Living Off-Grid in High Desert of Arizona
The road trip from hell!
So I have been ask by few what is it like living off-grid. So here I am writing about it so I do not have to repeat the same thing over 100 times.
For all my UK friends and others who do not live in the USA to give you a idea of the immense size of the US. I started my adventure in the state of Montana. I sold a few things and bought a small camp trailer. 28 feet long and then proceeded to stuff as much as I could in it from a large 2-bedroom apartment. Loaded my trusting companion, Hecate the Husky in the truck with me and had one wild, long drive to my land in Arizona.
I knew I was going to be pulling a lot of weight with my old truck. So took a bit of a scenic route here. GPS said almost 1100 miles, an 18-19 hour drive. Let the fun begin..
First off, never trust the GPS at the end of summer with wildfires in some places. I was trying to be courteous to my fellow drivers and stay off main freeways, as I was probably pulling max weight, that I should have been in the truck. The trailer hitch was not that far of the ground, and my truck looked like a gasser car from the 60s with its rear close to the ground and front end a bit high. Hitting 70 mph on the road was a chore, and there better not be a hill.
Yes, I was overweight. Left on Friday night and only had a bill of sale for the trailer, no plate on it. After 4 hrs driving was time to stop, grab a drink, walk the dog, and then double back a few miles to follow GPS directions. If I ever do this again, I will buy a paper map and pull up a road map on my phone. It decided to take me on a gravel highway up into a mountain and back down again.
Needless to say, it bounced me all over the damn place. Had me drive in a large loop, ending back up at the gas station I left an hour and a half before. I'm sure they wondered why I was pulling back into their lot. Kind of hard to miss a maroon truck with a trailer that has a boarded-up window with an AC hanging out of it.
Let's just say my whole trip went like this. Climb a mountain of almost 12000 feet elevation on a road that had more curves then a snake crawling across the ground. Start to get relieved that I am almost at the top; temperature dropped 30 degrees, and what looked like fog started rolling in. The wind picks up real bad at 35 mph, the road is so steep that I am only moving at 25 mph and rain starts to pour so badly that wipers on high did not help.
What did I get myself into? Oh damn, I still have to go down hill pulling more weight than I should with iffy brakes. That is when the hail, snow, and sleet hit. Yes, all 3 were beating down on the windshield at the same time. That is when I realized it was not fog covering the road but friggin clouds. The road sign says, Caution: 6% grade going downhill. Damn, I was at the top with no place to pull over or stop. I said a quick prayer to the Goddess while tucking my Thor's hammer under my shirt, hoping the roads did not ice up any. You know you are heavy when you apply brakes and the trailer behind you is pushing you down the hill. The radio station is talking about a freak storm, one of the worst in the area for the year. Well, screw it. I stuck my AC/DC CD in and turned up the volume.
Hecate looked a bit annoyed with the loud music, curled up in a ball on the front seat. I will tell you now that these storms became a common theme for this trip. Let me tell you, I was pretty damn happy getting back down to flat ground.
By the time I finally made it to a city, I decided it was time for some grub and a cold can of Coke. By this time I had been driving close to 14 hrs. I was way behind on my timeline since many places said 45 to 50 mph, where they were being driven at 35 mph. If the road said 60 mph, I was lucky to be at 50 mph. You should never pull a load at max weight. Give ya some perspective on things. The truck is a king cab with a 6-foot bed, making truck about 18-19 in length, pulling a trailer with a tongue that is around 32 feet in length with a small house packed in it.
Well, 14 hrs on the road had been up for almost 32 hrs it was time for a nap in a Walmart parking lot. Local hoodlums must have thought they could hide, by parking close to it and smoking their weed. Nap did not really happen; the phone said 11 pm, so I might as well hit the road again.
Mother Nature was sitting there laughing, going, Watch this. As go pull onto the highway, I see a great big sign saying Road Construction: Expect delays, closed 8 am to 5 pm Monday to Thursday. I am thinking, lucky me, this is Sunday night; my nap would have made me stuck here in the morning. Well, there's less traffic at night, and it's cooler to drive. This is mid-August. Ten minutes on the highway, the wind starts up, and I can feel it blowing me around. But all is good; I will not be delayed in traffic. Yup Mother Nature steps up tells one of her minions to a piss as she blows hard down that canyon the highway goes through. Thirty mile an hour wind with gusts of 60 mph through a canyon was like someone taking a never-ending bucket of water and pouring it over the windshield. Had to drive 15 mph just to see the yellow line on the road beside the truck. Two hrs driving between 15-30 mph just top be able to see, but damn, I would not be stuck in traffic with road crews. One must look at the positive, considering by this time, this was the third major storm I had been in since starting this trip. Daylight, better weather, not taking a chance, keep driving.
