San Pablo Reservoir

Last weekend on a Thursday afternoon, my two roommates and I took a trip to the San Pablo Reservoir area in Northern California. The weather was perfectly sunny; I rolled the window down and felt a wonderful breeze on my face as we made our way closer to Orinda. I was first completely taken by the reflection of the sun’s setting on the mountains across from me, towering high and humbly in the distance. A swath of orange muted light turned to dusty rose, covering each peak in a rosy blanket. Powerlines stuck out on the landscape to the right of the sun-kissed mountains; these structures seemed almost gentle from afar, holding each other together with lines that appeared as thin and delicate as silken thread. After taking in the sights at first glance, I set off on my own to self-reflect and observe the space unaccompanied for a while, focusing first on the sounds encompassing my human presence. Often, especially in natural spaces, sound comes in cascades, with intricate individuals on every layer that passes through one's ear; what came first was the whoosh of cars passing by the highway, coming and going in synchronized waves. I listened closely–more deeply–and peeled back another layer of squirrel’s chirps, followed by the croaking of frogs and distant squawks of birds (a fun fact is that the San Pablo Reservoir possesses 98 discovered bird species in the area as of 2024.) Closer to the water, in the crumble of soot and sand, laid a pattern of pebbles and stones; I attempted (poorly) to skip a few, and washed myself with a bittersweet nostalgia as I recalled my hometown’s bodies of water and the memories I’ve had loving them.

While breathtakingly beautiful, I also noticed the receding water lines of the reservoir’spools; bell-curve shaped lines hugged each other and left in their wake patterns that reminded me of the purple and grays left behind by oil stains. Water at the base of these lines appeared to be muddied and stagnant, and I could see teems of small flies noisily flitting about. I wondered if this recession came as a natural sequence with the extraction of the water (the San Pablo Reservoir is a drinking and recycling water reservoir) or if its escalation acts in tandem with climate change’s dire consequences. I read an interview that discussed how this particular water storage location brings water to roughly 120,000 households in the East Bay annually, comprising 5% of the overarching East Bay Municipality District’s infrastructure of water administration. I learned that, as of 2015, the San Pablo Reservoir is only 62% full due to the onslaught of drought patterns affecting California.

I noted how I can count the days it has rained on my hands during the years I’ve spent as a student in the Berkeley Bay area, remembering the orange and red dusted skies my first year as a freshman. How beautiful and how lucky we are to visit the source of our water for this area; the tap water I drink likely flows directly from where I stood last week; the stillness of the water–in its intricate patterns that ebbed and flowed with the gentle wind– showcased a blend of community, a community that needs respect like every other. It pained me to observe the reservoir’s darkened rings, to not be able to look into it to the very bottom; I associated the muddied, grayed and purpled patterns with its warning to protect, to preserve, and to show gratitude to the very basis of life’s sustenance. How wonderful that this space provides a home for vulnerable creatures, and an oasis that both propels and invokes life and sustains ours; how vital it is to tell its story, to visit in a respectful fashion, to recall what it once was and to champion for its own sustenance.

Lillian Worley