The States Quietly Cracking Down on Homesteaders

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So, you escaped the city, bought 10 acres, built a cabin, got some goats, and thought you were finally free. Then the county rolled up like, “Nice dream. Where’s your septic permit, outlaw?” Because apparently in some states, collecting rainwater is suspicious. Owning chickens is controversial, and living off-rid is a criminal personality type. Welcome to America, where you can own a bazooka, but not a composting toilet without paperwork. Before the HOA shows up and tells me this video violates neighborhood aesthetics, go ahead and like, subscribe, and maybe even hit that bell because I’m out here risking county fines and eye contact with Brenda to bring you this content. More about Brenda later. Nevada, the state that said, “Let’s put a major city in a frying pan and build casinos instead of trees.” People come here for the cheap land, big skies, and the dream of living off-rid like some sage desert mystic. But if you think Nevada is going to let you build your little off-grid paradise without a fight, I’ve got some very dry, very cracked news for you. The first thing you notice in Nevada, besides the heat that feels like God left the oven on, is how empty it is. Thousands of acres of land stretching into eternity. You’d think that means freedom, right? No neighbors, no noise, no problem. Until the county shows up like, “Hey buddy, that outhouse, it’s violating five codes and possibly three laws we just made up.” And that’s the thing. Nevada looks wild, but it is deeply in its regulation era. You want to live in a tent on your own land. That’s cute. Not unless it meets the uniform building code, has two exits, and a structural engineer’s blessing. Try to explain to the inspector that it’s just a canvas tent with your dog inside, and suddenly you’re a threat to public health. Now, let’s talk water. You know that thing humans need? Nevada treats it like contraband. Want to dig a well? Fantastic. Please file a water rights application, attend a public hearing, and wait somewhere between 6 months and the end of civilization. Want to catch rain water? Depends on the county. In some places, it’s fine. In others, it’s apparently considered sky theft. You’re out here with a barrel like, “I’m just trying to hydrate my kale.” And they’re looking at you like you’re plotting a heist. But the true test of your homesteading spirit isn’t the red tape. It’s the desert itself. Nevada is basically a giant convection oven with rattlesnakes. Your solar batteries will overheat. Your plants will spontaneously become jerky. And you will discover that dust is not a surface issue. It is a lifestyle. It’s in your shoes, your food, your thoughts. You’ll go to bed clean and wake up tasting sand. And then there’s the donkey. Yes, a donkey. Every longtime homesteader in Nevada has a story about that one donkey. Wild burrows roam parts of Nevada like they own the place, and spiritually they do. They show up out of nowhere, silently, like judgmental auditors. You’re trying to fix your generator with duct tape and desperation, and here comes this donkey staring at you like you’re the dumbest mammal in the desert. And honestly, he might be right. Still, people keep trying because despite the heat, the rules, and the random livestock with attitude problems, Nevada feels like freedom. Just don’t mistake open space for open invitation. Because somewhere out there, behind a cactus and a half-dead mosquite tree, a county inspector with binoculars is watching. And he’s not amused by your DIY shower made from a garden hose and dreams. Nevada wants you to know you can live off grid as long as you do it on their terms with proper drainage. And whatever you do, don’t look the donkey in the eye. He’s seen things. So have you. Now, if you’ve ever driven through Oregon and thought, “Wow, this place is magical.” Congratulations. That’s exactly how they get you. The mossy trees, the fog rolling through the pines, the cabin with the wood stove, and the quiet hum of a composting toilet, it all whispers, “Live here. grow kale, find peace, and then you meet Willow. Willow is not a person. She’s a stateisssued force of nature. Sometimes she’s an actual park ranger. Sometimes she’s a land use inspector in hiking boots. Sometimes she’s just a local volunteer with a clipboard and an intense relationship with zoning maps. No one knows who hired her. No one can fire her. She arrives quietly like mist through your unpermitted window and says things like, “Hi, just checking on your graywater system. Mind if I do a full audit of your dreams? See, Oregon loves nature deeply, romantically, obsessively. But if you try to live in it, suddenly there’s a form or 17. You can’t just build a shack in the woods and vibe. You need engineered septic DQ approved water testing, land use compatibility statements, fire mitigation plans, and a permit to sneeze within 200 ft of a wetland. And everything in Oregon is a wetland. You’ll buy 10 acres that look like dry forest. And someone from the county will show up like, “Actually, that ditch is a seasonal salmon bearing stream, no development for you. Mom, that’s a pothole with ambitions.” Try to push back and they’ll gently nod while casually mentioning the phrase code enforcement. In Oregon, those are the magic words that turn your peaceful off-grid homestead into a classified situation. And you don’t want to be a situation. That’s how you end up in court explaining why your solar powered yurt with a composting toilet is considered non-compliant housing and not as you claimed an earth temple of self-reliance. Now, don’t get it twisted. Oregon wants you to live sustainably. It’s very supportive. It also wants to supervise every inch of that sustainability with a team of elves, geologists, and someone named Chad from the planning department. You build a tiny cabin in the woods, and suddenly you’re in a 9-month permitting process involving endangered frogs. And yes, they will check on those frogs. But perhaps the hardest part of homesteading in Oregon is the neighbors. Not the loud ones. The loud ones moved to Idaho years ago. No, these are the passive aggressive neighbors. They have solar panels, too. They compost. They bake bread with names. They knit their own clothes from local alpaca. But if they see your structure