The Indigenous leaders and songkeepers putting California’s ancestral wisdom in the spotlight

Many moons ago, a group of celestial beings fell from the Milky Way. They landed in what we now know as the Pacific Ocean, in a glittering stretch spanning California’s Orange County coastline. With no earthly form of their own, they became the patingal (dolphin). 

“They learned the wisdom of the earth; they learned the ocean and how to live in it. They played, made love and had babies, and then one day they saw the turtle walk up on the sand and thought: What would that be like?”

According to lore, those star beings were the first of the Acjachemen tribe, and Spiritual Overseer and Songkeeper Adelia Sandoval is one of their modern descendants. Gesturing with a percussive clapping stick made from the tan branch of an elderberry tree, Sandoval punctuates the ancient creation story as she tells it—waving the stick west in the direction of the Pacific, then east to sacred Kalawpa (Santiago Peak) in the Santa Ana mountains.

“We believe that the dolphins out along the coast have lived here for thousands of years, they’re our relatives,” she says. “There’s a consciousness there; everything has a spirit. You’re always safe because there’s always a guardian, whether it’s in a rock, a bush, a tree or even an animal.”

Since moving from Australia earlier this year to marry a Californian—my now-husband Matt—I’ve been calling the Acjachemen’s ancestral lands home. I’ve spent my days thrifting in Long Beach, frustrated by the traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway, and drinking syrupy, pumpkin-spiced coffee in Laguna. 

But every time we’ve hiked the cactus-laden canyons or listened to the coyotes laugh, I’ve wondered: What stories do these canyons have to tell? What significance do coyotes hold for Indigenous peoples here?

“I’ve also been given the gift of bringing new songs forth, because so many songs have been lost. So I’m continuing that today, getting the younger ones to learn the songs, teaching them oral tradition.”

- Adelia Sandoval, Acjachemen Spiritual Overseer

It’s this gap in my Native California knowledge—and a shared dedication to decolonizing our understanding of the world—that has Matt and I driving south to north across the state to connect with Indigenous elders and songkeepers. As a writer, I’m interested in story; as a musician, Matt is interested in song. We’re quickly learning they’re one and the same. 

We meet Sandoval in a native garden in San Juan Capistrano, an historic town roughly two hours south of Los Angeles, known primarily for its formidable Spanish-era mission (Christian outpost). Between Matt’s prescribed American education and Sandoval’s tribal history, I learn that between 1769 and 1833, Catholic priests, backed by the Spanish military force, established 21 missions and adjoining settlements (hello Los Angeles) across the state. Displacing—and attempting to evangelize—the Indigenous population in the process.

San Juan Capistrano’s white-washed church is considered the ‘jewel’ of California’s mission trail. It’s also the number one tourist attraction in town, despite being built using the forced labor of the Acjachemen people. In fact, San Juan Capistrano town was established on the Acjachemen’s ancient mother village, Putuidem. 

I expect to hear resentment in Sandoval’s voice as she recounts the historic abuse of her people. I wouldn’t be surprised to taste bitterness in her words. But her tone is gracious, her words steeped in kindness. 

“In the ‘90s, I needed to resolve what happened to my ancestors,” she tells us, while pointing out a sage bush—good for cleansing negative spirits—growing beside a flowering prickly pear cactus—great for eating and wound dressing.

“So I went up to the walls of the old stone church and I began to touch them,” she says, holding her hands out, almost in muscle-memory. “I began to feel their energy coming through, and I realized every rock, every stone, every piece that was put there—their hands did it.”

That day, Sandoval noticed little shards of crystal and shell sparkling in the mission’s walls, and she was moved to cathartic tears by this small act of reclamation. “They put their medicine in the walls,” she explains. “So now I’m very protective of the mission, because I feel their love… Our ancestors built Orange County. We have to protect it.”

On moving to California, I was surprised to learn traditional land acknowledgements aren’t well practiced here. But Sandoval is changing that. “I’m creating a body of people that can go and do it,” she says. “I’ve also been given the gift of bringing new songs forth, because so many songs have been lost. So I’m continuing that today, getting the younger ones to learn, teaching them oral tradition.” 

