic support. Such ramifications were especially obvious in Hohokam archaeology as every Hohokam field project since 1970 has had

CRM inspiration, except for research at the Marana Mound Site (Fish, Fish and Madsen

1992). However, archaeologists worried that these mountains of data would not be suitably utilized if they remained underreported in inaccessible literature as competing organizations developed their own databases with little attempt at inter-institutional integration. Contract specifications often did not include sufficient resources for analysis 158 and publication, resulting in an unfortunate lack of scholarly communication.

Subsequently, the benefits of accumulating data would be lost as they were not combined to provide the most robust empirical evidence for questions of general archaeological interest. By the early 1980s, the National Research Council (NRC), affiliated with the

National Academy of Sciences convened an investigation of the problems that CRM bestowed on archaeology. The NRC’s conclusions centered around the ability of CRM research to produce meaningful research results (Rogge 1983:194).

At a fundamental level, literature is the formal, ultimate product of scientists and critics worried about problems in the research structure of CRM could lead to deficiencies in the literature produced (Longacre 1981). CRM literature criticized as

“gray,” being characterized by “large diffuse reports containing reams of uninterpreted and incomplete descriptive data” (Schindler 1976:509 cited in Raab and Klinger 1977) and purely descriptive, contributing little to issues of intellectual and academic interest

(Schiffer 1995:89). Even when reports were useful, the literature was often difficult to access, exaggerated by the limited publication runs of many CRM reports (Elston

1992:42-43).

The deficiencies in CRM literature would inevitably lead to problems in scientific communication. The exchange of research findings is a central scientific activity and

CRM research was often derided for contributing to problems in intra-disciplinary information flow. The Airlie House seminars (McGimsey and Davis 1977) described a

“crisis in communication.” Ideally, findings of academic research are peer-reviewed and then made available to the total archaeological community through venues such as 159

journals and monographs. This system allows all in the discipline to have access to the findings and interpretations offered. As noted, CRM reports often had limited

distribution and accessibility, as well as often not being subject to peer-review (Renfrew

1983:7). Subsequently, many in the mainstream of the archaeological community tended

to not utilize such literature in their own work. Most of the intellectually substantive

exchanges in CRM literature served as aids to the description of types of material culture,

and did not contribute to more general archaeological discussions (Schiffer 1995:90). To

critics, CRM archaeology could result in a balkanization of the disciplinary landscape,

with archaeologists operating within isolated geographic regions with limited discipline-

wide interaction. Additionally, many clients, such as private organizations and

government bodies, sought only legal compliance and often had no interest in publishing

research results (Raab et al. 1980:543), further limiting scientific communication.

Combined with the growing separation of practitioners in different organizations, critics

worried that these developments would result in a more fragmented and less intellectually

integrated archaeological community (Kelley 1977; Zubrow 1981:444). Rogge

(1983:212-213) argues that the decentralized distribution of funding to numerous federal

agencies further exaggerates this tendency.

Additionally, commentators contended that most contract sponsored research

lacked larger, integrative interpretative frameworks into which the results of CRM

projects could be embedded (Fowler 1982: 22-24; Goodyear et al. 1978:162; King 1971).

Specifically, the lack of explicit, problem-oriented research designs was cited as “one of

the primary weaknesses in contemporary archaeological research” (Goodyear et al. 160

1978:160). Lewis Binford, the father of the New archaeology lamented that “under

current programs of salvage archaeology…we are being given the opportunity to study

major regions intensively. In spite of the opportunities, currently available, it is my

impression that very little thought has been given to research design” (1964:426). Instead critics argued, CRM research proceeded as a largely inductive endeavor with data accumulating in a haphazard fashion. CRM projects were perceived as technical undertakings, with no real potential to actually address the goals of science, including a comprehensive understanding of a past human culture utilizing the results of many, disparate research projects (Fitting and Goodyear 1979:354). Contracts themselves, were seen as a major cause of this problem—clients paid for archaeology on a particular piece of land, not for areal syntheses integrating the findings of numerous projects. These conditions would result in a “particularist” archaeology (King 1971:257), where archaeologists pursue a disconnected, project-by-project strategy, whose component parts were difficult to reconcile. Evidencing these problems, critics lamented the poor contributions of CRM research to general archaeological and anthropological questions, method, and theory (Gumerman 1973; King 1971; Schiffer 1995).

Goodyear and others (1978:164) as well as O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer

(2005:171) do note, however, that several early CRM projects in the Hohokam region exemplify well-executed archaeological projects (e.g. Ackerly and Reiger 1976; Canouts

1972; Canouts and Germeshausen 1972; Doelle 1976; Goodyear 1975; Raab 1973, 1976;

Stewart and Teague 1974). Goodyear argues that these projects successfully integrate the 161

results of disparate research projects, providing a much more comprehensive picture of

that area’s past.

The fears of many archaeologists in the academic community painted a bleak

picture for the future of the discipline. If these concerns are taken to their extreme,

archaeology would transform into a fundamentally different discipline—from a

community of independent scholars based in academic settings, who asked and answered

their own anthropological questions about past societies, contributing to general common

discussions in and connected to the archaeological community through peer-reviewed and

accessible literature, increasing the store of human knowledge, into a profession of technicians whose primary concerns were meeting the demands of contracts and clients, sacrificing the goals of science. Archaeological organizations would become little more than disconnected bodies, lacking the traditional channels of communication through which findings from archaeological research flowed. The normal exchange of scientific information and discussion of intellectual content would be limited, as results of different research projects would remain isolated in compliance-inspired reports, with no institutional motivation for contributing to issues of general archaeological interest.

If such predictions are accurate, we should expect a particular pattern of intellectual discourse. While intra-disciplinary communication would not cease, it should not be represented by a highly-integrated discourse with common agreement as to the major issues, concepts and ideas of the discipline. The intellectual structure of archaeological communication would resemble a fragmented landscape, with relatively few agreed upon ideas and concepts. Archaeological discussions would cluster around a 162

number subjects—descriptive, focusing on refinement of material cultural typologies— that were weakly connected to one another.

These dire predictions for the state of archaeological research originated from practitioners internal to the discipline, who were rightly worried about the dramatically changing conditions of their livelihoods. Other perspectives, however, paint a different picture of the intersection of scientific context and content, which directly pertain to the developments of CRM in American archaeology.

Sociological Expectations

As noted in the previous chapter, sociological approaches to science posit no distinction between the internal reasoning of practitioners and the external organizational structure of research (Fuchs 1992:3). Conducting any kind of scientific research binds scientists to the means of their material support, and for research, like archaeology, that has little legitimate commercial significance means government dependence (Mukerji

1989:4). In archaeology, the character of that dependence within the environment of

CRM is the issue.

The following set of expectations draw upon several studies, but the work of

Collins (1998) and Fuchs (1992) is especially important. Science is open to the same sorts of sociological analyses available for the study of other human endeavors, and

“approached as a particular work organizations whose technologies and social structures determine the ways in which groups of scientists do their research” (Fuchs 1992:7). The impact of larger social forces manifest themselves through the environment of 163 professional work and will have definite implications for the nature of that work (Abbott

1988:33). This theory of scientific production does not attempt to explain why particular ideas developed, such as Hohokam compound groups or irrigation communities, but focuses on “cognitive styles” or “discursive practices” of a discipline (Fuchs 1992:8).

Cognitive style and discursive practice refers instead to the general pattern of scientific communication and interaction as opposed to the development of specific questions or concepts.

With the development of CRM, archaeologists based in a diversity of organizations developed and augmented ties with other non-academic organizations, such as government agencies and private developers. As the central tasks of archaeologists experienced substantial change, their jurisdiction on work became vulnerable (Abbott

1988:39), and organizations reconfigured to adapt to the new environment. Importantly, many practitioners were required to maintain significant ties to state governments, most obviously through SHPOs as well as agencies that were common sources of work, such as the Arizona Department of Transportation, the Bureau of Land Management, and the

Bureau of Reclamation. This common node would increase the level of mutual dependence within Hohokam archaeology as practitioners, even based out of very different organizations, became more tightly tied to “particular networks…that organize the distribution of reputational and material rewards” (Fuchs 1992:81). Centralized networks exercise greater control on the practices of participating practitioners. The unique nature of archaeology’s data source also increases mutual dependence discipline 164 wide. Finite archaeological resources that can only be excavated once encourage heightened levels of interaction among practitioners.

As noted, the CRM era in archaeology is characterized by tremendous increases in funding, relative to earlier periods, allowing levels of research effort that would be impossible otherwise. At first inspection, this suggests that the resource base of archaeology has strengthened substantially. However, this funding does not travel through the usual channels of academic support—it is tied up in kinds of organizations with interests and motivations very different from academic ones and also exert influence on those goals. Intellectual activity can lose some of its own internal agency as the interests of supporting institutions take precedence (Collins 1998:164). CRM archaeologists are dependent on their clients, as well as the state’s regulatory apparatus.

These circumstances serve to reduce the autonomy of the discipline and actually represent a weakening of the institutional base of archaeology as it is intimately tied to centralized networks of agencies (i.e. developers and government bodies) that have interests decidedly different from those of academic practitioners. Jesse Jennings, a pioneer in American archaeology, lamented such consequences for CRM archaeologists such as “reduced self-esteem, loss of autonomy and independence of action and eroded scientific integrity, as bureaucrats and contracting officers reduce archaeology to numbers and even prescribe the procedures to be used in the field” (Jennings 1985:293).

CRM archaeology must temper its research interests with the satisfaction of legal requirements, and following Collins (1998), this should lead to an intellectual pattern of synthesis. 165

Furthermore, levels of task uncertainty decreased, relative to academic colleagues as practices became more routinized. One of the fundamental changes CRM wrought on

actual archaeological fieldwork was that practitioners were no longer in control of their

selection of data. Scientists often trade research autonomy for a frequent source of

funding (Mukerji 1989:88). Spatial parameters of projects were determined by

development, not by the criteria determined by research questions. A response to this

dramatic increase in uncertainty was to further standardize archaeological methods as

well as conceptual content to deal with the somewhat unexpected specific details of

project location. The fundamental tasks of any profession are standardized around the

most common or frequently encountered cases (Abbott 1988:45). Asking similar

questions in a variety of arenas allowed archaeologists to reduce such uncertainty. This

process is often tied to organizations with high levels of mutual dependence (Fuchs

1992:82). As noted in an earlier chapter, this process is evident in the many guidelines

requiring archaeological projects to conduct a series of standardized analyses, regardless

of the specific research questions posed. This routinization further reflected by the

increasing standardization of CRM reports (see Fuchs 1992:191) as well as the

implementation of “historic contexts” to guide compliance-inspired work (Dart 1989),

which are themes developed in the SHPO’s State Historic Preservation Plan that focus

disparate practitioners on similar questions (Neumann and Sanford 2001:29). However,

archaeologists and contracting agencies continue to contend with problems of data

redundancy and not focus exclusively on established subject matters. Bettina Rosenberg,

long time head of ADOT’s cultural resources division described how her agency “defend 166 to management why are excavating yet another Hohokam village” (Rosenberg 2004:31) and suggested that CRM organizations strive for innovation and new perspectives to aid in these justifications. However, calls for innovation such likely do not have the same possible range of variation from which to select as do projects conducted in strictly academic terms.

The highest levels of task uncertainty continue to exist in academic circles, and are usually associated with the highest status echelons of the discipline (Fuchs 1992:149).

Even though much of CRM archaeology became more routinized, practitioners must maintain some inferential ambiguity or risk the work of the profession becoming too routine and thereby deprofessionalizing the discipline and opening up to jurisdictional poaching (Abbott 1988:46). Too much inference, however, poses other problems as interested parties can questions the utility of the profession’s approach (Abbott 1988:51).

This motivation of keeping some of the mystery to archaeological research maintains the tie between CRM archaeology and academia, as they are the custodians of a profession’s abstract knowledge system, symbolically safeguarding the discipline’s existence (Abbott

1988:53-54, 195). Subsequently, many in the CRM community continue to participate in the traditional venues of academic exchange, such as journals, conferences, and other formats of publication. This serves to legitimize CRM research in the face of a scrutinous public, and serves to keep it tied to archaeological academia through means other than just training.

The combination of increasing mutual dependence and decreasing task uncertainty, according to Fuchs, should lead to a cognitive style that exhibits a more 167

centralized discursive pattern. Disciplines with low levels of resource concentration, and

subsequent low mutual dependence, as well as high levels of task uncertainty, tend to develop multiple and competing “schools” of thought. This kind of pattern would be

evident in a co-citation map as a network of several discrete clusters, with weak inter-

cluster connections, or a fragmented/fractionated network as “each separate community

celebrates its own intellectual heroes and traditions” (Fuchs 1992:91). An extreme

example of this condition exists in literature, where individuals rarely incorporate one

another’s work into their own (Fuchs 1992:167). When mutual dependence is high,

scientists are more likely to utilize each other’s work in their own (Fuchs 1992:89). If

this was the dominant pattern, a co-citation network would exhibit a structure with

common center of gravity around which all practitioners are focused. In highly integrated

discursive fields, the major contributors of a field occupy central areas while specialists

fall into the periphery (Chen and Paul 2001).

If the sociological predictions are correct, we would expect a directional trend in

co-citation patterns through time. Early periods, in times of lower mutual dependence

and higher task uncertainty and disciplinary autonomy, would be characterized by

fragmented networks without a distinct core for the entire network. On the other hand,

later periods, in times of higher mutual dependence, lower task uncertainty and lower

disciplinary autonomy would produce centralized networks surrounding a discrete core.

168

Conclusion

The preceding discussions provide two sets of expectations for the nature of the

impact of CRM on intellectual discussions. In the early CRM era, many archaeologists

worried that these organizational changes would result in many negative developments

for the discipline. Worst-case scenarios included a more professional than academic

discipline that no longer ably served the goals of science and did not offer substantial

contributions to intellectual discussions. The sociology of science has offered an

alternative set of expectations. In this case, the changing social context of archaeological work should result in some change in intellectual production, and in a particular direction. The nature of the CRM environment would foster intellectual discussions that

were more synthetic, standardized, and focused on common issues, while being less

conversational, multi-perspective and fragmented. The following chapters trace these

issues in the particular case of Hohokam archaeology. In southern Arizona, how did the

development of CRM affect the nature of the archaeological community’s intellectual

production?

The following analyses undoubtedly blur some important distinctions as research

is generally categorized as either academic or CRM. Finer distinctions between CRM

companies that are more research as opposed to compliance oriented are not major

emphases, instead the study focuses on more general issues. These detailed distinctions

are important for a complete understanding of the intellectual history of Hohokam

archaeology, but await another study after the following broad brushstrokes have been

made. 169

Evolution in the organizational environment of American archaeology has produced important consequences for archaeological practice in southern Arizona. The impetus of and support for archaeological research has experienced a fundamental shift from academic to CRM settings. The mandates of historic preservation legislation have required that CRM archaeological research be completed in advance of modern development projects, rather than only when an investigator asks a research question of his/her own design. However, the CRM structure of research has ensured that the total level of archaeological research has expanded dramatically as work that may never have been done has been completed, and areas previously neglected received attention. These factors have revolutionized the practice of American archaeology generally and

Hohokam archaeology in particular.

The previous sections have established the historical context of the discipline and the dynamic story of changing organizational settings. Scientific activity, however, is more than its social environment—the content of knowledge produced is the critical focus of research energies. Chapter 3 outlined the major themes of Hohokam research prior to the CRM era. The remainder of this paper traces the more recent period of archaeological thought and is the core of this analysis, focusing on how the content of

Hohokam archaeological knowledge has evolved in the context of a rapidly changing organizational environment.

The following chapters detail the more recent history of Hohokam archaeology, covering developments in both social context and intellectual content. These chapters are divided into the three most recent decades of Hohokam archaeological research—the 170

1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. Organizational developments, including the emergence and/or

decline of participating institutions, are discussed, as well as details of important

archaeological projects in Hohokam archaeology. Additionally, the general format of the

region’s literature is outlined, detailing the Hohokam literature characteristic of the

period—through what combination of academic and CRM sources is information

disseminated? The particular research questions and issues interesting Hohokam

archaeologists are also explored. What ideas and concepts structure the discussions of

Hohokam archaeology?

In addition to these contextual developments, a diachronic analysis of intellectual

patterns is critical to this study. The citation analyses detailed in Chapter 4 serve to track

changes in basic intellectual structure and are applied to the Hohokam literature of the

past 100 years, though focusing on the period from 1970 to 2001. For this analysis, the

Hohokam literature of the past three decades is divided into six five-year segments. One-

year periods were not utilized as some years witnessed the publication of few pieces of literature, so five-year segments were selected in order to define samples with sufficient publications to allow a consideration of intellectual change. The beginning of the 1970s

serves as a starting point for this analysis for several reasons. Both NHPA and NEPA

were passed in the preceding four years—two pieces of legislation that would

significantly shape the new organizational structure defining CRM archaeology. These

laws, combined with rapid urban and infrastructure development of southern Arizona,

fostered a context of dramatically expanding Hohokam research (Doyel 1985:3,

1994:209; Gumerman 1991). 171

Citation samples are also grouped by the publication source, whether traditional academic, CRM and if so, by what CRM institution. For each period, basic citation information is detailed and author co-citation networks are presented. Additionally, citation context analyses are conducted on the most highly cited publications identified in

the larger sample to ascertain how citations are employed in the literature. These patterns

provide an external perspective on the basic intellectual structure of Hohokam archaeology and serve as the basis for interpretations concerning the impact of the organizational environment on intellectual content.

The basic patterns revealed the following analyses are of increasing centralization and the development of a distinct core of dominant figures and peripheries of more

specialized practitioners—following the sociological expectations outlined in the

previous chapter. According to the co-citation networks, greater agreement among

practitioners developed as to who were the central figures in Hohokam archaeology.

Some have noted that Hohokam archaeology is characterized by greater interaction

between practitioners than other segments of archaeology (Gumerman 1991), possibly

reinforcing this pattern. As will be discussed in the conclusion, this trend may result

from the changing organizational environment in which work is conducted.

172

CHAPTER 6: 1970S—INCIPIENT CRM IN SOUTHERN ARIZONA AND

ADAPTATION TO EXISTING INSTITUTIONAL ENVIRONMENTS

While the legal and organizational foundations of CRM archaeology had been laid throughout the 20th century, by the beginning of the 1970s, the effects of the

organizational changes wrought by historic preservation legislation were rapidly

transforming archaeological research in southern Arizona. This decade witnessed the acceleration of the development of relationships between Hohokam archaeology and a number of other organizations, including government agencies and private companies.

Initially, existing archaeological institutions such as ASM, ASU and MNA undertook the

growing amounts of work made possible in a CRM environment, though initial forays by private companies were made late in the decade. Though not always viewed positively

(e.g. Davis 1972; King et al. 1977; Lipe 1974; Lipe and Lindsay 1977; McGimsey 1972;

McGimsey and Davis 1977; Raab and Klinger 1977; Raab et al. 1980; Roberts, Ahlstrom

and Roth 2004:11; Schiffer and Gumerman 1977; Schiffer and House 1975), the

increasing funding directed toward Hohokam archaeology did result in a marked increase

in the production of archaeological literature and evolution in intellectual content.

The 1970s witnessed the implementation of many new pieces of legislation that

resulted in significant increases in archaeological activity. Historic preservation

legislation proliferated and strengthened forcing many government agencies and private

companies, interested in development, to contract for archaeological services to meet

such mandates. The establishment of Richard Nixon’s Executive Order 11593 in 1971 173

expanded the scope of Section 106 to include sites potentially eligible for placement on

the Register and to provide methods to determine eligibility, which was later amended

into NHPA itself. This addition to NHPA dramatically expanded the amount of

archaeological research necessary to satisfy Section 106 requirements. These

developments instigated federal agencies to inventory and identify (McGimsey and Davis

1977) all cultural resources possibly affected by construction activities and that suitable mitigation plans were crafted (Scovill, Gordon and Anderson 1977).

Government and private developers turned to the organizations and institutions in which archaeologists already worked—museums and universities—to find the needed expertise (Altschul 2004:44). The institutions were happy to receive another source of funding and many junior archaeologists were equally happy to get further experience conducting their own projects. The influence of federal legislation on ASM’s salvage program increased in this period, further cementing the relationship between governmental agencies and archaeological research (Roberts et al. 2004:10). In the early

1970s, ASM’s Highway Salvage Program provided natural continuity for the completion

of even non-highway projects—an organizational framework had already been

established that could be easily adapted to other kinds of compliance-oriented work. The

Salvage Program was expanded into ASM’s Cultural Resource Management Section

(CRMS, later CRM Division) in 1972, reflecting its greater responsibilities (Thompson

1973). Subsequently, ASM became the major institution engaging in Hohokam

archaeology during this period. 174

The development of Environmental Impact Statements (EIS) especially increased the levels of work conducted by the region’s archaeologists and expanded ASM’s

contract division. NEPA mandated the production of an EIS for development projects

that impacted federal land, utilized federal money, or required federal permits. The

purpose of an EIS was to comprehensively assess the potential impacts of a given project

on the total environment, including cultural resources. The Arizona Highway

Department (AHD) and the Highway Salvage Program at ASM became more tightly

bound as the latter was now responsible for producing EIS reports on cultural resources

for all new road construction projects (Hammack 1971) In addition, EIS reports were to

be prepared enough in advance so that alternatives to a project could be considered. This

required salvage surveys to be conducted well in advance of actual construction, often

covering much larger areas because specific sections of land had not yet been chosen.

The evolution of historic preservation legislation resulted in a dramatically expanded

scope for ASM Salvage Program work. ASM’s long standing relationship with AHD led

other government agencies, especially the Bureau of Reclamation and private agencies,

such as Cities Services and Continental Oil (Thompson 1972) to begin contracting ASM

for archaeological mitigation as the museum had established itself as the major CRM

institution in southern Arizona. Subsequently, the Salvage Program’s workload

increased, as more detailed information was required.

Organizational units, such as CRMS, were structured as small businesses within a

more expansive institutional base (Doelle and Phillips 2005:99). CRMS had its own

overhead rate to support administrative activities that was not provided by the University 175

of Arizona. As CRMS grew, more money was brought into the university, but little found its way back to the unit in return. This organizational disjunct would later play a

significant role in the eventual closure of the unit.

In addition to continuing highway projects, the Bureau of Reclamation’s Central

Arizona Project (CAP) became another major force in Arizona archaeology (Thompson

1972 annual report). Authorized in 1968, this construction would import water into

central Arizona and was the largest water resource project ever conducted by BOR

(Rogge 1983:103). Subsequently, this project stimulated archaeology throughout the

Hohokam region for the next two decades, employing many of the first generation of

Arizonan CRM archaeologists. The first 190 mile segment began construction in 1973

and several early CRM archaeology reports detail descriptive findings from this area (see

Rogge 1983 for an extensive bibliography). CAP would continue providing

archaeological work throughout the 1980s, including the Salt-Gila Aqueduct (SGA) and

the Tucson Aqueduct Project (TAP). Throughout the 1970s, federal agencies such as the

USFS, NPS, BLM and BOR also added cultural resource specialists to their in-house

staffs to facilitate the performance of mitigation archaeology and management of cultural

resources (Donaldson 2004; Hanks 2004; Lincoln 2000; Rogge 1983).

To accommodate the increasing levels of work, ASM’s salvage program

expanded by adding new positions. A part-time position of liaison between ASM and

AHD and originally filled by Robert Stifler. Stifler had previously served with the

Advance Planning Division of the AHD since before the inception of the original

highway salvage program. Beginning fiscal year 1973-1974, a research assistantship was 176

established through within ASM, specifically designed to gather background information

for EISs (Thompson 1974).

ASM’s contract division continued to grow and more archaeologists became

involved with highway salvage research as openings at the program provided several

archaeologists, many who would have significant impact on Hohokam discussions, with

early experience in planning and executing archaeological research. Changes in the

administration of Highway Salvage began with William Wasley’s untimely death in

1970. The position of State Archaeologist was held on an interim basis by Cameron

Greenleaf, until June of 1970, when Vivian permanently assumed Wasley’s former role

as State Archaeologist (Thompson 1972). In this capacity, Vivian continued to supervise

highway salvage activities. Vivian was also now responsible for the oversight of archaeological activity throughout the state, including salvage projects. Vivian quickly became involved in ASM’s accelerated involvement in non-highway related contract archaeology.

A number of future prominent Hohokam archaeologists assumed duties in ASM’s

Salvage Program in the early 1970s (Thompson 1974). Many of the practitioners associated with this period of Hohokam research remain dominant figures in the contemporary intellectual landscape. Vivian’s previous replacement, Laurens Hammack, again assumed the title of State Highway Archaeologist, but on a permanent basis.

Hammack’s previous position—Assistant State Highway Archaeologist—was filled by a number of people including Ric Windmiller in 1970-1971, Jonathan Haas in 1971-1972, and Bruce Huckell in 1972-1973. Huckell, later of the University of New Mexico, would 177

continue academic pursuits in southern Arizona, though his primary research focused on

Archaic hunter-gatherer and early agricultural populations in time periods prior to

emergence of the Hohokam as an archaeological culture. Paul Fish and Peter Pilles

served as summer survey assistants over this period. Most of Pilles’ later career with the

USFS and interest in archaeological populations of central and northern Arizona resulted in his more limited participation in Hohokam discussions, though his name is often associated with studies of the Colonial period. Paul Fish received his PhD from ASU in

1976, but would return to ASM as a research archaeologist, curator and professor in the

UA’s anthropology department. Interestingly, Fish’s dissertation research was on material from the European Middle Paleolithic—or the extreme Hohokam periphery— but a position in Hohokam archaeology provided the major base throughout his career.

Fish would become particularly associated with research in the Tucson Basin, which focuses on the emergence and operation of communities—pre-contact social entities that transcend the boundaries of individual sites and villages. David Doyel, a graduate student at UA, directed fieldwork and analysis at the Escalante Ruin, which served as the

source of his dissertation awarded in 1977 (Doyel 1977). Like Fish, Doyel would

become another major participant in Hohokam archaeology. Throughout his career,

Doyel served as principal investigator at several CRM firms and would make

fundamental contributions to the general archaeological understanding of the Hohokam

as well as more focused research on the transition between the Sedentary and Classic

periods, and the evolution and operation of Hohokam communities. 178

The second half of the 1970s witnessed even more significant growth in the size of the Hohokam community. The contract divisions at ASM, ASU and MNA were staffed by younger archaeologists, many using contact projects as studies in the New

Archaeology (Doelle and Phillips 2005:99). Many of these younger archaeologists and graduate students (Fish 2003)—who would later become influential—that had filled important roles in the conduct and direction of many Hohokam research projects began making impacts on the Hohokam literature (e.g. Doelle 1975, 1976, 1978; Doyel 1976,

1977a, 1977b, 1979b; Goodyear 1976; Raab 1976; Rodgers 1978; Wilcox 1975, 1979).

CRM projects served as useful vehicles to collect data needed to satisfy academic requirements, such as dissertation projects (e.g. Doyel 1977; Goodyear 1975; Grady

1976; Raab 1976; Wilcox 1977). Many of these students achieved advanced degrees during this period and were fundamental players in the operation of CRM archaeology projects. William Doelle, a UA graduate student, conducted research under the auspices of CONOCO focusing on variation in Hohokam subsistence. Doelle would go on to establish the Institute of American Research (IAR) Tucson branch in the 1980s, which remained influential throughout the 1980s and 90s. In 1976, Albert Goodyear completed his dissertation at ASU, also making significant contributions to the study of Hohokam

subsistence. Mark Raab, also of ASU but with a previous UA/ASM affiliation in the

early 1970s, completed a dissertation on community organization in the area of the Santa

Rosa Wash. James Rodgers, who will fill important roles in other CRM organizations,

received an ASU M.A. in 1976. Archaeological specialists in paleobotany also

established themselves in the literature (e.g. Gasser 1979; Gish 1979; Miksicek 1979). 179

Additionally, an established elder like Haury published the report from his momentous

return to Snaketown during this period (1976). In terms of active research, southern

Arizona had been relatively quiet for decades, but the end of the 1970s was a time of

tremendous intellectual activity in Hohokam archaeology.

Hohokam research at ASU was not as prolific as ASM during the early 1970s,

and only a few publications were produced. ASU had not yet officially established its

Office of Cultural Resource Management, but accepted archaeology contracts from the

Hecla Mining Company for fieldwork in the Papaguería as well as CAP work (e.g.

Goodyear 1975; Raab 1975). These contracts were used as opportunities to train students

in addition to completing contract requirements. ASU’s Office of Cultural Resource

Management (OCRM) officially began operation in 1977 with Glen Rice as director.

Rice, who received his PhD from the University of Washington, would also hold a

position as professor at ASU. Rice would also become a visible participant in Hohokam

archaeology with his research often stemming from OCRM work. OCRM quickly

became a major player in the archaeology of the region (Brown 1976; Yablon 1977,

1978). OCRM’s early work quickly became important landmarks in Hohokam

archaeology—deemed important enough to be the first in ASU’s Anthropological

Research Papers series.

Throughout much of the 1970s, most CRM research had been conducted by established institutions, such as universities and museums. However, the late 1970s witnessed the first forays of small private firms into the world of Hohokam archaeology.

This was a time of a “PhD glut” that forced many trained specialists to seek alternative 180 forms of work (Abbott 1988:133). Rather than academic career paths, the evolving environment of CRM allowed many new archaeology PhDs to pursue work in archaeology, though from different institutional settings (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer

2005:162). The initial environment was hostile for many these early pioneers, as the institutional base of a private firm appeared to many as not sufficiently scientific and permits to conduct work were often denied (Green 2004). The early incarnations of these entrepreneurial firms were very flexible and relatively low-scale, taking the contracts that

ASM, ASU and MNA chose not to pursue (Altschul 2004:43). While these firms were relatively small players during this period, they will eventually come to dominate the field of CRM archaeology (Altschul 2004; Roberts et al. 2004:36). Firms beginning operation during this period include Archaeological Research Services (ARS) in 1974,

Archaeological Consulting Services (ACS) in 1977 (Green 2004), and Northland

Research, Inc. (NRI) in 1979. Also, large environmental consulting firms, such as Soil

Systems, Inc. (SSI) developed their own divisions to specifically address issues of cultural resource management.

The body of Hohokam literature began to grow significantly during this decade, especially in its latter half, as the database of the region expanded. Academic publications grew through articles in journals such as Kiva or American Antiquity, with several as components of the Highway Salvage program’s Contributions to Highway

Salvage Archaeology. ASM’s Archaeological Series began publication in 1970 and quickly became a major source of Hohokam literature. While ASM had been involved in salvage work for some time, this series became the formal avenue to disseminate research 181

findings, as Contributions to Highway Salvage Archaeology had always been fairly

irregular, being published in a variety of formats. The establishment of a major publication series dedicated to CRM archaeology marked an important transition and reflected the growing importance of CRM to the archaeology of Arizona. Many early

ASM publications were nothing more than preliminary descriptive site—or even letter— reports with little interpretation beyond assignment of cultural affiliation and suggestions for future work (e.g. Ahlo 1975; Antieau 1977; Ayres 1971; Betancourt 1978; Breternitz

1978; Brown 1976, 1977; Burton 1976; Cleveland and Masse 1973; Clonts 1974; Coe

1979; Conners 1976; Czaplicki 1978; Dittert 1976; Ditzler and DaCosta 1978; Doelle

1976b; Ferg 1977; Grady 1972; Greenleaf and Vivian 1971; Kinkade 1976; McClellan

1976;Rice and Simonis 1977; Rosenberg 1976; Rozen 1979; Stone 1977; Scheick 1977;

Spears 1973; Volger 1976). In later periods, these low-level reports become so numerous that they do not receive significant publication runs, especially not through ASM’s flagship series. Subsequently, much of this early CRM work did not have an impact on

Hohokam discourse, though notable exceptions exist (Rogge 1983:132), such as Doyel’s

(1974) report from the Escalante Ruin. The first Hohokam conference (Weaver et al.

1978) was convened in 1973 with the hope of greater information sharing in the face of accumulating data.

The growth of Hohokam literature was especially marked during the late 1970s.

From the perspective of basic numbers, many more organizations became involved in

Hohokam archaeology, many more publications were produced, and many earlier and more recent projects were written-up. ASM’s Archaeological Series grew by over 80 182

volumes, many of which had some relevance for Hohokam studies. ASU and MNA’s

contract offices also became much more prolific with the more frequent publication of

ASU’s Anthropological Research Papers, Anthropological Field Studies and MNA’s

Research Papers. The private firms that had entered into the region’s archaeological community began producing their own reports, specifically Archaeological Consulting

Services, Archaeological Research Services (Stone 1976), and Northland Research, Inc.

(NRI). More conferences were organized and their contents published—1st Salado

Conference (Doyel and Haury 1976), the SAA Current Issues Symposium (Doyel and

Plog 1980)—in order to share and synthesize the rapidly expanding Hohokam database.

In spite of this growing corpus of literature, significant lags between fieldwork and

publication still plagued the discipline (Doyel 1985:7).

General theoretical trends also exerted influence within Hohokam archaeology.

The “New Archaeology,” the new and dominant perspective of American archaeology

was especially popular. Some of the more innovative reports included explicit research

questions, hypotheses and test implications—hallmarks of the New Archaeology’s

concern with scientific, and relatively standardized methods. This standardization would

become a routine part of CRM report production (Vivian 1974 memo) and foreshadow

later developments in CRM literature. The incorporation of the goals of the New

Archaeology, which was conceived more as “pure” research or an academic endeavor,

did not occur through traditional academic means, such as NSF grants. Instead, these

goals became a part of the region’s archaeology through important connections with non-

academic organizations historic preservation legislation (McGuire 1982:137). 183

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1970-1974

The institutions of science are not alone in experiencing change, as the content of knowledge also evolves. The ultimate rationale for CRM research was the documentation of cultural resources before their destruction by development activities so that some knowledge of the past could be gained. The growing spate of new fieldwork resulted in tremendous expansions of Hohokam discussion through the 1970s. Hohokam discussions continued to focus on some traditional questions, including origins, colonial expansion, and the Sedentary-Classic transition. However, practitioners began offering new perspectives on these perennial questions and began to explore other intellectual issues, including the explicit recognition of relationships between natural and cultural environments. The following sections survey the research questions and interests that characterized Hohokam research in the 1970s. The discussion is broken into five year periods as to parallel the citation analyses that follow.

Hohokam Origins

One of the long-enduring questions of Hohokam archaeology their origin as a distinct cultural group and this question continued to occupy some scholars. The

Hohokam are defined by a distinct material assemblage, so questions of origins surround the source of this assemblage—through indigenous, gradual development or brought to southern Arizona as a complete cultural package by a migrating group. Most of the period’s CRM publications do not directly address the origin of the Hohokam, and those 184

that did often presented 300 B.C. as the date for the timing of the appearance of the

Hohokam (Fritz 1974; McDonald et al. 1974), as originally proposed in the first

Snaketown project (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and Gladwin 1937). One explicit statement

concerning origins appeared in an American Antiquity article by Julian Hayden (1970).

Hayden presented a model for Hohokam origins in addition to an ambitious and

comprehensive culture history culminating in their eventual decline through their defeat by invaders from the east. Hayden argued the Hohokam arrived in the Gila Valley around 300 B.C. as migrants, bringing a “fully developed cultural pattern” (Hayden

1970:89). This explanation contradicted that offered by Haury (1950) in his Ventana

Cave research, which suggested a gradual, internal development from preceding Archaic populations, though agreed with Haury’s (1976) reversed opinion detailed in the second

Snaketown report. Hayden’s argument was based largely on ethnographic evidence and

its extrapolation to the past as well as his extensive archaeological experience throughout

the Hohokam area. Hayden represented an unusual figure in American and Hohokam

archaeology in the second half of the 20th century. He was an “amateur” in the sense that

he did not possess formal, advanced training in archaeology and never held an academic

position. However, his field experience in the region’s archaeology was unparalleled

providing him with a somewhat unique source of credibility not open to others outside of

professional networks.

185

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation

After the appearance and establishment of the Hohokam culture in the Phoenix

area during the Pioneer period, Haury and Gladwin defined the Colonial period as one of

Hohokam expansion out of this homeland (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and Gladwin 1937).

Colonization was viewed as the wholesale movement of a distinct and defined cultural group—the Hohokam—into outlying regions. Projects, such as CAP, resulted in construction activities over large sections of the state, in many areas that had previously been neglected by archaeologists. With the onset CRM-inspired work, many opportunities for research developed in areas previously defined as this colonial periphery, including the river drainages north of Phoenix as well as the Tucson Basin

(Dove 1972; Fish 1971; Fuller1974; Haas 1971; Huckell 1973; Roubicek et al. 1973;

Weaver 1974; Weed 1972; Weed and Ward 1970; Windmiller 1972; Zahniser 1970).

Subsequently, refinements of archaeological conceptions of the Colonial period became a primary research focus as archaeologists were given the opportunity to investigate many archaeological sites in “colonial” areas. Continuity in intellectual approach characterized much Colonial research during this period and the Gladwinian model of Colonial expansion—“ordered movement of Hohokam out of the Salt River Basin area into outlying regions…to increase the available agricultural land and exploit resource areas not yet tapped” (Weed 1972:58)—held sway in many early reports. Many publications read as checklists to detailing if sufficient traits were present to make the assignment of

“Hohokam”—if some unnamed threshold was achieved, a researcher could assign a site as occupied by the Hohokam. As CRM research developed and survey intensity 186

increased and more sophisticated methods developed (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer

2005:174), site densities revealed by surveys also increased (Rogge 1983:180), further contributing to a more complex and interesting periphery for the Hohokam.

While research on the Colonial period was characterized by this conservatism—a

focus on the presence or absence of Hohokam traits—some innovation that refined

archaeological approaches to the Colonial period was also present. Some investigators

focused on the variation evident in the material record of Colonial sites compared to

those of the Hohokam heartland (Dove 1970; Weaver 1974). Variation in manifestations

of the Hohokam cultural pattern was often framed as indicative of the pursuit of

subsistence strategies complementary to irrigation agriculture (Windmiller 1972; also see

next section). Once Hohokam groups established settlements in these outlying regions,

they engaged in subsistence pursuits suited to the specific character of the local

environments and that could supplement those employed in the Phoenix area.

Alternatively, interactions with other cultural groups were offered to explain these

differences (Weed and Ward 1970). Variation in the material record of outlying areas

was explained as the mixing of different cultural groups, rather than only the alteration of

a single cultural pattern. Both explanations—subsistence shifts and cultural mixing—

represented modifications and extensions of the basic presence/absence focus of earlier

research.

187

Culture Ecology

General theoretical trends in American archaeology were also visible in Hohokam

research. While irrigation—a hallmark of Hohokam cultural adaptation—had long been

a focus of the region’s archaeology, interest in subsistence variability became more

prevalent. As noted, archaeological research in areas outside of the Salt and Gila basins

revealed evidence that the Hohokam were practicing a wider range of subsistence practices, including continued reliance on foraging and hunting as well as agricultural

techniques beyond irrigation. This new emphasis was often framed in popular concerns

in the larger archaeological community with culture ecology, stemming from the growing

ascendance of the New Archaeology (Binford 1962; 1968). As a result of the influence

of this perspective, American archaeologists had become increasingly interested in

human cultural adaptation and the systemic impacts of those adaptations on other

components of culture. The younger generation of Hohokam archaeologists

enthusiastically embraced processual perspectives and many publications utilized culture-

ecology as the central interpretative theme (Canouts et al. 1972; Doelle 1974; Quinn and

Roney 1973; Raab 1973; Reynolds 1974; Stewart and Teague 1974 [this is a much more

ambitious report than many others] Vivian 1970; Weaver 1972). Further keeping with

processual trends, Hohokam, especially CRM literature, often argued that better

understanding of past culture-environmental relationships could lead to the better management of present environments (Kemrer 1972).

Researchers speculated on the impacts of different subsistence pursuits, such as irrigation or floodwater farming, on regional settlement patterns and sociopolitical 188

structure (Grady 1973). For example, Paul Grebinger’s UA dissertation (1971, see also

1976) presented a culture-ecological model to explain the Hohokam adaptation to the

Santa Cruz Valley southeast of the Tucson Basin and the related impacts on sociopolitical

organization. The Santa Cruz Valley represented a regional outlier to the Hohokam core

centered on the Salt-Gila Basin. Grebinger argued that various groups of cultural

Hohokam migrated from the Salt-Gila Basin to the Santa Cruz Valley early in the

Colonial period. These migrants continued traditional subsistence strategies and

established a system of settlements based on irrigation agriculture, which were

administered by the residents of larger primary villages. Primary villages also occupied

the center of a redistributive economy, hierarchically tying them to outlying, smaller

settlements. In this model, the people, subsistence strategies and sociopolitical system of

Salt-Gila Hohokam were wholesale transplanted to another region. Grebinger focused on

the articulations between environment and social organization, though did not highlight

how environmental variation could influence social variation.

A specific theme coming out of these perspectives that later became fundamental

to Hohokam research was how variation in subsistence practices acted as a response to

local environmental variability (Raab 1974). The focus on culture-ecological

relationships revealed striking complexity and many began to explicitly question the

accuracy of several of traditional models, including those offered by Haury. Specifically,

the “riverine” and “desert” models of Hohokam adaptation were criticized for being

overly simplistic, and not accounting for more subtle variations related to specific local

environmental differences (Grady 1973). Central to this focus was the emergence of 189

archaeological paleobotanical specialists that could document both ancient environment and subsistence (Bohrer 1970, 1971).

Sedentary/Classic Transition

The marked material changes associated with the transition from the Sedentary to

Classic periods had long been a central question of Hohokam archaeology. The traditional explanation posited a distinct, migrating cultural group from the north—the

Salado—was responsible for the seemingly rapid appearance of platform mounds, walled compounds, contiguous rooms, inhumations, and polychrome ceramics, which coincided with the apparent disappearance of the pre-Classic hallmarks of Hohokam culture

(Gladwin, Haury, Sayles, and Gladwin 1937; Haury 1945). This traditional model suffered criticism through the 1960s as a few archaeologists argued that the Classic period was instead a manifestation of internal cultural changes, evidenced by several cultural continuities across the transition (Ambler 1961; Steen 1965; Wasley and Doyel

1980). In the early 1970s, the continuity model gained further traction among archaeologists working in the Hohokam region. The research of both David Doyel

(ASM) and Donald Weaver (ASU) provided support for this new idea by conceiving changes in the Hohokam archaeological record in terms of internal cultural dynamics rather than invoking change from outside.

Doyel’s (1974) work at the Escalante Ruin, stimulated by the salvage program, became an extremely influential Hohokam work of this period. In earlier ASM reports,

Doyel (1972) and others (Ferguson and Beezley 1974; Fritz 1974; MacDonald et al. 190

1974) included sections detailing local culture history that largely maintained the traditional model for the Sedentary to Classic transition. Doyel’s research at Escalante, however, demonstrated his reversal on this question. Like most Hohokam projects, a major research goal of the Escalante project was a refinement of chronology. This focus shaped a detailed, diachronic study of the changing patterns of material culture at the site.

Specifically, the evolution of platform mound construction and morphology supported cultural continuity through the Sedentary/Classic transition (Doyel 1974:176).

Additionally, Doyel argued that compound architecture, Salado Polychrome, and inhumation burial did not appear as a discrete cultural set—as would be expected in the case of migration—but were introduced gradually over time. Doyel further discussed the social position of platform mound settlements in relation to other settlements and the local environments. Some ASM reports contemporary with the Escalante project accepted Doyel’s interpretations (Debowski and Fritz 1974). Foreshadowing later developments, Doyel noted the importance of an explicit concern with spatial relationships among a site’s features, or site structure, which became a central focus of

Hohokam research under the leadership of David Wilcox.

The Escalante report also represented a dramatic departure from typical CRM publications of the time. The volume was much more than a brief descriptive site report as it contained explicit research questions, detailed analysis, and explicit interpretations.

Doyel later incorporated the data and interpretations stimulated by the Escalante research into his dissertation (1977) and a monograph (1981). 191

Like Doyel, Weaver advocated understanding the transition to the Classic as an indigenous development, and explicitly criticized explanations based on migration.

Weaver’s (1972, 1973, also 1977) model offered a diachronic, synthetic perspective on

Hohokam culture history combining environmental reconstructions and comparisons of material traits from several pre-Classic sites to the Classic site of Pueblo del Monte. He argued that cultural coalescence, colonization, retraction during the Sedentary as well as the onset and decline of the Classic period were significantly influenced by climatic fluctuations and their attendant effects on Hohokam subsistence. Specifically, a decrease in effective moisture instigated a retraction of Hohokam settlement to environments that could support more intensive forms of agriculture, namely the Salt-Gila core. Weaver agued this cultural process of increasing demographic pressure resulted in “the necessity for rigid control of irrigation systems…the development of adaptive political, social and religious systems and settlement patterns characteristic of the Classic period” (Weaver

1972:47). Additionally, new material traits—above ground adobe architecture, continuous room blocks, inhumations—were incorporated into Hohokam culture when former colonists returned Salt and Gila homelands with evidence of their previous contacts with foreign cultural groups. Unlike Doyel, Weaver’s research was conducted in a non-CRM environment and formed the basis of his thesis at ASU.

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1975-1979

The scope of Hohokam research expanded during the second half of the 1970s, producing much more literature and covering a greater variety of subjects. Traditional 192 culture-historical research continued as a major research interest, notably represented by the publication of results from Haury’s (1976) return to Snaketown. Continuing from the previous period, many archaeologists focused on the relationships between culture and environment, often in the form of research on Hohokam subsistence. The conditions of

CRM research maintained the concern with the Colonial period as modern infrastructure development kept archaeological attention directed toward peripheral areas. The nature of the Classic period was much more critically debated the apparent consensus shifted to indigenous explanations for the transition (see Doyel 1974; Wasley and Doyel 1980;

Weaver 1972). An explicit consideration of research design and the incorporation of project findings into regional frameworks became more prevalent (see Goodyear et al.

1978). One of the most important trends to develop during this time started and was exemplified by Wilcox’s model of the Hohokam as a regional system—a perspective that will become extremely popular in the local archaeological community.

