Return, p.1
Return, page 1
Dedication
To my mother, who gave me life to reason,
to my daughter, who gives me reason to live,
and to the wild within us all—
don’t leave us, we need you
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Preface
Part 1: Lost
1: Smoky Mountain Preparation
2: Listening
3: Shape Shifting
4: Nuclear Kids
5: Awakening
6: Alchemy
7: Blackbird
Part 2: Searching
8: Smoky Mountain Embarkation
9: Summer Child
10: Last Frontier
11: Cave of Angels
12: Quest
13: Rain
Part 3: Transformation
14: Smoky Mountain Absorption
15: Becoming
16: Ishi
17: Afloat
18: First People
19: Pilgrim
20: Hidden Lakes
Part 4: Revelation
21: Smoky Mountain Exodus
22: Caterpillars and Moths
23: Reentry
24: Two Worlds
Epilogue: When I Am an Old Woman
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Preface
Circle Up
The oak logs glow orange in the fire, casting shadows against the faces circling it. The clan members sit on rough-hewn benches and skins. They are silent after their meal. A sheep carcass hangs from a pole leaned against the rock wall just outside the circle. No predator will dare come close since the people sleep side by side under the limestone overhang that shields them from all but the fiercest storms. The trees beyond the edge of the sheltering rock are silhouetted against the night sky. Between the leaves of hazel, beech, and oak one can glimpse emerging stars. An owl calls and something scuttles in the dry leaves beyond the circle of firelight.
Someone quietly starts to hum a tone that throbs and pulses as the volume rises and falls and ebbs away only to rise again. Another takes up a stick beside the fire and taps out an even rhythm enhancing the singer’s note. Several more add their voices to become a choir, layering upon one another, a harmony developing, a melody, no words but it feels like a conversation. Still more take up sticks or rocks and bring a new cadence to the song. The percussionist rises and punctuates with staccato intermittent raps against the wall behind them, and the figure’s shadow starts to leap and dance as someone else adds wood to the fire that bursts into a golden blaze. A few remain silent, eyes fixed on the flames, a head leans against another’s knee, but as the spontaneous music gains momentum, all are seized by the energy; they rise and move in a circle, dipping, spinning, wood clacking, stone tapping, voices clambering and descending with reckless nonconformity. They become transfixed in a kind of trance and time seems to take on a new dimension. The song eventually finds its natural end without any signals; there is no conductor, just a group of beings tied together by forest, fire, and camaraderie. They melt back down into the circle and still no one speaks.
I look at my clan; we have only known each other for a week and it seems incongruous that we could feel so connected in such a short time. They came to me to participate in a class, to learn Stone Age skills and get away from the modern world in which we all live to varying degrees. There is a boy from the village; his grandfather owns the land and this kid is having his first experience away from his family. There is a doctor, a writer, a girl just out of high school, some young travelers not fixed to place who are roaming and experiencing whatever calls them, a plumber, a couple of computer programmers, and a military man. We are in France but we speak five or six languages between us; some struggle to express themselves in English but our common language is as old as humanity itself.
* * *
There is a story and a journey I would like to share. It’s not a straight path, it’s more of a circle or a spiral so vast that at times its arc may appear to have a beginning and an end but do not be fooled by this illusion.
This journey is my return, a return to the ways of our ancestors, a return to a simpler life, perhaps to what came before our world was so heavily dictated by our modern conveniences, a return to listening deeply to Earth, and what she has to say. For me, this journey is pivotal because we humans face an immediate peril, the degradation of the environment, which is foundational to our existence, and without which we have no mother to return to.
The story is about us . . . and Earth.
The earth gives us the opportunity to physically exist—without her we cannot live. We are of Earth, we shape her, she shapes us. We, all too often, seem to have forgotten this.
I want us to remember where we come from. It has never been more important.
