A few years back, I was being interviewed on WBHI radio in New York, the largest public radio station in the U.S. I was attending the National Museum of the American Indian Film, TV and Radio Festival.

I was one of those guests on a regular, weekly evening program on "cultural affairs." It featured a live, call-in format that made me feel right at home. The topic was Native American issues and tribal radio.

Our host for the broadcast was from the local Latino community and was very gracious and outwardly excited about having "real Indians" on his talk show. I was joined on the panel by a gentleman from Nebraska (via Arizona) and a lady from California (via Oklahoma), both of whom were tribal members and in the tribal radio business.

We began with somewhat formal introductions and spoke pleasantly and optimistically, although briefly, about the state of tribal radio, the national museum, and some basic Indian 101 stuff. We opened the phone lines to callers and took a couple of general, typical questions about how to find out about tribal ancestry and what we Indians or Natives prefer to be called.

Then we received a call from a gentleman from New Jersey. My guess was he was in his mid-30s to early-40s and, excuse the racial profiling, he had a distinct Caucasian accent. He informed us that he had spent several summers under the tutelage and guidance of a Lakota medicine man (why is it always a Lakota?) who had taught him to build a sweat lodge and some of the spiritual teachings and significance of how and why Creator had bestowed this cleansing gift to the people.

The caller explained that he had felt exhilarated learning from this elder out on the Dakota plains. His dilemma, he articulated, was that he wanted to construct his own sweat lodge and conduct his own ceremonies, but the only place the local authorities would permit him to build the lodge was an area near an old, closed nuclear waste dumpsite. He was complaining, but in my mind, he was also indirectly seeking our advice and also our permission, our validation.

The Oklahoma woman found it hard to mask her contempt but managed to explain that just because this Lakota man had shown him how to build a lodge and some basic teachings, that did not grant him the right to do it on his own.

The Arizona man had a similar reaction, explaining that it takes years to learn the true essence, nature and meaning of the prayers, songs, nuances, and the mindset that is necessary to properly run a sweat.

My response was simply, "when you dig your pit for the rocks, be sure not to dig it too deep."

This produced a bit of levity but my point was that Native people cannot keep non-Indians from appropriating certain aspects of our tribal cultures, like the sweat lodge. So why not offer some practical wisdom?

Let's take what happened at the Angel Valley Retreat Center outside Sedona several weeks ago, for example. Dozens of people (none of whom were identified as Native) paid a reported $9,000-plus each to attend a five-day "Spiritual Warrior Event" that was hosted by a self-help expert from California with ties to the New Age spiritual movement. During a sweat-lodge ceremony, 21 participants were overcome and had to be taken to the hospital, three died — a 40-year-old Wisconsin man, a 38-year-old New York woman and a 49-year-old Minnesota woman.

Do I feel non-Indians should not be practicing the sweat-lodge ceremony? No. It has a lot to offer and, besides, you can find so much information right on the Internet so there's no way to ban it.

Do I think the spirits were angry at the people in Sedona? No. I don't believe in vengeful spirits.

Do I think people should approach our tribal spiritual ways with caution, humility and without greed? Yes. The consequences could be deadly.

Harlan McKosato, a Sauk/Ioway, is host of the syndicated radio show Native America Calling, which airs weekdays at 11 a.m. on KUNM, 89.9 FM.