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| Mono Lake, California. August 2015. |
Immediately after stepping out of the van at the edge of Mono Lake, I felt uncomfortable. Every survival instinct in my body was ringing an alarm, warning me away from the stagnant land. The lake itself had a salt content so high that that no carbon based life form could survive in its waters.
The beaches surrounding the lake were covered in shining black masses, manifesting as growths pushing through the gray lake sludge. It was not until further inspection that I realized these black masses were writhing and alive— millions of tiny black flies, making the sand bank their home. No birds touched the water, no plants grew in it. My lips cracked within minutes and my hair solidified into salty tendrils, as if I had stayed in the ocean too long. This was not a place for the living.
I must mention Mono Lake’s most distinctive feature, the tufa, for complete accuracy. Tufas are literally the skeleton of the lake bottom. After years of interaction between calcium (the stuff of bones) from underground water vents, and sodium bicarbonate (baking soda) from the fresh lake water, solid molecules precipitated and formed underwater towers. In the 1940s, a thirsty Los Angeles diverted Mono Lake's source water, causing the water levels to drop drastically. The lowering water levels peeled back the layers of the lake to show us the fossils that had been growing for thousands of years.
And yet, it was stunning. Though my eyes were tearing up in the dry wind, I could not look away from the saline landscape. Against shining pastel water, tufa towers created massive white silhouettes which could have passed as city skylines. But the still reflections in the placid water needed no darkness for their lights to shine. Each layered piece of limestone was entirely different from the next, creating a sort of skeleton snowflake that branched along the rim of Mono Lake. Even the crumbled bits of limestone along the shoreline made a cityscape for fly residents. Bridges, tunnels, mounds, houses, seemed to form from the salt the water.
I reached this strange dichotomy of disgust and awe. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay. The absence of mammalian life, the presence of water that could kill me if I was dehydrated, and the irritating ambiance of swarming flies tempted me to abandon the place and return to the lush mountains.
But this was a different breed of lush. This was a place that survived and thrived. The land made itself useful to thousands of gulls that nested on tufa tops. The flies are the foundation of a food chain that supports the reptile, the bird, and, eventually, the mammal. This piece of land rolled with the blows of human intervention and continued to thrive in order to support a valuable ecological community. I feel uncomfortable because this is not a place for mankind. This is a place for the resilient.
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| Mono Lake, California. August 2015. |