Produced by: Mohsin Shaikh
Once erased by settlers and forgotten by maps, Tulare Lake surged back in 2023 like a phantom—drowning farmland, stunning locals, and reigniting a century-old ecological memory overnight.
In the late 1800s, Tulare wasn’t just a lake—it was an empire of water. Then came the settlers, the ditches, the dreams of agriculture. Within decades, they buried the largest lake west of the Mississippi.
Billed as progress, the draining of Tulare Lake was a colonial conquest masked as "reclamation"—a seizure of Indigenous lands that turned thriving wetlands into profit-driven deserts.
Locals in Kings County thought they’d seen the last of the lake. Then came atmospheric rivers and a biblical snowmelt. Within weeks, the ghost basin bloomed back to life.
For the Tachi Yokut tribe, the lake’s return was more than water—it was a homecoming. Ceremonies resumed. Fish returned. And ancient songs once drowned by silence echoed again.
Pelicans, hawks, and herons swooped back like they never left. Dormant for over a century, Tulare’s rebirth became an accidental refuge for creatures long evicted by plows and pipelines.
What revived the wetlands wrecked the economy. Thousands of acres of farmland were submerged, leaving growers scrambling and farmworkers displaced in what some called “a slow-motion disaster.”
Vivian Underhill didn’t mince words: “This wasn’t a flood—it was the lake returning.” Scientists say Tulare’s comeback is a preview of climate chaos, where land use and legacy collide.
By March 2024, the lake had shrunk to a whisper—just 2,600 acres. But with climate volatility rising, experts warn Tulare may return again…and next time, it might not leave.