So close but so far away, detour for wildfire and more construction with smoke in the air.
Was within 100 miles of destination, having been through 3 major storms, and had one tire on the trailer blow so far.
Home stretch; I should be in town near my land before dark. Nope, bang, blow the front tire on the trailer, the one with the most weight on it, and can hear the rim tearing up the pavement 1 mile to my exit and the gas station. The shoulder on the road here is maybe 2 inches wide, with a 90-degree corner to make the gas station. The nearest tire shop is in the town 100 miles away. The gas station says I can leave the trailer there. Start posting on Facebook to see if anyone has a tire I can borrow. They all tell me what shop to go to. A nice lady even offers to help me. Gotta love country folk.
Everything is closed till mornin. The tire shop says the best they can do is order a tire that will be here the next day. So one more night sleeping in the truck with Hecate. The lady offers to tow the trailer the rest of the way in for me after I get the tire. The tire guy is late, so instead of 11 am, pickup is at 4 pm. I can not get ahold of Lady to follow me out. So go to change the tire. No jack, and if I do have one, it's in the trailer. Have a large 6x6 block in the trailer, go to open the door, and what a mess. Had been bounced around so bad drawers are all out scattered on the floor, everything is dumped over, spread everywhere.
Country boy engineering: use a stabilizer jack to lift the trailer. With a 3-foot pipe wrench to turn it. Did I mention the trailer was overloaded?
Have the trailer almost jacked up to take the tire off. The Lady offered to help with calls. Give her directions: She is over an hour out, so back to the tire, makeshift jack, and pipe wrench in the dark. She gets there just after I get the tire back on. So we hook her truck to the trailer, get ready for the 15 miles of freeway driving, then 70 miles to the town, and another 24 miles past town to my place in the dark.
Well, 10 miles off the freeway, you can smell rubber burning from the trailer, so pull into the last gas station before 60 miles to the town. Figure the blown tire had screwed some sheet metal undercarriage up; it must be rubbing on that. Some quick hammering in the dark—check the wire harness, as we lost lights as we pulled into the station. All looks good; we make it ten feet, then stop. It feels like someone attached a boat anchor to the trailer.
Electric brakes on the trailer shorted out and locked up. Easy fix: disconnect the wire harness for the trailer lights and brakes. Just have to pull it 60 miles to town with no trailer lights or brakes.
Have you ever driven in the country at night? Well, wait till dark and go stand in a small closet with the lights off and close the door. The same effect is a pitch-black blackout.
We did make it and get the trailer parked on my place. So much for the 18-hour drive. That became a 4 day trip. So this is the beginning of my adventure with my husky, Hecate.
Stay tuned for more. The fun is just beginning.
About the Creator
Randy (TheShiftingBard)
Author, Gamer, and Designer. Brand name: TheShiftingBard. A single father and outdoorsman who has spent some time traveling and exploring. Always a new place to explore or an adventure to be had! https://kick.com/theshiftingbard
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Dust and Resilience: The Hardships of Living Off-Grid in the High Desert
The city had been a cage, its bars forged from fluorescent lights, endless deadlines, and a $1,800-a-month mortgage that felt like a noose around my neck. I was Keri, 25 years old, a marketing graduate with a gym-toned body from daily runs, but my spirit was wilting under the weight of a life I never wanted. Sixty-hour weeks in a glass tower, air conditioning humming at a sterile 68°F, and the constant buzz of notifications on my phone—it was a script I hadn't written, a life of marriage, mortgages, and monotony that society expected me to follow. But I felt the earth's pulse beneath the concrete, a whisper of something wilder, something truer. I was a nature witch, a druid in the making, my magic stirring in my blood, yearning for a place where I could learn from the land itself. The high desert called to me—a rugged expanse near the New Mexico border, 40 acres of sand and sage, close to Indian reservations and the haunting remnants of the Old Salt City ghost mine, where salt had once been king and spirits still lingered. I knew I had to go.The decision to leave wasn't easy. I'd been "successful" by the city's standards—a steady job pulling in $60k a year, a house I'd bought for $260k, a sedan worth $12k, and furniture that had cost me $1,500 (a couch for $150, a bed for $200, a TV for $300). I even had a guitar I'd played in college, worth $300, and a childhood ring, a small silver band with a moonstone, valued