The Story of Pyramid Lake: An Ancient Sea in the Desert

Stand on the shore of Pyramid Lake and you are looking at the last great piece of an ice-age sea. The story of how it got here — and who has called it home — is as remarkable as the view.

The ghost of Lake Lahontan

Tens of thousands of years ago, ancient Lake Lahontan covered most of what is now Nevada — a colossal inland sea. As the climate dried, the water retreated, leaving behind a handful of remnants. Pyramid Lake is the biggest of them: 125,000 acres of water in the high desert, one of the largest natural lakes in the state. Its salty, mineral-rich water is a direct inheritance from that vanished sea, and so is its most famous resident, the Lahontan Cutthroat Trout.

The pyramid and the Stone Mother

The lake wears its geology on the surface. Unusual tufa rock formations ring the shoreline, and just off the west shore near Red Bay stands the pyramid-shaped island that inspired explorer John C. Fremont to give the lake its name when his expedition reached it in 1844. Nearby sits the Stone Mother, the lake’s most storied formation — central to the traditions of the Pyramid Lake Paiute people, whose history is inseparable from the lake itself. The lake lies entirely within the Pyramid Lake Paiute Tribe reservation, and visiting it is a privilege the Tribe extends to guests — permits are required for fishing, boating and day use.

An island full of wings

The lake’s larger island, Anaho, is a National Wildlife Refuge and home to a large nesting colony of American White Pelicans — along with California gulls, Caspian terns, Great Blue Herons and snowy egrets. To protect the colony, landing on Anaho Island is prohibited and boats must stay at least 500 feet from its shore. Watching a squadron of pelicans cross the water at dusk, you won’t need the rule explained.

A lake of moods

Ask anyone who visits often: Pyramid Lake never looks the same twice. The water shifts from deep blue to slate gray with the sky above it, the desert hills change color hour by hour, and the whole basin goes quiet in a way that’s hard to find within an hour of a city. Millions of years of solitude, 40 minutes from Reno — we didn’t make the tagline up.