THE MOST FREE PLACE ON EARTH

The famous "hole" where many slabbers bathe. A hot spring empties into and drains out of it. "One of the great showers of my life," many say afterwards.
The "invisible" hand of human territoriality distributes folks nicely. Land disputes are rare. Only John Clarmont, a slab patriarch, has a reserved area respected by all.
Looking east from the LOW area
Some cobble together a home like this one and shade it with army camouflage netting.
And sometimes in departing leave a mess like this--the biggest unsolved slab problem.
Pastor Doug and wife somehow make a life here supplemented like missionaries by outside churches. I pondered whether the harm his doctrines inflict is offset by the quasi meaning he generates.
This club, now under new and enthusiastic owership is aimed largely at discontented LOWs.
Did not get the story on this club.
One of the two bandstands at the slabs with makeshift seating for the audience. Bands play twice weekly for donations.
My favorite slab character Container Charley in his workshop. He is skilled, brilliant, articulate, friendly,artistic, and creative. He found no suitable niche in the world till he came to the slabs and made one for himself in the middle of an acre of trash, transforming much of it into art works. He earns $1000 a month doing specialty soldering. With little overhead he flourishes financially.
Container Charley engaging our WIN hiking group.
Charley's art car which he displays at Burning Man festival near Reno, Nv.
Leonard Knight at work. Could you devote 25 years of your life to your passion?

Bagpipe Bob working with me in preparation for the "INTO THE TANK" experience. Note the Kama Sutra type paintings and the central one of Hindu God Shiva. Bob earned his freedom playing the bagpipes professionally.
220f our group dared to enter the tank and experience the "vortex of sensuality" ritual. (beautifully documented in Diana,s blog: life on the open road 2)
ONE SQUARE MILE OF ANARCHY

Three miles east of Niland Californis is a square mile of anarchy that everyone calls “The Slabs”, the remains of a short lived marine base named Fort Dunlap. It closed in 1947 and all its buildings were removed, leaving only concrete slabs. Soon afterwards campers began wintering here because it was warm and free. The state inherited the land but had no good reason to drive off the seasonal settlers who by now feel a kind of squatters rights. There are no services here, water, power, sewage or mail and the streets are marginal. Add to this an almost daily BOOM from the nearby bombing range and you wonder why this square mile has become so famous.

The Slabs is the only permanent free campground in America–perhaps in the world.
The big draw is sunshine and freedom. A kind of freedom that few on the planet ever experience:
freedom from mortgage, rent, zoning laws, and most important expectations and government. Hard to imagine but it’s absolutely real. You can come here and live free as long as you wish. Just select yourself a spot from among the thousands available and settle in. Define your territory if you like, as many do with tape, string, sticks, tires etc. THEN JUST LIVE YOUR LIFE. Be a hermit or a social butterfly, no one will pressure you either way. A full spectrum of humanity live here, from tent dwellers to million dollar motor homers; from mentally challenged to super intelligent, from socialite to sociopath. Supplies and services are just a few miles away. The lifestyle here is powered by solar panels, batteries and generators. I estimate there are 400 people here now. During the hellish summer heat it shrinks to perhaps 50.

If you’re the social type, there are four clubs you may join: The LOWs (Loners on Wheels),Traveling Pals, the Oasis and the church group that cluster around pastor Doug and his wife. The LOWs are most numerous but impose a stringent policy of singleness. If they suspect you have “coupled up”, you will be ousted from fellowship. Other clubs have no such policy.
Surprisingly, the number of men and women is approximately equal.

The only business here is solar panel sales and installation by “solar Mike”, a longtime resident and super nice guy. Nighttime often finds him and his harmonica making great music with a local band. One guy cuts hair, another fixes things and “Container Charley” makes a fine livelihood doing specialty electronics work in the giant insulated container he calls home. We were awestruck at the amount of solar power at his command.

A major draw here is “Salvation Mountain”, a huge outdoor artwork constructed of mud, straw and paint by Leonard Knight, a childlike man of simple religious passion. His message: GOD IS LOVE. An estimated 200 people a day come to see it. Sean Penn came and filmed Leonard for the movie.INTO THE WILD.

I’ve been here many times over the years. I’m comfortable here. My main interest, however is philosophical: What kind of society evolves when government is absent or minimal. Bottom line conclusion:THE ANARCHIST WERE RIGHT; they claimed that functional order would arise naturally from chaos—and it has—somewhat! In 35 years, a kind of system has emerged: territories have been defined, named and largely respected. Serious miscreants are “pressured” into compliance. History and tradition are honored but not mandated. Creativity constantly emerges. One guy has made a serviceable home in an abandoned tank. Now and again, a cleanup campaign will activate residents to tackle the slab’s biggest problem—trash.

