California is a land of stories—some true, some romanticized, some long buried beneath the weight of time. Growing up in the Golden State, I found myself drawn to these stories, seeking out historical places, walking the same ground as those who had come before, and trying to understand the lives of the people who had called this place home for days to the Natives who called it home for thousands of years.
From kindergarten through college, one story seemed to echo through the halls of my education: the myth of the peaceful, utopian Native society. Even on guided tours of California’s Missions, this idea of a pre-Columbian utopia endured—a world before European contact, untouched by conflict or struggle, of great community and abundance. It was a comforting narrative, but as I dug deeper into the past, I began to see a different story, not unique to California, but woven into the broader fabric of human history.
Across continents and centuries, specific themes repeat themselves—war, slavery, conquest, and the struggle for land and resources. These are not the stories of one people or one place, but of civilization. And so I wondered: were California’s native peoples remarkably different? Were they as peaceful as I had always been told? To believe so, I realized, was to diminish them, to strip them of their full humanity—and so I sought to dig deeper into the historical narrative. One of the problems with California (and North America more broadly) is that there were no written volumes of history, only oral history, many of which were unfortunately lost to colonial invasions.
With that question in mind, I set out to learn more. In my search, I found John R. Johnson’s article, "Ethnohistoric Descriptions of Chumash Warfare," in the book North American Indigenous Warfare and Ritual Violence. What I found was both fascinating and affirming. Like almost all other civilizations worldwide, the Chumash loved and fought, made alliances and waged war, took captives, and defended their homes. They were not passive figures in an imagined Eden but real, complex people shaped by the same forces that have shaped all of history.
This truth is far more compelling than any romanticized version of the past. It brings California’s first peoples into sharper focus, restoring their agency, struggles, triumphs, and losses. This work focuses on the early interactions and history of the Chumash, as well as their ancient human history. Below, I’ve written a summary and review of Johnson’s work. I hope you find it as illuminating as I did.
The Warfare of the Chumash
"In the popular imagination and in scholarly treatments, California Indians are frequently depictd as peacable peoples, living in harmony with each other and the environment at the advert of European contact...Intervillage raids, ritualized battles, larger-scale hostilities among opposing allied groups, and even territorial conquest were all part of the spectrum of enmity relations in Native California." John R. Johnson (pp. 74-75)
History has a way of smoothing out the rough edges of the past, leaving behind a version of events that is easier to accept, teach, and remember. The story of California’s first peoples has long suffered this fate, reduced to a simple narrative of harmony and endurance, as if conflict were something that only arrived with the Europeans. But history is rarely so neat.
As detailed in John R. Johnson’s comprehensive study, the "Ethnohistoric Descriptions of Chumash Warfare" paints a different picture—one of a complex, dynamic society in which intergroup conflict was a recurring reality. Far from being an aberration, warfare was an established part of Chumash life, driven by social, economic, and political forces. Spanish colonial accounts, mission records, and oral traditions all provide evidence of battles waged, alliances formed, and leaders who rose and fell in times of war. Like so many people worldwide, the Chumash fought for land, resources, honor, and survival.
The conflicts of the Chumash were not random skirmishes but varied engagements, ranging from small-scale raids to larger, coordinated assaults involving multiple villages. The Portolá Expedition of 1769–1770 recorded violent clashes, including the burning of five coastal towns by mountain tribes, destruction on a scale that left little doubt as to the severity of these conflicts. Spanish military records from 1790 tell of an attack on their soldiers by a coalition of at least 58 warriors from Chumash and Yokuts villages. This operation demonstrated both planning and cooperation between groups. Oral histories, passed down through generations, tell of ambushes, scalping, and ritual dismemberment, each detail adding depth to the reality of war in pre-contact California.
There was a strategy in these wars. Thomas Blackburn’s research into Chumash mythology suggests that smoke signals may have been used for communication, a tactical element that speaks to a level of organization beyond mere chance encounters. Battles, in some cases, were even prearranged. However, Chumash warfare was often shaped by opportunity—surprise attacks, retaliatory strikes, and swift movements rather than prolonged campaigns. The bow and arrow were the weapon of choice, and their presence was documented in both Spanish accounts and visual records, such as the ceremonial attire of Rafael Solares. The gruesome fate of soldier Gabriel Espinosa, who was left “pierced like a sieve with arrows” (p. 91), is just one of many reminders that Chumash warriors were neither unarmed nor unskilled.
Like so many wars in human history, the conflicts of the Chumash were often fought over land and resources. The gathering grounds for seeds and the rights to certain territories were not just matters of survival but of sovereignty. In 1792, the Spanish naturalist José Longinos Martínez noted that even mere trespassing into another’s jurisdiction could be a battleground. Acorn groves and seed territories were vital lifelines worth defending at all costs. Mission Father José Señán, writing in 1815, echoed this point, describing how disputes over access to these resources frequently led to bloodshed.
However, not all conflicts were driven by material concerns. Some wars were personal. Revenge, that age-old catalyst for violence, played its part in Chumash warfare just as it had in countless other societies. A murder, an insult, an accusation of witchcraft—any of these could set a village on the path to war. In 1801, the ranchería (village) Eljman [He’lxman] was attacked and set on fire by warriors from the Sihuicon [Tsiwikon] and Atsililihu [Achililiwo]—two groups "inclined to commit murder in a most treacherous way and from merely superstitious motives" (p.87).
Elsewhere, in an oral tradition recorded in later years, the Castac Chumash launched a raid on the coastal village of Muwu over the execution of a woman. This act speaks to the deep connections between war, honor, and kinship. Even rivalries between chiefs, such as those described by Luisa Ygnacio, had the power to ignite feuds that might last for generations.
In Chumash society, war and leadership were closely intertwined. The villages—rancherías—were politically independent, each governed by a chief who held only limited authority in times of peace. But in times of war, these leaders came into their own. Pedro Fages, writing in 1775, observed that Chumash chiefs were chosen for their valor in battle, not for their ability to dictate laws. A leader like El Buchón, encountered by the Portolá Expedition, commanded both tribute and fear, his influence extending far beyond the boundaries of his village.
El Buchón's "fame reaches as far as the [Santa Barbara] Channel and the Santa Lucia Mountains." — Juan Crespí
Alliances were key. The 1790 coalition against the Spanish was not an isolated event—alliances, built through kinship and marriage, shaped the landscape of Chumash warfare. Some villages banded together in loose confederations, such as the one centered on Syuxtun, which opposed Dos Pueblos. Others found themselves locked in long-standing rivalries, like those between Dos Pueblos and the Goleta towns. The patterns of these alliances and conflicts reveal a world of shifting loyalties, a balance of power not unlike those seen in the tribal wars of the Great Plains or the political struggles of medieval Europe.
The myth of a peaceful pre-contact California does not hold up under scrutiny. Like all people, the Chumash lived in a world where war was sometimes necessary, sometimes inevitable. They did not have the standing armies of the Plains tribes or the vast war societies of the Iroquois, but their conflicts were neither trivial nor uncoordinated. Their wars were shaped by the demands of survival, by honor, by leadership, by old enmities and new ambitions.
When told in its full complexity, history does not diminish a people—it enriches them. As seen through ethnohistoric evidence, the Chumash emerge not as passive figures in a vanished world but as actors in a grander human story—one of struggle, adaptation, and resilience.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Johnson, John R. "Ethnohistoric Descriptions of Chumash Warfare." In North American Indigenous Warfare and Ritual Violence, edited by Richard J. Chacon and Rubén G. Mendoza, 74–94. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2007.