Backstory: A smoke cloud's silver lining

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On a recent beautiful, clear day here in the national forest, 45 miles east of San Diego, Hangan makes the same bumpy ride into Corral Canyon that she did five months ago. But its oak trees give no clue as to the season. Branches cast linear, not leafy, shadows on the charred earth. And little is left of the thick undergrowth that blanketed these hillsides.

"Here we are," she says as she rumbles to a stop, eyeing an outcrop of granite rocks glinting in the sun. The next minute she's hiking toward it.

"This was someone's kitchen," she says, perched on a rock in the outcropping. "And this," she smiles, pointing to a deep, smooth indentation in the granite, "was her blender!" Hangan explains how a tribal woman would have used a rock to crush seeds or insects against the larger stone as part of food preparation or preservation, creating over time a gentle hollow. Reflecting on the size and the weight of the rock tool, Hangan notes, "That woman had some major forearms."

The documented archaeological sites that dot the Cleveland National Forest were inhabited by various tribes – such as the Cahuilla and Kumeyaay – throughout the centuries. It was common for native people to migrate within the region to take advantage of seasonal resources. Sites here typically show traces of habitation – pottery, tools, arrowheads – from a period 2,000 years ago to more recent times. But some sites are as old as 10,000 years.

Hangan explains that the early inhabitants of the Cleveland National Forest showed an understanding of the land and their relationship to it that is a marvel of intuition and insight. There's even evidence that early tribes here set fires to help the forest rejuvenate itself.

"And they made use of everything here. Everything." Hangan says, sweeping her arm at the budding yucca and deer grass, both used in basketry.

"This is our history," she says. "This is who we are – as nation, as people. These prehistoric sites, sure, might be primarily associated with the tribes, but still they are about America, about our history, about human history on this landscape. Archaeological sites, especially in California, are vanishing. That's why these on public land are becoming more important. We're preserving history for our grandkids and our grandkids' grandkids."

Walking back to the truck, Hangan looks down, scanning the ground as she usually does when she's on a site (a habit she can't seem to break, she says, laughing, even when she isn't on the job). Today, something catches her eye. Stopping in her tracks, she bends to pick up an arrowhead, whole and chiseled to a perfect point. "I haven't found one of these in years," she says, a note of triumph in her voice. Unearthing fragments of arrowheads isn't unusual for Hangan; stumbling on an intact specimen is.

Some people might be tempted to slip the arrowhead into a pocket, or take it home to show a friend or sell on eBay, where there is a spike in listings of such finds after every wildfire. Instead, she carries it several steps off the path, and with a tender pat, tucks it behind a small rock. It is Margaret Hangan's hope that that's where it will be – tomorrow, next week, and if coming generations are fortunate, on other sunny afternoons millenniums from now.

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