Extreme freedom is heady stuff–and quickly addictive. Once experienced, it is like power–hard to surrender. Not everyone can handle it because meaning, when not driven by necessity must be generated out of ones fascinations.

People here rise from bed only when they want to and likewise lay down. They fill their time with their private projects. Some are odd indeed: One man glides the streets in a sail car. Another raised a Llama. “”Queen” raises cactus and vegetables. A sensually motivated guy painted in larger than life figures the whole catalogue of sexual possibilities from the Kama Sutra on a giant abandoned water tank. A tiny lady has built a makeshift domicile from pallets and tarps. A preacher-in-training tells his tales here.

Enough said! Come here and garner your own impressions. It’s free and you are welcome. Myself and 60 of my friends have enjoyed a marvelous 10 days exploring every nook and cranny. One day we borrowed Leonard’s ladders and 24 of us trooped over the walls and down into a giant tank, dry and unvisited in 71 years. We created a ceremony inside climaxed by a bagpiping march round and round. Perhaps we were indeed “resensualized” as I promised. My ex girlfriend has beautifully documented this wonderful experience in her latest blog: life on the open road 2.

A DAY ON THE ROAD

I begin my day investigating this tiny snap together house situated in a stand of tamerisk trees. No mortgage or foreclosure problem here. The builder/owner seemed cozy and contented with his domicile.
The mighty Imperial Dunes--they stir strange yearnings in me. A gargantuan sand box where a hundred thousand come to play,
Exquisite form and feature--reminded me of Ester Williams.
Holtville hot springs---perfect temperature, flowing freely, cleaned regularly--and free to the public.
That barely visible vehicle on the right in the distance is smoothing this roadside to be able to detect alien footprints.
There were more than a hundred of these marvelous sculptures scattered across the desert near Borrego Springs, Ca.
Desert loving, off road sub culture--bigger than you ever imagined.
Ahhhh----I'm Home---down there with my family---The wandering WINs

EVERYTHING INTERESTS ME

A day on the road

I once asked a hobo when he was happiest. He said: “When I’m sitting in a boxcar headed out of town.” I can identify, because moving day for me is more exciting than arriving. Many of my companions feel differently.

Anyway, here’s a more or less typical travel day, as I moved from Yuma, Az to Borrego Springs, Ca. to spend Thanksgiving with my travel club, the WINs (Wandering Individuals Network—wwwrvsingles.org)

My first stop is at the extraordinary rest stop dead in the middle of the gigantic Imperial sand dunes.(six miles wide, 70 miles long) It is much beloved for its good water supply–fresh and free to all. Off road dunes people fill up here for their weekend adventure. Surprisingly it is located within the median of Interstate 8.

This six mile dunes crossing required incredible feats of engineering. For years the only way to cross it was by a difficult plank road. Even more difficult was the All American Canal which also crosses the dunes here. The easy route for the canal would be a few miles south but that would dip into Mexico and give others some control over the precious water. America paid the price, dug through the dunes and now 90% of the Colorado River is diverted 40 miles west to the green fields of Imperial Valley, where 10% of the nation’s vegetables are grown.

My next stop is at Holtville hot springs, a fine tub of hot flowing water; hot enough to do you good; mellow you out. Boondockers cluster here for the winter, building rituals around daily soaks. Canadians seem to be over represented. On this day a lovely Hispanic lady with curves more graceful than a racehorse posed for my camera.

In El Centro Wal Mart I supplied myself for an extended desert stay. North on Hwy 86 I pass through a Border Patrol checkpoint. (Always located at strategic choke points) The officer always wants to hear you speak. You can imagine why.

West on Hwy 78 I stop to investigate a huge cloud of dust. The Border Patrol is dragging a smoothing apparatus down the roadside. They do this so that footprints of illegals crossing in the night will show.

I stop at Ocotillo Wells to appreciate the vast subculture of off road recreation.

I stop again to photograph the art works scattered across the desert near Borrego Springs. A rich guy (Avery) bought up the desert and commissioned the sculptures.

Settling in among my friends in the Anza Borrego desert. It’s been a good day and unlike tourist, who just see the sights, I see what I see.

