Alternative lifestyles have always intrigued me.  One of my earliest vacation memories was begging my parents to take me to the Haight-Ashbury district in San Francisco to see the hippies when I was a mere twelve years old.  And yes, I went with flowers in my hair.   I was fascinated by their free thinking take on life, and wanted to be just like them.   If only I had been of driving age in 1969 for the gathering on Yasgur’s farm, Woodstock, there would have been no stopping me.

As one who chose the more boring, conventional corporate path in life, any type of anti-establishment lifestyles, be it hippie communes in California or Ashrams in India, hold an odd appeal.  I envy their ability to thumb their noses at responsibility, rules, and routine.   Their attempts to carve out a utopian society, albeit rarely successful, still nag at the rule-follower in me.

So when looking at the map and planning my northerly migration, I zero in on a remote dot in the desert, Slab City. Billed as “The Last Free Place,” it’s another “Rite of Passage” for any RVing full timer.   Formerly known as “Camp Dunlap,” the encampment was established in 1942 as a marine artillery training base, named after the “Father of Marine Corps Artillery.”   The camp was decommissioned after WWII, leaving behind a skeleton framework of roads and only the “slabs” of building foundations.  Oh, and purportedly a little buried military waste.

So curiosity has the better of me.  But the reviews are as inconsistent as the dichotomy of  living arrangements that make up the Slabs.  Reading some of the more extreme reviews has me a little uneasy.  So I decide to “phone a friend,” CB, who spent quite of a bit of time in the Slabs this past winter in hopes that he will give me some good direction;

“Should I be scared?  Some of the reviews make it sound like I will be hacked to bits and left for dead!”
CB begins slowly, “Well, yes…I suppose that could happen.  But it’s not been my experience…”

CB goes on to tell me that he thinks I might be most comfortable if I parked in the “LoWs” encampment, Loners on Wheels.  It has always seemed to be a bit of an oxymoron to me that “loners” have an organization to meet up, but I go with CB’s advice.   He also tells me that my experience will be more rewarding if I try to “assimilate rather than interview.”  Also sage advice for which I am grateful.

I decide I will just go as far as “Salvation Mountain,” and get a read on the vibe.  If I can just visit that famous landmark, it will be “enough,” and I will turn around if I don’t feel comfortable.  Not realizing it will be the first landmark I come to, however, I decide to venture in a bit further. I follow CB’s directions to the LoWs compound, and immediately see a friendly face, “George” as I turn the corner.  He gives me some pointers on where to park, and invites me to Happy Hour at 3:00pm.

I am quite impressed with the LoWs compound.  They have a full fledged community kitchen, a theater, and even a Post Office which accepts Fedex and UPS.  There aren’t many members left this late in the year, as many have begun their migration.   But those that remain make me feel very welcomed.

My intention is to stay for one night – two tops.  But I spend four days wandering the Slabs, “assimilating.”  I could write a blog post a day on the interesting characters, innovative structures, and creative expression I saw with every walkabout.  Aside from the snowbirds, and drifters, the Slabs is home to about 150 permanent residents, each with their own fascinating story. It’s hard to resist the urge to “interview,” so I just enjoy the conversation.

There was “Caribe,” the Persian War Vet who stood on a box looking over his fence, with his deep baritone voice and lyrical Latin accent, intent on educating me on his philosophy, “It’s no measure of health to be well adjusted in a profoundly sick society.”  Amen, brother. I tell him he should be doing voice-overs.

Over at the Internet café, I meet a guy who rides around in his 3-wheel motorized bike with a solar panel overhead for shade, all made from materials he bartered or traded for in the Slabs.  We have a lengthy conversation under a shade tree.  He gives me the whole history of the military operation, and assures me that the sub-machine fire I heard throughout the night was not from “slabbers,” but rather maneuvers from the military base next door.

The philosophy of “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” prevails throughout the entire compound, to the point that piles of trash lie strewn about.  At first, I see piles of trash everywhere.  Piles and piles of trash.  And I wonder, “How hard can it be, honestly??”  But then, I come to the “fork in the road.” (Literally, there is a “fork” sculpture in the middle of the road.)  To the right is the outdoor art gallery named aptly for its remote, outlying location, “East Jesus.”  What I see here can only be described in pictures, but seeing the “art” made from nothing but discarded trash is enlightening in that it helps me better understand the philosophy that nothing is ever thrown away here…

The question that comes to mind over and over is “Where is the infrastructure to support this lifestyle?”   The first question that comes to mind is the obvious….“Where does the sewage go?”   Water is trucked in.  Power comes in the form of solar panels.  But what about the black water?  It has to be going underground somewhere, yet I can detect no odors.

Another such example comes from the Skate Park.  I spend a good bit of time talking with the guys who run it.  They invite me to join them.  I have spent half my life on skates of some kind; roller, ice, inline, and most recently 5-wheel speed skates.  They tell me they have a pair of inline skates just my size!   How is that possible that they have rental gear here?  Were I not worried about such things as healthcare deductables and the need to stay ambulatory in a home on wheels, I would have loved to make a few rounds with them in that giant rink!

I keep telling George every time I see him, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” until finally, I say, “No, REALLY!  I really am leaving tomorrow!”  He just smiles and says “You’ll be back…”   We’ll see, George, we’ll see…

Border Patrol Check Station, just five miles north of Niland:

Got’nbody in there with you?
“Nope.  Just me.”
“Where ya coming from?”
“The Slabs.”
(He chuckles,)  “Had enough, eh?”
I just smile.
He goes on, “It didn’t use to be that way, ya know.”
“How do you mean, exactly?”
“You know…all those drug addicts.  Used to be a bunch of free thinkers and fancy motorhomes.  Now the State wants to shut’em down.  It’s just a matter of time.”

I guess I’m a little slow sometimes, but it wasn’t until I rolled on down the highway that I realized, “The Last Free Place on Earth” wasn’t about money at all…