Member-only story
Our Town Hohokamville
The Hohokam’s climate strategies served them well for some 1100–1200 years. Until they didn’t.
In the year 1350, in the Salt River watershed near present-day Phoenix, a young Hohokam woman named Taya woke to the sound of chirping birds. The sun peeked over the distant blue hills and entered the open door to her stone and adobe home, casting a warm orange glow over the earthen floor that reflected onto the walls. She was sixteen, and her heart fluttered like the wings of a morpho every time she thought of Kimo, the boy from the neighboring clan.
Taya’s day began with her usual routine. She slipped out of her tiny home, its walls thick and cool against the morning heat, and stepped onto the garden terrace where the sweet smell of sage, mesquite, and squash blossoms filled the air. She looked off into the valley, its green floodplain shimmering in sunflowers, maize, agave, squash and peach trees. Just outside her door, the earth was rich and dark under its cover of marsh elder, knotweed, may grass, little barley, amaranth, Jerusalem artichoke, and bottle gourds. Across the hillside and leading down to the valley, she could see and hear the water flowing from mountain springs through the intricate irrigation canals built by her ancestors. Marvels of stonework, they traced the path of primordial debris flows and so had…