On the Shelf
The Last Human Bear
By Greg Sarris
Heyday Books: 384 pages, $30
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Before her death in 1993, Mabel McKay — one of the last living dreamers of the Pomo Indian people — shared a prophecy while driving through the Sonoma hills. One day, this paradise would burn.
“Everything is going to go dry. Everything will burn. That’s my latest vision,” she said, gesturing to the idyllic landscape.
Startled, writer Greg Sarris asked what could be done to stop it.
“You live the best way you know how,” McKay replied.
Since her passing, Sonoma County experienced the most destructive wildfires in California history in 2017, only for another, more destructive fire to surpass it a year later. “She always used to say, ‘Whether you believe it or not, it’s true,’” Sarris recalls.
McKay and her visions are the inspiration behind Sarris’ latest work. His first novel in 28 years, “The Last Human Bear,” is loosely based on the spiritual leader McKay, whose wisdom and companionship served as a refuge to Sarris during a tumultuous childhood in Sonoma County.
On a Monday morning in California, Sarris sits in his sleek office at the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria in Rohnert Park. Sarris, 74, has served as chairman of the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria for more than 30 years. In his office, diplomas and academic certificates crowd the walls. A framed poster for the 2023 film “Joan Baez: I Am a Noise” hangs nearby — she’s a close friend. Behind him, an American flag ripples in the distance outside the window, blurred by the summer heat.
Just up the road sits a multibillion-dollar tribe-owned casino, Graton Resort & Casino — a project the writer oversees. “I had never been in a casino. I have a PhD in modern thought and literature from Stanford,” says Sarris.
How does an accomplished author find himself at the helm of a multibillion-dollar casino enterprise? It’s a question that still puzzles Sarris. “I told them if we can raise our people and become a platform for social justice and environmental stewardship to benefit Indian and non-Indian alike, I’ll do it.”
Before his stint as a reluctant casino mogul, Sarris was a prolific author and university professor at UCLA and Sonoma State. In 2023, he was appointed a regent of the University of California by Gavin Newsom. Over the course of his career, he published six books, and his novel “Grand Avenue” became an HBO original film in 1996.
From early in his career, Sarris wanted to depict Indians as he knew them, rather than as Hollywood depicted them. “We’ve been erased by Hollywood, because the idea of Indians has always been Plains Indians or Southwest,” Sarris explains. “It’s easier for Americans to access Buffalo Bill.”
Greg Sarris’ new novel “The Last Human Bear.”
(Josh Edelson / For The Times)
“California Indians have always been left out of the picture,” says Sarris.
“The Last Human Bear” is Sarris’ latest attempt to revive the legacy of California’s Native history. The novel follows Mary Hatcher, a Pomo Indian in Sonoma County, from Prohibition through the 21st century. It’s told in the first person through Hatcher’s compelling voice as she narrates the horror and heartbreak of her lifetime over the course of a century, echoing William Faulkner’s literary style, which influenced Sarris.
‘California Indians have always been left out of the picture,’ says Sarris.
“I’m curious why you want to know about me,” reads the first line. The novel unfolds like an oral storytelling tradition, driven by a voice that Sarris painstakingly crafted, evoking his conversation with McKay. “The voice comes. I have to call it, almost like a spirit,” says Sarris. “I wanted it to feel like an oral story.”
Hatcher — a Pomo shape-shifter who dodges prejudice by passing as Mexican in the novel — is a thorny protagonist, often cunning, scheming and unforgiving. “An American Indian woman is as richly complicated as anybody else. I wanted to show this rich and complicated character who’s negotiated a history that she’s showing you,” says Sarris.
Acclaimed Northern California writer and activist Rebecca Solnit, who has authored 17 books and is a friend of Sarris’, says that she was fascinated by his ability to evoke so many aspects of female life in “The Last Human Bear.” Solnit was especially moved by Sarris’ rendering of California’s tragic history. “It’s shocking, given how rich California’s Indigenous cultures were — 99 different language groups, mythologies, belief systems and linguistic traditions. Every North American Indigenous language family is represented in California. It’s weird how this history has been erased, and how horrific what happened was.”