Culture History

Basic culture-historical definition remained an important research area in

Hohokam archaeology as practitioners strived to refine sequences and traits by filling in missing details. Chronological refinements and further definition of diagnostic traits were of general concern. One of the seminal contributions to this endeavor was Haury’s second Snaketown volume (1976), which immediately became and would remain a central landmark in Hohokam archaeology. Haury’s return was instigated by the many alternative reconstructions of Hohokam prehistory (e.g. Di Peso 1956; Gladwin 1948, 193

1957; Schroeder 1957, 1960, 1966) coupled with the paucity of data then available to

resolve such problems. Determined to collect the data necessary to address these

criticisms, Haury resigned from his administrative positions at ASM and UA to direct excavations at Snaketown during the winter of 1964-65 (Thompson et al. 1997). The following decade, Haury conducted analyses on recovered material that led to some significant reevaluations of previous positions including his new acceptance of a

Hohokam origin through immigration from the south (Haury 1976). Many other archaeologists ultimately disagree with many of Haury’s assertions, but this publication remains one of the central—highly cited—pillars of the Hohokam discourse (Appendix

A).

The second Snaketown volume represented both continuity and reversal in

Haury’s positions on questions of Hohokam prehistory. From this project, Haury

affirmed the accuracy of the original Hohokam phase sequence (1976:97-110), though he

somewhat modified the absolute dates of some periods. During this period others were

challenging Haury’s early dates arguing that the early segments of the Hohokam sequence should be dramatically shortened to a beginning date around A.D. 200 (Wilcox and Shenk 1977). Haury’s recovery of a suite of diagnostic Hohokam material traits associated with Vahki pottery stimulated a major change of opinion—reversal of position on the origin of Hohokam culture. Instead of an indigenous cultural development, Haury now advocated the origin of the Hohokam was a Mesoamerican migration, though he retained the 300 B.C date, though younger archaeologists began to favor indigenous models (Wilcox and Shenk 1977). Haury (1976) also addressed Hohokam social 194

complexity using ethnographic analogy to Tohono Aikmel people. His interpretation presented Hohokam society as a relatively egalitarian folk-culture without major distinctions of status and prestige.

Areas outside of the Salt-Gila Valley were the scene of other culture-historical

research. Rosenthal (1977) and Stacy (1975) provided descriptive reports of further

research in the Papaguería that largely adhered to Haury’s distinction of desert or riverine

Hohokam. Greenleaf’s (1975a) report on Punta de Agua and Kelly’s (1978) long overdue Hodges site volume were published and would become important contributions to Tucson archeology. Most of the conclusions were of a culture-historical nature, fleshing out the material traits of the Tucson Hohokam, though Greenleaf offered some

interpretation of social organization. Foreshadowing later developments in investigations of Hohokam site structure, Greenleaf observed the clustering of “two or more houses that

seemed to be functionally and socially related” (1975) was a common feature, suggesting

an extended kin unit—a fundamental social building block of the villages.

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation

As previously noted, a positive archaeological consequence of CRM was the

motivation and support for investigations outside of traditional regions of research. This

new research, however, was characterized by a new focus on the specific nature of

cultural processes in outlying areas. This circumstance continued to foster research

beyond the Hohokam core focusing on the Colonial period. Working from the base of

the Museum of Northern Arizona (MNA), Fish and Fish (1977) provide a synthetic 195 description of Verde Valley archaeology, with conscious consideration of Hohokam material remains, geared toward understanding the context of Hohokam occupation of the area. This research forms the basis of their contribution to the Current Issues symposium at the SAA meetings in 1978 (the contents of this symposium were published in 1980 and are discussed in the next section). Smith (1978) provided an initial description of Cave

Buttes to the north of Phoenix, a previously neglected area. Smith utilized Weaver’s model (1972) of Hohokam cultural evolution to interpret the dynamics of his study area, interpreting the area used for the exploitation of wild plant resources during dry periods.

Culture Ecology

Following local precedent and general disciplinary trends, archaeologists called for Hohokam research to move beyond the limits of culture history (Goodyear and Dittert

1973; Goodyear 1975; Grady 1976). Most CRM reports still addressed the perennial questions of Hohokam archaeology—Hohokam origins, Colonial expansion, Sedentary cultural dynamics, the onset of the Classic period, and the collapse of the Hohokam system—but now couched in culture-ecological frameworks (Debowski et al. 1976;

Grady 1976). Younger generations of archaeologists argued that earlier Hohokam research, usually Haury’s, was shackled by culture-historical approaches. Early research was seen as overly normative by focusing too heavily on the presence and absence of traits defined as Hohokam. Critics also contended that these diagnostic traits were too often defined large, riverine sites, such as Snaketown, that were not representative of the range of Hohokam settlement. Additionally, these culture-historical emphases were 196 described as too reliant on traditional models of cultural change like migration to explain important developments among the Hohokam, such as their origin and the Sedentary-

Classic transition. Instead, many younger archaeologists advocated focusing on internal systemic factors like environmental change and demographic density to better explain

Hohokam cultural evolution. Most Hohokam archaeologists of the period agreed that a major positive impact of CRM research was its forced focus on neglected areas with less spectacular, but no less interpretively important, sites. For example, the many sites encountered in CRM research were small sites that showed no evidence of past residence, but instead suggested the location of limited, specialized activities. Previously, most of

Hohokam archaeology had been defined by findings gathered from large, intensively occupied sites like Snaketown or Pueblo Grande with their large midden accumulations, extensive architectural remains and material evidence of a variety of past activities

(Haury 1976; Hayden 1957). Such information was critical to understanding ancient life at these villages, but neglected major aspects of Hohokam culture. The information from smaller, more specialized sites filled in essential details for a comprehensive understanding of the past utilization of the landscape.

The processual perspective remained popular among the region’s archaeological community and culture-ecological approaches were central to the field as indicated by the many reports that explicitly utilized this interpretive framework (e.g. Brown and Rice

1978; Debowski et al. 1976; Fuller et al. 1976; Goodyear and Dittert 1973; Goodyear

1975; Henderson and Rodgers 1979; Huckell 1979; Teague and Bremer 1976). Further illustrating the processual outlook, many research projects advocated explicit research 197

designs and hypothesis testing that could be readily integrated with the findings of other

research.

Projects of a culture-ecological nature contributed important results for

understanding specific aspects of Hohokam prehistory. Doyel maintained his high-

profile and prolific career in Hohokam archaeology, providing his own processual

perspective on Hohokam history (1977a, 1977b). Criticizing Grebinger’s model (1971)

for the middle Santa Cruz Valley, Doyel focused on the ecological position of prehistoric populations in the area (1977a). Grebinger’s position was that immigrants to the Santa

Cruz practiced irrigation agriculture and that a hierarchical sociopolitical organization was necessary to administer this kind of subsistence. Doyel contended that colonial

Santa Cruz Hohokam had not simply imported traditional Salt-Gila subsistence strategies, but instead, practiced a diverse array of subsistence pursuits since their arrival in the area, adapting to local conditions. The suite of subsistence pursuits inferred by Doyel did not require the coordination and management often thought to be characteristic of irrigation agriculture, so the sociopolitical organization of Santa Cruz Hohokam was not characterized by the vertical complexity described in Grebinger’s research. The focus on local environmental and cultural diversity among the Hohokam quickly became a focus of research as archaeologists began looking toward evidence of a variety of subsistence practices, including flood and dry farming and wild resource exploitation (e.g. Ackerly and Reiger 1976; Brown 1976; Debowski et al. 1976; Doyel 1977b; Goodyear 1975;

Masse 1979; Teague and Baldwin 1978). 198

Long recognized by the region’s archaeologists, one of the central and interesting varieties of subsistence practiced by the Hohokam was irrigation agriculture. While many projects occurred in areas not suited to irrigation, other research continued the traditional focus on Hohokam canals (e.g. Haury 1976; Masse 1976). Haury, through his work at Snaketown, maintained irrigation was present from the beginnings of the

Hohokam sequence. Masse recovered a large sample of canal data from the Phoenix

Basin, documenting much more variability and complexity in Hohokam canals than previously thought. Masse described the social complexity necessary to organize the extensive canal systems of the Salt Basin as falling between the more egalitarian ideas of

Woodbury (1961) and Haury (1976) and the despotic Wittfogel (1957).

Culture-ecological perspectives also contributed to methodological changes in the archaeological community reflected in specialized and more focused research. Emphases on relationships between human cultural systems and environmental variables shifted much archaeological attention toward environmental data. Paleobotanical studies served as critical supports to investigations of past adaptation and subsistence (Gasser 1979;

Gish 1979; Miksicek 1979). Such specialist research fit well into the increasingly team- oriented approaches necessary in some of the larger CRM projects.

Sedentary/Classic Transition

The explanation of the Sedentary-Classic transition as an internal development gained further agreement during this period. The first Salado Conference brought several

Hohokam scholars together with archaeologists working in other regions at ASM in 1976 199

(Haury and Doyel 1976). Among Hohokam researchers, the growing consensus that the

Hohokam Classic was an internal development was readily apparent in the conference’s

papers. Several authors elaborated on established arguments that the Classic period was

an indigenous development and not the result of a southward migration of Salado people

(e.g. Doyel 1976a Grebinger 1976; Weaver 1976). Authors argued that the traits defined

as Salado often appear first well before the Classic period and exhibit a developmental

sequence, rather than as the abrupt appearance of a complete suite of traits. Much in

these arguments built on Wasley’s (Wasley and Doyel 1980) assessment of the temporal

presence of Salado traits—polychromes, inhumations, mounds, surface structures, compounds—to support the assertion of internal cultural change. The Classic period was

conceived as a time of population fragmentation, likely instigated by changing culture-

ecological conditions, and the localization of social groups rather than aggregation

(Doyel 1976a:34; also Huckell 1978; Teague and Baldwin 1978), or as an attempt to

socially integrate groups in the face of subsistence diversification (Grebinger 1976).

While the majority of Hohokam scholars represented at this conference abandoned

Salado explanations for the Classic, some remained faithful to the migration model

(Franklin and Masse 1976). Haury’s comments from the conference suggested he still

felt the Salado were a real phenomenon, but did not discuss in explicit reference to the

Hohokam region.

200

Hohokam as Regional System

In the last half of the 1970s, David Wilcox began a long and influential

association with Hohokam literature. Wilcox had transferred to the UA’s anthropology

department in the early 1970s from where he would participate in archaeological research

throughout the Southwest. Wilcox would engage in archaeological research for both

ASM and ASU in the 1970s, until accepting a position at MNA and Northern Arizona

University (NAU) in 1984.

From this first stage of participation, he offered ambitious, synthetic interpretations that touched upon nearly every aspect of Hohokam archaeology—from origin to collapse. In 1979, Arizona State University’s Anthropological Research Papers

published “The Hohokam Regional System” by Wilcox that exerted a tremendous

influence throughout Hohokam archaeology. In this publication, Wilcox argued against

the normative, or “Gladwinian” model of the Hohokam, which “interprets the Hohokam

as either a culture, an ethnic group or society” (Wilcox 1979a:78). Instead he proposed

conceiving of the archaeological culture of the Hohokam as a series of interrelated

subsystems and advocated focusing research energy on “attempts to identify the systemic relations and interactions of the Hohokam” (Wilcox 1979a:79) and to strive to understand the dynamics of the system rather than simply identifying the Hohokam through trait lists. The ambitious model had dramatic implications for Hohokam archaeology, and

Wilcox positioned the entire Hohokam sequence within his model. In other publications,

Wilcox (1979b) detailed how a systemic model can account for the peculiarities of the archaeological record, such as Trincheras sites—terraced hilltop settlements. He 201 discussed Classic period as marked by growing environmental instability where exacting tribute became an important strategy to consolidate power. Trincheras sites served as defensive, preventative measures to contend with attempts at taking tribute within an interconnected cultural system (Wilcox 1979a). Many of the synthetic positions detailed in the ASU paper were refinements and expansions of ideas offered in Wilcox’s dissertation on the architecture of Casa Grande (Wilcox and Shenk 1977).

Summary

The second half of the 1970s was characterized by considerable continuity in interest from previous periods. Hohokam colonization, the Classic transition and subsistence remain popular issues. The influence of larger theoretical trends in archaeology is most evident in subsistence related research through discussions of the goals and methods of processual or the “New Archaeology” (e.g. Brown and Rice 1978;

Doyel 1974, 1976; Debowski et al. 1976; Fuller et al. 1976; Goodyear 1975; Goodyear and Dittert 1973; Henderson and Rodgers 1979; Huckell 1979; Raab 1974, 1976Teague and Bremer 1976; Weaver 1972, 1974; Wilcox 1979a). In addition to the content of

Hohokam research, this project is also interested in the basic intellectual structure of research. To accomplish this task, citation pattern analyses are employed to investigate how research was constructed and how authors positioned themselves and others, comprising the structure of the discipline.

202

Citation Analysis

As discussed in chapter 4, citation studies can serve to provide relatively objective

measures of a discipline’s literature. In the present case, ACA and context co-citation

measures are utilized to produce networks representative of the intellectual structure of

Hohokam archaeology during the 1970s. In the following analyses, citation information

originates from a number of publication types, including CRM reports and academic

sources. ACA samples are grouped into two categories based on the venue of

publication, whether through traditional academic means—journals, books, chapters in

edited volumes—or CRM reports. Additionally, the most highly-cited of that sample is subjected to context citation analysis. The samples are divided into five-year periods based on year of publication—1970 to 1974 and 1975-1979 inclusive. However, this section begins with a brief consideration of Hohokam citation patterns in literature produced prior to 1970.

Pre-1970 Sample

For comparative purposes, author co-citation networks were compiled for

Hohokam literature that predates 1970. The intellectual content and social context of this

period are addressed in chapters 2 and 3. These periods were characterized by far fewer

publications, so they have been divided into larger time periods of 1930-1960 and 1960-

1970 to attain sufficient publications. The earliest network illustrates a relatively

decentralized structure with three to four possible clusters of highly cited authors with no

central core of dominant figures (Figure 6.1). Haury and Gladwin, the two figures most 203

responsible for the definition of the Hohokam, are not positioned closely together. The

evident pattern suggests that the Hohokam literature had not coalesced around a central subject or common set of authors. The 1960-1969 network exhibits slightly more centralization, but highly-cited figures such as Wasley—who becomes associated with other highly-cited authors in later networks—occupy seemingly peripheral areas of the network (Figure 6.2). However, the observation that the semblance of a central core of the most highly-cited authors appears implies that more agreement as to what defined

Hohokam archaeology was developing. The relatively close positioning of Haury,

Gladwin, Schroeder, Di Peso, and Hayden in the center of the network suggests that the field defined these figures as central to Hohokam research.

Figure 6.1: Hohokam ACA for the Period 1930-1959 204

Figure 6.2: Hohokam ACA for the Period 1960-1969

Citation Analysis: 1970-1974

By the beginning of the 1970s, CRM archaeology had begun to make its presence felt in Hohokam archaeology. Most of the publications produced during this period were

parts of ASM’s Archaeological Series, though several academic works were also published (Table 6.1). As for the intellectual structure of Hohokam literature, a decentralized pattern emerges, reversing the central clustering present in the 1960-1959 network. Instead of a single concentration of core authors, several distinct clusters of highly-cited authors emerge in each of the samples, suggesting several different centers of intellectual gravity. Agreement as to who the dominant and important practitioners in 205

the region’s archaeology diminishes, providing support for Masse’s claim that early contract archaeology was “particularistic in approach and limited in scope” (1980:236).

Hohokam archaeology, during this period, does not exhibit any marked agreement on

who the central or major figures of the discipline are.

Academic ASM Highly Cited Aggregate Publications 23 39 13 Cited Authors 215 448 Authors in Matrix 97 125 32 Percent of total in sample 80 75 80 Citation Threshold 2 4 2 Table 6.1: Literature Sample 1970-1974

Co-Citation Analysis

As noted in the chapter 4, co-citation patterns can produce networks that represent

relationships between scientists. In the following analyses, Author Co-citation Analysis

(ACA) is employed. A co-citation relationship between two authors exists if they are

both cited together in a single publication. From this information, ACA creates networks

in which authors are represented by nodes and co-citation relationships by links. The size

of individual nodes is determined by the number of times a particular author is cited

during the period—large nodes represent authors cited many times, while small nodes

those cited few times. For example, the node representing Haury in figure 6.3 is larger

than that representing Raab, which corresponds to the number of times each was cited

during the relevant period. 206

The following networks are further modified, however, to facilitate interpretation.

Because unmodified author co-citation relationships are numerous and the number of links in a network overwhelming, producing networks in which important relationships are difficult to discern. Subsequently, pathfinder network scaling is employed to prune these links, simplifying the network without compromising its basic integrity.

Academic Sample

ACA of the academic sample reveals a relatively decentralized network, with three major spokes and four discernable clusters (Figure 6.3; Table 6.3, 6.4). The center of the network contains several low-cited authors, while authors—clusters 1 and 2—cited more often occupy peripheral areas. The most highly cited authors (Cluster 1) concentrate together on a small branch extending from the network’s central line. These authors represent some of the foundational work in Hohokam archaeology—Haury,

Gladwin, Schroeder—so their high-citedness is not unexpected, though their relatively peripheral position is.

Cluster 2 appears at the terminal end of a major branch and includes a concentration of moderately cited authors. Wasley and Charles Steen’s common membership in this cluster seems to be the result of their advocacy of an indigenous explanation for the changes in the Hohokam Classic. Steen (1965) had served as a NPS official based out of Casa Grande and published a paper in The Kiva describing his position that the Classic period was the culmination of internal cultural changes rather than the result of a Salado migration. This theme may also account for Rouse’s (1958) 207

presence—who wrote a famous paper detailing procedures for establishing if evidence of

migration was present in an archaeological context—as well as the use of Hammack’s

(1969) description of the Classic site of Las Colinas, an important Classic period site.

Clusters 1 and 2 contain seven of the period’s most highly cited authors, but are not

closely connected, suggesting a decentralized or fractionated network.

Cluster 3, a close association of two small clusters of low-cited authors, is

positioned at the end of another major branch. The close association of Raab, Canouts,

Goodyear, Bell and Flannery illustrates the growing focus on culture-ecological issues

and the ascendance of the New Archaeology. Raab (1973, 1974), Canouts (1972) and

Goodyear (1973) all produced influential CRM-inspired reports during the 1970s that

explicitly echoed many of the arguments of processual archaeology, including a detailed

research design and research questions, hypothesis, and emphases on culture-ecological relationships. Additionally, a geographic association is apparent as these three authors worked in the Papaguería region of the Hohokam territory.

Cluster 4 consists of moderately cited authors, but forms the central focus of the entire network. Some notable members include C. Di Peso, C. Greenleaf, P. Grebinger, I.

Kelly, J. Dean, C. Lowe, and R. Vivian. Kelly (1978), Grebinger (1971) and Greenleaf

(1975) all conducted research in and around the Tucson Basin. While this cluster is situated at the center of the network, it is not composed of the most highly-cited authors

as would be expected in a more integrated structure.

The overall pattern apparent in this sample of academic literature is one of decentralization. A consensus as to the most important figures of the discipline is not 208 evident. The most central cluster (4) contains a collection of relatively modest-cited authors, while clusters containing more highly-cited authors are positioned toward the periphery of the network. The growing centralization of the previous decade appears to have ceased.

Haury, Emil 19 McGregor, J. C. 5 Schroeder, Albert H. 16 Scantling, Frederick H. 5 Gladwin, Harold S. 16 Withers, A. M. 5 Hayden, Julian D. 15 Danson, Edward 4 Johnson, Alfred E. 14 Dittert, Alfred E. 4 Wasley, William W. 14 Gabel, N. E. 4 Di Peso, Charles C. 13 Grebinger, Paul 4 Rogers, Malcolm J. 11 Kelly, Isabel T. 4 Breternitz, David A. 9 Sayles, E. B. 4 Castetter, Edward F. 9 Spicer, E. H. 4 Colton, Harold S. 9 Wheat, J. B. 4 Ezell, P. H. 9 Willey, Gordon R. 4 Fontana, Bernard L. 9 Zahniser, Jack L. 4 Morris, Donald H. 8 Bullard, W. A. 3 Bell, Willis H. 6 Caywood, L. P. 3 Cutler, Hugh 6 Ferdon, Edwin 3 Hammack, Laurens C. 6 Fewkes, Jesse W. 3 Russell, Frank 6 Frapps, Clara Lee 3 Schoenwetter, James 6 Frick, Paul S. 3 Tuthill, Carr 6 Hargrave, Lyndon L. 3 Underhill, Ruth M. 6 Kearney, T. H. 3 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 5 Lowe, C. H. 3 Fulton, William Shirley 5 Lumholtz, Carl 3 Greenleaf, Cameron 5 Merhinger, Peter J. 3 Martin, Paul S. 5 Raab, Mark 3 Table 6.2: 50 Most Highly-Cited Authors, Academic Sample 1970-1974 209

Cluster 1

Cluster 3

Cluster 4

Cluster 2

Figure 6.3: ACA Academic Sample 1970-1974 210

ASM Archaeological Series Sample

In subsequent sections of this study, all CRM publications are collapsed into an

aggregate for analysis. In this period, however, ASM was almost the only archaeological

organization involved in Hohokam CRM archaeology, so only its literature is considered.

ACA of ASM’s Archaeological Series produces three clusters that tend toward one side

of a fairly dispersed network (Figure 6.4; Table 6.4).

Two cycles are present in the center, rather than an intersection of linear branches.

The most populous Cluster 2 of highly-cited authors contains many of the younger generation of Hohokam researchers—most employed in ASM’s contract division. Also included in this cluster are other non-ASM and non-Hohokam archaeologists, such as

Fred Plog, Kent Flannery, and Dittert, suggesting the influence of more general archaeological theoretical trends and intellectual influence between ASM and ASU.

Albert Goodyear had been affiliated with ASU throughout the 1970s, while Plog would arrive there later in the decade. Both Flannery and Plog were prominent proponents of varieties of processual perspectives in general archaeological discussions. Cluster 1 is a central cluster of highly-cited authors that seems to be an association the older generation of foundational authors, such as Haury and Gladwin, though Wasley also becomes associated these older, central figures of Hohokam archaeology.

Cluster 3 is another relatively central high-cited cluster, which contains Lewis

Binford and Vorsila Bohrer, possibly indicating concern with processual theory and subsistence respectively. Bohrer (1969, 1970) was one of the first paleobotanical specialists working in the Hohokam region and she produced early pieces of literature 211

concerning plant use at Snaketown. Binford’s (1962, 1968) statements explicating the

“New Archaeology” emphasized cultural and ecological relationships. Like the academic sample, the ASM network does not exhibit any marked centralization around a common core. Additionally, while some distinct clusters of highly-cited authors are evident and some centralization is apparent relative to the academic sample, highly-cited authors are generally dispersed throughout the network. The densely connected branch extending from Cluster 3 includes several authors associated with early CRM reports in southern

Arizona, such as David Phillips, James McDonald, and Donald Fiero.

212

Haury, Emil 38 Dittert, Alfred E. 13 Wasley, William W. 34 Hill, J. N. 13 Martin, Paul S. 32 Jennings, Jesse D. 13 Schroeder, Albert H. 28 Steen, Charles 13 Di Peso, Charles C. 27 Whalen, Norman M. 13 Johnson, Alfred E. 26 Willey, Gordon R. 13 Sayles, E. B. 25 Fewkes, Jesse W. 12 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 25 Fritz, Gordon 12 Kemrer, Sandra 24 Underhill, Ruth M. 12 Raab, Mark 20 Anderson, Keith M. 11 Anteves, Ernst 19 Bell, Willis H. 11 Gladwin, Harold S. 19 Goodyear, Albert C. 11 Grady, Mark 19 Gordon, Garland J. 11 Lowe, C. H. 19 Gladwin, Winifred 10 Binford, Lewis 18 Larkin, Robert 10 Hackenberg, Robert A. 18 Longacre, William A. 10 Fontana, Bernard L. 17 McGregor, J. C. 10 Canouts, Veletta 16 Weaver, Donald E. 10 Castetter, Edward F. 16 Windmiller, Ric 10 Doyel, David 16 Breternitz, David A. 9 Ezell, P. H. 16 Germeshausen, Edward 9 Hayden, Julian D. 16 Hammack, Laurens C. 9 Plog, Fred 16 Schiffer, Michael B. 9 Vivian, R. Gwinn 16 Cutler, Hugh 9 Rogers, Malcolm J. 16 Ferdon, Edwin 8 Table 6.3: 50 Most Highly-Cited Authors, ASM Archaeological Series Sample 1970- 1974 213

Academic Sample ASM Series Cluster 1 H. Gladwin H. Gladwin E. Haury E. Haury A. Johnson J. Jennings A. Schroeder C. Lowe W. Wasley Cluster 2 D. Breternitz V. Canouts R. Hackenberg P. Ezell A. Dittert S. Kemrer L. Hammack W. Doelle F. Plog J. Hayden D. Doyel M. Raab C. Steen K. Flannery S. Semenov I. Rouse B. Fontana L. Teague W. Wasley M. Grady G. Willey Cluster 3 W. Bell L. Binford V. Canouts V. Bohrer E. Castetter P. Ezell L. Curtin E. Ferdon E. Gifford A. Goodyear A. Goodyear A. Johnson R. Hackenberg R. Vivian P. Mehringer K. Parker M. Raab O. Stewart R. Underhill R. Whittaker Table 6.4: Cluster Membership, Academic and ASM Sample 1970-1974 214

Cluster 1

Cluster 2

Cluster 3

Figure 6.4: ACA ASM Archaeological Series Sample 1970-1974 215

Highly-Cited Sample

The following networks result from limiting citing publications to only the most

cited of the period. As fewer publications were sampled, fewer authors are present in each network. This sample includes both academic publications and those CRM reports that are highly cited in the general Hohokam literature producing two networks. One is based on the unmodified highly-cited sample, and one including just those citations used in support of the citing publications’ positions.

The first network produces a network similar to the previous ones—three primary branches—relatively dispersed pattern evident (Figure 6.5; Table 6.5, 6.6). Also mirroring the previous networks, highly-cited authors are not concentrated in one region of the network. Several highly-cited authors are positioned centrally at the intersection of three spokes, connected through a relatively low-cited author, Laurens Hammack. This cluster represents the foundational authors, and again Wasley is a member of the group.

This cluster suggests some degree of centralization as to who the central figures of

Hohokam archaeology are. Cluster 2 is an association of more moderately-cited authors positioned just adjacent to Cluster 1, almost a sub-cluster. Cluster 3 occupies the terminal end of one of the main spokes and contains three well-known Southwestern archaeologists—George Gumerman, Paul Martin, and Jesse Walter Fewkes—though the majority of their careers have been associated with regions outside of Hohokam territory.

Cluster 4 consists of several relatively lowly-cited authors, with most a part of the younger generation of Hohokam archaeologists, including Grebinger of UA and Weaver 216

of ASU, who each received advanced degrees during this period. Binford is also a

member of this cluster, as is Russell whose ethnographic research among the Pima is

often cited as analogical evidence for pre-contact subsistence.

Using this same set of citing publications, citations are limited to only those that

were used to support the argument of the sampled paper—only citations that an author

uses to support the paper’s position are included. This data is pulled from the citation

context analyses also performed in this study, and this limitation serves to eliminate

citations used as neutral acknowledgments or as contradictions. In the collection of

citation context data, citations used to explicitly support the argument advocated by a

sampled publication were coded differently than those used for general

acknowledgement, orientation, or criticism.

The resulting network is markedly linear and dispersed, and fragments much of

the centralized pattern evident in the previous network (Figure 6.6; Table 6.6). Only one

densely connected group, Cluster 2, emerges and is very similar to Cluster 2 of the

previous example. Cluster 1 contains most of the network’s highly cited authors, though

few links bind the cluster together. This cluster/association contains Haury and Wasley,

who continues to be increasingly associated with Haury, suggesting Wasley has become a central figure to Hohokam discussions. Charles Di Peso and Alfred Dittert are also included in this cluster.

The highly-cited sample exhibits a higher degree of centralization with highly- cited authors being clustered toward the center of the network than in the academic or 217

ASM Archaeological Series networks when not limited by citation context. However when limited by context, this centralization diminishes.

218

Haury, Emil 8 Johnson, Alfred E. 2 Wasley, William W. 7 Kemrer, Sandra 2 Schroeder, Albert H. 6 Gumerman, George J. 2 Morris, Donald H. 5 Zahniser, Jack L. 2 Gladwin, Harold S. 5 Midvale, Frank 2 Hayden, Julian D. 5 Ferdon, Edwin 2 Colton, Harold S. 4 Raab, Mark 1 Breternitz, David A. 4 Rohn, Arthurr H. 1 Di Peso, Charles C. 4 Kroeber, Alfred L. 1 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 3 Judge, W. James 1 Fewkes, Jesse W. 3 Rogers, Malcolm J. 1 Ezell, P. H. 3 Castetter, Edward F. 1 Dittert, Alfred E. 3 Spicer, E. H. 1 Russell, Frank 3 Hester, Thomas R. 1 Rouse, Irving 2 McGregor, J. C. 1 Binford, Lewis 2 Bullard, W. A. 1 Weed, Carol S. 2 Brew, J. O. 1 Grebinger, Paul 2 Jackson, J. A. 1 Hackenberg, Robert A. 2 Woodward, Arthur 1 Weaver, Donald E. 2 Withers, A. M. 1 Hammack, Laurens C. 2 Frapps, Clara Lee 1 Willey, Gordon R. 2 Hill, J. N. 1 Schoenwetter, James 2 Parker, Kitty F. 1 Underhill, Ruth M. 2 Hempel, Carl G. 1 Martin, Paul S. 2 Curtin, L.S.M. Table 6.5: 50 Most Cited in Highly-Cited Sample 1970-1974 219

No Context Limitation Context Limitation Cluster 1 H. Gladwin D. Breternitz E. Haury C. Di Peso J. Hayden A. Dittert F. Midvale E. Haury D. Morris P. Martin W. Wasley J. Schoenwetter W. Wasley C. Weed Cluster 2 V. Bohrer V. Bohrer C. Di Peso P. Ezell P. Ezell E. Ferdon E. Ferdon I. Rouse L. Hammack G. Willey I. Rouse G. Willey Cluster 3 J. Fewkes G. Gumerman P. Martin Cluster 4 L. Binford P. Grebinger R. Hackenberg F. Russell D. Weaver J. Zahniser Table 6.6: Cluster Membership, Highly-Cited Sample 1970-1974 220

Cluster 3

Cluster 1 Cluster 2

Cluster 4

Figure 6.5: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Not Citation Context Limited 1970-1974 221

Cluster 2

Cluster 1

Figure 6.6: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Citation Context Limited 1970-1974 222

Summary

Throughout the preceding networks, a basic pattern of decentralization or fragmentation is evident. None of the networks, produced by any of the literature samples produced any network that possessed a distinct core of highly-cited authors surrounded by a periphery of less-cited authors. In instances where the hint of such a core emerges, such as in both of the highly-cited samples, the other sections of the network contain a relatively even dispersal of high to moderately-cited authors.

Subsequently, Hohokam literature produced during the first half of the 1970s exhibits an intellectual pattern resembling fractionation or conversation rather than synthesis and integration (Collins 1998; Fuchs 1992). Clusters emerge based around the foundational figures of the discipline—Haury, Gladwin and increasingly Wasley—as well as others based on the younger set of Hohokam archaeologists engaging in CRM research.

Citation Analysis: 1975-1979

Analysis of the co-citation structure of Hohokam literature in the second half of the 1970s parallels some of the patterns traced in the discussion of the intellectual content. ASM’s Archaeological Series continued publishing reports, though ASU’s

Anthropological Research Papers and Anthropological Field Studies series also began publication, as did a few private CRM firms, like NRI, ARS, and ACS.

Not surprisingly, publication types (academic, CRM, ASU, ASM) tend to cite others of that type. Academic sources utilize academic citations at the expense of CRM 223

ones (80 to 14%). CRM publications, on the other hand, more regularly cite other CRM reports and fewer academic ones (63 to 25%). However, academic citations still comprise the majority of references. The same incestuous citing pattern is evident when considering specific archaeological organizations. ASM Archaeological Series, cites

ASM publications the most of any type (20%), sometimes the only other references cited, while citing ASU relatively few times (2%). As with the total CRM sample, academic sources remain important (68%). ASU publications cite academic sources 75% and ASM sources 9%, with other ASU publications at 7.5%—while low, still higher than any other sample.

Academic CRM Highly Cited Aggregate Publications in 38 79 21 Sample Cited Authors 783 912 218 Authors in 217 204 85 Matrix Percent of total 78 72 74 citations in sample Cited 4 5 2 Threshold Table 6.7: Literature Sample 1975-1979

224

Co-citation Analysis

Academic Sample

The network produced from the sample of academic literature appears more centralized than previous networks, as a relatively dense cluster of highly-cited authors occupies a relatively central position. Five major branches radiate from the central cluster with a minor centralized cluster in a peripheral area of the network (Figure 6.7;

Table 6.7, 6.8, 6.9). Cluster 1, the dense central cluster, contains foundational figures, such as Haury and Gladwin as well as a few younger archaeologists, like Doyel, Dittert and Fish. These authors are more closely connected to the cluster of foundational authors than to many of their contemporaries—suggesting their contributions from earlier periods have had time to penetrate the central core of the discipline. Cluster 2 contains many in the younger set, of who many are associated with research in the Papaguería, such as

Raab, Goodyear, and Doelle. Interestingly, archaeologists from different institutions (for example ASU vs. ASM) do not segregate into distinct clusters, but often have common cluster membership.

Cluster 3, positioned peripherally, contains mid to highly-cited authors and is clearly separate from Cluster 1, suggesting two very distinct cores for this network. Many of these authors are associated with studies of the Hohokam periphery, including

Greenleaf, Grebinger, and Zahniser, which is reflected in their peripheral position in the network. David Wilcox and Mark Grady appear in this cluster, however, somewhat surprising considering their synthetic visions of Hohokam prehistory. This may represent 225

the converse of the younger archaeologists in Cluster 1—in this case, enough time has not passed for general discussions to become widely cited.

The basic pattern is more centralized than the previous period with discrete clusters of highly-cited authors. However, at least two distinct centers of intellectual gravity are evident—Clusters 1 and 3. Cluster 2 serves as the artery that connects these two larger structures. While more centralized than the academic sample from the first half of the decade, some fragmentation is still apparent with the existence of two centers.

Haury, Emil 36 Raab, Mark 24 Doyel, David 34 Windmiller, Ric 24 Gladwin, Harold S. 34 Bell, Willis H. 23 Schroeder, Albert H. 34 Fontana, Bernard L. 23 Di Peso, Charles C. 33 Kelly, Isabel T. 23 Johnson, Alfred E. 32 Ezell, P. H. 22 Wasley, William W. 32 Gumerman, George J. 21 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 32 Martin, Paul S. 21 Hayden, Julian D. 32 Sayles, E. B. 21 Colton, Harold S. 31 Woodbury, R. B. 21 Weaver, Donald E. 31 Binford, Lewis 20 Breternitz, David A. 31 Ferdon, Edwin 20 Grebinger, Paul 30 Hammack, Laurens C. 20 Weed, Carol S. 30 Morris, Donald H. 20 Masse, Bruce W. 30 Kelly, J. Charles 19 Gasser, Robert E. 30 Lowe, C. H. 19 Cutler, Hugh 29 Rodgers, James B. 19 Greenleaf, Cameron 29 Doelle, William H. 18 McGregor, J. C. 29 Vickery, Irene 18 Plog, Fred 28 Fish, Paul R. 17 Castetter, Edward F. 27 Goodyear, Albert C. 17 Dittert, Alfred E. 27 Huckell, Bruce B. 17 Wilcox, David R. 27 Russell, Frank 17 Fewkes, Jesse W. 25 Stacy, V. K. Pheriba 17 Schoenwetter, James 25 Vivian, R. Gwinn 17 Table 6.8: 50 Most Cited Authors in Academic Sample 1975-1979

226

Cluster 1 L. Binford L. Hammack V. Bohrer E. Haury D. Breternitz A. Johnson H. Colton F. Midvale C. Di Peso F. Plog A. Dittert F. Russell D. Doyel A. Schroeder E. Ferdon O. Turney J. Fewkes W. Wasley P. Fish D. Weaver H. Gladwin C. Weed Cluster 2 J. Ayres R. Hill W. Bell M. Raab V. Canouts J. Rodgers J. Dean W. Sellers W. Doelle G. Vivian A. Goodyear Cluster 3 H. Bolton P. Grebinger D. Brand C. Greenleaf P. Brown G. Gumerman S. Bruder J. Hayden H. Cutler B. Masse S. Debowski J. Sauer B. Fontanta D. Wilcox I. Kelly J. Zahniser R. Gasser M. Grady Notable J. Antieau Peripherals S. Upham Table 6.9: Cluster Membership, Academic 1975-1979

227

Cluster 3

Cluster 2

Cluster 1

Figure 6.7: ACA Academic Sample 1975-1979 228

Aggregate CRM

All publications produced by institutions conducting CRM archaeology are

combined to create an aggregate to ascertain if CRM inspired literature creates a fundamentally different co-citation structure. Reports produced by ASM, ASU, MNA and private firms are collapsed into one category for these analyses.

For the period under discussion, a pronounced linear network emerges with about four minor branches extending from the central line (Figure 6.8; Table 6.10, 6.11).

Paralleling the total network, most highly cited authors are distributed in a linear fashion along the network’s central line—they do not create an obvious cluster in the center of the network. Highly-cited foundational figures appear along the central line along with many in the younger generation. The more sparsely populated section of the network contains a linear distribution of highly cited nodes and corresponds with Tucson based research. For example, Zahniser (1966), Greenleaf (1975) and Grebinger (1971) all published finders from fieldwork around Tucson and This network does not suggest an intellectual structure with several distinct centers of gravity, but instead highly-cited authors are relatively evenly distributed across the entire center of the network. The network appears to represent a vague consensus as to the central figures in intellectual discussions, but not always a specific common set.

229

Haury, Emil 60 Martin, Paul S. 31 Schroeder, Albert H. 58 Colton, Harold S. 28 Doyel, David 58 Grebinger, Paul 28 Wasley, William W. 55 Huckell, Bruce B. 28 Hayden, Julian D. 52 Rodgers, James B. 28 Di Peso, Charles C. 52 Brown, Patricia E. 27 Gladwin, Harold S. 49 Stacy, V. K. Pheriba 27 Lowe, C. H. 49 Underhill, Ruth M. 26 Sayles, E. B. 49 Wilcox, David R. 26 Fontana, Bernard L. 47 Sellers, William D. 25 Castetter, Edward F. 46 Weed, Carol S. 25 Rogers, Malcolm J. 44 Teague, Lynn S. 23 Doelle, William H. 42 Wilson, Eldred 22 Johnson, Alfred E. 42 Hill, Richard H. 21 Weaver, Donald E. 42 Plog, Fred 21 Anteves, Ernst 38 Vivian, R. Gwinn 21 Raab, Mark 38 Grady, Mark 20 Dittert, Alfred E. 37 Kelly, Isabel T. 20 Ezell, P. H. 37 Whalen, Norman M. 20 Masse, Bruce W. 37 Canouts, Veletta 19 Fritz, Gordon 36 Fish, Paul R. 19 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 35 Stewart, Yvonne G. 19 Goodyear, Albert C. 34 Ferg, Alan 18 Greenleaf, Cameron 34 Gasser, Robert E. 18 Bell, Willis H. 33 Gifford, E. W. 18 Table 6.10: 50 Most Highly Cited Authors, Aggregate CRM 1975-1979 230

Highly-cited E. Anteves J. Jennings Authors along J. Ayres A. Johnson W. Bell B. Masse Central Line V. Bohrer J. Rodgers D. Breternitz E. Sayles V. Canouts A. Schroeder H. Colton W. Sellars C. Di Peso C. Steen W. Doelle R. Vivian D. Doyel A. Ward H. Gladwin W. Wasley M. Grady C. Weed P. Grebinger N. Whalen E. Haury D. Wilcox R. Hill End of Linear P. Ezell J. Hayden Distribution B. Fontana I. Kelly A. Goodyear M. Rogers C. Greenleaf L. Teague Table 6.11: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1975-1979 231

Figure 6.8: ACA Aggregate CRM Sample 1975-1979 232

Highly-Cited Sample

Again, the most highly-cited publications—both academic and CRM—were

subjected to ACA. In the second half of the 1970s, a more decentralized pattern emerges

from the highly-cited sample (Figure 6.12, 6.13; Table 6.9). This network is also highly

linear, with only one large branch emanating from the central line. While linear, this

network is different from the CRM aggregate as the highly cited authors are not clustered along the central line in this sample, but six clearly separated clusters are apparent. All but one contains highly or moderately-cited authors. When limited to only highly-cited publications, the resulting network returns to a fairly decentralized and fragmented structure

Cluster 1 is positioned at the terminus of a small offshoot of the central line and consists of relatively low-cited authors associated with irrigation studies, such as Karl

Wittfogel (1958), Robert Woodbury (1960, 1961) and Omar Turney (1929).

Cluster 2, another concentration of highly-cited authors, is positioned just off of the central line and contains several of the foundational figures of Hohokam archaeology, such as Gladwin, Schroeder and Hayden. A small cluster of low-cited authors is associated including Sayles, Huckell, Fish, Flannery, which may be associated with the northern periphery. This secondary cluster persists and is fairly central in the network that is produced when limiting by citation context.

Cluster 3 is the most central concentration of highly-cited authors. This cluster contains Haury, Di Peso, and Wasley, three other foundational figures, who seem to be 233

more central to the period’s academic discussions. This cluster also contains Bohrer—

the first highly cited and centrally positioned specialist.

Cluster 4 is a small cluster of high-cited authors that is just on the central line,

containing Doyel and J. Richard Ambler. In the citation context limited network, this cluster persists and becomes associated with Wasley. As noted, Doyel and Wasley are

closely associated with research on the Sedentary-Classic transition. Ambler’s (1961) master’s thesis was an investigation on Casa Grande, which also supported an indigenous

explanation of this transition.

Cluster 5 is positioned off of the primary line, and is densely interconnected.

Several members of this cluster are part of the younger generation of archaeologists

whose primary venue is in various contract divisions. Wilcox articulates this group with

the central line—serving as a connection between the old and the new. When context

limited, this cluster (4) persists and becomes central with the addition of Haury,

Schroeder, and Steen. Cluster 6 is another mid-high cited grouping coming just off of the

central line. This cluster includes authors associated with Tucson archaeology, such as

Greenleaf, Kelly and Grebinger as well as irrigation studies, including Midvale, Masse,

and Grebinger.

234

Haury, Emil 16 Canouts, Veletta 4 Di Peso, Charles C. 12 Steen, Charles 4 Doyel, David 11 Woodbury, R. B. 4 Wasley, William W. 10 Withers, A. M. 4 Ferdon, Edwin 9 Binford, Lewis 4 Hayden, Julian D. 9 Masse, Bruce W. 4 Gladwin, Harold S. 9 Bandelier, Adolf F. 3 Greenleaf, Cameron 9 Gasser, Robert E. 3 Schroeder, Albert H. 8 Sahlins, Marshall 3 Fewkes, Jesse W. 7 Ezell, P. H. 3 Martin, Paul S. 7 Doelle, William H. 3 Weaver, Donald E. 7 Franklin, Hayward Hoskins 3 Johnson, Alfred E. 6 Wormington, H. M. 3 Hammack, Laurens C. 6 Plog, Fred 3 Wilcox, David R. 6 Willey, Gordon R. 3 Grebinger, Paul 6 Ayres, James E. 3 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 6 Goodyear, Albert C. 3 Kelly, Isabel T. 5 Rouse, Irving 3 Midvale, Frank 5 Raab, Mark 3 Russell, Frank 5 Herskovits, Robert M. 2 Ambler, J. Richard. 5 Frick, Paul S. 2 Gumerman, George J. 5 Gerald Rex E. 2 Wood, Donald 4 Kelly, Rodger E. 2 Debowski, Sharon S. 4 Sauer, Carl O. 2 Zahniser, Jack L. 4 Dittert, Alfred E. 2 Table 6.12: 50 Most Highly Cited Authors—Highly Cited Sample 1975-1979 235

Not Citation Context Limited Citation Context Limited Cluster 1 V. Canouts S. Debowski F. Hawley A. Dittert R. Herskowitz W. Doelle O. Turney B. Masse G. Vivian D. Morris K. Wittfogel M. Sahlins R. Woodbury C. Steen D. Weaver N. Whalen J. Wheat A. Woodward

Cluster 2 E. Ferdon C. Di Peso H. Gladwin E. Ferdon J. Hayden L. Hammack A. Johnson J. Hayden A. Schroeder Cluster 3 V. Bohrer R. Ambler C. Di Peso V. Bohrer L. Hammack D. Doyel E. Haury J. Fewkes W. Wasley I. Kelly D. Weaver F. Midvale W. Wasley D. Wood

Cluster 4 R. Ambler D. Doyel D. Wood Cluster 5 S. Debowski A. Dittert W. Doelle R. Gerald G. Gumerman D. Morris M. Sahlins J. Steward C. Weed N. Whalen J. Wheat A. Woodward Cluster 6 P. Grebinger C. Greenleaf I. Kelly B. Masse F. Midvale Table 6.13: Cluster Membership, Highly-Cited Sample 1975-1979 236

When limited only to citations used for support, the sample produces another decentralized network, though one dense concentration of mid-cited authors appears in the center (Figure 6.10; Table 6.13). Interestingly, fewer clusters emerge in this network as only three other major centers of gravity are present. The central cluster does not contain any of the foundational figures of Hohokam archaeology, but instead members of the younger generation, such as William Doelle, Alfred Dittert, Sharon Debowski, and

Bruce Masse. The semblance of a central core of highly-cited authors is evident in this network, but remains incipient and does not include those central individuals that had defined Hohokam archaeology for the previous 40 years. Haury is somewhat isolated toward the edge of the network. Wilcox serves somewhat as an integrative figure and connects Cluster 1 to Cluster 3. 237

Cluster 3 Cluster 1

Cluster 5

Cluster 6 Cluster 4

Cluster 2

Figure 6.9: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Not Citation Context Limited 1975-1979

238

Cluster 2

Cluster 1

Cluster 3

Figure 6.10: ACA Highly-Cited Sample—Citation Context Limited 1975-1979 239

The 1970s and the Emergence of CRM

The 1970s witnessed the initial emergence of salvage or a CRM environment as it is now known. New legislation injected significant amounts of funding into existing archaeological institutions that in turn adapted to accommodate to the new opportunities for work.

As for patterns of citation structure, almost all of the networks displayed relatively decentralized structures, following the basic trend established before 1970.

