Rattlesnake Woman

An excerpt from my unpublished memoir, Field Notes for a Friend

hello, heart!

Spring is arriving, and it always reminds me of doing archaeological fieldwork in the springtime Nevada desert in 2017. Some of you have asked for a glimpse at my unpublished-currently-being-queried memoir, FIELD NOTES FOR A FRIEND. (For my subscribers who aren’t aware, querying a book is akin to looking for a job - lots of rejection involved.)

This excerpt felt appropriate for the season we find ourselves in, but it’s long - so make a cup of tea and buckle in. I would love your feedback in the comments!

---

excerpt from FIELD NOTES FOR A FRIEND by Cathy Jo Beecher

Tonopah, Nevada | Spring 2017

Our field crew packed gear into the back of two dark SUVs at dawn. We chased the desert sunrise 30 miles southeast to the Nellis Air Force Base survey site, Range 71, a military bombing test range next door to the infamous Area 51. An imposing yellow metal sign propped up by rocks against the constant wind blowing along the highway warned us: CATION. NO STOPPING. RADIOACTIVE MATERIALS AREA AHEAD. We stopped. We took a left across the paved highway onto a two-lane gravel road heading towards the danger zone. A Paiute-Shoshone Tribal Elder and a military escort met us at the end of the road in front of a six-foot high razor wire access gate.

The project area was within the Great Basin cultural area; which is how archaeologists lump together sweeping portions of arid land that lie between the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California and the Cascade Mountains in Oregon, all the way to the Rocky Mountains on the east. The archaeological record in these parts of Nevada tells the story of the first people coming to forage and roam about ten thousand years ago, after the Younger Dryas’ glacial conditions retreated and about the time pinyon pine emerged as a desirable food source.

The Tribal Elder with us on the survey defined his people’s presence on the land through a different lens—time immemorial, time out of mind, and without the academic urge to justify why or how. He stood us in a semi-circle just outside the gate and sang a blessing song that first chilly spring morning before we set foot on some three million acres of his native lands, now owned by the U.S. Government. His blessing song measured a connection to the land on a frequency we academics often struggle to hear. Still, his song showcased a beautiful baritone vibrato in that clean-smelling arid air. The military escort stood back at attention near the vehicles while some of us on the field crew shyly clapped along at the Elder’s encouragement. I hummed the melody of his song, even though the words weren’t in English. Standing there in the sunrise, the vibration of his song and the expansive cool desert made my skin reattach itself via goosebumps.

After drifting our vehicles carefully over the rudimentary washout that served as the road beyond the razor wire fencing, we got out on foot and fanned into three-meter intervals to begin the day’s rhythmic walking in survey transect lines. I held a compass in the flat of one palm, and the other hand gripped a wad of orange pin flags with sharp metal tips.

Stocky, aptly named for his barrel chest and bear-like qualities, stood on my left holding a thick walking stick taller than himself. A lanky graduate student, new to the crew that year, stood on my right in his oiled Aukubra bush hat. Stocky and I made simultaneous eye rolls at each other as we watched Shawn practice taekwondo air punches and kicks.

We waited for the others to space themselves out across the survey section and then began our slow, steady march forward. The Marine, our crew lead, held the line on the eastern end with a handheld Trimble satellite GPS unit. The rest of us tried to stick to his bearing using our compasses.

Pedestrian surface survey can be as mind-numbingly boring as it sounds. Yet I found my mind blissfully reduced to a low background hum as my body’s movements became the focus 10 hours a day in that ocean-like Nevada desert. This survey protocol might qualify as a walking meditation: standing in nature, head bowed, scanning back and forth just a few feet before my shoes, making regular rhythmic steps, keeping pace, and mainly being silent.

I felt my feet connect to every grain of shifting sand. I heard the swish of every orange pin flag rustling in the light breeze passing through my hands. I saw friction ridges and furrows in the pads of the dried-up playa lake beds. I smelled sweet sage oozing as the heat pulled it from the low-slung winter fat bushes dotting my transect line. Extraordinarily little topography interrupted my gaze, save for the Goldfield Hills flanking us to the west.

