Konocti: Honoring the Land That Raised Us
From the mountain to the lake, it’s time our town’s name reflects the place we’ve always called home.
“What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet…”
— The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare
We can be sure that times are changing. In fact, we can be sure they always do. Still, it jars us to realize that all we once knew can mean so little to those who come after. We cling so tightly to the past. But what if it’s only the memories we should cherish, not the name?
The old lake, though now shaped by human hands, still gives. Its bond with the mountain is timeless. The Mountain stirs the waters, setting them to life. Fish spawn, birds feed, the wind carries the scent of pine and wild grass. At times, she seems to breathe. For countless ages, this place has cared for every living thing, including us, since we first arrived nearly eleven millennia ago.
Compared to the Sierra or Klamath ranges, Konocti may seem small. And almost a child in age. Yet to the plants, animals, and people who call this place home, the mountain and lake feel eternal. Rare manzanitas cling to volcanic soil on her slopes. In the lake’s depths, giant catfish glide. Every year, thousands gather for what has become the largest catfish tournament this side of the Mississippi. The mountain and lake are steady. Our lives are but fleeting moments, mere specks on a timeline far beyond comprehension.
Her name was first spoken in the original tongues of the seven Pomoan languages. Four have gone silent for eternity. The nearly extinct remaining Northern, Central, and Southern Pomo carry the echoes of a world that once was. Konocti, they called her: kno, mountain, and htai, woman. Those who lived here did so in harmony with the rugged land, respecting its rhythms, taking only what they needed.
One day Andrew Kelsey arrived. From a ridge, he saw a lake so clear it mirrored the sky. Its surface trembled with life. Twelve kinds of native fish swam beneath her wake. Creeks ran dense with hitch, blackfish, perch, and trout. Valley oaks stood like sentinels along the edges of our rivers. Snowmelt poured from Cobb Mountain in glassy ribbons, feeding the lake’s cold breath. The air was clean. The wind carried wild scents. It would have been paradise.
Kelsey enslaved the Pomo. They were starved, beaten, their women assaulted. When fifty men were taken on a gold expedition, only two returned. In the fall of 1849, they rose. Kelsey and his companion Charles Stone were killed. For a time, the valley grew quiet. The lake and mountain kept their own counsel, as they always had.
Benjamin Kelsey came north, seeking revenge. He buried his brother beside the creek that would bear the Kelsey name. The creek’s name should never be changed. An homage to a pioneer, but also, an atonement for his sins. Then he struck. Two hundred Pomo men, women, and children were killed on a small island at the north end of Clear Lake. The Bloody Island Massacre. For years after, the lake ran quiet. The mountain stood in silence. Seasons turned, grasses grew back, water cleared. Yet if you stand there at dusk, it feels as though the mountain remembers. And the lake does not forget.
Settlers built towns around the lake. Time moved on. I grew up there, in Kelseyville, and the village shaped me. The people taught me what my parents could not, raising me with quiet care, guiding me along streets now familiar in memory. I return whenever I can. If I get my way, I’ll be buried in a mausoleum there. With a plaque that bares our family name. The mountain and lake settle something in me that nothing else ever could.
The town now debates its name. Opponents say Kelseyville honors a family. Supporters argue it bears a legacy of violence. The cost of changing signs and documents is cited. Yet far more has already been spent resisting change than it would take to embrace it. Memories do not live in a name. They live in the land itself: in the mountain, the lake, and the people who call it home.
Konocti does not erase history. It honors it. The name is already woven into daily life Konocti Harbor Resort, Konocti Unified School District, Konocti Road, Konocti Market. Embracing it ties us to something older, greater than any family or moment. It acknowledges that our story begins with the land itself.
Choosing Konocti is not rejection. It is recognition. It is reverence. It roots us in the mountain that breathes, the lake that mirrors the sky, and the valley that has always sustained life. In Konocti, we carry memory, respect, and hope forward. In Konocti, we find the story of who we are, and who we have always been. Let us plant a tree that we may not see grow.