Only the academic network from 1975-1979 displayed any tendency toward centralization, though with significant dispersal, rather than concentration, of highly-cited authors throughout the network. Additionally, the highly-cited sample from 1970-1974 exhibits some centralization when not limited by citation context. However, when limited to only those citations used explicitly for support, this centralization rapidly fragments. In the CRM networks, no central core existed, because each CRM organization tended to cite its own products rather than those of colleagues, producing a relatively evenly distributed and dispersed network.

These network patterns suggest disciplinary discussions that are not characterized by a high level of integrated or synthetic discussion. Interest in many of the traditional research issues in Hohokam archaeology persisted, such as the Classic transition or

Colonial expansions, and was pursued relatively independently of one another—each area of research was not significantly integrated with others. Grand, synthetic visions of

Hohokam prehistory, such as Wilcox’s (1979a) regional system model, were too recent to have fully penetrated and integrated archaeological discussions. However, interest in 240

culture ecological relationships provided some integrative mechanism for segments of the

Hohokam discourse. By the second half of the decade CRM inspired research was a

major factor in the region’s archaeological work, and many practitioners actively worked

to integrate such research with relevant anthropological questions.

These patterns suggest that Hohokam archaeology was a relatively fractionated

(Collins 1998) and tolerated a multiplicity of approaches and interests (Fuchs 1992) in

the 1970s. The intellectual structure of Hohokam discussions did not consistently center

on a common set of authors surrounded by all others. Following sociological

expectations, a situation of a relatively stable resource base that was not bound to a tight

network that was responsible for material and reputational support is expected. For the most part, new funding flowed into existing archaeological institutions, like ASM, ASU and MNA. These institutions already possessed the expertise, legitimacy and some organizational infrastructure to quickly assume these new levels of work. Additionally, they were embedded in the traditional homes of academic research and were accustomed to considerable intellectual autonomy in the pursuit of research questions. Collins (1998) argues that times of organizational transformation tend to correspond with accelerated creativity in intellectual discourse and such a situation appears to characterize Hohokam archaeology during this decade as the intellectual structure as multiple centers of intellectual gravity appear throughout the networks, rather than just a single core, which can be interpreted as an indication of intellectual stagnation.

With benefit of an historical perspective that extends beyond the 1970s, the organizational environment of CRM had not yet stabilized during this decade. 241

Archaeological organizations were adapting to the rapidly changing environment,

attempting to control their jurisdiction of rising levels of work, while continuing to

pursue intellectual questions as did the research institutions in which they were

embedded. In this time of adaptation, intellectual patterns in Hohokam archaeology

reflect the fragmented structure that characterized preceding decades as well as

theoretical trends popular in the national discipline. Such an intellectual structure would

change, however, when the organizational environment of CRM in southern Arizona stabilized. 242

CHAPTER 7: 1980S, RISE OF THE PRIVATE FIRMS

The 1980s witnessed fundamental change in the structure of archaeological

research in Southern Arizona, exemplified by the ascendance and growing dominance of

private firms in the archaeological community. Specifically, the organizational base for conducting archaeological research was significantly altered, seeming to become more fully adapted to organizational environment that had been evolving throughout the

previous decade. Intellectually, Hohokam archaeology experienced the continuing

introduction of new ideas and concepts as well as the integration of older issues with

these newer frameworks. The intellectual structure of Hohokam discourse reflects this

fluid period as it lacks significant consistency across the samples.

At the beginning of the 1980s ASM, ASU and MNA all were active participants

in CRM and Hohokam archaeology. These had been the institutions that initially

possessed the experience, legitimacy and organizational infrastructure to accommodate

increasing levels of archaeological work made necessary by historic preservation

legislation. By the end of the 1980s, however, ASM’s CRMD and MNA’s contract

division had closed their doors, while newer private firms quickly assumed the still

available archaeological contracts. In 1981, ADOT internalized the position of Highway

Archaeologists from ASM to ADOT (Rosenberg 2004; Thompson 2004:125),

diminishing what had been a relatively constant source of work and contributed to the

eventual decline of CRMD at ASM. While ASM could still be awarded contracts for

larger data recovery projects, the smaller, preliminary work could now be done in-house 243

at ADOT. OCRM at ASU would continue into the 1990s, but even its operations ramped

down in that decade as a result of cost overruns stemming from their part of the

Roosevelt Dam project in the Tonto Basin (Altschul 2004:44). In their place, developing

and more flexible organizations began to absorb the higher levels of work as their organizational structure allowed easier articulation with other relevant organizations

(Altschul 2004), such as government agencies and private developers.

In 1983 amendments to the Arizona Antiquities Act removed legal barriers to private sector participation in CRM paving the way for the shift from academia to business (Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004:11). Previously, for-profit firms had been excluded from contract archaeological work on state land. However, Raymond

Thompson, Head of ASM, lobbied a “friendly legislator” to modify the Act so these competitors could participate (Doelle and Phillips 2005:100). Small, entrepreneurial

private companies, new and previously existing, were competitively better suited to the

CRM environment and would dominate the conduct of Hohokam research by the end of

the decade. Soil Systems, Inc. opened its Phoenix office in 1980 to accommodate the

growing opportunities for archaeological research in the area (SSI 1982). In 1982,

William Doelle established the Arizona branch of the Institute for American Research

(IAR) to conduct Tucson area archaeology through research grants, private donations, and contract funds. IAR would significantly add to Hohokam discourse, especially concerning the organization of village sites in the Tucson area (e.g. Doelle 1985; Elson

1986; Huntington 1986). In 1989, Arizona’s IAR branch is incorporated as the Center for

Desert Archaeology (CDARC) as a non-profit research center, while William Doelle also 244

formed Desert Archaeology, Inc. to manage the growing number of archaeological

contracts. SSI, SRI (Altschul 1988) Northland, ACS, and ARS all participated in this

process. In the early days of private archaeology, the fledgling firms had to rely on the

“leftovers” not taken by the established institutions (Altschul 2004). Additionally, many early companies had to aggressively pursue contracts, as several principal investigators were young and did not have the associated credibility of a long association with the

region’s archaeology (Green 2004; Marmaduke and Henderson 1995). However,

established institutions often exhibited complacency, relying on their previous records,

and were out-competed by these new colleagues (Rogge 1983). Some in the academic

community had criticized many private firms for the low-bid perspective and poor

publication record (LeBlanc 1976), though several of the Arizona firms actively sought to

dispel such a charge by striving to publish reports in a timely and comprehensive fashion.

Additionally, archaeology had become big business and by 1983, as CRM archaeology in the United States was a $300 million per year industry, employing 6000 archaeologists (Rogge 1983:11). This funding supported some of the most massive

Hohokam archaeological investigations and many new hallmarks in Hohokam archaeology emerged out of this spate of new work—conducted by archaeologists based in traditional settings as well as the private newcomers. OCRM and MNA conducted research at La Ciudad in downtown Phoenix, which addressed many issues of Hohokam prehistory, including irrigation, community organization and social differentiation

(Ackerly, Howard, and McGuire 1987; Bruder et al. 1982; McGuire 1987; Rice 1987;

Rice and Most 1982; Yablon and Weaver 1980). ASM’s Las Colinas work would be 245

particularly important for continued attention toward archaeological understanding of the

Sedentary-Classic transition as well as of the social organization of major Classic period

settlements (Abbott et al. 1988; Gregory 1988; Gregory and McGuire 1982; Schreiber

1981). The Salt Gila Aqueduct (SGA) near Florence Arizona, a segment of the CAP

project, greatly expanded the database of smaller Hohokam sites and contributed to

research on the Sedentary-Classic transition, Hohokam economy, and the end of the

Hohokam sequence (Teague and Crown 1982-84, volumes 1-9). The Tucson Aqueduct

Project (TAP) would complete CAP inspired CRM projects and offer insight into

Hohokam occupations in the Tucson Basin (Czaplicki and Ravesloot 1989), as did

OCRM’s excavations in the Marana area northeast of Tucson (Rice 1987b), and the

Western Archaeological Conservation Center’s (WACC) research (Simpson and Wells

1983, 1984).

The importance of private firms conducting archaeology was reflected by their

increasing ability to be awarded contracts for many of the larger projects taking place

during the 1980s. By 1985, private firms were conducting near half of all surveys

throughout Arizona (Roberts et al. 2004:12). Private firms appear well-suited to the

CRM environment as most that got their start in the late 1970s and early 1980s remain in

operation as of the writing of this paper (Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004). Findings from these projects were disseminated to the greater archaeological through both traditional academic venues as well as internally produced publication outlets (Doyel

1985). SSI’s work in downtown Phoenix and around New River would significantly explore both issues of Hohokam origins and of the occupation of areas outlying the 246

Hohokam heartland of the Salt-Gila Basin (Cable, Henry and Doyel 1983; Doyel and

Elson 1985). Additionally, SSI research at Grand Canal Ruins (Mitchell 1989) and Casa

Buena (Howard 1988) in Phoenix further refine understanding of core area occupations in both Sedentary and Classic contexts. Northland Research, Inc. was awarded the contract for class I, II, and III surveys on the Indian Distribution Division of the CAP (Rogge

1983:158). The Institute for American Research (IAR) began conducting CRM archaeology around Tucson and in the Western areas of the Hohokam region (Bowen

1982; Dart 1984; Mayro 1982, 1983, 1984; Ravesloot 1984; Wallace 1984). Northland

(Marmaduke and Conway 1984; Marmaduke et al. 1983), ARS, New World Research

(Ahlstrom and Phillips 1983) and ACS (Effland and Green 1981, 1984) were also active during this period. Pima Community College also began its participation during this time

(Hewitt and Stephen 1981).

As private firms became increasingly important players in the CRM field, a kind of “class system” developed (Whittlesey and Reid 2004), with one variety being relatively small, owned and operated by archaeologists and geared completely toward the conduct of CRM archaeology. Northland, Soil Systems, Desert Archaeology, and

Statistical Research fall into this category. On the other side, large environmental consulting firms, such as SWCA, may have a cultural resources division that accepts

CRM contracts that contribute little to basic research but are instead site inventories and determinations of eligibility. In the following analyses I have concentrated on the former variety as they have been more responsible for significant contributions to Hohokam discussions (Altschul 2004). 247

Episode of Conflict

This period also witnessed culminations of important conflicts, wrought by the

tensions of the CRM environment, within the archaeological community. Part of the

process that led to the expansion of private archaeological companies stemmed from

issues long debated by archaeologists—could the goals of an academic and

anthropological archaeology be integrated with those of developer initiated legal

compliance? As noted in chapters 2 and 5, since the beginnings of CRM, archaeologists

had worried about the tension between the goals of academic research and those of legal compliance (e.g. Davis 1972; King et al. 1977; Lipe 1974; Lipe and Lindsay 1977;

McGimsey 1972; McGimsey and Davis 1977; Raab and Klinger 1977; Raab et al. 1980;

Schiffer and Gumerman 1977; Schiffer and House 1975) and the archaeology of southern

Arizona witnessed specific manifestations of this tension during the 1980s.

The debate played out at a local level over archaeological testing along the

Papago Freeway in Phoenix in the late 1970s and early 1980s (Rosenberg 2004). The

sites of Las Colinas and La Ciudad would be at the center of this controversy and figure

into the later demise of the cultural resource program at ASM, described later. The area

in question had been at the center of archaeological effort throughout the 1970s (Arizona

Archaeological Council Newsletter 1980). A proposed segment of Interstate-10, the

Papago Freeway, was to intersect a significant portion of Las Colinas and the Highway

Salvage Program at ASM first initiated fieldwork in 1968 (Hammack 1969; Hammack

and Sullivan 1981). Throughout the early 1970s, ASM continued survey in the area in 248

preparation for the possible Papago Freeway Realignment of I-10. By December 1976,

ASM had prepared a nomination for Las Colinas and the neighboring site of La Ciudad to the National Register of Historic Places and submitted it to ADOT, who released a

Request for Proposal (RFP) in 1978 to mitigate the archaeological resources. Some archaeologists, including prominent figures like Emil Haury, advised the Arizona

Department of Transportation (ADOT) that the sites were so damaged by vandalism that little useful information could be collected—paving the way for limited archaeological testing and rapid highway construction. By 1979, a testing contract had been awarded to

MNA for fieldwork at La Ciudad and the nearby site of Los Aumentos. The stage was set for expedient archaeological testing and quick implementation of ADOT construction plans (Arizona Archaeological Council Newsletter 1980).

By the end of the 1970s, however, the behavior of ADOT and the Federal

Highway Administration (FHWA) as well as the quality of MNA’s testing procedures became a source of argument (Arizona Archaeological Council Newsletter 1980). Some in the archaeological community began to voice concerns about the quality of work occurring in the Right-of-Way. Particularly, Arizona: Past and Future (APF), an organization founded by ASU historian Gordon Weiner and ASU archaeologist Fred

Plog, challenged MNA and ADOT’s conduct of research. Plog had been involved in

Southwestern archaeology including the Hohokam region throughout the 1970s and was a prominent advocate of New Archaeological research. Plog and Weiner argued that

ADOT had minimized environmental concerns and that ongoing archaeological work was based on incomplete survey information. APF believed the agencies involved had not 249

adequately considered alternatives to archaeological testing, specifically the complete

avoidance of potentially impacted sites, thereby violating Section 4(f) of the Department

of Transportation Act of 1966. APF felt ADOT and the FHWA only seriously

considered the construction route that would run through Colinas and Ciudad, which would ensure the destruction of significant portions of the sites. Both sites had been determined national register eligible by ASM staff in 1976 through both criteria c—the sites were evaluated as exemplary of a distinctive style—and d—having potential of addressing important research questions, affording them protection according to

Department of Transportation regulations (Arizona Archaeological Council Newsletter

1980). Section 4-F of the Department of Transportation Act of 1966 stated that register- eligible sites should be avoided if any alternative routes are possible. According to APF,

ADOT argued that only testing could reveal the sites’ significance, which would already

compromise the sites’ integrity leading to clearance for highway construction.

Additionally, APF accused segments of the broader archaeological community,

including Emil Haury, of minimizing the importance of the impacted sites—thereby

neglecting their professional duties—by endorsing plans that would destroy those sites

(Interagency Archaeological Services Task Force Report, Interstate 10 Investigation,

correspondence Fred Plog to E. Charles Adams, Arizona Archaeological Council

Archives). AFP also contended that ADOT was ignoring legal guidelines by refusing to involve members of the archaeological community more actively in the planning of the

Papago Freeway route. Instead, ADOT was depicted as depending almost exclusively on

their own interests and motivations of completing the freeway project rather than 250

incorporating archaeological concerns in a meaningful way. AFP described MNA’s

proposal as completely inadequate for the responsible collection of data from the sites.

Furthermore, Plog argued that an adequate program of research would be prohibitively expensive—self-estimated at $220 million, or half the budget for the entire highway realignment project—making avoidance and preservation of the sites the only reasonable avenue. Plog believed the sites were of paramount importance to Hohokam archaeology and if their destruction could not be avoided, should receive much more intensive archaeological attention than MNA was offering.

Plog also charged that MNA destroyed much of a nearby site at 39th street—Los

Aumentos—through the use of heavy machinery in an earlier program of testing. Plog

felt this may have been the result of pressure from both ADOT and FHWA on MNA to

speed work so that the highway construction could be completed. AFP described the

Papago Freeway project was an example of the negative consequences of a CRM

environment for anthropological archaeology—the goals of the developer client were

trumping those of the academic community. This destruction resulted in the irreparable loss of information critical to a comprehensive anthropological understanding of the

Hohokam.

By 1979 the federal government through the US Secretary of the Interior intervened by appointing an Interagency Archaeological Services (IAS) task force to conduct an investigation of AFP’s accusations (Interagency Archaeological Services

Task Force, Interstate 10 Investigation Report, Arizona Archaeological Council archives). After a review, IAS assessed that the excavation of Los Aumentos did not 251

adequately meet the standards of professional archaeology and that the information potential of the site had not been fully explored. The task force stated that MNA’s testing procedures were inadequate and that additional testing was necessary to determine

National Register eligibility before much of the site was removed. However, IAS disagreed with AFP that the entire site had been destroyed and suggested another

Determination of Eligibility be conducted for the remaining portions.

The task force also supported AFP’s claim that ADOT and FHWA were at fault for initiating archaeological testing at sites that had been declared Register-eligible without beginning a full Section 106 review process. This was seen as a failure of the agencies to appreciate the intent of archaeological significance as detailed in federal legislation. The criticism was related to the perceived informal and inconsistent use of terminology by the SHPO, and argued for the development of more standardized language and procedures. Additionally, the task force charged FHWA with largely ignoring other archaeological agencies through the course of testing.

This episode illustrated the practical effects of tensions that had been discussed by archaeologists throughout the previous decade. The goals and motivations of development agencies differed significantly from those of the mainstream of archaeology. For developers, historic preservation legislation was primarily another legal technicality to be accomplished, while those in the academic community saw opportunities for contributing to the intellectual content of the disciple—goals that often seemed incompatible. The basis offered by AFP for their criticisms of MNA’s research was that it served the goals of highway construction more faithfully than those of an 252

anthropological, archaeological science. In order to provide legal clearance, rapid project completion was primary to detailed and intensive archaeological research.

This episode was not the only instance of conflict arising out of the new organizational relationships developing in a CRM environment. As noted earlier, the organizational environment of CRM archaeology favored private organizations, rather than academic ones, as evidenced by the closing of the contract divisions of ASM and

MNA. The following section details the events that led to the closure of CRMD at ASM.

This example illustrates the organizational difficulties faced by CRM archaeologists based out of universities or museums, as well as highlights many of the reasons why private firms seem better suited to the CRM environment.

The Closure of ASM’S CRMD

The closing of CRMD at ASM was prefaced by another series of events that highlighted general tensions between CRM and academic archaeology in the local context of Hohokam archaeology. Conflict between CRMD and members of the academic community, especially at the anthropology department at the University of

Arizona grew after the dismissal of David Gregory from CRMD’s Las Colinas project.

While this episode was not the direct cause of CRMD’s closure, it tainted the program’s image and set the stage for its eventual demise.

Tension between CRMD and the more academically oriented members of ASM”s research staff had been established well before the Las Colinas episode. During the early

1980s research archaeologists had made complaints known to ASM administration about 253

the problems of CRMD participating in competitive bidding (Teague 1982). These concerns stemmed from a perspective that a CRM program based in a public institution such as ASM possessed an unfair advantage over other institutions because of the supposed extensive institutional support.

In 1985 the Arizona state Attorney General resolved this problem by informing

ADOT that its annual contract with ASM was illegal because of its noncompetitive nature as state contracts were supposed to be awarded through competitive bidding

(Rosenberg 2004). After this clarification, ADOT began awarding contracts through a bidding process that, by its competitive nature, favored archaeologists based in private institutions. Immediately, the changed relationship diminished levels of work that ASM would have assumed had the agreement continued and allowed other archaeological organizations the opportunity to conduct ADOT projects. It would also foster an environment that did not favor CRM divisions, such as that at ASM, based in public institutions. The overhead rates included in most ASM bids were much higher, relative to private firms, because of their position in a large institution.

CRMD’s Las Colinas project and its aftermath would further diminish the position of the division to the point that ASM no longer viewed it as an asset. The site of

Las Colinas contained several platform mounds and was one of the largest to partially escape Phoenix’s urban hunger and the Papago Freeway project. ASM’s active involvement with the site began in 1968 when the construction of Interstate 10 required mitigative efforts by Highway Salvage staff (Hammack 1969). The importance of this site was clearly evident as “for the first time a large mound in the Salt River drainage has 254

been completely excavated…as analysis of the material recovered proceeds it is probable

that some questions raised by archaeologists over the years can be answered” (Hammack

1969:26-27). Unfortunately, publication of findings from Las Colinas was slow, as

Hammack’s (1969) relatively brief preliminary report in The Kiva was the only widely available report for over a decade. Material recovered from the early excavation at Las

Colinas served as the basis for many student projects and were available as manuscripts at ASM through the 1970s. Alan Sullivan finally brought many of these studies together during his tenure as Highway Archaeologist, publishing them as number 154 in the

Archaeological Series (Hammack and Sullivan 1981).

The early 1980s had witnessed the return of ASM archaeologists to Las Colinas from 1982 to 1984 as the Papago Freeway project, detailed earlier, created the need for additional archaeological work. Las Colinas contained several platform mounds and was an obvious political and social center for Hohokam populations settled along the Salt

River. This project, while dogged by problems, would produce six volumes detailing findings from this significant Classic period site (Abbott et al. 1988; Graybill et al. 1989;

Gregory 1985, 1988; Gregory et al. 1988; Teague and Deaver 1989).

Problems in the Colinas project became apparent during report preparation phases

from 1985 into 1986. Particularly, CRMD administration became concerned that the

field director, David Gregory, was not meeting report deadlines, which was resulting in

increasing pressure from sponsoring agencies. By February of 1986, the ADOT contract

funding was exhausted and wages paid for report preparation were taken out of CRMD funds. By the summer of 1986, Gregory had been terminated and report preparation was 255

taken over by CRMD administration (Teague 1986 to Thompson, ASM archives). In a

CRM environment, deadlines for report production are important to sponsoring agencies who want to proceed with their projects and not just to archaeologists analyzing material to reconstruct past behavior.

The Arizona Archaeological Council—an organization promoting professional archaeological standards—again became a professional arbiter of the transformations of the local discipline. In addition to the AAC’s roles in the Papago Freeway Episode and in the controversy surrounding Gregory’s termination. This organization was composed of a number of CRM and academic archaeologists and sought to maintain and enhance the community’s professional standards. Academically based archaeologists, like Fred

Plog and Michael Schiffer were instrumental in developing strategies to maintain CRM archaeology’s quality. The implication that compliance inspired archaeology would put an end to the practice of peer-review was rejected and an AAC committee headed by

Schiffer developed plans, which AAC implemented, to institute such a system with archaeological projects funded through contract means. The peer-review panel consisted of individuals from each of the active archaeological institutions to review a sample of publications produced by CRM projects. Peer-review remains a component of some

CRM projects in Arizona, though lacking the same power it has in academic arenas

(Whittlesey and Reid 2004:118). Other committees focused on the importance of publication and the problems created by gray literature. The historically prominent position of the Southwest in American archaeology meant that these trends were not only 256

influential at a regional level, but also at a national. Getting back to the subject at hand, however, the AAC also played the role of arbiter in the Gregory-ASM situation.

Gregory’s dismissal sent ripples throughout the local archaeological community.

Several notable archaeologists, including David Doyel, Steven LeBlanc, David Wilcox, and Michael Schiffer of the University of Arizona, expressed their concerns to a number of agencies, including ADOT, the Arizona Archaeological Council (AAC) and Arizona governor Bruce Babbit over the removal of a principal investigator prior to the completion of a project (correspondence AAC archives). In their opinion, the investigator who designed the research and guided fieldwork is in the unique and essential position to make the most valuable interpretive statements. Additionally,

Gregory’s work was described as “brilliant” (Wilcox 1986) and that his removal from the project would represent a severe detriment to Hohokam archaeology. According to the critics, the value of any archaeological inference made by anyone other than Gregory would be severely compromised and thereby not fulfill the requirements of legal compliance. The completion of the project without such continuity would represent work of a significantly lesser quality. They also argued that the nature of archaeological work does not allow strict adherence to schedules as the archaeological record is unpredictable and requires flexibility in scheduling—an explicit conflict between the goals of compliance and those of academically oriented archaeology.

Eventually, AAC president, William Doelle, suggested to ADOT that the Las

Colinas peer review panel should be brought into the debate so that a solution could be crafted that would satisfy both CRMD and the academic community (Doelle 1986). This 257

panel found no “wrong-doing” in the situation on the part of CRMD, but suggested that

Gregory have access to data and be encouraged to write an interpretative report to be included in the final report. They also recommended that ASM proceed with the publication schedule already established. Additionally, the panel suggested that authorship or particular parts of the report be made explicit as to avoid any confusion from differences in interpretation between Gregory and CRMD personnel involved with subsequent report preparation. The Las Colinas report was released through six volumes throughout the late 1980s.

At a superficial level, the Las Colinas controversy had ended. However, the problems raised by the academic community continued to simmer. While several prominent archaeologists questioned CRMD decision making during this episode,

Michael Schiffer’s position at the University of Arizona’s anthropology department provided him with unusual influence. After the Las Colinas episode, Schiffer initiated a series of interactions with CRMD, most notably with several polemic statements at the

Hohokam Symposium on January 31, 1987 in Phoenix. At the meetings, Schiffer called for an economic boycott of CRMD, stating that the division was no longer an asset to the

University of Arizona or the general archaeological community. Specifically, he charged the division with editing reports without author’s consent, not providing significant training opportunities to students, and firing employees without adequate justification

(ASM Memo 1987).

This conflict quickly moved from the academic conference halls into the

University of Arizona’s administrative channels. A journalist for a Phoenix newspaper, 258

the Arizona Republic, contacted Schiffer, expressing his intention to write an article

stimulated by his comments at the symposium. As a result, Schiffer sent a letter to

George Davis, the vice provost of academic affairs at the university, informing him of the

newspaper article and the background to the situation. The letter also included a call for

a thorough investigation of CRMD to address Schiffer’s claims.

In a series of letters to Davis, Schiffer expanded upon the charges made at the

Hohokam symposium into nine areas (Schiffer 1987). First, Schiffer claimed CRMD

utilized “slave labor” as employees were forced to work past the depletion of contract

funds, which he believed resulted from poor management. Allegedly, CRMD

management threatened to not hire employees for future projects if they did not accept

these terms. Second, Schiffer accused CRMD managers of verbal abuse and harassment

of employees when disagreements developed. Third, employees were forced to alter

reports so interpretations were in accordance with the archaeological views of CRMD

management. Fourth, authorship was manipulated by unethically removing and adding names to reports, unbeknownst to authors. Fifth, manuscripts were altered before publication, also without the consent of the author. Sixth, questionable hiring and firing practices led to CRMD being primarily staffed by employees who would not challenge the authority of management, specifically archaeologists without PhDs. Seventh, funds were transferred between projects without the knowledge or consent of relevant principal investigators. CRMD managers were accused of shifting money from other projects to projects under their direction. Eight, students were not adequately incorporated into

CRMD projects—a primary purpose of such an organization to Schiffer (see also 259

Altschul 2004:44). And ninth, CRMD management was charged with fostering an atmosphere of cynicism. Many of these criticisms were simply specific versions of general complaints espoused by academic archaeology about CRM research detailed in chapter 5.

After a series of exchanges between Davis, Schiffer, and Vivian, who was the acting Head of ASM during Raymond Thompson’s sabbatical, an investigation commenced (Vivian 1987). By September of 1987, Davis produced the investigation’s initial findings, addressing Schiffer’s criticisms (Davis 1987). Davis’s investigation concluded that the incorporation of students into CRMD was sufficient and that the accusation was a value judgment by Schiffer. Davis mentioned that at least one instance occurred where an employee’s interpretation was modified to better fit those favored by management. Davis noted that this may not be outside of the bounds of academic freedom as graduate students often alter their views to accord with those of faculty. He suggested the need to formulate a policy statement for CRMD to avoid confusion on those issues in the future. Problems with the attribution of authorship were remedied by a change in CRMD policy. The previous practice of only editors’ names appearing on report covers was changed to a policy of including all authors’ names. The investigation uncovered some problems in editing, but they were not found to be of a significant or systemic nature. No evidence of the mismanagement of funds was found and Schiffer was criticized for being unfair in this charge.

The report supported those criticisms pertaining to the management of employees at CRMD. Interviews with past and present CRMD employees revealed an apparent 260

preference for hiring those that could be more easily controlled and preferably without

PhDs, a strategy of routinization often used when professions are grappling with significantly larger workloads (Abbott 1988). Interviews also indicated that employees often felt unfairly treated and that CRMD and ASM management were always solidly aligned against labor (Davis 1987).

By the end of November, a final report was produced that asserted CRMD was not guilty of any serious unethical practices, but did acknowledge problem areas and provided suggestions for their alleviation. The investigation recommended more active effort at the incorporation of students into the program, the production of a policy paper concerning academic freedom, and that CRMD management reevaluates its management style and communication within the division. Also, the report stated that a public letter should be written, clearing CRMD of any implications of financial mismanagement. As far as the University was concerned, CRMD was cleared of any wrong-doing, though some improvements could be made.

Despite this vindication, CRMD diminished as an active force in local archaeology. The division did not pursue any large projects during this time due to the uncertainty of the situation as well as a general slow down in the industry. Some large projects, such as San Xavier (Ravesloot 1987) and Tucson Aqueduct (Czaplicki and

Ravesloot 1989) were completed and written up during the time, but no new substantial work was undertaken. CRMD faced problems other than those brought about by other archaeologists—they faced the constraints of being embedded in a public institution. 261

In September of 1989, the problems of the division were explicitly presented to

ASM administration in a fatalistic memorandum by CRMD Director, Lynn Teague

(Teague 1989). Several interrelated financial dilemmas threatened the operation of the division. A constant problem for CRMD was the lack of continuous institutional support or “hard” funding. State organizations were only allowed 15% of contract funds for indirect costs, while private organizations could retain all of their funding. CRMD was reliant only on funds on a contract-by-contract basis and could not maintain sufficient continuity of operation during lean times when such “soft” funding was unavailable (see also Rogge 1983:211). This situation put CRMD at a significant disadvantage during publication and analysis stages as funding was often exhausted.

Private firms, on the other hand, could maintain a larger buffer fund and support work between contracts. Subsequently, CRMD had difficulty retaining qualified archaeologists as employment security was tenuous. These conditions have been noted as critical in the closure of academic CRM organizations throughout the Southwest

(Altschul 2004:44). The organizational structure of a university constrained the flexibility of CRMD, resulting in its inefficient articulation with relevant organizations in the CRM environment.

This memo outlined three specific problems that needed resolution if CRMD could continue operation (Teague 1989). First, CRMD’s financial organization prevented its successful competition in the contract arena. As Arizona archaeology has become more competitive, underbidding has become a critical problem, and Teague noted that

CRMD would not sacrifice the quality of archaeological research in this environment. 262

Strategies used to diminish CRMD’s costs include “free” PI service and the use of

archaeological staff for support activities in the absence of support employees. For

example, paying a PI for secretarial duties was seen as a clearly inefficient use of money.

These solutions were presented as ad hoc and short term and cannot be the organizational

basis of the division. Another of problem for CRMD was the location of recent large

projects in the Phoenix area. Local contract firms can offer lower bids on projects as they

have a local labor force and do not have to pay subsistence costs. CRMD’s inability to

use funds for indirect purposes had prevented the upgrading of computer equipment.

Private firms, who had been able to purchase new computers, were better able to conduct

analyses and produce reports, thereby reducing their costs. CRMD’s continued use of

outdated equipment represented another inefficient destination for funding as more

hourly wages are directed at activities that could be conducted much more quickly.

Teague’s memo (1989) explicitly acknowledged the pessimistic outlook for the

division and the likelihood of its closure, and informed museum administration that “the only risk-free CRMD is no CRMD at all.” ASM administrators apparently agreed with the latter assessment and by early 1990 CRMD ceased its activities as a division of the museum.

The closing of CRMD and the events preceding it demonstrate the difficulties inherent in operating in two different organizational structures, each with very different structures, goals and rationales. Gregory’s termination and subsequent events clearly illustrated the conflicting goals of research and compliance oriented organizations. His dismissal was predicated on a perceived failure to produce results dictated by contract 263

agreements. Criticisms of his removal, however, stemmed from beliefs that

archaeological research was being compromised for compliance purpose—diminishing

the value of the research and the intent of historic preservation legislation. The resolution

of this controversy was the university’s determination that CRMD had not behaved in

any academically unethical manner, though this did not change the opinions of the

original critics.

While the academic attacks against CRMD were not directly responsible for

CRMD’s closure, they did bring attention to the division and “soured” the university’s

opinion of it (Altschul 2004:44). In previous decades, the organizational structure of a

preexisting public museum had been an advantage for archaeologists wishing to pursue

CRM research. In previous decades, the museum offered the material support and

legitimacy unavailable to other organizations. However, in the 1980s the division’s

position in a state institution imposed certain organizational and financial limitations,

with which ASM administration had long been familiar. This placed CRMD in a difficult

organizational position with respect to compliance-oriented goals as they were not as well equipped to deal with their organizational environment as their colleagues based in private firms. Additionally, the attacks from Schiffer and others weakened CRMD’s ability to successfully participate in the organizational environment of academic research.

In the eyes of ASM, CRMD no longer appeared as an asset as it was not a financially

healthy and independent organization as well as appearing to no longer be a productive

force in archaeological research. 264

In addition to ASM, MNA’s contract office also closed its doors in 1988 as result

of cost overruns and other financial problems (Altschul 2004:44). This division was ultimately incorporated into SWCA’s growing organizational structure. CRM divisions may have been perceived as detracting from the primary mission of the parent institution

(Dosh 2004), and museums and universities were poorly structured to accommodate the activities necessary to operate a successful business (Altschul 2004:44; Scheick

2004:134). Private firms were in a prime position to take advantage of the vacuum left by the departure of these institutions. Such organizations could more effectively articulate with the other entities in their organizational environment, and as such were internally structured differently than their academically positioned counterparts.

Subsequently, the 1980s were a time of tremendous change for the conduct of archaeology in southern Arizona as this decade witnessed the near complete shift of active archaeological research from academic to private-firm settings. According to many of the frameworks in the sociology of science described in chapter 4, this altered organizational environment should have ramifications for how archaeological work is organized. Subsequently, the organization of archaeological work should create implications for the intellectual production of the region’s archaeologists.

Hohokam Literature

Along with the fundamental change to Hohokam archaeology’s organizational environment, actual archaeological research continued and expanded. As a result of these continued growth of the Hohokam database, Hohokam literature also expanded. CRM 265

research may have been leaving the fold of academia, but it continued striving for

relevancy in intellectual discussions.

During this decade, Hohokam literature expanded even further. ASM’s

Archaeological Series continued publication throughout most of the decade. Several of

these publications were multi-volume reports detailing the findings from large projects

such as SGA and Las Colinas. ASU’s Anthropological Research Papers and

Anthropological Field Studies were also prolific, including the La Ciudad (Rice 1987)

and Marana projects (Henderson 1987; Rice 1987). Several private firms also embarked

on significant publication of findings, notably through publication series that closely paralleled the format and structure of the ASM and ASU templates. Examples include those published by SSI, NRI, ACS, ARS, and IAR/CDARC. Many of the CRM reports based on large projects followed the example of the SGA project, with detailed volumes or chapters describing the various topics of research, such as subsistence, environment, and material culture. The importance of CRM literature to Hohokam discussions became more evidence in this period as academic publications tended to cite CRM reports at higher rates than previous periods—a logical development considering most new data were collected in CRM contexts.

Most CRM inspired literature from major field projects became much more formalized and research oriented during this period. Explicit research designs that addressed both local and regional problems became much more typical (Antieau 1981;

Bayham et al. 1983; Cable, Henry, and Doyel 1983, 1984). CRM reports also exhibited a

far-reaching range of research interests—often touching upon multiple aspects of 266

Hohokam archaeology (Teague 1981). Specifically, the Salt-Gila Aqueduct (Teague and

Crown 1984) project represented another important “hinge point” in Hohokam

archaeology, setting several precedents for how subsequent Hohokam research was

presented. Eight volumes were released over two years, providing detailed descriptions

of project results—including environmental data, material culture, feature descriptions

and conclusions. These divisions would become the model for the relatively standardized

literature of other CRM reports produced by a variety of organizations in the following

years. Unsurprisingly, SGA’s findings covered a wide range of interpretive areas,

including variation in subsistence strategies, population, ritual, economy, and site

structure. The still somewhat “salvage” elements of CRM work seemed to have forced

this more ambitious outlook—trying to recover as much data as possible before it was destroyed.

Fuchs notes that science uses literature as a semiotic sign and that standardized organization of reports implies that results were obtained in a replicable, objective

manner, “following routine procedures and standard methodologies” (1992:61). AS

noted, CRM literature often adheres to a standardized format, presenting data in a

routinized manner. Standardized formats distance the individuality, and subjectivity of

the individual author from the information presented, suggesting that the words on the

page speak for themselves and are transparent reflections of reality. The use of this

textual strategy is one way of building research assertions into fact by constructing a

situation where the reader perceives information that he or she could easily replicate.

CRM reports can be depicted as the most empirical of archaeological literature as they 267

utilize the “style of non-style” (Gusfield 1976:17) to rhetorically present archaeological data with the least evidence of the practitioner’s agency.

Not all Hohokam literature was as ambitious as the SGA project and CRM organizations continued to produce many preliminary reports without significant contributions to intellectual discussions (e.g. Batcho 1980; Czaplicki and Mayberry 1983;

Czaplicki and Rankin 1983; Effland 1983; Gregonis and Huckell 1980; Hartmann 1981;

L. Huckell 1980; Lerner 1980; Sense 1980; Phillips and Rozen 1982). The report from

ASM’s first excavations at Las Colinas (Hammack and Sullivan 1981) was published after more than a decade as a compilation of various analyses conducted throughout the

1970s and without any synthetic discussion—illustrating some problems with the dissemination of information in certain CRM settings.

In academic literature venues, archaeologists continue to publish in journals, but edited volumes become more common. Many of these volumes are the formalized results of conferences convened to share the rapidly accumulating data in Hohokam archaeology, because of limited alternatives (Dittert 1985). The first major landmark was the publication of “Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory,” which contains the contents of a 1978 SAA symposium that some see as the obvious establishment of newer interpretative frameworks within Hohokam archaeology and the diminished importance of traditional, culture-historical approaches. The work contained was the first major collection of research stimulated by contract archaeological work. The two-volume

Proceedings of the 1983 Hohokam Symposium (Dittert and Dove 1985) was another comprehensive collection of articles by many of the active figures in Hohokam 268

archaeology. The Hohokam Village (Doyel 1987) collected a series of papers focusing on the emergence of site structure as a major theme in Hohokam research. Recent Research in Tucson Basin Prehistory (Doelle and Fish 1988) was an attempt to share information stemming from the growing number of projects conducted in the Tucson area.

During the 1980s, Hohokam literature had become more voluminous stemming from increased archaeological activity, which was allowed by funding created through historic preservation legislation. CRM reports from many large projects became standardized, explicitly research oriented, and ambitious. Publication through traditional academic channels continued, though edited volumes became more prevalent.

269

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1980-1984

The early 1980s were characterized by continued interest in many of the

traditional questions of Hohokam prehistory. However, many of the new explanations

and models developing out of the new generation of scholars coming to prominence in

the 1970s continued to gain traction. Many of the new questions interesting Hohokam

scholars were increasingly couched in terms of relational models where ideas that

previously may have been treated separately were now incorporated.

Site Structure

The study of Hohokam site structure became central to Hohokam discussions in

the 1980s and would continue to structure research for many years. Site structure refers

to patterned relationships between features within an archaeological site. Previous to this

period, Hohokam archaeologists had made occasional reference to the relationships

between features at a site (e.g. Di Peso 1956; Greenleaf 1975a), but such associations did

not become a major focus of research in Hohokam archaeology.

This situation changed markedly with David Wilcox’s explicit consideration of

such relationships at Snaketown (Wilcox et al. 1981), a publication which would become

exceedingly influential among Hohokam archaeologists, as it remains one of the ten most cited documents in subsequent periods (see Appendix A). The publication resulted from a National Park Service contract with ASM to contribute to the establishment of a

national monument at the site. Previously, pre-Classic Hohokam intra-site patterns had

been described as a “dispersed ranchería” pattern with little internal organization (Haury 270

1976). This interpretation argued for little social organization below the level of the

entire village. Wilcox, however, identified definitive spatial relationships between features—“house clusters”—at Snaketown during his reanalysis. House clusters were composed of systematically oriented distinct concentrations of features—multiple structures oriented around a common extramural space. Wilcox’s observation— duplicated by many later researchers—suggested that the spatial, and social, organization of pre-Classic Hohokam society was more complicated than previously assumed.

Particularly, that social groups—possibly family groups—were co-resident, economically cooperative units and could be identified in the archaeological record.

Wilcox’s report represented one of the more theoretically influential, and highly cited documents produced in the Hohokam literature. Fairly rapidly, other archaeologists made site structure a critical focus of new research in the Hohokam area (e.g. Sires 1984;

Weaver 1984). As discussed later, studies of site structure would aid the resolution of other research issues, such as the Sedentary-Classic transition. Additionally, this work cemented Wilcox as a major theoretical voice in Hohokam archaeology.

Variation in Subsistence

Continuing trends from the previous decade, culture-ecology, especially subsistence studies, both irrigation and others, and their refinement remained a central focus of Hohokam archaeology (Masse 1980b). Ongoing research documented numerous varieties of agricultural sites and features, often emphasizing dry or flood-water farming.

CRM contracts often required significant surveys, allowing archaeologists to utilize 271

settlement patterns, which provided the means to comprehensively discuss variability in

subsistence (e.g. Brown and Rogge 1980; Brown and Stone 1982; Cable, Henry and

Doyel 1983, 1984; Dove 1984; Doelle 1980, 1982, 1985b; Doelle and Wallace 1984;

Doyel 1984a; Masse 1980a, 1980b; McCarthy 1982; Nickerson 1980; Simpson and Wells

1983, 1984; Stebbins et al. 1981; Sullivan 1983; Wood 1985). These studies revealed greater complexity in the Hohokam archaeological record and provided further criticism for Haury’s “desert and riverine” dichotomy. Some argued diverse subsistence strategies would minimize risks associated with dependence on a narrow range of strategies and resources (Crown 1984), while others viewed the same variation as responses to increasing population pressure (Grady 1976; Haury 1980; Plog 1980). Features, such as

Trincheras sites, that had long been known to Hohokam archaeologists were interpreted by some to represent correlates of subsistence through the terracing of hillsides (Fish,

Fish and Downum 1984). Subsistence variation also was seen to directly tie into issues of Hohokam exchange within the regional system, as various populations could trade craft items in exchange of a variety of subsistence resources (Doelle 1980).

Relationships between subsistence, notably irrigation, and sociopolitical organization (Doyel 1984b) have long been at the center of Hohokam archaeology, and the early 1980s were no different. Masse’s (1981) publication in Science discussed irrigation marking one of the more high-profile appearances of Hohokam information more general scientific literature. Masse argued that water demands would strain the irrigation system at different points of the year, so he believed some sort of river-wide system of hydraulic control and social coordination must have existed among irrigation 272

dependent Hohokam. This interpretation posited a large-scale managerial social entity

spanning many villages along a single river, connecting villages that may have been

previously interpreted as autonomous and independent.

Other archaeologists attempted to untangle the nature of the social complexity

necessary to manage such overarching social organization to administer these complex

subsistence systems. In particular, several investigators affiliated with ASU focused on

the role of irrigation in Hohokam society during the first half of the 1980s. Based on a

reading of Salt-Gila and Verde settlement patterns, Ackerly (1982) advocated the position

that no coordination between different canal systems along the same river existed running

against Masse’s previous claim. In Ackerly’s opinion, individual villages and irrigation communities were presented as relatively autonomous and not as cogs of a system spanning various canal systems (see also Antieau 1981). This inference argued for a

much more egalitarian Hohokam society than others would present. Instead, Nicholas

and Neitzel (1984) argued that such a non-hierarchical social structure would be

incapable of marshalling the labor necessary for canal construction and maintenance.

Subsequently, they proposed that at least by the Sedentary period, the requirements of irrigation management resulted in complex political organization for the Salt-Gila

Hohokam. Growing populations stimulated expansion of irrigation system complexity

and individual villages lost their social and economic autonomy, becoming parts of an

integrated system—an interpretation voiced earlier by Steadman Upham and Glen Rice

(1980) at the 1978 SAA Hohokam symposium.

273

Hohokam as a Regional System

Conceiving of the Hohokam in systemic rather than cultural historical terms

became increasingly population. Wilcox’s model of the Hohokam as a regional system—

rather than the “Gladwinian model”—gained further traction (Wilcox 1980; Wilcox and

Sternberg 1981) during this period as many publications began to veer away from

traditional conceptions of the Hohokam (e.g. Bruder 1983; Huntington 1982; Masse

1980a; Teague 1981; Wallace and Holmlund 1984). Wilcox’s (1979) original model and

subsequent refinement (Wilcox and Sternberg 1983) remained two of the 20 most cited

papers throughout succeeding periods (Appendix A). The regional system model

provided a theoretical framework that accommodated and sought to explain variation in

the archaeological record, rather than searching for normative traits to ascertain the presence or absence of Hohokam populations. Many researchers avoided site-specific studies, and attempted to position their research relative to much broader, regional concerns. Additionally, this model provided researchers with a conceptual means to effectively integrate a diversity of research issues, as by definition, the model described relationships between a multiplicity of interacting parts.

Wilcox further elaborated on his regional model by fleshing out the specific components of the Hohokam system through an examination of ballcourts (Wilcox and

Sternberg 1983). Ballcourts are large features that are believed to have served as a venue for the playing of a ballgame similar to ones documented ethnohistorically in

Mesoamerica. Ballcourts not only would have allowed game playing, but also would have accommodated a large collection of spectators, suggesting they were inclusive 274

communal features. Based on regional distributions of ballcourts, Wilcox proposed that those features were central to the integration of the Hohokam system—tying individuals and groups from different villages together both economically and ideologically.

Ballcourts served as venues for people from various settlements to gather and symbolically reaffirm connections to one another. Additionally, the features served as nodes of regional trade networks, where attendants exchanged food, as well as other high and low value goods. Other archaeologists adopted Wilcox’s or similar positions for their own Hohokam research—the place of platform mounds in the system (e.g. Weaver

1984), intra-systemic connections between the Salt-Gila area and peripheral areas (e.g.

Anieau 1981; Bruder 1983; Masse 1980a), or inter-systemic relationships of parallel development with other parts of the Southwest (e.g. Plog 1980).

The regional system model easily accommodated old problems, such as new perspectives on the cultural changes of the Classic period. These cultural changes were increasingly discussed as a transformation of the system rather than the arrival of a completely different cultural group. Doyel’s research at Escalante was published in a more accessible monograph format (1981) as was Wasley’s 1966 paper (Wasley and

Doyel 1980). The view that the Classic period was an indigenous cultural change had basically attained the status of conventional wisdom among younger scholars during this period (e.g. Antieau 1981; Cable, Howard, Wilcox, Breternitz 1984; Wallace and

Holmlund 1984; Wilcox and Sternberg 1981) though some more traditional views remained (Franklin 1980). In the indigenous perspective, the changes associated with the

Classic were conceived as the result of realignments within the system and so did not 275

require the wholesale migration of a culturally distinct group of people. For the most

part, the differences of opinion that did exist surrounded not the reality of a Salado

migration, but the character of sociopolitical complexity within the Hohokam system

before and after the transition. Did the Hohokam exhibit more, less or a different form of

complexity after the onset of the Classic (Doyel 1980)?