This resilience and reclamation, of traditional lands, waterways and practices, is a common thread that we pick up and continue to unravel as we make our way north.

“Pow wow isn’t actually traditional to our Native type of people… But it’s accepted universally in Indian country, and it allows us to come together as a people, share in our spirituality, and promote the diverse cultures.”

- Chairman Jack Potter, Redding Rancheria Tribal Nation

Along the white-tipped Sierra Nevada mountain range, we skirt Yosemite Valley where the Southern Sierra Miwuk people—who have been gazing up at Tutokanula (El Capitan) long before John Muir built any trail—are still petitioning for federal recognition. 

We pass by immense and mysterious Lake Tahoe, where the Washoe people are finally being allowed partial stewardship of their sacred lands, and are working with the US Forest Service to restore its biodiversity—most importantly the return of the native Lohontan cutthroat trout. 

And in Kohm Yah-mah-nee (Lassen National Park) we swim in the glacial waters beneath the very same volcano once used as a meeting point for the Astugewi, Yana, Yahi and Maidu tribes. Where remaining tribal members teach visitors about the importance of using traditional place names.

“My actions today aren’t for me, they’re for seven generations down the road,” Chairman Jack Potter of the Redding Rancheria Tribal Nation tells us several days later, raising his voice over the driving beat of a very loud pow wow drum. 

It’s over 95 degrees (35 degrees celsius) in Redding, a charmingly offbeat northern Californian town on the viridescent Sacramento River, and we’re sweating under a full noon sun. 

This might be the local rodeo grounds, but there’s not a horse in sight this weekend. Instead, the grounds smell like fry bread and glitter with sunlight bouncing off sequinned garb as hundreds of tribal members from all around the country set up shade tents, drum circles and turquoise jewelry stands for the 34th annual Stillwater Pow Wow (tribal gathering).

There’s something deeply satisfying about these Indian nations having taken over the cowboy grounds, but Potter tells me they’re using the location in partnership to help save the land from privatization. A testament to the Indigenous community’s grace. 

“Pow wow isn’t actually traditional to our Native type of people,” he says. “We’re California people, so we have California regalia, California type dancing, and the songs are different… But pow wow is accepted universally in Indian country, and it allows us to come together as a people, share in our spirituality, and promote the diverse cultures.”

This distinction—’California people’—is an important one. With its teeming coastline and healthy river systems, California has always been a place of abundance. Unlike the inland tribal nations who followed bison and buffalo, California tribes had very distinct, fixed borders. And they stuck to them.

Potter, with his ink black hair and traditional facial tattoos, cuts a striking figure but he speaks softly, and with surprising tenderness. He is of the Winnemem Wintu tribe, also known as ‘Middle River’ people; a descendant of massacre; a great teller of coyote Creation stories; and staunch advocate for his people. 

“Inherent sovereignty is something that we’ve always had; that’s one thing that isn’t granted or given to us, not even through federal recognition,” he says. “But recognition does allow us to govern ourselves; to live in these modern times but function as a sovereign Indigenous nation.”

The Redding Rancheria Tribal Nation is federally recognized, but there are still many bands and tribes—like the Winnemem Wintu—across California who are fighting for recognition. “Future generations shouldn’t have to work so hard to exist,” he says. “But that won’t necessarily be the situation, so we’re prepared to fight, not physically, but with education and lawyers; to use our spirituality and our smartness to adapt, exist, persevere, be resilient and continue as a nation.”

Once you start to scratch the surface of a destination’s Indigenous culture and history, you will be forced to question every note in the guidebook. That’s the work of decolonizing our travel narratives.

Waving to the blue-green river, he tells us that his strength comes from his ancestral spirits. “I know the names of the spirits that live in this water, in those trees,” he says. “We’re all interconnected. So when I feel weak, I come out here and talk to them, and they’re here to help me.”

Later that day, I eat my first ‘Indian Taco’ (minced meat, lettuce and tomato on top of fried dough) as Ira, the stall owner, tells me about growing up on reservation, living in California Redwood country and his latest Big Foot encounter. 

While waiting for a second serving of fry bread—this time topped with strawberries and cream—a singer named Irvin performs a song of no language. It feels peaceful and uplifting; Irvin tells me he is a music counselor. It makes sense.