Climate change and ongoing ecological disasters have made Indigenous perspectives more vital than ever, the author argues. “I think Indigenous people have been hugely influential in giving us a point of view in which we were never separate from nature,” she says. According to Solnit, Sarris’ novels are part of a broader resurgence of interest in Native culture.
In the early chapters of the “The Last Human Bear,” the protagonist gets a job on a ranch by posing as Mexican, since Indians were forbidden from working as housekeepers. What follows is a tale of tension, deception and a forbidden love that sours, reminiscent of Brontë novels.
Sarris hopes that the novel illuminates an uncomfortable history of Sonoma County that remains largely invisible, looming beneath the soil of wine country. The novel offers “a history of this county that a lot of people haven’t seen,” says Sarris.
“There were more Indian people right where we’re sitting per capita than anywhere else in the entire New World outside Mexico City, which was the Aztec capital,” says Sarris. “The genocide was so horrendous.”
Identity, revenge and a search for home are themes that arise throughout the novel — subjects Sarris knows well in his own life.
Greg Sarris feeds chickens at an organic farm across the street from Graton Resort & Casino, which he heads, in Rhonert Park.
(Josh Edelson / For The Times)
In 1952, Sarris’ teenage mother gave him up for adoption, her family hoping to evade the embarrassment of their Jewish daughter becoming pregnant by a Native American Filipino man. Sarris grew up in a white family in Santa Rosa alongside three siblings. His adopted father, George Sarris, became abusive, causing Greg to flee the house with his adopted mother’s blessing. “God bless her. She let me go out and live on ranches and run with other people to get away from him.”
It was in these formative years that Greg became acquainted with Native American people in Santa Rosa, always feeling a mysterious pull toward them. It was these years that also shaped his sensibility as a writer. “I was a lost kid on the streets, so I was always paying attention to everyone, listening, and people would tell me stories.”
Native Americans lived on the fringe of town, often practicing healing ceremonies that were frowned upon by white Catholic families in the suburbs Sarris explains. “When I was 15, I met Mabel McKay, who I wrote the book about. I knew she did some of those strange things that I heard about, but I liked her,” he says. “I had no idea that I was related to these people. I thought I was a mixed-blood Mexican or Spanish.”
At age 30, Sarris uncovered the identities of his birth parents and learned of his Native heritage. He learned his birth mother was buried in a pauper’s grave at the Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Santa Rosa, with “nothing to mark her grave but an upside-down horseshoe that has her name in it.” In the opening pages of the novel, a dedication to her: Bunny Hartman.
Excitedly, Sarris presented proof of his Indian heritage to McKay, his trusted confidant. “I thought it was a big deal that I had Indian blood,” says Sarris. He showed McKay a photo of his father, which she met with indifference. Naturally, Sarris was disappointed. “She told me something later: ‘You’re never any more Indian than your experience.’”
Questions surrounding the legitimacy of Sarris’ heritage haunted him for decades and ultimately informed the novel. Being adopted by a white family, only to be shunned by the Native community, perpetuated his lifelong feeling of being an outsider. “I keep thinking maybe I just got in with this group of people and my Indian relatives so that I would feel rejected again,” he says. “We gravitate towards what we know as home emotionally.”
“I didn’t grow up on a reservation. I’m fair-skinned,” he says. “Being adopted, it feeds into that feeling of not being good enough,” he says, adding: “Illegitimacy is a medicine in the end.”
In the Native American literary community, Sarris has often felt excluded from discourse. When in doubt, he reminds himself of his involvement with the tribe. “Who among them have done this much for their people?” he asks. “Who among them has given this much time and sacrificed a writing career for their people?”
Jane Fonda, the two-time Academy Award-winning actress and activist, struck up a friendship with Sarris through a shared cause. “We met during the campaign to secure health and safety setbacks that would finally prevent oil wells from being drilled within 3,200 feet of a community. Greg and the federated tribes helped us win that fight against Big Oil,” Fonda explained in an email.
“I can tell from his books and my time with him that he embodies indigenous wisdom and beliefs,” Fonda says. “I see Greg Sarris as a man who embodies the best of two worlds — the mercantile culture of Western civilization and the indigenous world that knows we are part of nature and interdependent with it. It’s a rare and valuable combination.”
Greg Sarris, who holds a PhD in literature from Stanford, inside the casino he works for to help fund his tribe’s future.