A sub-specialty within the focus on a regional system was the role of exchange

within that system (Doyel 1985:14). This research direction also often addressed issues

of peripheral connections as prehistoric residents of out-lying regions were believed to

have been involved in the procurement and manufacture of items such as ground stone tools, exchanged with the Salt-Gila Basin for other commodities (Bruder 1983). Other authors noted spheres of exchange centered on a number of crafts (e.g. Doyel 1981;

Nelson 1981), market systems (e.g. Doyel 1981), specialization (e.g. Upham and Rice

1980), and exchange of specific products, such as marine shell in the context of larger economic systems (e.g. Doelle 1980). In this way, detailed studies of particular materials and artifact types could be easily incorporated into understanding the dynamics of the regional system by using them as markers of intra and inter-systemic interaction.

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation

The Hohokam Colonial period, long a focus of research, continued to attract attention though often in combination with the regional system framework, rather than in the normative terms that characterized earlier research. The 1978 SAA symposium offered several visions of Hohokam Colonial expansion that represented the transition, as 276

some in the session held to older ideas, while others offered new interpretations. The

Gladwinian model still held sway in some research as authors attempted to uncover definitive “Hohokam” in the archaeological record. Weaver’s (1980) model described

Hohokam occupation of the northern periphery in terms of a frontier process. According to Weaver, the first Hohokam colonists adapted to the subsistence strategy of indigenous populations before their own, traditional lifestyle could be established. In archaeological terms, early colonial sites should contain some distinctive Hohokam items, but not evidence of irrigation agriculture. Later sites, however, should begin to evidence the utilization of irrigation as the colonists shaped these new areas into their own cultural making. Weaver acknowledged the complexity and variation in the record, but essentially held to the idea that Colonial Hohokam were very much culturally similar to those of the Salt-Gila heartland (see also Ferg 1984; Gumerman and Spoerl 1980) and continued contact through exchange with core areas was maintained. Some researchers took this conception further, describing Colonial Hohokam as remaining intimately integrated with core area Hohokam—colonizing and occupying the peripheral areas under the clear direction of leaders in the Salt-Gila core (Wood and McAllister 1980).

Others, however, directed attention toward placing “peripheral” areas into more of a systemic context—following models similar to Wilcox’s (1979). Fish, Pilles and Fish

(1980) offered a new consideration of the Colonial phenomena in the northern periphery.

They advocated an explicit consideration of the position of pre-existing receptor societies resident in the north and an understanding of the social contexts of exchange and not just assuming that groups from the Phoenix Basin transplanted their entire cultural 277

adaptation.. This conception of Colonial expansion complemented Wilcox’s vision of the

Hohokam as a regional system of interacting units. Research into subsistence variation was tightly connected to research on peripheral occupations (Doyel 1984b). Research in the Tucson Basin—another area often defined as peripheral—focused on relationships between it and the Phoenix Basin (Wallace and Holmlund 1984). Utilizing the regional model, researchers examined how patterns of ceramic trade and exchange reflected changing relationships between the two components of the system. The presence or absence of Phoenix and Tucson ceramic types in the other area would provide evidence of cultural ties between the two regions.

Chronology

The Hohokam chronology continued to be a source of debate into the 1980s and major revisions were offered in the first half of the decade, including some of the most radical alterations proposed—dramatically shortening the sequence and eliminating certain phases completely. McGuire and Schiffer (1982) provided an ambitious report, contracted with the BLM, to survey Hohokam and Payatan—the prehispanic people of western Arizona—prehistory. The most lasting impact of this document is Schiffer’s reconsideration of the Hohokam chronology, evidenced by the common citation in succeeding periods (Appendix A). Based on a reevaluation of many of the samples used to originally define the sequence, Schiffer’s chronology shifted the beginning date of the

Hohokam sequence to A.D. 500, significantly later than the date of 300 B.C. proposed by

Haury. In addition to his efforts to affect the Papago Freeway Project, Fred Plog (1980) 278

entered the chronology debate, notably arguing that the Vahki phase was not temporally distinct, but was actually the material manifestation of a separate ethnic group. He argued that Vahki phase pottery did not only appear in early Pioneer period contexts, but throughout the Hohokam sequence, making its use as a diagnostic marker dubious.

Methodology

The altered character of CRM inspired research stimulated some archaeologists to focus on methodological issues. Brown and Rogge (1980) discussed the assessment of site and non-site portions of study area to make possible placing findings into larger regional frameworks. These authors noted how CRM research has forced Hohokam archaeologists away from large sites and to archaeological resources that are less obvious, but no less important. Other papers focused on subsistence and archaeological methodology to the neglect of Hohokam issues (Sullivan 1983). Lindauer (1984) discussed the value of sherd-areas (artifact concentrations without associated features) in documenting Hohokam subsistence, arguing that these sites served as short-term habitation for people engaged in agriculture on the terrace closes to the Gila River.

Summary

The first half of the 1980s was characterized by both old and new ideas.

Colonization, irrigation, and chronology remained central questions in Hohokam archaeology. However, new interpretative frameworks were becoming increasingly popular, especially those offered by David Wilcox. The regional system model provided 279

archaeologists with a framework for organizing an array of research interests into interrelated discussions of Hohokam prehistory. At a less ambitious level, Wilcox’s focus on site structure rapidly initiated another new focus for Hohokam research as many investigators began incorporating such interests into their own work.

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1985-1989

The trends of the first half of the decade continued and accelerated, as the latter half was characterized by even greater theoretical integration and synthesis. While many of the traditional questions of Hohokam prehistory remained central, more archaeologists were couching their research in terms of systemic relations of differentially interacting components. Archaeologists maintained interests in issues such as origins, site structure, subsistence variation, exchange, and the Colonial period. The regional system model provided the basic interpretative framework and is further developed as many Hohokam archaeologists begin focusing on communities

Hohokam Origins

Dedicated interest in Hohokam origins had waned for the previous five years as none of the publications in the sample focused directly on the issue. Questions about

Hohokam origins were addressed through discussions of the region’s chronology, but the cultural processes related to their origin were largely neglected. The late 1980s, however, witnessed important developments for these questions, directly inspired by contract research. SSI excavations at Pueblo Patricio in downtown Phoenix provided important 280

evidence relevant to questions of origin (Cable and Doyel 1985; Cable et al. 1985). A central finding of SSI’s research at Patricio was Pioneer period evidence that social groups had practiced floodwater farming, though maintaining relatively high levels of mobility. This interpretation contrasted with those usually assigned to Salt-Gila

Hohokam, as sedentary, intensive irrigation agriculturalists. Those who argued for a migratory Hohokam origin (e.g. Haury 1976) asserted that southern groups arrived in the

Salt-Gila Basin possessing a relatively complete cultural package of people, ideas, and technology. Subsequently, as soon as these migrating peoples arrived, they should have exhibited the traditional Hohokam pattern of intensive, sedentary irrigation agriculture.

SSI’s research cast doubt on this interpretation because Hohokam Pioneer cultural material was associated with evidence of less intensive subsistence strategies and significant mobility. This finding provided a transitional cultural adaptation between archaic hunter-gatherers and the traditional Hohokam adaptation of sedentary irrigation agriculture. Subsequently, these findings supported the view that the origin of the

Hohokam cultural pattern was a local development and not the result of a southerly migration (Bruder 1985; Cable et al. 1985; Doelle 1985b). This transitional evidence inspired Cable and Doyel (1987) to argue for the utility of the Red Mountain phase

(Morris 1969) to cover this cultural adaptation.

Additionally, SSI researchers suggested that greater similarity existed between early Hohokam economic and social organization and that of other Southwestern cultural groups, such as Ancestral Pueblo peoples (as previously argued by Plog 1980).

According to the researchers, not until the Snaketown phase did the Hohokam cultural 281

pattern exhibit marked differences from those northern groups. Subsequently, early

many Hohokam cultural transformations—like the adoption of agriculture—paralleled

their occurrence in other parts of the Southwest. Hohokam origins were thus tied to the

origin of other culturally distinct cultures in the Southwest.

Dynamics of the Regional System

While this trend began in the previous period, by the late 1980s Wilcox’s (1979) regional system model had become a major theoretical perspective in Hohokam archaeology by this period, evident in the common citation of the original 1979 paper as well as subsequent elaborations (Wilcox and Sternberg 1983; Wilcox, Sternberg and

McGuire 1981). These publications continued to be some of the most cited pieces of literature during this period (Appendix A). Wilcox appears to have succeeded in his call to move beyond the Gladwinian approach to Hohokam archaeology. Research still addressed the traditional questions of Hohokam archaeology, but most were couched in terms of the regional system. Sites were not investigated only to explicate chronology and normative traits, but to understand how a specific settlement fit into the larger, interacting Hohokam society. These research concerns fit well into the organizational environment created by CRM archaeology, as settlement pattern studies remained a central pillar for such research (Fish 1989). Many contract projects were surveys or excavations of small sites and archaeologists often placed their findings within broader theoretical frameworks that could be integrated with results of projects conducted at large, central Hohokam sites, like Snaketown, Pueblo Grande, or Casa Grande. 282

Political Organization—Communities

The idea of Hohokam communities provided a powerful theoretical construct that allowed archaeologists to use the basic framework of the regional system combined with the findings of CRM inspired settlement pattern studies. The regional system concept provided a blank template for Hohokam archaeologists, but did not offer the specific details of the Hohokam system. Additionally, CRM research focused archaeological attention on areas previously neglected, such as between large sites—filling out the

Hohokam database. Studies on smaller sites led many investigators to consider the relationships between those sites and the larger, more obvious ones, like Snaketown and

Pueblo Grande that had been so central to early Hohokam archaeology (Fish 1989).

Obviously, the tremendous variation in sites indicated a substantial variation in function- small sites were the results of activities significantly different from those at larger sites.

However, investigators believed relationships existed that linked the varieties together.

One response for archaeologists was to conceive of Hohokam societies as composed of communities—multiple settlements, performing a variety of functions, organized into some kind of sociopolitical organization that transcended individual sites (e.g. Cable and

Doyel 1981, 1985; Cable and Mitchell 1988; Fish 1989; Gregory 1985; McGuire 1987;

Mitchell 1989; Mitchell and Breternitz 1988; Rice 1987a, 1987b).

In the preceding period, Wilcox had offered his own model of socially interacting settlements, integrated through common participation in ballcourt events (Wilcox and

Sternberg 1983). Doyel (1981) had also contributed his idea of “irrigation 283

communities”—a political organization of settlements, centered on platform mound villages, situated along common canal systems and cooperating in the management and coordination of hydraulic activities. Residents in outlying settlements would cooperate in some fashion with those at the mound villages. Similar kinds of sociopolitical organizations would become common explanatory models in Hohokam archaeology (e.g.

Anderson 1986; Bernard-Shaw et al. 1988; Cable and Doyel 1985; Cable and Mitchell

1988; Czaplicki and Ravesloot 1987; Dart 1987, 1989; Dart and Gibson 1988; Doelle

1985b; Downum et al. 1985, 1986; Doyel and Elson 1985; Effland 1985; Elson, Doyel, and Hoffman 1985; Greenwald 1988; Mitchell 1989; Mitchell and Breternitz 1988).

Archaeologists applied community concepts throughout the Hohokam region—in both core and peripheral areas. Irrigation had long been recognized as a central factor in

Hohokam sociopolitical organization (Haury 1976; Masse 1976; Nicholas and Neitzel

1984; Woodbury 1960, 1961), so irrigation would be a logical variable in community structure. Complementing these developments, new data on Hohokam canals was being reported in this period (e.g. Ackerly and Henderson 1989; Ackerly et al. 1987; Dart 1986;

Greenwald and Ciolek-Torrello 1988; Masse 1987). Examining the distribution of platform mounds in the Salt River Valley, Gregory and Nials (1985) noted marked regularity in the spacing of mound features along canals. This suggested social interconnectivity between villages along the same canal in order to regulate water use throughout the canal and mobilize the labor needed for almost constant canal maintenance and repair (Dart 1986). Gregory (1987) added another level of social organization to Doyel’s model—the cohesion of several irrigation communities, and 284

platform mound sites, located along the same canal. In this model, individual platform

mound settlements managed nearby canals, but were integrated into a larger social

network of other platform mound villages along the same canal. A similar pattern of

regular placement of platform mound settlements was noted along the Gila and also

interpreted as related to water control (Crown 1987). Ackerly (1988) argued canal

construction was episodic and cyclical rather than gradual as was often traditionally assumed.

Many archaeologists focused on the hierarchical nature of sociopolitical

complexity that was at the organizing heart of irrigation systems. Some argued that the

increasing complexity of irrigation systems entailed a highly complex, centralized

society, with leaders possessing significant power (Neitzel 1987), which were largely

extensions of previous arguments (see Nicholas and Neitzel 1984). Only through such

political centralization could such extensive and complex irrigation systems continue to

operate. The Classic period was viewed as a crystallation of irrigation complexity with

the attendant extreme political centralization. Specifically, the existence of two political

centers, Mesa Grande and Pueblo Grande, that controlled the entire Salt River Basin were

inferred (Howard 1987; Nicholas and Feinman 1989).

Areas not as well-suited for extensive canal systems, such as the Tucson Basin,

served as laboratories to understand Hohokam communities in other settings. The

topography of the Tucson Basin ensured that irrigation never became as extensive as in

Phoenix, so archaeological reconstructions of social organization could not relay on

canals as the skeleton of communities. Instead of irrigation, these communities appeared 285

to be structured through and interdependent system of subsistence and economic specialization (Fish, Fish and Madsen 1988, 1989). Communities were conceived as settlements tied together through regular social and complementary economic interaction

(Doelle 1985a; Elson 1986, 1988). In such settings, sites still exhibited a hierarchical organization of large villages with public architecture surrounded by various types of smaller sites (Doelle 1985). Central villages were tied to outlying settlements through social, ritual, and economic interaction (Elson 1986), perhaps in extraordinarily hierarchical and complex ways (see Rice 1987b). Archaeologists debated the nature of interactions between communities and if warfare was a prominent cultural characteristic

(Fish and Fish 1989; Wilcox 1989). Settlement pattern studies were especially valuable for these interpretations (e.g. Dart et al. 1985; Doelle 1988; Doelle et al. 1985; Doelle and

Wallace 1986; Elson and Doelle 1986; Simpson and Wells 1985).

Production and Exchange

Another theme prominent in studies of Hohokam communities was the role of non-subsistence craft production, again, often tied to inferred sociopolitical complexity.

Many archaeologists were interested in the distribution of activities across a site and across communities (e.g. Doelle 1985b; Fish, Fish and Madsen 1989; Henderson 1987b;

Rice 1985; Seymour 1988; Whittlesey 1988). Were different house clusters or villages redundant in their craft activities, or was specialization evident? How was craft production related to the hierarchical (or non) structure of Hohokam society?

Exchange, both internal and external to the Hohokam regional system, was 286

another active topic of research (e.g. Crown 1985; Teague 1985). Wilcox had already

offered the outlines of this Ballcourt regional model, with obvious implications for

exchange. At such events, attendants would not only watch or participate in ritual events,

but would also engage in exchange with others drawn from throughout the region.

Interest in ceramic exchange was also shaped by important methodological

developments adopted by Hohokam archaeologists. Beginning a long and innovative

career with Hohokam archaeology, David Abbott investigated ceramic exchange in the context of SGA material (1985). Abbott utilized temper in ceramic plain ware and Red- on-Buff artifacts to ascertain its source location and compared this to its archaeological recovery context. The locations of natural sources of temper were inferred to represent the context of procurement and manufacture, while the archaeological context was representative of use. Abbott concluded that Hohokam people exchanged plain ware with those who were socially close, such as kin groups, while decorated vessels were exchanged between more socially distant parties. Discussions of this sort become more common in the Hohokam discourse as many archaeologists began to focus on the outlines and dynamics of distinct spheres of exchange (Heidke 1988).

Ceramic studies also addressed interaction between discrete components of the regional system, such as between the Phoenix and Tucson basins. Layhe (1986) proposed that the Hodges site in Tucson served as an important trading center, based on the presence of local and exotic ceramics, between the Phoenix and Tucson Basins.

Exchange between the two areas seemed to diminish as time passed, creating further cultural differences (Doelle 1985a). Other research maintained the traditional focus on 287

interaction between core and northern peripheral areas. Doyel (1985) described the exchange of ground stone, through ballcourt villages, from the New River area in central

Arizona to the Salt-Gila heartland and received needed commodities from the south.

One of the other primary material types to address issues of production and exchange was marine shell procured in the Gulf of California or the Pacific Coast

(McGuire and Howard 1987; Seymour 1988). Researchers noted changing patterns of shell exchange throughout the Hohokam system and explored any related sociopolitical change. McGuire and Howard (1987) described a regional exchange network during the

Sedentary, where Papaguerian craftspeople produced shell bracelets for exchange with the Salt-Gila core. Shell exchange was viewed as part of a regional prestige goods economy, embedded within the greater regional system (McGuire 1985). Papaguerian

Hohokam utilized shell production and exchange as a buffer against shortfalls in local subsistence production. The nature of this network dramatically changed, however, with the onset of the Classic period (Kisselberg 1985). Elites consolidated and accumulated additional power utilizing several strategies, including the direct importation of raw shell and the local control of its production (A. Howard 1985).

Site Structure

David Wilcox’s observation of the existence of relatively formal spatial relationships between features at Snaketown (Wilcox, Sternberg and McGuire1981) led archaeologists to actively focus on site structure in their research at other sites. This trend became obviously evident in the literature of the time, exemplified with the 288

publication of The Hohokam Village: Site Structure and Organization (Doyel 1987).

This edited volume contained papers from an invited symposium in which authors described their own site structural work. Site structure became an explicit topic of research effort for many other academic publications and numerous CRM reports (e.g.

Bernard-Shaw et al. 1988; Cable and Doyel 1985; Cable and Mitchell 1989; Callahan

1986; Ciolek-Torrello 1986; Ciolek-Torrello and Greenwald 1988; Craig 1988; Crown

1985b; Czaplicki and Ravesloot 1987; Doelle 1985; Downum et al. 1986; Elson 1986;

Elson and Doelle 1987; Gould and Breternitz 1985; Greenwald 1988; Henderson 1987b;

Howard 1987; Howard and Cable 1988; Huntington 1986; Layhe 1986; Mitchell 1988,

1989; Slawson 1988; Wallace 1986; Weaver et al. 1986; Wilcox 1987). A critical adjunct of this research was the establishment of contemporaneity of various features, which maintained a dedicated focus on the refinement of regional and local chronology (e.g.

Eighmy and Doyel 1987; Eighmy and McGuire 1989; Henderson 198b7; Wallace 1985,

1986; Wallace and Craig 1988).

Many authors took the concept of house clusters further and explored their cultural and social implications of these archaeological units as the basic social units of

Hohokam society (Mitchell 1988). House clusters were usually viewed as reflective of discrete corporate groups, or households—units tied together through social and economic cooperation. Archaeologists sought to identify specific household activities, which could elucidate the nature of village or community level economic adaptation

(Cable and Mitchell 1989; Henderson 1987b; Kisselburg 1987; Rice 1987). House 289

clusters were the atomic components of the larger Hohokam cultural system, so documenting their operation could provide significant understanding of larger issues.

Variation between house clusters was one of the primary targets of research on site structure. Why did some clusters have more and bigger structures than others? What social or economic processes did this imply? Howard (1985) argued that house clusters, or his term—courtyard groups, were the result of cyclical patterns of domestic organization. Conceiving of house clusters as households (see Wilk and Rathje 1982),

Howard proposed that households usually underwent a regular developmental cycle.

Clusters of varying shapes and sizes were the consequence of their abandonment at different points in that cycle—whether the establishment of a new household or after the household had expanded due to family growth. An alternative explanation was provided by Huntington (1986, 1988) and other IAR researchers (Doelle et al. 1987; Elson 1986), though house clusters were still conceived of as households. Huntington argued that variation in house clusters resulted from the differential success of autonomous social, household units, and not in the manner described by Howard. In the Tucson Basin, the

Middle Rincon phase witnessed a diversification of subsistence practices and, according to Huntington (1986), larger households were those that could entrepreneurially mobilize and manage sufficient labor to efficiently exploit a wider array of subsistence and economic pursuits. Larger house clusters simply reflected households that better managed these changing economic circumstances. Smaller house clusters, often occurring on site peripheries, were simply those that were not as effective in these activities (Doelle 1985). 290

Research into site structure also had implications for understanding phenomena

beyond households to site-level aggregations. SSI research defined five varieties of land

use zones at an intra-site level, including residential, trash-disposal, communal-use, borrow pit, and mortuary areas (Howard and Cable 1988; Mitchell 1989). These zones represented discrete areas where certain classes of activities consistently occurred. Such categories further developed the specificity of how archaeologists could conceive of the spatial structure of Hohokam sites.

An appreciation of site structure also contributed to the resolution of some of the traditional questions of Hohokam archaeology, specifically the nature of the Sedentary-

Classic transition. Based on findings from ASM’s SGA research, Sires (1987) wrote, what would become an important statement in Hohokam archaeology, a paper describing significant cultural continuity across this transition. Sires described how Classic compound courtyards and architecture were transitionally descended from the courtyard groups and pithouses of the pre-Classic (Sires 1987; Cable and Mitchell 1989; Gregory

1985). Similar continuity was uncovered when the relationships between public architecture, such as ballcourts and platform mounds, were considered. Gregory (1987) asserted that platform mounds were consistently positioned relative to compound walls and existing ballcourts at settlements. These standard relationships suggested that placement of new public features—platform mounds—possessed some cultural connection to the position of older public features—ballcourts—which strongly implies a strong cultural connection between the builders of both the old and new architecture.

Further supporting these reconstructions, Gregory (1988) also provided a detailed 291

discussion of the sequence of mound construction at Las Colinas. He argued the initial

construction stages occurred well into the Sedentary period and a gradual, developmental

sequence is apparent into the Classic period.

As already noted, the documentation of site structure served to illustrate the

atomic structure of Hohokam society. Understanding this level of Hohokam culture lead directly to understanding the nature of the system in which these households existed and

higher levels of social organization—communities.

Colonial Expansion and Peripheral Occupation

Interest in the Colonial period continued (e.g. Dove 1985; Greenwald 1988;

Lerner 1985; Rodgers 1987; Wood 1985), but most was now framed in the regional

system model. Peripheral areas were viewed as important components of systemic

interaction and not only the passive recipients of cultural change generated in the core

(Cable and Doyel 1987; Fish et al. 1989), and exchange was seen as a major tie between core and peripheral areas (Doyel 1985; Rodgers 1987). Maintaining trends with previous

models, cultural variation was explained through variations in subsistence necessary to

adapt to peripheral environments (Dosh 1989; Ferg and Huckell 1985). As settlements

became established, hierarchical systems of sites emerged to better exploit the local

environment—another version of the community model (Doyel 1985).

292

Variation in Subsistence

As noted, subsistence variation remained a common focus for Hohokam

archaeology (e.g. Callahan 1986; Ciolek-Torrello 1986; Crown 1987; Czaplicki and

Ravesloot 1987; Doelle 1985; Dosh 1989; Downum et al. 1985, 1986; Effland and

Rankin 1988; Green 1986; Greenwald 1988; Ferg and Huckell 1985; Kisselburg 1987;

Ravesloot 1987; Weaver et al. 1986). Most CRM research contained sections explicitly concerned with documenting subsistence variability. Investigators began to note some specifics of agricultural difference, such as agave cultivation (e.g. Fish, Fish and Madsen

1985). Subsistence diversification was tied to investigations of Hohokam communities by exploring how various food-getting strategies could contribute to an interdependent community. Also, subsistence and environmental specialists continued to contribute significantly to the Hohokam discourse (Bayham 1985; S. Fish 1988; Gasser and

Miksicek 1985; Graybill 1985; Miksicek 1988; Szuter 1988).

Summary

Hohokam archaeology of the late 1980s maintained trends begun in the first half.

Older interests remained, but were often conceptualized into newer interpretative frameworks. By this period, the regional model had become fully embedded in the literature, often exemplified by various forms of the community concept, which exhibits an intellectual heritage in Wilcox’s regional system model. Closely related was the popular focus on site structure, both in definition and prehistoric social implications. The explicit consideration of site structure allowed archaeologists to differentiated segments 293

of a site to better understand how the parts related to the whole—another legacy of a

systemic model. Peripheral studies continued, though many now focused on the role of these areas in exchange both within and outside of the Hohokam system. Subsistence issues also remained common topics. Many of these concepts were often discussed in complementary fashion—as parts of an integrated system.

Most of the prominent figures, such as Wilcox and Doyel, of this era of Hohokam archaeology had attained advanced degrees in archaeology during the 1970s, and most had some experience with CRM organizations at ASM or ASU. Many of the dominant voices in academic discussions were based in academic positions, but members of the

CRM community were also major participants. SSI and IAR in particular maintained fairly high profiles in both fieldwork and contributions to intellectual discussions.

However, most academic archaeologists interested in Hohokam archaeology also maintained active research interests outside of southern Arizona, so CRM archaeologists were usually the only practitioners relatively exclusively tied to the prehistory of the

Hohokam.

Citation Analysis

Citation Analysis: 1980-1984

The first half of the 1980s was a period of dramatic change in the social environment of Hohokam archaeology as the majority of archaeological work shifted from the academic to the private sector. This period represented the beginning of the end for the era where museums and universities dominated the CRM field. A dramatic shift 294

became visible with the center of practical and intellectual gravity moving from

traditional academic settings to new, privately funded organizations. As CRM oriented

research became more standardized, Hohokam literature—exemplified by the SGA

reports—became much more comprehensive, providing detailed results of research

endeavors. In addition to ASM and ASU, many of the developing private firms also

began to publish their own research series. Private firms began to participate much more

actively in Hohokam archaeology, as demonstrated by the increasing numbers of reports

produced by such organizations. Most of this growing body of literature followed similar

patterns of organization and content exemplified by the SGA reports. How do these

dramatic changes impact the basic structure of archaeological discussion? Does the

intellectual landscape become more fragmented as research moves into the private sector,

or more integrated and synthetic?

Academic CRM Highly Cited Aggregate Publications in Sample 50 65 43 Cited Authors 521 1321 333 Authors in Matrix 176 249 171 Percent of Total Citations 79 73 84 in sample Cited Threshold 3 7 2 Table 7.1: Literature Sample 1980-1984

Continuing trends from previous periods, academic sources remain the most

highly cited, proving that academic outlets still serve as important citation resources when authors present their own research, as well as where others consume new 295

intellectual products. However, the growing number of publications produced by CRM

organizations is cited with increasing frequencies.

Another apparent pattern is the tendency of authors based in specific CRM

organizations to cite other publications produced by that organization—a form of self-

citation. Academic publications tend to cite other academic publications more than other

varieties (73%), while CRM publications cite academic sources slightly less (67%).

However, academic citations remain the most common variety. ASM publications are

more likely to cite other ASM literature (19%), but aggregate academic publications still dominate (69%). ASU follows as similar pattern with 17% self-citation and 65% to traditional academic sources. The Soil Systems sample is small, but some suggestive patterns emerge—academic sources are cited considerably less (60%) though self- citations are quite high (9%). While initially, the self-citations do not seem that abundant, citations to SSI publications comprise only 1% of the total for all other sets of publications. These patterns reflect CRM archaeologists having easy access to a boilerplate of an in-house resource of citations that can quickly be incorporated into the new work. Such practices are readily apparent in CRM texts, especially in sections that outline research background and general culture history, which are often nearly identical between publications.

296

Co-Citation Analysis

Academic Sample

The network produced from the academic sample appears decentralized, with no discernable core (Figure 7.1; Table 7.2, 7.3). The most central author connecting the various branches together, J. Charles Kelly, is cited relatively few times. A few minor clusters emerge, but no obvious central concentrations of authors are evident. Cluster 1 is a concentration of highly-cited authors positioned away from the center of the network on one of the major branches. The members of Cluster 1 include David Doyel, William

Wasley, William Doelle Randall McGuire, and Patricia Crown. Crown, Doelle, and

McGuire, all UA PhDs, became more visible participants in Hohokam discussions during this period, and even more so in subsequent periods. McGuire, along with Michael

Schiffer, had complied a comprehensive archaeological review of the Hohokam region and Crown was a central figure in SGA research. Doelle’s dissertation and ASM research continued to be highly cited and the initial publications from his newly founded branch of IAR were appearing.

Cluster 2 also contains a few high-mid cited authors and is positioned toward the periphery, whose major works were published in the 1970s and earlier. All of these authors are associated with research in what is usually considered the Hohokam peripheries, such as central and southeastern Arizona. Harold Gladwin’s presence in this group suggests he is becoming more commonly associated with a variety of Hohokam research, rather than being central to it. Cluster 3 is large and diffuse, covering most of one side of the network and consists of many braches emanating from a common node, J. 297

B. Wheat, in a very “bushy” pattern. Most of the authors in this section are low to moderately cited. Two ASU researchers, Fred Plog and Glen Rice are positioned in this section with another small cluster nearby, most of whom are authors associated with UA

(Cluster 3b). The other side of the network is characterized by a cycle (Cluster 4) with several highly cited authors. This region includes many significant figures, such as

Haury, Wilcox, Alfred Dittert, Jerry Howard, Bruce Masse, Albert Goodyear as well as a collection of authors known for research in a variety of regions and time periods within the Hohokam area, including Lynn Teague head of CRMD, Scantling, Mark Raab,

Donald Morris, Julian Hayden, and Isabel Kelly.

Overall, this network shows very little centralization or organization. The major cycle most resembles a collection of authors that could be labeled central figures of

Hohokam archaeology, however this cycle is not central, but is clearly positioned to one side of the network. Additionally, most of highest cited members of this cluster are positioned even further to the periphery. From the perspective of author co-citation, this network suggests that little agreement or consensus as to the central figures of Hohokam archaeology exists. 298

Doyel, David 44 Rodgers, James B. 13 Haury, Emil 43 Schiffer, Michael B. 13 Wilcox, David R. 41 Upham Steadman 13 Schroeder, Albert H. 38 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 12 Masse, Bruce W. 35 Bruder, Simon J. 12 Weaver, Donald E. 32 Castetter, Edward F. 12 Gasser, Robert E. 29 Fish, Suzanne K. 12 Gladwin, Harold S. 29 Bell, Willis H. 11 Plog, Fred 24 Huckell, Bruce B. 11 Wasley, William W. 23 McAllister, Martin 11 Di Peso, Charles C. 22 Teague, Lynn S. 11 Doelle, William H. 21 Downum, Christian E. 10 Hayden, Julian D. 20 Kelly, Isabel T. 10 Grebinger, Paul 19 Spoerl, Patricia 10 McGuire, Randall 19 Dittert, Alfred E. 9 Gumerman, George J. 18 Fontana, Bernard L. 9 Rice, Glen 18 Gregonis, Linda M. 9 Crown, Patricia L. 17 Gregory, David 9 Greenleaf, Cameron 17 Howard, Jerry B. 9 Weed, Carol S. 16 McGuire, Thomas R. 9 Fish, Paul R. 15 Sires, Earl W. 9 Hammack, Laurens C. 15 Woodbury, R. B. 9 Johnson, Alfred E. 15 Colton, Harold S. 8 Wood, J. Scott 14 Debowski, Sharon S. 8 Breternitz, David A. 13 Fewkes, Jesse W. 8 Table 7.2: 50 Most Cited Authors Academic Sample 1980-1984

299

Cluster 1 P. Crown R. McGuire W. Doelle W. Wasley D. Doyel Cluster 2 D. Breternitz W. Ward H. Gladwin D. Weaver P. Grebinger C. Weed A. Schroeder Cluster 3 F. Plog G. Rice J. Wheat Sub- V. Bohrer F. Midvale cluster 3a V. Canouts J. Reid E. Ferdon M. Sahlins R. Herskovitz D. Simonis B. Huckell D. Stephen J. Kisselburg H. Wallace Sub- P. Brown T. Henderson Cluster 3b D. Dove J. Rodgers J. Gish Cycle H. Colton B. Masse E. Gifford J. McGregor A. Goodyear D. Morris L. Hammack M. Raab J. Hayden W. Robinson I. Kelly F. Scantling A. Kidder L. Teague Spokes off D. Abbott E. Haury of Cycle G. Bronitsky J. Howard W. Bullard A. Johnson F. Cushing K. Reinhard C. DiPeso C. Renfrew A. Dittert E. Sayles C. Downum A. Shepard P. Fish E. Sires S. Fish A. Sullivan B. Fontana S. Upham H. Franklin D. Wilcox M. Grady J. Scott Wood C. Greenleaf J. Zahniser L. Gregonis B. Zaslow D. Gregory Table 7.3: Cluster Membership, Academic Sample 1980-1984 300

Cluster 1

Cluster 3

Cluster 2

Figure 7.1: ACA Academic Sample 1980-1984 301

Aggregate CRM

The aggregate CRM network exhibits a more structured pattern around a central

core than the 1975-1979 CRM sample, containing a centralized cluster of many highly- cited authors (Figure 7.2; Table 7.4). Cluster 1 contains many of the foundational figures

of Hohokam archaeology as well as some of the younger generation, from Haury to

Wilcox. Most of these practitioners have UA affiliations though ASU is also represented.

Interestingly, Cluster 2, which is positioned midway between the network’s center and

periphery, is composed solely of members of the younger cohort of archaeologists and

membership cross-cuts training and employment affiliations. David Abbott, Paul Fish,

Steadman Upham, and Jerry Howard all received advanced degrees from ASU, while

Abbott and Fish also went on to important associations with ASM. Patricia Crown, Alan

Sullivan, and Fredrick Huntington were UA trained and went on to a variety of

employment destinations—Crown and Sullivan to academic positions, and Huntington to

IAR.

Like earlier periods, a continued focus on culture-ecological relationships is

apparent in Cluster 3, symbolized by Lewis Binford’s membership but by the presence of

subsistence specialists, such as Vorsila Bohrer, and ethnographers, such as Castetter. In much of the Hohokam literature, ethnographers are often cited to exemplify the foodways of indigenous peoples and provide possible analogs for the subsistence behavior of the

Hohokam. This collection complements the use of citations to archaeological specialists

in various remains of food products, both floral and faunal. Considering the increasing

formalization and specialization of CRM reports, this association is not surprising, as one 302

of the more common standard chapters in many publications of the period covers environment and subsistence. This pattern suggests that subsistence studies remain a visible cluster in this network and are somewhat distinct from the core discussions.

The centralization apparent in the CRM period of this period contrasts with what

appears in later periods. CRM networks in subsequent years exhibit a much more or evenly dispersed pattern, with no distinct clusters, but instead clinal distribution of

authors across networks. However, the current pattern may simply be the result of the

limited production of literature by organizations other than ASM, which comprises

almost half of this sample (24 ASM publications).

Doyel, David 50 Miksicek, Charles H. 38 Wilcox, David R. 50 Gish, Jennifer W. 37 Haury, Emil 49 Rodgers, James B. 37 Schroeder, Albert H. 45 Weed, Carol S. 37 Masse, Bruce W. 44 Martin, Paul S. 37 Weaver, Donald E. 43 Rogers, Malcolm J. 37 Crown, Patricia L. 43 Schoenwetter, James 37 Doelle, William H. 41 Gregory, David 37 Gasser, Robert E. 40 Colton, Harold S. 37 Teague, Lynn S. 40 Hammack, Laurens C. 37 Gladwin, Harold S. 40 Sires, Earl W. 36 Hayden, Julian D. 40 Fewkes, Jesse W. 36 Wasley, William W. 39 Midvale, Frank 36 Plog, Fred 39 Greenleaf, Cameron 36 Huckell, Bruce B. 39 Dittert, Alfred E. 35 Fish, Suzanne K. 39 Raab, Mark 32 Di Peso, Charles C. 39 Gumerman, George J. 32 Rice, Glen 39 Ezell, P. H. 32 Schiffer, Michael B. 38 Binford, Lewis 31 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 38 Upham Steadman 30 Johnson, Alfred E. 38 Hackenberg, Robert A. 30 Castetter, Edward F. 38 Turney, O. A. 29 Fish, Paul R. 38 Lowe, C. H. 29 McGuire, Randall 38 Howard, Jerry B. 29 Sayles, E. B. 38 Cable, John S. 29 Table 7.4: 50 Most Cited Authors Aggregate CRM 1980-1984 303

Cluster 1 C. Di Peso B. Masse W. Doelle R. McGuire D. Doyel F. Plog R. Gasser F. Russell H. Gladwin M. Schiffer A. Goodyear A. Schroeder M. Grady W. Wasley P. Grebinger D. Weaver E. Haury D. Wilcox J. Hayden B. Huckell Cluster 2 D. Abbott F. Huntington P. Crown G. Rice P. Fish A. Sullivan J. Howard S. Upham Cluster 3 V. Bohrer C. Lowe E. Castetter P. Mehringer A. Rea W. Sellers J. Schoenwetter C. Miksicek L. Binford S. Olsen M. Moser E. Cockrum A. Shepard A. Johnson Notable N. Ackerly M. Elson Peripherals J. Cable D. Gregory R. Ciolek-Torrello T.K. Henderson J. Czaplicki H. Wallace W. Deaver Table 7.5: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1980-1984

304

Cluster 3

Cluster 1

Cluster 2

Figure 7.2: ACA Aggregate CRM 1980-1984 305

Highly Cited Sample

Both of the highly-cited networks closely resemble the basic pattern evident in the academic one. When limited to highly-cited papers, a central cycle develops from which four to five branches extend (Figure 7.3; Table 7.6). This network exhibits a high level

of stratification—a few authors are cited many times, while most are infrequently cited.

Cluster 1 is positioned along this cycle and contains almost every mid to highly-cited

author in the network with both ASU and UA authors appearing. Some of the more

modestly cited authors that appear near this cluster include younger archaeologists who

would make major contributions to Hohokam research in later periods, such as David

Gregory, Patricia Crown, Randall McGuire and Jerry Howard. The basic pattern of this

cluster is characterized as centered around a core of commonly cited authors, though

notable OCRM archaeologists, such as Kathleen Henderson and Glen Rice are positioned much more peripherally. 306

Haury, Emil 40 Rodgers, James B. 8 Wilcox, David R. 32 Russell, Frank 7 Doyel, David 28 Canouts, Veletta 7 Masse, Bruce W. 21 McGuire, Randall 7 Di Peso, Charles C. 20 Breternitz, David A. 7 Weaver, Donald E. 19 Greenleaf, Cameron 7 Gladwin, Harold S. 16 Herskovits, Robert M. 6 Schroeder, Albert H. 16 Ferdon, Edwin 6 Wasley, William W. 16 Fontana, Bernard L. 6 Hayden, Julian D. 14 Johnson, Alfred E. 6 Doelle, William H. 14 Morris, Donald H. 6 Upham Steadman 14 Goodyear, Albert C. 6 Plog, Fred 11 Grady, Mark 6 Grebinger, Paul 11 Woodbury, R. B. 6 Kelly, Isabel T. 10 Antieau, John M. 6 Fewkes, Jesse W. 9 Raab, Mark 6 Fish, Paul R. 9 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 6 Teague, Lynn S. 9 Wood, J. Scott 5 Hammack, Laurens C. 9 Sayles, E. B. 5 Debowski, Sharon S. 8 Flannery, Kent V. 5 Turney, O. A. 8 Franklin, Hayward Hoskins 5 Gumerman, George J. 8 Boserup, Esther 5 Martin, Paul S. 8 Vivian, R. Gwinn 5 Gregory, David 8 Huckell, Bruce 5 Weed, Carol S. 8 Cushing, Frank H. 5 Table 7.6: 50 Most Cited Authors, Highly Cited Sample 1980-84

Highly-Cited Sample—Not Limited Cluster 1 P. Crown B. Masse C. Di Peso R. McGuire D. Doyel F. Plog P. Fish C. Sauer P. Grebinger L. Teague D. Gregory S. Upham L. Hammack W. Wasley E. Haury D. Weaver J. Howard D. Wilcox Notable M. Elson K. Henderson Peripherals S. Fish G. Rice A. Goodyear M. Raab (small association among Rice-Raab) Table 7.7: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1980-84 307

OCRM

Figure 7.3: ACA Highly Cited Sample, 1980-1984 308

When citation context limitation is applied, the same basic shape is maintained,

though fractionation becomes increasingly apparent (Figure 7.4; Table 7.7). The clusters

in this network radiate from many of their own unique central nodes that are distributed

around the periphery of the network rather than in its center. Cluster 1 is the most central

of the highly cited authors and is adjacent to the central cycle. This cluster is composed

of archaeologists that had began their Hohokam careers in the 1970s and had some

association with CRMD, such as Raab, Masse, Doelle, Wilcox and Doelle. Cluster 2

contains some of the network’s most highly cited authors, but is more peripheral to the

entire network. This group includes several of the important, but older authors, like

Wasley, Charles Di Peso, Julian Hayden, and Haury as well as younger ones, like Paul

Fish, Jerry Howard, and David Gregory. Beyond these two clusters, all other that emerge

are composed of relatively few low-cited nodes—though distinct clustering is much more prevalent than previous networks. As already noted, private firms were gaining in jurisdictional power through the 1980s. As for the direct impact of this on this

intellectual structure, the only apparent clustering around a particular organization

appears to be around ASU’s OCRM, which remains positioned to the peripheral left of

the network. 309

Highly-Cited Sample—Limited by Context Cluster 1 W. Doelle M. Raab D. Doyel D. Wilcox B. Masse Cluster 2 D. Breternitz L. Hammack D. Crabtree E. Haury C. Di Peso J. Hayden J. Fewkes J. Howard P. Fish W. Wasley D. Gregory Table 7.8: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample—Context Limited 1980-84

310

Cluster 1

Cluster 2

Figure 7.4: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1980-1984 311

Summary

Like earlier periods, interesting, and somewhat contradictory patterns emerge.

Academic networks are significantly dispersed, with no central core, or significant

clustering. Conversely, the CRM literature demonstrates unusual centralization, relative

to earlier and later periods. The only suggestion of an integrated/synthetic network

appears with the highly-cited sample, which shows a very stratified distribution with a

distinct central core. While most indications point to networks and intellectual structures

that are fragmented, some hint of centralization is also apparent. In aggregate, these trends still suggest a relatively fragmented and decentralized pattern, because networks are not consistently produced that are focused around a common core of highly cited authors.

Citation Analysis: 1985-1989

By the late 1980s, the shift from CRM based in academic settings to private ones was increasingly complete in southern Arizona, expect for the continued operation of

OCRM at ASU. Private firms released a large number of major publications during this period as evidenced by the larger number of CRM publications compared to academic ones. However, some lingering projects at ASM and MNA were published during this period. 312

Academic CRM Highly Cited Aggregate Publications in 60 88 89 Sample Cited Authors 568 1681 488 Authors in 122 237 239 Matrix Percent of total 74 73 89 citations in sample Cited 5 13 2 Threshold Table 7.9: Citing Literature Sample 1985-1989

Citation trends noted in the previous period continued into the second half of the

1980s. Publication types maintain the tendency to cite other publications of the same type. Academic sources cite other academic ones at only 52%, and CRM publications cite academic sources 58%. The increasing tendency of all sources to cite CRM publications reaffirms the growing importance of contract research in the Hohokam discourse. In most cases, CRM research has produced the new data, ensuring its developing primary role in new Hohokam scholarship. Keeping with self-citation trends,

ASM publications are more likely to cite other ASM works than the general citing

population, as do all of the other organizations conduction CRM archaeology including

ASU, IAR, SSI, MNA, and ACS.

313

Co-Citation Analysis

Academic

The network produced from the sample of academic literature reveals a markedly

disperse pattern with little clustering of highly cited authors (Figure 7.5; Table 7.9).

Highly-cited authors are relatively evenly distributed throughout the network without the

emergence of discrete clusters. Additionally, no nodes occupy the central portions of the

network, instead the core is composed of a large cycle of authors and many members of

this cycle were not active participants in Hohokam archaeology during this period. If any

figure can still be described as central in this network, Haury would assume that title.

However, several younger archaeologists, such as Lynn Teague, Fred Plog, and Bruce

Masse are also members of the cycle and were based out of different archaeological

institutions. Cluster 1 is a branch of high cited authors extending from this cycle. This

cluster seems to include primarily authors that have been involved in Hohokam

archaeology around the Tucson Basin including Paul and Suzanne Fish, and William

Doelle and Henry Wallace of IAR. Interestingly, Cameron Greenleaf—an individual

important to the definition of Tucson Hohokam archaeology—does not appear in this

group but in Cluster 3, possibly reflecting the cease of his active participation in

Hohokam discourse.

Cluster 2 is a series of branches that connects to the major cycle through Plog.

Mirroring the geographic specialization in Hohokam archaeology, Cluster 2 appears to be focused on research surrounding the Phoenix area as most of the authors in this cluster are primarily associated with research in this region. Additionally, ASU affiliated 314

authors appear to be favored in this cluster, though Crown also appears. This network demonstrates much more of an even distribution than the previous period, but does not seem nearly as centralized as the late 1970s. Authors, including highly cited ones, are evenly distributed across the network and no discernable clusters or centers of intellectual gravity develop. For writers of archaeological reports during this period, many more publications and authors were available for use in citation and the dispersed network may represent a relatively unbiased response to this situation.

