Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 35 (2014) 92–105

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Journal of Anthropological Archaeology

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Identifying ritual structures in the archaeological record: A MaritimeWoodland period sweathouse from Nova Scotia, Canada

http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.jaa.2014.05.0010278-4165/� 2014 Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

⇑ Corresponding author. Fax: +1 8604861719.E-mail addresses: martin.hrynick@uconn.edu (M.G. Hrynick), matthew.betts@

civilisations.ca (M.W. Betts).

1 In this paper we use the term ‘‘sweathouse’’ to describe a variety of struwhich people use sources of heat to induce sweating. Because our case in thifrom the Maritime Peninsula, we use this term following Hoffman (1955:3uses that, or the term ‘‘sweatbath,’’ as a translation of the Mi’km‘‘unkunumakun ogoon.’’ This translation appears to follow Hager (1896:258

M. Gabriel Hrynick a,⇑, Matthew W. Betts b

a University of Connecticut, Department of Anthropology, 354 Mansfield Road, Storrs, CT 06269-1176, United Statesb Canadian Museum of Civilization, 100 Laurier Street, Gatineau, QC K1A 0M8, Canada

a r t i c l e i n f o a b s t r a c t

Article history:Received 13 August 2013Revision received 11 March 2014

Keywords:SweathouseRitual site locationHunter–gatherer ritualArchitectureAlgonquian religionHistorical analogyExcavation methods

Hunter–gatherer religious practices often require specialized construction of ritual structures in compar-ison to domestic dwellings. Specialized placement of the structure itself may be significant to religiouspractice, and variability in ritual placement may provide important information about social context.However, ritual structures may be difficult to detect archaeologically, as archaeologists tend to focuson developing models for identifying hunter–gatherer domestic and economic features, such as houses,storage pits, and processing features. We argue that archaeological studies of hunter–gatherers shoulddevelop more aggressive testing programs that employ ethnographic data to locate, identify, and inter-pret ritual features. To develop this approach, we consider sweathouses among the Wabanaki of the Mar-itime Peninsula in northeastern North America. Although sweathouses are ubiquitous in theethnographic record for the Wabanaki, a prehistoric one had never been located with confidence onthe Maritime Peninsula, and they are rare in the entire archaeological record of the Algonquian Northeast.Here we describe a sweathouse feature from Nova Scotia’s South Shore, using it to explore methods forlocating, identifying, and interpreting hunter–gatherer ritual architecture.

� 2014 Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

Introduction

Ritual activities often require a physical separation from theactivities of daily life, and often require the construction of specialpurpose structures and features. Ritual structures may be associ-ated with a variety of goals and prescriptions, and should be con-sidered within the context of prehistoric religious practice.However, ritual structures may often be overlooked in traditionalarchaeological surveys and excavations, which are often designedto maximize the discovery of artifact-rich domestic deposits. Inthis paper, we present an approach for the archaeological studyof ritual structures by presenting a case study of the identificationand excavation of a sweathouse feature on the Maritime Peninsula.We argue that archaeological testing outside of traditional habita-tion site models, using specific excavation strategies, is necessaryto more fully approach prehistoric religion, and begin to accountfor ritual structures in religious practice.

A study of sweathouses,1 a common type of ritual structureamong traditional societies, offers an opportunity to develop thisapproach. Throughout North America—and much of the world—sweathouses serve a variety of ritual functions and therapeutic andhygienic purposes (Lopatin, 1960). Despite their prevalence, theyare understudied archaeologically (Brown, 1997, p. 475), primarilybecause they are rarely identified in the archaeological record. Oneof the characteristics of sweathouse ceremonies is that they servea multitude of distinct but often overlapping functions, both ritualand therapeutic (e.g., Bruchac, 1993). Cross-culturally, sweathouserituals appear to be closely related to shamanism (MacDonald,1988; Paper, 1990). Sweathouses are often task specific structuresconstructed in prescribed locations, but, with slight modifications,preexisting structures may also be turned into sweathouses (e.g.,Mehta, 2007, p. 24). How can we modify our analytical strategiesto account for ritual structures, especially in comparison to expedi-ent transformation of domestic dwellings into sweathouse

ctures ins paper is06) who

aq word).

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structures? In this paper we outline strategies for identifying andinterpreting these structures in the archaeological record, and out-line an approach to this question. We explore these issues througha case study of a secluded Middle Maritime Woodland period sweat-house on Nova Scotia’s South Shore.

Archaeological correlates of hunter–gatherer ritual structures

Specialized ritual structures are common components of reli-gious practice among ethnographically described hunter–gatherersand have been discovered in many archaeological contexts aroundthe world (e.g., Galloway, 1997; Gulløv and Appelt, 2001; Scheiberand Finley, 2010, p. 124; see Whitelaw, 1997). The structures canmimic domestic features, but can differ radically in myriad ways,including form and spatial placement (see Bonnichsen, 1973).The activities carried out within such structures also differ fromdomestic activities in important ways, often leaving unique assem-blages and archaeological signatures.

As discussed by Hayden and Adams (2004, p. 86), the place-ment of ritual structures is often carefully prescribed. In somesocieties ritual structures are placed within domestic sites in cen-tral, visible locations, sometimes in geometric alignments withgeographic features (e.g., Pauketat, 2012, ch. 6; Sassaman andHeckenberger, 2004). Moreover, in some societies, ritual struc-tures were placed in unique locations on the landscape, removedfrom domestic centers (e.g., Buckley, 1988; Friesen, 2007;Pauketat et al. 2012; see Kooyman, 2006, pp. 427–428; seeVanPool, 2009). Indeed, Renfrew (1994, p. 51) suggests that spe-cial placement of structures in relation to the landscape or builtenvironment is one of the archaeological indicators of ritualgenerally. Regardless, in some instances, ritual structures are re-tasked or slightly modified domestic structures, and thereforesit within the same footprint and in the same contexts as otherstructures.

Architectural form may vary between ritual and domesticarchitecture, sometimes in subtle ways. In some cases, architec-tural form may be diagnostic of non-domestic occupations, whilein other cases, ethnographic evidence suggests that ritual activi-ties were conducted in structures that were similar in form todomestic ones, or even in re-tasked domestic structures. Forinstance, shaman’s houses or menstrual seclusion houses mightbe structurally similar to ordinary houses, and may only be dis-tinguishable based on location or contents (see Galloway, 1997;Ruggles, 2007).

One archaeological example of a formal distinction is the Mid-Atlantic phenomenon of ‘‘keyhole structures’’ in which the uniquesize and shape of such structures has been employed to interpretthem varyingly as sweathouses, storage pits, and winter dwellings(MacDonald, 2008). Similarly, the presence or absence of a partic-ular sub-feature may serve to define the feature. For instance,Pauketat (2012, p. 123) notes that the distinction between South-east medicine lodges and sweathouses is determined by the pres-ence or absence of a central hearth. Similarly, the artifacts within astructure (or absent from a structure) may suggest ritual use.

This brief review suggests that ritual features can differ inplacement and form, from domestic features; therefore this differ-ence in archaeological visibility requires specialized survey meth-ods and excavation strategies to recognize them archaeologically,and to maximize the recovery of information from such structures(e.g. Hayden and Adams, 2004). In the following section we reviewthe literature for ritual structures in the Northeast and considertheir likely archaeological correlates. We then proceed to a casestudy which documents our identification and excavation of a rit-ual sweathouse structure in Nova Scotia.