HIGHWAY INTO SOLITUDE

These are good friends who have scattered themselves to enjoy solitude.
The stealth trailer "claims" its hundred acres of solitude.
My friend Pete, a very clever engineer. His is the most fine tuned rig in boondocking history. Worthy of a separate blog. He sits, soaking in the sun. I kept this respectful distance.
General George Patton commanded war games here 68 years ago in preparation for invading north africa. The evidence is everywhere.
120 miles west of Phoenix and 5 miles north on hwy 95 is
La Paz valley (valley of peace)–well named because here is where mobile people come to get away from it all. Photos suggest how we scatter into solitude–to pull ourselves together–when we are weary of groupiness. I claim my spot and settle in—I’m deliciously alone in the desert. I tune in my electronics–locate the tv satellite, turn on my cell phone, place my verizon air card in the window. (4 bar reception–good!) My satellite radio is always ready. Yes, I’m here for solitude and yet I’m connected to the whole world. I can theoretically interact with anyone in the world, but I don’t want to interact PERSONALLY with anyone for a while. Most, I presume can identify with the paradox.

Next day, curious how alone I am, I scan the horizon with my binoculars and surprise, I can see 4 of my friends rigs scattered widely , each separated by a quarter mile or so.

Probably they’re here as I am to LET NOTHINGNESS HAVE ITS WAY WITH ME. I welcome it like I often welcome the darkness letting it slowly envelope me like water wraps around a sinking ship. Oh how sweet! Perhaps it’s a form of cocooning–like enclosed insects we are self contained and hopefully we too are quietly transforming. Time, quiet and solitude “knits up our raveled sleeve of care.”

I don’t demean the social hubub I have left–it’s been good for me. But like a trip to the marketplace, I come “home to myself” to sort and savor my gains. Four days later I’m out of my cozy cocoon, refreshed and ready to go venturing..

This wonderful place is no secret. I show you the red highway from Quartzsite, Az to Bouse; 30 square miles of free clean desert. Come find your place, your peace–and heal.

ARIZONA'S OUTLAW FORTRESS

A REAL-LIFE HOLE-IN-THE-WALLHere is a photo of the original. History buffs will know that is located in Johnson county, Wyoming, in the Big Horn mountains--its most famous residents, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Not so well known is the fact that several outlaw gangs sheltered there simultaneously in relative harmony, with codes of conduct understood and enforced. Truly "honor among thieves." One outlaw gang comprised 75 armed and mounted men--a veritable army. Also not well known is the fact that the fortress was never penetrated by the law despite several attempts by determined posses. All were turned back, often with casualties. Amazingly, the outlaws held on to their sanctuary for 50 years. It faded from history by 1910.
Spread out below me is a real life band of "outlaws" taking refuge in Arizona's version of the infamous criminal fortress. Our "crime" is trespassing on state land. I daresay that only I actually bought a permit and am legal. The others know all about the forgiveness/permission paradox and are not worried. We are camped on the outer lip of the canyon because cell reception is good here AND because the inner canyon has gotten a bit scary. Unsavory and dangerous characters are said to live "in there."
And of course I want to go "in there." This nice lady pointed the way and described the dangers.
This hole-in-the-wall, like that in Wyoming, is a narrow one road in or out canyon.
Barely inside a hundred yards, I encountered this unlikely occupant, an attractive lady camping with her dog. She's on a cross country adventure to the coast. I approached, chatted, and told her my mission, and she----surprise----wanted to go with me. Together we journeyed.
At an abandoned campsite we found this clock. Stolen, abandoned loot?
Notice the semi hidden camper in mid picture.

This hole-in-the-wall is full of surprises.
This "outlaw" is obviously a minimalist camper. He waved--friendly like.
But later as we were leaving, things turned sour for him. He was required to squat under guard while another officer searched his vehicle. Unlike Wyoming, the law has penetrated here.
Denizens of outlaw canyon. There's a good story here but I don't have time to tell it.
Ah, but mostly the campers here are respectable, adventurous, warm-hearted folks. These were curious to tour my stealthy trailer. They listened to one of my poems and gave me a friendly bon voyage.

Marcy, it turns out is a very interesting lady, a practitioner of the arcane art of quantum touch. (www.chibodywork.net) She tried in vain to explain. In return for computer time and wine she brought me up to speed on couch surfing (a hospitality exchange network) and she enriched my writing with two memorable phrases: “frightened people who throw their fears on me” and “thinking from their television set.”

I think I will not reveal the location of this desperado canyon. My friend Glen chastises me often for betraying boondocker secrets. I will just say that it is accessible from Az hwy 95 between Needles and Parker.

