My wild, wet, and (sometimes) miserable paddling trip through the heart of California
The sun had risen above the asthmatic haze of California’s San Joaquin Valley, and the disaster tourists would soon be arriving at the edge of Tulare Lake to take their selfies. It was a Saturday, two days before Memorial Day. County health authorities had warned the public to stay out of the contaminated water, an unwholesome brew of pesticides and animal waste. … Though I had no interest in tangling with Johnny Law, I recognized this unusual spring for what it was: a once-in-a-generation opportunity to travel, by way of the federally navigable waters that all Americans have a stake in, 200-plus miles from the heart of these floods, a natural disaster by any measure, to the man-made disaster that is the Delta of San Francisco Bay.