Introduction to sweathouse features

The use of sweathouse-like structures has been documentedamong many hunter–gatherer societies around the globe(Lopatin, 1960). Sweathouse structures were particularly prevalentamong North American Aboriginal groups (Driver and Massey,1957, p. 314; Fisher, 1951; Lopatin, 1960). As Lafferty (2007, p.153) succinctly describes, ‘‘the distribution of sweat lodges orsweat houses has been documented as being utilized by culturesranging from the Eskimo of Alaska to the Maya of Mesoamerica.’’Lopatin’s (1960) summary of both the North American and Euro-pean literature emphasizes similarities in sweating practices, nota-bly that they can variously involve ritual, hygiene, and therapeuticgoals, often in combination. However, one commonality amongmany groups is that sweathouse ceremonies are closely linked toshamanistic practices (MacDonald, 1988; Paper, 1990), and thattheir use often contributes to the achievement of shamanistictrances or altered states (Ludwig, 1969). Implicitly, most intensivearchaeological studies of sweathouses (e.g., Egghert, 2003;MacDonald, 1988; Mehta, 2007; Morin, 2010) stress local variabil-ity in sweathouse practices, and rely on ethnographic analogy forinterpreting them. This follows a general trend in studies of prehis-toric religion in North America (Brown, 1997).

Some researchers (Driver, 1961; Lopatin, 1960) have proposed afundamental distinction between dry heat and water vapor sweats,although ethnographic evidence suggests that many groups prac-ticed both types, and some practiced indirect methods of heatingthat did not involve integrated hearths or water sources (Mehta,2007). In short, the picture that emerges is one of myriad typesof structures employed for a wide variety of purposes. These wouldin turn be represented by a wide array of archaeological features,ranging from expediently employed domestic structures to specialpurpose structures of various sizes and shapes. Similarly, struc-tures might contain hearths, or not, and might include evidencefor heating with steam or dry methods.

Though ethnographically ubiquitous, North American sweat-houses remain relatively underexplored archaeologically on mostof the continent (Brown, 1997, p. 475). As Mehta (2007, p. 90)points out, specialized sweathouse features located in habitationsites, or multi-purpose structures (e.g., sweats in houses) are themost commonly detected archaeologically. However, as suggestedby the ethnographic record, many ritual structures may have beenlocated away from domestic areas, and in fact there are a variety ofethnographic cases were isolation of ritual structures might bepreferable (see Mehta, 2007). Although some attention has beenpaid to sweathouse features on the periphery of habitation sites(Mehta, 2007), little consideration has been given to sweathousefeatures located away from habitation sites.

For instance, Iroquoian sweathouses are among the bestdescribed ritual features in the Northeast’s archaeological record(e.g., Bursey, 1989; MacDonald, 1988; MacDonald and Williamson,2001; Steckley, 1989). This is likely due in part to the archaeologicalvisibility of semi-permanent horticultural villages and an apparentprevalence of sweathouse features within habitation sites. However,there has also been a trend in Iroquoian archaeology to expose largehorizontal areas, precisely the kind of excavations that may yieldclearer pictures of architectural features (e.g., Finlayson, 1985; seeBamann et al., 1992; Hrynick et al., 2012).

In areas where large horizontal excavations are not common,the literature suggests frequent incongruities between the ubiq-uity of ethnographically known sweathouses on the one hand,and a relative absence of them archaeologically. Some of thismay be attributable to a tendency among many societies to useephemeral or multi-purpose structures for sweats. However, it is

Fig. 1. Map of the Maritime Peninsula showing Port Joli Harbour and the location of AlDf-30.

2 Wabanaki is the traditional name for the people of the Maritime Peninsula,including the Mi’kmaq, Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet), Passamaquoddy, Abenaki, and

94 M.G. Hrynick, M.W. Betts / Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 35 (2014) 92–105

also likely that excavation biases toward habitation sites are pri-marily responsible for this disjuncture. The southeastern UnitedStates provides an illustrative example. Lafferty (2007, p. 164)writes, ‘‘In the many areas of the southeast, only a few prehistoricsweat lodges are known archaeologically. . .. These few examplesstand in contrast to thousands of domestic structures that havebeen described in the southwest. This disparity probably occursbecause the peripheries of habitation sites are not often intensivelyexcavated.’’ Perrelli (2009) presents a similar argument for study-ing ‘‘non-village’’ Iroquoian sites.

It is important to consider the anthropological implications ofthis incongruity in the data. In short, this review suggests thatarchaeologists may tend to miss specially placed ritual featuresbecause of their focus on habitation site and domestic structures.As a result, an entire aspect of human religious practice hasremained inaccessible to scrutiny and interpretation. To addressthis systemic deficit, we offer an example of locating, identifying,and interpreting a sweathouse feature on the Maritime Peninsula.In the sections that follow, we outline a strategy for studyingpreviously un- or under-recognized types of ritually placed struc-tures. This case is particularly valuable because it is an exampleof abundant ethnographic evidence of sweathouse use on the onehand, with complete absence of archaeological evidence on theother. We suggest that studies of this type may have importantimplications for the study of ritual actions among prehistoric hun-ter–gatherers, and we outline potential implications for both thenature social context and ritual activity at sites where they arefound.

Sweathouse features on the Maritime Peninsula

In the ethnohistoric literature for the Maritime Peninsula, theWabanaki2 are described as utilizing a variety of sweathouse struc-tures. However, no prehistoric sweathouse features have been previ-ously reported in the published archaeological literature from theregion. At Jack’s Brook (AlDf-30), a Maritime Woodland (Ceramic)period (3000–400 BP) shell midden site in Port Joli Harbour, NovaScotia (Fig. 1), recent excavations exposed a small feature that is clo-sely analogous to a specific type of sweathouse used by Historic per-iod Mi’kmaq until the late nineteenth century.

We outline the ethnohistoric evidence for sweathouses amongNortheast Algonquian groups and discuss the variety of archaeo-logical features such structures could be expected to produce.We suggest that the nature of the sweathouse at Jack’s Brook,and the location of the site itself, when considered in tandem withthe ethnohistorical literature, highlights the potential that manysweathouse features have not been recognized in the archaeologi-cal record for methodological reasons, and that current site loca-tional models may fail to account for ritual and medicinalimpetuses for site selection. This feature emphasizes the point thatnon-economic factors may have influenced the location of somekinds of ancient Wabanaki sites.

Penobscot.

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Ethnohistoric evidence for sweathouses among the Wabanakiand other Northeast Algonquians

Today, the sweathouse is a prominent part of Wabanaki culture.While the contemporary Wabanaki sweathouse ceremony drawson Wabanaki history, it also participates in a ‘‘neo-tradition’’ thatcorrelates with the ‘‘Pan-Indian’’ movement, which emerged inthe 1970s (Hornborg, 2003, p.129; Prins, 1994, p. 387, 1996, p.206). In fact, today’s Mi’kmaw sweathouse ceremony ‘‘mainly fol-lows the instructions of Lakota medicine man Black Elk’’(Hornborg, 2005, p. 384). It is not precisely clear when the sweat-house of the types described in the ethnohistoric literature of theregion ceased to be used, but Wallis and Wallis (1955, p. 123) indi-cate that ‘‘only the older men in 1911 knew about [them].’’

Early European accounts of Wabanaki groups make regular butoften cursory reference to sweathouses (Denys, 1908 [1675];Dièreville, 1933 [1708]; Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents[JR], 1611–1616; Le Clercq, 1910 [1691]). In broad terms, it seemsthat sweathouses were constructed for either therapeutic, ritual, ormagical purposes, the latter often specifically aimed at increasingsuccess or providing protection during hunting. Along with theirvarying purposes, sweathouses appear to have taken diverse archi-tectural forms, and the ceremonies required specific materialculture.

