“Utilizing the gift”: A relational approach to turkey keeping at Picuris Pueblo,NM

Gifting: A Picuris model of human-animal relations

Drawing on the writings of Indigenous scholars and knowledge shared by Picuris Pueblo tribal members, we outline a culturally grounded approach to zooarchaeology centered on the notion of “gifting.” The important role that animals played as sources of gifts was commented upon by Cecilia Shields who described how animals would share knowledge about the natural world with Picuris community members:

All the animals carried their own knowledge and their own expertise that we learned from… we always honor them and see them as teachers and guides. I mean, even our clan system’[s] set up such that they're animals. You know, different societies are represented by those different animals because they carry knowledge far beyond us. (2024, interview)

This clan-based social system emplaces local animal species within a long-standing reciprocal relationship between humans and the natural world. Her reflections also explain how ecological knowledge moved between animal interlocutors and humans. As Shields notes, her ancestors took time to watch what birds did, including “how to make a tool so that you could crack open certain things” or how birds “use their bodies and their senses of hearing and sight to be really good at finding their prey” (2024, interview). In positioning birds as knowledgeable sources of information about cultivation and associated cultural practices, Picuris ontology decenters humans, instead emphasizing their entanglement with both plants and animals.

The reciprocal relationship that exists between Picuris peoples and the natural world is found across many Indigenous cultures. For example, Rauna Kuokkanen (2008: 24) has discussed Sámi gift giving practices as a collective responsibility that ensures balance. Similarly, Paul Nadasdy (2007) has outlined the Kluane belief that animals “gift” themselves to hunters. It is worth noting that Nadasdy’s discussion of Indigenous hunting societies in northern Canada differs from similar interventions around non-human agency (e.g., Ingold’s (2000) discussion of Cree hunters) in its explicit move away from metaphor. Instead, gifts from animals are understood as a material reality that directly shapes the daily lives of Kluane people.

These comparative studies suggest that the gift framework is informed by an understanding of animals as sentient beings who share a kinship relationship with humans. Drawing on Potawatomi perspectives of the natural world, Robin Kimmerer (2017) has challenged anthropocentric frameworks predicated on private property and human control of the land as a source of capital. Kimmerer refers to this alternative epistemological framework as a “covenant of reciprocity” in which “the beings of Earth [are seen] as the kin they are” (2017: 376-377) .Within this model, humans exist in a mutualistic relationship with plants, animals, and spiritual beings and are responsible for continuously respecting and renewing these social bonds.

Within the northern Rio Grande, the gift relationship between animals and Pueblo peoples is part of a broader ecological perspective which Gregory Cajete (Santa Clara Pueblo) refers to as “Native Science” (2000: 70). According to Cajete, Pueblo articulations of Native Science frame the natural world as an interconnected network in which humans hold a continuous stewardship responsibility towards those things that give life, including non-human entities. This metaphysical approach is captured in the phrase, “we are all kernels of the same corncob,” which is a commonly used by Tewa-speaking elders to describe the tapestry of interdependence that connects humans, plants, animals, natural forces, and the landscape (Cajete, 2004: 109). The intimate connection between humans and non-humans is reflected in an ancestral Pueblo plate dating to 700-1200 CE which depicts a human effigy intertwined with a Sandhill crane, becoming a single almost indistinguishable design (Cajete, 2004: 105).

The interdependence between humans and birds depicted in this ceramic is framed by Pueblo knowledge holders in terms of a kinship relationship. For instance, Leslie Marmon Silko (Laguna Pueblo) (1999) notes that Pueblo people imagine themselves as sisters and brothers of certain plants and animals. Similarly, several of the Picuris tribal members we spoke with portrayed avian species, and animals more broadly, as relatives with whom they shared a reciprocal relationship built on respect. As Shields explained, birds are “like our ancestors in the past” (2024, interview). The kinship relationship between Picuris peoples and the natural world is reflected in the Tiwa narrative, “A Little Cinderella,” in which the heroine, Turkey Girl, frequently refers to the turkeys she is tasked with tending as “tall brothers” (McNeil, 2022: 35; De Huff, 1922).

