Beauty In Abandonment: The Salton Sea

A strange yet beautiful dichotomy exists at the receding edge of the Salton Sea in the Coachella Valley of Southern California. Evidence of human activity is everywhere – inescapable. Yet while I was there to capture these images, other than a few dozen birds, the only sign or sound of life cutting through the morning’s thick stillness was from a single individual – a county meter reader, proving somewhat circumstantially that the handful of homes among the many undeveloped lots were still occupied and drawing on basic utilities, despite appearances to the contrary. California’s largest lake, dying for decades, lost its momentum and broke its promise long ago, yet it remains home to a small community of holdouts who seemingly refuse to quit.

In 1905, flood waters from the Colorado River breached a nearby canal, filling what was deemed the Salton Sink – an ancient lakebed that had remained dry for millennia. After two years, the breach was repaired, and a lake nearly twice the size of Lake Tahoe sprang to life. At around the same time in nearby Palm Springs, rail travel from Los Angeles became a reality. A terminal was built to haul mesquite and greasewood which once covered the valley floor, and the area became a place on the map. When artesian water was found near Indio and a deep well was completed, development of the region began in earnest, and the little place on the map gradually became a prominent destination.

The 1950s brought considerable development to the shoreline surrounding the Salton Sea, creating what was eventually dubbed "The Salton Riviera". Subdivisions sprang up, celebrities arrived for golf and photo opps, and the fun began as the sea brought life to an otherwise desolate part of the desert. Activity and interest reached its zenith in the 1970s, and the hope of what was to be, faded. According to an article in The Verge, on January 1st, 2018, a water transfer agreement with San Diego ended, reducing the inflow of fresh water by 40 percent. The article states that by 2045, the lake will be five times as salty as the Pacific Ocean, which will surely kill what fish remain, and scatter the birds who still depend on them for sustenance.

With the long, slow death of the Salton Sea now an inevitability, it is for me, an archaeological and sociological anomaly, and perhaps oddly, a place of singular beauty. Initially, my interest in creating these images was born from a desire to capture the brilliant light and simple beauty of the landscape in this desolate, sparsely populated edge of the valley. What I came away with was a new understanding of nature’s ability to outlast human interference. The forced shutdown of the artificial life support system which temporarily sustained intense human activity for more than a century has triggered a long, gradual reversal, as the Salton Sea slips back into the dry lakebed of its past – before humanity left its mark, then failed, scarring the land with the artifacts of both hope and abandonment.

Yet, the evidence of hope still hangs heavy here, mixed with a dominant, pungent funk – an intense odor of rotten eggs from toxic sulfur dioxide gas, the result of a massive fish die-off. The stillness of the morning allowed me to avoid the often windswept dust from the lakebed. Laced with arsenic, selenium, chromium, zinc, lead and a wide range of pesticides, the mix poses significant health risks to the area’s remaining residents and most likely, to communities that lie downwind.

Above my head, the muddled purple haze of sunrise provided an exquisite filter for my first images of the day. As morning advanced, the light shifted, the muted colors changed hues and intensity, and the softened landscape slid into harsh texture and deep shadow. High winds aloft eventually revealed a vibrant blue sky, smeared by cirrus and cirrostratus clouds, and the vapor trails of planes neither seen, nor heard. The blanketed absence of sound was uniquely remarkable, palpable, contrasting with what should have been the normal background din found in any other community of this size. As the temperature rose, so did the effects of the sulfur dioxide gas. The quality of light and the ethereal beauty of the damaged, deteriorating landscape gained a more traditional elegance.

Later, as I prepared the images for printing, a strong reaction to the visuals brought back visceral, sense-based memories. My eyes actually watered, recalling the heat, fumes, and humidity. I thought again about the emptiness of the place, and of the residents who never appeared. I speculated on their daily lives and their reasons for hanging on, despite the many obstacles, wondering if they knew that time appeared to be passing at a different rate for the rest of us than it seemed to be for them, living near the growing shoreline of an ever-shrinking Salton Sea.

- JT March, 2017

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