My Sacred Places: Angel Mounds

Each of us has visited places that we regard as sacred. Cathedrals, burial grounds, and monuments to soldiers fallen in the line of duty readily come to mind. When we broaden the definition of “sacred” to include any place inspiring our loftiest ideas and our highest respect, we have a host of consecrated locations. This series of blogs is dedicated to a few of my sacred places.

My India Ink Drawing of Woodland Mound,

Which I Made for Dr. Conard Carroll

When my brother and I were enrolled in one of many summer sessions at Indiana University, we decided to spend a Saturday at Angel Mounds. After AD 1000, a large settlement of Native Americans thrived beside the Ohio River; the impressive civilization lasted until 1450. The inhabitants farmed the area for miles around. The site boasted a dozen impressively large structures including various mounds and a palisade.

As it turned out, my brother and I had chosen a stiflingly hot day. At approximately 11:00 a.m., we parked our car and walked through a weedy field toward a reconstructed section of the palisade wall, which once had bastions at rhythmic intervals along the half circle that stretched from the river, around the village, and back to the river again. The sun beat down on our heads. We were standing on soil that crayfish loved. Every inch of ground was steamy. Even while standing still to read the markers interpreting the archaeological site, we felt sweat beading on our foreheads and dripping down our backs. We weren’t being baked; we were being boiled!

We had come to see the mounds, and we were going to see them, no matter how sweltering the day might be! We went from one to the next, surveying each in its torrid splendor. Not a breath of air cooled our perspiring faces. All was breezeless and scorching. We were the only visitors to the park. Others were wiser. Others were enjoying themselves in air-conditioned rooms somewhere. We trudged from a platform mound to a conical mound. We could have wrung the moisture from our shirts.

We found appealing the thought of climbing above the tropical bottom land, so we scaled the cone before us. We dragged our feet through tangled grasses, our tendons pulling hard as we scrambled up the steep embankment. When we reached the top, we sat down to drain. The view was spectacular. The turquoise haze of southern Indiana lay above the land bordered by motionless trees. The great river lay beyond with scarcely a trace of movement as if it were a lake instead.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. I felt that we were becoming one with nature.

Just then, with a sarcasm that only my brother can wield, he jeered, “It probably took them a long time to make this mound. I bet they wish they could have had our modern earth-moving equipment. With a good bulldozer, they could have scraped this mound together in less than a day.”

Out of nowhere, a furious wind suddenly crashed against us. We took one look at each other, jumped to our feet, and dashed pall-mall down the slope, nearly falling several times in our rush toward the level plain. Once we regained our breath, I said, rather accusingly, “They didn’t like that very much!” Contritely, my brother said, “No. That stirred up something we had no right to disturb.”

Neither of us felt safe. We abruptly concluded our visit by striding back to our vehicle. Since that day so long ago, we have journeyed to many prehistoric sites in Ohio, and, needing no reminder, we have kept a respectful attitude throughout our trips.