(Josh Edelson / For The Times)
The Graton Resort & Casino, launched by Sarris over 12 years ago, now plays a vital role in supporting the Pomo Indian community. “I promised early on: roof over everyone’s head, an insurance policy in every pocket and a college degree paid for,” he says. “We give $2.5 million a year in perpetuity to the University of California, so that all California Indians can go to the University of California tuition-free.” The casino has funded theater programs, youth writing intensives and revenue sharing with neighboring tribes.
On the car ride to the casino, Sarris is riffing on his friendship with Grateful Dead member Mickey Hart, who bought Sarris a quarter horse as a gift. In the casino, Sarris eagerly greets his employees with a friendliness that betrays his repeated insistence that he’s a reclusive writer. He points out blown-glass flower sculptures, an embellishment he once saw at the Four Seasons in Paris. He walks past the baccarat room, where he hosts high rollers from Beijing, whom he boasts, “play $100,000 in a hand.”
Early on, news of the casino’s construction caused waves of controversy across Sonoma County — some of which resulted in death threats against Sarris’ life. Concerns that a casino would invite debauchery into the county circulated, which Sarris points out is ironic for a community predicated on wine: “Beyond whether gambling is right or wrong, what is implicit is their privilege and elitism,” says Sarris. “People were getting scared because these brown people, who were the poorest in Sonoma County, are suddenly going to have power.”
Admittedly, Sarris says their newfound wealth has not been without repercussions in the tribe. “People who have been traumatized with generational poverty are the most vulnerable to the lure of materialism,” he says.
In the final chapters of “The Human Bear,” the protagonist, at the end of her life, recalls: “Human Bears often like to even the score before they die.” Revenge is futile, she concludes. “If I was going to avenge our people, I would have to poison nearabout all of history.”
Sarris recalls a similar epiphany he had speaking with McKay. He explains Pomo Indians believed that each action had a consequence. “Ethnographers always said we’re a culture predicated on black magic and fear. No, we were cultures predicated on profound respect for the complexity of all life,” says Sarris.
Then, white men came and seemingly bent the laws of natural order. “The Kashaya Pomo word for white people was ‘miracles’, because they came in and killed everything and did all these things. Nothing could come back to them,” says Sarris.
He explained to McKay that he thought of the white man’s fate differently. “Look, there’s no water. There’s no air. Everything’s poison,” he says, gesturing around him to this vast, broken world. “It’s all come back. It just took time.”
Connors is a culture journalist from Sonoma County. She covers books, food, entertainment and offbeat Los Angeles. She’s currently at work on a book of essays about tourism in all its forms.
Bailey Zimmerman is apologizing after a warrant for the country singer’s arrest was issued following an incident at a New Mexico hotel.
Last week, an arrest warrant was issued in Bernalillo County for Zimmerman, who’s facing a felony charge of criminal damage to property and a misdemeanor charge of falsely obtaining services after the “Holy Smokes” singer allegedly caused more than $16,000 worth of damage to a room at the Sandia Resort and Casino in Albuquerque.
The 26-year-old country singer was scheduled to perform at the resort May 27 and 30 but abruptly canceled the show the day of the performance.
“I have not been feeling well and have tried to power through, but I’m not able to give you all the show you deserve,” Zimmerman wrote on Instagram at the time.
According to an affidavit reviewed by People, hours before the singer was slated to perform, he appeared inebriated and volatile during a sound check.
The document alleged Zimmerman stumbled onto the stage around 4:30 p.m., smashed a guitar on the ground, threw cymbals, kicked a drum set, pushed a guitarist and threw a microphone before he stormed offstage. At one point, he tripped and fell backward.
The affidavit further alleged that the country singer “spit toward a Sandia security officer standing nearby.”
A representative for Zimmerman emailed The Times a statement on Tuesday.
“First things first, I want to apologize to the Pueblo of Sandia and to everyone at Sandia Resort & Casino. I never meant for any of this to come across as disrespectful. I am deeply sorry for my actions that transpired. I respect your community and the hospitality and appreciate the opportunity that was given to me to perform on Native Land. I take full accountability for everything that happened and I am sorry to anyone who feels hurt or disrespected,” the statement read.