My field crew and I became six pairs of eyes simultaneously scanning the smooth sandy terrain for surface artifacts. The synchronicity of our muscles formed a covalent bond, like groups of soldiers’ bodies marching or dancers’ bodies twirling. Looking for signs of pre-contact life that once inhabited this place. Occasionally, the crew would break the silence to chat or joke around. Now and then, someone would “Whoop!” when they spied the signs we searched for—a stone flake from the act of flintknapping, fire-cracked rock churned up from a cooking pit, a wayfinding rock cairn. Only then would our survey transect line and my walking meditation be broken.

Our responsibility was to observe, document, and collect field data: photos, measurements, soil samples, and GPS points. We became childlike, doggedly searching findspots and hoping to identify more cultural materials to qualify the area as a National Register of Historic Places archaeological site.

I think our excitement over a thousands-year-old piece of human-modified rock is less about the object and more about proof that other humans eked out a living in a harsh but beautiful landscape. Deep down, we archaeologists are nostalgic for a time we have never experienced.

A micro-sized obsidian point found during a pedestrian archaeological survey. (PC: C.J. Beecher)

Once we returned to the lab, we’d submit a written report with our cumulative findings and communal recommendations. Was this place worth protecting? Preserving it as is for the sake of history? Somehow, we’d graduated from our shared field school days and become the subject matter experts making these calls.

I couldn’t dig holes as fast as the guys on my crew, but I wrote our historic preservation reports in half the time without breaking a sweat. Research and lab work are my true talents as an archaeologist. But there in Nevada, during that particular spring, I found comfort in the field I’d never felt before. The rhythmic and meticulous physicality of doing archaeology was a life preserver to my otherwise disembodied self.

Being early spring, all the hatchling Great Basin rattlesnakes began to appear. Curling up next to rocks and sagebrush stumps. Some were no bigger than a quarter. Rattlesnakes at this age don’t yet have a fully developed rattle to give warning before striking. They are also impulsive like children and afraid of most things. I’ve feared snakes my entire life, so, ironically, I chose a career path that frequently puts me at their doorstep.

The rattlesnakes I faced in the Nevada desert made working there a bit dangerous, but it also intensified my focus. My mind couldn’t wander aimlessly into dangerous recollections or obsessive ruminations. The marching, the snakes, the desert—it all held me fixed to the present moment. Preventing injury out in the desert was a tangible and attainable thing I could control. As long as I paid attention, I could see the venomous snakes lurking behind rocks before they had the chance to strike.

On the second week of survey, the Tribal Elder approached me by the shade of the SUV I leaned against as I finished my lunch away from the rest of the crew. With an inquisitive look on his wind-lined face, he quietly asked why I frequently darted out and broke the neatly spaced pedestrian transect lines.

In between sticky bites of peanut butter, I told him I ran to get the hell away from the tiny rattlesnakes I kept seeing. He laughed, but not in a mocking way. It was a kind laugh. He wasn’t trying to make me feel like the stupid girlie-girl of the crew, which was new for me. It took me a moment not to reflexively use the wit and deflecting I’d honed after years spent with this all-male crew who teased mercilessly.

The Elder and I continued standing next to each other with nothing but comfortable silence passing between us for several more moments. We both directed our eyes towards the overcast crease, where the land stood with the sky, forming a hazy horizon line.

I continued to chew my sandwich quickly, taking big slurps on the tube of water from the backpack that felt clammy against my back. I hadn’t bothered taking my pack off to eat because I wasn’t going to let the sweat evaporate and dehydrate me further. Desert fieldwork is all about efficiency and conservation. You must hold on to as much water and stamina as possible to last all day under an inescapable hot sun.

After the long silence between us started pulsating, the Elder turned to look at me with his soft brown eyes. Leaning forward, he said somewhat conspiratorially, “I am going to give you a powerful Paiute name…because I know you are afraid of the snakes. This name, it will protect you.”

The peanut butter lingered in the dips of my back molars and made my mouth water. I held my breath, desperate to hear his next words.

“From now on, you are ‘To'-go-ah Hepi’—Rattlesnake Woman.”

I did not see another snake for the rest of that field season.