Photograph by A.J. Herrington

Hand raised to the sky and bare feet on the ground, Shaman Goodknife blesses the fire.

Standing in the Tierrasanta parking lot where we’d agreed to meet, I spy David Warren Goodknife down in an adjacent canyon — one of several that carve through the sleepy suburban neighborhood. He’s collecting wild sage for today’s ceremony. A knife in a leather sheath hangs from his belt. His long brown hair is tied back with a headband that matches his white shirt. The day before, Goodknife, an Oklevueha Native American Church ceremonialist and spiritual advisor, had invited me to participate in a traditional sweat lodge ceremony. “How long will it last?” I asked as I checked my calendar. His reply came quickly, and with conviction: “The rest of your life.” That’s all it took — I was in.

After he snakes back up the trail to the canyon’s rim, nature’s herbal bounty in hand, we exchange greetings before transferring my gear into his white four-door pickup with camper shell. Once on the road in his “Navajo limousine,” as he refers to the truck, we drive north on the 15. Along the way, he talks of people who, like himself, have gone native: Jim Morrison, John Lennon, even Johnny Depp. Folks who have sought a fully conscious and connected state of being on Mother Earth. These are the kind of people Goodknife hopes will attend his ceremonies. He’s not interested in being an attraction for so-called spiritual tourism.

Soon after exiting at Gopher Canyon Road in Vista, we arrive at our destination: the Evo Emerald Village, a nine-acre alternative lifestyle community hidden among the trees in Bonsall. There, Goodknife introduces me to Valerie, who will be serving as Fire Tender tonight, and we get to work. Goodknife and I unload the firewood we’ve brought along, and Valerie carefully stacks it around a pyramid of volcanic rocks she’s built in a large earthen fire pit. Removing his shoes to create a closer connection to the Earth, Goodknife lifts his eyes to the sky and says a blessing. The fire is lit. I grab my camera and start shooting. Once Goodknife starts setting the altar, no more photographs will be allowed. Valerie sits watching the fire as smoke curls up into the treetops

As the preparations are made, more people begin to arrive for the ceremony, two or three at a time, some coming to this sanctuary amid the trees from as far as LA. Many have clearly been here before; they greet Goodknife with a hug and affectionately address him as Uncle.

Goodknife invites us to sit in a circle and introduce ourselves. Keeping with tradition, we begin with our lineage, naming our grandparents and mother and father before ourselves. Goodknife also asks us to share our intentions — why we’re here and what we expect. Mine is to learn what I can from the experience. Another person dedicates it to a sick family member. Goodknife nods approvingly as people speak, apparently happy with the thoughtful and introspective responses. No spiritual tourists here tonight.

Hundreds of strings of prayer ties — relics of previous ceremonies — hang from the latticework of the sweat lodge frame, gently swaying in the wind.

Photograph by A.J. Herrington

Once our introductions have been made, Goodknife’s protégé C.J. teaches us how to create our prayer ties. A small pinch of tobacco, along with a prayer, is bundled into a small square of brightly colored fabric. Using loops rather than knots — to allow the spiritual energy to flow freely — everyone secures their prayers to a string. As each element of the chain is assembled — cord, cloth, and herb — it is cleansed by the smoke of a smoldering bundle of dried sage.

Each color of cloth carries significance, which can vary from one Native American tradition to another. C.J. teaches us what he himself has been taught: black symbolizes the west, where the sun sets, and yellow, the east, where it rises. Red is for the north; white, the south. Blue is for water, and green is for Mother Earth. Purple signifies the divinity, the Creator. By securing our prayer in a bundle of each color, we send it out everywhere, in all directions — to all of Nature and the Universe.

A small, circular stone altar sits on the ground near the fire. While the prayer ties are being made, Goodknife places the sacred items upon it, arranged on a bed of sage. The most striking object is the skull of a tonka, or bison. Around it are fresh flowers, an eagle-feathered staff, and four wooden bowls containing the spirit foods: corn, jerky, berries, and water. The pipe sits, waiting to be lit so its smoke can make our prayers ethereal.

Beyond the altar stands the framework of the sweat lodge: a low dome, constructed of willow branches lashed together with cord. Hundreds of strings of prayer ties — relics of previous ceremonies — hang from the latticework, gently swaying in the wind. When the time arrives to ready the lodge, we work together to spread blankets over the dome and so create a small hut.

As the sun slips away and night enters in, prayers are said, and the men strip down to shorts. The women have been asked to wear long, light dresses. The men respectfully face away, westward, as each woman crawls into the lodge while chanting an invocation. Next, the men queue up, the eldest first, putting me second in line. After the man ahead of me enters the lodge, I follow his example. I drop to my knees next to a shovelful of embers that has been brought from the fire. I reach into a small leather pouch of ground cedar and sprinkle a pinch over the coals to release a burst of purifying smoke. With coaching from C.J., I recite a prayer: “Aho mipakuye oyasin!” It means “all my relations.” By saying it, I acknowledge my connection to everything, and everybody.

I crawl into the lodge. The women have taken the right side; the men move to the left. It’s pitch black, so I feel along the ground and follow the voice of the man ahead of me. We make our way as far back as we can to allow room for the ten guys who are following us inside. Crossing my legs as I arrange myself on the towel I’ve brought in with me, I try to remember how long it’s been since I’ve sat Indian-style. Then I wonder whether that’s something I should say out loud. I make a mental note to go with cross-legged if it comes up. When all 24 of us have made it inside, we’re close, but not packed tight. Someone mentions that the last group was 30. That, I decide, would be too many. I’m glad I was invited tonight.