These kin relationships are grounded in the specific places where clans—social units composed of families with common ancestors—first formed their historical relationships with non-human elements (Silko, 1999: 40). The important role of the land in shaping human-animal relationships is captured in Vanessa Watts’ concept of “Place-Thought,” which she describes as an Indigenous theory-praxis “based upon the premise that land is alive and thinking and that humans and non-humans derive agency through the extensions of these thoughts” (2013: 22). Place-Thought is grounded in the specific origin stories and spatial histories of Indigenous communities which frame humans as dependent upon an already functioning society of animals structured by its own set of relationships, values, and ethics (Watts, 2013: 26). In extending agency to all elements of the natural world, Indigenous Place-Thought dismantles the hierarchical position of humans over non-humans (i.e., how do humans affect animals?) thereby reframing this relationship within a mutualistic flow of respect, consent, and gifting (i.e., how do humans and animals affect one another?).

Personal narratives and oral histories from across the Pueblo world situate animal species within a gifting relationship which reflects the indivisibility of human agency, animals, plants, and the land’s spirit. During our conversation with Shields, she reflected on how Picuris youth learned from

an early age that animals are important. They have their own roles, and you are respectful of them. So, you do not bother that nest. You do not just go and shoot them for the sake of shooting them. You say hello, you talk to them, and they will come to visit. (interview, 2024)

A similar set of lessons was conveyed by former Zuni governor, Robert E. Lewis, during a discussion of human-animal relationships. In 1991, Governor Lewis relayed a story to psychologist John Gluck and his colleagues (1993) about a young boy who gathers pinon nuts from pack rat burrows. Over the course of the story, the boy learns from his father to respect (rather than destroy) the home of the pack rat, to only take as much food as he needs, and to repay the pack animal’s gift. As the boy’s father explains, “When we take from the pack rat what we like, we must pay for it. The pack rat has its own life. You cannot just take from animals and nature, you must also give” (Gluck et al., 1993: 7). The ecological principles of respect and reciprocity are also captured in an anecdote relayed by Joseph R. Aguilar (San Ildefonso Pueblo) in which a fellow farmer lamented the loss of his crop to blackbirds. In response, another community member reminded the young farmer that “they [blackbirds] take their share, and what’s left is ours” (Aguilar, 2025). These examples from Tiwa, Zuni, and Tewa contexts speak to a collective Pueblo understanding that animals have rights and livelihoods that are of equal importance to those of humans and which must be treated with care.

Ryan Griego described these gifting protocols at Picuris in more detail:

There are those songs that we sing or certain dances or certain animals or whatever. It is a big thing. My mom told me the story of her dad [who] would do his hunt, and then, sure enough, he would bring the animal home, but then he'd do his whole thing before they really, cut it up. Yeah, put it away or whatever. You would sing all the songs to the animal that come with respect for that animal. (2024, interview)

Elaborating on the role of respect in shaping human-animal relationships, Celestino Yazza stated that, “You go ask for the animal. Usually, we just don’t go get the animal… You ask permission, and you give your reason, and you fish, and you ask for it and then it comes to you” (2024, interview). Griego and Yazza’s reflections suggest that ritualized activities like prayer, song, and dance, play an important role in mediating the gift relationship between Picuris people and the natural world, in this case the exchange of animal life for human sustenance. Yazza’s description of the sentience of animals (e.g., “you go ask for the animal”) and the attendant need to respect their rights (e.g., “you ask permission”) are key elements of Picuris Place-Thought.

The importance of consent in Pueblo-animal relationships is echoed by Silko who noted that

The antelope merely consents to return home with the hunter. All phases of the hunt are conducted with love. The love the hunter and the people have for the Antelope People. And the love of the antelope who agree to give up their meat and blood so that human beings will not starve. (1999: 31)

Silko’s discussion of Antelope People reflects a Pueblo understanding of animals as non-human kin with whom humans share a reciprocal relationship. This reciprocity is summarized succinctly by Picuris tribal member Ron Stumbling-Bear, who commented: “That is the way it should be right? You give and in return you do something like friendship” (2024, interview).