at $500. But those things were anchors, tying me to a life that felt like a slow death. I sold it all, liquidating everything in a whirlwind of garage sales, online listings, and tearful goodbyes. The house went for its full $260k, the sedan for $12k, the furniture for $1,500, the guitar for $300, and the ring for $500—netting me $274k after fees. I spent $15k of that on my new life: $10k for the 40 acres, $3k for a beat-up truck that could handle the desert's rough terrain, and $2k on gear to survive off-grid. The rest I banked, a safety net for the unknown, though I knew the desert wouldn't care about my savings. It would test me in ways I couldn't yet imagine.Packing up was an emotional gauntlet. I stood in my stripped-down house, the walls bare, the echoes of my old life bouncing off the hardwood floors. I packed my sketchbook, its pages filled with drawings of forests and moons, a reminder of the magic I'd always felt but never fully explored. The movers came for my cedar chest, a family heirloom I couldn't take, and I watched them carry it away, my throat tight with grief. That last night, I sat on the floor of my empty bedroom, clutching a photo of my mom, her smile a bittersweet anchor to the life I was leaving. I mailed her heirloom necklace back to her—a delicate chain with a jade pendant—knowing I couldn't carry its weight into the desert. I sobbed, the sound raw in the empty space, but as I wiped my tears, I felt a spark of something new: terror, yes, but also a fierce, wild aliveness I hadn't felt in years. I whispered a spell with the small quartz crystal I'd brought, a $10 talisman I'd bought at a metaphysical shop in the city. "Spirits of the earth, give me courage," I murmured, holding the crystal to my chest, feeling its cool energy pulse against my skin. The city faded as I drove away, the skyline shrinking in my rearview mirror, my heart pounding with the promise of freedom.The drive to the desert was long, the truck rattling over highways and then dirt roads, the air growing drier with every mile. I arrived at my 40 acres just as the sun hit its peak, the thermometer in my truck reading 105°F at 2 p.m. The land stretched out before me, a rugged expanse of mesquite and rocky dirt, dotted with sagebrush that shimmered in the heat. In the distance, I could see the crumbling ruins of the Old Salt City ghost mine, its salt-crusted remnants a testament to a boom-and-bust history, the air around it humming with the whispers of spirits. I stepped out of the truck, my boots crunching on the parched earth, and felt the land's energy surge through me—a sharp, ancient pulse that made my magic stir. I knelt, pressing my hands to the ground, and whispered a spell of welcome. "Spirits of this land, I am Keri, a witch seeking to learn from you. Accept me, guide me, teach me." The sagebrush rustled in response, its energy protective and wary, but I felt a tentative acceptance, a promise that the desert would be my teacher if I proved myself worthy.I'd packed smart, knowing I'd be far from stores, and as a witch, I'd brought tools for my craft. The truck bed held a 16-foot yurt ($1,200), a 150W solar panel ($150), a car battery for power, six 5-gallon water jugs ($30), a wood stove ($150), a sleeping bag ($50), a mylar blanket ($5), a first-aid kit ($20) with painkillers for cramps, a multi-tool ($25), a shovel ($15), a mallet ($15), a 12V pump ($80) for water, a Sawyer filter ($25), a cookpot ($10), a 50-lb bag of rice ($30), 20 lbs of beans ($25), 5 lbs of salt ($5), a fishing net ($5) for quail, a shotgun ($200) with birdshot, a crate of clothes (cotton tanks, wool socks, fleece, $100), a yoga mat ($10), and a crate of personal and witchy items—my journal ($5), a solar-powered speaker ($20), a discreet vibrator ($30), tampons, pads, a menstrual cup ($30), a hot water bottle ($10), a photo of my mom ($0), a small altar cloth ($5), a quartz crystal ($10), sage bundles ($10), and a copper bowl for offerings ($15). The total came to $2,680, plus the land and truck, a small fortune for a new life, but I knew it would take more than money to survive here.That first night was a brutal introduction to the desert's extremes. I set up a temporary tent, the canvas flapping in a 35 mph wind that kicked up swirling dust, the air thick with the scent of sage and sand. By 1 a.m., the temperature had plummeted to 65°F, frost creeping over the tent flap, my breath fogging in the air as I huddled in my sleeping bag with Luna, my dog, her warmth a small comfort against the cold. I heard a coyote's snarl in the distance, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine, but as a witch, I knew the Paiute lore: Coyotes were spirit messengers, their howls carrying warnings and guidance. I whispered a spell with my sage bundle, lighting it with a match and letting the smoke curl around me, offering it to the wind. "Spirits of the