Say ‘California’ and people immediately think sun, surf and celebrity. But for time immemorial, Indigenous tribes have maintained a unique ancestral connection to the Golden State. New to the USA, editor Tayla Gentle road-trips from Orange County to Redding in an effort to decolonize her understanding of what it means to be ‘Californian’.
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?
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.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
