Dusk settles over the rolling hills of southern Ohio. The sun hangs low on the horizon, casting long shadows across Brush Creek Valley. On a high bluff overlooking the water, a line of torches begins to glow—one by one, like stars waking in the twilight. Figures gather along a sinuous earthen ridge that curves and coils across the landscape for nearly a quarter mile. Drums pulse softly. Smoke rises. The people have come to honor the solstice, to mark the turning of the seasons, and to pay respect to the Great Serpent that sleeps in the earth.
This is Serpent Mound, the largest documented surviving example of a prehistoric effigy mound in the world . And for countless generations—long before archaeologists began debating its age, long before New Age pilgrims began burying crystals in its flanks, long before television crews arrived with theories about aliens—this place was sacred.
Let me take you there. Let me show you what the builders created, what the night sky reveals, and why, after nearly a thousand years, Indigenous peoples are still coming home to the serpent.
The Serpent Itself: A Quarter Mile of Sacred Geometry
Before we talk about ceremonies, let me describe what the builders actually built. Because the scale is astonishing.
Serpent Mound is 1,300 feet long—more than a quarter mile of earthen sculpture . That’s longer than four football fields laid end to end. The mound ranges from one to three feet in height and from 20 to 25 feet in width . From above, it appears as a massive, uncoiling snake with seven distinct coils winding across the ridgetop .
At one end is an oval embankment—roughly 100 feet long—that has sparked endless debate. Is it the serpent’s eye? Its open jaws swallowing an egg? Or something else entirely? We’ll get to that mystery in a moment .
The builders constructed this effigy using the simplest possible technology: baskets. They excavated earth from nearby borrow pits, loaded it into woven baskets, carried it to the ridgetop, and piled it into shape . Thousands of basketloads. Countless hours. Generations of labor. And they did it without iron tools, without pack animals, without any of the machinery we would consider essential for such a project.
Now here’s where scholars disagree. For decades, the leading theory attributed Serpent Mound to the Fort Ancient culture (circa 1000–1650 CE), with a construction date around 1070 CE or 1120 CE . This theory is supported by radiocarbon dates and—crucially—by iconographic connections. The serpent was a major symbol in Fort Ancient and Mississippian art, representing the Great Serpent of the Beneath World, a powerful supernatural being .
More recent research, however, has complicated the picture. Some archaeologists now argue for a much earlier date—perhaps 300 BCE, built by the Adena culture . The charcoal samples used for carbon dating may have come from earlier fire pits disturbed during construction . The debate continues. But here’s what everyone agrees on: the ancestors of American Indians built it, and they built it for reasons that were deeply spiritual and astronomical .
The Cosmic Serpent: Alignments to Sun, Moon, and Stars
The most compelling evidence for the mound’s ceremonial purpose comes from the sky.
The head of the serpent is aligned to the setting sun on the summer solstice—the longest day of the year . Stand at the head on a June evening, and you’ll watch the sun sink directly behind the western horizon, perfectly framed by the effigy. This is not coincidence. This is intentional design.
But the solstice alignment may be just the beginning. Some researchers have proposed that the three main curves in the serpent’s body align to three key solar events: the summer solstice sunrise, the equinox sunrise, and the winter solstice sunrise . Others argue for lunar alignments instead—that the same curves mark the northernmost, midpoint, and southernmost risings of the moon across its 18.6-year cycle .
Can both be right? Probably not. As one archaeologist candidly notes, “The extent of this wiggle room is indicated by the fact that other investigators think the same three curves are aligned to some of the key risings of the Moon in its 18.6-year-long cycle. They can’t both be right” . But the fact that scholars can even debate such precise alignments tells you something important: these builders knew their astronomy.
There’s an even grander theory. Some researchers, including Ohio History Connection archaeologist Brad Lepper, have identified the Great Serpent with the Milky Way . In Dhegiha Siouan oral tradition—from tribes who trace their origins to the Ohio Valley—the Great Serpent “is the rainbow in the daytime sky; the Milky Way in the night sky” . The Milky Way, in turn, is understood as the Path of Souls—the highway along which the spirits of the dead travel to the afterlife. Nearly every Indigenous tribe in North America shares some version of this belief .
If Lepper and his colleagues are correct, Serpent Mound isn’t just a calendar. It’s a map of the cosmos, a representation of the night sky rendered in earth and stone. The serpent’s coils mirror the Milky Way’s curves. Its head reaches toward the setting sun. And the oval at its head? That may represent First Woman, the most powerful female spirit—and the portal through which the sun passes when it sets .
This interpretation ties the mound to a specific creation story. In Dhegiha tradition, First Woman had coitus with the Great Serpent, thereby acquiring his powers of regeneration and using them to create all life on Earth . The oval at the serpent’s head, then, represents First Woman’s vulva—the sacred portal of creation . The same iconography appears in Mississippian art elsewhere, including at Picture Cave in Missouri .
Whether you accept this specific interpretation or prefer a more general understanding, the conclusion is unavoidable: Serpent Mound was built as a sacred place, aligned to celestial events, and intended for ceremonies that connected the earthly community with the cosmos.
Ceremonies Then: What Happened at the Serpent?
We don’t have written records from the builders. But we have strong clues about what ceremonies might have occurred here.
The mound itself contains no burials—unlike the conical burial mounds of the Adena culture. No artifacts have been found embedded within its earthen walls. This suggests that Serpent Mound was not a tomb but a shrine . A place for ceremony, not burial.
