Who Will Save Salvation Mountain?
Candy Land meets Vacation Bible School.
That’s what I had expected to find.
And I wasn’t disappointed.
I had been dying to see Salvation Mountain and the rest of the weird and wonderful remnants of the virtually abandoned Salton Sea area for years now (especially after watching a compelling short film called The Accidental Sea).
So I drove about an hour southeast from Palm Springs to the shores of the infamous “sea,” and through the post-apocalyptic-looking towns that had been built in 1920s during the heyday of the “Salton Riviera.”
As I approached Salvation Mountain, the dull tans, browns, and grays of the desert ghost towns seemed to run screaming at the sight of the shockingly bright colors.
I climbed to the summit, about 50 feet from the ground. I felt like Princess Lolly atop Gum Drop Mountain as I stood next to the giant red adobe “S” in the GOD IS LOVE message surveying the 30 years of inspired handiwork below.
That’s how long Leonard Knight, the man behind the mountain, had lived in the back of his truck without electricity or running water as he labored day after day to build this somewhat psychedelic monument.
I was hoping to meet the visionary who used straw, mud, and thousands of gallons of paint to share his message of love to the world. But I seemed to be the only person around.
At first glance, the painted adobe looked smooth, but as I climbed down, I noticed a few cracks where dirt was breaking through. When I started looking more closely, I noticed more spots like this, and larger in size.
When I reached the bottom of the mountain, I started walking to my car to get some cash to stuff in the donation box I’d spotted earlier. That’s when I heart a car pulling up.
“Don’t bother,” a male voice said. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”
I looked up to see a twenty-something guy with curly brown hair approaching.
“Yeah, he got carted off to a nursing home — couldn’t survive out here anymore,” the guy went on. “He’s like 80 years old.”
“Well, someone’s got to be maintaining it, right?” I reasoned, squinting into the sun.
“Dunno. I hope so,” he said. “This place is rad, but who else is gonna be crazy enough to stay out here in this heat all day long?”
With that I continued wandering, soaking up the many details and personal touches Leonard had added over the years — to the mountain, and to other adobe structures around it.
Turns out, the curly-haired kid was right.
After leaving the mountain and doing some research, I discovered that nobody knows who owns the land where Salvation Mountain sits.
Locals who live just a mile up the road in Slab City (dubbed the “Last Free Place,” because the residents are technically squatters surviving completely off the grid), are concerned about the fate of Leonard’s masterpiece. It has become a beloved part of their community.
So much so, that there’s even talk of hiring an intern to live at the mountain and maintain it.
I entertained the idea for a minute. Well, 30 seconds.
It would be a tragedy for this unique place to crumble into oblivion, along with most everything else near the Salton Sea.
Someone has to rise to the challenge.
But who will it be?