Wilcox, David R. 49 Huntington, Frederick W. 20 Doyel, David 48 Johnson, Alfred E. 20 Wallace, Henry D. 45 Neitzel, Jill E. 20 Fish, Suzanne K. 44 Grebinger, Paul 19 Haury, Emil 44 Hayden, Julian D. 19 Doelle, William H. 43 Kelly, Isabel T. 19 Fish, Paul R. 41 Teague, Lynn S. 19 Miksicek, Charles H. 41 Heidke, James 18 Gregory, David 37 Wasley, William W. 18 Crown, Patricia L. 34 Henderson, T. Kathleen 17 Gladwin, Harold S. 34 Huckell, Bruce B. 17 Schroeder, Albert H. 34 Nials, Fred L. 17 Di Peso, Charles C. 33 Fewkes, Jesse W. 16 McGuire, Randall 32 Holmlund, James P. 16 Masse, Bruce W. 31 Howard, Jerry B. 16 Schiffer, Michael B. 30 Czaplicki, Jon S. 15 Elson, Mark D. 28 Field, John 15 Plog, Fred 27 Hammack, Laurens C. 15 Downum, Christian E. 24 Sires, Earl W. 15 Rice, Glen 23 LeBlanc, Stephen A. 14 Dart, Allen 22 Midvale, Frank 14 Greenleaf, Cameron 22 Szuter, Christine 14 Cable, John S. 21 Dean, Jeffrey 13 Lombard, James 21 Gasser, Robert E. 13 Craig, Douglas B. 20 Howard, Ann Valdo 13 Table 7.10: 50 Most Cited Authors Academic Sample 1985-89

315

Cycle W. Bullard F. Plog J. Cable D. Rinaldo A. Ferg F. Russell J. Fewkes M. Schiffer G. Gumerman A. Schroeder J. Hayden L. Teague A. Johnson R. Underhill F. Nials S. Upham H. Patrick M. Waters P. Pilles J. Scott Wood Cluster 1 M. Bernard-Shaw S. Fish R. Ciolek-Torrello E. Huntington D. Craig K. Katzer J. Czaplicki C. Miksicek H. Dobyns S. Plog W. Doelle A. Rankin C. Downum G. Rice J. Field H. Wallace P. Fish Cluster 2 B. Bradley K. Kintigh P. Crown S. LeBlanc J. Dean L. Neitzel R. Gasser L. Nicholas H. Gladwin R. McGuire L. Hammack C. Sauer K. Henderson O. Turney J. Howard S. Urban Cluster 3 D. Doyel I. Kelly C. Greenleaf B. Masse J. Holmlund J. S. Wood Cluster 4 E. Haury J. Ravesloot F. Huntington A. Schroeder Table 7.11: Cluster Membership, Academic Sample 1985-1989 316

Cluster 3 Cluster 4

Cluster 2

Cluster 1

Figure 7.5 ACA Academic Sample 1985-1989 317

Aggregate CRM

The aggregate CRM network returns to a linear distribution with few distinct

clusters (Figure 7.6; Table 7.10) and is similar to the 1975-1979 sample. The highly cited

nodes are distributed in a linear fashion across most of the center of the network, roughly

consisting of two clusters and the total network appears to represent a general geographic

gradation from Tucson to Phoenix. One end of the network contains more individuals

associated with Tucson archaeology, while the other is more Phoenix centered. For

instance, Doelle, Wallace and Greenleaf are concentrated at one end, while authors such as Haury, Earl Sires, Wilcox and Rice are positioned toward the other. Some authors are

also closely associated in the network that are also closely associated by their base of employment, such as the concentration of IAR archaeologists. The Phoenix centric section of the network is much more centrally positioned than the Tucson, suggesting the continued dominance of research in this geographic area for Hohokam studies.

The more dispersed pattern, along with the close association of authors with common affiliation, suggests that contract organizations are developing institution specific citation resource base (see also Whittlesey and Reid 2004:118). CRM reports can easily draw upon background literature produced in-house. The linear concentration along the center of the network suggests a slight level of centralization, but also suggests

a single core does not define the center of Hohokam discussions. 318

Doyel, David 79 Elson, Mark D. 62 Wallace, Henry D. 78 Schroeder, Albert H. 62 Fish, Suzanne K. 78 Teague, Lynn S. 62 Wilcox, David R. 78 Craig, Douglas B. 60 Haury, Emil 77 Weaver, Donald E. 59 Doelle, William H. 77 Bell, Willis H. 59 Miksicek, Charles H. 77 Czaplicki, Jon S. 59 Gasser, Robert E. 77 Gish, Jennifer W. 58 Huckell, Bruce B. 76 Sires, Earl W. 58 Crown, Patricia L. 76 Hayden, Julian D. 58 Cable, John S. 76 Szuter, Christine 56 Fish, Paul R. 76 Ferg, Alan 56 Dart, Allen 75 Heidke, James 56 Howard, Jerry B. 74 Lombard, James 55 Masse, Bruce W. 74 Sayles, E. B. 54 Rice, Glen 74 Deaver, William 54 Schiffer, Michael B. 73 Gladwin, Harold S. 51 Castetter, Edward F. 73 Rozen, Kenneth C. 49 Ciolek-Torrello, Richard S. 70 Bayham, Frank 48 Gregory, David 69 Downum, Christian E. 48 Di Peso, Charles C. 69 Bernard-Shaw, Mary 48 McGuire, Randall 69 Greenwald, David H. 47 Huntington, Frederick W. 69 Huckell, Lisa 45 Henderson, T. Kathleen 67 Plog, Fred 45 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 62 Holmlund, James P. 45 Table 7.12: 50 Most Cited Authors Aggregate CRM 1985-89 319

Tucson D. Craig J. Hayden (articulates with cluster 1b) section A. Dart B. Huckell W. Deaver F. Huntington C. Di Peso I. Kelly W. Doelle K. Rozen A. Ferg E. Sayles P. Grebinger (articulates with cluster H. Wallace 1b) C. Greenleaf Phoenix D. Abbott J. Kisselberg section F. Bayham B. Masse M. Bernard-Shaw R. McGuire S. Bruder C. Miksicek P. Crown D. Morris W. Deaver C. Redman C. Di Peso G. Rice M. Elson J. Rodgers P. Fish F. Russell S. Fish E. Sayles R. Gasser M. Schiffer H. Gladwin A. Schroeder A. Goodyear E. Sires D. Gregory A. Sullivan E. Haury C. Szuter K. Henderson L. Teague J. Howard W. Wasley A. Johnson D. Wilcox Table 7.13: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1985-89 320

Tucson Research

Phoenix Research

Figure 7.6: ACA Aggregate CRM Sample 1985-1989 321

Highly Cited Sample

The highly cited sample exhibits a much more centralized pattern surrounding a core of central authors. Highly cited sources display a more centralized pattern than does the academic network (Figure 7.7; Table 7.11). The network is also a bit more symmetric with a defined central area. Cluster 1’s membership is composed of several of the foundational names in Hohokam archaeology, though an important change occurs during this period. This central core tends to represent the most important archaeologists in

Hohokam research and before this period, most often, older scholars like Haury and

Gladwin were the major members. By this period, though, many of the archaeologists trained in the 1970s and early 1980s had become the center of intellectual discussions suggesting a changing of the guard in terms of Hohokam research. Again exhibiting geographic variation in the ACA networks, authors in Cluster 2 include a collection of mid-cited authors that are all associated with research around the Tucson area, such as

Frederick Huntington, Greenleaf and Christian Downum.

As opposed to the growing dispersion of the CRM network, the centralization present here suggests that when authors engage topics that are discursively important, they utilize a limited number of core authors. A defined center develops that suggests

Hohokam archaeologists had developed some consensus as to the central figures of the discipline that defined intellectual discussions.

322

Wilcox, David R. 62 Sires, Earl W. 19 Doyel, David 54 Hayden, Julian D. 18 Haury, Emil 52 Turney, O. A. 18 Doelle, William H. 37 Greenleaf, Cameron 18 Gregory, David 31 Gasser, Robert E. 17 Fish, Paul R. 30 Di Peso, Charles C. 17 Wallace, Henry D. 27 Upham Steadman 17 Howard, Jerry B. 27 Kelly, Isabel T. 16 Grebinger, Paul 24 McGuire, Randall 16 Rice, Glen 23 Midvale, Frank 15 Teague, Lynn S. 23 Wasley, William W. 15 Masse, Bruce W. 23 Weaver, Donald E. 15 Crown, Patricia L. 22 Czaplicki, Jon S. 15 Fish, Suzanne K. 22 Miksicek, Charles H. 14 Henderson, T. Kathleen 22 Flannery, Kent V. 13 Schroeder, Albert H. 21 Waters, Michael R. 13 Russell, Frank 20 Craig, Douglas B. 12 Elson, Mark D. 20 Ferg, Alan 12 Cable, John S. 20 Hammack, Laurens C. 12 Plog, Fred 20 Fewkes, Jesse W. 11 Schiffer, Michael B. 20 Downum, Christian E. 11 Huckell, Bruce B. 20 Herskovits, Robert M. 10 Gladwin, Harold S. 19 Howard, Ann Valdo 10 Dart, Allen 19 Ackerly, Neal W. 10 Huntington, Frederick W. 19 Fontana, Bernard L. 10 Table 7.14: 50 Most Cited Authors Highly-Cited Sample 1985-89

Cluster 1 J. Cable J. Howard P. Crown B. Huckell C. Di Peso B. Masse W. Doelle (closest to F. Plog Cluster 2) G. Rice D. Doyel F. Russell P. Fish M. Schiffer S. Fish A. Schroeder R. Gasser E. Sires H. Gladwin L. Teague P. Grebinger S. Upham D. Gregory W. Wasley E. Haury D. Wilcox K. Henderson Cluster 2 J. Czaplicki F. Huntington A. Dart I. Kelly C. Downum H. Wallace M. Elson M. Waters C. Greenleaf Table 7.15: Cluster Membership, Highly-Cited Sample 1985-1989 323

Cluster 1

Cluster 2

Figure 7.7: ACA Highly Cited Sample 1985-89 324

Citation context limitation serves to fragment the network, primarily by geography, though not by affiliation. When limited by context, the network becomes much more fractionated and less symmetric and two basic centers of gravity emerge at the two ends of the network (Figure 7.8). Cluster 1 is central to one end of the network and contains most of the foundational names discussed in the previous section, such as

Haury, Wilcox and Doyel. Members of Cluster 1 originate from both ASU and UA, but

are primarily associated with research near Phoenix as well as general discussions of

Hohokam prehistory that are not necessarily tied to specific sites. Cluster 2 is the next

largest concentration of highly cited authors and is relatively Tucson or desert subsistence

centered, including many archaeologists based at IAR. The existence of this cluster

suggests that Hohokam research in the Tucson Basin has developed its own center of

gravity. The clear separation of the two clusters suggests a more significant level of

perceived difference between research conducted by authors in the two clusters.

Connecting these two clusters are relatively low cited authors, including several

not directly related to Hohokam research, such as J. Jefferson Reid. Several such small

clusters of low-cited authors are distributed throughout the network. The remainder of

clusters is small and low cited and two associated clusters seem irrigation centered. 325

Cluster 1 J. Cable R. McGuire P. Crown G. Rice D. Doyel F. Russell K. Flannery E. Sires D. Gregory S. Upham L. Hammack W. Wasley E. Haury D. Wilcox K. Henderson J. Howard B. Masse Cluster 2 C. Di Peso C. Greenleaf W. Doelle K. Katzer C. Downum G. Nabhan A. Ferg M. Raab P. Fish H. Wallace S. Fish M. Waters B. Fontana Cluster 3 D. Craig F. Huntington I. Dart I. Kelly M. Elson Table 7.16: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1985-89 326

Cluster 3

Cluster 2

Cluster 1

Figure 7.8: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1985-89 327

Viewed together, the networks from the second half of the 1980s again do not

suggest the existence of a distinct core—the only network suggestive of that is the highly-

cited sample when not limited by citation context. However, hints of centralization are evident, as noted in regards to the highly-cited sample. Additionally, the academic sample did not exhibit many distinct clusters, but instead was characterized by a relatively even distribution of authors across the network. No central core exists, but neither do several distinct clusters of authors.

Hohokam Archaeology in the 1980s

During the 1980s, Hohokam archaeology continued to adapt to the changing organizational conditions of archaeological research in the face of CRM. The institutions conducting archaeological work shifted from those based in more traditional, academic settings to private firms that were able to more effectively articulate with other organizations relevant to the undertaking of compliance related work. The CRM organizational system also continued to evolve as several funding agencies, including

ADOT, modified the contracting process to include competitive bidding (Rosenberg

2004), further allowing the more complete penetration of private archaeological firms into the process. Private firms’ ability to retain more indirect costs allowed them to successfully maintain operation during down times, while CRM divisions in public institutions lacked that luxury leading to their closures as described for CRMD as ASM.

Accompanying these trends, levels of funding directed at CRM continued to rise. So, archaeology had become big business and was increasingly conducted by practitioners 328

based in private settings that were equipped to operate in an environment where business

concerns were paramount.

Discussions of the Hohokam past also experienced their own evolution during this

period. While many of the traditional concerns of Hohokam archaeology remained

important, newer research issues and frameworks became more prevalent and came to

dominate archaeological discussions. Particularly, the work of David Wilcox

substantially shaped the course of Hohokam discourse. The further development of his

regional system model (Wilcox 1979a; Wilcox and Sternberg 1983) provided a

framework to organize the many other diverse interests of Hohokam archaeologists into a

relational whole. Most of the active participants in Hohokam discussions adopted some

form of this perspective. One of the influential intellectual descendents of this

perspective was the concept of political communities. This framework provided archaeologists with an interpretive model that could integrate findings from somewhat spatially disparate sites into explanations of social organization of the Hohokam past.

Other central components of models of the Hohokam system included exchange, Colonial period relationships, cultural reorganizations, such as the Sedentary-Classic transition and post-Classic, and economic/subsistence specialization.

Another of Wilcox’s (Wilcox, Sternberg, and McGuire 1981) influential legacies in Hohokam studies was his focus on site structure at Hohokam sites. Throughout the

1980s, other archaeologists quickly adapted this focus into their own research and the internal structure of Hohokam sites became conceptualized as a much more differentiated space. This perspective allowed researchers to reconstruct a more complex and nuanced 329

picture of Hohokam social organization. Additionally, site structure could be easily incorporated into other studies as it provided the atomic unit of Hohokam archaeological sites and social structure.

The basic intellectual structure of Hohokam discourse followed the relatively fragmented pattern established during the 1970s. CRM networks displayed more evenly distributed patterns, as did one of the academic networks—a pattern that suggests multiple clusters or centers of intellectual gravity exist. The variety of citing publications utilized a wide resource base of citations, without emphasizing only a specific segment of the archaeological literature.

From a sociological perspective, this period was a time of increasing support of the material base in the form of increasing levels of funding, but continuing loss of autonomy for academically oriented archaeology. Those organizations that became best suited to the CRM environment were those that adopted more business-like organizational structures, such that traditional academic research autonomy is reduced.

In this way, the supportive base of archaeology has been weakened as practitioners are much less able to direct their own research. For purposes of securing funding, CRM archaeologists became much more tied to networks of control that were very different from those of academics. Practitioners had to interact with government agencies, the

Arizona SHPO, and private developers, rather than academic funding agencies or university bureaucracies. Opportunities for work and the demographic growth of the discipline had resulted in expanding peer networks in Hohokam archaeology, though as noted, this growing network was not usually in direct control of material support. 330

Instead, agencies funding research, like ADOT and other relevant government bodies such as the SHPO—where some archaeologists were involved—were the critical networks.

Organizationally, the CRM system was crystallizing in Arizona in during the

1980s that had initially developed in the previous decade. The basic structure of the

1980s would remain essentially unchanged through the subsequent decade.

Intellectually, Hohokam archaeology was increasingly integrating new ideas into its discussions. However, the basic discursive structure suggested that consensus of the central ideas and figures of the region had not yet developed, though it does in the following decade. The 1980s appeared to be a period of organizational adjustment which resulted in a fluid intellectual structure that lacked consistency and differed significantly from patterns evident in both the decade before and the decade after. 331

CHAPTER 8: THE 1990S, ORGANIZATIONAL STABILIZATION AND

INTELLECTUAL SYNTHESIS

Many of the trends emerging throughout the 1980s persisted becoming more

entrenched during the 1990s. By this decade, the archaeological community’s

adjustments to the CRM environment were established, as most archaeological research

on Hohokam material was being conducted by private firms and not through traditional

academic means, as ASM and MNA had both ceased the operation of their contract divisions. ASM still conducted relevant archaeological research (e.g. Fish, Fish and

Madsen 1992), but such work was accomplished through its research division, notably

those headed by Paul and Suzanne Fish. MNA archaeologists, other than David

Wilcox—who held a more traditional academic position—for the most part had ceased

their participation in Hohokam discussions. Additionally, Wilcox’s regional interests

throughout the Southwest ensured that he was not solely occupied with Hohokam

research. ASU’s OCRM continued to undertake projects during this decade, including a

segment of the large projects occurring in the Tonto Basin (Rice 1998a), but the program

seemed to ramp down its activity in southern Arizona. After the Tonto Basin projects,

ASU undertook much smaller contracts (e.g. Gilman 1993; Ravesloot and Lascaux 1993),

but none as large as the projects of the 1980s.

By far, most large research projects were conducted by small, private firms that

were dedicated toward archaeological mitigation of legal mandate, including SSI at

Pueblo Grande (Foster 1994), and Northland at the Grewe site (Craig 2001), the 332

Scottsdale Canal system (Hackbarth, Henderson and Craig 1995) and Shelltown/Hind

Site (Marmaduke and Martynec 1993). Both of these firms completed significant

archaeological research during the previous decade establishing their place in the region’s

archaeology community. Additionally, most of the practitioners directing the projects

had extensive experience with Hohokam archaeology during the 1980s and were trained

in the anthropological departments of southern Arizona.

More complex and extensive organizations became more visible in the region’s archaeological research. Larger environmental/engineering firms displayed a more visible presence in the discipline, conducting larger research projects, and publishing

elaborate reports, much like their smaller competitors. Notably, SWCA, an engineering

firm with branches throughout the western United States possessed a cultural resources

division—largely through the absorption MNA’s cultural resource office—became highly

involved in Hohokam archaeology. During the 1990s, SWCA completed large projects at

sites near the Sky Harbor Airport (Greenwald, Zyneicki and Greenwald 1994;

Greenwald, Chenault and Greenwald 1995) and Pueblo Viejo (Zyneicki 1993) both

projects in the Phoenix area. The encroachment of larger comprehensive environmental consulting corporations into archaeological research is a form of jurisdictional poaching

(Abbott 1988:36, 125), by assuming the work traditionally assumed by more purely

archaeological institutions. Such general organizations as SWCA engaged in many

varieties of scientific research that was instigated by legal compliance and were thus thoroughly connected to many other private and governmental organizations whose primary missions were not scientific research. The multiplicity of linkages of effective 333

linkages with such external non-academic organizations should result in the

organizational structure of these private consulting firms being very different from those

of more traditional academic archaeological organizations.

The evolution of archaeology’s legal context continued into the 1990s. In 1990

the United States Congress passed the Native American Graves Protection and

Repatriation Act (NAGPRA). NAGPRA greatly expanded legal protections afforded to mortuary remains and objects encountered in the course of archaeological work. In

effect, Native American groups were given a voice in the conduct of archaeological

research that impacted mortuary remains. Under the law, when mortuary deposits are

encountered, archaeologists must inform appropriate tribal representatives who will determine how those remains will be treated—left in place with or without documentation or moved to another tribal mortuary facility. NAGPRA would stimulate a vigorous debate in the discipline (see Clark 1998; Goldstein and Kintigh 1990; Klesert

1993; Meighan 1992; Rose et al. 1996) and significantly altered archaeological practice

that uncovered or had the potential to uncover Native American burials.

One of the major impacts of this legislation on archaeological practice was that

archaeologists often sought to avoid mortuary features in their research and thereby also

avoiding the legal requirements of NAGPRA. Of the varieties of archaeological research

conducted, attempts at avoidance are only available to archaeologists based in academic

institutions who are in control of their own data selection. Data selection for CRM

archaeologists, on the other hand, is dictated by the intent of the developing agent, so

such practitioners cannot choose to avoid mortuary features. This dichotomous approach 334

to mortuary remains has resulted in academic archaeologists largely abandoning the new

excavation of grave deposits, expect under unexpected and unusual circumstances (Harris

2006). Conversely, CRM archaeology’s legal mandate to mitigate the destruction of archaeological data prior to construction activities can force these practitioners into the excavation of mortuary features. Subsequently, recent mortuary research in the

Hohokam area has been exclusively conducted through CRM auspices, such as the large- scale recovery of mortuary features from Pueblo Grande (Mitchell 1994).

In addition, NAGPRA mandated the return of items previously recovered from

Native American mortuary deposits that were housed in federally-funded institutions.

In the context of Hohokam archaeology, significant mortuary collections were repatriated to local Native American groups, including the hallmark assemblage of Hohokam archaeology—the Snaketown collection (Harris 2002). This law represented another instance of the participation of non-archaeologists with different goals and motivations, particularly Native American groups, in archaeological research. While NAGPRA represents what has been and continues to be an important intersection of several debates in American archaeology and has significantly impacted the conduct of archaeological research, its effects are not further considered in the present study.

In another example of continuity within Hohokam archaeology, the patterns in literature established in the previous decade largely persisted. By this point, private firms were conducting most large CRM projects, and their reports followed the basic template refined in the previous decade. Fostering this approach was the use of historic contexts, which are research tools used for the management of historic properties (National Park 335

Service 1983; Dart 1989b). Regulatory agencies employed historic contexts to integrate research from disparate sources as well as to rapidly evaluate if a given property was

significant according to National Register standards. The consistent use of historic

contexts by a wide variety of organizations could have the effect of greater synthesis in the discipline’s discourse by focusing research energy on a limited number of topics.

Many of these publications made clear reference to historic contexts, noting their profitable utilization in large CRM projects (Craig and Hackbarth 1997, 2001:17).

However, CRM archaeology continued to face the tension between innovation and conservatism. While practitioners sought to couch their research interests in terms of historic contexts, they faced the problem of redundancy and the question of “why do we need to excavate another Hohokam village?” (Rosenberg 2004). And on the other hand, the Arizona SHPO seems increasingly interested in compliance and evaluation rather than new research avenues (Paul Fish 2006, personal communication).

Throughout the 1980s and continuing into the 1990s, contract research often addressed extensive research concerns—investigating a wide variety of Hohokam

issues—site structure, chronology, subsistence, exchange, and settlement/community patterns. Critics continued to note the deficiencies of some CRM inspired literature, such as issues of accessibility, the perennial problem with gray literature (Altschul 2004:48-4;

Whittlesey and Reid 2004; Valentine and Simmons 2004).

Hohokam archaeologists continued publishing their work in traditional journals, such as American Antiquity, Kiva, Journal of Field Archaeology, and World

Archaeology. Edited volumes remained popular with notable collections published 336

during the 1990s including Exploring the Hohokam (Organized by Amerind and BOR),

Chaco and Hohokam, the 2nd Salado Conference, Prehistoric Irrigation in Arizona

(published by SSI), and The Hohokam Village Revisited.

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1990-1994

Discourse in the early 1990s exhibited several continuities with previous periods including concerns with chronology, subsistence, and the dynamics of the regional system and political communities. Also like the previous period, these research issues were often addressed embedded in discussions that related them to other issues, maintaining a high level of integration to Hohokam discourse. During this decade, however, the citation structure of Hohokam literature began to more clearly reflect the greater synthesis of archaeological discussions.

The Regional System, Political Communities and Site Structure

While usually not explicitly discussed in exactly Wilcox’s regional system terms, its legacy remained clearly evident in Hohokam archaeology. For the most part, the

Hohokam material assemblage continued to be viewed not as a reflection of a distinct cultural group, but as components within an interacting system (Wilcox 1979; Wilcox and Sternberg 1983), realizing Wilcox’s desire expressed in the original publication. The basic framework of the regional system continued to offer a common framework for a variety of researchers to orient their research. Archaeologists explored and refined the details of the system’s operation through studies of communities, site structure, exchange, 337

and ideology. Furthermore, the concept of communities, often buttressed by settlement

pattern studies, further served as an important lens through which archaeologists viewed

the Hohokam (e.g. Ahlstrom 1994; Cable 1994; Chenault et al. 1993; Crown 1990;

Doelle and Wallace 1991; Doyel 1991a; Feinman 1991; Gregory 1991; Howard 1994;

McGuire 1991; Mitchell 1990; Motsinger 1994; Seymour and Doak 1993; Stone 1993;

Wilcox 1991). Site structure—patterned relationships between features at a site—had been defined as an important research topic in the 1980s (Howard 1985; Huntington

1986; Wilcox, Sternberg and McGuire 1981) and remained a common focus of attention

in the subsequent decade (e.g. Ahlstrom 1994; Cable 1994; Chenault et al. 1993; Crown

1990; Dart 1994; Greenwald 1994; Harry 1992; Howard 1994; Mitchell 1990; Ravesloot and Lascaux 1993 Zyniecki 1993). These concepts provided Hohokam archaeologists with nested levels of analysis to organize research.

As new data accumulated, archaeologists noted the unexpected complexity found in Hohokam communities (Crown 1990), though echoes of a simple core-periphery dichotomy remained present (McGuire 1991). Research at the Marana Community in the northern Tucson Basin was a notable example of community studies, refining their implications (Fish, Fish and Madsen 1992). The researchers—Paul and Suzanne Fish,

John Madsen, of ASM and James Bayman—continued the work they had begun during the previous decade. Bayman was an integral part of ASM’s Marana research in the

1990s, though he received his PhD from ASU (Bayman 1994). The location of the

Marana community away from major centers of modern population had ensured that

archaeological remains were relatively undisturbed and provided researchers with an 338

unparalleled opportunity to investigate the archaeological record of a essentially complete political community. Compared to Salt-Gila communities, an unusual aspect of the

Marana community was its lack of an extensive irrigation system. As previously noted, canals were often presented as central to the social and economic organization of communities (Crown 1987; Doyel 1981; Nicholas and Neitzel 1984; Upham and Rice

1980), so Marana research provided the opportunity to investigate a Hohokam community in a significantly different environmental and cultural context (Fish 1996).

As noted in the previous section, the Fish team (Fish, Fish and Madsen 1992) envisioned the Marana community as a hierarchically structured association with several classes of functionally differentiated and economically complementary interdependent sites (see also Gregory 1991). The platform mound village served as the integrative node through which various settlements were politically tied and the residents of this central site appeared to have special access to and control of various spheres of exchange that were not open to all community residents, suggesting some level of social differentiation

(Bayman 1992, 1994; Fish and Fish 1991). The Marana team also explored the community concept through considerations of dynamics socio-cultural and environmental processes associated with aggregation (Fish and Fish 1994) and abandonment (Fish and

Fish 1993).

Exchange, usually in the context of the community operation, also remained a central thread of Hohokam archaeology. The traditional material of exchange studies, shell, obsidian, and ceramics and its sourcing continued to offer archaeologists a critical lens (e.g. Bostwick and Burton 1993; Crown 1990, 1991; Dart 1994; Doelle and Wallace 339

1991; Doyel 1991, 1993; Greenwald 1994; Harry 1992; Howard 1994; Lindauer and

Zaslow 1994; Marmaduke and Martynec 1993; Motsinger 1994; Nelson 1991; Ravesloot and Lascaux 1993). These studies addressed how exchange bound Hohokam society together within communities and throughout the Hohokam region (Abbott 1994; Bayman

1992; Wilcox 1991) as well as to cultural groups outside of the cultural system, such as the Mogollon and Ancestral Pueblo peoples (Crown 1991). Sophisticated techniques and analyses allowed ceramic specialists to uncover the dynamic nature of exchange, and relevant social relationships, throughout the Hohokam culture area (Abbott 1994; Abbott and Schaller 1992).

Of particular importance to the study of Hohokam exchange was Northland’s research at Shelltown and the Hindsite (Marmaduke and Martynec 1993). The excavation of the sites in the Papaguería revealed evidence for the substantial production of shell goods. Researchers argued such specialized production was designed for exchange with other parts of the Hohokam system, possibly as a buffer against downfalls in local subsistence production. Northland’s research illustrated a functionally specific part of the regional system and explored its relationships with other components.

The social complexity of the Hohokam system and political communities also continued to receive attention during this period (e.g. Neitzel 1991; Wilcox 1991). SSI’s excavations at Pueblo Grande, specifically the large mortuary collection that was recovered, provided ample data for discussions of the existence of hierarchical social organization in Hohokam society (e.g. Cable 1994; Foster 1994; Mitchell 1992).

Mitchell (1994) argued that the presence of discrete cemetery groups suggested the 340

existence of similar discrete social units. Additionally, the mortuary data implied some level of vertical differentiation, though not to the level of a chiefdom, as well as a sizable amount of horizontal social variation (Mitchell 1994).

Utilizing data, especially mortuary, from ASU’s project at La Ciudad in the previous decade, McGuire (1992, published in an earlier form by OCRM 1987) also investigated the nature of Hohokam social complexity with through an explicit Marxist lens with a focus on conflicts between different segments of Hohokam society. He agued pre-Classic Hohokam society was characterized by a tension between emergent social differentiation and an ideology of equality and egalitarianism. Architecture and the material culture of daily life suggested basic social equality, while mortuary assemblages indicated some vertical differentiation. In McGuire’s view, one of the major changes apparent with the onset of the Classic period was a shift to a more obvious reification of social hierarchy in daily life, as architecture and other material culture began to more clearly reflect social differences. McGuire’s view represents somewhat of an unusual approach to Hohokam archaeology as he explicitly utilized a well-known school of social thought and applied it to the case study of the Hohokam.

The collapse of the regional system also received attention during this period.

Archaeologists working in or near the Tucson Basin argued that the prehistoric and historic records demonstrated marked discontinuity, suggesting the Hohokam system did not simply morph into the cultures of historic Native American groups (Dart 1994;

Doelle and Wallace 1990). Other researchers noted the existence of a possible post-

Classic phase—the Polvorón—and discussed its implications for understanding the end 341

of the Hohokam sequence (Chenault 1994; Ravesloot and Lascaux 1993). This phase is

discussed more fully in the following period.

Subsistence

Hohokam archaeology had long been interested in the nature of prehistoric

subsistence, becoming especially evident in the archaeological literature of the 1970s,

and the 1990s maintained this tradition. Irrigation offered yet another example of

continuity in Hohokam discourse (Greenwald 1994; Howard 1994; Howard and

Huckleberry 1991). Such discussions were usually couched within the terms of the

Hohokam community because irrigation was often seen as a primary mechanism that bound together groups and individuals socially and politically. Keeping with previous

trends, the complexity in canal management, construction and maintenance was believed

to have had substantial effects on Hohokam social organization. Soil Systems sponsored

a symposium on irrigation in 1988 that was published in 1991 in which a number of

practitioners offered their views on Hohokam irrigation. Cable and Mitchell (1991)

discussed the social relationships between sites (using a site typology descended from a

focus on site structure) implied by connections along common canals and political interdependence and their change through time (Cable 1991). They speculated that irrigation communities were actually components of larger political organizations, three of which—Mesa Grande, Pueblo Grande, and Casa Grande—dominated the entire Salt-

Gila area. Others compared prehistoric to historic canal systems (Ackerly 1991) and the human circulatory system (Doolittle 1991). More specific approaches to irrigation 342

examined the role of waterborne diseases on Hohokam health (Fink 1991) and addressed

methodological issues in the identification of canals (Huckleberry 1992). The labor and

engineering necessary for Hohokam irrigation was also reconceptualized as much more

complex and dynamic than previously assumed (Doolittle 1991; Huckleberry 1992).

Since the 1970s, Hohokam archaeologists were increasingly interested in forms of

Hohokam subsistence beyond irrigation agriculture, and the 1990s proved no different.

Variation in subsistence practices continued to be one of the central themes addressed in

Hohokam studies (e.g. Ahlstrom et al. 1994; Bernard-Shaw and Doelle 1991; Cable

1994; Chenault 1993; Crown 1990; Dart 1994; Deaver 1994; Donaldson 1991; Gish

1991; Greenwald 1994; Harry 1992; Henderson 1993; Homburg 1993; Masse 1991b;

Mitchell 1990; Ravesloot and Lascaux 1993; Seymour and Doak 1993; Stone 1993;

Whittlesey and Ciolek-Torrello 1992; Zyniecki 1993). The Fishes’ research on agave cultivation at the Marana community represented an influential approach to economic and subsistence specialization within Hohokam communities. The production of agave was thought to represent a strategy of subsistence as well as social participation with the larger community, as agave cultivators could exchange some of their surplus for other crafts and goods.

Chronology

Chronology, the always controversial topic, remained another focus of Hohokam research (e.g. Ahlstrom et al. 1994; Chenault 1993; Harry 1992; Henderson 1993;

Howard 1994; Mitchell 1990; Ravesloot and Lascaux 1993; Zyniecki 1993). Jeffrey 343

Dean (1991) published an influential statement on the issue during this period. Dean has

long been associated with chronologies of Southwestern archaeological cultures through

his dendrochronological research and position as head of the UA’s tree-ring laboratory.

Most Hohokam sites occur in areas lacking the particular tree species necessary to

conduct denchronological testing, so Dean had up to this point played a relatively minor

role in discussions of Hohokam chronology. However, in Exploring the Hohokam Dean

reevaluated the Hohokam chronology and offered his own interpretation, based largely on

radiocarbon and archaeomagnetic dates. Dean’s chronology was positioned in a middle-

ground between the traditional long-count of Haury (e.g. Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and

Gladwin 1937; Haury 1976) and the more recent spate of short-counts offered by younger

archaeologists (e.g. Plog 1980; Schiffer 1982; Wilcox and Shenk 1977; Wilcox and

Sternberg 1983). While not completely resolving the issue, Dean’s chronology quickly

became a standard citation for many other archaeologists. This chronology (Dean 1991)

ranks 10th (41 times) and 5th (72 times) on the list of most cited publications for the first

and second half of the 1990s respectively (Appendix A). A respected expert and somewhat of an outsider, Dean’s perspective was quickly incorporated into Hohokam

research.

Ideology

While Hohokam archaeologists had discussed ideology previously (e.g. Wilcox

and Sternberg 1977, 1983), it had not been a central issue in archaeological research

(though see the discussion of McGuire above). In this period, however, ideology 344

received a bit more attention. Bostwick (1992) examined Hohokam and Salado platform mounds to explore possible ceremonial and symbolic meanings—such as rainmaking or flood control—rather than the political role of mounds, as many other authors had emphasized, especially in studies of political communities. Howard’s (1992) discussion of ideology and platform mounds did address some political issues as he argued the restricted spaces on such features were solely the locale of ritual activities and not elite residences, which has important implications for the likelihood of hierarchical social organization among the Hohokam.

Summary

The content of Hohokam discourse during this period appeared to focus on fewer topics that are intellectually disparate. The general frameworks of site structure, political communities, and versions of the regional system provided the interpretative architecture into which a great variety of other topics could be couched. Archaeologists remained committed to investigating the wide range of Hohokam cultural behavior, but most of these issues were more thoroughly integrated. In a CRM environment of reduced intellectual autonomy, synthesis and syncretism are the more common strategies of occupying the discipline’s attention space (Collins 1998).

345

Hohokam Research Issues and Questions: 1995-2001

Origins

Several publications, primarily produced by CRM archaeologists, addressed the issue of Hohokam origins during this period. The view that the Hohokam had local and indigenous origins, rather than being migrants from the south, remained the common interpretation (e.g. Bayman 2001; Henderson 1995). New fieldwork in southeastern

Arizona at villages dating to the Early Agricultural Period—chronologically preceding the Hohokam phases—inspired a reevaluation of the Red Mountain phase (Morris 1969) as a transition to the Hohokam pattern (Mabry 2000). The Red Mountain phase bridged the temporal and cultural gap between more ephemeral archaeological remains and the more extensive remnants of the Hohokam. Diagnostic markers of this phase included plain ware ceramics, small square structures, and flexed burials. Utilizing frameworks based in site structure and settlement patterns, archaeologists offered interpretations for the gradual evolution of early agricultural sites into more definitive Hohokam settlements

(Henderson 1995). Some argued that the Hohokam cultural pattern—the distinctive material cultural assemblage—appeared rapidly, suggesting a spreading ideology that integrated previously disparate groups from various cultural backgrounds (Wallace,

Heidke and Doelle 1995).

The Regional System and Political Communities

The regional system model held to its dominant interpretive position in Hohokam archaeology, and the concept of the community—a social organization transcending 346

individual villages, politically integrated through sites with public architecture—

remained an integral component to research (e.g. Bayman 2001; Craig 2000; Ciolek-

Torrello et al. 1999; Doak and Terzis 1997; Doyel 1998, 2000; Doyel and Fish 2000;

Greenwald and Ballagh 1996; Hackbarth et al. 1995; Jones 1998; Wellman 1999, 2000).

Archaeologists did not develop completely novel theoretical constructs, rather,

they expanded and refined the community concept. In particular, platform mounds

served as a common focus of archaeological attention, as research in the Tonto Basin—

stemming from the intensive BLM project to build the Roosevelt dam—encountered

many such features fostered concern with the role of platform mounds in Hohokam

society (Doelle, Gregory and Wallace 1995; Elson 1998; Rice 1998). Based on the

distributions of platform mounds, CRM researchers argued that one regional system did

not exist, but several sub-regional systems are evident, exhibiting varying levels of

interaction (Doelle, Gregory and Wallace 1995; Wallace 1995). Even irrigation communities near well-known Salt River canal systems, such as canal system 2, were

interpreted as autonomous from these larger social organizations (Hackbarth and

Henderson 1995). This perspective differs significantly from earlier statements that

proposed that three large political organizations—Pueblo Grande, Mesa Grande, and

Casa Grande—administered the entire Salt-Gila area. Further, the form and social

concept of platform mounds was interpreted as having an origin in the Phoenix Basin,

where the features fit into an existing sociopolitical system characterized by some

hierarchical social differentiation. Mounds were then incorporated into the cultural

systems other areas, conforming to local circumstances, usually of less complexity and 347

social differentiation. The presence of Hohokam communities in varying environmental

contexts—the easily irrigated Phoenix Basin or the more difficult Tucson—forced a consideration of the scale and spatial extent of such social groupings (Fish 1996). Other archaeologists explored the impacts of warfare (Rice 1998) and environmental change

(Waters and Ravesloot 2001) on the form of Hohokam communities.

Site structure retained its position as a central focus of Hohokam research, though receiving some refinement (e.g. Ciolek-Torrello et al. 1999, 2000; Craig 2000; Doyel

2000; Doyel and Fish 2000; Doyel et al. 1995; Greenwald and Ballagh 1996; Hackbarth et al. 1995; Jones 1998; Mitchell and Motsinger 1997, 1998; Roth 2000; Stubing et al.

1998; Wallace 1995; Wellman 1999, 2000). Northland researchers working at the Grewe site interpreted that house clusters exhibited marked occupational continuity and were composed of kin units, probably numbering around ten individuals (Henderson 2001).

Variation in these features was representative of changing social and economic fortunes.

Site structural constructs were subjected to statistical testing in attempts to validate prehistoric reality of the archaeological construct (Howard 2000).

Since the 1970s and continuing into this period, the cultural changes associated with the beginnings of the Classic period have been increasingly viewed as a development internal to the Hohokam regional system (Ciolek-Torrello et al. 1999;

Henderson 1995). Further research demonstrated continuities in platform mound architecture from the Sedentary through subsequent periods (Doyel 1998), augmenting previous work by Gregory (1988) and Wasley (1960). Like the Red Mountain Phase, the

Santan Phase received renewed attention and some argued for its utility in categorizing 348

the material traits and understanding the social dynamics surrounding the transition

(Doyel 2000b). Deviating somewhat from conventional wisdom, Northland

archaeologists and suggested that compound architecture—a hallmark of the Classic

period—appeared relatively rapidly and not through a gradual process unfolding over

more than a century, as many other Hohokam archaeologists argue (Hackbarth et al.

1995). The systemic dynamics associated with the Classic period continued to be an

important focus of research, though with some minor revisions.

Exchange throughout the Hohokam regional system remained a major focus for

Hohokam archaeology as one the primary mechanisms that bound the entire system as

well as individual political communities together (e.g. Bayman 2001; Ciolek-Torrello,

Huber and Neily 1999; Craig and Henderson 2001; Doak and Terzis 1997; Doyel and

Fish 2000; Doyel, Black and MacNider 1995; Greenwald and Ballagh 1996; Jones 1998;

Mitchell and Motsinger 1997; Stubing, Mitchell and Motsinger 1998; Wellman 1999).

Detailed ceramic studies remained important avenues to document the social

relationships manifest through exchange. Archaeologists worked to uncover the distinct

spheres of exchange through which plain wares and red wares circulated (Abbott 1996,

2000; Abbott, Stinson, and Van Kueren 2001), revealing specialized ceramic production

(Abbott, Stinson and Van Kueren 2001) and social groupings. Also, the production and

exchange of specialized goods was viewed as a strategy to minimize the subsistence

consequences of environmental fluctuations (Harry 2000; Van Kueren, Stinson and

Abbott 1997), an interpretation that was not new to Hohokam studies. Obsidian, a

relatively easily sourced material, served as an important measure of regional exchange, 349

indicating different avenues of procurement (Doyel 1996) or suggesting relatively simple

levels of economic complexity (Peterson, Mitchell and Shackley 1997). Bayman (1995,

1996) utilized a combination of material types to document exchange, and argued that

Hohokam individual’s position of power legitimated that authority through the control of

exotic items, procured through exchange, and their participation in a prestige economy.

The sociopolitical complexity that characterized the Hohokam regional system

also held on to its important position in the Hohokam discourse (e.g. Bayman 2001; Craig

and Henderson 2001; Doyel and Fish 2000). While the discussions were not marked by

consensus, the Hohokam were usually depicted as having achieved some level of social

complexity—beyond tribal horticulturalists—though not to extreme levels—such as a

classic chiefdom. Archaeologists utilized a number of different approaches in their

examinations of complexity. Variation in craft production, ideology, subsistence and exchange within communities was seen as evidence of increasing complexity (Fish and

Fish 2000; Pruecel 1996). Combining ethnographic, historic, and archaeological information, Elson argued that the presence of platform mounds among the Hohokam indicated some degree of social complexity, at least that of a ranked society and the

existence of clear descent groups (1998, 2000; Elson and Abbott 2000). Researchers at the Grewe site suggested that Hohokam populations may have been much larger than traditionally thought, which could have significant implications for understandings of sociopolitical organization during the pre-Classic (Craig 2000). Fish and Fish advocated understanding Hohokam social complexity as structured through co-residence rather than kinship (2000). Avenues, whether based on individual political acumen or collective 350

organization, to leadership were examined (Harry and Bayman 2000). Gender was also

used to untangle changing degrees of social complexity through the Sedentary-Classic

transition, which the authors interpreted as impacting women in both positive and

negative ways (Crown and Fish 1996). Despite the changing legal environment

surrounding the recovery of human remains, some archaeologists maintained a focus on

mortuary collections as windows on complexity (Mitchell and Brunson-Hadley 2001).

Subsistence

Keeping with trends first established during the 1970s, Hohokam research

continued focusing on variety in ancient subsistence practices (e.g. Bayman et al. 1997,

2001; Ciolek-Torrello et al. 1999; Ciolek-Torrello et al. 1999, 2000; Craig and Hackbarth

1997; Craig and Henderson 1995, 2001; Greenwald and Ballagh 1996; Doak and Terzis

1997; Doyel et al. 1995; Jones 1998; Mitchell and Motsinger 1997, 1998; Stubing et al.

1998; Wellman 1999, 2000). Most reports from large projects also continued to have

chapters dedicated toward subsistence. Some researchers attempted to further integrate

subsistence studies with other questions including social and political organization.

Continuing their influential research, Paul and Suzanne Fish (1999) argued that variation

in subsistence was tied to the specific conditions of local environments and that various

subsistence pursuits could form the basis of social groupings that crosscut other such

social units. They specifically discuss how the construction of rock pile fields for agave

cultivation could be an example of just such a phenomenon. Cooperation in the construction and maintenance of such features would provide a common cause and 351

interest for individuals lacking kinship or other kinds of social ties. Hohokam subsistence remained tightly bound to understandings of the social and political organization of Hohokam society.

That hallmark of Hohokam subsistence, irrigation remained a focus of research

(e.g. Craig and Henderson 2001; Doyel et al. 1995; Hackbarth et al. 1995). Northland

Research continued its prolific output during this period with the report on the mostly

Classic period Scottsdale canal system, (Hackbarth et al. 1995). While irrigation was an

obvious focus, the investigators posited this contribution as unique because it examines a

relatively small-scale system that could be compared to the operation of larger ones, such

as canal system 2.

Hohokam Collapse

One of only obvious debates characterizing the region’s discourse surrounded the

collapse of the Hohokam system (Bayman 2001; Doyel et al. 1995; Greenwald and

Ballagh 1996). Specifically, the existence of the Polvorón phase became a source of disagreement. The Polvorón phase was defined as a time of decreasing cultural complexity from the previous Civano phase and provided a transition between the

Hohokam cultural pattern and those of historically documented Native American groups.

Chenault (2000) continued his defense of the existence of a definable Polvorón phase.

He argued that the Polvorón was a discrete, definable phase and that ignoring its temporal placement would impede any accurate archaeological inference concerning the end of the

Hohokam sequence. On the other side of the argument, Henderson and Hackbarth (2000) 352

replied that the criteria that defined the Polvorón phase were actually reflective of a different economic adaptation, instead of another distinct phase. According to Henderson and Hackbarth, the Polvorón phase was an economic adaptation synchronic with the late

Classic Civano phase and not a temporally distinct post-Classic development (Hackbarth

1995). They claimed enough temporal overlap existed in features identified as either

Civano or Polvorón that an explanation other than the designation of another phase was necessary. The Northland researchers noted that Polvorón structures are consistently positioned on the peripheries of sites, suggesting contemporary occupation of the compounds by other people. From this, Henderson and Hackbarth argued that the end of the Hohokam sequence was not characterized by wholesale decreasing social complexity.

Instead, increasing social complexity was indicated by the emergence of a migratory workforce as an important component of the social system. At least two segments of society would have characterized late Hohokam society—those resident to existing villages and those that practiced a more mobile strategy moving to where opportunities were available. Additionally, The Northland researchers argued that the Hohokam system collapsed more slowly and later than was traditionally assumed.

Summary

The 1990s did not witness any dramatic intellectual shifts in Hohokam discourse and suggests significant continuity with the previous decade. For the most part, research can be characterized as extensions of issues and questions that had been raised in previous decades and a further consolidation around the common theoretical frameworks 353

that continued to serve as the basic architecture into which new details of Hohokam prehistory are furnished. The overarching interpretative frameworks of site structure

(Wilcox, Sternberg and McGuire 1981), political communities (Doyel 1981) and regional systems (Wilcox 1979; Wilcox and Sternberg 1983) emerged during the late l970s and early 1980s. This period of creativity corresponded to a time of organizational transformations as the impact of new funding and research became apparent to the region’s archaeological community. Collins (1998) argues that it is at just these times that intellectual creativity is intensified. The 1990s, on the other hand, appear to represent a period of stabilization and consolidation of both the organizational and intellectual structure.