An analysis of gifting relations at Picuris Pueblo

Many Pueblos, both historically and in the present day, keep turkeys using a variety of management techniques, including penning, free ranging, and walled gardens (see Conrad, 2022 for a review for turkey penning practices). Unlike other bird species in the U.S. Southwest, like Scarlet Macaws (Ara macao) or Golden Eagles (Aquila chrysaetos), which have been consistently classified as “sacred,” turkeys blur the lines between mundane/consumable, spiritual/prohibited, and domestic/wild. These tensions are reflected in a disjuncture between archaeological evidence of turkey consumption in pre-colonial New Mexico and ethnographic evidence from the late 19th century into the present that describe such consumption as improper. According to Elsie Clews Parsons (1939), prior to the 1920s, wild turkeys were kept primarily for feather harvesting at Taos Pueblo. This finding is supported by Picuris oral histories which suggests that turkeys were only occasionally eaten in the recent past (Shields, 2024, interview; Stumbling Bear, 2024, interview; Yazza, 2024, interview).

Badenhorst and Driver’s (2009) seminal study of artiodactyl, lagomorph, and turkey indices across pre-colonial pueblos in the San Juan Basin complicates this ethnohistoric picture. Using presence and absence ratios, Bandenhorst and Driver document a transition from turkey feather collecting to consumption. Their work shows that as large game became less available after 900 CE, there was a notable increase in the number of turkey and other small game species in regional assemblages, suggesting that turkeys became a key food source for Pueblo communities over the next five hundred years.

An assessment of the avian faunal collections at Picuris points to a parallel increase in the number of turkey remains at the “old pueblo” during the same dynamic time period identified by Badenhorst and Driver. However, a detailed review of the post-mortem treatment of turkey remains suggests that this shift was not primarily driven by changing consumption demands. In comparison to the 19% of Golden Eagle specimens with evidence of cut marks, less than 13% of turkey specimens in the Picuris assemblage show signs of cutting or sawing along the bone shaft and epiphyses (Figure 2).OPEN IN VIEWER

As discussed above Golden Eagles are widely considered a sacred species across the Pueblo world, suggesting that similar cut marks across the remains of avian species could derive from non-consumption-based activities such as the preparation of bird bone tools and instruments (Adler and Dick, 1999).

Evidence that turkeys were rarely eaten at Picuris between 1300–1800 CE is supported by low levels of burning across the turkey assemblage, particularly on the articular ends of bones, an area which typically scorches during cooking (Serjeantson, 2009: 151). This trend is consistent across avian species in the collections, including the Golden Eagle and crow/raven assemblages (Figure 3).OPEN IN VIEWER

While low levels of burning suggest that large birds like turkeys were rarely consumed at Picuris, it is worth noting that there are other modes of preparing game—for example, boiling whole—which would not create butchery marks or charring. Similarly, signs of burning may be associated with other types of cultural practices altogether, for example, the burning of eagle phalanges as part of the ritual closing of a kiva (see Adams, 2016; Walker, 1995).

Traditional knowledge shared by Picuris tribal members offers additional insights into the low levels of cut or burned turkey remains in the avian faunal assemblage. Rather than filling a subsistence gap, turkey husbandry at Picuris appears to be linked to an expanding demand for turkey feather blankets and other feather products, a demand which coincides with a period of aggregation, population growth, and intensifying maize cultivation in the northern Rio Grande (Adler et al., 1996). According to Stumbling Bear, in the recent past community members participated in turkey consumption during the U.S. holiday of Thanksgiving, however, this contemporary practice was “pretty much not traditional, but the feathers are” (2024, interview). Shields emphasized that although her ancestors may have eaten turkeys during times of starvation in the past, this was not a customary practice. Instead, she argued that turkeys,

were kept primarily for their feathers and for cultural reasons. But the feathers provided not only those spiritual connections, but it also provided down material that they could create turkey feather blankets, which would have kept them warm in the wintertime and being at over 7000 [feet] elevation there in Picuris, very important, very important. And so, you know, there's a woman who did a replica of a four. I think it was like a four-by-four foot turkey feather blanket, and only a four-by-four foot had 17,000 turkey feathers. (2024, interview)

Shield’s comments reference Santa Clara tribal member and archaeologist Mary Weahkee’s (2021) reconstruction of a turkey feather blanket. Weahkee's experimental study demonstrated that the creation of turkey feather blankets would have been a highly specialized and time intensive form of gendered labor, requiring significant numbers of feathers collected by women who were the primary caregivers for turkey herds.

