After thousands and thousands of years inhabiting the land...

After thousands and thousands of years inhabiting the land, it was not a drama-free takeover in California in the mid 1700s. This is what the first encounters were like. Don't know if the Coast Miwoks were aware or realized that this would be the beginning of the end of their time as the main caretakers of the earth, the redwoods and the land of Marin, although resilient and still survive today, but in much smaller, very small numbers, and no one that doesn't have a story of their families being driven from Marin. But we know they put up a fight! Marin Coast Miwoks were warriors, often battling off invaders who wanted to inhabit the beautiful lands of Marin with its abundance of food source over the many thousands of years that they inhabited their homeland, and land of generations past. It was a very desirable area back then as well, but for different reasons than today.

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The Circle at Tamál-Húye

The morning fog was still clinging to the shoulders of the hills when the strangers came—metal glinting, boots sinking awkwardly into the soft earth of Coast Miwok land. They marched as though the land belonged to them already, as though the trees and the wind would simply bow out of their way.

From the ridges of what is now called Mount Tamalpais, Ring Mountain, where San Quintan is, and the many areas in Marin with ridges, the Coast Miwok had been watching.

Word traveled swiftly through the villages near Tamál-Húye—Mount Tamalpais. The Spaniards had crossed the bay again, carrying weapons, flags, and the heavy air of men who did not listen. Elders gathered, quiet but steady, as runners relayed what had been seen from village to village all across the redwoods in Marin. These strangers had taken villages to the south. They brought missions, forced labor, and sickness that rode invisibly on the breath.

But today, the Coast Miwok would meet them standing.

By late morning, warriors stepped from the woods and tall grasses, surrounding the newcomers in a tightening ring. They carried no guns, only the tools of their land—spears, obsidian blades, carved clubs. Yet their presence held more power than any weapon: it was the strength of ancestors, of generations who knew the wind, the tides, and every bend in the valley.

The Spaniards stopped. Their leader gripped his musket harder, eyes darting from one silent face to the next. They had expected fear. Instead, they found a wall of resolve.

A single Coast Miwok elder stepped forward, his voice steady as stone. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He spoke of boundaries. Of land that had been tended for thousands of years. Of people who would not be moved aside.

The Spaniards did not understand the words—but they understood the message.

For a long moment, the hills held their breath.

And then, slowly, the invaders stepped back. Not defeated, but halted. Shaken. Realizing that Marin was not empty land waiting for their empire, but a homeland with protectors who would not yield easily.

Long after they retreated down the trail, the circle remained. Warriors watching. The elder standing tall.

It was only one day in the long struggle that followed—but it was a day when the Coast Miwok stood strong, together, and unafraid.