Citation Analysis

The increasing integration and synthesis that appears to characterize the research questions and issues of interest to Hohokam archaeology appears to be reflected in the citation structure of the literature of the 1990s. Suggestions of increasing integration in

Hohokam discourse existed in the 1980s, but were not clearly demonstrated in the co- citation networks. However, in the 1990s’ co-citation networks produced from a variety of literature samples—academic, CRM, and highly cited—more consistently display integrated patterns where the most highly cited authors are positioned at the center of networks, while those authors that are cited fewer times occupy the peripheral regions.

These patterns mirror the sociological expectations outlined in chapter 5. According to that argument, the changing social environment of CRM archaeology should result in a 354

more integrated discourse that is characterized by higher levels of agreement as to the

major ideas and figures of the discipline relative to earlier periods. The social

environment of archaeology in southern Arizona had changed from one of a few, scattered practitioners largely based in academic settings in its early history to those based in private companies structured to carry out legally mandated archaeological work.

This evolution has resulted in Hohokam archaeologists having a relatively weaker

material base as they can exercise much less autonomy than previous periods, even

though more funding is available (see Collins 1998). Additionally, while the number of

archaeologists participating in Hohokam archaeology has dramatically increased, the

networks upon which practitioners depend have shrunk (see Fuchs 1992). Large funding

agencies, such as ADOT, BLM and BOR, and government bodies, particularly the

SHPO, determine who receives support. The networks responsible for awarding

contracts for research have become more concentrated in these limited number of

organizations. This situation contrasts with the traditional system of academic funding

through grants in which a larger pool of professional archaeologists is available as

gatekeepers of material support.

Citation Analysis: 1990-1994

During the early 1990s, a much more synthetic, integrated pattern is evident

relative to all earlier periods. Most of the samples discussed below exhibit a network that

contains a distinct core, full of highly-cited generalist Hohokam authors, while less commonly cited authors occupy peripheral positions. 355

Academic CRM Highly Cited Aggregate Publications in 65 100 65 Sample Cited Authors 731 1617 529 Authors in 168 237 239 Matrix Percent of total 77 73 88 citations in sample Cited 5 16 2 Threshold Table 8.1: Citing Literature Sample 1990-1994

Hohokam literature continues to be published at a relatively prolific rate,

especially through CRM outlets. As demonstrated in Table 8.1, the discrepancy between

the number of CRM produced publications and academic ones is clearly evident. Even

though CRMD had closed its doors, ASM’s Archaeological Series remains the most cited

CRM publication type for academic publications as well as those produced by a variety of CRM firms. This pattern illustrates the continuing impact of much of the work produced by that organization during the previous 20 years. Self-citation patterns remain

evident as academic sources cite other academic series at a higher rate (66%), as do CRM

firms. Most publications tend to cite other publications produced by the same firm with

ACS (10%), SSI (16%), SWCA (5%), SRI (4%), Northland (6%) and CDARC (21%) all exhibiting high self-citation patterns. All of these percentages are much higher than

typical aggregate tendencies of citing a given publication type.

356

Co-Citation Analyses

Academic

The network produced from the citing sample of academic literature appears to be

the most clearly symmetric and centralized of all other networks in this study (Figure 8.1;

Table 8.3). The network is centered on a dense concentration, Cluster 1, of highly cited authors. Most of the members of this cluster are archaeologists who came to prominence during the late 1970s and throughout the 1980s, such as Doyel, Wilcox and Rice. Haury and Di Peso are the only archaeologists active before 1970s that are also members.

Again, archaeologists from the UA, ASU, and a variety of contract firms share membership in this cluster suggesting that no one institution has an exclusive prominent position. This cluster suggests younger generation of Hohokam scholars have established a significant foothold and taken the central position in intellectual discussions.

A few other features on this network are evident. Several authors in Cluster 2 are associated with studies of Hohokam irrigation—Nicholas, Neitzel, Masse, and Nials— and may result from the increased literature output pertaining to irrigation stemming from

SSI’s symposium publication (Breternitz and Howard 1991). While somewhat distinct, the irrigation cluster is situated near the central core, reflecting the prominent place of irrigation research in Hohokam archaeology. A collection of nodes at the end of one spoke seems focused on subsistence issues, as many faunal, ethnobotanical, and environmental specialists cluster together. Bohrer, Gish, Kwiatkowski, and Gasser are all paleobotanical specialists, while Nabhan and Brown have conducted more broad studies 357

on the environment of the Sonoran Desert. Both Szuter and Rea specialize in the analysis of faunal remains.

The increasing centralization and symmetry of this network indicates a discursive structure marked by much more synthesis than previous periods. Several discrete, separate clusters do not exist nor does an even distribution of authors. Most topics of interest to archaeologists are framed as highly interconnected and are represented in citation practices through the common citation of the similar sets of others. Multiple distinct schools or centers of intellectual gravity are not present—instead a clear center emerges with a few other minor clusters. While clusters 2 and 3 are somewhat distinct, they are positioned closely together. 358

Doyel, David 60 Teague, Lynn S. 30 Wilcox, David R. 55 Howard, Ann Valdo 29 Fish, Suzanne K. 50 Feinman, Gary M. 28 Fish, Paul R. 50 Hayden, Julian D. 28 Haury, Emil 49 Mitchell, Douglas R. 28 Crown, Patricia L. 47 Sires, Earl W. 27 Wallace, Henry D. 47 Di Peso, Charles C. 26 Gregory, David 46 Neitzel, Jill E. 26 McGuire, Randall 45 Seymour, Deni J. 26 Miksicek, Charles H. 45 Bernard-Shaw, Mary 25 Doelle, William H. 45 Ravesloot, John C. 25 Cable, John S. 44 Nabhan, Gary Paul 24 Rice, Glen 43 Johnson, Alfred E. 23 Masse, Bruce W. 42 Upham Steadman 23 Huckell, Bruce B. 41 Craig, Douglas B. 22 Gasser, Robert E. 40 Huntington, Frederick W. 22 Gladwin, Harold S. 38 Nicholas, Linda 22 Plog, Fred 37 Abbott, David 21 Schroeder, Albert H. 37 Ciolek-Torrello, Richard S. 21 Wasley, William W. 35 Dart, Allen 21 Elson, Mark D. 33 Dean, Jeffrey 21 Downum, Christian E. 32 Fewkes, Jesse W. 21 Henderson, T. Kathleen 32 Gumerman, George J. 21 Howard, Jerry B. 32 Czaplicki, Jon S. 20 Schiffer, Michael B. 31 Plog, Stephen 20 Table 8.2: 50 Most Cited Authors from Academic Sample 1990-1994 359

Cluster 1 J. Cable B. Huckell P. Crown F. Huntington C. Di Peso R. McGuire D. Doyel D. Morris J. Eighmy G. Rice P. Fish E. Sires (central node) S. Fish L. Teague D. Gregory H. Wallace E. Haury W. Wasley K. Henderson D. Wilcox J. Howard Cluster 2 W. Doelle L. Neitzel J. Fewkes F. Nials G. Gumerman L. Nicholas B. Masse Cluster 3 W. Bell A. Goodyear V. Bohrer S. Kwiatkowski D. Brown G. Nabhan R. Ford A. Rea R. Gasser C. Szuter J. Gish Table 8.3: Cluster Membership, Academic Sample 1990-94 360

Cluster 1

Cluster 2

Cluster 3

Figure 8.1: ACA Academic Network 1990-1994 361

Aggregate CRM

The aggregate CRM network does not exhibit the same pattern as the academic

sample—no central core exists (Figure 8.2; Table 8.5). The network does not exhibit a pattern structured along a single central line—like earlier CRM samples, but is

interconnected around several central cycles. Few distinct clusters are present, rather,

highly cited nodes are relatively evenly dispersed throughout the network. Table 8.5

contains members of the few, subtle and amorphous clusters that may be present.

Additionally, geographic emphases are apparent through a clinal distribution of authors

across the network. Phoenix based archaeologists tend to be on one side, while Tucson

practitioners are on the other with generalists occupying more central positions. This

pattern further underscores the existence of self-citation patterns as each firm possesses

its own citation resource base which it can easily access in report preparation. An

important cause of this pattern is likely the use of “boiler-plate” text that is copied from

preexisting literature and quickly incorporated into newer though similar projects.

While different in its specific structure, this network exhibits important

similarities with CRM networks from the previous period. Both show little centralization

into a core. However, obvious clusters do not exist, instead authors are relatively

dispersed across the network. This sample may exhibit a pattern between synthesis and

fractionation. 362

Doyel, David 90 Dart, Allen 73 Wilcox, David R. 89 Brown, David E. 72 Fish, Suzanne K. 89 Greenwald, David H. 70 Haury, Emil 88 Howard, Ann Valdo 66 Cable, John S. 87 Schroeder, Albert H. 66 Huckell, Bruce B. 87 Elson, Mark D. 65 Howard, Jerry B. 86 Sires, Earl W. 64 Miksicek, Charles H. 86 Bernard-Shaw, Mary 64 Fish, Paul R. 85 Di Peso, Charles C. 63 Mitchell, Douglas R. 85 Castetter, Edward F. 63 Wallace, Henry D. 85 Teague, Lynn S. 62 Gregory, David 85 Whittlesey, Stephanie M. 60 Doelle, William H. 84 Bostwick, Todd W. 59 Gasser, Robert E. 84 Nials, Fred L. 58 Crown, Patricia L. 83 Szuter, Christine 55 Henderson, T. Kathleen 83 Craig, Douglas B. 50 Abbott, David 82 Ackerly, Neal W. 49 Ciolek-Torrello, Richard S. 82 Sayles, E. B. 48 Masse, Bruce W. 81 Ravesloot, John C. 47 McGuire, Randall 75 Dean, Jeffrey 45 James, Steven R. 74 Deaver, William 43 Kwiatkowski, Scott 74 Eighmy, Jeffery L. 42 Rice, Glen 73 Greenwald, Dawn M. 41 Schiffer, Michael B. 73 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 40 Vokes, Arthur W. 73 Hayden, Julian D. 39 Table 8.4: 50 Most Cited Authors CRM Sample 1990-1994

Cluster 1 D. Gregory C. Miksicek K. Henderson D. Morris J. Howard L. Teague S. LeBlanc R. Woodbury Cluster 2 D. Brown A. Sullivan D. Doyel R. Turner E. Haury D. Wilcox Cluster 3 F. Bayham R. Underhill L. Binford F. Russell R. Hevly D. Seymour Table 8.5: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM 1990-1994 363

Cluster 2 Phoenix-centric

Cluster 3

Cluster 1

Tucson-centric

Figure 8.2: ACA Aggregate CRM Literature 1990-1994 364

Highly-Cited Sample

The patterns produced by the highly cited sample mirror those from the academic sample, suggesting a more consistent pattern in the structure of Hohokam citation patterns. Limited to highly cited publications, a very centralized, radial cluster of highly cited authors appears (Figure 8.3; Table 8.7)—exaggerating the centralization evident in the academic network. A very central, interconnected concentration appears in this cluster (1a). Cluster 1a is almost entirely composed of the younger generation of archaeologists, though Haury and Alfred Schroeder are nearby. Cluster 2 appears to contain a few authors—Di Peso, Hayden and Wasley—of the previous generation, but that are not quite as central as a figure like Haury. Cluster 3 is low cited authors densely connected at the end of a spoke and includes another set of older authors, as does cluster

4. 365

Doyel, David 49 Ciolek-Torrello, Richard S. 18 Haury, Emil 45 Seymour, Deni J. 18 Wilcox, David R. 45 Plog, Fred 17 Gregory, David 40 Abbott, David 16 Howard, Jerry B. 38 Ackerly, Neal W. 16 Crown, Patricia L. 37 Huntington, Frederick W. 16 Doelle, William H. 32 Eighmy, Jeffery L. 15 Rice, Glen 31 Huckell, Bruce B. 15 Cable, John S. 30 Elson, Mark D. 14 Henderson, T. Kathleen 29 Fish, Paul R. 28 Nicholas, Linda 14 McGuire, Randall 28 Russell, Frank 13 Fish, Suzanne K. 27 Nelson, Richard S. 13 Gasser, Robert E. 26 Upham Steadman 13 Teague, Lynn S. 25 Wood, J. Scott 12 Masse, Bruce W. 24 Graybill, Donald 12 Schroeder, Albert H. 23 Downum, Christian E. 12 Dean, Jeffrey 23 Howard, Ann Valdo 11 Wallace, Henry D. 22 Greenwald, David H. 11 Sires, Earl W. 22 Fewkes, Jesse W. 11 Mitchell, Douglas R. 21 Gladwin, Harold S. 11 Nials, Fred L. 19 Gumerman, George J. 11 Hayden, Julian D. 18 Flannery, Kent V. 11 Wasley, William W. 18 Hammack, Laurens C. 11 Di Peso, Charles C. 18 Table 8.6: 50 Most Cited Authors Highly Cited Sample 1990-1994

Cluster 1a J. Cable D. Mitchell W. Doelle F. Plog D. Doyel E. Sires R. Gasser H. Wallace K. Henderson D. Wilcox J. Howard Cluster 1— D. Abbott E. Haury Remainder P. Crown B. Huckell J. Dean B. Masse J. Eighmy R. McGuire P. Fish G. Rice S. Fish A. Schroeder (very central) D. Gregory D. Seymour G. Gumerman L. Teague (very central) Cluster 2 C. Di Peso W. Wasley J. Hayden Table 8.7: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1990-1994 366

Cluster 1

Cluster 2

Figure 8.3: Highly Cited Sample, Not Citation Context Limited 1990-1995 367

When limited by context, the same basic pattern remains though one long spoke

extends far from the center (Figure 8.4). Limiting by citation context seems to fractionate

the network slightly relative to the non-limited sample, but the same basic

centralized/synthetic pattern persists. Context limitation would be expected to fragment a

network somewhat, as citations of acknowledgement, orientation, and contradiction are

removed leaving only the subset that is explicitly used as support for a paper’s position.

The central concentration divides into three subtle clusters with Earl Sires as the

integrative connection, though all clusters are still closely associated. Sires and his

highly cited discussion of site structure and continuity through the Sedentary to Classic

transition appear to be an important integrative node in the discourse. Several clusters of low cited authors appear throughout the network, suggesting small associations.

Cluster 1 D. Abbott R. McGuire P. Crown D. Morris P. Fish L. Teague B. Huckell W. Wasley Cluster 2 M. Bernard-Shaw J. Hayden R. Ciolek-Torrello F. Huntington A. Dart D. Mitchell C. Di Peso F. Russell C. Downum H. Wallace M. Elson Cluster 3 N. Ackerly K. Henderson J. Cable J. Howard J. Dean B. Masse W. Doelle L. Nicholas R. Gasser F. Plog D. Graybill G. Rice D. Gregory A. Schroeder S. Fish S. Upham E. Haury D. Wilcox Table 8.8: Cluster Membership, Citation Context Limited 1990-1994 368

Figure 8.4: Highly Cited Sample with Citation Context Limitation 1990-1994 369

Both samples from the highly cited set of publications parallel the patterns seen in the academic literature. A definite central core of authors seems to anchor the discourse of the discipline. Interestingly, Earl Sires is a highly connected node in all of the centralized networks of this period, suggesting the important position of site structure in

Hohokam research.

Citation Analysis: 1995-2001

The second half of the 1990s exhibits patterns very similar to the first half. High self-citation patterns remain evident as academic sources cite others at about 61%, while

CRM publications only cite academic ones 49%. Publications produced by various CRM companies also follow the pattern with SWCA at 9%, CDARC at 21%, Northland at 9%,

ARS at 6%, ACS at 6%, and SRI at 10%.

Academic CRM Highly Cited Aggregate Publications in 49 187 65 Sample Cited Authors 672 1354 504 Authors in 141 251 246 Matrix Percent of total 76 80 89 citations in sample Cited 5 12 2 Threshold Table 8.9: Citing Literature Sample 1995-2001

370

Co-Citation Analysis

Academic

The academic network maintains the primarily centralized pattern, with a distinct core and periphery (Figure 8.5; Table 8.11). A central core characterizes the network with most of the highly cited authors as members, with some nearby subclusters. The network seems to contain a few more clusters throughout, but the various groupings are still concentrated at the center of the diagram—suggesting that any discernable clusters are still highly related to one another. Interestingly, Gladwin, a founding father of

Hohokam archaeology, has migrated to the periphery in this network. One spoke extending out seems to be focused on ceramic issues, as it includes David Schaller,

Prudence Rice, and Catherine Costin. Schaller is a geologist that has worked closely with

Hohokam archaeologists to determine the source of temper for ceramic artifacts, Rice and

Costin are both archaeologists not engaged in Hohokam research but have addressed general questions concerning ceramics in the archaeological record. Another spoke, extending to the left, does contain a number of highly cited authors that are relatively evenly dispersed. This pattern reflects a more thoroughly integrated discourse with generalists to the center and specialists to the periphery. 371

Doyel, David 40 Sires, Earl W. 23 Fish, Suzanne K. 35 Bostwick, Todd W. 22 Wilcox, David R. 35 Downum, Christian E. 22 Fish, Paul R. 35 Feinman, Gary M. 21 Gregory, David 34 Dean, Jeffrey 21 Abbott, David 33 Gladwin, Harold S. 20 Howard, Jerry B. 32 Masse, Bruce W. 20 Haury, Emil 31 Miksicek, Charles H. 20 Wallace, Henry D. 31 Neitzel, Jill E. 20 Mitchell, Douglas R. 30 Nials, Fred L. 20 Rice, Glen 29 Cable, John S. 20 Doelle, William H. 29 Greenwald, David H. 19 Crown, Patricia L. 28 Chenault, Mark L. 18 Ciolek-Torrello, Richard S. 27 Clark, Jeff 18 Elson, Mark D. 27 Mabry, Jonathan B. 18 Bayman, James M. 26 Reid, J. Jefferson 18 Henderson, T. Kathleen 26 Gumerman, George J. 17 Heidke, James 25 Hayden, Julian D. 17 McGuire, Randall 25 Huntington, Frederick W. 17 Huckleberry, Gary 24 Huckell, Bruce B. 16 Whittlesey, Stephanie M. 24 Lindauer, Owen 16 Teague, Lynn S. 24 Wasley, William W. 15 Craig, Douglas B. 23 Dart, Allen 14 Stark, Miriam 23 Jacobs, David 14 Shackley, M. Steven 23 Hackbarth, Mark R. 13 Table 8.10: 50 Most Cited Authors Academic Sample 1995-2001

Cluster 1 P. Crown D. Mitchell W. Doelle F. Nials D. Doyel E. Sires P. Fish H. Wallace K. Henderson D. Wilcox J. Howard Cluster 2 J. Dean D. Greenwald R. Ciolek-Torrello M. Hackbarth D. Craig J. Heidke M. Elson S. Whittlesey Cluster 3 J. Bayman R. McGuire C. Downum L. Nietzel G. Feinman L. Teague E. Haury Cluster 4 D. Abbott D. Rice D. Gregory Table 8.11: Cluster Membership, Academic Sample 1995-2001 372

Figure 8.5: ACA Academic Literature 1995-2001 373

Aggregate CRM

The CRM sample maintains many of the trends apparent in CRM networks from

previous periods. Highly cited nodes are relatively evenly distributed across the network

and not concentrated in the core (Figure 8.6; Table 8.13). The network consists of a large

cycle on the left of the diagram where most nodes are located, with a long spoke

extending to the right. Some highly cited, and densely interconnected, authors occupy

the central portions of this cycle. While not closely clustered, the extending spoke contains primarily Phoenix-based and ASU trained/based archaeologists such as

Henderson and Mitchell. Additionally, the same clinal pattern of Tucson to Phoenix remains with practitioners associated with the different geographic areas positioned to different sides of the network. For example, Douglass Mitchell and Kathleen Henderson are placed to the opposite side of the network of Henry Wallace. Interestingly, a collection of authors associated with irrigation studies (Cluster 6) connects the more populous section of the network to that more associated with CRM firms in the Phoenix area. Subsistence interests appear to link the two sides of the network. Cluster membership is also partly determined by institution of employment, as many individuals are grouped with others of the same organization. For example, cluster 2 contains many archaeologists employed by CDARC and cluster 5’s membership is partly drawn from employment at SWCA. These patterns suggest the easy use of in-house citation and boilerplate sections of reports. 374

Wallace, Henry D. 150 Cable, John S. 105 Doyel, David 142 Greenwald, David H. 105 Doelle, William H. 139 Roth, Barbara J. 101 Huckell, Bruce B. 135 Crown, Patricia L. 100 Wilcox, David R. 125 Deaver, William 99 Haury, Emil 123 Bernard-Shaw, Mary 97 Heidke, James 122 Castetter, Edward F. 95 Fish, Suzanne K. 122 Brown, David E. 92 Abbott, David 121 Di Peso, Charles C. 91 Craig, Douglas B. 120 Gregonis, Linda M. 91 Ciolek-Torrello, Richard S. 119 Huckleberry, Gary 91 Gregory, David 116 Masse, Bruce W. 82 Fish, Paul R. 115 Kwiatkowski, Scott 81 Mitchell, Douglas R. 114 Dean, Jeffrey 80 Vokes, Arthur W. 113 Huntington, Frederick W. 79 Howard, Jerry B. 113 Szuter, Christine 79 Whittlesey, Stephanie M. 112 Eighmy, Jeffery L. 78 Henderson, T. Kathleen 110 Bohrer, Vorsila L. 77 Elson, Mark D. 109 Adams, Jenny L. 75 Mabry, Jonathan B. 109 Miksa, Elizabeth 73 McGuire, Randall 108 Schiffer, Michael B. 73 Dart, Allen 108 Bell, Willis H. 71 Gasser, Robert E. 107 Waters, Michael R. 71 Huckell, Lisa 107 Gladwin, Harold S. 70 Miksicek, Charles H. 106 Bostwick, Todd W. 69 Table 8.12: 50 Most Cited Authors Aggregate CRM Sample 1995-2001 375

Cluster 1 R. Ciolek-Torrello S. Fish C. Downum E. Haury D. Doyel J. Hayden M. Elson L. Teague P. Fish D. Wilcox Cluster 2 M. Bernard-Shaw B. Huckell D. Craig F. Huntington A. Dart J. Mabry W. Deaver B. Roth W. Doelle D. Swartz A. Heidke H. Wallace Cluster 3 D. Arnold E. Miksa V. Bohrer C. Miksicek E. Castetter P. Minnis R. Gasser M. Schiffer J. Gish A. Vokes S. Kwiat Cluster 4 D. Abbott D. Phillips T. Bostwick A. Rogge J. Cable A. Schroeder D. Dove L. Stone R. Effland D. Weaver D. Greenwald M. Zyniecki D. Mitchell Cluster 5 K. Anderson A. Howard J. Bequart S. James L. Binford J. Kisselberg M.Chenault J. Lehr R. Euler W. Miller Dawn Greenwald D. Morris K. Henderson T. Motsinger T. Hoffman S. Smith Cluster 6 D. Graybill G. Rice (transitional) M. Hackbarth S. Shackley G. Huckleberry S. Upham F. Nials Table 8.13: Cluster Membership, Aggregate CRM Sample 1995-2001 376

Cluster 4

Cluster 3

Cluster 5 Cluster 6

Cluster 1

Cluster 2

Figure 8.6: ACA Aggregate CRM Literature 1995-2001 377

Highly Cited Sample

The sample of highly cited publications also largely maintains trends from the

preceding period. A relatively distinct core of highly cited authors occupies the center

with less cited authors tending toward the peripheries (Figure 8.7; Table 8.15). Cluster 1

contains the densest concentration of highly cited authors, with Cluster 2 as similar and closely associated. The central area is also characterized by two large cycles with several nodes and links cross cutting these central structures. The many interconnections through the cycles suggest a higher degree of integration relative to a network lacking such linkages. While three clusters are distinguished in the resulting network, all three are positioned closely together. Additionally, a few clusters of low-cited authors are scattered throughout the network. Geographic specialization continues to be apparent as cluster 3 is primarily composed of authors associated with Tucson Basin research, such as the Fishes, Downum, Rice and Bayman. The appearance of this distinct cluster is intriguing because these individuals represent the only Hohokam research that is being conducted through traditional academic means—NSF grants—and may be indicative of the greater intellectual autonomy afforded to researchers based in such environments. 378

Wilcox, David R. 54 Nials, Fred L. 17 Doyel, David 48 Masse, Bruce W. 17 Howard, Jerry B. 44 Hayden, Julian D. 15 Haury, Emil 43 Greenwald, David H. 15 Gregory, David 42 Huntington, Frederick W. 15 Crown, Patricia L. 41 Upham Steadman 15 Fish, Paul R. 37 Bernard-Shaw, Mary 14 Henderson, T. Kathleen 37 Heidke, James 14 Fish, Suzanne K. 35 Gladwin, Harold S. 13 Mitchell, Douglas R. 35 Slaughter, Mark C. 13 Elson, Mark D. 31 Harry, Karen G. 13 Doelle, William H. 30 Gasser, Robert E. 12 Sires, Earl W. 30 Russell, Frank 12 Abbott, David 29 Dart, Allen 12 Wallace, Henry D. 26 Neitzel, Jill E. 12 Rice, Glen 26 Underhill, Ruth M. 12 Dean, Jeffrey 25 Whittlesey, Stephanie M. 12 Ciolek-Torrello, Richard S. 23 Feinman, Gary M. 12 Craig, Douglas B. 22 Schroeder, Albert H. 11 Cable, John S. 21 Huckell, Bruce B. 11 Teague, Lynn S. 21 Nicholas, Linda 11 Bostwick, Todd W. 20 Kelly, Isabel T. 10 Bayman, James M. 20 Ahlstrom, Richard V. M. 10 McGuire, Randall 19 Ackerly, Neal W. 10 Downum, Christian E. 18 Graybill, Donald 10 Table 8.14: 50 Most Cited Authors Highly Cited Sample 1995-2001 379

Cluster 1 R. Ciolek-Torrello E. Haury D. Craig K. Henderson J. Dean J. Howard W. Doelle D. Mitchell D. Doyel G. Rice M. Elson E. Sires P. Fish H. Wallace S. Fish D. Wilcox D. Gregory Cluster 2 D. Abbott C. Di Peso T. Bostwick M. Stark P. Crown S. Whittlesey Cluster 3 J. Bayman S. Fish C. Downum K. Harry J. Fewkes G. Rice P. Fish Table 8.15: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample 1995-2001 380

Figure 8.7: ACA Highly Cited Sample, No Citation Context Limitation 1995-2001 381

This limitation does not destroy the central cluster, and actually seems to exaggerate the centralization (Figure 8.8; Table 8.16). Some new, densely interconnected clusters do develop, especially 3 and 4. These clusters contain relatively low cited authors, but exhibit many linkages.

Cluster 1a M. Bernard-Shaw M. Elson J. Cable S. Fish R. Ciolek-Torrello M. Hackbarth L. Cordell K. Henderson D. Craig J. Howard A. Dart B. Huckell J. Dean D. Mitchell W. Doelle F. Nials D. Doyel H. Wallace Cluster 1b D. Abbott D. Gregory N. Ackerly E. Haury T. Bostwick G. Rice P. Crown E. Sires P. Fish D. Wilcox Cluster 2 J. Bayman J. Neitzel C. Downum L. Teague R. McGuire Cluster 3 M. Foster O. Lindauer J. Hohman W. Marmaduke J. Homburg M. Raab A. Howard Cluster 4 R. Beals W. Lipe C. Breternitz L. Montero F. Eggan A. Rohn W. Gillespie K. Woodson S. Kowaleski N. Yoffee S. Lekson Table 8.16: Cluster Membership, Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1995-2001 382

Figure 8.8: ACA Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited 1995-2001 383

The 1990s: Organizational Continuity and Intellectual Synthesis

The last decade of the 20th century witnessed the continuation of the

organizational structure in Hohokam archaeology that had been established during the

1980s. Private firms, contracted by non-academic clients, were responsible for the vast

majority of archaeological fieldwork conducted in southern Arizona. The adjustments of

the previous decade appear to have become much more entrenched during the 1990s.

In the arena of intellectual discussions, Hohokam archaeology also exhibited

marked continuity in focus. Variations on the systemic model proposed by Wilcox

remained central to discourse. Particularly, the focus on political communities as

important units of Hohokam social organization remained an anchor for much

archaeological discussion.

The subtle suggestions of increasing intellectual integration evident in the 1980s

became more exaggerated in this decade. ACA networks consistently exhibited patterns

where highly cited authors constituted a central core with lesser cited nodes forming a periphery. This pattern suggests growing consensus as to the important figures and ideas that define the discipline. However, the networks based solely on CRM publications show consistently evenly dispersed patterns. This suggests some overlap in citation practices, but overall different centers of intellectual or citation gravity as most publications are primarily utilizing citations from their own firms through self-citation.

The CRM environment developing over the previous decade seems to have stabilized during the 1990s. The loss of autonomy of practitioners, combined with their ties to smaller networks of collegiate and material control have resulted in a synthetic and 384

integrated intellectual structure rather than a conversational or fragmented one.

Additionally, CRM projects are almost always team endeavors and not the pet project of a single individual (Altschul 2004), unlike the early days of Southwest Archaeology

(Snead 2005). This necessary collaborative focus may also foster intellectual environments of common questions, issues and research themes.

While these citation measures undoubtedly do not capture all the nuance of

Hohokam intellectual production, they do provide revealing broad brush strokes as to general trends that characterize the discipline. 385

CHAPTER 9: GENERAL PATTERNS AND CONCLUDING THOUGHTS

The past 40 years of archaeology in southern Arizona have witnessed a clear evolution in the character of its organizational context as well as in the structure of its intellectual discourse. Archaeologists have debated the consequences of CRM for the discipline since the inception of this organizational environment and Hohokam archaeology provides an excellent case study to examine any connections between social setting and intellectual content in a bounded and manageable context.

Specifically, practitioners have moved from bases of academia and private foundations devoted to academic research into those of the private sector that operate as businesses under mandates of profit, preservation, legal compliance, and client satisfaction. This new setting can limit the research autonomy that archaeology traditionally possessed in academic contexts as CRM is dependent on the actions of individuals outside of the bounds of the discipline in their selection of data. The critical question here is how do these transformations in context impact the actual content of archaeological discourse. Serving as a proxy measure of intellectual structure, author co- citation networks illustrate a directional pattern over time. Within the Hohokam archaeological community, intellectual discussions have transformed from relatively fragmented networks with multiple centers of gravity into ones with centralized questions and figures. Founded in theory offered by sociologists of science (Abbott 1998; Collins

1998; DiMaggio and Powell 1991; Fuchs 1992), these trends—one external, one 386

internal—appear closely tied. Hohokam archaeology, so thoroughly saturated by CRM,

has became a relatively unique tribal community.

Historical Summary of Hohokam Archaeology

From its beginning, Hohokam archaeology has followed a developmental path

much different from that in other parts of the Southwest (Doyel 1994; Gumerman 1991).

The intense heat of southern Arizonan summers made typical academic research

schedules difficult to reconcile with interest in the Hohokam. The development of

professional archaeology in the northern Southwest was deeply intertwined with the

research and political agendas of institutions based in the eastern United States (Fowler

2005; Snead 2001), tightly connecting that region’s archaeology to national disciplinary

interests. On the other hand, the organizational bases of Hohokam archaeology were a

few local institutions, such as the public University of Arizona and the associated

Arizona State Museum, and private organizations such as Harold S. Gladwin’s Gila

Pueblo, the Museum of Northern Arizona, and the Amerind Foundation. The intersection

of both local research interests and local setting fostered a regionalized focus that

continues to contemporary times. On the other hand, these institutions allowed high

levels of research autonomy—they encouraged the asking and answering of questions

through data collection—and permitted latitude in charting their own research directions

and goals.

Compared to other regions of the Southwest, fewer archaeologists worked in the southern deserts during the early years of Hohokam archaeology. Before about 1960, 387

Hohokam archaeology was done and defined by only a few dominant figures based in

local academic organizations. As far as individual contributions, Emil Haury had almost

single-handedly uncovered and crafted the history of these ancient residents of Arizona through his work at Snaketown (Gladwin, Haury, Sayles and Gladwin 1937), Roosevelt

9:6 (Haury 1932) other Gila Pueblo projects, and later research on Los Muertos (Haury

1945), Ventana Cave (Haury 1950) and his return to Snaketown (Haury 1976). Haury constructed a comprehensive prehistoric sequence that traced Hohokam origins, development and geographic expansion, contact with foreign settlers, their final collapse and evolution in historic, contemporary cultural groups. While later archaeologists would turn to new questions of Hohokam prehistory, those asked by Haury continued as important aspects of the region’s archaeological discourse.

Archaeologists other than Haury also contributed to Hohokam discourse. Many of these practitioners, including Gladwin, were not in complete agreement with Haury’s ideas and questioned many of the interpretations offered by Haury in the original report from the Snaketown excavations. Charles Di Peso (1956, 1958) and Albert Schroeder

(1957, 1965, 1966) offered other alternative culture historical interpretations for the region’s archaeology. The relatively sparse academic population of archaeologists interested in the region would continue to characterize Hohokam archaeology to more recent times as relatively few academically based archaeologists dedicate parts, and even fewer their entire careers to southern Arizonan research.

The decades following Gila Pueblo and Haury’s early work witnessed significant change in both the organization of Hohokam research and the evolution in the content of 388

its discussions. Construction projects, especially the federal interstate system,

increasingly disturbed archaeological resources. Emil Haury, already a powerful figure

in the state’s archaeology, was well aware of the situation and had lobbied the state and

federal governments for increased protection of archaeological resources since the late

1930s. By 1955, a relatively informal relationship between the Arizona Highway

Department (AHD) and the Arizona State Museum (ASM) had been established, allowing for advance notice of projects that might impact archaeological sites. While this agreement allowed some collection of archaeological data, it remained reactive with little opportunity to operationalize extensive planning. Limited funding and spotty notice led early highway archaeologists, such as William Wasley—the first ASM archaeologist dedicated to salvage work—to continuously campaign for a more formalized relationship.

In 1965 AHD and ASM did establish a funded highway salvage program that would be responsible for archaeological salvage projects in advance of highway construction.

These early relationships between the archaeological community and governmental agencies set the stage for later, more formalized and complex structures.

The 1960s were also a time of landmark developments in historic preservation legislation at the state and national level. The passage of the National Historic

Preservation Act (NHPA) in 1966 and the National Environmental Protection Act

(NEPA) in 1969 further married consideration of damaging impact on archaeological resources to any development project that utilized federal monies, land or permits. These laws further codified a relationship between governments and archaeologists, but also subtly changed the focus of archaeological activity. The emphasis of NHPA and later 389

amendments was on preservation rather than research (Moore 2006), forcing a change archaeological approach. Ideally, this emphasis on preservation would allow more comprehensive planning for archaeological projects. As Arizona contains significant areas of federal land, numerous such projects fell under the jurisdiction of this legislation.

Many federal land management agencies responded by installing permanent organizational mechanisms to manage cultural resources including in-house archaeologists. However, such large agencies still often contacted out larger projects to organizations that specialized in archaeological work and these organizations quickly responded to take advantage of the new situation.

Institutions, such as the ASM, ASU, and MNA, seemed the logical agents to assume such work as they already housed credible and legitimate practitioners. This precedent had been set earlier in the government mandated archaeological projects of the earlier half of the 20th century, including relief archaeology (Fagette 1996; Lyon 1996) and River Basin Survey projects (Wendorf and Thompson 2002). At ASM, the organizational framework had already been established with the development of the

Highway Salvage Program and could be quickly adapted to the new levels of work.

Subsequently, ASM’s Salvage Program transformed in the Cultural Resource

Management Division (originally designated as “Section” not “Division”), ASU established their Office of Cultural Resource Management (OCRM), and MNA began their contract division that would perform such legally inspired archaeological research.

The archaeology of the early CRM environment was deeply embedded in the traditional institutions of academia and archaeological research. 390

In the 1970s, other legislative developments further expanded opportunities for archaeological research as money often became available to complete projects when development occurred. The Moss-Bennett Act of 1974 allowed for increased funding of

archaeological projects done under federal auspices. At many levels, these developments

were a boon for archaeologists as archaeological research that would have previously

never been conducted now could be and had funding. However, to gain access to this

funding, practitioners based in these organizations were forced to contend with

motivations of legal compliance and client satisfaction in addition to the discipline’s

research interests.

Throughout the 1970s the Hohokam archaeological community began to assume

the exploding workload. ASM and ASU were responsible for most of the new research

in southern Arizona, though a few small, private archaeological firms, such as

Archaeological Consulting Services, made minor in-roads into the fray. In these early

days, private firms kept to smaller projects as they had to compete with the dominant

archaeological organizations of the state and faced legal impediments preventing their more extensive participation. As noted, this situation would change dramatically.

CRM projects allowed many of the younger generation of Hohokam

archaeologists—many still graduate students—to amass extensive experience in directing

and executing large field projects, including David Doyel, Albert Goodyear, Mark Raab,

David Wilcox, Paul Fish, and Glen Rice. Many in this cohort continue as some of the

primary voices in Hohokam archaeology. Early contract projects provided younger

practitioners with the data to make their own contributions to Hohokam discourse, and 391

many of them would question the traditional wisdom of Haury’s Hohokam shaping more

recent Hohokam discussions.

While the 1970s witnessed the infusion of more money and data into Hohokam

archaeology’s extant archaeological institutions, the 1980s were the scene of

transformative processes affecting the manner in which archaeological work was done and how research was organized. Many in the academic community had worried about the negative implications for scientific archaeological research that was done in service of legal compliance and client satisfaction as opposed to the pursuit of more “pure” anthropological goals. Concrete examples of these conflicts appeared during this time.

Tension between academic and CRM archaeology came to a head in two major instances during the 1980s, the Papago Freeway Controversy and the events surrounding the closure of ASM’s CRMD. At some level, both episodes involved the conflicts that academic critics worried about. In the case of CRMD, these conflicts were not the proximate cause of its closure, but they certainly did not bolster the division’s position within the university.

Additionally, jurisdiction on contract work became increasingly susceptible to poaching by archaeologists based in private business. Amended state legislation removed barriers to private sector participation (Doelle and Phillips 2005), which allowed private organizations more open access to CRM contracts. With the elimination of such impediments, the organizational selective advantages of private firms in a CRM environment became apparent (Altschul 2004; Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004).

Private firms did not have to cycle profits back into a massive institution with a 392

multiplicity of goals—such as a university—and could direct those funds to support

activities in interim periods—a luxury organizations such as CRMD did not have. The

adaptive advantages of private firms, combined with the conflicts between academic and

CRM archaeology—academics pushing CRM out of their institutions—contributed to the

situation at the end of the decade where CRM divisions at traditional archaeological

institutions had closed or would significantly diminish contract activities, including

ASM, MNA and ASU. The fledgling firms of the 1970s and newly established ones

rapidly grew and became the dominant forces in the conduct of archaeological fieldwork

in the Hohokam territory by the late 1980s.

In contrast to the previous two decades, the 1990s appeared as a time of

stabilization and consolidation in terms of both the organization of Hohokam research

and its content. Private sector CRM firms became entrenched in the permanent structure

of archaeological research and continued to dominate contract research conducted in

southern Arizona, while divisions based at public institutions engaged in limited contract activity. While ASU’s OCRM continued operation, its activities diminished (Altschul

2004). Additionally, the small number of academically based projects in the region (e.g.

Fish, Fish and Madsen 1992), highlighted that CRM archaeology was the primary form

of fieldwork conducted. By the end of the 20th century, active Hohokam archaeology

was almost entirely the domain of practitioners based in private organizations that

operated for-profit and sought to achieve legal compliance and client satisfaction in

addition to addressing issues of the region’s prehistory. 393

Intellectually, Hohokam archaeology underwent similar dramatic transformations

during the CRM era. As revealed by co-citation patterns discussed below, the 1970s and before were a time of relative fragmentation as investigators apparently asked location

specific questions or were concerned with seemingly disparate aspects of Hohokam prehistory. For instance, projects north of Phoenix addressed issues of Colonial period

expansion and not other issues defined as important in Hohokam archaeology. Many of the subjects defined by Haury and Gila Pueblo remained frequent areas of interest,

though transitions in focus were becoming apparent. An obvious major new integrative

theoretical force was the growing concern with culture ecology, which was gripping

archaeology at a national level during this decade in the form of the growing popularity

of the “New” or processual archaeology (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005).

By the end of the 1970s new ideas were increasingly injected into the local

discourse, especially as more integrative interpretative frameworks were being espoused.

The 1978 SAA symposium on Hohokam archaeology (Doyel and Plog 1980) represented

the beginning of a more systemic view of the region’s prehistory. Additionally, David

Wilcox’s (1979a) modification of his core-periphery model (Wilcox and Shenk 1977)

described the Hohokam as a regional system revolutionized the archaeological

community’s conceptualization of the area’s past. Wilcox argued that the Hohokam

should be viewed as an interacting regional system rather than a cultural or ethnic group

(1979). In this perspective, Wilcox explicitly framed of the Hohokam as a series of

populations with varying degrees of interactions. Sites were viewed as constituent

components of a larger system and could not be adequately explained without reference 394

to other parts of that system. Influenced by Wilcox’s (1979 and Wilcox and Sternberg

1983) regional system model, archaeologists focused on social and political communities in the Hohokam past (See also Doyel 1981; Gregory and Nials 1985). This systemic, holistic framework paves the way for considering many different aspects of Hohokam prehistory in relationship to one another, so that one cannot discuss subsistence without also addressing community organization, social differentiation, and exchange.

Subsequently, most publications, even of somewhat specialized natures, at least address many other issues that may have been considered unrelated in earlier periods. While the traditional questions of Hohokam prehistory defined by Haury persisted, they became increasingly couched in terms of new conceptual and theoretical constructs.

David Wilcox further transformed Hohokam discourse with his reanalysis of

Snaketown (Wilcox, Sternberg and McGuire 1981) through his consideration of a patterned internal structure in Hohokam sites. This concept was also quickly adapted by practitioners throughout the region (e.g. Howard 1985; Huntington 1986; Sires 1984), and could be easily incorporated into discussions of the Hohokam regional system. The fluidity of Hohokam discourse during this period is represented by the inconsistent patterns in the range of co-citation networks.

By the 1990s, Hohokam archaeologists were discussing a smaller set of distinct, but far-reaching issues than they had in previous periods. The content of Hohokam studies stabilized from its dynamic state in the 1980s. The legacy of Wilcox’s concepts remained obvious as site structure, and variations of his systemic model were the major interpretative frameworks used. Archaeologists continued to utilize these concepts and 395

refine them, further fleshing out the details. Specialist studies became more prominent in

this vein, such as David Abbott’s ceramic sourcing studies further traced and fleshed out the specific details of the Hohokam cultural system. Other specialists—artifact classes, paleoethnobotany, faunal—also flourished in Hohokam archaeology as their services were increasingly needed in the conduct of standardized approaches to large CRM projects. The stability of Hohokam discourse in the 1990s is clearly illustrated by co-

citation networks structured with a distinct core of highly-cited authors surrounded by a

periphery of specialists.

Over the past four decades, Hohokam archaeology has transformed from a loose

collection of individuals defining the discourse and engaged in sporadic fieldwork into a

community of active practitioners who conduct substantial levels of fieldwork stimulated

by the requirements of legislation. Further augmenting these trends, CRM research has tended to be organized in terms of integrated, specialized teams rather than around the vision of a single scholar (Altschul 2004). In terms of intellectual content, Hohokam archaeologists began to address the battery of questions defined by Haury, and others, in terms of relational and integrated interpretative frameworks. How well do these historical observations conform to the theoretical expectations outlined in Chapter Five?

Sociological Interpretations

As reviewed in the preceding section and chapters, both the social context and intellectual content of Hohokam archaeology have transformed over the past 40 years.

The goal of this project, however, is to understand the nature of the relationship between 396

the two. According to Collins (1998), a two-step causality characterizes connections

between a discipline’s social environment and its internal discussions. Large-scale

social, political, and economic changes reconfigure the structures of many organizations

and institutions in a society including those of scholarship. For example, the 1950s and

1960 witnessed demographic booms that reshaped populations attending universities and accelerated urban and infrastructural development in western states, which created new organizational environments for archaeology to operate (Kehoe 1998; O’Brien, Lyman

and Schiffer; Patterson 1995). For the discipline itself, by the 1970s both a large

population of archaeologists and legal protection for archaeological resources were in

place. Archaeologists responded to the new organizational environment by reconfiguring

archaeological institutions to take advantage of the expanding levels of work, from which

the CRM industry was born. Undoubtedly, a major organizational change occurred with

the development of CRM—social and cultural values were codified and laws passed,

masses of money became available for archaeological work and many practitioners

became employed in such contexts (Zeder 1997).

One of the most striking specific organizational trends apparent in Hohokam

archaeology was the shift from CRM archaeology based in universities and museums—

traditional academic research institutions—to private firms (Doelle and Phillips 2005;

Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth 2004). Private firms had obviously become better

organizationally adapted to the CRM environment—their goals and structure were designed as businesses that did CRM archaeology (Altschul 2004). While a common commitment to the study of the archaeological record unites CRM and academic 397

researchers, significant variation in the goals, rewards, and organizational structure

illustrate the altered character of CRM archaeology. The specific organizational

adaptations of Hohokam archaeologists have important implications for the region’s

intellectual production.

Following Collins (1998), organizational change offers an opportunity for

scholars to reshape intellectual spaces. In Hohokam archaeology, the 1970s witnessed

this process as many new practitioners entered the local field and many of them began questioning the Hohokam scripture laid down by Haury. Part of this was surely intergenerational academic argument, but also the CRM environment offered the opportunity to do so. Furthermore, new theoretical frameworks—such as those of

Wilcox, Doyel and Gregory—were applied to Hohokam cases. Interestingly, while contemporary Hohokam archaeologists are not in complete agreement, a similar reordering of opinion has not occurred since.

To untangle the connections between social context and knowledge, a finer level of organizational/intellectual analysis examines how disciplinary discourse is influenced by networks of material support (Fuchs 1992). Disciplines dependent on networks with restricted membership and access to material support tend toward discourse that can be described as “fact production” where details of new research are added to a pre-existing

and agreed upon theoretical framework, while more dispersed networks of support

without centralized control of resources produce a conversational discourse that allows for multiple, competing perspectives. From another perspective, disciplines with secure material bases of support have the luxury to fragment intellectual discussions—multiple 398

schools of thought can develop—while those with more tenuous bases tend to integrate and synthesize concepts strengthening few theoretical positions (Collins 1998).