The ethnohistoric record is unanimous that Wabanaki sweat-houses were used exclusively by males, typically adults, althoughthere is evidence suggesting that women and children often pro-vided assistance outside the structure (see below). Furthermore,while wigwams were typically erected by women (see Prins andMcBride, 2007, pp. 35–36), men appear to have constructed at leastsome sweathouses (see Hoffman, 1955, p. 306). The gendered nat-ure of the practice appears in the majority of the accounts (seebelow) and highlights the sweathouse as a gendered place.

Denys’s (1908, p. 416 [1675]) description of a Mi’kmaw sweat-house suggests that the process was of some antiquity and prac-ticed by men ‘‘every month and even oftener,’’ apparently bothas preventative medicine and to treat extant illnesses. Accordingto his informants, the sweathouse was constructed as a small spe-cial purpose bark wigwam made nearly airtight. Rocks were heatedoutside the structure, and were brought, along with containers ofwater, to the participants in the structure by their wives or malechildren. The men sat nude around the hot rocks and poured wateron the rocks to make steam. When they were finished the proce-dure, they immediately jumped into a nearby stream or ocean(Denys, 1908, p. 416 [1675]). Le Clercq (1910, pp. 296–297[1691]) describes an almost identical practice:

‘‘ The sweat-house, however, is the great remedy of the Gaspe-sians. . .. The sweathouse is a kind of hot room, built in the formof a little wigwam covered with bark, or with skins of beaverand moose, and so arranged that it has no opening whatever.In the middle thereof the Indians place some hot stones, whichheat those inside so much that the water soon starts from allparts of their bodies. They throw water upon those hot stones,whence the steam rises to the top of the wigwam, then it fallsupon their backs, much like a hot and burning rain. This contin-ues until some of them, unable to endure the heat, are obligedto rush out as quickly as they can. . ..Then, rushing quickly fromthe wigwam, they throw themselves into the river in order tocool themselves.’’

According to Dièreville (1933, pp. 175–176 [1708]), sweathous-es were used to treat ‘‘lassitude & sluggishness.’’ In the process hedescribes, an individual would lie in a small trench that was linedwith hot stones and covered with fir branches. He would then becovered with more branches, which would ‘‘because of their

bituminous nature, give forth a dense vapour as they grow warm.’’Following the sweat, the participant jumped into a nearby lake orriver. Biard (JR, 1611–1616:115–117; see also Prins and McBride,2007, p.18) suggests that the use of sweathouses was preventativemedicine, and that it was followed by a seal oil massage thatprovided numerous benefits: ‘‘they can stand heat and cold better,and their hair is not caught in the branches, but is slippery, so thatrain and tempest do not injure the head, but glide over it to thefeet; also that the mosquitoes. . .do not sting so much in the bareparts.’’

Lescarbot (1914 [1618]) provides what Hoffman (1955, p. 308)has described as evidence for the ritual and shamanistic signifi-cance of sweathouse ceremonies to the Wabanaki. He describesboth the construction and ceremony of a Mi’kmaq sweathouse:

‘‘. . .they dig a pit in the ground, and cover it with wood withlarge flat stones on top; then they apply fire by a hole at theside, and when the wood is consumed they make a frameworkof poles, which they cover with all the skins and other coveringswhich they have, so that no air can enter; then they throwwater upon the said stones which have fallen down into thepit, and cover them with it; then they go into the said frame-work, and with clapping of hands, the Aoutmoin [shaman] sing-ing, and the others (as in their dances) saying heh, heh, heh, theyput themselves into a sweat [Lescarbot, 1914, pp. 184–185(1618)].’’

Mi’kmaw men sometimes built a somewhat different structureknown as a ‘‘sweat wigwam’’ (Wallis and Wallis, 1955, p. 124). Thisstructure appears to have been an ordinary wigwam with the door-way sealed, within which a fire was made to heat stones. Hemlockboughs were placed over the stones, and no water was used.According to Wallis and Wallis (1955, p. 124), ‘‘This treatmentwas taken by men of all ages upon the return from winter quartersin the forest, to remove from the system the cold of autumn andwinter.’’

Wallis and Wallis (1955, p. 124) also describe another kind oftherapeutic sweathouse, but one that could be expected to gener-ate a very different archaeological signature. In the spring, a smallwigwam-like structure with poles held in place by interwovenspruce bark was covered with blankets to make it airtight. Withinthe structure, a large stone was placed in the center with threesmaller stones around it. A small fire was built on top of the stonesuntil they were hot. The participants then poured a syrup madefrom ‘‘black cherry, choke cherry, juniper, white maple, fir, pine,and a second growth of ash’’ that were boiled together before thesweat. This mixture was poured over the hot stones to create amedicinal vapor that was inhaled. Unlike the sweathousedescribed by Le Clercq and Denys, the participants of thisceremony cooled-off gradually while wrapped in a blanket.

As described above, the production and use of plant-basedinhalants in sweathouse ceremonies appears to have been a wide-spread practice among historical Wabanaki. Speck (1917, p. 312)suggests that the Penobscots also ingested an herbal sudorific (toinduce sweating) consisting of ‘‘sweet-flag, fir-twigs, lambkill,alder-bark, witch-hazel twigs, cedar-boughs, prince’s pine, and akind of brake’’ prior to entering a sweathouse. Occasionally, anindividual might add other ingredients. In Speck’s experience,steam was produced by dropping heated rocks into a containerfilled with water, over which the participant sat, covered with ablanket. However, he adds ‘‘in former times [the practice tookplace] in a specially constructed bark hut.’’

Sweathouse rituals may also have had religious or magical sig-nificance and shamans were sometimes involved in the ceremo-nies (Gyles, 1689 [1844]; Lescarbot, 1914, pp. 185–186 [1618];see Hoffman, 1955, p. 308). Although information about this

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practice is scant among the early Historic period Wabanaki,Hoffman (1955, p. 308) points out that it was characteristic of Cen-tral Algonquian sweathouse ceremonies. Speck (1997, p. 48 [1940])suggests that men would use the sweat bath ‘‘as a protectivemedicinal right’’ prior to hunting big game.

In summary, the frequency with which sweathouses are men-tioned, combined with ethnohistoric accounts of the regularitywith which they were used, suggests that sweathouses were com-mon in the early Historic period through to the nineteenth centuryon the Maritime Peninsula. Indeed, the ubiquity of sweathouses inethnohistoric accounts can be extended throughout much of theAlgonquian Northeast. As Butler (1945) summarized, the use ofsweathouses among southern New England Aboriginal groups iswell attested in accounts by DeVries (1909, pp. 217–218 [1655]),Dudley (1724–1725, pp. 131–132), Josselyn (1833, p. 299[1675]), Mather (1853, p. 558 [1702]), Niles (1837, pp. 193–194),and Williams (1827, pp. 158 [1643]). Like their more northerlycounterparts, Algonquians in southern New England used sweat-houses for therapy and, perhaps, ritual. Sweathouses were alsoused by the Beothuk of Newfoundland, but it appears only formedicinal purposes, and sometimes for women as well as men(Howley, 1915, pp. 190–191; see Marshall, 1996, pp. 362–363,380; Reynolds, 1978, p. 102). Central Algonquian Cree groupsemployed sweathouses for bathing, therapy, and ritual(Honigmann, 1982, p. 223; Smith, 1981, p. 262; Tanner, 1979, pp.116–117). Speck (1977, pp. 99, 221 [1935]) suggests that amongthe Innu, the sweathouse was especially important before huntingbears to help reveal where the bears were. He also notes that Wil-liam Cabot, who travelled with a group of Naskapi (Innu), observedthat 21 individuals built ten sweathouses (for use by men) in a per-iod of only 32 days (Speck, 1977, p. 221), suggesting such struc-tures were very commonly employed.

