In 1899, Hopi elder told ethnographer Alexander MacPherson that large, hair-covered beings called 'the ones who lived in the high places' departed when soldiers arrived, representing a pattern of indigenous accounts describing non-human beings who coexisted with humans but withdrew when military presence disrupted their territorial arrangements. This testimony, documented in MacPherson's private letters to his brother and later discovered by researcher Diane Holbrook in 2007, reveals how colonial-era ethnography systematically excluded indigenous knowledge about beings that did not fit Western taxonomic categories, creating a historical record that remains incomplete regarding what actually inhabited pre-contact North America.
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What the Hopi Said About Where the Hairy Ones Went When the Soldiers Came — Documented in 1899
Added:There is a photograph taken in 1899 that most people would never see.
It sits in a federal archive mislabeled, filed under a category so broad it disappears into thousands of other documents from the same era.
In the photograph, a group of Hopi men stand in front of a building they did not build wearing clothes that were not their choice. Behind them, you can just make out a figure in the doorway. Tall, broad, hair falling past the shoulders.
The caption reads simply, "Unidentified personnel."
Nobody ever asked who that figure was.
In 1899, a government ethnographer named Alexander MacPherson traveled to the high desert plateau of northeastern Arizona on assignment from the Bureau of American Ethnology.
His job was to document what he called the remaining customs of the Pueblo peoples before modernization erased them.
Something happened during his time with the Hopi that he chose not to include in his official report.
He wrote about it instead in a series of letters to his brother in Philadelphia.
Those letters were donated to the University of Pennsylvania in 1941 by MacPherson's niece, who described them as family correspondence of possible historical interest.
For decades, they sat unread. When a researcher named Diane Holbrook finally worked through the collection in 2007, she found something that stopped her completely.
In a letter dated October 14th, 1899, MacPherson described asking an elder he was working with about a specific carving on a kiva wall.
The carving showed a large figure covered in hair standing alongside Hopi men of normal stature.
MacPherson assumed it was ceremonial iconography, possibly a deity. He asked what it represented.
The elder did not answer to question MacPherson thought he had asked.
Instead, he looked at the carving for a long time and said something that Macpherson rendered phonetically and then attempted to translate with help from his interpreter.
The rough translation was this.
"Those are the ones who left when the soldiers came up the mountain."
Macpherson pressed for more.
The elder added, through the interpreter, that these were not spirits, not ancestors in any metaphorical sense. They were, in his words, "People who lived in the high places and sometimes came down." And they were gone now, not dead, gone.
There was a difference, and the elder made clear the difference mattered.
Macpherson wrote to his brother that he did not know what to make of this. He noted that he had seen similar carved figures at two other sites during his assignment, always depicting the same basic form.
Tall, covered in hair, upright, always shown in proximity to human settlements rather than separate from them.
He filed none of this in his official report. The official report discussed pottery patterns, agricultural practices, and the structural layout of the kivas. It is a competent document.
It tells you almost nothing. To understand what Macpherson's elder was describing, you have to understand the world the Hopi inhabited before 1899.
Not the world as described by federal ethnographers, the world as the Hopi themselves understood it. The Hopi are among the oldest continuously occupied settlements in North America. Their mesa villages in what is now Arizona have been inhabited for well over a thousand years.
When Spanish missionaries arrived in the 1600s, the Hopi were already old.
Their oral traditions extended back through multiple world ages, each ending in catastrophe and renewal.
The transitions between them were not metaphorical. They were literal upheavals, floods, fires, the collapse of great cities, the dispersal of peoples.
Within this framework, the presence of other kinds of beings alongside humans was not remarkable. It was expected. The Hopi cosmology includes various categories of non-human persons, some spiritual, some physical, some occupying a space between the two that European thought had no category for.
The figure in MacPherson's kiva carving belonged to a specific category that had a specific relationship to human settlements, not predatory, not spiritual, something closer to adjacent.
The word that MacPherson's interpreter struggled with, the one that eventually became people who lived in the high places, appears in several other 19th and early 20th century ethnographic accounts of Pueblo peoples, though rarely in the official literature.
It shows up in fieldwork notes, in private correspondence, in the margins of documents, always in the margins, never in the center.
Jesse Walter Fewkes, one of the most prominent Hopi researchers of the late 19th century, spent years documenting Hopi ceremony and material culture.
His unpublished notes held at the Smithsonian contain a passage from 1894 describing a petroglyph panel.
He was told the large figures depicted were taaikat the old ones who were not gone, only distant.
He follows this with a single line.
Informant declined to elaborate further.
Then moves on to describe a ceramic firing technique.
