ALONG THE WAY

Reenacting the 15,000-year-old Tradition of Agave Roasting Collects Mixed Reviews

How many archaeologists does it take to harvest an agave? That is the question as the Verde Valley Archaeology Society gathers under the midday sun, watching four of our members pry, stab, wrestle and swear at a reluctant Agave parryi, a rosette of lance-shaped (and lance-sharp) leaves that seems wedded to the red Sedona soil.

Archaeologists Peter Pilles of the Coconino National Forest and David Wilcox from the Museum of Northern Arizona stand nearby with notebook and stopwatch. They call this “experimental archaeology,” a scientific albeit entertaining reeenactment of ancient lifeways. We're preparing for an “agave roast,” and the diggers today use sticks and stones, the same tools used by prehistoric Indians.

An observer offers to relieve a digger, but the rest offer only advice: “If this were post-Spanish Entrada, you could have my machete.” “Don't forget the juices are caustic.” And, “I bet the Indians would have been smart enough to give up on this one.” A better research question (archaeologists are big on them) might be: How long does it take several archaeologists, in shifts, to harvest a big, stubborn agave? The answer: A lot longer than we dreamed. The wild agave has developed remarkable defenses.

So why are we here, raising blisters, getting sunburned and scratched? This is my research question. The answers I get vary, but I suspect an interest in basic human survival plays a part. As much as we joke and kid, I can't help thinking how fragile traditions can be, and how far we have separated ourselves from the land that sustains us.

A small group of Yavapai Indians, whose ancestors were in the Verde Valley when the Spanish rode through in 1583, also observes our labor. Some of them remember their grandmothers telling about a roast; none have been to one themselves.

The roasting pit their predecessors used in Red Canyon is a high mound of blackened soil, testimony to centuries of at Palatki Ruins. VVAS members dug the 3-foot pit the day before, lined it with rocks, then heaped it with firewood. The fire-lighting ceremony began at dawn. Now the coals are ready. Laid among the embers, the trimmed agave, like a huge artichoke, gets covered with fresh grass, then burlap bags. A final layer of dirt seals in the heat.

Without a recipe, we have no idea when the agave will be done. Since most of us have only the weekend to spare, we celebrations as clans gathered to roast agaves, one of the desert's most useful plants. Beginning somewhere in Mexico about 15,000 years ago, different peoples have harvested agaves for food, fiber and medicine, some 150 various uses. Charlie Steger, an “Archy” member from Prescott, refers to the agave as the desert's “general store.” At last the men cry, “Victory,” and, like pallbearers, carry the defeated agave to the pickup for its delivery to a roasting pit Arbitrarily decide to roast it for 24 hours. Feeling a bit silly standing around watching a big pile of dirt, we do what the Indians probably did: visit, eat, work, play. Albert Abril of Phoenix, whose business card identifies him as a “Primitive Technologist,” shows a half-dozen of us how to make cordage from agave fibers.

The more competitively inclined fling spears at a cardboard box under a mesquite. Few throwers hit the box at all, let alone hard enough to “kill” it.

When the time comes to unearth the agave the next afternoon, we are joined by some tourists who came to see Palatki and ended up staying for Sunday dinner. There's plenty to go around the roasted agave is the size of an enormous tom turkey.

A line forms. Those at the end carefully watch the expressions of those who partake first. Was that a grimace or a smile? I hear a muttered comment about guinea pigs, and someone asks, “Where's Mikey?” Reviews are mixed, from “a very sweet yam” to “not much of anything.” Mine tastes like burned celery, and I do not go back for seconds.

Sunburned and still hun-gry, several return to the pot-luck of chips and dip and other modern victuals. “Roast-ed Agave” might not make the cut for the next Arizona cookbook, but we all agree that we've learned something valuable about the people who lived here before us. We leave reluctantly, after mak-ing plans for next year. The roasting pit will stay as a new exhibit for visitors to Red Canyon's Palatki Ruins.

I realize as I sit down to a “normal” dinner that evening that my research question has been answered. Why did we do it? Camaraderie, curiosity, but mostly to connect with others, even across generations and cultures. For connection is survival.

Author's Note: The agave fam-ily includes more than a dozen species in Arizona, all of them protected by the state's native plant laws. It is illegal to collect any part of an agave without a permit, including the blossoms, which are necessary to certain pollinators, and dead stalks, which provide a home for agave borers and carpenter bees.