LOCALadk Magazine

LOCALadk 18 A Time Machine in the Mud Archaeology is often described as a kind of time machine. Each artifact, whether a fluted point or a blackened hearth, becomes a window into a life once lived. "Every object recovered tells us how our ancestors adapted, innovated, and built knowledge systems rooted in their landscapes," Dr. Lothrop says. "From seasonally gathered plants to finely crafted tools, these remnants reveal the ingenuity and creativity that define what it means to be human." The Piercefield Point reminds us that the Adiron- dacks were not a forbidden zone, but a corridor of ancient movement, settlement, and knowledge ex- change, echoing Indigenous oral traditions that long affirmed human presence in these highlands. Preservation as Public Trust Today, the Piercefield Point is housed at Binghamton University's Public Archaeology Facility (PAF), where it remains preserved and catalogued. Dr. Laurie Miroff, PAF's director, underscores the gravity of this responsibility. "Our first obligation is to preserve archaeological sites whenever possible. Once something is removed from the ground, it's removed from its context forever." That's why ethical excavation, detailed documenta- tion, and responsible curation are essential, not just for academic purposes but for public stewardship. These materials belong not just to scientists but to all of us. "They don't just tell us about people long gone," Miroff says. "They're part of the ongoing human story of the places we live today." Local towns, schools, and museums have a vital role to play in keeping this story alive, not as static ex- hibits, but as living histories that reshape our under- standing of place. The Legal and Moral Imperative of Indigenous Consent Advocating for Indigenous perspectives on the hu- man past is not only ethical, it's now legally required. Under the 2024 revisions to the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPR A), museums and archaeological repositories are obligat- ed to obtain free, prior, and informed consent from Indigenous Nations for any exhibition, access, or re- search involving collections from their ancestral lands. These "Duty of Care" provisions recognize that Na- tive Nations are not stakeholders; they are sovereign governments. Their authority over cultural heritage is not symbolic but legal, and collaboration is not an option; it is the law. As CC Hovie (Ojibwe, Anishinaabe), Public Affairs & Communications Director at the Association on American Indian Affairs, explained to me, "Terms like 'stewardship' and 'reciprocity' are often used in insti- tutional contexts, but they can unintentionally reflect colonial mindsets. Institutions need to ask: Who invit- ed you to be our steward? " Indigenous scholars such as Dr. Sonya Atalay (Ojib- we), Dr. Kisha Supernant (Métis), and Dr. Linda Tuhiwai Smith (Māori) have long advanced a model of "collab- orative archaeology," one rooted in mutual respect, community-defined research, and shared interpreta- tion. This approach not only reorients the field but opens the door to healing and the reclamation of Indigenous knowledge. Living History, Shared Responsibilit y Imagine the Piercefield Point on display at The Wild Center in Tupper Lake or another museum in the Adirondacks, not just encased behind glass, but sur- rounded by the voices of Indigenous knowledge-keep- ers, archaeologists, and local students. Picture school field trips where children learn about Ice Age peoples not just from books, but from the very soil beneath their feet. This is what meaningful public history looks like: dynamic, respectful, and rooted in place. "Archaeology gives voice to the deep past of the places we inhabit today," says Miroff. When we honor those voices — both ancient and contemporary — we transform the past from artifact into relationship. A Canoe Stroke Through Time I often imagine a hunter beside this same river, selecting a nodule of chert. Patiently chipping flakes with practiced precision. Each discarded shard was part of a silent conversation with the land. And then — finally — a spear point. A gift of form and function. A tool to eat, to survive, to protect. A testament. To paddle the Raquette today is to follow that same current of time. That same path. That same human impulse to know and endure. Back at the river, the wind stirs the pines. Water laps against the hull. And though that ancient spear point now rests in a university drawer, it still speaks. Its voice is the river's voice. It endures. t

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