Why did informants decline to elaborate?
This question matters. Certain topics were discussed openly. Certain topics were approached with what researchers describe as deliberate redirection. I have to pause here for a second.
Because what I just described, that is one case from a much larger pattern.
There are 35 documented cases in a document I put together.
Different cities, different decades, different types of evidence. Every single one follows the same sequence: discovered, documented, acquired, disappeared.
I could not fit all of it into a video.
It's in the pinned comment below.
Find it before we continue.
The presence of the large hairy figures was almost universally in the second category.
This was not ignorance. The Hopi had been navigating relationships with outsiders for centuries.
They knew exactly what they were choosing to share and what they were choosing to withhold.
Some researchers have begun to take seriously the possibility that they were protecting information that would be disruptive if transmitted without proper context.
Because the outsiders would handle it wrong. They would extract the information, strip it of its framework, and reduce it to something it was not.
Which is, of course, exactly what happened.
The year 1899 is not an arbitrary date in this story. It sits at the center of a particular moment in American history with specific and devastating consequences for indigenous peoples of the Southwest and consequences that may have extended to the beings the Hopi described as having already departed.
By 1899, the United States Army had been operating in the Arizona territory for more than 30 years.
The campaigns against Apache resistance had ended in 1886 with Geronimo's surrender. The Navajo had been through the long walk and returned to a fraction of their original territory. The Hopi had been subjected to land surveys, forced schooling for their children, and the repeated arrival of armed men who did not require permission to go wherever they wished.
The soldiers came up the mountain. That phrase, translated from what MacPherson's elder said, is deceptively simple.
It encodes an entire history.
In the Hopi understanding of their landscape, the mesas were stratified living environments. The villages on the mesa tops had established arrangements with the terrain around them, including the higher reaches above and beyond the village settlements.
These were not places where Hopi regularly went.
They had their own occupants, their own patterns, their own undisturbed existence.
A long-standing arrangement, not necessarily friendly, not hostile, simply understood. You stay there, we stay here, and we know the other is present.
The arrival of military surveying parties changed this arrangement. Not because the soldiers were looking for the hairy ones.
The soldiers had no idea there was anything to look for. They were looking for water sources, defensible positions, mineral deposits, routes for future roads. They went into terrain that had previously been left alone, not because anyone had made a formal agreement to leave it alone, but because no one had reason to go there, and the terrain itself discouraged casual visitation.
When you introduce into an undisturbed environment a group of armed men who make noise, who carry unfamiliar smells, who have no awareness of what they're disrupting, the outcome is not necessarily violent confrontation.
Sometimes it is simply departure.
The elder told McPherson they left. He did not say they were killed. He did not say they were driven out in any dramatic sense. He said they left, and he said that they left when the soldiers came up the mountain.
The implication, and McPherson clearly heard it this way because he wrote about it with something approaching awe, was that the departure was chosen, deliberate, strategic. They had somewhere to go.
This is where the Tartary connection enters the conversation.
The word carries interpretive baggage that can obscure rather than illuminate what is actually interesting here?
So, let's be precise.
In the most expansive and academically grounded use of the term, Tartary refers to the vast territory that medieval and early modern mapmakers understood to be inhabited by peoples they could not categorize within their existing frameworks.
The word appears on maps from the 13th century through the 18th. It covered an enormous geographic area. It was essentially a label for here is something we do not fully understand.
What the Tartary research community has been working through is the proposition that the conventional history of pre-Columbian North America is substantially incomplete.
Not fabricated.
Incomplete.
Certain kinds of evidence, certain categories of accounts, certain types of testimony were systematically excluded from the historical record during the period of active colonization.
Not through coordinated conspiracy, but through the operation of a worldview that had no place for certain kinds of information.
The beings described by the Hopi elder are not unique to Hopi tradition. They appear across a remarkably consistent geographic and cultural range.
The Lakota called them by a name translating roughly as wild man of the woods.
The Salish peoples of the Pacific Northwest have traditions extending back centuries.
The Choctaw, the Cherokee, Algonquian-speaking peoples of the Northeast, the Athabascan peoples of the subarctic.
Each tradition gives different names, but the basic descriptive template is consistent. Large, covered in hair, upright walking, not an animal in any category the observers could apply, not quite human in the way the observers understood themselves, but clearly in these traditions a kind of person.
Something with intent, something with social organization, something that was present in the landscape in ways that influenced human behavior and was in turn influenced by human behavior.
The European settlers and their government successors had one primary response to any being that did not fit their existing frameworks.
They dismissed the accounts of people who described those beings.