Taken together, these data indicate that sweathouses were acommon aspect of Aboriginal life in New England and Atlantic Can-ada (and the Northeast in general), and thus contrast greatly withthe prehistoric record from the region, from which sweathouseshave rarely been reported. In fact we are aware of only two sus-pected prehistoric sweathouse features from neighboring regions(Rubertone, 2001, p. 126; Will, 2013); none have been identifiedon the Maritime Peninsula. We suggest that the contrasts betweenthe archaeological and ethnohistoric records arise from methodo-logical issues surrounding survey and excavation that lead to infre-quent discovery and identification of sweathouses in thearchaeological record. In the sections that follow, we describe afeature that we interpret as a prehistoric sweathouse from NovaScotia’s South Shore, and suggest alternative methodologies thatwill assist archaeologists in locating and identifying sweathouses.

Archaeological correlates of sweathouse structures

The ethnohistoric accounts described previously indicate that avariety of sweathouse configurations were employed for a range ofuses, but with a few common themes. First, they were probably atleast partly imbued with ritual, and appear to have been primarilymale spaces. Second, they were used as physical and spiritual ther-apeutic structures, both to treat illness and to spiritually preparefor hunting large animals. Third, they may have been constructedin different locations from domestic wigwams, as indicated bythe descriptions of sweathouses in close proximity to water andthe strict gender segregation associated with them. Fourth, archi-tecturally, they appear to have been similar in construction to wig-wams, though smaller, and with somewhat different internalfeatures. As will be outlined in the following sections, it is theselatter two factors that are critical for distinguishing between thearchaeological signatures of dwellings and sweathouses. The eth-nohistoric sources outlined in the preceding section are utilized

to construct a model for archaeological sweathouses that both rec-ognizes the inherent variability in sweathouse features while alsohighlighting several distinct characteristics that will permitresearchers to distinguish them from other kinds of features.

Size and shape

The largest sweathouse described in the ethnohistoric record isthe ‘‘sweat wigwam’’, the repurposed wigwam described by Wallisand Wallis (1955, p. 124), and all other sweathouse structures aredescribed as ‘‘small wigwams’’ or smaller than wigwams (e.g.,Denys, 1908, p. 416 [1675]; Wallis and Wallis, 1955, p. 124). Onthe Maritime Peninsula, wigwams tend to have an oval floor planwith a maximum diameter of 3.5–4 m (e.g., Hrynick et al., 2012;Sanger, 2010). If the ethnohistoric sources are indicative, that mea-sure appears to be the largest a sweathouse would be, though ingeneral, the sources indicate that sweathouses tended to be some-what smaller. Occasionally, sweathouses may have been trenchshaped and only large enough to fit a single person lying down(Dièreville, 1933, pp. 175–176 [1708]), but these appear to havebeen rare. Importantly, sweathouses may exhibit floors that areexcavated pits (Lescarbot, 1914 [1618]), in contrast to domesticstructures, which were only slightly depressed (e.g., Hrynicket al., 2012). In short, the ethnohistoric accounts indicate that themost common sweathouse was a small, wigwam like structure,sometimes with a pit shaped floor.

Subfeatures

Ethnohistoric accounts reveal that sweathouses varied in theirinternal architectures and inclusion of subfeatures. In someinstances rocks were heated outside before being brought intothe structure (Denys, 1908, p. 416 [1675]; Le Clercq, 1910, pp.296–297 [1691]; Lescarbot, 1914, pp. 184–185 [1618]) while oth-ers utilized an interior hearth to heat the stones (e.g., Wallis andWallis, 1955, p. 124). Thus, the presence of a hearth and associatedcharcoal on their own is unlikely to be diagnostic for a sweathouse;however, because all known dwelling features on the MaritimePeninsula contain hearths (Hrynick et al., 2012; Sanger, 2010),the absence of a hearth would indicate that the feature was asweathouse rather than a dwelling.

The presence of robust and extensive interior stone architecturemay further help to distinguish a sweathouse from a domestic fea-ture. On the Maritime Peninsula, domestic features located nearrocky beaches are sometimes lined with small, water-rolled,manuport gravel (see Hrynick and Robinson, 2012; Sanger, 2010),and occasionally dwelling features have included a single anvilstone (Hrynick et al., 2012). However, such dwellings do not con-tain other forms of stone architecture such as the stone alignmentsand piles described in some forms of sweathouses. Furthermore,clam-steaming pits or other exterior cooking features (e.g.,Sanger, 1987, pp. 31–32) often contain spreads of small fire-cracked cobbles, but lack other types of stone architecture. There-fore, rock architecture, including piles of cobbles, some of whichmay be heat altered or shattered from pouring water on them(Denys, 1908, p. 416 [1675]; Le Clercq, 1910, pp. 296–297[1691]; Lescarbot, 1914, pp. 184–185 [1618]), or alternatively, spe-cially created features composed of a large central stone with sev-eral flanking stones (Wallis and Wallis, 1955, p. 124) may bediagnostic of a sweathouse features, as opposed to other kinds offeatures on the Maritime Peninsula.

Artifacts

Ethnographic observations of traditional sweathouse ritualssuggest that few artifacts would be deposited in such a feature.

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Men apparently entered the house naked, presumably with fewaccoutrements, and the accounts do not describe any domesticactivities, such as tool making or repair, that were performed dur-ing the sweat. In sweathouses utilizing water or medicines to pourover stones, ceramic vessels may have been used to transportthem, and may have been broken and/or discarded in the structure.Alternatively, birch bark vessels or skin bags may have been uti-lized to carry water into the feature, which would not have beenpreserved if broken or discarded inside the structure.

Site location

The ethnohistoric records are not explicit about the preferredlocation for sweathouses, although they do permit some inferencesto be drawn, especially in terms of access to resources and proxim-ity to habitation structures. For example, many contemporaryobservations indicate that a diverse range of plant species wereutilized in sweat rituals, perhaps indicating that it would havebeen advantageous to construct a sweathouse close to where freshplants could be procured. Many reports suggest nearby access to asuitable body of water was necessary, either for creating steam inthe structure or for plunging into after the sweat, implying that anylocation more than a close running distance from a nearby body ofwater would not to be suitable.

The relationship between habitation sites and sweathouse sitesis not clearly discussed in the ethnohistoric literature. What is clearis that the most sweathouses were special purpose structures, con-structed for ritual or medicinal activities, and were exclusivelymale spaces. We think that this constellation of traits suggests thatthey were segregated spaces, and that a degree of isolation wasnecessary for their placement. Specifically, it is possible that theywould have been located away from contemporaneous habitationsites. In line with these traits, and in contrast with habitationstructures, we hypothesize that a typical sweathouse structurewould generally be located a) directly adjacent to a water body,b) potentially near environments where necessary plant speciesare available in abundance, and c) in places that afford somedegree of isolation and privacy.

The Jack’s Brook site (AlDf-30)

Since 2008, the E’se’get Archaeology Project has focused onexcavating Maritime Woodland period sites on Nova Scotia’s SouthShore, primarily at Port Joli Harbour. The interrelated researchgoals of this project include studying the economic and spiritualrelationships between people and their changing coastal environ-ments, the relationship between people and animals, and theway people organized their social lives, especially within the con-text of architecture and domestic space (see Betts, 2009, 2010,2011; Betts and Hrynick, 2013; Betts et al., 2012; Hrynick et al.,2012). We have also devoted considerable time to site survey inPort Joli Harbour, expanding our search for archaeological sitesbeyond typical habitation site location modes, supplemented byadvice from local informants and collectors (Betts, 2009).