coyote, speak to me, guide me," I murmured, feeling their energy shift, a message of caution but also of welcome.The desert didn't care about my strength, my degrees, or my womanhood—it tested every part of me, from my cramping body to my restless heart. My first period here had hit like a sandstorm, cramps doubling me over at 110°F, no pharmacy for miles. I'd brought a six-month supply of tampons and pads ($50), a menstrual cup ($30) for sustainability, and a hot water bottle ($10) for relief, but the pain was relentless, amplified by the heat. I brewed sage tea from foraged plants, a Paiute remedy I'd read about, the bitter taste grounding me as I sipped it, doing yoga stretches on my mat—child's pose, breathing through the ache, channeling the desert's energy to ease my pain. I whispered a spell with my quartz, "Spirits of the earth, soothe my body, lend me your strength," and felt a faint warmth spread through me, the land's magic a small mercy.The solitude was a double-edged sword—freedom I craved, but loneliness that gnawed at my soul. At 70°F, I carved stick figures into a piece of mesquite wood, imbuing them with protective charms, their small forms a comfort against the vastness of the desert. I brought a journal to pour out my fears, writing by lantern light, the words spilling onto the page: "I'm so alone, but I'm free. Is this what I wanted?" I played music on my solar-powered speaker, old playlists that reminded me of friends, of dancing, of feeling alive, the notes a lifeline in the silence. I talked to Luna, her warmth grounding me as I sobbed into her fur, missing human touch, the ache as real as thirst. I cast a spell with sage smoke to lift my spirits, the desert's magic a balm for my soul, its energy whispering, "You are enough."My body, at 25, was fit and humming with energy, amplified by the desert's rawness—sweat on my skin at 110°F, the wind's howl at 70°F like a lover's whisper. My high sex drive was a challenge in this isolation, the ache as real as thirst, and there was no one to share it with—except for the thought of Damien, my neighbor, a were-panther I hadn't yet met but had heard of, his primal power haunting my dreams. I'd brought a small, discreet vibrator, solar-charged, and used it under the stars, the release grounding me, but I channeled the rest into my magic, dancing under the moon to honor the earth, my body a conduit for the desert's power. I imagined Damien watching me, his amber eyes glowing with feline intensity, his growl a spell that could bind me, a fantasy that made my heart race as I moved through the night.I hadn't met Damien yet, but I'd heard whispers of him—a were-panther on the next plot, 2 miles away, a man of primal power who'd lived off-grid for years. I imagined him: towering, muscular, his eyes glowing with the intensity of his panther spirit, his growl a spell that could draw me in. I wondered if he'd sense the witch in me, if he'd feel the same pull I felt just thinking of him, our magics entwining in the desert's wild embrace. I journaled about him that night, the lantern flickering as I wrote, "He's a were-panther, a warrior, a man of primal magic. I want to feel his growl against my skin, his strength around me, his magic entwined with mine." The thought of him was a spark in the darkness, a promise of connection in this lonely land.The desert was a crucible of relentless sun, sub-zero nights, ceaseless winds, swirling dust storms, and a wildness that spared no one, but it was also rich with minerals and lore, its plants and animals my allies in survival and magic. I spotted milky quartz chunks scattered across the ground, their energy amplifying my spells, and a turquoise vein near the mine, its protective power perfect for charms and trade ($20/oz raw). I pocketed a piece of turquoise, a talisman for my journey, feeling its cool energy against my skin. The Paiute legend of the Sun and Moon—siblings who fought, creating the desert's temperature swings—echoed in my mind as I whispered to Luna, "We're in their battleground now," feeling the land's ancient pulse, my magic stirring in response.The desert was my teacher, its lessons harsh but true, and I was ready to learn. I layered for the 40°F swings—cotton tank for the day, wool socks and fleece for the night, a mylar blanket to trap heat. For my cramps, I kept my hot water bottle filled, stretching daily to ease the tension, whispering spells to the earth for relief. For my magic, I greeted the land each morning, offering sage to the wind, listening to its whispers, feeling its energy guide me. I was Keri, a witch in the wild, and this was my new beginning—a life unplugged, untamed, where I could find myself in the dust, learn the desert's magic, and maybe, just maybe, find a love as wild as the land itself.
By Randy (TheShiftingBard)10 months ago in Chapters
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