Slab City

For about 20 years now, I have wanted to visit Slab City and Salvation Mountain, located east of the Salton Sea in the southern California desert. (I'll write about Salvation Mtn. in another post.) A week and a half ago, I finally went. So very glad I did. Both are the kind of place you're going to see less and less of as the world becomes more controlled and more uniform. These are places that are certainly not for the conventional and the rule-oriented. These are the last of the free spirits. Perhaps the last free places left in the US.

Slab City occupies a tiny portion of the 631,345 acres on which Camp Dunlap was housed during World War II through the mid-'50s. Opened in 1942, the military installation was dismantled in 1956 and returned to the State of California in 1961. Somewhere around that time, the first civilians started moving in, in their recreational vehicles, trailers, and camper trucks. Slab City gets its name from the slabs of concrete that once served as the foundations for military buildings or driveways of one sort or another. Few are left, and most residents have their rigs on the desert floor, not on concrete. Some of today's residents are snowbirds, people from northern regions who want to escape the cold winters. Some are long-term residents who put up with the harsh summers. There's no electricity, no running water, no local government.

The people who live in Slab City are resourceful, friendly free spirits. They've got at least one trailer converted into a library, three clubs where residents can pay $20 for a year membership and get free coffee every morning. Internet service is $10/month, though it was a bit unclear how that system works. Residents bathe in a natural hot springs and either pay to have water delivered to their private water tanks or go into town (Niland's about three miles away) to get water from the store or gas station.

I had read that Slab City was deep in trash, but Aaron, who went with me, and I sure didn't see that. We saw the usual rusted metal and abandoned vehicles that you see in any remote enclave. Nothing more, nothing less. I didn't see any human or dog waste and no garbage. I wonder how order is maintained out there, seemingly without any police protection. I wonder how the retirees and others on fixed incomes who live there keep the druggies out.

I'm sorry that my photos of Crow, his mules, and his dog don't do them justice. When I first spied him and his crew walking down the road, I felt as if I had entered a time warp. He looked like someone who might have strayed from Pancho Villa's band in the late 1800s. He told me his camp was nearby and that he's been living with his mules for "12, maybe 15 years." He makes extra money by walking the 40-some miles to the Walmart in El Centro, where, for a fee, he poses for photos.

Two of the most remarkable things about Slab City are the abandoned water towers, one painted with corporate logos and dinosaurs, the other with animals in kama sutra poses. The former has a panel composed of colored shot gun shells with the message "Killing for God," a tribute to religious fanatacism. Both works of art give you the idea of the anti-establishment feel to the place.

The pet cemetary was touching. I can only imagine how much these dogs, cats, and rabbits meant to their human friends, many of whom, I'm sure were living out here alone.

I must admit that this life really appeals to me. Living off the grid, removed from government and corporate intrusion. A genuine sense of community and shared vision. If only I didn't need so much healthcare, I believe I'd be heading for Slab City right now.