Jack’s Brook (AlDf-30) (Fig. 1) is located ca. 300 m inland to thewest of Port Joli Harbour, atop a small, treeless, 3 m asl knoll withina dense, mixed forest. The knoll, Area A, is surrounded on the northby Jack’s Brook, and on the east, west, and south by a fen, whichhas been established for at least 3000 years (Neil, 2013). Culturaldeposits at the site include three shallow shell middens comprisedprimarily of Mya arenaria that surround a black soil deposit com-posed primarily of culturally deposited soil with a limited shelladmixture (sensu Black, 2002) (Fig. 2). Within the black soildeposit, we encountered a series of superimposed domestic andritual features (Betts, 2009; Betts and Hrynick, 2013). The site is

smaller than most other Maritime Woodland sites at Port Joli Har-bour (Betts, 2009), being ca. 16 m � 10 m in extent. The relation-ship between the dwelling deposits and the distribution of itsmidden deposits, which are separated by several meters, is alsounique, as such features are often overlapping and contiguous(e.g., Hrynick et al., 2012). Although some of the midden depositshave been subject to twentieth century collecting by amateurs,the domestic and ritual features, located in the black soil midden,have not been disturbed.

The site’s location (Fig. 1) does not conform to settlement mod-els for domestic shell midden sites in Port Joli Harbour (Betts, 2009,2010; Erskine, 1986) or elsewhere on the Maritime Peninsula (e.g.,Black, 2004; Kellogg, 1987, 1994). Such sites are typically locatedwithin 50 m of the shoreline and directly adjacent to large clambeds. In contrast, AlDf-30 is more than 300 m inland from theshore, despite containing shell, and its location in the center of afen is unique in the archaeological record of the Maritime Penin-sula. In fact, it is unlikely AlDf-30 would have been encounteredin an archaeological survey based on standard site models. Rather,in 1935, the Reverend George Beck, walking along a cart track aftera storm, noticed shell and artifacts spilling from an overturned treestump. He alerted Thomas Head Raddall, a writer and amateur nat-uralist living in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, who excavated a small por-tion of the site with his family and other companions between1935 and 1938 (T.H. Raddall II, pers. comm., 2012; Raddall, n.d.).Subsequent to our introduction to AlDf-30, we refined our surveymethods to search for sites located in near interior locations,resulting in the discovery of several new sites similar in size andstructure as AlDf-30, located in similar habitats and topographies,and in similar proximity to larger sites (Betts, 2009, 2010, 2011).

Test excavation at Jack’s Brook in 2009 (Betts, 2010, pp. 11–19)revealed the edge of a shallow basin-shaped feature, which con-tained compact charcoal and lithic-rich deposits, which we initiallyinterpreted as either one or two dwelling features (Betts, 2011).Subsequently in 2010, we employed a large horizontal excavationstrategy with fine-grained recovery and spatial control similar to astrategy we have used in excavating other Port Joli Harbour dwell-ing features (Hrynick et al., 2012). As shown in Fig. 2, a 1 m � 1 mgrid system, oriented north–south (true), was imposed over thearea with a cross-shaped 20 cm wide baulk imposed over the cen-ter of the area. This permitted the exposure of entire contempora-neous surfaces while leaving an unexcavated portion to aidstratigraphic control, record detailed stratigraphic profiles, andconduct precise, stratigraphically informed, column sampling.

Unlike many shell midden excavations on the Maritime Penin-sula, all deposits were screened through 6 mm mesh to preservethe recovery of minute cultural materials, especially debitage. Alllevels were excavated stratigraphically by trowel, exposing entiretopographic surfaces across the complete exposure, with 5 cmarbitrary levels instituted in particularly deep or homogenousdeposits. All formal artifacts and radiocarbon samples weremapped in three dimensions in relation to a unit datum, and forundecorated sherds, faunal remains, and debitage, all materialswere collected by quadrant to increase horizontal control andrecord spatial distributions. All of these quadrant-level bags weregiven artifact numbers to increase control of these importantspatial data.

Mapping occurred at two different levels, and architecturalfeatures and artifacts were plotted in relation to a unit datum inunit-level maps. When a complete surface was exposed, an areamap was created in relation to an area datum, with levels takenwith the aid of a digital transit. This technique was time consum-ing, but had the advantage of allowing the later reconstruction offeatures, levels, or layers that might have gone unrecognizedduring excavation.

Fig. 2. Site map of AlDf-30.

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Fig. 3. Stratigraphic profile of AlDf-30 Area A and B. This profile shows the degree to which Feature 3’s central rock architecture protruded into subsequent occupations. Alens of subsoil in the adjacent shell midden may represent excavated soil from the construction of Feature 3.

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A prehistoric sweathouse feature at Port Joli Harbour

AlDf-30 Area A is characterized by a series of superimposeddomestic or ritual features capped by an ephemeral living surface.Features 1 and 2, stratigraphically above Feature 3, represent wig-wam-style domestic features, with overlapping radiocarbon assaysplacing the occupation in the Middle Maritime Woodland period. Asample of caribou bone from Feature 1, the uppermost dwelling,returned the latest date, 1380 ± 30 BP (Beta # 341498, 1 Sigmacal 607–680 AD). Samples of terrestrial mammal bone from Fea-ture 2, the lower dwelling floor returned two slightly earlier dates,1410 ± 30 (Beta # 341499, 1 Sigma cal 591–665 AD) and 1470 ± 40(Beta # 273516, 1 Sigma cal 540–650 AD) (Fig. 3). Feature 3, whichwe identify as representing a sweathouse, is directly beneath thesetwo domestic features and the position and orientation of the wig-wams above it appears to have been chosen because of the stonearchitecture of Feature 3, which was incorporated into their con-struction. The piece of charcoal associated with Feature 3 yieldeda radiocarbon date of 1420 ± 30 (Beta #365482, 1 Sigma cal 660–600 AD). The essentially overlapping nature of these dates rein-forces the close chronological nature of deposition for all of thesefeatures. These deposits are located at the highest portion of thesite, directly on top the knoll.

Feature 3 is represented stratigraphically as Level 4, the surfaceimmediately below levels 3C–3F, and the subsoil and base of theexcavation (Fig. 3). The feature forms a relatively steep-sidedbowl-shaped depression (Figs. 4–6), which resulted in a slightlydepressed surface topography that was visible prior to the removalof the sod. Along the north–south axis, the feature is ca. 2.25 m inlength; along its east–west axis it is ca. 2.5 m across, making itroughly oval in shape and very small (Figs. 4 and 5). Feature 3was excavated into the subsoil, meaning that it interfaces withorange-brown subsoil that was trampled and mottled with darksoil from Level 3F. Although the degree of trampling on Feature 2makes it difficult to discern the termination of Feature 2 and the

beginning of Feature 3, the Level 3E and 3F matrix is identical tothat Feature 2 matrix, leading us to believe that it represents amore recent occupation. The Feature 3 depression is characterizedby steep northern, southern, and western sides, and a more gradu-ally sloped eastern side (Fig. 6). The deepest portion of the bowl-shaped depression had been excavated ca. 40 cm into the subsoil.On the northwest slope of the basin, a bench or step was shapedinto the subsoil. This step or bench is evident in the north–southprofile of the feature in unit N52W52’s north–south profile(Fig. 3) and appeared as a straight surface, angled very slightlyupward and extending ca. 15 cm into the east–west baulk. A ca.15 cm deep and 35 cm diameter shallow pit, the north margin ofwhich formed the step described above, extended from the centerof the feature to the southwest, terminating ca. 30 cm from themargin of the structure. A shallow berm of subsoil skirted the east-ern edge of the feature, manifest by the highly mottled nature ofthe deposit.