C.J. hands in about six handmade skin drums, and they are passed around, by touch, to those inclined to play. C.J. then uses a pitchfork to bring in a glowing rock from the fire and places it on the ground at the entrance. Using deer antlers as tongs, Goodknife moves the rock to a depression in ground at the center of the lodge. My eyes have slowly adjusted to the darkness; thanks to the moonlight coming through the portal, I can just barely see the outline of those closest to me. Another stone is added, then a third, and a fourth. As Goodknife wrestles each into place, they wriggle out of my sight; my view is blocked by the bodies in front of me. Finally, C.J. brings a stainless-steel bucket of water, gleaming from the soft light of the sky. Once the bucket is in, C.J. takes his place just inside the entrance. The tent flap is brought down, and we are plunged into darkness.

As Goodknife begins to pray aloud, I start to feel the heat off the rocks. After spending the last 15 minutes in the nighttime autumn chill, wearing next to nothing, the warmth is welcome. Suddenly, a violent hissing fills the lodge as Goodknife douses the stones with water. Instantly, I feel the steam swirling around me, and the first bead of sweat forms on my brow. Goodknife invites us to hang our prayer ties above us, as a reminder of our intentions. He taps out a slow rhythm on his drum and begins to sing in a low, soothing voice. The song develops into a call and response. He sings a prayer, alternating between Lakota and English. I’m surprised by how many people know the reply: “Chéwakiye aye oh, chéwakiye aye oh!” It’s a lyricized form of “here I am praying,” signifying a willingness to commune with the spirits.

The group sings and beats the drums. The heat has increased, but it’s not oppressive, and my sweat begins to flow freely. I close my eyes (I can’t see anything anyway) and relax, letting song and steam envelop me. After about a half-hour, the singing stops, and the blanket covering the entrance is flipped up. Silver moonlight and cool, fresh air rush into the lodge. We’re getting a break, but only long enough for C.J. to bring in more rocks from the fire.

As the blushing stones are added to the heap, I pull my knees up to my chin in an attempt to ease the ache that’s creeping into my hips. Despite the heat, the cold ground isn’t being friendly to my joints, it seems.

Once C.J. has brought in six rocks, the flap is lowered again. Goodknife prays and pours more water. The temperature builds anew, and quickly. I wipe my brow, sweat stinging my eyes. It becomes uncomfortable to breathe through my mouth, so I inhale through my nose. The drums begin again, and in the dark, I sway with the singing. “Chéwakiye aye oh, chéwakiye aye oh!”

When the stones have cooled, the door is opened again. After an hour in the lodge, I’m drenched. I’m also in a lot of pain. I decide my hips have had enough, and let Goodknife know. Gingerly, I crawl between the others, who clear a path in the dark as I make my way toward the exit. It wasn’t until later that Goodknife told me about the three-inch thick foam cushion he’d brought to sit on.

Once I’m outside, C.J. offers his hand and some advice as I rise. “Don’t go too fast, some people get a head rush.” Almost immediately, my body is wracked by violent shivering. I grab a dry towel and drape it over myself, rubbing my shoulders frantically. Stiffly, I make my way through the dark to Goodknife’s truck to retrieve the blanket I’ve brought along. Once I’m cocooned inside, the shaking begins to subside. Still in the blanket, I squirm out of my wet shorts, the way I’ve seen surfers do it in the parking lot at the beach. Once I’m dry and dressed, I return and sit by the fire.

By the time I make it back, the hot rocks that went in right after I got out have done their job, and once again it’s time for more. C.J. emerges and retrieves his pitchfork. As he plucks the last rocks from the embers, I stare into the fire and reflect. I’m a little disappointed I didn’t last until the end. It’s better this way, I rationalize to my writer-self. Now I can observe from outside as well. That almost works.

I listen to the singing as I sit, and notice how far the moon has moved while I was in the lodge. Like a little brother, it follows the sun’s path to the western horizon. Then, the drums in the lodge speed up, getting louder and louder. The singing rises in a crescendo, then devolves into a cacophony of coyote-like yelps. The entrance flap is flung open, and a cloud of steam escapes and rises in the moonlight.

One after another, the members of the group emerge from the hut. Some look weary; others seem jubilant as they raise their arms to the stars. They scatter, heading to the places where they left their towels and blankets. Dried and changed, everyone convenes around the fire. Goodknife offers another prayer, and the bowls of spirit foods are passed around to replenish strength and soul. The pipe, trailing wispy smoke from the willow bark inside, circles the fire, passing from hand to hand.

Once the ceremony is over, we move to the Emerald Village’s outdoor kitchen. A fire is lit in the wood-burning stove, and dishes are set out. We’ve all brought food to share, and we end the night with a communal meal before saying our goodbyes.

The truck crunches along the gravel driveway as we head to the road that will take us back to city life. I realize Goodknife is right: tonight will last my whole life. Not because I’ve experienced a spiritual epiphany, but because I feel I will return.

During the ride home, Goodknife tells me of his past. He’s spent time marketing the light-up ice cubes invented by his brother, writing songs in Nashville, and designing stage costumes for glam rock acts such as Poison.

“I’ve followed the path put before me,” he explains as his cell phone buzzes. Taking one hand off the wheel, he glances at the phone. Saying he’s received a text from his teenage daughter, he asks me to read it to him. She’s hungry, and wants him to stop for burgers and fries. Tonight, it seems, David Warren Goodknife’s path will be taking him to Mickey D’s.