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Living In The Mojave Desert
We love everything about this house. Located in Pioneertown, an old western town surrounded by beautiful views of the Joshua Tree California desert, with a minimalist style and great interior beauty. The best place to separate…
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Furthermore, this beautiful home inspired us to create several looks with our items from the SS21 collection. Do you want to discover them? Well…keep going down!
As you can see, this construction gives its own special vibration and magic, surrounded by endangered trees, rocks, peace and silence. Despite having a minimalist exterior design, the interior reminds you that you are in the desert and brings you closer to nature.
It is also a home designed to be environmentally sustainable and reduce its energy footprint. Its windows are made of low-energy glass, which emits a small amount of heat energy and balances the temperature inside and outside. It also has a passive solar orientation that protects the interior of the house from the desert sun. There is a movement out there to redefine “homemaking” to make it accessible to anyone who wants to participate. But what does it mean to stay at home in the desert? By Reanna Alder
The smell of creosote is the first harbinger of rain in the Mojave. It stinks until you learn to associate it with rain, and then it takes on a kind of magic. The leaves of the creosote bush produce odor, a potent resin that drips onto the ground with rain and acts as an herbicide against competing plants. Smell is more reliable than weather reports.
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We hardly prepare during the rainy season. We run to collect the tools left in the yard, close the windows, tarp something. We are looking for boots and an umbrella, but we can’t remember where we left them last time.
When it really rains, water pouring from a small roof can fill a 50-gallon rain barrel in a minute. Rain events can be both exhilarating and dangerous: it’s fun to stand outside in shorts and get wet in the summer, but every decade someone is killed when a wall of water coming down the wash surprises them; flash floods can overturn a car or bury a house in mud.
The last rain event in our section of Joshua Tree was in July, after my brother-in-law, Damian, completed the second loading detail. When the first drops of rain fell, we all ran to the ponds to watch the water.
Drains are gutters designed to drain rainwater from heavily congested roads. The bottom of the surface slows down the water and gives it time to sink into the sandy soil. A deep layer of mulch protects it from evaporation, and the desert-heart trees planted in and around it use the excess water to create shade and biomass, which benefits the entire ecosystem.
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Damian often digs by light alone in the summer evenings, but the second was a family project, much of it dug during a work party the week before.
The staff includes Damian and his wife Maya; their 3-year-old son, Oliver; my in-laws, Steve and Darlene; my husband Nathen; our friend Jennifer, who rents the room next door; the neighbor she rents from, Paula; Gabe, another brother who lives on the property and me. After drinking margaritas, we dug until after dark and built a hill on the high side from the dug sand.
Darlene’s 95-year-old father, known to everyone as Grandpa Bob, who lives here, was not found that day. Together we cover four generations. Counting those friendly neighbors (why not? Paula does yoga with Grandpa Bob four times a week, and Karen has been renting from my mother-in-law for years), we’re 12 years old, Christopher Alexander approves of this town.
The township – a good part of which is owned by my father-in-law, who likes to buy land (not a bad hobby for a man of five sons) – is defined by straight county roads on both sides, with neighboring back walls. in the South and a series of undeveloped deserts in the North.
Trailer Homesteading In The Mojave
The cloud cover creates a soft, unfamiliar light, and the first drops wash away the dust, enlivening the landscape. Creosotes darken like Christmas trees. Maya puts Ollie in a yellow rain slicker and boots. The desert is a hot and humid water park.
There are two types of rain to dream of. One is a slow, steady rain that is gentle enough that the water has time to soak in and is needed to soak deep. Another is heavy rain, the kind that turns sandy roads into washes and washes into swift rivers. Regardless of the time of year, creosote yellow flowers appear a week or two after rain. The grass can grow for several weeks, and if it happens several times during the winter, we will have a wonderful flower in the spring.
This time it is over after 45 minutes and the sun is shining again. We got less than half an inch; it is enough to create a small river from the road inside. Proof of concept, at least.
I first thought about rainwater harvesting when I watched this fantastic video by Brad Lancaster. Lancaster says Tucson gets enough rain every year
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Which will satisfy all the water needs of the city, if the water is collected and stored instead of transported in water drains. Instead, most of Tucson’s water is imported from the Colorado River 300 miles away, and transporting that water is Arizona’s biggest carbon emitter.
*Tucson averages over ten inches of rain per year compared to our four. I have what you call desert envy.
When my husband and I moved here from the Pacific Northwest three years ago, my in-laws offered to buy the house next door that happened to be for sale. It stood on a “rich” dirt road. It was big, with a chain link fence around the yard and new carpet. It didn’t need love, so we moved on. Of course, there were other houses we might have looked at further afield, but Maya had just given birth to her new baby, making me her aunt, and she asked that we live “a little distance apart”, which was fine with me. .
I was already into tiny houses, and we both grew up thinking about renovating the 1962 travel trailer my husband lived in in the late 90s, complete with dusty green carpet and dusty closets. mouse droppings.
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I chose a spot for the trailer on the northern edge of his parents’ 2.5 acres, across from a small building that served as a bathhouse and sauna. A wall between the two created a U-shaped courtyard that would be our domain: it faced the sea and was far enough from the neighbors to walk around naked on hot summer nights.
Before we could move the trailer, we had to tackle a 4-foot pile of plywood that had once been a skateboard ramp—the pride of the neighborhood when the brothers were growing up. Later, the sun went down the ramp and the pile attracted more garbage with the special magnetism of the scrap wood. The fence then went up to hide it from the driveway. It took us three weeks to cut the wood and haul it to the dump and another five months to get it livable.
The trailer didn’t suffer enough water damage and spent all its days in Southern California. My husband opened each aluminum trim stick from the outside, peeled off the dried putty tape and replaced it. We took out the teal green carpet, painted the almond paneling white, took out the pink toilet and the noisy fridge, and made two single beds in a wall-to-wall bed. We moved a few weeks before the wedding.
We spent a few thousand dollars fixing it up and landscaping, which I amortized as rent over two years – the longest I thought we’d be in the trailer.
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This will be our third winter. “Pod living,” I call it, because in addition to the trailer we have a bathroom, a kitchen that holds a fridge and freezer, a tool shed, an RV that I use as a sewing studio, and access to my mother-in-law. and laundry rooms. The “floors” of this house are sandy paths exposed to the sun and the Milky Way. It has an improvisational feel to it, and I go barefoot despite the inevitable spines on my feet.
Of course, the trailer is very hot in the summer and very cold in the winter, and sometimes it’s the same day (next time I