Three shallow post moulds were identified on the margins ofthe feature in N51W50, N52W53, and N50W51 respectively. A par-tially articulated rock stop (sensu Hrynick et al., 2012), probablyused to support poles of a superstructure, was identified inN50W51. We think that these probably are associated with Feature1 rather than Feature 3, as the two subsequent occupations of AreaA would likely have obscured features related to Feature 3’s super-structure. This ambiguity highlights the reoccupied nature of AreaA.

Feature 3’s most obtrusive characteristic is its extensive stonearchitecture, constructed in the center of the depression (Fig. 7).This architecture, which characterizes Feature 3, also extendedpartially into Features 1 and Feature 2, forming a linear featurerunning north to south. The largest stone in Feature 3, which wasoblong in shape, approximately 30 cm wide by 45 cm high andplaced on end, transgressed Features 1 and 2 and its tip was visibleon the surface of Area A prior to excavation. This granitic stone waslocated in the center-south of Feature 3, and formed a pillar against

Fig. 4. Drawing of AlDf-30 Feature 3, showing Feature 3 in planview.

Fig. 5. Photograph of AlDf-30 Feature 3 taken at an oblique angle facing southwest.

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which most the other stones in the feature were rested. This stonewas propped at a slight south-leaning angle by another large stonepositioned to its north.

Twenty-three overlapping and contiguous large stones(ca. 15–20 cm diameter) and numerous smaller stones (ca. 5–15 cm diameter) extended from the north, east, and northwest ofthis large center-south stone, forming a roughly oval pile or cairndirectly in the center of the structure. Although the patterning ofthese stones is circular horizontally, their vertical heights createda linear crest oriented on an exactly north–south bearing (true).As mentioned previously, this architecture generated a linear stonefeature that was subsequently incorporated into Feature 1 and 2. Tothe southwest of the large center-south stone, the shallow pitdescribed earlier was partially paved. This partial paving was com-prised of 12 medium (ca. 8–20 cm diameter) rounded cobbles and avariety of small (less than 8 cm diameter) round stones. It seems

Fig. 6. 3D photogrammetric reconstruction of Feature 3, facing northeast. This wire-mesh view details the topography of the feature, and highlights its excavated nature, theshallow cobble-lined pit, and the large midline rock feature.

Fig. 7. Photograph, facing north, showing Feature 3’s central rock architecture. Thegrid strings form a 1 m square.

Fig. 8. Photograph showing the only two fragments of fire-cracked cobblerecovered from Feature 3. The pieces, which refit, were disarticulated, but bothwithin the shallow pit that is a subfeature of Feature 3.

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certain that this paving was an architectural element, as it occursonly in one course and with all of the stones utilized in it placedcontiguous to each other (Fig. 4).

No artifacts were recovered from Feature 3 and cultural mate-rial within the feature was limited to a single piece of charcoal,one piece of fire-cracked rock, and cobble that appeared heat-altered and was cracked into two pieces, which refit (Fig. 8). Bothpieces were recovered within the shallow pit feature and restedon the cobble paving, but were disarticulated at discovery. The

feature lacked a hearth and no distinctly burned areas could beascertained; however the subsoil in the vicinity of the featurewas a brighter and deeper orange than the surrounding subsoil.

No known archaeological analogues exist for Feature 3; it is dis-similar from any other archaeological feature described for theMaritime Peninsula. Its characteristics, particularly its small size,lack of artifacts, indicative sub-features, and comminuted charcoal,make it unlikely to represent either a domestic feature (e.g.,Hrynick et al., 2012; Sanger, 2010) or a production and processing.Further, the rock architectural features within the depression donot correspond with any reported features on the Maritime Penin-sula, and the expansiveness of the structural stones, coupled withthe small size of the basin and its steeply sloping sides, would havemade living in the feature impossible. Feature 3 also lacks a hearth,something that is closely associated with domestic features on theMaritime Peninsula (see Hrynick et al., 2012; Sanger, 2010).

Other explanations for the feature’s use, such as a steaming pit,eel cooking pit, or a storage structure are difficult to reconcile withthe absence of artifacts, charcoal, and substantial quantities of fire-cracked rock. Further, the large central stone architecture is notconsistent with any other known feature on the Maritime Penin-sula. For example, eel cooking pits would be expected to be locatednear weirs, were only about a meter across (Speck, 1997, p. 96[1940]), and should contain abundant amounts of fire-cracked rock(e.g., Hornborg, 2003). Pits associated with smoking would beexpected to contain charcoal, and the stone architecture of Feature3 would be an anathema hindrance to a storage pit. Like eel smok-ing pits, clam smoking pits would also tend to be marked byspreads of fire-cracked rock, and were sometimes constructed inoblong trenches (Sanger, 1987, pp. 31–32), both unlike Feature 3.

Formation processes

It is useful to address the unique characteristic of Feature 3from the standpoint of formation process (e.g., Schiffer, 1987).Feature 3 represents a series of inferable formation processes thatare distinct from those of domestic features on the MaritimePeninsula. Taken together, these suggest a substantial time andlabor investment in constructing the feature and elucidate itsdistinctiveness from domestic architectural forms.

Although dwellings from the Maritime Peninsula are frequentlydescribed as ‘‘semi-subterranean’’ (e.g., Sanger, 2010), they aregenerally only shallowly depressed, and may represent a varietyof surface preparation activities including the removal of brushand stones combined with subsequent trampling and sweepingto produce varying degrees of surface depression (Hrynick et al.,2012). In contrast, Feature 3 exhibits strong evidence of excavation

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as a formation process. This is manifested by the depth of the fea-ture but most conclusively by the presence of a subsoil berm on thefeature’s eastern margin. In the course of this excavation, a smallbench or step was sculpted into the subsoil, as part of a shallowpit forming part of the feature’s architecture.

This intentionally excavated depression was also marked bystone placement that exhibits intent to construct a robust, task-specific feature. A wide range of stones were placed, propped,and overlapped to form both the central stone feature and thesouthwest paved pit. The propped nature of some of the largestones in the feature, as well as the creation of a peaked axial fea-ture in which the tallest stones formed an axial line, emphasizesthe thought and intentionality of the stone placement.

Although the Area A post-moulds and rock stops likely are notassociated with Feature 3, we infer that following the excavationof the depression and the placement of the central stones, a smallstructure was placed over the depression. In light of the ethnohis-toric evidence, it seems probable that, if this was a structure, it wasconical and resembled a small wigwam, likely covered with hidesor birch bark.

The feature contained no discernible built-up stratigraphy, andno evidence of artifacts, save for some fire-cracked rocks and cob-bles and a large piece of charcoal. This suggests two things: (1) thatit was not utilized as a typical dwelling surface or activity area, forwhich all archaeological analogues exhibit dense stratigraphiccomponents and artifact distributions, or (2) that the floor wascovered in some way, resulting in the removal of artifacts andcultural debris. We believe that the former option is most practica-ble given that the stone alignment would have interfered with acovering and that floor coverings other than permeable coniferousbranches are not described in the ethnographic literature.

It is likely, in light of the considerable investment in creatingthe feature, that it may have been reused, perhaps frequently, overa period of multiple years. The final abandonment observed inFeature 3 suggests that much of the stone architecture was leftintact following each use, and that reheating of the stones occurredupon return to the feature.

In review, Feature 3 is not consistent with a domestic feature,both structurally and depositionally. It is impossible to envisagea domestic structure in which one could not recline, and whichdid not have room to conduct at least some daily activities. Noris it conceivable that a dwelling would lack a hearth, contain onlyone piece of charcoal, and yield no artifacts. Put briefly, not only isFeature 3 inconsistent with domestic architecture known from theMaritime Peninsula (Hrynick et al., 2012; Sanger, 2010), it is notplausible from a pragmatic perspective that it could have repre-sented a dwelling.