From the dancing circle I hear the host call over the speakers: “Dance hard and dance from your heart”. I find Matt at a drum circle talking to Iron Star, a group of musicians from New Mexico. At least eight men are seated around the huge ceremonial drum, sweating as they sing and pound the raw hide. It’s emotional and trance-like; we’re both moved to tears. 

“They call that drum their grandfather; they honor it, give it offerings and talk to it as a person,” Matt relays to me, as we join the crowd in the bleachers for the highlight event of the weekend—the spotlight dance.

The spotlight dance involves—as you may have guessed—a dancer performing within the single beam of a spotlight. As the first young woman is illuminated, Iron Star begins their heady song. 

“They sing to the dancers and to all the people watching,” Matt whispers as the woman lifts her hands and twirls, sending the fringe of her dress flying. “They put their own energy into it, calling on the spirits to make everyone feel good.” 

This spotlight is nothing like the kind you find in Hollywood, but it feels more authentically ‘Californian’ than anything I’ve experienced so far.

What I’ve learned to be true—and what is being proved true again on this road trip—is that once you start to scratch the surface of a destination’s Indigenous culture, you’ll be forced to question every note in the guidebook. That’s the work of decolonizing our travel narratives. 

We learn that Mount Shasta is not just a volcanic peak great for summitting—it was the beginning of the world, as created by the Chief of the Sky Spirits. And the multi-million-years-old Lake Shasta Caverns are not just incredible geological formations, but a sacred place of spiritual purpose and vision quest for the Wintu people.

Do Angelenos know they’re drinking Indigenous water? And how quickly would this land recover if returned to those with the ancestral knowledge to care for it?

In Payahuunadü (Owens Valley), near Bishop and Lone Pine, we run our hands through the sand of the vast dried lake bed and struggle to imagine this brittle landscape once thriving with Indigenous irrigation systems, awash with melted snow from the Sierra Nevadas. 

Payahuunadü means ‘land of the flowing water’ and it was nurtured by the Nüümü people for countless generations. But this delicate and ancient ecosystem was dismantled and devastated by 19th century occupation. 

The Nüümü were massacred and forcibly removed from their ancestral lands;  by the end of the 1920s, the city of Los Angeles owned 95 percent of Payahuunadü’s private land and water rights.

Fast forward and Los Angeles has been siphoning Payahuunadü’s water, moving it to aqueducts, for over a century. The groundwater is severely depleted, the native plant ecosystems destroyed and tribal resources continue to be exploited. I wonder: Do Angelenos know they’re drinking Indigenous water? And how quickly would this land recover if returned to those with the ancestral knowledge to care for it?

In the neighboring Alabama Hills, we go all-terrain between towering desert boulders to find a remote campsite at the dead end of a dirt road, where the rising mountains of rock gather to create a natural amphitheatre. 

This is the stuff Western films are made of—literally. This pocket of California has played host to all manner of film crew over the years. But the heaviness of Owens Valley, the trauma of Payahuunadü, still hangs heavy. 

I remember Sandoval teaching us that everything has a spirit: “Every single thing that’s alive around us is listening, they’re paying attention.” So in the dimming light, I greet the million-year-old rocks. They’re cattle-colored and cool to touch. Matt writes them a song. I feel a trace of silliness as I whisper hello.

In the quiet, we sit beneath the stars of Orion the Hunter and talk about the legendary giant hunters who used to roam these hills. We talk of star beings and mischievous coyotes, federal recognition and lands of flowing water. We sleep deeply. 

The next morning we wake to a curious scene: Our camp chairs have been dragged in a perfect arch and placed, seemingly with careful consideration, together beneath a desert bush. There was no overnight wind, we have no neighbors and there’s no sign of animal prints—just a 15-foot rainbow etched into the clay out front of our tent. 

On a call to Sandoval, we ask for her Spiritual Overseer opinion. “I think they heard you,” she says. “Sometimes those spirits can be playful.” 

A spiritual encounter to end a spiritually energizing, eye-opening road trip? Only in California.

The northern California portion of this road trip was supported by Visit Redding. 

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