My first glimpse of Salvation Mountain was the tip of the cross upright, wavering slowly in the already almost unbearable morning heat.

I had left early — just as the sun was cresting the horizon — in the hopes that I would be able to avoid having my ridiculous white skin blister and slough off my bones, and that I could stand before this poignant monolith by myself. I'm not religious; I prefer to think of myself as my own type of spiritual. This brightly coloured wattle and daub behemoth attracts all manner of travellers, and though I don't begrudge the instagrammers and the snowbirds and the disenfranchised and all the rest, I felt a deep need to look at the mountain in solitude.

Driving through the last stand of traditional 'civilisation' was a stark reminder of how different life is from the cities and suburban life portrayed in the various entertainment media for a majority of the United States. The town of Niland is a jumble of jagged broken windows and shuttered doors, next to tidy businesses with companionable groups resting in the little bits of shade they can find. At least half of the town is just... gone. Crumbling, scattered, boarded up, and battened down. There's no rhyme or reason to it — or maybe it's hidden down below, in the roots of the community, under the earth and the memories of better days. I felt loud and improper, rumbling along in the midst of quiet pride and even quieter desolation, with a trunk full of water jugs and a heart bereft of any intention of stopping in this strange, sad place.

in the middle of nowhere, a beating heart

As you turn out out towards the open desert, you roll past a few last functioning service stations (garbage, mostly) and then the maintained road ends. You're now facing the dunes, and there's not even smooth pavement to reassure you forward — the cracks and rolls and dips in the faded, brittle blacktop are enough to swallow a tire. But once you've decided to take the chance and keep moving, the brilliant colors of the face of the mountain appear, revealed by the slight yet steady upward climb. When you finally do get there, there is a singular message waiting to greet you.

Love.

 

It's not the sort of love that buys diamonds or feasts or whimsy. It is a shabby, slightly uncomfortable love. It reminded me of a stern grandparent, or the smell of a sweater you only wear to church, or doilies on the armrests of couches that were never meant to be used. Which is just as well, because the love, while directed at you, really isn't meant for you.

 
The mountain was built by a man named Leonard Knight. His history is quite fascinating — once, in the seventies, he saw a hot air balloon. He was overcome with the desire to make his own, and began collecting scraps and sewing... for years. He emblazoned the words "God Is Love" on the mass of fabric, attempted to inflate it, and to all of no one's surprise, the bespoke balloon summarily flopped to the ground. In the time that it took him to create, it had simultaneously rotted, and even his great faith in god hadn't much lent itself to artisinal flying apparatus crafting.

Eventually he settled in the heat and penance of the desert (another sign from god,) and began the mountain. I won't go into the whole process (though here is a great website resource; forgive the creator that the site is thoroughly stuck in 2004) but it did involve the entire mountain collapsing and his starting over, a cover-up by the California government to have the site declared a toxic disaster so they could tear the second one down, a dashing detective rescue, and an estimated one hundred thousand gallons of paint.

Leonard lived in the small truck bed in the background of this image. Yes, the one with the giant red REPENT on it.

I didn't bother the caretaker, and he didn't bother me. As I wandered between the derelict vehicles reading the snippets of painstakingly hand-painted scripture, I couldn't help but feel a slight sense of menace. There's a decided hint of "be good, OR ELSE," in the chosen passages. Vaguely human, slightly alien shapes representing angels take wing in ghost-like clouds off of rotting metal and wood. Fabric and chunks of the mountain itself are bleaching out under the ceaseless beating of the sun, caught waiting for the next donation of paint to make them bright again for a fleeting instant in time.

As I climbed the face of the mountain by the 'yellow brick' road that winds up through the flowers and patterns, I have to admit, I was amazed. Once man spent a lifetime in the desert, building this monument to his god in the shifting sand and swelter — felt so compelled to prove his love to a spirit only he could hear, that he passed away still painting and repainting, patching and repatching, welcoming visitors and adding them to his ever growing list of those for whom he hunted for salvation.

If you're ever out towards the Mountain, bring a can of paint. It's the only thing standing between the last vestiges of a man's unshakeable faith in Salvation and the scouring, relentless desert wind.

 
All of these photos are my own, taken on my travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours.
I hope you like them. ️