Feature 3 is, however, consistent with the sweathousesdescribed in the ethnohistoric literature. Although, as discussedabove in our archaeological model for sweathouses, we may expectconsiderable variability among sweathouse features and theirfunctions, Feature 3 fits within with that broadly defined model.More specifically, is small, excavated into the soil, lacks artifactsor a hearth (although it contains evidence of heating), and incorpo-rates a unique stone architectural element. In fact, it closely corre-sponds to the type of sweathouse described by Wallis and Wallis(1955, p. 24) in which participants utilized a large central stonesurrounded by smaller stones to heat a medicine into a therapeuticvapor that could be inhaled within a confined wigwam-likestructure.

Site selection

Because Feature 3 is a sweathouse rather than a habitationstructure, a different suite of environmental characteristics can

be expected to have dictated site selection. AlDf-30 is located ina near-shore interior location that is uncommon among Port JoliHarbour sites and throughout the Maritime Peninsula in general(e.g., Black, 2004; Kellogg, 1987, 1994; Sanger, 1996). Furthermore,Jack’s Brook is the only site in the area (Betts, 2010, 2011) which islocated in the midst of a fen and which sits on a small knoll. Palae-oclimatic research conducted in the fen next to Jack’s Brook indi-cates that it was a fen for at least the last 3000 years (Neil,2013). Unlike all other sites in Port Joli Harbour, AlDf-30 has onlyone practicable access point, a location where a stream narrowsappreciably and jutting boulders can be used to cross it. The siteis otherwise surrounded by the fen.

The interior location and constrained access may have beenimportant characteristics that made Jack’s Brook an appealing loca-tion for a sweathouse. One consideration is that Feature 3 is likelyrelated to domestic occupations elsewhere in Port Joli Harbour, ascontemporaneous habitations have not been identified at the Jack’sBrook site (stratigraphically, Feature 3 is older than all other occu-pations at the site) and the deposits above and surrounding it arenot contemporary with the earliest shell midden deposits in PortJoli Harbour (Betts, 2011).

In a scenario that fits the ethnohistoric model, the bulk of resi-dential and economic activities may have taken place at a typicalshore-side domestic site, composed of dwelling features and largemiddens, similar to those found throughout the Maritime Penin-sula. Inhabitants of such a site may have then employed Jack’sBrook as a secluded or ‘‘private’’ location for sweats and other rit-ual activities. As discussed above, a degree of seclusion would bedesirable for a structure associated with healing and spirituality,and the degree of gender and age segregation mentioned in theethnohistoric accounts also suggests that seclusion was preferred.Further, access to a shallow stream, only ten meters from the struc-ture, would have permitted immediate access to cool water forimmersing the body after using the sweathouse, as Denys (1908,p. 416 [1675]) and Le Clercq (1910, p. 296–297 [1691]) suggestwas sometimes done (this is also common cross-culturally [seeMehta, 2007]).

The association with the fen may also be noteworthy in regardto the sweathouse’s location. As noted previously, the ethnohisto-ric literature suggests that sudorifics made from a variety of plantswere employed in sweathouses. The plant lists from Speck (1917,p. 312) and Wallis and Wallis (1955, p. 124) include a wide rangeof plant species that prefer a variety of different habitats. Some ofthose plants, such as Kalmia (lambkill), prefer fen-like environ-ments, while others are associated with a wider range of forestenvironments (e.g., Pinus [pine] and Acer [maple] species) or bar-rens (e.g., Prunus scrotina [black cherry]). Neil (2013) found thatduring the time Jack’s Brook was occupied, the fen and mixed for-est environment of today was already established at the site. Herpalynological study of the fen indicates the prehistoric presenceof some of the plants from the Speck and Wallis and Wallis listsincluding Acer and plants from the family that includes Chimaphilaumbelkta (prince’s pine) and Kalmia. Other plants from the lists donot preserve or tend to be underrepresented in the pollen record(Abies balsamea [fir], Thuja [cedar], and Juniperus [juniper]). In gen-eral, the immediately accessible plant diversity at AlDf-30—with afen, a brook, and a forest nearby—provided the ideal environmentfor access to a wide range of plants that could be used insweathouses.

In summary, the restricted access to the site created by thebrook and the fen, the rich plant communities created by the con-fluence of fen, mixed forest, and stream environments, the proxim-ity to running fresh water, and its location in the near interior—far,but not too far from dwelling sites nearer the coast—made Jack’sBrook an ideal location for a sweathouse. As will be discussed

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below, this has important implication for the archaeologicalvisibility of such features.

Discussion

At AlDf-30, the picture that emerges in one of a structure thatwas located apart from contemporary domestic sites. However,that isolation was not maintained through time. We offer severalhypotheses for this phenomenon, related to broader social contextand ritual practices. Although we frame these possible implicationsin terms of the Wabanaki case, these implications can be extendedto other studies of ritual structures, and others can be developed inlight of local evidence.

The ethnographic accounts for sweathouses suggest that on theMaritime Peninsula and throughout much of North America,sweathouses could either be expediently employed extant struc-tures (usually houses) or special use structures. The former appearto usually be associated with habitation sites, while the lattercould either be near habitation sites or set apart from them. Whatmight this ritual placement suggest in terms of social context?

One explanation of this process of ritual placement is that theAlDf-30 sweathouse may be associated with larger than typicalgroup organization elsewhere, such as an aggregation. Events atwhich large groups come together often feature heightened ritualactivity and spatial differentiation (Frieson, 1999; Johnson, 1982;Robinson and Ort, 2011; Robinson et al., 2009; Slobodin, 1962;Whitelaw, 1991). In situations such as social aggregation, special-ized placement of ritual structures might be more common, fol-lowing a tendency for the amplification of spatial distinctions.Indeed, several very large archaeological sites are located nearAlDf-30 (Betts, 2010); while analysis is still pending to confirmthe nature of these large sites, the special placement of the AlDf-30 sweathouse may be related to the populations inhabiting theselarger sites, and the seasonal aggregations of people that may berelated to them.

Following these lines of evidence may prove especially reward-ing for studying groups such as the Middle Maritime WoodlandWabanaki, whose social patterning remains enigmatic (e.g.,Sanger, 1996). Although our sample here is limited, on the Mari-time Peninsula and elsewhere better recognition of ritual siteplacement can be expected to provide evidence about the socialcontexts in which they were created. One plausible hypothesis isthat the use of ritual structures might increase at times of socialaggregation.

The ethnographic data reviewed above for the Wabanaki sug-gest that sweathouse practices were strongly defined as male.The secluded nature of Feature 3’s placement supports a deep timedepth for the gendered seclusion outlined in the Historic accounts.Taken with the potential for a social context that included aggrega-tion, this ritual seclusion suggests new avenues for considering therole of gender in ancient ritual practices. Further, it suggests conti-nuity in religious practice and may highlight the value of using theethnographic record as a basis for interpreting ancient cosmologiesfrom the archaeological record.

The ritual isolation of a sweathouse feature suggests that muchritual action was not only gendered (as we discussed above), butalso privileged. In conjunction with the ethnographic literaturefor the Wabanaki and other Algonquians, it is clear that not allsweathouse rituals were as secluded as AlDf-30 appears to havebeen. This variability in ritual practice suggests that future studiesof prehistoric Wabanaki religion should consider the role ofsecluded ritual practices in comparison to non-secluded ones.