DESERT UTOPIA

CALNEVARI, NEVADA
Camped "in the seam"
Flew in for breakfast
Plane on main street
Every house has one
“BIRDS” OF A FEATHER

There it is below: Calnevari, a town of 278 literally winged souls. I was puzzled as you would be to see a town this far out in the desert with no obvious raison detre. (reason for being) It’s 9 miles south of Searchlight Nevada, (a one casino, speed trap of a town the world would never mention, were it not the home of Senator Harry Reid, senate majority leader.) I was headed toward Laughlin, NV.

Tired and curious when I reached Calnevari, I called it a day, settling into a SEAM–one of my favorite tricks for free camping: parking exactly midway between two enterprises so that each, if they notice you at all, considers that you have business with the other. I’ve celebrated this strategy in verse:
BOONDOCKING IN THE CITY

Let us travel more boldly,
Range into urban locales;
Dare to camp in the city
Outside campground corrals.

Enjoy its treasures and splendors
And when comes time for dreams,
slip away from no-no land
into the city seams.

Seams are iffy zones
Where oversight is rare.
Sleep a full eight hours,
Then move away from there.

Doing the boondocker shuffle.
Moving twice a day,
Living free and easy
In Phoenix or San Jose.

I settled midway between the airport and the restaurant. No one troubled me. I walked into the casino/bar/restaurant–one of those places filled with regulars, so bored that everyone turns to look at whoever enters, desperately hoping for a stranger like me to create some excitement. As always, there was a pretty waitress that caught my eye generating a momentary fantasy of “taking her away from this one horse town.” (I flashed on my first sexual experience which happened just this way–with a twist. A strange, beautiful woman walked into my father’s bar and took me away to a motel in Monroe, La–God bless that woman!)

I slept soundly but was awakened early by small airplanes taking off and landing. I was surprised to see planes hitched like horses outside the restaurant and others actually driving on the one main street of town. The truth of things soon became apparent. I flagged down a deputy who was pleased to tell me some history. In the 50's, Nancy and Slim Kidwell started this airplane based community, inviting like minded enthusiast to “come fly with me.” The town name is a PORTMANTEAU of California, Nevada and Arizona. I walked the town verifying that every house had a hanger.

GOOD NEWS FROM THE WASTELANDS

Do you see what caught my eye?
A silent army of alchemist transforming sunlight to electricity
MR CLEAN---ENERGY

Driving south on Hwy 95 from Las Vegas, I saw something huge, and compelling, far out in the wastelands; something silver and black in color. (I had to know! I had to go! –but the sign said No!–-I went anyway!) I’ve learned that if “they” are really serious, “they” will barricade the road or post a guard. And it is true that it s easier to get forgiveness than permission.

I just had a memory flash–One of my earliest memories is watching my father dismantle a barricade in the headlights of our panel truck. We were bootlegging whiskey into Oklahoma (at that time a dry state) and our drop spot was down that road. I guess I come by this outlawry honestly.

Anyway, down into the mysterious valley I went till I came to the glittery acres of glass and aluminum. Wow! Do I love this. Acres and acres of solar panels quietly, cleanly, making power for the masses. I took a photo but I needed facts. A truck drove by inside the fence and I yelled. He came and gave them gladly: They are generating electricity by concentrating sunlight on a pipe filled with oil which heats to 400 degrees and travels to a heat exchanger where it turns water into steam that runs a turbine.

This project cost 263 million, covers 40 acres, generates 64 megawatts, powering 48,000 homes. ( coincidentally, the population of nearby Boulder, Nv is 50,000) The engineer was just getting warmed up. His face glowed as he spoke of future expansion, now underway, trebling its size–AND YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE–(He’s really enthused now, almost dancing) “WE’VE FOUND A WAY TO MAKE IT PRODUCE 24 HOURS A DAY. “Easy now” I said! “Even great engineers can”t make the sun shine 24 hours” I thought he would jump the fence in his rush to tell me the secret: “You see, we are now building a HUGE heat storage tank that will keep making steam all night.” “AND” he said, “WE’RE GOING TO PUT WINDMILLS OUT THERE.” He almost broke into poetry as he raised both hands prophet-like and said: “WE WILL MAKE THIS VALLEY CRACKLE WITH ELECTRICITY.”

His gospel converted me! I went away singing the praises of solar power—and then I remembered that I’VE BEEN SOLAR POWERED FOR 17 YEARS.