The Sweat Lodge

                                                        The Sweat Lodge

  By Noel Laflin

    December 14, 2001

“We are going to build us a real sweat lodge,” Jeff announced one day.

He, Randy and I would construct a willow-domed frame, covered in heavy canvas with a hot rock pit within.  According to this Indian authority, cold mountain creek water poured on those red-hot rocks would provide warm, healing steam within the squat structure. 

Although deer, elk, buffalo or some such critter’s hide would have been more authentic as a covering, the natural willow and smooth stones, which could be found in the camp creek bed, were truly perfect in keeping with the spirit of the project.  We figured the local gods would forgive us for substituting green canvas, as the skins of large roaming Great Plains animals were in short supply at our Southern California summer camp. 

Jeff had built one or two of these before.  Not much to it, he claimed.  What was important was the conducting of the ritual itself, he stressed; the cleansing of the body and spirit through the sweating process was the main goal.  This sounded pretty good to the rest of us.  We all longed to be latter-day Indians.  There were no saunas that we were aware of within fifty miles or more of our mountain anyway.  This would do nicely we figured.

Under his guidance we began the construction.  Green, pliable willow was cut and stripped of its bark.  He said that scrapings from the inside of willow bark provided many ancient cultures with a natural pain reliever.  I filed this one away for some future use, should I ever find myself lost in the woods in need of raw aspirin.

The thin willow strips bent easily into the shape we needed.  It soon took on the look of a forest-green igloo once the old former army tent was draped over the tied frame. 

Carefully chosen rocks were then brought to the fire pit, which Randy tended for half a day, gingerly turning the stones within the hot flames with a long-handled shovel.  They were glowing with a deep, evil red by four that afternoon.

While the invited sweat guests were gathering, Jeff and I assembled the smoking ingredients for the pipe.  It was a beautiful, long wooden piece that looked as if it had been passed through many hands.  The bowl was charred deep black from past smokes.  Jeff said the ritual smoking of the pipe was an absolute must before the sweat.  One would not have to actually inhale if they chose not to.  This proved to be a wise idea as our kinnikinnick ingredients consisted of stale Bearing cigar chunks, Midwest buffalo sweet grass, rabbit tobacco and some other mysterious green leaf with a sticky bud. We packed the bowl of the old pipe tight.  It had the most interesting smell wafting from it even unlit.  All was ready.

Twenty of us stripped and rinsed in an ice-cold makeshift shower we had rigged, and then sat, naked as jaybirds, on prickly pine needles outside the lodge, awaiting further instructions. We shivered from the cold water. Our leader approached - a formidable figure - rinsed, and sat with us.  We all grew quiet, waiting to be told what next to do.          

He reached for the pipe and explained that it would be lit and passed about.  A sacred smoke was always in order first, he said.  A pungent, hard-to-place, yet familiar aroma soon enveloped our secluded neck of the woods.  Knowing smiles crept across some faces as they inhaled deeply and quickly choked on the green smoke. There was general coughing all around. 

As the pipe lingered, from hand to hand, Randy walked the last of the red-hot rocks from the fire to the shallow pit within the lodge.  He gently laid them atop one another with the shovel, making trip after trip.  He quickly finished, and joined the assembly.  Jeff said we were now ready to enter the lodge and begin the sweat. 

This meant squatting low and backing into the small canvas house through the flap door, careful to avoid the hot rock pit.  We entered in this ass-backward fashion under Jeff's direction.  Once the cleansing was complete, we would emerge as newborns, head first, he said. But for now, we backed into our mother, awaiting rebirth in twenty minutes or so.

We all carried small branches of incense cedar, by which to swat ourselves. According to our medicine man this would invigorate the body as well as add a nice scent to the steam.  I figured it would also help mask the smell of twenty naked, sweating guys in very near proximity to one another.  Someone swatted my ass, as I backed into the lodge.

“So much for reverence toward the conducting of sacred ceremonies,” I mumbled.