These findings were replicated by William Lipe and his colleagues (2020) in a study which demonstrated that 11,550 turkey feathers gathered from between four and ten adult turkeys were needed to re-create a 3.2 by 3.5 ft blanket. Lipe et al. (2020) argue that the large numbers of feathers required suggests that Pueblo people were harvesting feathers from live turkeys. Furthermore, they suggest that using feathers from dead turkeys would be wasteful if it required culling the turkeys, because live turkeys would produce many more feathers in the long term, and molted feathers are of subpar quality for weaving. These experimental studies, along with archaeological evidence of turkey feather blanket production from the 10th century onwards, demonstrate that Pueblo people living in the northern Rio Grande have been husbanding turkeys for the purposes of feather harvesting for over a millennium.

Conversations with Picuris tribal members indicate that turkey management centered on sustainable feather harvesting practices intended to maximize the bird's lifespan. According to Shields, her ancestors practiced a “very humanely, [a] very, very Pueblo way of caring for an animal” that utilized “the gift that they’re giving” (2024, interview). In discussing feather collecting in particular, Shields explained that in exchange for taking care of turkeys, “they regrow those feathers, they give them to you” (2024, interview). In highlighting the principles of reciprocity and respect, Shields’s comments draw attention to the role of consent and co-operation in feather harvesting. The impact of a care-based approach on turkey longevity has been studied by Blankenship (1992: 98) and Lipe et al. (2020), whose works suggests that carefully husbanded birds protected from predation by human co-habitants can live even longer than the average of 14 years that turkeys survive in the wild.

Tribal members we spoke with often used agricultural metaphors, specifically the term “harvesting,” to describe this caregiving relationship. As Yazza stated, “you harvest the animal” (interview, 2024). During an informal conversation about Pueblo perspectives on hunting and gathering, Picuris elder Richard Mermejo discussed how his ancestors would “harvest wild game” (personal communication, 2022). Drawing on these conversations, we use the term “harvesting” to distinguish between a care-based ethic of feather removal and more violent forms of interaction which we refer to as “plucking.” While feather harvesting can be done twice a year in the period between feather maturation and molting with very little pain, if feathers are removed improperly or too early in the regrowth cycle, turkeys will resist, potentially resulting in broken forelimbs (humerus, ulna, radius, and/or carpometacarpus). Unlike harvesting, “plucking” is a pain-inducing practice that would result in evidence of bone breaks in the archaeological record.

Only one adult turkey specimen in the avian faunal collection at Picuris showed signs of a pre-mortem spiral or oblique break that would have severely impacted the distal end of the humerus (Figure 4).OPEN IN VIEWER

A variety of activities, including potential resistance during plucking, may have caused this fracture. Fothergill (2016) has explored the archaeological impacts of turkey limb breakage during feather gathering, arguing that in the process of learning how to properly pluck turkey feathers and develop trust, injuries occurred for both humans and turkeys. While the immediate cause of the break is unclear, evidence that the bone was allowed to fully heal prior to the bird’s death suggests that turkeys were protected and tended in the same way as a family member might be cared for. As noted by Shields, turkeys were “named and they were cared for, and they were watered. And the kids were playing with them. Playing with them, yeah. And they’re a member of the family too” (interview, 2024).

