I know an old man. Actually, its probably too much to say that I know him. Or that he knows me. We've passed each other on the trail a number of times and have stopped occasionally to chat with one another. That ultimately happens when you repeatedly see the same folks in the same location doing the same thing you are doing. So this guy, he's is a familiar face to me even though I may not be to him.
My trail acquaintance is what you might call "learned." He is formally trained and educated and holds multiple advanced degrees to prove it. He also knows the land. That comfortable familiarity comes from years of walking, eating, breathing, working, and observing the trails. So he is both book smart and street (or, more appropriately "trail") smart.
Many months ago, this scholarly old gentleman told me a secret. The trail we were trodding crossed native land. The ancestral home of the Chumash people. For thousands of years before the European invasion, conquest, and forced assimilation, the Chumash called this place home. They roamed it freely, unencumbered by the disapproving eyes of their more advanced, religiously superior, and lighter-skinned brethren. That, of course, was not the secret. That was just common knowledge. What wasn't and isn't common knowledge was what he told me next: that there was a ceremonial fertility stone close by that was hiding in plain sight. And in the immediate vicinity of that stone was other evidence that the location was regularly used by the Chumash people. He didn't elaborate on what that other evidence was and I didn't prod him further. If he had wanted me to know, he would have told me.
Secrets like these are closely guarded by the people that know them. And for good reason. Many a site has been despoiled by those who believe it clever or cute to scratch their name into or tag a pictograph panel. Or to steal artifacts. So my friend did not disclose to me the location of this particular stone. And I, in turn, will similarly refrain from disclosing its location.
But after that encounter, I was intrigued. So I starting looking. I scanned the topography trying to see the land as the Chumash would have seen it. I looked along ridgelines, into the canyon bottoms, and at the various rocky prominences that dot the area. There were a million rocks out there, any one of which could in theory be a candidate. But eventually, I spotted a large sandstone protuberance. It didn't immediately beckon to me, but if I looked at it from a certain angle, it kinda, sorta resembled a vagina.
So I decided to investigate. There is no path to the vagina rock. It required some cross-country travel that involved a bit of bashing through our infamous chaparral to get there. The closer I got, the larger the rock got. And the less it resembled lady parts. I started thinking that perhaps I was on a fool's errand. But I was already invested this much in the task so it made no sense to turn back. Thus, I pushed forward.
When I finally arrived at my destination, I was struck by the enormity of the sandstone monolith. Distance alters one's perspective, but I was still surprised at how badly I had misjudged the size of this thing. And it was far too large, and its sides too sheer for climbing upon. So I doubt that is how the Chumash used this particular fertility aid.
On the backside of the stone, I discovered what the old man on the trail must have been alluding to: a smattering of bedrock mortars. A short distance away, at the base of another sandstone monocline, surrounded by sycamore trees, I found another cupule embedded in the rocky ground. Nearby was a smooth, rounded stone that resembled a pestle. It did not appear that this particular rock was "the" pestle that went with this particular mortar (or that it was a pestle at all), but it was representative of the stony implements that litter the area and were available to, and leveraged by the Chumash people. I found no midden, but perhaps I'm too anthropologically challenged to have even noticed.
Satisfied, I sat for awhile in the cool of the shade with my back against the sandstone wall trying to imagine native peoples grinding dried seeds and acorns for wiiwish. It's a romantic ideal, particularly when viewed through the prism of 21st century advantage and comfort, but I wondered about the difficult reality of the task. I also wondered about the vagina rock and how, when, why, and by whom it was used. Perhaps as a descendant of colonizers and occupiers, it is not my place to know. And perhaps it wasn't even my right to have visited this place at all.
That same thought came to the forefront of my mind some days later when I inexplicably developed a severe case of dermatitis on my legs. It is possible that I passed through some poison oak on my way to the fertility stone, but I've been around enough poison oak to recognize it. And I didn't see any on my way to the stone. And I've had poison oak more times than I care to remember, and this didn't particularly look to be poison oak. So I allowed for the possibility that my flare-up was spiritual and/or cultural retribution for visiting a spot at which I was not wanted, had not been invited to, and had no business being at. Of course, that thinking could have just as easily been my hyper-active imagination being fueled by occupier guilt, but I'm not taking any chances. I will for now let this place be.
