Ghost lake returns after 130 years and buries 94,000 acres of farmland
For the first time in about 130 years, Tulare Lake reappeared in California’s San Joaquin Valley, stirring both wonder and concern among locals and experts alike as it submerged almost 100,000 acres of privately owned farmland.
Vivian Underhill, a researcher formerly at Northeastern University, has been studying this unexpected phenomenon.
“Tulare Lake was the largest body of fresh water west of the Mississippi River. It’s really difficult to imagine that now,” she says.
Tulare Lake returns
Often dubbed the “ghost lake,” Tulare Lake vanished about 130 years ago due to extensive human intervention.
But in the spring of 2023, after massive winter storms and significant snowmelt from the Sierra Nevada, the lake roared back to life.
The water overwhelmed human-made systems designed to drain the basin, submerging thousands of acres of fertile farmland that once produced pistachios, almonds, cotton, and safflower.
The reborn lake stretches out with a seemingly endless blue horizon.
Yet, unlike Lake Tahoe’s cool breezes and recreational appeal, Tulare Lake offers little respite from the heat. The air is still, and a thin layer of high clouds does little to shield the sun.
Nature reclaims the land
Despite the challenges, the lake’s return has revitalized local ecosystems. Ducks, egrets, and other waterfowl have flocked to its shores.
Frogs now wade at the water’s edge, ready to dive in at the slightest disturbance. Tule grass has begun to sprout along the shoreline, signaling a revival of plant life that hasn’t been seen here in generations.
Underhill notes the historical significance, saying, “Once, there was so much water that a steamship could carry agricultural supplies from the Bakersfield area up to Fresno and then up to San Francisco.”
That’s nearly 300 miles of navigable waterways that connected communities and supported commerce.
Tulare Lake hidden in plain site
To travelers passing through the arid San Joaquin Valley today, the existence of such a vast lake seems almost mythical.
“It’s hard to imagine such a large body of water co-existing alongside such an arid landscape,” Underhill remarks. Yet, in the 1800s, “Fresno was a lakeside town.”
Back then, Tulare Lake was fed primarily by snowmelt from the Sierra Nevada.
“There’s no natural outlet within the valley,” Underhill explains, “so the water collects to form a lake.” The indigenous Tachi Yokut tribe called it “Pa’ashi,” and it was central to their way of life.
Human impact of Tulare Lake
The disappearance of Tulare Lake began in the late 1850s and early 1860s.
“The state of California’s desire to take public land and put it into private ownership propelled the lake’s decline,” Underhill explained.
“When we say ‘public land,’ that is historically indigenous land that the state of California blanket-proclaimed as ‘public.'”
This process, known as “reclamation,” aimed to convert inundated or desert land into arable farmland.
“If people could drain that land,” Underhill says, “they would be granted ownership of parts of that land. So there was a big incentive for white settlers to start doing that work.”
This led to the construction of hundreds of irrigation canals crisscrossing the valley, diverting water away from the lake.
Modern-day concerns
Today, the reemergence of Tulare Lake poses new challenges. The floodwaters have engulfed private lands, turning fields into vast stretches of water.
Signs warning against trespassing dot the shoreline, reminding everyone that wading or boating is technically prohibited.
More troubling is what’s hidden beneath the surface. The waters have submerged storage sheds containing fertilizers and chemicals, manure piles, electrical wires, and sharp farm machinery.
These hazards not only pose risks to anyone venturing into the lake but also raise environmental concerns about contamination.
Uncertain future of Tulare Lake
Local officials now speculate that this latest incarnation could also take years to fully recede.
“California just got inundated with snow in the winter and then rain in the spring,” Underhill points out.
Such weather patterns accelerate snowmelt, causing rapid runoff into the basin where Tulare Lake sits.
“All that snow and rain in the Sierra still runs into the depression where Tulare Lake once sat,” she adds.
Reflecting on the past
The story of Tulare Lake is not just about water returning to a dry basin; it’s a narrative intertwined with history, culture, and environmental change.
The lake’s disappearance was a result of deliberate actions to reshape the land for agriculture, often at the expense of indigenous communities and natural ecosystems.
Underhill emphasizes the colonial undertones of this transformation. “It was a deeply settler colonial project that proceeded in fits and starts,” she says.
The push to privatize land and the incentives offered for reclamation led to dramatic alterations of the landscape.
Why does any of this matter?
As Tulare Lake reclaims its historic footprint, it serves as a reminder of nature’s resilience and the lasting impacts of human intervention.
The revival has brought back species that haven’t been seen in the area for decades, offering a glimpse into what the region might have looked like before extensive farming took over.
At the same time, the challenges posed by the lake’s return highlight the complexities of balancing human needs with environmental stewardship.
The submerged farmlands represent significant economic losses, and the potential environmental hazards lurking beneath the water pose risks that will need to be addressed.
As Underhill aptly puts it, witnessing the lake’s return is both surprising and profound. It challenges us to reconsider our relationship with the land and the long-term consequences of our actions.
The full report by Underhill is published in the journal Open Rivers.
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