The oral historical record indicates that maize played a particularly important role in shaping the relationship between Picuris people and avian species like turkeys. In addition to the use of harvesting metaphors by tribal members, the homology between maize and turkeys is reflected in the “Turkey Girl Tales” collected by early 20th century ethnographers. The protagonist of these stories is named “full-kernel girl” or “sister of Yellow and Blue Corn Girls,” reflecting her role as the primary provider of maize for her turkey flocks (McNeil, 2022: 34). A similar connection between maize processing and animal caregiving is captured in the Picuris narrative, “Old Coyote Woman, Jackrabbit, and Blue Jay Grind Together.” In this story, Bluejay and Jackrabbit teach Old Coyote Woman about plant processing: “When the Jackrabbit and the Bluejay saw the shallow basket of cedar berries, they said to the Coyote: ‘We do not grind cedar berries here on our metates, because it makes the metates look brown and it will not come off.’” (Harrington, 1989[1928]: 70–71). After being dismissed, Old Coyote Woman went back to Tciuthoma, collected the best shelled corn that she had, and returned to “where the Jackrabbit and the Bluejay were grinding. When she arrived there, the Jackrabbit said to her: ‘Now you may grind; that shelled corn that you have is very good’” (Harrington, 1989[1928]: 71). The “Old Coyote Woman” narrative frames animals as cultural knowledge holders and teachers who shaped the caregiving relationship between Picuris people and the natural world. Beyond (re)defining human-animal relations in terms of respect and reciprocity, a gift-based framework reflects an epistemology of “relational interdependence” between place, place elements, and people (Kearney et al., 2019: 326). In the “Old Coyote Woman” narrative, the action is grounded in a named place, Tciuthoma (“at the Eagle Pile”). This aspect of the narrative is an expression of Place-Thought, situating the relationship between Picuris people and animal interlocutors within the local topography and history of land-use.

The connection between maize harvesting and avian species within Picuris Place-Thought is also described in “The Two Dove Maiden Sisters and the Drouth” narrative which was shared with J.P. Harrington by Rosendo Vargas. As in the “Old Coyote Woman” story, the “Dove Maiden” narrative situates human-animal relationships within a regional cosmogeography through references to local bird species (e.g., mourning doves, turkey vultures, and the American crow) as well as through spatial anchors, including references to the pueblo’s location in the Sangre de Cristo foothills, the “Morning Mountain” (likely a reference to Jicarita Peak), and “the river” (a reference to the Rio Grande).

The story begins by describing how the dove maidens “lived, planting corn and beans of various colors” while the “Picuris youths at the Pueblo made their living by going out hunting every day to the mountains” (Harrington, 1989[1928]: 44–45). The relationship between the little dove maidens and corn cultivation mirrors the framing of young corn plants as unmarried girls or “maidens” among Pueblo communities across the Southwest. For example, on Pueblo pottery and rock art from the Rio Grande Valley, turkey imagery is often found in close proximity to Corn Maiden figures tied to rainmaking ideology (McNeil, 2022: 28). Similarly, in Hopi songs, unmarried girls (manatu) are referred to as corn plants (humi’uyi) (Black, 1984: 282–283). As an expression of Pueblo Place-Thought, Corn Maidens are physical manifestations of prayers for rain, fertility, and abundance. Within this interactional web, Pueblo people care for young plants through careful attendance and in return those plants mature and bear corn to sustain the community. The use of the term “maiden” to refer to birds, plants, and young women in Picuris oral tradition, collapses categorical distinctions across species, creating an expanded definition of agency which extends to all facets of the natural world. In addition to demonstrating a flat ontology, the Dove Maiden narrative explains the origins of the gift relationship between animal ancestors and Picuris people. After experiencing a drought, the story culminates with the two little Doves gifting their corn “so that they [Picuris] will not do so much hunting” (Harrington, 1989[1928]: 46).

The relationships between turkeys, maize, and rain-making was described by Shields who explained that, “you want [turkeys] involved in your prayers and… preparations and things like that. It makes sense… feathers… it’s not that they’re just beautiful, but it’s also those characteristics of those birds that bring to life and send your prayers as far as they need to go” (2024, interview). Shields’ comments indicate that the feathers gifted by turkeys hold multiple purposes which blur the division between the “mundane” and the “sacred.” In other words, feathers are both the basic building materials for blankets which provide warmth during the winter and serve as vehicles through which prayers were sent to the spiritual world. In bridging the mundane-sacred divide, turkey management at Picuris challenges ingrained dualisms within archaeological thought.