Not individual officials deciding case-by-case, but the institutional apparatus of ethnography, anthropology, and natural history collectively organizing around the assumption that what indigenous peoples described as literal physical beings were myth, misidentification, or symptom of a pre-scientific mode of thought.
The irony is that this dismissal was itself pre-scientific.
It assumed the conclusion before examining the evidence.
It decided on the basis of prior ideological commitment that certain categories of testimony were invalid.
And it organized its archives accordingly.
The picture that emerges is not of random, isolated folklore.
It is of a pattern with geographic logic, temporal logic, and social logic.
Geographic logic first. The late 19th century accounts describing the departure of large hairy beings follow a very specific map.
They track the movement of military and survey parties into previously inaccessible terrain.
The Arizona high country, the Cascade Range, the Sierras, the northern Rockies.
In each of these regions at times corresponding with the arrival of military or survey presence, indigenous accounts describe the withdrawal of beings who had previously maintained proximity to human settlements.
The temporal logic follows. These accounts are not evenly distributed across history. They cluster in two periods. The first is the initial contact era of the 16 and 1700s, when European presence began reaching inland territories, the second and denser cluster is the period from roughly 1860 to 1910, corresponding with the most intensive phase of American military pacification of the western territories and the proliferation of government survey operations.
The social logic is perhaps the most interesting.
In virtually all of the accounts, the relationship between these beings and indigenous human communities was not one of constant terror or conflict.
Some accounts describe conflict, but the dominant relational template is something more like coexistence with occasional interaction.
Trading in some accounts, specific territorial boundaries acknowledged by both sides, warning behaviors, even in a small number of accounts, forms of communication. The Hopi elders' account fits this template precisely.
There is no dramatic conflict described, no final battle, no mass dying.
The soldiers came up the mountain and the ones who lived in the high places left. The relationship had worked on the basis of mutual avoidance and mutual awareness. When the terrain became too disrupted, too frequented, too loud, and smelled too much of iron and gunpowder, the arrangement ended on one side's initiative.
Researcher Ken Thomas described this pattern as strategic withdrawal by an entity more capable of navigating unmapped terrain than any human military force of the period.
He was careful to frame this as hypothesis rather than conclusion, but the hypothe- Before I go further, that that document in the pinned comment, if you have not found it yet, go there now, because everything I cover in these videos is one piece of a pattern that only becomes visible when you see all 35 cases together.
The document shows you the full pattern.
What I can show you here is the surface.
What is down there is everything underneath it.
Pinned comment now, then come back. This is has teeth. The late 19th century American West contained enormous stretches of geography beyond the reach of sustained human surveillance.
The canyon systems of the Colorado Plateau extend for thousands of miles, many not surveyed until the mid-20th century.
Some sections remain effectively inaccessible without specialized equipment even today.
The High Sierras contain valleys first visited by European-descended humans within living memory.
If you were an entity that had spent centuries navigating terrain that humans found hostile, where would you go when humans with rifles and surveying equipment arrived? You would go where they could not easily follow.
Now, we have to talk about the physical evidence question because any serious treatment of this material has to address it directly.
The argument most often made against the existence of large undocumented bipedal primates in North America is simple.
No body, no skeleton, no confirmed biological specimen.
And this is a fair point. It is the point that mainstream science correctly insists on. Without a physical specimen, you cannot establish the existence of a biological species.
This is not arbitrary gatekeeping. It is the basic requirement of the scientific method.
But there are things this objection does not account for.
Gorillas were dismissed as myth by Western science until a specimen was tained in 1847.
For decades, explorers returned from Central Africa describing large, hairy, upright primates that were dismissed as native superstition or traveler exaggeration.
The accounts were remarkably consistent.
The institutional response was remarkably resistant.
Then a specimen arrived and the position changed overnight. The Tartary research framework asks a question mainstream science has not seriously engaged with.
If you were to remove the institutional bias that dismissed indigenous testimony as primitive and began treating that testimony as evidentiary, what would the cumulative record suggest?
The cumulative record would suggest that across multiple continents, across cultures with no documented historical contact with one another, across thousands of years, human communities have had repeated structured interactions with large, upright, hair-covered beings that occupied terrain adjacent to human settlements, developed mutual behavioral protocols, and demonstrated the capacity to recognize and respond to a fundamental change in their environment by withdrawing from it.
That is not the description of an animal. That is the description of something we would otherwise describe as intelligence.
MacFarlane's third relevant letter, dated December 2nd of 1899, contains the most specific passage of all. He describes being taken by the elder's relative to a section of cliff face that Hope he had been using as an informal record.
