![]() ![]() “Damn, I hadn’t seen this,” he said with quiet awe as we gazed upon acres of flooded pistachio trees. ![]() Our shuttle driver, Vincent Ruiz-a 360-pound trucker, originally from Guadalajara, who owned a 13-acre farm a few blocks from the flood zone-steered around a ROAD CLOSED sign without a care. Trespassing rules would be strictly enforced. As for the Kings County sheriff, during media interviews he had informed would-be gawkers that the lake bottom-a vast depression at the southern end of the nation’s breadbasket-was private property. County health authorities had warned the public to stay out of the contaminated water, an unwholesome brew of pesticides and animal waste. It was a Saturday, two days before Memorial Day. 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. ![]()
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