Even though I was born in London, one of the largest cities in the world, I have spent most of my adult life living outside, striving for a connection to nature that few of us modern humans achieve. While I am subject to the whims of modernity and will sometimes pass some days or nights in the confines of four walls, hurtle through the sky in an airplane, or trundle across continents in trains, cars, and buses, I have built a life based on entirely different principles. Sometimes described as a primitivist, the last modern hunter-gatherer, or a woman outside of time, I have spent the last twenty years teaching groups of students how to live with the land in a respectful and conscientious manner, and I have also spent this time reducing my own impact and material needs. Even though I have yet to spend more than a month or two each year directly sustained by nature, this curiosity has driven me and given me a life purpose that is all part of my own return.
Return is an invitation to this remembering, an exploration of what a closer relationship with the natural world can offer us and a timely reminder—and even a warning—of what we stand to lose through our forgetting. I’d like to invite you on my journey, from my childhood in London and rural Sweden, to my teenage years in Amsterdam, from my Stone Age experiences with my students in the mountainous western United States, to my personal pilgrimages in the Himalaya, the Middle East, and Namibia.
More than thirty years ago, I crawled out of a sweat lodge escaping the moist oppressive heat and sank fully onto the damp ground. I’d grown up in London, spent my teens in punk bands and on its city streets, far from this untouched natural world. Covered in mud, my face streaked with sweat and tears, I whispered to Earth my promise. “I will love you and cherish you, I will learn how to live and share what you teach me.” This was the moment I discovered my life purpose, setting me on the path to who I am today.
I was twenty-four years old, more than half my lifetime ago, and I’m still learning and still teaching. After that morning outside the sweat lodge, I dedicated myself to soaking up as much knowledge as possible about ancestral living skills. Soon I was teaching at various gatherings around the US and landed myself a summer guiding job at an outdoor survival school in the canyonlands of Utah. I realized that the hard-core survival approach was not what I wanted to do. Instead I was interested in helping people discover how to thrive in the wilderness, not just “survive” it and then head back to civilization for a hot shower and a cheeseburger. At the time, I didn’t know if this was possible. I wondered if we modern people would even be able to stay alive on an all-wild food diet. I wasn’t sure if we had lost the ability to live as hunter-gatherers but I knew one thing: I was willing to die if I found out that my body and mind were no longer functional under such circumstances.
A decade ago, I founded Living Wild, a small school in north-central Washington State. I was intrigued by the idea of learning to live as a hunter-gatherer, bringing people into a closer connection with nature in a way that couldn’t be done in just a day or two. As a modern human, born into a culture of resource exploitation, I wanted to see if it was still possible to live sustained by nature in its purest form. My goal was to offer high-quality instruction in Stone Age living skills to give people the tools and confidence to live in the wilderness simply yet comfortably.
We have found over the years that the Stone Age skills that we teach are just a little piece of the puzzle that represents what I believe is our true humanity. A renewed focus on community building, gratitude and grief tending, and connecting with our ancestors all play a part in addition to the hands-on skills required to live in closer harmony with the land. I believe that on some fundamental level, we recognize that we’ve lost an essential intimacy with the natural world and with Earth and she is calling us back. There is a hunger to reconnect with—to return to—this profound part of ourselves.
* * *
Around the fire, we, who were mostly strangers to one another just a week ago, arrange ourselves in order of age. Usually I find myself completing the circle as the oldest member of the group but tonight the wise and serene herbalist is my senior by more than ten years.
I ask them to quietly consider what is most important to them at this phase of their lives. Some murmured translations occur and we sit again in silence as we contemplate who it is we are just now.