The CRM arrangement places archaeologists in a new position relative to their material base. An obvious ramification is that funding for archaeological research grew dramatically. While most scientific disciplines, including archaeology are ultimately dependent on public money, the new context of CRM positions practitioners much closer to that supporting public and the products of archaeological research are subject to greater scrutiny—

soft-money scientists not only find outsiders shaping their research careers through funding decisions; they also face budgetary constraints on their uses of the research money they are given that limit their discretion…they must figure out ways to make their scientific aims realizable within the constraints of the funding system” (Mukerji 1989:87).

CRM archaeologists are no longer producing knowledge only for the consumption of practitioners within the bounds of the discipline or even the general public, as now federal, state, and private agencies have stakes in the products of archaeological research for the sake of legal compliance.

Subsequently, such audiences external to the archaeological community shape archaeological research. Collins argues that practitioners often respond to such situations of strong linkages between scholars and a lay public through “defensive syncretism”

(1998:800). When “the material base for intellectual production gets squeezed; it is the defensive move in time of weakness that produces the loss of abstraction and reflexivity”

(Collins 1998:799) and when practitioners “ally themselves predominantly with lay audiences has a strongly retrogressive effect on abstraction” (Collins 1998:800) and are 399

limited in the research directions they can pursue. While recognizing the legal

requirements mandating archaeological research, non-practitioners are primarily

interested in undertaking their development projects—such as the construction of a

highway or water delivery canal—rather than the production of archaeological

knowledge. Such links to outside organizations result in a loss of independence in

research directions for a discipline.

While more money became available for Hohokam research, the practitioners that

accepted this new support faced a loss of intellectual autonomy compared those more

firmly based in academia. CRM researchers do not have the same motivation to pursue

completely novel approaches and questions as their academic colleagues do—academic

journals may favor completely novel interpretations of the archaeological record, but many state agencies do not (Rosenberg 2004). Academic archaeologists have a wider choice of pursuits that can get supported through traditional funding agencies than afforded to CRM proposals. Funding agencies such as NSF and Wenner-Gren reward proposals that are innovative and theoretically relevant to general anthropological issues.

Additionally, academic journals and presses reward similar work through publication.

And, this is just the kind of work that is reviewed positively by promotion and tenure committees in academic institutions.

On the other hand, CRM archaeologists face many constraints on their research directions. At the most basic level, they do not have the luxury of selecting their source of data—developers do it for them, though this many times can have positive implications for the collection of unexpected data (Crown and Judge 1991). The 400

rationale and wording of much historic preservation legislation are heavily focused toward preservation rather than traditional academic, anthropological archaeological research (Moore 2006). Such a focus encourages CRM practitioners to examine the importance, or significance of an archaeological site (Barnes, Briggs and Nielson 1980;

Gumerman 1977; Klinger and Raab 1980; Schiffer and House 1977) and such an evaluation proceeds according to established frameworks and does not foster the formulation of completely new frameworks. Furthermore, the primary motivation of

CRM archaeology is to achieve legal compliance for a client (King 1998), and such compliance requires that archaeological resources be explicitly evaluated within existing frameworks.

CRM archaeologists undoubtedly exercise some intellectual autonomy, however, their dependence on non-academic organizations entails that research independence is reduced relative to academic practitioners. CRM researchers are not seeking to recruit graduate students through exciting and novel approaches in archaeology (O’Brien,

Lyman and Schiffer 2005), but strive to complete projects in a manner responsible to the state, the client, and the discipline. While all scholars work within established boundaries, CRM archaeology must contend with the scrutiny of law and outside agencies, resulting in less dynamic and fluid boundaries for intellectual production.

The CRM industry emerged to assume professional jurisdiction of the expanding potential work made possible by historic preservation legislation and the attendant funding. A common professional response to accommodate significantly higher levels of work is through routinization—approaching masses of new data with similar questions 401

and approaches (Abbott 1988:78). Professions that exhibit routinization are often

stratified into two separate classes based on variation in activities and prestige. The more

prestigious is the academic that deals with the intellectually uncertain and abstract and

has wide latitude of research directions, while the more subordinate class deals with large volumes of common cases. Part of this division stems from that the academic core is kept pure and away from lay concerns, while the subordinate class must regularly interact

with that lay public. The perception of CRM to academic archaeology fits this

description well, as CRM work is often viewed as not as anthropologically relevant as

academic (Walker and McGuire 1999). Examples of routinization can be seen through

the development of State Preservation plans (e.g. Dart 1989)—that stipulate important

research domains as well as the increasing standardization and uniformity of CRM

reports.

I suspect—though needs further investigation—that levels of mutual dependence

or the social networks of material support to which practitioners are tied (Fuchs 1992),

especially at a local level increase in a CRM environment. CRM archaeology is tied to

several localized state agencies—those that are large sources of work like ADOT, as well

as the SHPO that serves as a central node of the state’s archeologists. Academic

archaeologists, on the other hand, often have important ties to national supporters of

research, such as NSF, that are more concerned with broader academic issues of general

interest and funding gatekeepers are spread across the United States.

These organizational characteristics represent a suite of related changes for the

structure of CRM, and subsequently Hohokam archaeology. According to sociological 402

expectations, the organizational changes should have ramifications for the discipline’s intellectual structure. For CRM archaeology—and by extension Hohokam—the loss of intellectual autonomy and tight connections to localized networks of material support outside of the bounds of academia should lead to intellectual discussions that tend

towards “fact production” rather than a “conversational” style.

Trends in Intellectual Production

Through time, several trends support this assertion of greater intellectual integration. Academic networks become increasingly structured with defined core and peripheral areas over time (Figures 9.1, 9.2, 9.3). While Hohokam archaeology becomes much more prolific over the period analyzed—more publications, more authors, more citations—sample sizes do not appear to have created these patterns. Early academic networks were relatively fragmented and based on relatively small samples—publications

and citations—while networks based on aggregate CRM literature—the largest samples

included in this study—also displayed a more fragmented than centralized structure.

Additionally, similar citation count thresholds were utilized for each of the five-year periods utilized. Subsequently, the patterns revealed are indicative of intellectual structure.

Through the 1970s, most academic networks exhibited a relatively dispersed pattern, with highly-cited authors interspersed among lower cited ones, without the emergence of distinct clusters of authors. The 1980s exhibit some fractionation and fluidity, which may reflect a time of important change and the discipline’s 403

accommodation to the new social context of work brought with the ascendance of private firms within the archaeological community, though hints of the impeding centralization appear (Figure 7.7). However, “once the shock in the external base subsides and the internal rearrangement of factions in the attention space runs its course…intellectual life settles into a routine” (Collins 1998:793) and the 1990s demonstrate the marked development of a discursive structure with an obvious core and periphery—quite appropriate for Hohokam archaeology. The highly-cited sample—both the citation context limited and not—parallels this same pattern of growing synthesis. Early networks are dispersed without a central core, while later networks illustrate the distinct core-periphery structure that is evident in the academic sample. While some warned

CRM would lead to intellectual fragmentation (Rogge 2004:108), it does not seem to represent the primary loci of Hohokam intellectual production. 404

1970-1974 1985-1989

1975-1979 1990-1994

1980-1984 1995-2001

Figure 9.1: Academic ACA Networks over Time 405

1970-1974 1985-1989

1975-1979 1990-1994

1995-2001 1980-1984

Figure 9.2: Highly Cited Sample, Citation Context Limited ACA Networks over Time 406

1970-1974 1985-1989

1975-1979 1990-1994

1980-1984 1995-2001 Figure 9.3: Highly Cited Sample ACA Networks over Time 407

1975-1979 1985-1989

1980-1984 1990-1994

1995-2001

Figure 9.4: Aggregate CRM Literature Sample ACA Networks over Time

408

While CRM is the dominant form of Hohokam archaeology conducted, the

region’s practitioners are still interested in academic issues as illustrated by the relatively

robust literature examined in this study. Not every publication is the direct result of a

contract that is subject to all of these organizational constraints, as some that are based in the academic community continue to engage in Hohokam research (e.g. Bayman 2001;

Fish and Fish 2000; Rice 1998), and many at CRM firms contribute to strictly academic discussions (e.g. Craig 2000; Henderson and Hackbarth 2000; Mabry 2000; Wallace,

Heidke and Doelle 1995). Even so, the structural tendencies seem to have impacted the entire regional discipline. While Hohokam archaeologists interested in more typical academic issues are not as directly impacted by CRM’s structural changes, they must still draw on a common set of intellectual resources—previous literature and fieldwork with a largely CRM heritage—in the construction of their own arguments and statements.

Subsequently, even the academic literature exhibits this pattern, as illustrated by co- citation networks.

One qualification must be kept in mind, however. I have focused on only the intellectual production of one regional subset of archaeologists in order to construct a manageable dataset that could be intensively mined. Admittedly, however, this emphasis could mask important patterns of which Hohokam archaeology is only one small component. I have argued a consistent pattern of integration and synthesis through time in Hohokam archaeological discourse, but this may not be characteristic of archaeology nationally. The archaeology of southern Arizona has been described as relatively insular making limited contributions to general archaeological discussions (Rogge 1983), so the 409

trends outlined in this study could represent only one small, aberrant area of national archaeological patterns. Co-citation patterns compiled at a national scale could depict a network with a series of discrete regionally based CRM clusters connected by larger theoretical discussions playing out at an academic and national level. In this situation, the Hohokam case could simply represent a magnified view of on of these regional nodes. Regardless, the suggestions of this study hold for a regional analysis.

At the regional level, organizational forces seem to have resulted in a more synthetic discourse where “intellectuals make alliances among weakening positions” and each practitioner “contributes partial views of reality…to a vision of an overarching truth” (Collins 1998:131). In other terms, intellectual discussions, relative to more completely academic ones, take the form of fact production, which is expected in “fields with high levels of resource concentration and mutual dependence” (Fuchs 1992:89).

Growing patterns of synthesis characterize the intellectual structure as reflected by co- citation patterns drawn from publication typical of academic discussions—journal articles, chapters in edited volumes, monographs and synthetic chapters in CRM reports—the most highly cited authors occupy central positions with the less cited filling the periphery. This pattern would not be the case if several different schools of thought characterized the field. Such patterns are further highlighted and in some cases exaggerated by citation-context analysis. However, the intellectual production of

Hohokam archaeology is not that simple and other patterns emerge, which further illuminate the organizational and intellectual processes at play in a CRM environment.

410

Intellectual Tension and the Middle-Place of Hohokam Archaeology

As noted above, CRM archaeology faces the conflicting goals from the discipline as well as non-academic agencies. On the one hand, intellectual production and a growing understanding of a region’s prehistory is of paramount concern, but on the other rapid legal compliance exerts a primary motivation. Co-citation patterns between various publication types illustrate a tension between these differing motivations for work within

Hohokam archaeology.

The one set of publications that consistently fails to follow the pattern of synthesis and centralization through time is that of CRM reports (Figure 9.4). Co-citation networks produced from this sample demonstrate a persistent evenly spaced distribution of highly- cited authors. Often, spatial association corresponds to affiliation with different

organizations. For instance, in the second half of the 1990s (Figure 8.6; cluster

memberships listed in Table 8.13) the co-citation network produced from the aggregate

CRM literature exhibits this relatively evenly dispersed pattern. In this network, a close

association exists between Mary Bernard-Shaw, Douglas Craig, Allen Dart, William

Doelle, James Heidke, Bruce Huckell, Frederick Huntington, Jonathan Mabry, Deborah

Swartz and Henry Wallace—all prominent practitioners at Desert Archaeology or at the

closely associated Center for Desert Archaeology. In another section of the network, a similar association is apparent between John Cable, Douglas Mitchell and David

Abbott—all based out of Soil Systems, Inc. for much of the 1980s and early 1990s—and another with Mark Zyniecki, David Greenwald, Thomas Motsinger and Mark Chenault who all worked for SWCA in the 1990s. Other parts of the network illustrate loose 411

associations of practitioners that focus on similar research issues. For example, Donald

Graybill, Gary Huckleberry, Fred Nials, Glen Rice, and Steadman Upham—all associated with Hohokam irrigation and/or hydrology—are network neighbors. Interestingly, this association is the most centrally positioned in the entire network, though these authors represent relatively specialized contributions to Hohokam discourse. Most of the networks produced only from the CRM literature follow a similar pattern (Figure 9.4).

Subsequently, when viewing CRM literature in the aggregate, authors are dispersed in a relatively even, or clinal fashion across the network reflecting institutional affiliation.

Citation patterns from the CRM literature may be the result of processes at work internal to various CRM organizations. While many CRM reports are subject to peer review (Whittlesey and Reid 2004), their production is still largely confined within the organization. The use of different boilerplate text at each organization provides in-house easily accessible citation resource bases, which may contribute to the pattern in the CRM literature. While I focused on higher-profile CRM literature—though technical reports are also included, I believe the total range would reflect this pattern.

As described in the previous section, networks drawn from academic sources illustrate a divergent structure that those of CRM literature and suggests conflicting professional pulls. In Hohokam archaeology, CRM reports are often the direct product of legal compliance activities—they are the result of archaeologists’ interactions with non- archaeological clients with different goals and interests, and networks drawn from only

CRM publications exhibit associations primarily based on institutional affiliation. These dispersed patterns of CRM reports may represent a pull toward an intellectual pole of 412

extreme routinization, where the goal is just to produce a report and the motivation to

create an intellectual product is not as deeply embedded in an organization’s reward

structure as it is in academic environments (Valentine and Simmons 2004). For

Hohokam archaeology, strict legal compliance pulls the intellectual structure toward

dispersal—not multiple centers of intellectual gravity or competing schools of thought, but dispersal where practitioners are evenly spread across co-citation networks.

On the other hand, academic publications and to some extent, CRM reports from large synthetic reports, result from a desire to contribute to academic discussions about the Hohokam past, and co-citation networks illustrate a growing tendency toward synthetic or centralized patterns, where a definite core of Hohokam researchers emerges.

In academic discursive arenas, a stronger pull exists for the incorporation of ideas together to produce valuable knowledge about the past, whether in one central cluster or in multiple competing schools of thought. Scholarship is a fundamentally social enterprise (Collins 1998; Shapin 1994), and practitioners’ activities often focus on the utilization of other ideas in a variety of ways, so creativity flows through networks of practitioners rather than existing in isolation. When material support and intellectual autonomy are high, creativity forms through multiple, competing schools of thought.

Varying motivations seem to produce varying co-citation patterns and subsequently, a varying intellectual structure.

For a discipline such as archaeology, however, the routinization and dispersed intellectual structure of the CRM literature is a dangerous intellectual trend. Archaeology enjoys control over a relatively unique jurisdiction of professional work. Intellectual 413

production is the major legitimating means for archaeologists to maintain their control of

the jurisdiction of CRM work. Despite calls for substantial applications of archaeological

knowledge to contemporary concerns (e.g. Hill 2004), the primary product of the

discipline remains an historical perspective whose major substance is only intellectual

production. While CRM represents a sort of applied use for archaeological knowledge, the discipline’s work rarely produces the typical products of applied research. Instead, the goal of any archaeology, both basic and applied, remains primarily intellectual production.

An illustrative comparative case comes from biology and specifically the use of

Polymerase Chain Reaction (PCR), by technicians for use in legal cases were DNA evidence is relevant (Jordan and Lynch 1998). Because of its specific applications, PCR,

as a technique, has become a markedly routinized procedure. PCR technicians take

extraordinary care to follow rigidly standardized protocols for the collection and analysis

of samples to ensure the samples’ admissibility in legal proceedings. Divergence from

routine would hinder the utility of the information collected. In this way, intellectual

autonomy is actively discouraged, because variation in procedure would result in a

sample’s loss of utility. Circumstances similar to CRM include a larger discipline—

biology—that enjoys relative intellectual autonomy as well as a cadre of practitioners that

engage in applied work—PCR technicians. However, important differences are present.

PCR has achieved an applied use outside of academic disciplinary boundaries, while the

goal of CRM archaeology remains similar to that of academic counterparts—the

production of knowledge. 414

Hohokam archaeology occupies a position of intellectual tension. In academic

arenas, Hohokam archaeologists strive to make relevant and important academic

contributions. The Secretary of the Interior’s qualifications requirements for

archaeologists working under federal law include the possession of a graduate degree and

the ability to carry on research (36 CFR Part 61). Such qualifications overlap

substantially with those of academic archaeologists. But due to the organizational

constraints discussed throughout this paper, are limited in their opportunities for

fractionation (Collins 1998). Subsequently, they pursue a synthetic pattern of intellectual discourse representing the tension between routinization for control of increased levels of

work, while also maintaining the cultural legitimacy provided by intellectual production

necessary for jurisdictional control.

This conflicting pulls of extreme routinization and intellectual production

represents an intriguing intersection of professional and disciplinary processes. In

disciplines such as medicine, a stratified division of labor has developed between

academic researchers and applied practitioners—different sets of practitioners occupy the

different positions (Abbott 1988). In Hohokam archaeology, however, applied

practitioners are also academic ones, so the same explicit division of

professional/disciplinary labor cannot exist. Hohokam practitioners occupy a middle

place, trying to accommodate large volumes of work, while simultaneously striving to

make relevant intellectual contributions to academic discussions, crucial to the continued

relevance of archaeology as a discipline and profession. 415

This compromise creates an intellectual structure for Hohokam archaeology that

gravitates toward a common core of ideas, approaches and figures. Such an intellectual

structure—with an agreed overarching framework where new work fills in details adding

nuance—may seem to posses hallmarks of disciplinary maturity (Fuchs 1992). However,

it could also indicate intellectual stagnation as sociologists argue that “creativity moves

by oppositions” (Collins 1998:379) echoed by archaeologists: “progress cannot be made

in archaeology or any other discipline without individuals willing not only to make a

‘jump’…and those jump—punctuations—are, in the biological sense, speciational events

(O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer 2005:265, emphasis in the original). The organizational

environment of CRM appears to foster conditions that make such “oppositions” and

“jumps” unlikely.

The Particular Case of Hohokam Archaeology

What do these trends mean for those interested in the particular case or history of

Hohokam archaeology? The questions that had defined Hohokam research before the

CRM era remain of persistent interest, though they have not all been convincingly

resolved (Rogge 1984). Many in the national archaeological community argue that

archaeological information is only worthwhile if it is relevant to broad, cross-cultural issues of general anthropological interest—a complaint voiced by Rogge (1983; 2004)

and many of the authors discussed in Chapter Five. The apparent limited contributions to

general archaeological discussions by CRM (Schiffer 1995; Valentine and Simmons

2004) seem surprising given the tremendous amounts of money directed at Hohokam 416

archaeology in the CRM era, which implies that increased funding should roughly

correlate with advances in knowledge. Rogge (1983, 2004) describes the time of CRM in

archaeology as the era of “Big Archaeology” in which the discipline receives much

higher funding, is deeply embedded in political, government and economic institutions

and intellectually produces “small, incremental results rather than giant leaps of insight”

(Rogge 2004:107). Hohokam archaeology, so thoroughly intertwined with the “Bigness”

of CRM should be especially plagued by this.

One way to ascertain the impact of Hohokam literature on the greater

archaeological discourse is by examining how influential Hohokam publications are cited

in discussions of general archaeological debate or that focus on areas outside of southern

Arizona. Using ISI’s Web of Science, I compared citation patterns of prominent

Hohokam publications to those of research focusing on other areas of the Southwest, especially the Colorado Plateau. These citations were drawn from journals contained in the Science Citation Index (SCI), Social Science Citation Index (SSCI), and the Arts and

Humanities Citation Index (A&HCI) and include a number of prominent national archaeological and anthropological journals such as American Anthropologist, American

Antiquity, the Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, the Journal of Field

Archaeology, World Archaeology, the Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, the

Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, the Journal of Archaeological Research,

the Journal of World Prehistory, Current Anthropology and the Annual Review of

Anthropology. 417

For this comparison, the patterns evident in Hohokam archaeology could be evaluated against those from some other region in the Southwest. While CRM has had a significant impact on archaeological research in the Colorado Plateau, it still has not been as central a force as with Hohokam work. In this comparison, I queried all papers that cited a specific publication and then examined the subject matter of the citing publication as depicted in its title, whether focusing on the Hohokam, other Southwestern groups, or on general archaeological issues. Hohokam publications were much less likely to be cited by works that dealt with regions outside of the Hohokam territory or general theoretical interests. For instance, David Wilcox’s 1979 “The Hohokam Regional

System,” was one of the most influential publications within the Hohokam community— as demonstrated by its consistent high citation counts (Appendix A)—but was cited by non-Hohokam publications only 33% of its total number of citations. On the other hand, out of an unsystematic random sample of 13 papers from the greater Southwest, eight were cited more than 33% by publications outside of their region. This tendency supports other anecdotal evidence that the Southwest areas outside of the Hohokam region continue to be more influential and common in general archaeological literature.

The northern Southwest has a much deeper history with institutions of national importance to archaeology and this legacy remains apparent. General discussions in the archaeological community about prehistoric violence or evolutionary transitions—such as the shift from pithouse to above-ground architecture— and comparisons with other regions of the world have been prominent aspects of Colorado Plateau archaeology but have been less emphasized in Hohokam studies. While many Hohokam practitioners are 418

undoubtedly interested in such issues, the publication record is not as robust as other

parts of the Southwest. The evidence does suggest that the impact of Hohokam

archaeology on larger disciplinary discussion is limited.

Roberts, Ahlstrom and Roth (2004:157; see also Valentine and Simmons

2004:130) underscore this pattern in their comparison of publication rates between

national and regional journals by CRM practitioners. Their results suggest that CRM

archaeology rarely finds its way into national journals because CRM practitioners do not

have the time, academic publications are not criteria of promotion in CRM firms, national

journals are not interested in description and that a perceived bias exists by editors toward

CRM archaeology.

Another anecdote is provided by Foster, Mitchell Breternitz (2004) who were actively involved with Soil Systems Inc.’s (SSI) excavations of Pueblo Grande (Foster

1994; Mitchell 1994). This recent project was one of the largest excavations throughout the history of Hohokam archaeology and Pueblo Grande was one of the largest and most important in Hohokam prehistory (Downum and Bostwick 1993). The SSI team members describe the productive integration of the SSI excavations with the efforts and expertise of academic practitioners, especially through specialist analyses of classes of remains. However, they also note that as soon as these specialists had completed their subcontracts, they walked away from the Pueblo Grande data, not building from it in other areas of their academic research. The SSI team also describes the rarity of site visits by academic archaeologists during the excavation despite invitations and that the students of many academics were working at the site. Foster and the others were 419

understandably puzzled that such a large and important site in Hohokam prehistory should engender such little interest from the large collection of academic archaeologists present in southern Arizona. Such experiences underscore the continuing schism between practitioners based in academic and CRM settings.

The integration of intellectual structure—evidence through the co-citation networks discussed above—may an example of a general regionalization of CRM archaeology in other parts of the United States. Hohokam archaeology appears to represent another instance of a more regional, particularistic focus rather than on general anthropological questions. Even when disagreement on basic anthropological issues appears among Hohokam archaeologists, such as on levels of social complexity the

Hohokam exhibited, they are not vigorously debated and practitioners “are content with ambiguity, happy with the ‘enigmatic Hohokam’” (Lekson 2005:168). Additionally, while Wilcox’s (1979; Wilcox and Sternberg 1983) ideas have influenced other practitioners—Hohokam prehistory has largely been conceived as a relatively integrated regional system of interacting social units—other models or variations on this theme of

Hohokam society have been argued (e.g. Gregory 1991; Whittlesey 1998) and a complete consensus has not been achieved. Heated academic battles may simply not be worth it in this kind of environment. The rewards, motivations and goals of CRM archaeological work are sufficiently different to make such debate unattractive—a point that is addressed further below.

To some such a pattern may seem academically and anthropologically deficient, but even if Hohokam archaeology is characterized by such a particularistic emphasis, it is 420

an extremely active and productive particularistic emphasis. In the case of Hohokam

archaeology, the evidence presented in this study suggests that the local archaeological

community has become an increasingly integrated group that utilizes common

interpretative frameworks filling in gaps allowing for a more nuanced and detailed

picture of Hohokam prehistory rather than revolutionary changes in perspective. In

southern Arizona, the prehistory of a fascinating and dynamic ancient culture has been

outlined and researchers continue contributing further details. The world of the

Hohokam has changed dramatically from Haury’s conception of a peasant folk culture to

one of a multiplicity of politically variable and interacting social groups. The final

evaluation of the contributions of Hohokam archaeology is left to readers and their own

values as to how archaeology should be conducted and whether such developments

indicate intellectual maturity or stagnation.

Future Questions

This project highlights the possibilities for future approaches to further untangle

the relationship between archaeology’s social context and its intellectual structure.

Comparisons with other regions of the United States where a more traditional academic organizational infrastructure supports archaeological research would be especially

valuable. Such comparisons could be extended to other regions of the world, both archaeologically and geopolitically. For example, what is the character of the intellectual structure of human origins research, much of which is done by international teams and

funded by a variety of academic sources? On the other hand, how does a national, federal 421

level organization influence archaeological research throughout a nation, such as the

Instituto Nacional de Anthropoligía e Historia (INAH) in Mexico? A more detailed

examination of funding decisions by a variety of organizations could also produce

important insight, such as a comparison of proposals, both accepted and rejected,

between an organization like ADOT in relation to the NSF could add further important

detail to this project. Do significant differences exist between the questions asked by

those supported in such different organizations? Investigators could also examine how genres of archaeological research that seem especially productive—at regional and national levels—like Colorado Plateau archaeology are intellectually structured and attempt to emulate such patterns in CRM projects to more fully exploit the opportunities provided by the increased support.

Tribal Considerations

I end this study with a brief consideration of the different kinds of social networks in archaeology, specifically those characteristic of academia and those that appear to correlate with CRM. In their discussion of the development and subsequent history of processual archaeology, O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer (2005:263) describe social networks of archaeologists as “tribal units,” defined as followers of particular theoretical/methodological approaches. In O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer’s discussion, the organizational environment of tribes is primarily that of academia—an environment of intellectual autonomy (Collins 1998)—where particular avenues of survival are necessary. 422

Individuals in this environment survive and thrive through publication, which

creates a high profile in the discipline. An important (subsistence—see Sandstrom 1999) strategy in this competition is to make “big splashes” (O’Brien, Lyman and Schiffer

2005:265)—or fractionation (Collins 1998)—clearly distinguishing a particular tribe from others, often advertising the perceived weakness of the opponent. Archaeological tribes seek to elevate themselves above others in the field of competition by fractionating and emphasizing difference in attempts to control attention space (Collins 1998). This approach garners attention and importantly, may attract new members of the tribe and ensures its continued existence. If there are more members that adhere to a certain archaeological perspective, they can serve to further reproduce those ideas and a particular theory will grow in influence over intellectual discourse and their citations grow.

The history of archaeological thought has been characterized by many instances of such patterns. In the traditional environment of academia, multiple tribes exist as individuals that do not agree with a theoretical perspective and want to be the “headman” of their own tribe. The beginnings of processual archaeology were marked by attacks on the perceived deficiencies of the then dominant culture historical school of archaeological thought (e.g. Binford 1962). Interestingly, many of processualism’s critiques had been made much earlier (Taylor 1948), but such early statements would not have the impact on the mainstream of disciplinary thinking until a major organizational change had occurred—the establishment of the National Science Foundation in the mid 1950s, though this is a topic for another paper. The development of behavioral archaeology (e.g. 423

Schiffer 1976) represented a break with earlier processual work, and the even more marked, the emergence of postprocessual thought (e.g. Hodder 1985) represented another

“splash” or example of fractionation.

We can stretch the anthropological metaphor further (perhaps too far) if we conceive of these tribes acting in the systemic context of a cultural system. As archaeologists are well aware, any cultural system leaves material traces of its activities behind and, and with some latitude we can consider the literature a tribe’s archaeological record—when ideas are left in a static matrix (LaMotta and Schiffer 2001; Schiffer

1972). Just as a specific variety of cultural adaptation in a particular environment produces a certain signature in the archaeological record, archaeologists working in different organizational environments should construct intellectual discourse with correlated variation. The institutional environment of academia rewards certain kinds of activities such as those that make the most noise by individuals prominent in the literature—whether in support or attack—and these practitioners receive promotion, tenure and the other symbols of academic success. These motivations and actions will leave a particular signature on the literature of academic archaeology, one with multiple competing schools of thought. If the intellectual structure as revealed by the literature was modeled through co-citation networks, the academic environment should be one of many centers of intellectual gravity.

However, the environment of CRM is significantly different from that of academia, and tribes must adapt accordingly. Individuals and groups in this environment do not subsist on the attraction of new members to a particular theoretical school. 424

Instead, they survive through the maintenance of effective linkages with non-

archaeological tribes, such as government agencies as well as public and private clients.

In this environment, proclaiming differences and establishing one’s own distinctive

theoretical niche are not nearly as rewarding as consistently winning contracts and

subsequently making a profit—different environments and different rewards. Opposed to the more academically embedded tribes, these groups will more often leave a different kind of signature on their literature—like the ones uncovered in this study.

In the case of Hohokam archaeology, which is so embedded in the institutional

environment of CRM, a tribe seems to have coalesced, but a tribe of a different stripe.

The intellectual structure of Hohokam archaeology has grown increasingly centralized

around one core of discursive gravity rather than multiple. Because Hohokam

archaeology is so thoroughly intertwined with the organizational environment of CRM, even the academic discussions of Hohokam prehistory follow a centralized discursive pattern of intellectual production. The intellectual structure of Hohokam archaeology indicates a single tribe with a few leaders upon which all tribal members agree, rather than warring factions with several headmen surrounded by their own group of followers.

Unless the organizational environment of archaeology in southern Arizona again changes dramatically, the future state of Hohokam thought will likely follow the present pattern—

an overarching established interpretative framework with common agreement and intellectual progress in the form of incremental additions that fill the gaps of this

framework. 425

While the CRM environment has significantly affected the evolution of Hohokam

archaeology, I am not arguing that the exact same pattern would be found in every region

of the United States where CRM played the dominant role in local archaeology. The robust nature of southern Arizona’s archaeological resources and the fact that the CRM archaeology has been and continues to be active in academic discussions illustrates the unique character of the region’s archaeological community. The jurisdictional stratification that develops in other professions is absent as those that conduct the routine work are also those that are at the center of intellectual discussions of their work. This case study elucidates the complex interconnections in the history of archaeology that shape its product and emphasizes the importance of considering the social context of intellectual activity. The history of Hohokam archaeology has unfolded at the intersection of national transformations in the legal and organizational environment of the discipline and the singular character of the southern Arizona’s archaeological record. 426

APPENDIX A: FIFTY MOST CITED PUBLICATIONS PER FIVE YEAR PERIOD— 1970-2000

Rank 50 Most Cited Publications: 1970-74 Times Cited 1 Gladwin, Harold S., Emil W. Haury, Edwin B. Sayles and Nora Gladwin 1937 Excavations at Snaketown: Material Culture. Medallion Papers 25. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 31 2 Haury, Emil W. 1950 The Stratigraphy and Archaeology of Ventana Cave, Arizona. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 19 3 Lowe, Charles H. 1964 The Vertebrates of Arizona. The University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 17 4 Di Peso, Charles C. 1956 The Upper Pima of San Cayetano del Tumacacori: An Archaeo-Historical Reconstruction of the O’otam of Pimeria Alta 7. The Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, Arizona. 16 5 Haury, Emil 1945 The Excavation of Los Muertos and Neighboring Ruins in the Salt River Valley, Southern Arizona. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, volume 24(1). Harvard University, Cambridge. 15 6 Kemrer, Sandra 1972 Archaeological Survey of the Granite Reef Aqueduct. Archaeological Series 12. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 14 7 Hayden, Julian D. 1957 Excavations, 1940 at University Indian Ruin, Tucson, Arizona. 13 8 Johnson, Alfred E. 1964 Archaeological Excavations in Hohokam Sites of Southern Arizona. American Antiquity 30:145-161. 12 9 Wasley, William W. and Alfred E. Johnson 1965 Salvage Archaeology in Painted Rocks Reservoir Western Arizona. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 9. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 11 427

10 Bohrer, Vorsilla L. 1970 Ethnobotanical Aspects of Snaketown, a Hohokam Village in Southern Arizona. American Antiquity 35(4):413-430. 10 11 Castetteter, E. F. and W. H. Bell 1942 Pima and Papago Indian Agriculture. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 9 12 Wasley, William W. 1966 Classic Period Hohokam. Paper Presented at the Society for American Archaeology Meetings. 9 13 Scovill, D. H., and G.J. Gordon and K.M. Anderson 1972 Guidelines for the Preparation of Statements of Environmental Impact on Archeological Resources. National Park Service, Arizona Archeological Center, Tucson. 9 14 Goodyear, Albert C. and A.E. Dittert 1973 Hecla I: A Preliminary Report on the Archaeological Investigations at the Lakeshore Project, Papago Reservation, South-Central Arizona. Anthropological Research Papers no. 4. Arizona State University, Tempe. 9 15 Gladwin, Winifred and Harold S. Gladwin 1930 A Method for the Designation of Southwestern Pottery Types. Medallion Papers 7. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona. 9 16 Sayles, E.B. and Ernst Anteves 1941 The Cochise Culture. Medallion Papers No. 29. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona. 8 17 Ezell, Paul H. 1963 Is there a Hohokam-Pima Continuum? American Antiquity 29(1):61-66. 8 18 Whalen, Norman M. 1971 Cochise Culture Sites in the Central San Pedro Drainage, Arizona. PhD Dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson. 8 19 Weaver, Donald 1972 A Cultural-Ecological Model for the Classic Hohokam Period in the Lower Salt River Valley, Arizona. The Kiva 38(1):43-52. 8 20 Russell, Frank 1908 The Pima Indians. Twenty-sixth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Washington DC. 7 428

21 Dittert, A. E., P. R. Fish and D. E. Simonis 1969 A Cultural Inventory of the Proposed Granite Reef and Salt-Gila Aqueducts Agua Fria River to Gila River Arizona. Anthropological Research Papers 1. Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 7 22 Fewkes, J. W. 1912 Casa Grande, Arizona. In Twenty-eighth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, pp. 25- 179. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, D. C. 6 23 Castettter, E.F and R.M. Underhill 1935 The Ethnobiology of the Papago Indians. University of New Mexico Bulletin 4(3). University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 6 24 Schroeder, Albert H. 1960 The Hohokam, Sinagua, and Hakataya. In Society for American Archaeology, Archives of Archaeology. vol. 5. Society for American Archaeology, Madison. 6 26 Hammack, Laurens C. 1969 Preliminary Report from Las Colinas. The Kiva 3(1):11-28. 6 26 Morris, Donald H. 1969 Red Mountain: An Early Pioneer Period Site in the Salt River Valley of Central Arizona. American Antiquity 34:40-53. 6 27 Raab, L. Mark 1973 Research Design for Investigation of Archaeological Resources in Santa Rosa Wash: Phase I. Archaeological Series 26. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 6 28 Doyel, David E. 1974 Excavations in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 37. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 6 29 Russell, Frank 1908 The Pima Indians. Twenty-sixth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Washington DC. 5 30 Gladwin, Winifred and Harold S. Gladwin 1929 The Red-on-Buff Culture of the Gila Basin. Medallion Papers 3. Gila Pueblo, Glove, Arizona. 5 429

31 Schroeder, Albert H. 1952 The Bearing of Ceramics on Developments in the Hohokam Classic Period. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 9:320-335. 5 32 Schroeder, Albert H. 1953 The Bearing of Architecture on Developments in the Hohokam Classic Period. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 9(2):174-194. 5 33 Wasley, William W. and B. Benham 1968 Salvage Excavations at the Buttes Dam Site, Southern Arizona. The Kiva 33:249-279. 5 34 Stacy, V. K. P. and W. Palm 1970 Partial Archaeological Survey of the Proposed Tat Momolikot Dam and Lake St. Clair, Papago Reservation. Arizona State Museum. 5 35 Fish, Paul R. 1971 The Lake Pleasant Project: A Preliminary Report on the Excavation of the Beardsley Canal Site, a Colonial Hohokam Village on the Agua Fria River, Central Arizona. Arizona State Museum. 5 36 Gumerman, George J. 1971 The Distribution of Prehistoric Population Aggregates. Anthropological Papers No. 1. Prescott College, Prescott. 5 37 Doyel, David E. 1972 Archaeological Survey of the Clifton--Vail Section, Jan Juan--Vail Transmission Line. Archaeological Series 15. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 5 38 Bryan, Kirk 1925 The Papago Country, Arizona: A Geographic, Geologic, and Hydrological Reconnaissance with a Guide to Desert Watering Places. U.S. Geologic Survey Water Paper No. 99. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. 4 39 Haury, Emil W. 1932 Roosevelt 9:6. Medallion Papers 11. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona 4 40 Scantling, Fredrick H. 1940 Excavations at the Jackrabbit Ruin, Papago Indian Reservation, Arizona. Master’s Thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson. 4 430

41 Withers, Arnold M. 1944 Excavations at Valshni Village, a Site on the Papago Indian Reservation. American Antiquity 10:33-47. 4 42 Sayles, E.B. 1945 The San Simon Branch: Excavations at Cave Creek in the San Simon Valley: Material Culture. Medallion Papers No. 34. Gila Pueblo, Globe Arizona. 4 43 Colton, Harold S. 1946 The Sinagua. Northern Arizona Society of Science and Arts, Flagstaff. 4 44 Schroeder, Albert H. 1953 The Problem of Hohokam, Sinagua, and Salado Relations in Southern Arizona. Plateau 26(2):75-83. 4 45 Ezell, Paul H. 1954 An Archaeological Survey of Northwestern Papaguería. The Kiva 19(1-26). 4 46 Steen, Charles R. 1965 Excavations in Compound A, Casa Grande National Monument, 1963. The Kiva 31(2):59-82. 4 47 Weed, Carol and Albert E. Ward 1970 The Henderson Site: Colonial Hohokam in North Central Arizona. The Arizona Archaeologist 36(2):1- 12. 4 48 Grebinger, Paul 1971 Hohokam Cultural Development in the Middle Santa Cruz Valley, Arizona. PhD. dissertation, University of Arizona. 4 49 Windmiller, Ric 1971 Archaeological Survey of Part of the Castle Dome- Pinto Creek Project Area. Archaeological Series 5. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 4 50 Canouts, Veletta 1972 Archaeological Survey of the Santa Rosa Wash Project. Archaeological Series 18. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 4 431

Rank 50 Most Cited Publications: 1975-79 Times Cited 1 Haury, Emil 1976 The Hohokam: Desert Farmers and Craftsmen. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 50 2 Haury, Emil W. 1950 The Stratigraphy and Archaeology of Ventana Cave, Arizona. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 49 3 Lowe, Charles H. 1964 The Vertebrates of Arizona. The University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 46 4 Gladwin, Harold S., Emil W. Haury, Edwin B. Sayles and Nora Gladwin 1937 Excavations at Snaketown: Material Culture. Medallion Papers 25. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 46 5 Di Peso, Charles C. 1956 The Upper Pima of San Cayetano del Tumacacori: An Archaeo-Historical Reconstruction of the O’otam of Pimeria Alta 7. The Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, Arizona. 37 6 Doyel, David E. 1974 Excavations in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 37. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 36 7 Bohrer, Vorsilla L. 1970 Ethnobotanical Aspects of Snaketown, a Hohokam Village in Southern Arizona. American Antiquity 35(4):413-430. 35 8 Castetteter, E. F. and W. H. Bell 1942 Pima and Papago Indian Agriculture. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 33 9 Wasley, William W. and Alfred E. Johnson 1965 Salvage Archaeology in Painted Rocks Reservoir Western Arizona. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 9. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 33 10 Russell, Frank 1908 The Pima Indians. Twenty-sixth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Washington DC. 31 432

11 Haury, Emil 1945 The Excavation of Los Muertos and Neighboring Ruins in the Salt River Valley, Southern Arizona. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, volume 24(1). Harvard University, Cambridge. 29 12 Hill, Richard H. and William D. Sellers 1974 Arizona Climate, 1931-1972. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 26 13 Gladwin, Winifred and Harold S. Gladwin 1930 A Method for the Designation of Southwestern Pottery Types. Medallion Papers 7. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona. 24 14 Sayles, E.B. and Ernst Anteves 1941 The Cochise Culture. Medallion Papers No. 29. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona. 21 15 Goodyear, Albert C. 1975 Hecla II and III: An Interpretive Study of Archaeological Remains from the Lakeshore Project, Papago Reservation, South Central Arizona. Anthropological Research Paper 9. Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 20 16 Fewkes, J. W. 1912 Casa Grande, Arizona. In Twenty-eighth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, pp. 25- 179. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, D. C. 20 17 Weaver, Donald 1972 A Cultural-Ecological Model for the Classic Hohokam Period in the Lower Salt River Valley, Arizona. The Kiva 38(1):43-52. 20 18 Hayden, Julian D. 1957 Excavations, 1940 at University Indian Ruin, Tucson, Arizona. 18 19 Ezell, Paul H. 1963 Is there a Hohokam-Pima Continuum? American Antiquity 29(1):61-66. 16 20 Scantling, Fredrick H. 1940 Excavations at the Jackrabbit Ruin, Papago Indian Reservation, Arizona. Master’s Thesis, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson. 14 433

21 Greenleaf, J. Cameron 1975 Excavations at Punta de Agua. Anthropological Papers 26. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 14 22 Hayden, Julian 1970 Of Hohokam Origins and Other Matters. American Antiquity 35(1):87-93. 13 23 Weed, Carol 1972 The Beardsley Canal Site. The Kiva 38(2):57-94. 13 24 Weaver, Donald 1974 Archaeological Investigations at the West Wing Site, AZ T:7:27 (ASU), Agua Fria River Valley, Arizona. Anthropological Research Papers 7. Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 13 25 Ezell, Paul H. 1954 An Archaeological Survey of Northwestern Papaguería. The Kiva 19(1-26). 12 26 Wasley, William W. 1966 Classic Period Hohokam. Paper Presented at the Society for American Archaeology Meetings. 12 27 Martin, Paul S. and Fred Plog 1973 The Archaeology of Arizona. Doubleday/Natural History Press, Garden City, New York. 12 28 Stewart, Y. and L. Teague 1974 An Ethnoarchaeological Study of the Vekol Copper Mining Project. Archaeological Series 49. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 12 29 Bryan, Kirk 1925 The Papago Country, Arizona: A Geographic, Geologic, and Hydrological Reconnaissance with a Guide to Desert Watering Places. U.S. Geologic Survey Water Paper No. 99. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. 11 30 Frick, Paul S. 1954 An Archaeological Survey in the Central Santa Cruz Valley, Southern Arizona. M.A. Thesis, University of Arizona. 11 31 Schroeder, Albert H. 1960 The Hohokam, Sinagua, and Hakataya. In Society for American Archaeology, Archives of Archaeology. vol. 5. Society for American Archaeology, Madison. 11 434

32 Vivian, R. G. 1965 An Archaeological Survey of the Lower Gila River, Arizona. The Kiva 30(4):95-146. 11 33 Raab, L. Mark 1974 Archaeological Investigations for the Santa Rosa Wash Project: Phase I Preliminary Report. Archaeological Series 60. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 11 34 Greenleaf, J. Cameron 1975 The Fortified Hill Site near Gila Bend, Arizona. The Kiva 40(4):213-282. 11 35 Kelly, Isabel T. 1978 The Hodges Ruin: A Hohokam Community in the Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 30. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 11 36 Gladwin, Winifred and Harold S. Gladwin 1929 The Red-on-Buff Culture of the Gila Basin. Medallion Papers 3. Gila Pueblo, Glove, Arizona. 10 37 Rogers, Malcolm J. 1958 San Dieguito Implements from the Terraces of the Rincon-Pantano Wash and Rillito Drainage System. The Kiva 24(1):1-23. 10 38 Woodbury, Richard B. 1960 The Hohokam Canals at Pueblo Grande, Arizona. American Antiquity 26(2):267-270. 10 39 Ferdon, Edwin N. 1967 The Hohokam "Ball Court," An Alternative Function. The Kiva 33. 10 40 Grebinger, Paul 1971 Hohokam Cultural Development in the Middle Santa Cruz Valley, Arizona. PhD. dissertation, University of Michigan. 10 41 Whalen, Norman M. 1971 Cochise Culture Sites in the Central San Pedro Drainage, Arizona. PhD Dissertation, Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona, Tucson. 10 42 Canouts, Velleta 1972 Archaeological Survey of the Santa Rosa Wash Project. Archaeological Series 18. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 10 435

43 Hayden, Julian D. 1972 Hohokam Petroglyphs of the Sierra Pinacate, Sonora and the Hohokam Shell Expeditions. The Kiva 37(2):74-83. 10 44 Grebinger, Paul and D. P. Adams 1974 Hard Times? Classic Period Hohokam Cultural Development, Tucson Basin, Arizona. World Archaeology 6(1):226-241. 10 45 Rodgers, James B. 1974 An Archaeological Survey of the Cave Buttes Dam Alternative Site and Reservoir. Anthropological Research Paper 8. Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 10 46 Doelle, William H. 1975 Prehistoric Resource Exploitation within the CONOCO Florence Project. Archaeological Series 62. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 10 47 Castettter, E.F and R.M. Underhill 1935 The Ethnobiology of the Papago Indians. University of New Mexico Bulletin 4(3). University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 9 48 Sayles, E.B. 1945 The San Simon Branch: Excavations at Cave Creek in the San Simon Valley: Material Culture. Medallion Papers No. 34. Gila Pueblo, Globe Arizona. 9 49 Schroeder, Albert H. 1952 The Bearing of Ceramics on Developments in the Hohokam Classic Period. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 9:320-335. 9 50 Gladwin, Harold S. 1957 A History of the Ancient Southwest. Bond Wheelright, Portland, Maine. 9 436

