Slab City: The Last Free Place in America?

Back in February, Jack and I spent two weeks in Slab City, California—better known simply as "The Slabs."

For those who have never heard of it, Slab City is an off-grid community built on the remains of an abandoned World War II Marine training base called Camp Dunlap.

When the military left, the buildings were removed, leaving behind only the concrete slabs that once supported them. Over time, people began settling there, and an entire community grew out of the desert.

Today, Slab City is home to a mix of year-round residents, winter snowbirds, artists, nomads, and people who simply couldn't find a place for themselves anywhere else.

It has earned the nickname "The Last Free Place in America."

Jack has been visiting the Slabs for years. We stayed at Mojo's camp, where she rents a few Airbnb spaces.

Because Jack is a good friend, she lets him stay there at a discounted rate.

Before I ever visited, I'd heard all the stories.

Theft.

Violence.

Drugs.

Murder.

People burning down other people's homes over disagreements.

To be fair, some of those stories are true.

One afternoon while we were there, we heard a loud explosion followed by a column of smoke rising into the air about a quarter mile away.

Jack jumped into his truck to see what had happened. When he came back, he told me an RV was on fire.

Nobody seemed particularly surprised.

That was my first lesson about Slab City.

Things happen there that would make headlines almost anywhere else, yet the residents often treat them as just another Tuesday.

And yet, despite the reputation, I felt surprisingly safe.

Part of that was because of Mojo.

She's one of those people who quietly holds a community together. If you wander into her camp with a problem, chances are she'll try to help you solve it.

She's involved with Slab City Cares, a community support program that helps residents with food, supplies, and other necessities.

Much of that support comes from fellow Slabbers themselves, along with donations from outside organizations.

One thing that surprised me was how hard it would be to starve in the Slabs.

Almost every day, somewhere in the community, somebody is serving a free meal.

That's where I got to meet the real residents.

Not the stereotypes.

Not the stories people tell on YouTube.

The actual people.

Many were kind.

Many were struggling.

Some had been beaten down by life so many times they simply stopped trying to fit into conventional society.

Others were there because they couldn't afford to be anywhere else.

Some were artists. Some were nomads. Some were running from something. Some were searching for something.

Most were simply trying to survive.

At the time, Jack and I were on shaky ground in our relationship. I remember thinking that if things completely fell apart, I could probably survive in Slab City.

The only thing that truly worried me was the possibility of someone deciding my camp looked better than theirs—or deciding they didn't like me—and solving the problem with a can of gasoline and a match.

That sounds dramatic until you spend time there and realize it's not entirely impossible.

Life in the Slabs isn't easy.

Summer temperatures routinely exceed 100 degrees and often climb much higher.

There is no municipal water system. No power grid. No sewer system.

People who stay year-round know exactly how dangerous those summers can be.

Some don't make it.

Everyone who remains through the heat understands that risk.

The homes themselves range from surprisingly beautiful to outright shocking.

Old RVs.

Abandoned trailers.

Converted buses.

Tiny structures made from pallets, scrap wood, sheet metal, tires, and whatever materials people can find.

Many don't have what most Americans would consider adequate housing.

But then again, when it only rains a few inches a year, windows become a lot less important than shade.

What fascinated me most was how creative people became.

Residents build elaborate outdoor spaces around their homes. They create sculptures from trash. They paint giant murals. They turn scrap metal into art.

The unofficial competition seems to be who can create the most outrageous, colorful, impossible-to-ignore property.

Some camps are stunning.

Others are absolute eyesores.

Most are both.

Water arrives in large storage tanks that are filled by delivery trucks. Electricity comes primarily from solar panels.

In a place where sunshine is practically guaranteed, solar power often works remarkably well.

And for those without solar?

Generators fill the gap.

Many residents arrive with almost nothing.

Sometimes everything they own fits in a backpack.

They find an empty slab and begin building.

A pallet here.

A tarp there.

A wall made from salvaged materials.

A solar panel when they can afford one.

A home slowly emerges.

Ownership in Slab City is complicated.

Nobody truly owns the land.

The land itself is owned by the State of California, and revenue associated with it ultimately benefits the California State Teachers' Retirement System.

Yet within Slab City there exists an informal understanding that if you occupy and maintain a space, it becomes yours—at least until somebody stronger, more persistent, or more ruthless decides otherwise.

That informal system creates both freedom and instability.

The same freedom that allows someone to build a life from nothing also means there are few protections when things go wrong.

One of the most famous landmarks in Slab City is Salvation Mountain.

If you've ever seen photos of a brightly colored mountain covered in paint, flowers, hearts, and the words "God Is Love," that's it.

Created by Leonard Knight, Salvation Mountain took decades to build using adobe, straw, donated paint, and discarded materials. It stands roughly three stories high and has become one of California's most unusual tourist attractions.

People travel from all over the world to see it.

Knight passed away in 2014 after dedicating nearly thirty years of his life to the project, but volunteers continue maintaining it today

In 2024, Imperial County officially designated it a historic resource, helping ensure its preservation.

The week we were there, a rave was being held near Salvation Mountain.

In years past, Jack and Mojo volunteered there handing out harm reduction supplies such as Narcan, condoms, clean needles, and women's hygiene products.

Jack loves the rave.

Not because he's a raver.

Because he loves people-watching.

Personally, I skipped it.

But after hearing all the stories, I think I'd like to experience it at least once.

Not for the music.

For the anthropology.

For the chance to witness one of those strange gatherings where every social rule seems suspended and people reinvent themselves for a weekend.

The funny thing is that after two weeks in the Slabs, what stayed with me wasn't the danger.

It wasn't the fires.

It wasn't the poverty.

It wasn't even the freedom.

It was the humanity.

The people who shared food with strangers.

The people who repaired each other's solar systems.

The people who checked on elderly neighbors during extreme heat.

The people who had almost nothing and still found ways to give.

Slab City is often portrayed as a lawless wasteland.

Sometimes it is.

But it's also a community.

A messy one.

A dysfunctional one.

A creative one.

A heartbreaking one.

And occasionally, a beautiful one.

Would I want to live there full-time?

Probably not.

Would I go back?

Absolutely.

Because for all its flaws, there's nowhere else quite like it.

And sometimes the places that challenge our assumptions teach us the most.