Deep in the Sonoran Desert, about 150 miles northeast of San Diego, there is a place that shouldn't exist. It’s a ghost of a military base, a 640-acre patch of dirt and concrete that has somehow become the most famous "lawless" town in America. If you've ever wondered what is Slab City, you've probably seen the photos of Salvation Mountain—that massive, neon-bright hill of adobe and straw. But the mountain is just the lobby. Beyond it lies a community that operates entirely off the grid, without running water, electricity, sewers, or a governing body.
It’s harsh. It’s beautiful. Sometimes, it’s a total mess.
Slab City sits on the site of the former Marine Corps Camp Dunlap. The base was deactivated in the 1940s, and the buildings were hauled away, leaving behind nothing but the concrete foundations. Those slabs gave the place its name. Today, it’s a destination for snowbirds in half-million-dollar RVs, crusty punks with dogs on rope leashes, and people who simply have nowhere else to go.
The History of the Concrete Skeleton
To really get what is Slab City, you have to look at the dirt. During World War II, this was a training ground for the Marines. When the military cleared out, they left the "slabs" behind. By the 1950s, people started parking their trailers on that concrete. Why? Because it was free. It’s still free. The land is technically owned by the State of California, but for decades, the state has largely looked the other way.
It’s an accidental experiment in anarchy.
There are no property taxes here because nobody "owns" their spot. You find an empty patch of desert, you move in, and you hope the neighbors like you. Leonard Knight, the creator of Salvation Mountain, arrived in the mid-80s with a broken-down truck and a dream of spreading a simple message of love. He stayed for nearly three decades, building a monument that is now recognized as a National Folk Art Site. His presence turned a lonely squatters' camp into a global curiosity.
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Survival in the Badlands
Don't let the "free" part fool you. Living here is expensive in terms of labor.
Because there are no utilities, survival is a full-time job. Most permanent residents—the "Slabbers"—rely on solar panels for power. If you don't have solar, you’re sitting in the dark or running a loud, gas-guzzling generator. Water is the biggest hurdle. You have to haul it in from a kiosk in nearby Niland. If your truck breaks down and you don't have water, you’re in serious trouble.
The heat is a literal killer. In the summer, temperatures regularly swing past 110 degrees. The snowbirds, who arrive in the winter to enjoy the 70-degree days, vanish by May. Only the "year-rounders" remain, hunkered down in trailers wrapped in reflective insulation, praying for a breeze. It’s not a lifestyle for the faint of heart. You’ve got to be handy, resilient, and maybe a little bit stubborn to make it work.
The Neighborhoods of the Slabs
It isn't just one big heap of trailers. The community has distinct zones, each with its own vibe.
Salvation Mountain is the entrance. It’s the tourist hub. Thousands of people visit every year to take Instagram photos and climb the "yellow brick road" painted on the side of the hill. The volunteers who live there maintain the site, constantly repainting it to prevent the desert sun from bleaching the colors away.
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Then there’s East Jesus. This is an art collective and "habitable installation." It’s basically an outdoor museum made of trash. It sounds derogatory, but it’s actually brilliant. They take old TV sets, rusted cars, and discarded plastic and turn them into sculptures that comment on consumerism and decay. It’s curated, intentional, and surprisingly organized.
The Range is the social heart of the city. It’s an open-air nightclub built by a long-time resident named Builder Bill. Every Saturday night, people gather for a talent show. You’ll see professional musicians who are just passing through sharing the stage with locals who can barely hold a guitar. It’s one of the few places where the different social tiers of the Slabs actually mix.
Is it Actually Dangerous?
This is the question everyone asks. Is Slab City safe?
The answer is: mostly. But it’s complicated.
There is no police department. If you call 911, the Imperial County Sheriff’s Office will eventually show up, but it might take a while. The community mostly polices itself. There’s a "live and let live" ethos, but if you steal from your neighbors or cause unnecessary trouble, you’ll likely find yourself "evicted" by the community.
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There are drugs. There is poverty. There are people struggling with mental health issues who have been pushed out of mainstream society. But there are also families, artists, and retirees who just want to be left alone. If you visit, stay on the main paths, don't take photos of people’s homes without asking, and don't be a "poverty tourist." Respect the fact that for many, this isn't a curiosity—it’s their last resort.
The Looming Threat of Change
For years, rumors have swirled that the State of California might sell the land. If that happens, the dream of Slab City ends.
Environmental concerns are a major factor. With no sewage system, the impact on the desert soil is a growing issue. Furthermore, the nearby Salton Sea is a biological disaster. As the sea dries up, it releases toxic dust into the air, making the air quality in the region some of the worst in the country. Some residents believe the state will eventually shut the place down just to mitigate the liability.
Yet, Slab City persists. It’s survived decades of predicted demises. There is a stubbornness in the dirt here that resists "civilization."
How to Visit Without Being a Jerk
If you’re planning to see what is Slab City for yourself, you need to be prepared. This isn't a theme park. There are no gas stations, no grocery stores, and no hotels.
- Pack everything in. Bring twice as much water as you think you need.
- Pack everything out. The Slabs have a major trash problem. Don't add to it. If you bring a soda can, take it home with you.
- Bring cash for donations. The art installations like Salvation Mountain and East Jesus run entirely on donations. If you're taking photos, toss a few bucks in the jar.
- Mind the "no trespassing" signs. Some people move to the desert specifically to avoid people. If a camp looks private, stay away.
- Visit in the winter. Unless you want to experience the literal feeling of being inside an oven, avoid June through September.
Slab City is a mirror. If you go looking for misery and lawlessness, you’ll find it. If you go looking for radical creativity and a community that cares for its own, you’ll find that too. It’s a place defined by what it lacks—rules, bills, and safety nets—and what it provides: a space for people who don't fit anywhere else to finally sit down.
Actionable Steps for the Curious
If you’re serious about visiting or learning more, start by supporting the legitimate organizations on-site. Contact the Slab City Community Group or the Salvation Mountain Board of Directors to see if they need specific supplies like paint or bottled water. Instead of just driving through, consider attending a Saturday night show at The Range to see the actual community in action. Lastly, check the air quality reports for the Imperial Valley before heading out; the Salton Sea’s dust can be genuinely hazardous for anyone with respiratory issues.