“To my fans who bought tickets and showed up expecting a performance, I am so sorry, you deserved better from me,” the statement continued. “I understand that being a musician comes with big responsibilities, both on and off stage, and I know that I fell short that day. I am reflecting on the disappointment and concern that I caused.”
Zimmerman wrote that he was taking the legal matter seriously and was committed to doing the “work necessary to learn and grow.”
“Thank you to my fans for holding me accountable and for understanding that I am human. I do not take your support for granted,” the statement added.
RudyBalasko/iStock via Getty Images
Las Vegas Sands (LVS) has picked up the pace of hiring around the Dallas region. The company has newly posted new job openings that include architects, data engineers, and technical support specialists. Notably, one listing highlights the design and implementation of a casino management
Once upon a time, Primm, Nev., had three bustling casino resorts, shiny gas stations, a roller coaster and Bonnie and Clyde’s “death car.”
It was a bit surreal, said former visitor John Honell of West Covina: “You had this whole complex in the middle of the desert.”
Southern Californians traveling the arid stretches of the I-15 would see Primm pop up. As he drove to Sin City for bowling tournaments, Honell would stop and “drop a few coins” into the slot machines. It was a gambling oasis — a little less flashy and a little more affordable than Vegas and 45 minutes closer.
“I guess it worked for a while,” said Honell, 85.
But it works no longer. The last of the three casino resorts will close on July 4, owner Affinity Gaming confirmed to The Times this week.
Honell, a regular in the 1970s, saw the growth of a desert gamble: the expansion of the Primm property, in the dusty town once known as State Line, from Whiskey Pete’s gas station, bar and slot machines into three busy resorts.
The Nevada gambling hub south of Las Vegas along the 15 Freeway appears finished, though. Southern Californians who appreciated that it was a shorter drive now can find gambling much closer, at tribal casinos.
Las Vegas insider publication Las Vegas Locally posted a termination letter from Affinity Gaming’s affiliate, Primadonna Co. LLC, to employees who worked at Primm Valley.
The casino is closing down July 4, with all employment ending that day too.
Affinity Gaming declined to make an official comment.
The castle-shaped Whiskey Pete’s opened in 1977, followed by Primm Valley in 1990 and Buffalo Bill’s in 1994. Whiskey Pete’s was the first casino to close, in December 2024. Buffalo Bill’s Resort ended 24-7 operations on July 6, only opening when the casino’s concert venue, the Star of the Desert Arena, hosted special events.
David G. Schwartz, a gaming historian and professor at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, said Primm’s casinos were “built for an entirely different world.”
“Southern California is a huge market for Las Vegas and, in particular, it was once very attractive for those in the Inland Empire,” Schwartz said. “It was a way to trim 45 minutes off the drive — it was a 2-hour drive. It’s different math.”
Lights still glow on the Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino sign on Sunday, July 6, 2025 in Primm, NV. (Bridget Bennett / For The Times)
(Bridget Bennett/For The Times)
Primm was once one of Nevada’s more popular gambling resorts, a less expensive, slightly more kitschy alternative to Las Vegas that benefited from being closer than Sin City.
Primm Valley, Whiskey Pete’s and Buffalo Bill’s all hosted at one time the famed Bonnie and Clyde V-8 Ford riddled with more than 100 bullets in 1934.
Whiskey Pete’s offered a quick and affordable 24-hour IHOP, in comparison to Vegas’ pricier buffets, and Californians and Nevadans visited Primm Valley’s 100-store outlet mall, supported by shoppers who were brought by bus to the mall for free.
The three resorts enjoyed expansion and growth throughout the 2010s by utilizing low prices, gimmicks and attractions to lure guests.
Buffalo Bill’s was the biggest of the trio, boasting a buffalo-shaped pool and 592 rooms at its opening (the Bellagio has nearly 4,000 rooms) and eventually expanding to 1,242 rooms.
Buffalo Bill’s and its sister resorts closed in March 2020 when the pandemic hit, reopening between December 2022 and 2023. But they struggled to attract customers.
Although the COVID-19 pandemic hurt all Nevada casinos, that was only part of the reason for Primm’s decline. Schwartz said tribal casinos in Southern California saw their prospects soar as Primm’s hotels teeter-tottered.
California voters passed Proposition 1-A in 2000, which allowed tribal casinos to operate slot machines and erased limits on card games.