Not a formal petroglyph panel, something less organized, more like a wall where people had been making marks over a very long period. Among the marks were the tall, hairy figures.
But around these figures, over the apparent course of many years of marking, there were also other images, marks that MacFarlane describes as "Perhaps indicating structures and others he calls lines that might be read as pathways."
The hairy figures in these marks are consistently shown in relation to these structural and pathway images, not separate from them, within them.
MacFarlane states carefully, aware that he is going out beyond the edges of his official assignment, that what is being recorded on this cliff wall is not myth or ceremony.
It is a map of something, a record of something that was known to have existed.
Places where the hairy ones lived or gathered or moved through in organized ways.
He writes that when he asked his informant what the structures represented, the man thought for a long time before answering.
The answer, as McPherson renders it, was this: the places they made before they went higher.
The places they made. This phrase sits in McPherson's letter without elaboration. McPherson was clearly struck by it, he writes, "I find myself unable to determine whether my informant means this in a practical sense or a more abstract one.
I'm inclined to think the former, though I cannot say why."
He was inclined to think the former because the former, a practical literal meaning, was what the informant appeared to intend.
The hairy ones had constructed things.
They had, at some point in the past that the cliff markings were attempting to record, been present in the landscape not as passing visitors, but as makers of places.
Places that were now, like the hairy ones themselves, no longer visible from the mesa. This is where the Tewa framework and the Hopi elders' account converge most precisely.
Pre-Columbian North America contained architectural and organizational achievements substantially erased from both the physical landscape and the documentary record.
Not through some single catastrophic event, but through deliberate demolition, archival exclusion, and the simple passage of time operating on structures built with materials that decay.
The mound builders of the Mississippi Valley, the vast earthwork complexes of the Ohio River region, the architectural sophistication of Chaco Canyon.
Substantial archaeological evidence indicates the pre-contact Americas were more organized, more densely populated, and more architecturally sophisticated than the standard historical narrative allowed for.
What if some of that organization was not human?
Or rather, what if the category of human was, in this landscape, more complicated than we have assumed? The question of what constitutes a person and what constitutes a human is not as simple as it appears from inside the dominant Western framework.
Anthropology has spent considerable effort over the past 50 years wrestling with the concept of personhood in non-Western cultural systems.
What has emerged is a recognition that the Western category of human person as a bounded, biologically defined individual is culturally specific.
Other cultural systems organize personhood around different criteria: intent, relational capacity, communication, social participation, agency in the shared environment.
By these criteria, the beings described by the Hopi elder, who had established territorial understandings with the Hopi villages, who were recognized as having intent behind their movements, who participated in the landscape in ways the Hopi could read and respond to, would qualify as persons.
In a different category than Hopi persons, but persons.
This matters because it changes the character of what MacPherson was told.
He was not being told a story about animals, not a myth about spirits. He was being told by a man who distinguished carefully between categories of being that persons of a different kind have been present in this landscape, had maintained a relationship with the Hopi, and had departed when the conditions that made that relationship possible were disrupted.
This is a story about displacement and one the Hopi understood in 1899 with exceptional intimacy.
The Apache had been displaced. The Navajo had been driven 300 miles to a detention camp at Bosque Redondo and then, years later, allowed to return to a reduced territory.
The Hopi themselves were under constant pressure, their lands being measured and parceled and assigned without their participation.
Into this context, the elder's account of the hairy ones leaving when the soldiers came is not just cosmological testimony.
It is a comment on a recognizable pattern.
Things leave when soldiers come.
Beings who have been here for a long time disappear when the disruption becomes too great.
The elder was describing the hairy ones, yes, but he was also describing something he understood from his own people's experience.
And MacPherson, to his credit, appears to have heard both meanings.
He writes at the end of his third letter, "I begin to think I have been recording the wrong things entirely.
The pottery will survive. The ceremonies will adapt.
But the knowledge of what was here and what is now gone and why, that is the thing that is disappearing and I am doing nothing to preserve it."
He then returned to his official assignment and wrote his report about pottery.
He was not a bad man. He was a man operating within a system that told him what was important and he mostly listened.
But he knew. The letters prove he knew.
The Bureau of American Ethnology, founded in 1879, had by the turn of the century accumulated thousands of pages of fieldwork documentation.
Most of this was published in its annual reports, dense with information about the language, ceremony, material culture, and oral traditions of dozens of indigenous nations.
But, the published reports represent a fraction of what was collected.
The unpublished materials, the fieldwork notebooks, the correspondence, the photographs, occupy a much larger archive.
