The existence of this article was prefigured by two things: my love of local histories and my primal need to be within spitting distance of a body of water on a frequent basis.
Stanford is more of a desert than one might imagine. I grew up in Monterey, never far from the ocean, rivers, ponds, and watering holes. Going to “The Frog Pond” behind my elementary school was a regular educational activity. We picked up toads, snakes, and lizards. We saw hawks and owls and ospreys. The water brought life of all kinds together; we gathered around it with our animal-neighbors.
Here, the ocean is far away. Creeks and ponds, where they do still persist, are held on private land without public access. Being around water (let alone in water) is a special event that needs to be planned and accounted for. Most of the time, I’m just too busy to drive an hour to the beach. At Stanford, we do not gather around water together. We do not share the natural joy that comes with recreation and leisure.
It was my desire for swimming holes that sent me on an aerial-view Google Maps survey, looking for any field of blue water. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Stanford possessed multiple lakes. There is the familiar Lagunita, as well as two others: Felt and Searsville. Not only were these other lakes always full, unlike our ephemeral Lake Lag, but they had also been historically used as sites of swimming, boating, and other recreational activities for a significant portion of Stanford’s history. Stanford students, for decades, had gathered at the water. They had shared joy, leisure, recreation, and love of life on the beaches of Searsville Lake, swimming in the warm sunshine.
It was 2020 when I first learned about Searsville. Now, in 2023, I have been working as a Conservation Technician for the Stanford Conservation Program for more than a year. I have seen, firsthand, the lakes that once captivated my imagination. They are not the same as they once were. Searsville Lake is plagued by invasive species, like bullfrogs and largemouth bass, and nasty parasites, like swimmer’s itch. It’s not a body of water one would be excited to dive into. And it doesn’t have long to live.
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For 20 years, Matt Stoecker has been pressuring Stanford to tear down Searsville Dam. The dam creates the lake by stopping the flow of San Francisquito Creek, a critical habitat for the federally protected steelhead trout. The dam gravely impairs the survival of this threatened trout species.
Steelhead rely on river systems to breed. They migrate upstream to spawn and return to the ocean after the breeding season. The presence of the dam harms them in multiple ways. The reduction of flow downstream makes it difficult-to-impossible for the trout to migrate out of the creek. It has genetically isolated the upstream population of trout, which can no longer reach the ocean, nor breed with the population on the other side of the dam. This artificial habitat supports invasive species which outcompete and prey on endangered species like the steelhead. Finally, after years of dispute, Stanford has committed to putting a large hole in the dam, which will result in the draining and destruction of Searsville Lake.
Like Matt, I have a similar fondness for steelhead trout. I grew up watching them swim in the Big Sur River. The rainbows that reflect from their scales are captivatingly beautiful. They help to define the California landscape that is close to my heart.
I dearly want to improve the environment and aid their survival. It goes without saying that I support the destruction of the dam, and consequently, the lake. But the death of the lake is the end of an era, and so I am forced to reflect on the many roles that Searsville has played over Stanford’s long life and the joyful place it used to be.
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When I first learned about Searsville Lake, I spent a whole day researching. I studied the history, photos, the current state of affairs. I imagined the Stanford students who had come before me – occupying the same dorm, attending classes in the same quad, but were still starkly different. I saw the ghosts of Stanford students past pushing a raft onto Searsville Lake, playing games in the water, laughing around a bonfire. Perhaps, to you, reader, these sound like normal modern college student activities, not relics of a bygone era. But at Stanford, they are. Leisure, recreation, and joy of this type are not simply accessible here.
In recent years, the Stanford administration have made a number of unpopular decisions, resulting in a movement known as Stanford Hates Fun. I can attest to the fact that social life on this campus is drab and soul-sucking. It has no character – only a corporate, liability averse overlay that enshrouds anything and everything within the Stanford safety bubble. Many of Stanford’s traditional houses and programs have been terminated. The school I attend has little continuity with the Stanford of previous decades. I long for the vibrant Stanford that alumni talk about with affection. Perhaps their retrospective lenses are rosy, but I’m skeptical that I’ll ever be able to look back with the same fondness.
It isn’t the case that I want Stanford to fill Lake Lag so that we can join hands and sing kumbaya on its beach. Filling lakes and maintaining them to recreational standards is not something I expect Stanford to ever do again. The era has passed. With the destruction of Searsville imminent, I simply reflect with melancholia on a Stanford that is no more.
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Rachel D’Agui is a master’s student in Earth Systems at Stanford University, where she is also a conservation technician and frog researcher. She was raised in Monterey and Salinas and is a passionate admirer of California wildlife. She writes about the beautiful miracle of life on earth and personal connection with nature.
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