“Many of those people Primm was drawing from began to stay in Southern California, where the drives are just much shorter and the amenities much closer,” Schwartz said. “You see the same issue playing out at Laughlin along the Arizona border and Reno and Tahoe in Northern California.”
Shortly after Proposition 1-A’s passage, San Manuel was one of several tribal casinos in San Bernardino and Riverside counties that declared an arms race with Nevada.
Fantasy Springs Resort Casino in Indio, run by the Cabazon Band of Mission Indians, opened in December 2004. The tribe was the fourth between 2002 and 2004 to open or expand its operations, including Agua Caliente in Palm Springs, Morongo in Cabazon and the Pechanga Band of Luiseno Mission Indians in Temecula.
Most of these casinos have continued to build and expand their operations as revenue has continued to flow.
The Southern California tribal resorts are classified by the National Indian Gaming Commission, a gaming regulatory body, to be in the Sacramento region, which includes all resorts in California and Northern Nevada.
In 2014, the combined casinos contributed $7.9 billion in gross gaming revenue.
Ten years later, 87 tribal operations throughout two states combined for $12.1 billion, marking a modest 1.4% increase from 2023.
Yaamava’ Resort & Casino, run by the San Manuel Band of Mission Indians, sits in Highland, about 200 miles from Primm but less than half that distance from downtown L.A.
Yaamava’ completed a $760-million expansion in 2021, which added a 17-floor tower, three bars and about 1,700 new slots.
The 7,400 slot machines at Yaamava’ make the casino the West Coast’s largest, with 4,000 more slots than its Vegas peers. By square footage of gaming space, Yaamava is No. 4 in the nation and still the biggest on the West Coast.
“The decline has been part of a larger trend,” Schwartz said of Primm. “People are choosing options that most appeal to them.”
Primm Valley Resorts, the last full-time casino among a cluster of three off Interstate 15 in Primm, at the California-Nevada border, is permanently closing, according to a termination notice sent to employees on Tuesday.
The letter, posted by Las Vegas insider publication Las Vegas Locally, noted that employees who worked at Primm Valley would be let go by July 4. It’s not known if the casino will close that day or before.
An email to Primm Valley Resorts owner Affinity Gaming was not immediately returned.
Primm Valley was the last of three operating casino resorts in Primm, formerly known as State Line. The castle-shaped Whiskey Pete’s opened in 1977, followed by Primm Valley in 1990 and Buffalo Bill’s in 1994.
In a letter to the Clark County Board of Commissioners, Erin Barnett, Affinity’s vice president and general counsel, wrote in October 2024 that “traffic at the state line has proved to be heavily weighted towards weekend activity and is insufficient to support three full-time casino properties.”
Along with Primm Valley Resorts, Primadonna Co. LLC, owned by Affinity Gaming, is closing the Primm Center gas station and the Flying J truck stop located at Whiskey Pete’s; that casino closed in December 2024.
The termination notice comes nearly a year after Affinity Gaming ended 24/7 operations at Buffalo Bill’s Resort on July 6. The casino opened on days in which its concert venue, the Star of the Desert Arena, hosted special events.
Lights glow on the Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino sign on July 6, 2025, in Primm, Nev.
(Bridget Bennett / For The Times)
It’s unclear what happens to music and magic acts booked until July 25.
It’s not known how long other Affinity-owned properties in the area, such as the popular Lotto Store on the California side of the border, will continue to operate. Nevadans have been known to drive for several miles and wait in long lines to buy Powerball tickets, particularly when jackpots creep into 10 figures.
The notice informed employees “this action is expected to result in the permanent termination of employment for all employees at these locations.”
As late as September, Primm Valley Resorts emailed media members promoting renovated rooms and signature experiences at its final resort.
Primm once shined as one of Nevada’s more popular gambling resorts. The three-casino complex served as a less expensive, less flashy, slightly more kitschy alternative to Las Vegas that benefited from being a good 45 minutes closer to Los Angeles than Sin City.
Several factors have contributed to Primm’s slow decline, including the COVID pandemic and increased competition from casinos popping up on tribal lands in California.
Those newer casinos are easier to get to than Primm from key Southern California population centers, reducing the value proposition.
New York City is set to make history with its first full casino opening
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