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Meeting the Miwok I Drove to the Point Reyes National Seashore One Late

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Meeting the Miwok I Drove to the Point Reyes National Seashore One Late Meeting the Miwok I drove to the Point Reyes National Seashore one late morning, accompanied by two friends hardly willing to brave the 7-mile hike ahead of us. The beautiful drive to the national preserve lifted spirits a little bit. We found ourselves turning through tall coastal pines, dramatic hills and thick brush with views of the Pacific Ocean sometimes peeking through. The fall sunshine casted long rays of light in spaces between the trees as we sped through them. Although it couldn’t have been more than a 30-minute drive, we felt far away from the grasps of society in some kind of land before time. That was the point; I was there to learn something more about the Coast Miwoks, a Native American tribe that inhabited this very land thousands of years before the first white explorers sailed through the Golden Gate. With help from my high school ecology teacher, I came to know of a trail that was treaded upon by the tribe, having left behind relics and old encampments discovered by modern hikers millennia later. We parked at the trailhead in Muddy Hollow, an appropriate name for the miles to come, and faced a grove of Bishop pine trees looking dark and ominous in the morning light. As we took our first steps along the rough path, I tried to put myself in the mindset of a Coastal Miwok- before there was any inkling of a world beyond the mountains and the seas. It was something like a meditative state, looking upon the land as if it was the only thing I truly knew. I gazed upon the sights around me, a lot of plants and trees, wondering what it must be like to know the vegetation like it’s a brother: its specific uses, what to stay away from, what will save you during a cold winter. For a population that had existed peacefully for thousands of years off nothing but nature’s processes and the land, I felt like our current-day society could Meeting the Miwok garner some critical lessons from our predecessors. Coexistence with nature and respect for its fruits- what a modest life it could be. It was the beginning of an experience that was truly eye opening towards a tribe we know so little about. We made our way down the initial slope of the hike, a light descent through the forest, that gave us false hope for the ease of the long trek ahead of us. A little meadow cleared a patch of trees on the side of the path, designating the first landmark I was to look out for. This was the site of old Miwok encampments that had been lost in time. Archeologists studied the area along the path and discovered a variety of artifacts, such as old fire pits and tools, that gave clues as to how the tribe lived in the area. The Coast Miwok were hunter gatherers that inhabited the land around the San Francisco Bay and Marin County- my home that owes its name to the last Miwok chief, Chief Marin. They lived in teepee-like huts in small groups, like the one that we had stumbled across in Point Reyes. They came to the ocean in the springtime to hunt salmon and other seafoods, while primarily relying on acorn and wild game as their source of nutrition. Otherwise, not much is known about the 2,000 or so strong population that inhabited the Bay for thousands of years before us. Spanish missionaries largely destroyed their language and culture in the 1700 and 1800s, as a part of their quest to convert the world’s native populations to Christianity. I approached the encampment in the middle of the meadow as a plume of dark smoke lifted into the cold blue sky. Where did it come from? I stepped closer to its source and saw a number of rounded huts insulated with yellow grass from the hills around us. Dark-haired women crushed nuts and herbs in large rounded rocks Meeting the Miwok with a hollowed out center. Children played, and nearly naked men stood with long spears donning arrowheads around a fire pit. They looked upon me with a curiosity but no animosity; I looked back at the group with equal respect. They continued as they were- the women crushed acorns or weaved beautiful baskets, the children played, and the men planned their next move on the trail of mule deer. I left the meadow and continued along the path with my companions. The tree cover began to disperse and was replaced by heavy shrub and woody grasses. The sky was cold and any cloud that attempted to manifest was blown away by strong ocean winds. The coast was agitated, and the only sound to be heard was that of grass being violently thrashed around by the wind. The pace picked up. Between the cold, the beauty, and the ease of the path, my friends and I continued along the trail with increasingly good spirit. At the end of the trail, there was a clearing littered with large boulders. We mounted the giant rocks that rested at the top of this mountain, and sighed in awe at the stunning view. This viewpoint bestowed a 360-degree panorama of the Point Reyes National Seashore. The vast Pacific Ocean sprawled before us, lined with miles of sand dunes where the land meets the sea. Grass-covered hills began immediately after the stretch of dunes; increasing in size and number the farther you looked inland. A valley presented itself in the middle of the rolling hills, half submerged by marshland and rivers. After that, all you could see were hills covered in dense woods. The trail took one final descent from this spot, snaking down the side of the mountain facing the ocean. In the distance, approaching shore, were three rudimentary canoes making their way back to land. The deep blue water sparkled Meeting the Miwok aggressively with the choppy conditions as silhouettes of men paddled in perfect synchronization. Their outlines became clearer as they came closer. They were in short canoes made of logs and tulles bound together by rope. Each end curved sharply upwards, creating sizable space in the rafts for people and goods to be protected from lapping ocean waves. Two men sat comfortably in each raft, paddling with long, decorated oars. As I squinted down at the newcomers, I could see mounds of seaweed and a few fish in between the hunters. They paddled with humble ease, landing their canoes on the beach below the cliff we walked along. I waved at the dark-skinned men, and they returned my welcome with wary eyes. My friends and I continued on our way, having completed the second mile of our adventure. Things got harder from here. The trail took us to the base of the valley where we could no longer see the ocean. Recent rains made the path nearly impossible to maneuver without getting a shoe stuck in the mud. That’s exactly what happened, as I stepped into an especially wet patch and the mud swallowed my shoe whole. I decided to chuck its companion and tackle the rest of the hike barefoot, letting cold, wet mud squish between my toes. It was almost liberating, I felt closer to the land like this than ever before. We treaded along the valley floor, shivering in the midday winds, making our way back into the woods. As the path began to take an upwards incline, we were suddenly surrounded by grasses nearly twice our height. The trail became nearly indistinguishable as we moved along. Ahead of me, I saw a rustling in the grass. I stopped my friends behind me, signaling for a pause as I lifted a hand. Two black-tailed bucks emerged from the Meeting the Miwok tall grass, facing their antlers towards us as their ears perked up at the sound of our movement. They stopped for a few seconds on the trail, and then re-submerged themselves into the ocean of grass. We continued along. After a couple of silent minutes as we made our way along the path, the grasses began to rustle once more. I stopped the group again, expecting another encounter with the Point Reyes wildlife community. Instead, a single-file line of painted hunters appeared out of the brush, bearing long pointed spears and arrows. They were both covered in tattoos and adorned with white paint over their naked skin. They were beautiful and magnificent-looking as they quietly crossed our path, emerging and disappearing back into the grass. All I could see was the tip of their spears bobbing through the tall grasses as they followed their game. The upward incline became a near 90-degree angle as the trail took us into the woods. It was incredibly cold in the shade of the trees and the world felt wet around us. Mile after mile, right turn after left turn, the trail relentlessly continued to take us higher up. Whenever we thought we’d finally made it to the top, we would be faced with another near-vertical wall of muddy path. We were dying. The pep in our step died along with our motivation, and my friends were silently angry with their predicament. How did the Miwoks live with and face these conditions every day? I thought about gyms, and how people have to pay to get in shape. What kind of society are we living in? When did we get so disconnected from our true, primal selves? All you have to do is take a step off the beaten path, change your mindset, and allow for nature to take over.
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