Features resembling the sweathouse at Jack’s Brook have notbeen identified in the regional archaeological record. More specif-ically, site locational models for coastal sites at Port Joli Harbour

(Betts, 2009, 2010; Erskine, 1986, pp. 12–13) and other parts ofthe Maritime Peninsula (Black, 2004; Kellogg, 1987, 1994;Sanger, 1996) would not implicate Jack’s Brook as likely to containa coastally-adapted domestic site, mostly due to its distance fromthe beach and location within a fen.

The presence of Feature 3 at AlDf-30, as the basal deposit, andthus earliest occupation at the site, suggests that different factorsmay influence the placement of a sweathouse than do a domesticsite. In the context of a sweathouse, environmental variables suchas restricted access, seclusion, proximity to a diverse range of plantspecies, and proximity to fresh water may assume primary impor-tance. More broadly, this requires that archaeologists working inthe Maritime Peninsula reevaluate the presence of non-habitationsites on the coast and recognize that site locational models basedon domestic deposits may limit perceptions of variability in sitetype. As we have emphasized here, access to non-comestibleresources and seclusion/privacy may be important to the place-ment of some site types, especially those related to ritual, therapy,and healing. This preference for seclusion may be part of whatmakes such features little known archaeologically.

From a methodological standpoint, it is apparent that featuressuch as Feature 3 may easily be missed in projects using narrowexcavation strategies. Our failure to recognize the feature in ouroriginal 50 � 100 cm test pit, despite having encountered a signif-icant portion of its northern margin, is a testament to this. In ourearlier test excavations, the sharply sloping edge of Feature 3was obscured, and we did not recognize the excavated nature ofthe feature. Although we did recognize a slight surface depression,as Sanger (2010) points out, this can also indicate the presence ofother types of domestic features, heightening the risk for confusingsweathouse features with domestic ones in limited excavations.Further complicating the issue was that the feature was overlainby culturally rich deposits associated with dwelling surfaces. Theproductivity and visibility of such deposits obfuscated the sterileinterface/surface that demarked Feature 3.

In short, our horizontal excavation strategy, which emphasizedexposing broad stratigraphic interfaces and contiguous surfacespermitted the identification of Feature 3, and allowed us tointerpret it despite its dearth of artifacts. Narrow trench style exca-vations are therefore likely inadequate for discerning the nature ofsuch ephemeral, but socially critical, features. As many archaeolog-ical excavations on the Maritime Peninsula do not employ horizon-tal excavations strategies, it is unsurprising that these features areso rarely encountered archaeologically. In support of this hypothe-sis, we note that the largest frequencies of sweathouses identifiedin the greater Northeast derived from Iroquoian sites (e.g.,MacDonald, 1988, pp. 19–24), which are often excavated in ahorizontal manner to expose extensive post-mould patterningand architectural features.

It is critical to point out that at least two subsequent occupa-tions of AlDf-30 were domestic in nature and that the site exhib-ited relatively deep shell middens. The dwelling floors, however,are marked by a tangible connection to each other and to thesweathouse, manifest in the Feature 3 stone architecture thatwas incorporated into Features 1 and 2. This historic connectionmay have superseded environmental characteristics most oftenassociated with habitation sites. In fact, Jack’s Brook appears tohave been a prominent and known place on the landscape to adegree that encouraged subsequent inhabitants to remember andincorporate aspects of it in later domestic occupations. The mne-monic role of the stone architecture to these subsequent domesticoccupations remains to be more fully explored, but it suggests thathistoricity may subsequently impact the selection of sites for sometypes of domestic occupations.

One obvious possible explanation for the disparity between thefrequency of sweathouses in the ethnohistoric record and their

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appearance archaeologically is that sweathouses were used morefrequently in the post-contact period, perhaps as a result of Euro-pean introduced diseases. If this is true, we would expect that evi-dence of Protohistoric and Early Historic period sweathouseswould be readily apparent in the archaeological record, but theyare entirely absent. Further, sweathouses appear to have served avariety of purposes beyond the treatment of disease and to havebeen used to treat ailments that are not associated exclusively withEuropean-introduced diseases, and for purposes, such as improv-ing hunting, that are difficult to associate with European contact.The most parsimonious answer is that they simply have not beenencountered and/or identified in the archaeological records fromall periods.

Feature 3 supports a substantial time depth for the use ofsweathouses among prehistoric peoples on the Maritime Peninsulaextending to at least the Middle Maritime Woodland period, andhelps to contextualize Wabanaki therapeutic and ritual practices.It also stands with evidence from throughout the Algonquianhomeland to support a widespread use of sweathouses amongindigenous people in the Northeast. In the Middle MaritimeWoodland period or earlier, individuals at Jack’s Brook—probablymen— employed Feature 3 to sweat and possibly inhale therapeu-tic vapors. The nearby fen and forest provided a diversity of plantsto create medicinal pastes and inhalants. Despite their distancefrom the harbor, if they wanted to plunge into cold water followingtheir sweat, the nearby creek was large enough to do so. The sub-sequent occupations of Jack’s Brook maintained an architecturalconnection to this sweathouse; part of the central stone architec-ture of the sweathouse was visible in all of the subsequent domes-tic occupations, forming a tangible historical link.

Conclusions

Ritual features are important components of hunter–gatherarchitecture and spatial practice. As we have discussed, the place-ment of these structures in relation to other archaeological depos-its and landscapes may signal important aspects of religiouspractice and social context, and reveals important insights abouthunter–gatherer land use. The case study we have presented herebrings to light a feature class that creates challenges for archaeol-ogists. Considering the anthropological implications of ritualstructures and their placement requires developing methods foridentifying and interpreting those structures archaeologically. Thismust include the development of new models, drawing on localethnographic records, and extensive archaeological survey utiliz-ing new site location models. The interpretation of such featuresultimately requires meticulous excavation strategies to recognizecultural features that lack artifacts. Ritual features may need tobe excavated in full horizontal extent in these cases in order tobe fully interpreted.

This study suggests that hunter–gather use of the landscapemust be considered from a perspective beyond traditional sitelocation models, and should include additional factors such asthe demographic and seasonal context, access to non-comestibleresources, seclusion and other ritual necessities, and even histori-cal preferences. It is noteworthy that these considerations appearcritical even among groups that, such as the ancient Wabanaki,may have tended toward ‘‘forager’’ rather than ‘‘collector’’, andtherefore are expected to have fewer task-specific site types(Binford, 1980; Sanger, 1996). Beyond this point, identifying fea-ture types and explaining their placement can be bolstered bythe recognition that they exist within an historical trajectory thatmay be elucidated by both archaeology and historical analogy. Aswe have described here, location of these features and consider-ation of their context may provide insight into prehistoric religiouspractice and social context.

Acknowledgments

We are deeply appreciative of Acadia First Nation’s ongoingcollaboration, guidance, and support of the E’se’get ArchaeologyProject. Thomas Raddall Provincial Park and its caretaker, NormanAnderson, have been unfailingly generous and supportive, as hasthe Harrison Lewis Cultural Centre, and its operator, Dirk VanLoon.We are grateful to Natalie Jess, Katherine Patton, and Jesse Webb,both for their skill and diligence in the field and for their frequentinsight. Karen Neil and Konrad Gajewski conducted the pollenanalyses, and expanded our knowledge of the environment andhistory surrounding Jack’s Brook. We thank Stephen Augustine,David Black, Françoise Dussart, Kenneth Holyoke, Sally McBrearty,Kevin McBride, and Karen Ryan for their comments about Feature3. The Canadian Museum of History funded this project and theUniversity of Connecticut provided institutional support. Thispaper benefited from the comments of John O’Shea and twoanonymous reviewers.

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