The entanglement of agriculture and avian species was remarked upon by Pedro de Castañeda, who noted that “a very large number of cranes and wild geese and crows and starlings live on what was sown” (Winship, 1896: 521) in agricultural fields across New Mexico. This co-created ecosystem has also been documented through stable carbon isotopes collected from the bone collagen of avian species (e.g., Dolan et al., 2023; McCaffery et al., 2014; McCaffery et al., 2021; Rawlings and Driver, 2010). While the presence of maize in turkey diets may point to direct human intervention, hand feeding is not the only source of the C₄ photosynthetic pathways which can also be found in some wild plants. For example, by documenting wild haplogroup (H2) turkeys with primarily C₄ based diets, and domestic haplogroup (H1) turkeys with primarily C₃ based diets, Dolan et al. (2023) has shown that diet is not the only signature of husbandry. These isotopic overlaps point to the emergence of what Melinda Zeder has called a “sustained multigenerational mutualistic relationship” (2012: 163) in which free-ranging wild and domesticated turkeys moved through Pueblo fields, with only some birds being penned or corralled in the evening.

Robin Cordero (2018) studied this co-created ecosystem archaeologically through a comparative analysis of avifaunal remains at 20 Pueblo sites in the Albuquerque Basin. Cordero’s research revealed a significant increase after 1300 CE in the percentage and diversity of avian species—particularly cranes, geese, and ducks—represented in Pueblo faunal assemblages. She suggests that changing cultivation practices prompted this uptick in avian species as communities moved away from dispersed garden plots and towards intensive field systems which provided an ample food source for birds during the winter months (Cordero, 2018: 104).

Although these findings pertain to sites south of Picuris, there is growing archaeological evidence for a similar process of agricultural intensification at the pueblo after the 14th century. Situated in a fertile valley fed by mountain run-off, Picuris developed a sophisticated system of high-altitude agriculture which has been documented by the Picuris Collaborative Archaeological Project (PCAP). Since 2017, PCAP has mapped a complex system of cut-and-fill terraces, gravel fields, and water management features over a 10-hectare study area (Casana et al., 2023). These field systems were part of a mutualistic ecosystem inhabited by foraging bird species as well as maize-fed husbanded birds, fueling Picuris’ rise as a major regional trade center during the 16th and 17th centuries.

Conclusion

Picuris oral traditions alongside comparative literature from across Indigenous communities demonstrate a gifting relationship between humans and animal species grounded in Place-Thought. The small percentage of turkey specimens showing signs of burning or butchery in the Picuris avian faunal collection suggests that from the 14th century onwards, this gift relationship was oriented around feather harvesting. These findings align with Lipe et al.’s (2020) research suggesting a plurality of rationales behind growing turkey populations at ancestral Pueblo sites, including harvesting turkey feathers for regalia, prayer sticks, and blankets.

The general absence of broken turkey bones along with evidence of fracture healing in one specimen within the Picuris avifuanal collection, reflect local oral traditions which document an ethics of care around feather harvesting. Within this gift-based ecology turkeys were ideologically and socially entangled with maize. Archaeological evidence of shifting cultivation practices along with the general absence of constructed pens at Picuris suggests that wild and domesticated turkeys received safety and steady access to maize in the community’s ever expanding agricultural field systems. Furthermore, these sources indicate that women and girls played an important role as caregivers to their avian co-habitants.

The entangled relationship between humans, animals, and plants at Picuris highlights how attending to species-specific interactional networks can generate complex histories of land use. Furthermore, by engaging with Indigenous worldviews and sources, this approach challenges lingering forms of anthropocentrism within theorizations of agency and associated hierarchies of knowledge production embedded in Western epistemology-ontology. As Watts argues “dismantling these ideas allows what is dominant to be questioned and pulled apart so that concentrated hegemonic ideologies become diffused into the spaces where borders and boundaries are confused and permeable” (2013: 30).