Rank 50 Most Cited Publications: 1980-84 Times Cited 1 Haury, Emil 1976 The Hohokam: Desert Farmers and Craftsmen. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 73 2 Gladwin, Harold S., Emil W. Haury, Edwin B. Sayles and Nora Gladwin 1937 Excavations at Snaketown: Material Culture. Medallion Papers 25. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 43 3 Doelle, William H. 1976 Desert Resources and Hohokam Subsistence: The CONOCO Florence Project. Archaeological Series 103. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 40 4 Wilcox, David R. 1979 The Hohokam Regional System. In An Archaeological Test of Sites in the Gila Butte-Santan Region, South- Central Arizona, edited by G. E. Rice, pp. 77-116. Arizona State University Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 18. Arizona State University, Tempe. 39 5 Di Peso, Charles C. 1956 The Upper Pima of San Cayetano del Tumacacori: An Archaeo-Historical Reconstruction of the O’otam of Pimeria Alta 7. The Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, Arizona. 38 6 Wasley, William W. and Alfred E. Johnson 1965 Salvage Archaeology in Painted Rocks Reservoir Western Arizona. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 9. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 36 7 Castetteter, E. F. and W. H. Bell 1942 Pima and Papago Indian Agriculture. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 36 8 Doyel, David E. 1974 Excavations in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 37. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 34 9 Bohrer, Vorsilla L. 1970 Ethnobotanical Aspects of Snaketown, a Hohokam Village in Southern Arizona. American Antiquity 35(4):413-430. 33 437

10 Haury, Emil W. 1950 The Stratigraphy and Archaeology of Ventana Cave, Arizona. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 33 11 Lowe, Charles H. 1964 The Vertebrates of Arizona. The University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 33 12 Hayden, Julian D. 1957 Excavations, 1940 at University Indian Ruin, Tucson, Arizona. 33 13 Wilcox, David R., Thomas R. McGuire and Charles Sternberg 1981 Snaketown Revisited: A Partial Cultural Resource Survey, Analysis of Site Structure and an Ethnohistoric Study of the Proposed Hohokam-Pima National Monument. Archaeological Series No. 115. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 32 14 Haury, Emil 1945 The Excavation of Los Muertos and Neighboring Ruins in the Salt River Valley, Southern Arizona. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, volume 24(1). Harvard University, Cambridge. 31 15 Turney, O. A. 1929 Prehistoric Irrigation in Arizona. Office of the State Historian, Phoenix. 29 16 Fewkes, J. W. 1912 Casa Grande, Arizona. In Twenty-eighth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, pp. 25- 179. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, D. C. 28 17 Weaver, Donald 1974 Archaeological Investigations at the West Wing Site, AZ T:7:27 (ASU), Agua Fria River Valley, Arizona. Anthropological Research Papers 7. Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 24 18 Masse, Bruce W. 1979 An Intensive Survey of Prehistoric Dry Farming Systems near Tumamoc Hill in Tucson, Arizona. The Kiva 45(1-2):141-186. 23 19 Weaver, Donald 1972 A Cultural-Ecological Model for the Classic Hohokam Period in the Lower Salt River Valley, Arizona. The Kiva 38(1):43-52. 23 438

20 Debowski, Sharon, A. George, R. Goddard and D. Mullon 1976 An Archaeological Survey of the Buttes Reservoir. Archaeological Series 93. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 22 21 Doyel, David E. 1977 Excavations in the Middle Santa Cruz River Valley, Southeastern Arizona. Contributions to Highway Salvage Archaeology 44. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 21 22 Greenleaf, J. Cameron 1975 Excavations at Punta de Agua. Anthropological Papers 26. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 20 23 Weed, Carol 1972 The Beardsley Canal Site. The Kiva 38(2):57-94. 19 24 Kelly, Isabel T. 1978 The Hodges Ruin: A Hohokam Community in the Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 30. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 18 25 Doyel, David E. 1980 Hohokam Social Organization and the Sedentary to Classic Transistion. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory: Proceedings of a Symposium, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. T. Plog, pp. 23-40. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 18 26 Doyel, David E. 1977 Classic Period Hohokam in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona. PhD Dissertation, University of Arizona, Tucson. 18 27 Hayden, Julian 1970 Of Hohokam Origins and Other Matters. American Antiquity 35(1):87-93. 18 28 Weaver, Donald 1980 The Northern Frontier: Hohokam Regional Diversity as seen from the Lower Salt River Valley. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. Plog, pp. 121-133. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 18 29 Plog, Fred 1980 Explaining Change in the Hohokam Pre-classic. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. Plog, pp. 4-22. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 17 439

30 Spier, Leslie 1933 Yuman Tribes of the Gila River. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. 17 31 Johnson, Alfred E. 1964 Archaeological Excavations in Hohokam Sites of Southern Arizona. American Antiquity 30:145-161. 16 32 Goodyear, Albert C. 1975 Hecla II and III: An Interpretive Study of Archaeological Remains from the Lakeshore Project, Papago Reservation, South Central Arizona. Anthropological Research Paper 9. Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 16 33 Wilcox, David R. and Charles Sternberg 1983 Hohokam Ballcourts and their Interpretation. Archaeological Series 160. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 16 34 Hammack, Laurens C. 1969 Preliminary Report from Las Colinas. The Kiva 3(1):11-28. 16 35 Martin, Paul S. and Fred Plog 1973 The Archaeology of Arizona. Double Day: Natural History Press, New York. 15 36 Haury, Emil W. 1932 Roosevelt 9:6. Medallion Papers 11. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona 14 37 Castettter, E.F and R.M. Underhill 1935 The Ethnobiology of the Papago Indians. University of New Mexico Bulletin 4(3). University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 14 38 Schroeder, Albert H. 1960 The Hohokam, Sinagua, and Hakataya. In Society for American Archaeology, Archives of Archaeology. vol. 5. Society for American Archaeology, Madison. 14 39 Morris, Donald H. 1969 Red Mountain: An Early Pioneer Period Site in the Salt River Valley of Central Arizona. American Antiquity 34:40-53. 14 40 Masse, Bruce W. 1980 Excavations at Gu Achi: A Reappraisal of Hohokam Settlement and Subsistence in the Arizona Papaguería. Publications in Anthropology 12. Western Archaeological Center, Tucson. 14 440

41 Upham, Steadman and Glen E. Rice 1980 Up the Canal without a Pattern: Modeling Hohokam Interaction and Exchange. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory: Proceedings of a Symposium, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. Plog, pp. 78-105. Arizona State University Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 14 42 Wilcox, David R., Thomas R. McGuire and Charles Sternberg 1981 Snaketown Revisited: A Partial Cultural Resource Survey, Analysis of Site Structure and an Ethnohistoric Study of the Proposed Hohokam-Pima National Monument. Archaeological Series No. 115. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 14 43 Steen, Charles R. 1965 Excavations in Compound A, Casa Grande National Monument, 1963. The Kiva 31(2):59-82. 14 44 Schiffer, Michael B. 1982 Hohokam Chronology: An Essay on History and Method. In Hohokam and Patayan: Prehistory of Southwestern Arizona, edited by R. McGuire and M. B. Schiffer, pp. 299-344. Academic Press, New York. 14 45 Weed, Carol and A. E. Ward 1970 The Henderson Site: Colonial Hohokam in North Central Arizona. The Arizona Archaeologist 36(2):1- 12. 13 46 Grady, Mark A. 1976 Aboriginal Agrarian Adaptation to the Sonoran Desert: A Regional Synthesis and Research Design. doctoral dissertaion, University of Arizona. 13 47 Crown, Patricia L. 1981 Analysis of the Las Colinas Ceramics. In The 1968 Excavations at Mound 8 Las Colinas Ruins Group Phoenix, Arizona, edited by L.C. Hammack and A.P. Sullivan, pp. 87-170. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 154. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 13 48 Hammack, Laurens C. and Alan P. Sullivan, editors 1981 The 1968 Excavations at Mound 8 Las Colinas Ruins Group Phoenix, Arizona. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 154. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 13 441

49 Gladwin, Harold S. 1948 Excavations at Snaketown IV: Review and Conclusions. Medallion Papers 38. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona. 12 50 Greenleaf, J. Cameron 1975 The Fortified Hill Site near Gila Bend, Arizona. The Kiva 40(4):213-282. 12 442

Rank 50 Most Cited Papers: 1985-1989 Times Cited 1 Haury, Emil 1976 The Hohokam: Desert Farmers and Craftsmen. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 128 2 Wilcox, David R., Thomas R. McGuire and Charles Sternberg 1981 Snaketown Revisited: A Partial Cultural Resource Survey, Analysis of Site Structure and an Ethnohistoric Study of the Proposed Hohokam-Pima National Monument. Archaeological Series No. 115. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 96 3 Wilcox, David R. and Charles Sternberg 1983 Hohokam Ballcourts and their Interpretation. Archaeological Series 160. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 76 4 Gladwin, Harold S., Emil W. Haury, Edwin B. Sayles and Nora Gladwin 1937 Excavations at Snaketown: Material Culture. Medallion Papers 25. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 74 5 Schiffer, Michael B. 1982 Hohokam Chronology: An Essay on History and Method. In Hohokam and Patayan: Prehistory of Southwestern Arizona, edited by R. McGuire and M. B. Schiffer, pp. 299-344. Academic Press, New York. 70 6 Kelly, Isabel T. 1978 The Hodges Ruin: A Hohokam Community in the Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 30. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 68 7 Di Peso, Charles C. 1956 The Upper Pima of San Cayetano del Tumacacori: An Archaeo-Historical Reconstruction of the O’otam of Pimeria Alta 7. The Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, Arizona. 64 8 Wilcox, David R. 1979 The Hohokam Regional System. In An Archaeological Test of Sites in the Gila Butte-Santan Region, South- Central Arizona, edited by G. E. Rice, pp. 77-116. Arizona State University Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 18. Arizona State University, Tempe. 62 443

9 Russell, Frank 1908 The Pima Indians. Twenty-sixth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Washington DC. 62 10 Wilcox, David R. and Lynn O. Shenk 1977 The Architecture of the Casa Grande and its Interpretation. Archaeological Series 115. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 54 11 Greenleaf, J. Cameron 1975 Excavations at Punta de Agua. Anthropological Papers 26. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 53 12 Hayden, Julian D. 1957 Excavations, 1940 at University Indian Ruin, Tucson, Arizona. 50 13 Doyel, David E. 1980 Hohokam Social Organization and the Sedentary to Classic Transition. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory: Proceedings of a Symposium, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. T. Plog, pp. 23-40. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 47 14 Castetteter, E. F. and W. H. Bell 1942 Pima and Papago Indian Agriculture. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 46 15 Haury, Emil W. 1950 The Stratigraphy and Archaeology of Ventana Cave, Arizona. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 45 16 Doyel, David E. 1974 Excavations in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 37. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 44 17 Doyel, David E. 1977 Excavations in the Middle Santa Cruz River Valley, Southeastern Arizona. Contributions to Highway Salvage Archaeology 44. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 43 18 Wallace, Henry D. and James P. Holmlund 1984 The Classic Period in the Tucson Basin. Kiva 49(3- 4):167-194. 42 19 Turney, O. A. 1929 Prehistoric Irrigation in Arizona. Office of the State Historian, Phoenix. 41 444

20 Doyel, David E. 1981 Late Hohokam Prehistory in Southern Arizona. Contributions to Archaeology 2. Gila Press, Scottsdale. 40 21 Haury, Emil 1945 The Excavation of Los Muertos and Neighboring Ruins in the Salt River Valley, Southern Arizona. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, volume 24(1). Harvard University, Cambridge. 39 22 Doelle, William H. 1985 Excavations at the Valencia Site, a Preclassic Hohokam Village in the Southern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 3. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 39 23 Plog, Fred 1980 Explaining Change in the Hohokam Pre-classic. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. Plog, pp. 4-22. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 37 24 Wasley, William W. and Alfred E. Johnson 1965 Salvage Archaeology in Painted Rocks Reservoir Western Arizona. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 9. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 34 25 Grebinger, Paul 1976 The Salado: Perspectives from the Middle Santa Cruz Valley. The Kiva 42:39-46. 34 26 Antieau, John M. 1981 Hohokam Settlement at the Confluence: Excavations along the Palo Verde Pipeline. Research Paper 20. Museum of Northern Arizona, Flagstaff. 32 27 Grebinger, Paul 1971 Hohokam Cultural Development in the Middle Santa Cruz Valley, Arizona. PhD. dissertation, University of Arizona. 31 28 Upham, Steadman and Glen E. Rice 1980 Up the Canal without a Pattern: Modeling Hohokam Interaction and Exchange. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory: Proceedings of a Symposium, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. Plog, pp. 78-105. Arizona State University Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 30 445

29 Fish, Suzanne K., Paul R. Fish, Charles H. Miksicek and John H. Madsen 1985 Prehistoric Agave Cultivation in Southern Arizona. Desert Plants 7:107-112. 27 30 Bohrer, Vorsilla L. 1970 Ethnobotanical Aspects of Snaketown, a Hohokam Village in Southern Arizona. American Antiquity 35(4):413-430. 27 31 Crown, Patrica L. 1981 Analysis of the Las Colinas Ceramics. In The 1968 Excavations at Mound 8 Las Colinas Ruins Group Phoenix, Arizona, edited by L.C. Hammack and A.P. Sullivan, pp. 87-170. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 154. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 26 32 Masse, Bruce W. 1980 Excavations at Gu Achi: A Reappraisal of Hohokam Settlement and Subsistence in the Arizona Papagueria. Publications in Anthropology 12. Western Archaeological Center, Tucson. 25 33 Huntington, Frederick W. 1986 Archaeological Investigations at the West Branch Site: Early and Middle Rincon Occupation in the Southern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 5. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 25 34 Doelle, William H. 1976 Desert Resources and Hohokam Subsistence: The CONOCO Florence Project. Archaeological Series 103. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 24 35 Hammack, Laurens C. and Alan P. Sullivan (editors) 1981 The 1968 Excavations at Mound 8, Las Colinas Ruin Group, Phoenix, Arizona. 154. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 23 36 Haury, Emil W. 1945 The Problems of Contacts Between Mexico and the Southwestern United States. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 1(1):55-74. 21 37 Doyel, David E. 1984 From Foraging to Farming: An Overview of the Preclassic in the Tucson Basin. Kiva 49(3-4):147-165. 21 38 Lowe, Charles H. 1964 The Vertebrates of Arizona. The University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 21 446

39 Deaver, William 1984 Pottery. In Hohokam Habitation Sites in the Northern Santa Rita Mountains, edited by A. Ferg, K.C. Rozen, W.L. Deaver, M.D. Tagg, D.A. Phillips and D.A. Gregory, pp. 237-419. Archaeological Series No. 147(2). Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 20 40 Fish, Suzanne K., Paul R. Fish and John H. Madsen 1985 A Preliminary Analysis of Hohokam Settlement and Agriculture in the Northern Tucson Basin. In Proceedings of the 1983 Hohokam Symposium, edited by A. E. Dittert and D. E. Dove, pp. 75-100. Arizona Archaeological Society, Phoenix. 20 41 Gregory, David A. 1984 Excavations at the Siphon Draw Site (AZ U:10:6). In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct, Central Arizona Project, Volume IV: Village Sites on Queen Creek and Siphon Draw, edited by L.S. Teague and P.L. Crown. Archaeological Series No. 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 19 42 Elson, Mark D. 1986 Archaeological Investigations at the Tanque Verde Wash Site, a Middle Rincon Settlement in the Eastern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 7. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 19 43 Fewkes, J. W. 1912 Casa Grande, Arizona. In Twenty-eighth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, pp. 25- 179. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, D. C. 18 44 Spier, Leslie 1933 Yuman Tribes of the Gila River. University of Chicago Press, Chicago. 17 45 Masse, Bruce W. 1981 Prehistoric Irrigation Systems in the Salt River Valley, Arizona. Science 214:408-415. 17 46 Crown, Patricia L. 1983 Introduction: Prehistoric Occupation of the Queen Creek Delta. In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt- Gila Aqueduct Central Arizona Project, Volume IV: Village Sites on Queen Creek and Siphon Draw, edited by L.S. Teague and P.L. Crown. Archaeological Series150(4). Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 17 447

47 Czaplicki, John S. and Jon Mayberry 1983 An Archaeological Assessment of the Middle Santa Cruz River Basin, Rillito to Green Valley, Arizona: for the Proposed Tucson Aqueduct Phase B, CAP. Archaeological Series 164. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 17 48 Sires, Earl W. 1984 Hohokam Architecture and Site Structure. In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct Central Arizona Project, Volume IX: Synthesis and Conclusions, edited by L.S. Teague and P.L. Crown, pp. 115-140. Archaeological Series150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 17 49 Doelle, William H., Allen Dart and Henry D. Wallace 1985 The Southern Tucson Basin Survey: Intensive Survey along the Santa Cruz River. Technical Report 85-3. Institute for American Research. 17 50 Howard, Jerry B. 1985 Courtyard Groups and Domestic Cycling: A Hypothetical Model of Growth. In Proceedings of the 1983 Hohokam Symposium, edited by A. E. Dittert and D. E. Dove, pp. 311-326. Occasional Paper. vol. 2. Arizona Archaeological Society, Phoenix. 16 448

Rank 50 Most Cited Papers: 1990-1994 Times Cited 1 Haury, Emil 1976 The Hohokam: Desert Farmers and Craftsmen. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 117 2 Wilcox, David R. and Charles Sternberg 1983 Hohokam Ballcourts and their Interpretation. Archaeological Series 160. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 68 3 Haury, Emil 1945 The Excavation of Los Muertos and Neighboring Ruins in the Salt River Valley, Southern Arizona. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, volume 24(1). Harvard University, Cambridge. 67 4 Gladwin, Harold S., Emil W. Haury, Edwin B. Sayles and Nora Gladwin 1937 Excavations at Snaketown: Material Culture. Medallion Papers 25. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 56 5 Wilcox, David R., Thomas R. McGuire and Charles Sternberg 1981 Snaketown Revisited: A Partial Cultural Resource Survey, Analysis of Site Structure and an Ethnohistoric Study of the Proposed Hohokam-Pima National Monument. Archaeological Series No. 155. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 49 6 Haury, Emil W. 1950 The Stratigraphy and Archaeology of Ventana Cave, Arizona. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 47 7 Di Peso, Charles C. 1956 The Upper Pima of San Cayetano del Tumacacori: An Archaeo-Historical Reconstruction of the O’otam of Pimeria Alta 7. The Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, Arizona. 46 8 Brown, David E., editor 1982 Biotic communities of the American Southwest-- United States and Mexico. Desert Plants. 4(1-4). 44 9 Kelly, Isabel T. 1978 The Hodges Ruin: A Hohokam Community in the Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 30. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 41 449

10 Dean, Jeffrey S. 1991 Thoughts on Hohokam Chronology. In Exploring the Hohokam: Prehistoric Desert Peoples of the American Southwest, edited by G. J. Gumerman, pp. 61-149. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 41 11 Henderson, T. Kathleen 1987 Structure and organization at La Ciudad. Anthropological Field Studies 18. Arizona State University, Tempe. 37 12 Huckell, Bruce B. 1984 The Archaic Occupation of the Rosemont Area, Northern Santa Rita Mountains, Southeastern Arizona. Archaeological Series No. 147(1). Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 36 13 Wilcox, David R. 1979 The Hohokam Regional System. In An Archaeological Test of Sites in the Gila Butte-Santan Region, South- Central Arizona, edited by G. E. Rice, pp. 77-116. Arizona State University Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 18. Arizona State University, Tempe. 36 14 Gregory, David A. and Fred L. Nials 1985 Observations Concerning the Distribution of Classic Period Hohokam Platform Mounds. In Proceedings of the 1983 Hohokam Symposium, edited by A. E. Dittert and D. E. Dove, pp. 373-388. Occasional Paper. vol. 2. Arizona Archaeological Society, Phoenix. 32 15 Russell, Frank 1908 The Pima Indians. Twenty-sixth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, Washington DC. 30 16 Doyel, David E. 1974 Excavations in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 37. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 29 17 Huckell, Bruce B. 1984 The Paleo-Indian and Archaic Occupation of the Tucson Basin: An Overview. Kiva 49(3-4):133-145. 28 18 Hayden, Julian D. 1957 Excavations, 1940 at University Indian Ruin, Tucson, Arizona. 27 450

19 Doyel, David E. 1980 Hohokam Social Organization and the Sedentary to Classic Transition. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory: Proceedings of a Symposium, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. T. Plog, pp. 23-40. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 27 20 Plog, Fred 1980 Explaining Change in the Hohokam Pre-classic. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. Plog, pp. 4-22. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 27 21 Cable, John S. and David E. Doyel 1987 Pioneer Period Village Structure and Settlement Pattern in the Phoenix Basin. In The Hohokam Village: Site Structure and Organization, edited by D. E. Doyel, pp. 21-70. Southwestern and Rocky Mountain Division of the American Association of the Advancement of Science, Ft. Collins. 27 22 Wilcox, David R. and Lynn O. Shenk 1977 The Architecture of the Casa Grande and its Interpretation. Archaeological Series 115. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 24 23 Wasley, William W. and Alfred E. Johnson 1965 Salvage Archaeology in Painted Rocks Reservoir Western Arizona. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 9. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 23 24 Sires, Earl W. 1984 Excavations at El Polvorón. In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct, Central Arizona Project, volume 4(2): Prehistoric Occupation of the Queen Creek Delta, edited by L.S. Teague and P.L. Crown, pp. 221-326. Archaeological Series 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 22 25 Gregory, David A. 1987 The Morphology of Platform Mounds and the Structure of Classic Period Hohokam Sites. In The Hohokam Village: Site Structure and Organization, edited by D. E. Doyel, pp. 183-210. Southwestern and Rocky Mountain Division of the American Association of the Advancement of Science, Ft. Collins. 22 451

26 Howard, Jerry B. 1985 Courtyard Groups and Domestic Cycling: A Hypothetical Model of Growth. In Proceedings of the 1983 Hohokam Symposium, edited by A. E. Dittert and D. E. Dove, pp. 311-326. Occasional Paper. vol. 2. Arizona Archaeological Society, Phoenix. 21 27 Huckell, Bruce 1988 Late Archaic Archaeology of the Tucson Basin: A Status Report. In Recent Research on Tucson Basin Prehistory: Proceedings of the Second Tucson Basin Conference, edited by W. Doelle and P. R. Fish, pp. 57- 80. Anthropological Papers. vol. 10. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 21 28 Upham, Steadman and Glen E. Rice 1980 Up the Canal without a Pattern: Modeling Hohokam Interaction and Exchange. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory: Proceedings of a Symposium, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. Plog, pp. 78-105. Arizona State University Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 20 29 Deaver, William 1984 Pottery. In Hohokam Habitation Sites in the Northern Santa Rita Mountains, edited by A. Ferg, K.C. Rozen, W.L. Deaver, M.D. Tagg, D.A. Phillips and D.A. Gregory, pp. 237-419. Archaeological Series No. 147(2). Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 20 30 Wallace, Henry D. 1988 Ceramic Boundaries and Interregional Interaction: New Perspectives on the Tucson Basin Hohokam. In Recent Research on Tucson Basin Prehistory: Proceedings of the Second Tucson Basin Conference, edited by W. Doelle and P. R. Fish, pp. 313-348. Anthropological Papers. vol. 10. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 20 31 Fewkes, J. W. 1912 Casa Grande, Arizona. In Twenty-eighth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology, pp. 25- 179. U.S. Government Printing Office, Washington, D. C. 19 32 Doyel, David E. and Mark D. Elson (editors) 1985 Hohokam Settlement and Economic Systems in the Central New River Drainage, Arizona, Volume 1. 4. Soil Systems, Phoenix. 19 452

33 Nicholas, Linda and Jill Neitzel 1984 Canal Irrigation and Sociopolitical Organization in the Lower Salt River Valley: A Diachronic Analysis. In Prehistoric Agricultural Strategies in the Southwest, edited by S. K. Fish and P. R. Fish, pp. 161-178. Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 33. Arizona State University, Tempe. 19 34 Fish, Suzanne K., Paul R. Fish and John H. Madsen 1985 A Preliminary Analysis of Hohokam Settlement and Agriculture in the Northern Tucson Basin. In Proceedings of the 1983 Hohokam Symposium, edited by A. E. Dittert and D. E. Dove, pp. 75-100. Arizona Archaeological Society, Phoenix. 18 35 Turney, O. A. 1929 Prehistoric Irrigation in Arizona. Office of the State Historian, Phoenix. 18 36 Crown, Patricia L. 1987 Classic Period Hohokam Settlement and Land Use in the Casa Grande Ruins Area, Arizona. Journal of Field Archaeology 14:147-162. 18 37 McGuire, Randall and Ann V. Howard 1987 The Structure and Organization of Hohokam Shell Exchange. Kiva 52(2):113-146. 18 38 Fish, P.R., S.K. Fish, and J.H. Madsen 1988 Differentiation in Bajada Portions of a Tucson Basin Classic Community. In Recent Research on Tucson Basin Prehistory: Proceedings of the Second Tucson Basin Conference, edited by W.H. Doelle and P.R. Fish, pp. 225-240. Anthropological Papers No. 10. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 18 39 Graybill, Donald A. 1989 The Reconstruction of Prehistoric Salt River Streamflow. In The 1982-1984 Excavations at Las Colinas: Environment and Subsistence, edited by D.A. Graybill, D.A. Gregory, F.L. Nials, S.K. Fish, R.E. Gasser, C.H. Miksicek, and C.R. Szuter, pp. 25-38. Archaeological Series No. 162(5). Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 18 40 Schiffer, Michael B. 1982 Hohokam Chronology: An Essay on History and Method. In Hohokam and Patayan: Prehistory of Southwestern Arizona, edited by R. McGuire and M. B. Schiffer, pp. 299-344. Academic Press, New York. 17 453

41 Fish, Suzanne K. and Paul R. Fish (editors) 1984 Prehistoric Agricultural Strategies in the Southwest. 33. Arizona State University, Tempe. 17 42 Gregory, David A. 1984 Excavations at the Siphon Draw Site (AZ U:10:6). In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct, Central Arizona Project, Volume IV: Village Sites on Queen Creek and Siphon Draw, edited by L.S. Teague and P.L. Crown. Archaeological Series No. 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 17 43 Huntington, Frederick W. 1986 Archaeological Investigations at the West Branch Site: Early and Middle Rincon Occupation in the Southern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 5. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 17 44 Ackerly, Neal., Jerry B. Howard and Randall McGuire 1987 La Ciudad Canals : a study of Hohokam irrigation systems at the community level. Anthropological Field Studies 17. Arizona State University, Tempe. 17 45 Wilcox, David R. 1987 Frank Midvale's investigation of the site of La Ciudad. Anthropological Field Studies 19. Arizona State University, Tempe. 17 46 Fish, Paul R., Suzanne K. Fish and John H. Madsen 1988 Differentiation in Bajada Portions of a Tucson Basin Classic Community. In Recent Research on Tucson Basin Prehistory: Proceedings of the Second Tucson Basin Conference, edited by W. Doelle and P. R. Fish, pp. 225-240. Anthropological Papers. vol. 10. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 17 47 Doyel, David E. 1991 Hohokam Cultural Evolution in the Phoenix Basin. In Exploring the Hohokam: Prehistoric Desert Peoples of the Desert Southwest, edited by G. J. Gumerman, pp. 231-278. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 17 48 Masse, Bruce W. 1981 Prehistoric Irrigation Systems in the Salt River Valley, Arizona. Science 214:408-415. 16 454

49 Abbott, David R. 1983 A Technological Assessment of Ceramic Variation in the Salt-Gila Aqueduct Area: Toward a Comprehensive Documentation of Hohokam Ceramics. In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct, Central Arizona Project, Volume 8(1): Material Culture, edited by L.S. Teague and P.L. Crown, pp. 1-118. Archaeological Series No. 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 16 50 Goodyear, Albert C. 1975 Hecla II and III: An Interpretive Study of Archaeological Remains from the Lakeshore Project, Papago Reservation, South Central Arizona. Anthropological Research Paper 9. Department of Anthropology, Arizona State University, Tempe. 16 455

Rank 50 Most Cited Papers: 1995-2001 Times Cited 1 Haury, Emil 1976 The Hohokam: Desert Farmers and Craftsmen. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 140 2 Wilcox, David R. and Charles Sternberg 1983 Hohokam Ballcourts and their Interpretation. Archaeological Series 160. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 106 3 Doyel, David E. 1991 Hohokam Cultural Evolution in the Phoenix Basin. In Exploring the Hohokam: Prehistoric Desert Peoples of the Desert Southwest, edited by G. J. Gumerman, pp. 231-278. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 88 4 Gladwin, Harold S., Emil W. Haury, Edwin B. Sayles and Nora Gladwin 1937 Excavations at Snaketown: Material Culture. Medallion Papers 25. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 86 5 Doelle, William H. and Henry D. Wallace 1991 The Changing Role of the Tucson Basin in the Hohokam Regional System. In Exploring the Hohokam: Prehistoric Desert Peoples of the American Southwest, edited by G. J. Gumerman, pp. 279-345. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 73 6 Dean, Jeffrey S. 1991 Thoughts on Hohokam Chronology. In Exploring the Hohokam: Prehistoric Desert Peoples of the American Southwest, edited by G. J. Gumerman, pp. 61-149. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 72 7 Wilcox, David R., Thomas R. McGuire and Charles Sternberg 1981 Snaketown Revisited: A Partial Cultural Resource Survey, Analysis of Site Structure and an Ethnohistoric Study of the Proposed Hohokam-Pima National Monument. Archaeological Series No. 155. Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 71 8 Kelly, Isabel T. 1978 The Hodges Ruin: A Hohokam Community in the Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers of the University of Arizona 30. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 65 456

9 Haury, Emil 1945 The Excavation of Los Muertos and Neighboring Ruins in the Salt River Valley, Southern Arizona. Papers of the Peabody Museum of American Archaeology and Ethnology, volume 24(1). Harvard University, Cambridge. 60 10 Fish, S. K., P. R. Fish and J. H. Madsen (editors) 1992 The Marana Community in the Hohokam World. Anthropological Papers No. 56. University of Arizona, Tucson. 54 11 Gasser, Robert and Scott M. Kwiatkowski 1991 Food for Thought: Recognizing Patterns in Hohokam Subsistence. In Exploring the Hohokam: Prehistoric Desert Peoples of the American Southwest, edited by G. J. Gumerman, pp. 417-460. Amerind Foundation Publication, Dragoon. 54 12 Wilcox, David R. 1979 The Hohokam Regional System. In An Archaeological Test of Sites in the Gila Butte-Santan Region, South- Central Arizona, edited by G. E. Rice, pp. 77-116. Arizona State University Anthropological Research Papers. vol. 18. Arizona State University, Tempe. 52 13 Howard, Jerry B. 1985 Courtyard Groups and Domestic Cycling: A Hypothetical Model of Growth. In Proceedings of the 1983 Hohokam Symposium, edited by A. E. Dittert and D. E. Dove, pp. 311-326. Occasional Paper. vol. 2. Arizona Archaeological Society, Phoenix. 43 14 Doyel, David E. 1980 Hohokam Social Organization and the Sedentary to Classic Transition. In Current Issues in Hohokam Prehistory: Proceedings of a Symposium, edited by D. E. Doyel and F. T. Plog, pp. 23-40. Anthropological Research Paper. vol. 23. Arizona State University, Tempe. 42 15 Wilcox, David R. and Lynn O. Shenk 1977 The Architecture of the Casa Grande and its Interpretation. Archaeological Series 115. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 41 457

16 Cable, John S. and David E. Doyel 1987 Pioneer Period Village Structure and Settlement Pattern in the Phoenix Basin. In The Hohokam Village: Site Structure and Organization, edited by D. E. Doyel, pp. 21-70. Southwestern and Rocky Mountain Division of the American Association of the Advancement of Science, Ft. Collins. 39 17 Huckell, Bruce B. 1984 The Paleo-Indian and Archaic Occupation of the Tucson Basin: An Overview. Kiva 49(3-4):133-145. 37 18 Elson, Mark D. 1986 Archaeological Investigations at the Tanque Verde Wash Site, a Middle Rincon Settlement in the Eastern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 7. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 37 19 Huckell, Bruce B. 1984 The Archaic Occupation of the Rosemont Area, Northern Santa Rita Mountains, Southeastern Arizona. Archaeological Series No. 147(1). Arizona State Museum, University of Arizona, Tucson. 36 20 Huntington, Frederick W. 1986 Archaeological Investigations at the West Branch Site: Early and Middle Rincon Occupation in the Southern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 5. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 35 21 Doelle, William H. 1985 Excavations at the Valencia Site, a Preclassic Hohokam Village in the Southern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 3. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 34 22 Wallace, Henry D. and James P. Holmlund 1984 The Classic Period in the Tucson Basin. Kiva 49(3- 4):167-194. 33 23 Sires, Earl W. 1984 Excavations at El Polvorón. In Hohokam Archaeology along the Salt-Gila Aqueduct, Central Arizona Project, volume 4(2): Prehistoric Occupation of the Queen Creek Delta, edited by L.S. Teague and P.L. Crown, pp. 221-326. Archaeological Series 150. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 32 458

24 Di Peso, Charles C. 1974 Casas Grandes: A Fallen Trading Center of the Gran Chichimeca. Amerind Foundation 9. Amerind, Dragoon, Arizona. 31 25 Doyel, David E. 1987 The Hohokam Village. In The Hohokam Village: Site Structure and Organization, edited by D. E. Doyel, pp. 1-20. Southwestern and Rocky Mountain Division of the American Association of the Advancement of Science, Ft. Collins. 31 26 Huckleberry, Garry 1992 Soil Evidence of Hohokam Irrigation in the Salt River Valley, Arizona. Kiva 57(3):237-250. 31 27 Wallace, Henry D. 1995 Archaeological Investigations at Los Morteros, a Prehistoric Community in the Northern Tucson Basin. Anthropological Papers 17. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. 31 28 Doyel, David E. 1974 Excavations in the Escalante Ruin Group, Southern Arizona. Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 37. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 29 29 Huckell, Bruce 1988 Late Archaic Archaeology of the Tucson Basin: A Status Report. In Recent Research on Tucson Basin Prehistory: Proceedings of the Second Tucson Basin Conference, edited by W. Doelle and P. R. Fish, pp. 57-80. Anthropological Papers. vol. 10. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 28 30 Gladwin, Harold S. 1948 Excavations at Snaketown IV: Review and Conclusions. Medallion Papers 38. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona. 27 31 Dart, Allen 1986 Archaeological Investigations at La Paloma: Archaic and Hohokam Occupations at Three Sites in the Northeastern Tucson Basin, Arizona. Anthropological Papers 4. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 27 32 Wallace, Henry D., James M. Heidke and William H. Doelle 1995 Hohokam Origins. Kiva 60(4):575-618. 27 459

33 Bolton, Herbert E. 1948 Kino’s Historical Memoir of Pimeria Alta. University of California Press, Berkeley. 26 34 Huckell, Bruce B. 1995 Of Marshes and Maize. University of Arizona Anthropological Papers. University of Arizona Press, Tucson. 26 35 Doyel, David E. 1977 Excavations in the Middle Santa Cruz River Valley, Southeastern Arizona. Contributions to Highway Salvage Archaeology 44. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 25 36 Wallace, Henry D. 1986 Rincon Phase Decorated Ceramics in the Tucson Basin: A Focus on the West Branch Site. Anthropological Papers 1. Institute for American Research, Tucson. 24 37 Gregory, David A. 1991 Form and Variation in Hohokam Settlement Patterns. In Chaco and Hohokam: Prehistoric Regional Systems in the American Southwest, edited by P. L. Crown and W. J. Judge, pp. 159-194. School of American Research, Santa Fe. 24 38 Gladwin, Harold S. 1942 Excavations at Snaketown III: Revisions. Medallion Papers 30. Gila Pueblo, Globe, Arizona. 23 39 Doyel, David E. 1981 Late Hohokam Prehistory in Southern Arizona. Contributions to Archaeology 2. Gila Press, Scottsdale. 23 40 Doyel, David E. 1984 From Foraging to Farming: An Overview of the Preclassic in the Tucson Basin. Kiva 49(3-4):147-165. 23 41 Haury, Emil W. 1945 The Problems of Contacts Between Mexico and the Southwestern United States. Southwestern Journal of Anthropology 1(1):55-74. 22 42 McGuire, Randall H. 1982 Culture History. In Hohokam and Payatan, edited by R.H. McGuire and M.B. Schiffer. Academic Press, New York. 22 460

43 Waters, Michael R. 1987 Holocene Alluvial Geology and Geoarchaeology of AZ BB:13:14 and the San Xavier Reach of the Santa Cruz. In The Archaeology of the San Xavier Bridge Site (AZ BB:13:14), Tucson Basin, Southern Arizona, edited by J.C. Ravesloot, pp. 39-60. Archaeological Series No. 171. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 22 44 Doelle, William and Henry D. Wallace 1990 The Transition to History in Pimeria Alta. In Perspectives in Southwestern Prehistory, edited by P. E. Minnis and C. L. Redman, pp. 239-257. Westview Press, Boulder. 22 45 Howard, Jerry B. 1991 System Reconstruction: The Evolution of an Irrigation System. In The Operation and Evolution of an Irrigation System: The East Papago Canal Study, edited by J.B. Howard and G. Huckleberry, pp. 1-33. Publications in Archaeology No. 18. Soil Systems, Phoenix. 22 46 Nelson, Richard S. 1991 Hohokam Marine Shell Exchange and Artifacts. Archaeological Series 179. Arizona State Museum, Tucson. 22 47 Teague, Lynn S. 1993 Prehistory and the Traditions of the O’odham and Hopi. Kiva 58(4):435-454. 22 48 Castetteter, E. F. and W. H. Bell 1942 Pima and Papago Indian Agriculture. University of New Mexico Press, Albuquerque. 21 49 Di Peso, Charles C. 1956 The Upper Pima of San Cayetano del Tumacacori: An Archaeo-Historical Reconstruction of the O’otam of Pimeria Alta 7. The Amerind Foundation, Dragoon, Arizona. 21 50 Mabry, Jonathan B. 1998 Archaeological Investigations of Early Village Sites in the Middle Santa Cruz Valley. Anthropological Papers 18. Center for Desert Archaeology, Tucson. 21

461

APPENDIX B: PRACTITIONERS ACTIVE IN HOHOKAM ARCHAEOLOGY

Name Training Employment Decades Active Institution in Hohokam Archaeology Abbott, David R. ASU Various organizations, 1980s-Present including ASM, SSI, ASU as ceramic specialist Ackerly, Neal W. ASU Various organizations 1970s-1990s Ahlstrom, UA SWCA 1980s-Present Richard V.M. Altschul, Jeffrey Brandeis SRI 1980s-Present H. University Ambler, J. University of Casa Grande Monument 1960s Richard Colorado Antieau, John M. ASU MNA 1970s-1980s Ayres, James E. UA ASM, ARS 1960s-Present Bayham, Frank ASU Chico State University and 1970s-Present various institutions as faunal analyst Bayman, James ASU University of Hawaii and 1990s-Present M. CDARC Bernard-Shaw, UA CDARC 1980s-Present Mary Betancourt, Julio UA ASM, UA 1970s Bohrer, Vorsila UA ASM, OCRM 1960s-1990s L. Bostwick, Todd ASU Pueblo Grande Museum 1990s-Present W. Breternitz, Cory Washington SSI 1980s-Present Dale State University Bruder, Simon J. ASU OCRM, MNA and other 1980s-Present private firms Bruson-Hadley, ASU Various Private Firms 1990s Judy L. Cable, John S. SSI 1980s-1990s Canouts, Veletta UA ASM 1970s Chenault, Mark University of SWCA 1990s-present L. Colorado Ciolek-Torrello, UA SRI, ASM, MNA 1970s-present Richard S. Clark, Jeffrey UA CDARC 1990s-present 462

Craig, Douglas UA Pima CC, CDARC, 1980s-present B. Northland Crown, Patricia UA UNM, ASM 1980s-present L. Cushing, Frank Bureau of American 1880s Hamilton Ethnology Czaplicki, Jon S. UA ASM 1980s-1990s Dart, Allen UA ASM, IAR/CDARC, Old 1980s-present Pueblo Archaeology Dean, Jeffrey UA UA 1980s-1990s Deaver, William UA ASM, SRI 1980s-present Debowski, UA ASM 1970s Sharon S. Di Peso, Charles UA Amerind Foundation 1950s-1980s C. Dittert, Alfred E. UA ASU 1960s-1980s Doelle, William UA IAR/CDARC, ASM 1970s-present H. Doolittle, University of University of Texas 1990s William E. Oklahoma Dove, Donald E. ASU Various Private firms 1970s-1980s Downum, UA Northern Arizona 1980s-present Chirstian E. University, ASM Doyel, David UA Various private firms, 1970s-present ASM Eighmy, Jeffery UA Colorado State University, 1980s-present L. archaeomagnetic specialist Elson, Mark D. UA CDARC 1980s-present Ferg, Alan UA ASM 1970s-1980s Fewkes, Jesse W. Harvard Bureau of American 1890s-1910s Ethnology Fish, Paul R. ASU ASM, MNA 1960s-present Fish, Suzanne K. UA ASM, ethnobotanical 1980s-present specialist Fontana, Bernard UA ASM 1960s L. Foster, Michael University of SSI 1990s S. Colorado Franklin, Hayward Hoskins Frapps (Tanner), UA 1930s-1950s Clara Lee 463

Gasser, Robert E. ASU ADOT, ethnobotanical 1980s-present specialist Gish, Jannifer W. Various organizations, 1980s-1990s ethnobotanical specialist Gladwin, Harold Gila Pueblo 1920s-1950s S. Archaeological Foundation Goodyear, Albert ASU ASU 1960s-1980s C. Grady, Mark UA ASM 1970s Graybill, Donald UA UA 1980s Grebinger, Paul UA University, ASM 1970s Greenleaf, UA ASM 1960s-1970s Cameron Greenwald, SWCA 1990s-present David H. Gregonis, Linda UA Various private firms, 1970s-present M. ASM Gregory, David UA ASM, various private 1980s-present firms Gumerman, UA Various universities 1970s-present George J. Hackbarth, Mark University of Northland Research 1990s-present R. Arkansas Halseth, Odd S. Pueblo Grande Museum 1930s-1940s Hammack, ASM 1960s-1980s Laurens C. Harry, Karen G. UA UNLV 1990s-present Hantmann, Gayle UA ASM 1970s H. Haury, Emil W. Harvard UA, ASM 1930s-1980s Hayden, Julian Various 1930s-1970s D. Heidke, James UA IAR/CDARC 1980s-present Henderson, T. ASU OCRM, Northland 1980s-present Kathleen Research, CDARC Holmlund, James UA Various private firms 1980s-present P. Howard, Ann ASU OCRM, various private 1980s-present Valdo firms, shell specialist Howard, Jerry B. ASU OCRM, SSI 1980s-present Huckell, Bruce UA UNM, CDARC 1970s-present B. 464

Huckleberry, UA Washington State 1990s-present Gary University, geoarchaeological specialist Huntington, 1900s-1910s Ellsworth Huntington, UA IAR/CDARC 1980s-1990s Frederick W. Jacobs, David Johnson, Alfred UA ASM 1960s E. Kelly, Isabel T. Gila Pueblo 1930s-1940s Kemrer, Sandra UA ASM 1970s Kidder, Alfred V. Harvard 1910s-1930s Kisselberg, ASU OCRM 1980s JoAnne E. Kwiatkowski, ASU OCRM, paleobotanical 1990s-present Scott specialist Lindauer, Owen ASU ADOT 1980s-1990s Mabry, Jonathan UA CDARC 1990s-present B. Marmaduke, Northland Research 1970s-present William S. Masse, Bruce UA ASM 1970s-1990s McAllister, ASU NPS 1970s-1990s Martin McGuire, UA ASM, OCRM, SUNY- 1970s-present Randall Binghamton Midvale, Frank GET THIS Miksa, Elizabeth UA CDARC, petrological 1980s-present specialist Miksicek, UA Various institutions, 1980s-present Charles H. paleobotanical specialist Mitchell, SSI, SWCA 1980s-present Douglas R. Morris, Donald UA MNA 1970s-1980s H. Neitzel, Jill E. ASU OCRM, other academic 1980s-1990s institutions Nials, Fred L. ASM 1980s-1990s Nicholas, Linda ASU Chicago Field Museum 1980s Peterson, Jane D. ASU Marquette University 1990s 465

Pilles, Peter J. ASU USFS 1970s-present Plog, Fred University of ASU 1970s-1980s Chicago Raab, Mark UA, ASU Other academic institution 1970s Ravesloot, John Southern ASM, OCRM, Gila River 1990s-present C. Illinois Indian Community University Rice, Glen University of ASU, OCRM 1980s-present Washington Rodgers, James ASU OCRM, MNA 1970s-1990s B. Rosenthal, E. UA WACC 1970s-1980s Jane Roth, Barbara J. UA CDARC 1990s-present Ruppe, Reynold Harvard ASU 1960s J. Sayles, E.B. Gila Pueblo 1930s-1940s Schaller, David ASU, geological sourcing 1990s-present M. specialist Schiffer, Michael UA UA 1980s B. Schoenwetter, SIU ASU 1960s-1990s James Schroeder, Albert UA MNA 1950s-1970s Seymour, Deni J. UA ASM, other private firms 1980s-1990s Shackley, M. ASU University of California- 1980s-present Steven Berkeley, obsidian sourcing specialist Simonis, Don E. ASU 1960s-1970s Sires, Earl W. UA ASM 1980s Slaughter, Mark SWCA 1990s-present C. Stacy, V.K.P. UA ASM 1970s Stark, Miriam UA CDARC, University of 1990s-present Hawaii Steen, Charles NPS 1960s Szuter, Christine UA Various institutions, faunal 1980s-present specialist Turney, Omar A. City Engineer, mapped 1920s Phoenix irrigation systems Upham, ASU ASU 1980s Steadman Urban, Sharon F. UA ASM 1970s-1980s 466

Vivian, R. Gwinn UA ASM 1960s-1970s Vokes, Arthur UA ASM, various private 1980s-present W. firms, shell specialist Wallace, Henry UA IAR/CDARC 1980s-present D. Walsh-Anduze, NAU CDARC 1980s-1990s Mary-Ellen Wasley, William UA ASM 1950s-1960s W. Waters, Michael UA Texas Tech 1980s-present R. Weaver, Donald ASU MNA 1970s-1980s E. Weed, Carol S. UA ASM 1960s-1970s Whittlesey, UA SRI, ASM 1980s-present Stephanie M. Wilcox, David R. UA ASM, OCRM, MNA, 1970s-present other private firms Wood, J. Scott ASU USFS 1970s-1990s Zahniser, Jack L. UA ASM 1960s-1970s Zyniecki, Mark ASU SWCA 1990s-present

467

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