So what ceremonies? The astronomical alignments point to specific times of year. The summer solstice—aligned with the serpent’s head—marks the longest day, a time of planting and growth in maize-based agricultural societies. The winter solstice aligns with the tail and marks the shortest day, a time of reflection and preparation for the return of the sun. The equinoxes fall in between, balancing day and night .
These were the moments when the community would have gathered. Picture it: the priest or clan leader standing on the ridgetop, watching the sun descend behind the serpent’s head, knowing exactly when to announce the start of planting season or harvest. A fire would be lit—maybe the central fire that once burned in the oval area, where 19th-century surveyors found “large stones, much burned” . Offerings would be made. Prayers spoken. The community would eat, dance, and reaffirm their connection to the land, to their ancestors, and to the spirits who governed the turning of the world.
We don’t know the specific traditions of the Fort Ancient people who likely built the mound. But we do know from later Indigenous cultures in the region that serpent ceremonialism was widespread. The Shawnee, for example, have a Snake Clan within their traditional religious community . Their traditions speak of a female creator with characteristics similar to First Woman. And their historic presence in Ohio—before forced removal in the 1830s—links them directly to these sacred landscapes .
Sacred Return: Indigenous Ceremonies at Serpent Mound Today
Here’s where the story becomes living history, not archaeology.
For much of the 19th and 20th centuries, Serpent Mound was treated as a curiosity—a relic of a “vanished race.” The racist “Moundbuilder myth” falsely credited the earthworks to a lost white civilization, an idea used to justify the expulsion of Native tribes from their lands . By 1850, most of Ohio’s Indigenous nations had been forcibly removed to reservations in Oklahoma. For a century and a half, their voices were absent from the mounds of their ancestors.
But not anymore.
In 2021, for the summer solstice, the Shawnee Tribe and the Eastern Shawnee Tribe of Oklahoma returned to Serpent Mound . Chief Ben Barnes of the Shawnee Tribe and Chief Glenna Wallace of the Eastern Shawnee Tribe walked the narrow asphalt path that encircles the serpent, talking with visitors about their tribes’ connections to this sacred place .
“We presented programs to let people know that the tribes still exist, the people still exist,” Wallace told Religion News Service. “We are still alive, we are still active. Those are still spiritual places for us” .
Their return was not tourism. It was ceremony. It was reclamation. And it was education—both for the public and for the New Age practitioners who had, for decades, treated the mound as a free-for-all for alternative spirituality.
Because here’s the uncomfortable truth: for years, Serpent Mound has been a flashpoint for well-meaning but often disrespectful New Age activities. In 1987, the “Harmonic Convergence” brought thousands of believers to the mound to meditate and chant . In 2011, a “Crystal Skull Festival” brought people from around the world who believed the skulls would ignite paranormal powers . In 2012, a group calling themselves “Light Warriors” buried hundreds of “orgonite” devices—crystals embedded in muffin-shaped resin—in the mound, hoping to “reactivate” its energies . They filmed themselves running and jumping on the ancient earthworks. The Ohio History Connection was not amused.
More recently, the mound has attracted fringe evangelical Christians who believe it was built by giants or demons. In December 2020, a conservative activist led a group to the mound to “cast out demons” .
All of these activities, however sincerely intended, treat Serpent Mound as a playground for whatever spiritual beliefs the visitor happens to bring with them. They treat it as empty—a blank slate onto which anyone can project their own myths.
But Serpent Mound is not empty. It belongs to the Shawnee, the Eastern Shawnee, the Miami, and the Delaware—the descendants of the people who built it and the people who cared for it for centuries before removal . And they have asked for respect.
How to Visit with Respect
If you visit Serpent Mound—and I hope you will—here’s how to do it right.
First, recognize that this is sacred ground. As the Ohio History Connection’s interpretive signage states, “American Indians consider it to be a sacred site and we ask you to treat this remarkable place as you would any cathedral, synagogue, or mosque” .
That means: don’t walk on the mound itself. There are paths and stairs designed to let you experience the site without damaging the earthworks. Use them.
Don’t interrupt anyone who is engaged in prayer or ceremony. Even out of curiosity, wait until they’re finished—and recognize that no Native person is obligated to serve as your ambassador .
Leave your crystals at home. Burying objects in the mound is destructive and disrespectful. So is drumming, chanting, or conducting any ceremony that isn’t rooted in Indigenous tradition—unless you’ve been explicitly invited by tribal representatives.
And finally, educate yourself. Learn about the history of the mound, yes—but also learn about the living Indigenous peoples who call this place sacred. The Shawnee and Eastern Shawnee tribes have websites, cultural centers, and public events. Support them. Listen to them.
Because here’s what Chief Glenna Wallace wants you to know: “Serpent Mound is our history. It’s our culture. It’s our reverence for our ancestors. We stand on their shoulders” .
Conclusion: The Serpent Still Speaks
The sun sets over Brush Creek Valley. The torches flicker in the dusk. The serpent coils across the ridgetop, its earthen body catching the last light of day. Somewhere on the path, a Shawnee elder stands with folded hands, facing west, remembering the stories her grandmother told her about the Great Serpent and the Path of Souls.
She is not alone. The ancestors are there, in the earth. The stars are coming out, and the Milky Way is beginning to glow across the sky—the Great Serpent of the night, echoing the serpent of stone below.
Ceremony happens here. Has always happened. Will always happen.
The mound is not a museum. It is not a mystery to be solved by archaeologists or a battery to be recharged by crystals. It is a living sacred site, built by Indigenous hands, aligned to the cosmos, and still speaking—if you have the ears to hear—across a thousand years.
The serpent still speaks. Are you listening?