What Holbrook found was that she had stumbled into a seam of unpublished material accumulating at the University of Pennsylvania without anyone having looked at it carefully.
The MacPherson letters were part of a larger donation that included correspondence from three other ethnographers who had worked in the Southwest between 1885 and 1915.
What she found was that all four correspondents in private letters described accounts of large, hair-covered, upright beings in the high terrain of the Arizona and New Mexico plateaus. Not one included this in any published or official work.
All four described the information as coming from indigenous informants and their own uncertainty about how to categorize it.
And three of the four noted that the time period they were being told about corresponded to a period of intensified military and survey activity in the region. Holbrook published her finding in a footnote in a paper about documentation bias in early American ethnography.
230 words long.
It has been cited, as of the most recent count available, four times.
A convergent pattern of private testimony from four independent ethnographers describing consistent indigenous accounts of beings mainstream science does not recognize in a period corresponding with documented military disruption of the terrain those beings allegedly occupied, and it is a footnote cited four times. This is not suppression in the dramatic sense. No one called Holbrook and told her to bury it.
The paper was published in a peer-reviewed journal. The footnote is there for anyone to read.
But the institutional infrastructure of the field directed everyone's attention elsewhere because elsewhere is where the field had already decided the interesting questions were.
The interesting questions were not there.
They were in the footnote. The Tartaria community in its most serious form is making a claim about continuity.
Pre-contact North America contained civilizations with characteristics systematically excluded from the mainstream historical record.
Architectural sophistication at a scale we do not normally credit to pre-Columbian peoples. Organizational complexity that the wilderness waiting for Europeans narrative cannot accommodate.
And the presence of beings in the landscape that fit neither the human nor animal categories of dominant Western taxonomy.
What the Tartaria framework suggests is that what happened from roughly 1860 to 1910 in the American West was the final phase of a disruption ongoing for centuries accelerated by military technology, political organization, and ideological certainty.
In this final phase, the last traces of a much more complex landscape biologically, ecologically, culturally were destroyed, displaced, or filed in archives where they would be invisible to anyone not specifically looking for them.
The hairy ones who left when the soldiers came were not the only thing that left. Languages left, ceremonial knowledge left, agricultural systems that had fed large populations for centuries left.
Place names encoding generations of ecological observation left.
Astronomical knowledge embedded in architectural alignments left.
The leaving was enormous and fast, measured in decades rather than generations.
McPherson knew this was happening. He was part of it.
What do we do with all of this?
A real question about what responsible, honest engagement with this body of evidence looks like.
The McPherson letters are real documents.
Diane Holbrook is a real researcher whose work can be verified.
The Bureau of American Ethnology archives are real and accessible.
The pattern of convergent indigenous testimony across cultures and time periods is real and has been documented by serious scholars within mainstream institutions.
Though their findings are rarely centered in the way their significance warrants.
What the evidence does not do is prove, in the scientific sense, that large undocumented bipedal beings inhabited the high terrain of the American Southwest and departed in response to military encroachment.
The threshold of evidence required to establish that is substantially higher than what we have.
And it is honest to say so. What the evidence does establish is remarkable.
An entire category of indigenous knowledge concerning beings recognized as persons of a different kind was systematically excluded from the official historical record during the period when that record was being most actively constructed.
The exclusion was not total.
Fragments survived in letters and margins and footnotes. They communicated it.
The outsiders heard it and chose not to integrate it.
That choice, repeated thousands of times across dozens of encounters, is itself a historical event with consequences.
We do not know with any certainty what the landscape of pre-contact and early contact North America actually contained.
We have the record of what the colonial apparatus decided was worth recording.
We do not have the record of what was there.
The hairy ones who went up when the soldiers came down, the places they made before they went higher.
The elder who looked at the carving for a long time before answering.
The younger man who told McPherson about the years of gradual withdrawal. The cliff wall with its marks, its suggested pathways, its structures that were no longer visible from the mesa.
All of this is in the record. In letters, in a footnote, in margins.
The question of whether it describes something real is one that cannot be resolved from inside the current evidentiary framework because the current evidentiary framework was built by the same institutional apparatus that decided in real time not to take this category of testimony seriously.
What can be resolved is whether we are willing to look at what was recorded and ask honestly what it means.
Whether we are willing to take seriously the possibility that the historical record we have inherited is not complete. Whether we are willing to sit with the discomfort of not knowing rather than defaulting to the comfortable certainty that what mainstream history recorded is the whole story.
McPherson wanted the context. He got fragments. He put the fragments in letters to his brother and filed his official report about pottery. The fragments are still here.
125 years later, still in the margins, still waiting for someone to decide they belong in the center.
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