I look to the young boy and pass him the talking stick that everyone now knows is the method for designating the speaker. He speaks softly in French and says his family is important to him. The seventeen-year-old girl takes the stick in her hands and shares her need to distance herself from her parents’ expectations, unsure whether her desire to strike out into the world and not continue her studies is just rebellion or if it is indeed her deepest desire. The next couple of young adults express similar life concerns about the state of the world and how to navigate within a society that attempts to press people into a mold as functional citizens. Some hold college degrees but they have no life experience and want to keep absorbing knowledge before having to make seemingly irrevocable life decisions. A young mother who has come alone, leaving her toddler with his father after a recent separation, is in an agony of blended guilt and relief. The freckled fellow who takes the stick next has just been discharged from his term in the army. As we continue through the group—the osteopathic doctor who came with the herbalist, the woman who left her husband to be with a woman much younger than herself, the witty water engineer—I start to realize an exchange is occurring. The younger people in the circle remind the older members of our own dreams, joys, and challenges. Do we still hold the ideals of our youth or have we dulled and become cynical? We elders in turn now offer them the advice of our life experiences, encouraging them to follow their hearts, have patience, and be honest with themselves. The woman to my right is close to my age. I don’t remember what her life’s journey had been but she has grown children and she says so very poignantly that in spite of all our successes, mistakes, fears, and concerns, slowly peace comes. Whatever it was that I said myself afterward I do not recall.
Slowly, peace comes.
* * *
In Return, I want to take readers inside the peace, stillness, and silence we’ve left behind. We will reenter a world where we live with the seasons and from the land. The light we see is from the stars overhead, the rise and fall of the sun and moon or the flickering of the fire, we are heated by that sun and that fire, we drink the water that pours from the earth, or the sky. I will share my own experiences of connection with Earth through the skills I have acquired and taught, using the alchemy of earth, water, air, and fire to create tools and make fire. Our stone tools cut and shape the wood that becomes the bow with which we hunt for nourishment. Earth sustains us, circling the sun as we cycle through life, death, and rebirth. Without her we are lost. It’s a truth we all fundamentally know but one that recedes in the rush and madness of modern life, the prioritization of convenience and money over time, community, and connection. I hope this book will help us remember.
When I am an old woman I shall live in a cave
A thousand wrinkles will cover my face
And the children will call me Shuwa Awah
And the children will sing Shuwa Awah
When I am an old woman I shall play the violin,
Gather Juniper berries and make my own gin
And my people will call me Shuwa Awah
And my people will sing Shuwa Awah
When I am an old woman I shall ride a gray mare
With wings on her hooves we shall fly everywhere
And the wind it will whisper Shuwa Awah
And the wind it will sing Shuwa Awah
When I am an old woman I’ll be friends with the trees
Climb high in their branches of needles and leaves
And together so softly Shuwa Awah
They will tell me their tales of their power
When I am an old woman I shall rise with the dawn
In the heat of the summer I’ll grow colored corn
In the heart of the winter Shuwa Awah
On the long shadowed snow Shuwa Awah
When I am an old woman I shall heal with my hands
And stories will travel to faraway lands
And the stars they will sparkle Shuwa Awah
And the stars they will sing Shuwa Awah
When I am an old woman I shall run with the deer
I’ll talk with the eagle, the fish and the bear
And the animals call me Shuwa Awah
And the grasshoppers sing Shuwa Awah
When I am an old woman I shall speak many tongues
I’ll sing from the hills at the top of my lungs
And the mountains will call me Shuwa Awah
And the valleys will croon Shuwa Awah
When I am an old woman my hair shall turn white
At a hundred and thirteen my steps remain light
And the next world will beckon me, Shuwa Awah
And I’ll dance from this Earth in my power.
Part 1
Lost
1
Smoky Mountain Preparation
It’s the beginning of April, springtime in the Cascade Mountains. Fourteen students now all gather on my land on the Twisp River for the official introduction to the Stone Age Project, this year’s five-month Stone Age immersion program. The excited, expectant faces beam from under woolly hats and scarves in the cool morning air, steaming mugs of hot herbal teas clasped gratefully in chilly fingers. The snow is still visible on the shady north-facing slopes and here by the river there are still a few receding patches. The students will be living here off the grid on my land learning ancestral skills and, it is my sincere desire, new ways to connect with nature. Gradually reducing our dependency on modern tools, plastic tents will be replaced by natural structures; trips to town, twelve miles away, become less frequent. Even the steel knives we use will be replaced by those of bone and stone as time goes by. Each person comes to the Stone Age immersion program for different reasons and with different aims. Some are here to challenge themselves in this hybrid environment that still maintains connection to contemporary living, while others are here for something more: in late August, those of us who are ready and able will embark on a four-week Stone Age excursion into the wilderness, entirely independent from modern society.