I sat cross-legged with the rest of the human sardines and tentatively tried out the cedar branch.  It was hard to reach my back in our cramped quarters.  Our canvas tin was getting tight on space.  One large, last derriere obliterated the outdoor light momentarily, before the door flap was drawn shut.  Jeff seated himself closest to the glowing rocks, a bucket of cold water by his side.

“For Mother Earth,” he intoned, and poured a ladle of ice-cold water on the super-heated rocks.  A loud sizzle from the stones and a sudden blast of steam filled our small space.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” some guy close to the steam pit cried.  “That’s freakin’ hot!” he added.  Great heat enveloped us all.  Warm droplets of sweat formed all over my body.

“For Father Sky!” Jeff bellowed, as he threw a second ladle of water on the rocks.

More steam and heat emanated from the growling rocks.  I heard the definite sound of boiling water coming from the bottom of the rock pit.  Guys started to cough and sniffle.  Mucus was beginning to drip from my own nose.  Not a Kleenex to be had, I thought. 

The sweat was really dripping now too.  It must have been a hundred and fifty degrees in there. The floor began to grow slick.  I tried to keep myself in place, as the ground was at a slight slant and growing more slippery by the moment.  I really did not want to touch the canvas floor with my hands.  I did my best to hold myself in place with the cedar branch.  Might as well put the damn thing to some good use, I thought.

“For Brother Wind,” Jeff continued, while administering more water to the rocks.

“Jesus!” somebody yelled as the latest blast of heat filled the damp, hot room. 

“I think I’m gonna puke,” someone whimpered in the dark.

“This is so not fun,” came one small voice to the right of me. 

“Randy?” I wondered to myself.

“For Sister . . . Christ Almighty!  I think I’m blind!”  Jeff's voice boomed, as the last ladle of water hit the rocks, and the Mother of all heat and steam broke over us, the temperature skyrocketing unbearably.

“God Damn!” our leader roared as the final blast hit him square in the face.

Like a great blind bull Jeff suddenly rose and crashed through the fragile roof and wall of the canvas.  Nineteen others followed suit, tearing out sections of the lodge from a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree angle.  It was every man for himself.  There was complete and utter pandemonium.  I clawed my way out with the others.  Fresh, cool mountain air rushed over me.

By the time I saw full daylight; ten guys were fighting over the makeshift shower. 

Five or six others were running off in the general direction of the creek. 

Others yet, had grabbed clothes and were sprinting toward the pool, some distance away. 

Randy lay upon the ground, steaming and drenched in sweat. 

Jeff was standing to the side of the collapsed, torn and flattened former lodge.  Willow branches poked through canvas at odd angles. The rock pit sizzled from within.  He looked very much like a giant red lobster, freshly escaped from a boiling pot.  There was a dazed expression upon his face.  He ruefully scanned the scene, taking in the destruction and abandonment all about him.  Then the great, naked bulk of a man bent over and picked up the long wooden pipe and slowly ambled off through the woods toward the old log cabin. 

I watched him go, surveyed the scene once more, then picked up what I hoped were my clothes and made for the showers at the pool.  People always complained that the hot water gave out much too quickly in camp.  That sounded just fine to me this warm day.

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Later that night, as we sat outside the old log cabin draining many an ice-cold brew, Jeff, Randy, and I critiqued the afternoon’s activities. 

“Maybe we’re all just a bunch of wussies,” Jeff slurred ever so slightly. “I used to be able to take the heat,” he mused, to no one in particular.

“Maybe I overcooked the rocks,” Randy ventured.

“I think the brother and sister elements put us over the top,” I concluded.

“We rebuild tomorrow, damn it!” Jeff said with finality.

Randy and I nodded with silent approval.

And with that, we picked up the old, long, wooden pipe and lit it once more.  The bowl was glowing a deep, sunset red against the dark, cool night.  This time we smoked with less coughing as we had left out everything, other than the mysterious green leaf with sticky buds.

It was a sacred smoke just between three good friends.

Tomorrow's rebuilding would soon be a warm vision indeed.