On a grassy hillside a short 30-minute drive from the 21st-century bustle of
San Francisco lies a secret from California's past — rock art left by the
region's original inhabitants.
They are paintings that time forgot, faint etchings of red and black in
tantalizing swirls and patterns inscribed by the American Indian tribes who
once met here for ceremonies and purposes that now can only be guessed at.
The paintings present California officials with a dilemma as they try to
balance the desire for access with the need for preservation. It's an issue
tackled at ancient sites around the world — from the Egyptian pyramids to
national parks in the United States.
The caves are believed to have been in use as early as A.D. 500 and show a
variety of art styles. The site is striking — rocky outcroppings jutting out
from gentle hills where golden eagles soar. But there isn't much in the way of
food here, few oaks or other nut-bearing trees, leading researchers to conclude
the site was reserved for ceremonial and spiritual purposes.
Time and the elements are slowly destroying the paintings, drawn on the walls
of shallow caves amid the rolling hills of Contra Costa County. The land was in
private hands until it was sold it to the parks district.
Now the rock surface is slowly flaking away as water seeps in. But birdlike
figures and possibly other animals, which may be representations of tribal
gods, can still be seen.
"We would love to open this area up so we could tell schoolchildren at an early
age about history," says Tom Mikkelsen, assistant general manager of the East
Bay Regional Park District.
Before that happens, officials would have to find a way to address the concerns
of California Indians, who consider the site sacred. They also have to figure
out how to keep it from being vandalized or simply loved to death.
"It's extremely fragile, that's the problem," said Jeff Fentress, an
anthropologist who has studied the paintings.
The paintings, known as pictographs because they consist of symbols, are about
four miles from the town of Byron and about 50 miles east of San Francisco.
Tribal traditions link the caves to two other nearby landmarks — Mt. Diablo,
now a state park and at 3,850 feet the San Francisco Bay area's highest
mountain, and Brushy Peak, which is about 1,700 feet high. The three sites are
part of the creation mythology of the region's Miwok, Ohlone and Yokurt
Indians.
"For native people, these weren't casual use places. They weren't places that
everyday people went to," said Bev Ortiz, an ethnographic consultant.
The issue of how to appreciate, but not destroy, ancient sites is nothing new.
In Egypt, the number of visitors allowed daily at the Great Pyramid was cut
from thousands to 300 to prevent damage.
At the Chaco Culture National Historical Park in New Mexico, home to
fascinating ruins of the prehistoric Anasazi culture, officials offer guided
tours and keep some trails unmarked as they try to balance public access and
historic preservation.
"There are some special rock art sites that we have actually covered up and we
now no longer show people because of the vandalism," said park guide G.B.
Cornucopia.
The tension between ancient ways and modern life also has played out at Brushy
Peak, about 10 miles south of the pictograph caves, where a plan to provide
more access to the summit drew protests from some California Indians.
"This site was visited by certain people in our society to conduct private
secretive ceremonies," said Don Hankins, a Plains Miwok Indian. "Not only is it
the place of our origin as referred to in our creation stories and songs but
it's also a place where many of our ceremonies stem from."
Park officials agreed to monitor access to the peak and work out a way to make
sure the area is protected if more trails are open, perhaps through guided
tours.
A bill now pending in the Assembly would give added protection. The legislation
would stop approval of projects deemed to adversely affect such sites unless
tribal officials accepted mitigation measures, such as allowing public access
but keeping the site closed during periods deemed particularly sacred.
For those who do get to see them, the pictographs are a glimpse of a culture
that was all but wiped out by the disease, destruction and dispossession
wrought by colonialism and the Gold Rush.
Hankins is sometimes amazed at how his heritage all but slipped away in a
matter of generations, leaving traces as faint as the wind-blasted pictographs
of Contra Costa County.
"Yet," he says, "we still continue to survive. And we're picking up the
pieces."
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