I have been running these extended programs for many years and have taught in various locations around the world: the Arctic tundra in northern Sweden, the forested mountains in eastern Italy, the limestone caves of southern France, the painted deserts of the American Southwest and the Namibian Kalahari Desert to name but a few. But it is here in the Pacific Northwest at the edge of a vast and largely untrammeled wilderness I have chosen to call my home. As the years go by, the land has taken me and shown me many of its hidden secrets and its familiarity makes it perfect for the courses that have been adapted to this stunning and wild terrain.
* * *
The central fire is crackling and we first pass the talking stick and express our gratitude briefly in whatever way we feel moved: safe passage to arrive in this place after a long trip, thankfulness for the warmth of the fire, the breakfast eggs, the sunshine on a dewy spider’s web, or the chasing, chattering squirrels.
There are logistics to address for a group this size coming to camp together for months on a small piece of land where the running water is the river and irrigation ditch. There is no cell service and the power system at my cabin is off-grid, a modest solar setup by anyone’s standards. The light is returning rapidly, though, as the sun races north again toward summer so I have little need for electricity.
The new clan members come from near and far, a mixture of Americans, Canadians, and Europeans. One Canadian family has come with a seven-year-old boy, but the rest of the group range in age from twenty to early thirties.
Some of them I have met before when they attended a shorter class in prior years. Gareth and Polly are an American couple in their late twenties who have been living here all winter in their Mongolian yurt. I met them at a gathering last summer and we have formed a deep friendship. Gareth is a bearded, muscular man, raised in New Jersey. He received a recent inheritance enabling him and Polly to explore options for leaving the city and treading a path that feels more natural and connected. Polly, a feisty, brilliant being with a clever tongue, is albino. With her white hair and unpigmented skin she must be extremely careful to avoid sun exposure. She is a word shaper and she and Gareth write songs that we all sing together. Rapturous, sensual, evocative music.
Marcus and Ben have also been here through the winter. Marcus put up a canvas wall tent on the land. He’s one of the oldest of this group at thirty-three. A Berkeley graduate in engineering, intelligent, strong, good-looking, this man was living the American dream, with a high-paid job in California and everything going for him, but he felt that something huge, something important was missing. He was where he had always heard he should be and had become exactly what he had been groomed to be: a success. Now he was supposed to marry a beautiful woman, buy a big house, sire a couple of well-mannered kids, and play golf on the weekends while working all week for the next thirty years. Of course, they could take their expensive vacations every year then go home and continue the program while prepping their own children for exactly the same fate. Why didn’t he feel this was enough? What was missing? He had done an online nature awareness course and had a premonition that in the stillness of nature he would find something precious, so he put his shiny future on hold and left for the forests and the mountains and the bright night sky to contemplate the other options that existed. After the winter in our little community, he decided to continue this path and participate in the whole summer immersion and the monthlong Stone Age excursion that follows. It’s interesting to note that the students who come to learn these skills are largely from the same socioeconomic group: urban middle-class young adults who have the time and resources to take four to six months off from their work or studies. I have often speculated whether this could be different, if these programs could appeal to a wider audience? It does happen that older people, countryside dwellers, ethnic minorities, and disillusioned corporate executives occasionally join us but they are the exceptions. It requires privilege to participate in these lengthy immersion courses. It’s ironic that those wealthy enough to achieve a life full of comforts realize, with its attainment, that their lives still feel hollow and empty. Thus they continue their search for fulfillment outside of the conventional norms that value money and materialism as the gauge of success.
