The deadly 1862 California flood that wiped out and reshaped the state
An illustrated view of Sacramento's K Street during catastrophic flooding in January 1862.
UC Berkeley Bancroft Library/CourtesyLike every day that month, it was raining when Leland Stanford awoke on the morning of his inauguration.
The storm pounded the roof of his Sacramento mansion as the soon-to-be California governor dressed in a neat black suit and ate a leisurely breakfast. A scan of the morning’s newspaper brought only troubles: Californians bitterly split between Union and Confederacy, and reports of floods in every corner of the state.
Normally, Stanford could walk the short distance to the brand-new state Capitol building. But that day, Jan. 10, 1862, only the most intrepid or desperate soul would try. So Stanford got into a rowboat and floated, wave upon wave, to the Capitol.
Two weeks later, the waters still rising, the entire California Legislature packed up and fled to San Francisco.
“Nearly every house and farm over this immense region is gone. America has never before seen such desolation by flood,” one local wrote in a letter to family back east. “... Many houses have partially toppled over; some have been carried from their foundations, several streets (now avenues of water) are blocked up with houses that have floated in them, dead animals lie about here and there — a dreadful picture.
“I don’t think the city will ever rise from the shock, I don’t see how it can.”
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Californians live with the specter of the Big One, but many don’t realize “The One” may not be an earthquake.
One hundred and sixty years ago, the biggest flood in modern history wiped out California: 4,000 dead, one-third of all property destroyed, a quarter of the state’s 800,000 cattle drowned or starved. California went so utterly bankrupt that its governor, Legislature and state employees didn’t draw a paycheck for 18 months. The newly installed telegraph system fizzled, just the tops of its poles visible under feet of water, and roads were impassable. Eggs cost $3 a dozen (that’s $79 adjusted for inflation, if you thought today’s supply chain issues were bad).
The catastrophe began with a snowstorm in the Sierra. In early December 1861, upwards of 15 feet of snow fell in California’s eastern mountains. What followed, modern National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration researchers believe, was a series of atmospheric rivers. For 40 days, they kept coming, bringing warm rain and high winds. All of the fresh Sierra snow melted, turning frozen creeks into raging rivers as the water poured downstream.
The disaster struck the Sierra towns first. As rivers overflowed their banks, the churning floodwaters devoured everything in sight. Every last bridge in El Dorado County washed away, taking with it ferry boats and mills. Several towns disappeared overnight. Chinese immigrants, who were already banished to living in the worst parts of town, were disproportionately affected. Entire communities drowned in minutes, a fact met with characteristic callousness by white publications.
"The Folsom Telegraph thinks that those journalists who have centered many of their energies against Chinese immigration ought to be shocked at the superiority of water over their spirit in decreasing the 'Chinese nuisance,'" the paper joked, "for it is not to be doubted that two or three thousand Chinamen have perished in California since the commencement of the present rainy season."
After weeks of rain, the earth could absorb no more. Water began pooling on every surface, destroying roads, seeping into homes and smothering flora and fauna. Sacramento to the San Joaquin Valley — a distance 300 miles long by 20 miles wide — was completely underwater. In the Central Valley, flooding was up to 30 feet deep. "From the Sierra Nevada to the Coast Range is apparently one sheet of yellow rippling water,” the Marysville Appeal wrote.
Flooding is seen in Yuba County during the 1860s.
Yuba County Library/CourtesyTo the north, snowmelt and rain combined to sweep through the burgeoning settlements near present-day Redding. "From the head settlement [Weaverville] to the mouth of the Trinity River, for a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, everything was swept to destruction,” historian John Carr recalled in his 1891 book “Pioneer Days in California.” “Not a bridge was left, or a mining-wheel or a sluice-box. Parts of ranches and miners' cabins met the same fate. The labor of hundreds of men, and their savings of years, invested in bridges, mines and ranches, were all swept away.
“In forty-eight hours the valley of the Trinity was left desolate.”
