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It's the morning of March 13, 1928.

In a mountain about 45 miles outside Los Angeles, William Mulholland stands on the edge of a bluff, staring down at a muddy riverbed.

The harsh California sun beats down on Mulholland as it gays on in horror.

Down below, on the canyon floor, there are the shattered remains of a 185-foot concrete wall.

To breathe, scattered in every direction, the canyon walls look like they've been sprayed with mud.

A bead of sweat begins to trickle down Mulholland's forehead.

Everything here, this devastation, is unthinkable.

Up until last night, there was a concrete dam at the bottom of this canyon.

It was the only thing propping up a sprawling reservoir, an artificial lake holding 12 billion gallons of water.

But now it all lies in ruin.

As Mulholland surveys the canyon floor, he gets itchy and claustrophobic and feels like he's about to overheat.

He's 72 years old, and less sturdy than he was years ago, back when he set out to transform California, to bring water to the desert city of Los Angeles.

But it doesn't matter how old he's gotten.

This dam was his creation, and its failure is his mess to clean up.

So Mulholland takes off the jacket from his three-piece suit and begins making his way down a slope towards the scattered remains of the St. Francis Dam.

At the bottom of the slope, Mulholland meets Harvey Van Normen, his right-hand man.

The two men have worked together for over 20 years at the water department, but neither have ever faced a disaster like this.

With ankles deep in the muck, Van Normen turns to Mulholland.

Oh God, Bill! How did this happen? We just ran inspections. Didn't find anything wrong.

Nothing was wrong, Harvey.

I engineered this dam along with every other reservoir in Los Angeles. I know when there's a problem.

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