The fiery morning sun bathed the pine trees in a misty glow as a
single shadowy figure moved silently from the village down
toward the bog. Deer drinking nearby didn’t even look up as he
passed. He knelt on the ground and gently caressed the leaves of
a small green plant, then plucked it from the ground and placed
it in his leather medicine bag. The Native American herbalist
had spent most of his life learning the mysteries of the bog,
his knowledge of its plants providing medicine and food for his
people. Before the village awakened from its summer night’s
slumber, he had finished his morning’s search for plants. He
placed an offering—a small amount of tobacco and some shards of
pottery—by the side of the water to thank the spirit, or
manitou, of the bog for its generous gifts. Then he headed back
to his people as the sun rose over the trees. That’s the scene
that crept into my imagination as I carefully removed the
pottery shards from the northeastern Michigan muck. Immersed in
and protected by the anaerobi