Conditions were equally bad in Sacramento. The town
was no stranger to floods; nestled in the confluence of the Sacramento
and American rivers, the area flooded almost every year. But this was
unlike anything residents had ever seen. A levee, built to keep water
out, proved to be too short for the catastrophic storm. Water first
poured in, then it stayed, turning Sacramento into a watery punch bowl.
The first floors of just about every home and building in town were
inundated. Sidewalks ceased to exist. The only viable method of
transportation for weeks was rowboat.
Those who survived next
faced starvation as livestock, farms and trade disappeared overnight.
Many stubborn farmers, with nothing left but the plot of land somewhere
beneath their feet, refused to leave. The Butte Democrat told the tale
of one such man, who was seen holding his beloved pet bulldog above his
head as the floodwaters raged around him. Finally, as the water began
lapping the man’s armpits, a rescue boat was able to reach him. He
gently nestled his dog in the boat before clambering in himself. After
thanking his rescuers, he mused aloud, “I wonder what has become of my
wife and children.”
There was some respite, relatively speaking, in the Bay Area. Although the deluge overtook nearly every community there too, the impact was not as prolonged. The state legislature briefly relocated to San Francisco, which saw the upside to its many hills for the first time. From this lofty perch, they witnessed life slow to a halt. "Rails, portions of fences, gates, lumber, saw logs, everything buoyant enough for the greedy water may be seen passing downstream,” the Napa Daily Reporter wrote.
A man named L.H. Powell recalled his journey from San Jose to San Francisco. It took 36 hours to navigate the sodden roads. As he went, he saw bodies floating past him in the swollen creeks. He stopped, he said, to retrieve the body of a boy and leave it where his parents might find him.
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When the waters receded — which in some parts of California wasn’t until the summer — the state was forever changed. A quarter of the economy had been destroyed in the course of a month, and more than $3.1 billion in damage had been done (dwarfing the $235 million in damage from the 1906 earthquake over 40 years later).
“Confidence in the future is gone,” the Placer Herald wrote. “... Build our Babylonian town as high as we may, the Heavens are yet above and beyond us.”
But Californians were a hearty bunch, a self-selected group who braved brutal ocean passages or deadly overland crossings to begin new lives in the West. Accustomed to starting over, the survivors rebuilt homes, roads and farms. Some settlements, like Empire City and Mokelumne City, became ghost towns. The ranchos, once California’s dominant economic system, finally unraveled, and the remaining massive cattle farms were broken into smaller parcels.
If a flood of this proportion seems like a problem of the past, heed this warning: Scientists believe California is overdue for another one. Sediment studies by the U.S. Geological Survey have shown California tends to flood this badly every 100 to 200 years. The Indigenous peoples of the West also had stories of catastrophic floods in their histories. When the rain wouldn’t stop in 1862, newspapers noted Native Americans weren’t surprised; their oral tradition told them such an event was not uncommon in California history.
Though the past holds warnings, it also holds hope.
Sacramento, set between the Sacramento and American rivers, was beset by flooding constantly in the 1800s.
Brandon Williams/Getty Images/iStockphotoIn the aftermath of the great flood, Sacramento decided to boost up the entire town. Over the course of the next decade, every business and home in the flood zone rebuilt up to 10 feet higher. Some did this by adding landfill, others jacked up existing buildings and many just turned their first floor into a basement.
"The system of raising its buildings has its advantages," Mark Twain quipped in 1869. "It makes the floor shady and this is something that is great in such a warm climate. It also enables the inquiring stranger to rest his elbows on the second-story windows and look in and criticize the bedroom arrangements of all the citizens."
Today, Sacramentans walk over the skeleton of their city. If you want a glimpse at what remains, you can book a tour with the Sacramento History Museum, which takes visitors down into the old alleys and buildings. But even from street level, you can still see one vestige of the flood renovations: colorful glass squares dotting the old town sidewalks. At first glance, they seem decorative, but if you view them from below, their purpose becomes clear. They’re pretty little skylights, bringing sunshine down into the former living rooms of Sacramento.
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