Homeless Find Home in Sizzling Heat of California Desert : Imperial Valley: Society’s dropouts settle at abandoned firing range. At ‘Slab City,’ old trailers, campers and buses sit on slabs of concrete that once served as foundations for barracks, buildings.

Jared Jennings and Maxine Rhynes sit beneath a thin canopy as oppressive heat shimmers up from the desert floor 108 feet below sea level.

Blue smoke from their ever-present cigarettes hangs in the thick air as flies buzz around their heads and red ants scurry at their bare feet. It is 113 degrees in the shade, but Jennings and Rhynes do not have air-conditioning in the ramshackle collection of run-down trailers they call home.

“Another beautiful day in paradise,” says Jennings, his scraggly, gray hair falling from his shoulders to touch a scar that stretches the length of his stomach.

Their makeshift camp is set in an abandoned military shooting range where trailers, campers and old school buses sit on slabs of concrete that once served as foundations for barracks and buildings.

Slab City, where society’s dropouts scratch out a hand-to-mouth existence, is on a dish-shaped piece of land in the Imperial Valley, 175 miles east of San Diego. The Chocolate Mountains loom to the east and the Salton Sea shimmers to the west.

Each winter, thousands of “snowbirds” from the Midwest and Canada descend on Slab City seeking desert sunshine. But in the summer, when the mercury climbs above 110 degrees on a daily basis, only the really hearty--or the really desperate--stick around.

“We can’t afford to live anywhere else,” says Rhynes, explaining why she and about 90 others choose to reside under a merciless sun with no running water and little food. “The rent’s free and we spend $100 a month for ice. If I had to pay rent, we couldn’t eat.”

She and Jennings, who are both unemployed, have a combined monthly income of $634 in disability and welfare benefits.

Just about everyone in Slab City collects Social Security, unemployment or disability payments, unabashedly rattling off their monthly take.

“What kind of people live here? People who can’t afford to go nowhere else,” says Jennings, taking a drag on his cigarette. “People like me who are on SSI or something and can’t afford $450 rent and can’t afford utilities.”

Jennings’ ice-blue eyes stare out from a leathery, brown face creased by years of desert sun, making him appear older than 46. At his elbow sits a thick Physicians’ Desk Reference, which he says he uses to look up Rhynes’ numerous medications. A hash pipe lies next to the red book.

On a recent morning, he and Rhynes chatted with Paco Martinez, 19, who rode his bicycle out from Niland, and Jess Willard Tate, 65, who drank a beer with Jennings.

So goes their daily routine, which is interrupted once a week for the five-mile trip into town to buy water and ice for their cooler.

A solar panel connected to some salvaged car batteries powers their television and CB radio. Every evening at 6, Linda Barnett, a six-year resident of the camp, broadcasts Slab City news over her CB, telling residents about free food and health programs in town and household items for sale.

“You have to be a pretty strong character to stay out here, especially in the summertime,” says Barnett, 45, who lives in an air-conditioned trailer with her three black Labradors.

When she and her boyfriend broke up while vacationing here six years ago, she stayed. She does not know how long she will remain. Barnett, who is the closest thing Slab City has to a leader, says crime is minimal.

“Usually, they’re more threatening, but they won’t do anything,” says Barnett, who has called police for help only twice in five years.

Slab City residents are considered squatters on the one-square-mile property, but the state has never made a move to arrest anyone at the World War II-era military post.

Locals are more concerned about the recent enforcement of a county law that bans operating a swap meet without a license. Selling salvaged items to visitors and neighbors had been a small but steady source of income for residents living on the edge.

Still, Jess Willard Tate, whose trailer is situated up the road a spell on private land, is not complaining.

“It’s a lot better than living in the city,” says Tate, who was a barber in San Bernardino for 30 years and now lives on $487 a month in Social Security.

Alongside the dirt road leading to the encampment sits an abandoned, concrete guard shack painted sky blue with clouds and rainbows and a message reading, “Welcome to Slab City.”

The artist was Leonard Knight, who also created a three-story-high, 100-foot-wide hill of adobe called Salvation Mountain at the entrance to Slab City. Painted with religious sayings, such as “God Is Love,” and quotations from the Bible, it is like a mirage sprouting from the desert floor.

The 63-year-old former big-rig mechanic and guitar teacher has worked on his mountain for a decade, drawing the curious from miles away and even a documentary film crew from Los Angeles.

Knight fears he may be forced to tear down Salvation Mountain because health officials claim the lead in the paint may be leaching into the ground water. It is about the only thing that has marred his tenure at Slab City.

“I don’t think I found happiness until I started pounding on this mountain,” Knight says, his adobe hill looming behind him against the hard blue sky.

“I really wish America would be proud of Slab City,” he says. “I’m really sold on its freedom and letting people do their thing.”