go up without a visible permit taped to a tree, they’re reporting you faster than you can say graywater exemption. You’ll never hear it happen. You’ll just wake up one morning to willow at your door with a folder and a knowing smile. Still, people come because Oregon is beautiful, peaceful, wild. People think they’re moving to a forest to get away from society and then end up arguing with the Department of Forestry about the correct distance between their chicken coupe and a seasonal deer trail. In Oregon, nature is not your enemy. Neither is the state. But the paperwork, oh, that’s the boss level. And it’s written in legal ease, double spaced, and printed on recycled paper. So if you move to Oregon to homestead, keep your compost covered. You’re solarwired exactly to code and always always know where Willow is because she knows where you are. New Mexico, land of enchantment. Also land of wait, I need what permit. It’s a state where the sunsets look like a Bob Ross fever dream. The land is cheapish and the locals all have a story about aliens, goats, or both. It feels like the perfect place to disappear into the high desert with a solar setup, a few chickens, and a copy of Walden you only half read. That is until you try to touch the water. Water in New Mexico is sacred. Not in the spiritual healing crystal kind of way. Though, sure, that too, but in the legal minefield that will end your homesteading dreams faster than a rattlesnake in your sleeping bag kind of way. Let’s say you buy 10 acres of dusty heaven outside TA. No utilities, no neighbors, just you, the sagebrush, and your fantasy of living off the grid like a desert wizard. First thing you do, dig a well, right? Wrong. So wrong. That well needs to be permitted, approved, possibly blessed by a state hydraologist and registered with an office that closes on Thursdays for mysterious reasons. Oh, but I’m just collecting rain water, you say. Cute. In some counties, that’s fine. In others, you’ll get a letter that starts with pursuant to and ends with you quietly dismantling your water barrels under cover of night while muttering about government overreach and evaporation rates. And it’s not just water. New Mexico has this magical ability to seem lawless until you actually build something. That adorable earthag dome you saw on YouTube. The county might classify that as an experimental structure, which is a polite way of saying good luck getting it approved before you die. Want to build a cobb house with your bare hands and a dream? Great. Just make sure it passes inspection by Carl, the building official who’s been mad at the concept of adobe since 1993. The state is full of people who came out here to escape society, only to be tackled by bureaucracy and a hat made of Sunstroke. There are folks who’ve lived in makeshift homes for decades only to wake up one day and discover the county has suddenly remembered they exist. And now they owe fines for existing on their own land. And don’t forget zoning. Zoning in New Mexico is like a scavenger hunt run by a man named Larry with a dart board. Some places let you do whatever you want as long as you don’t blow anything up. Others require a site development plan for your compost pile and a conditional use permit for owning a llama. Also, just a heads up, everything here bites, stings, or stares into your soul. Scorpions, ants, heat, the wind, the local building codes. Still, people come. They see the skies. They breathe the dry air. They think, “I could really find myself here.” And they do. Right around the time they’re arguing with a county official about whether their straw bell guest house counts as a secondary dwelling. New Mexico will absolutely let you live your dream. You just need a water rights lawyer, a soil engineer, and the patience of a monk in a DMV line. And maybe, just maybe, a backup plan involving a van and plausible deniability. Now, when people think of New York, they usually think of the city. Taxis, bagels, 4,000 odd closets they call apartments. But if you drive a few hours north, you’ll find a whole different world. Forests, rolling hills, barns older than the Constitution, and towns where the population sign hasn’t changed since the 70s. It looks like prime homesteading territory. You think, “Yes, this is where I shall raise chickens, grow kale, and build a passive solar greenhouse out of old windows and spite.” But then Brenda arrives. Brenda, not in person, of course. Brenda doesn’t arrive. Brenda sends emails. She’s the zoning board secretary, president of the local Friends of the Drainage Map committee, and a part-time menace in orthopedic sandals. And somehow, without ever setting foot on your property, she knows that your wood stove is 18 in too close to your shed, and that your ducks are emotionally violating setback laws. See, homesteading in upstate New York is less rugged self-sufficiency and more bureaucratic hopscotch with a clipboard wielding neighbor watching from the curtains. The problem is zoning. Zoning in rural New York is like jazz. It sounds free form, but there are rules. And if you hit the wrong note, someone’s calling the town hall. You want goats? Better hope your land is zoned agricultural and that the local code defines goats as livestock and not exotic pets. You want to build a shed? Fantastic. Please submit a permit request, a $200 fee, a drawing of the shed from four angles, and a signed letter promising you won’t put a hot tub in it again. And if you think going farther out helps, nope. That’s where you hit the real red tape. Historic districts, protected wetlands, ridiculously specific ordinances written in 1983 by a guy named Bob who just really hated his neighbor’s windmill. There are towns where you can’t build a chicken coupe without an environmental impact study and a blessing from the planning board’s uncle. And don’t even mention tiny homes. To you, it’s a minimalist dream. To the town, it’s a non-conforming dwelling unit that violates the sacred scrolls of the comprehensive development plan. You’ll be in a meeting with six people in matching polos, debating whether your off-grid cabin is a structure, a vehicle, or a potential fire hazard with feelings. But perhaps the biggest challenge isn’t the regulations, it’s the judgment. New Yorkers may live in the woods, but they still carry that deep urban skepticism. You raise your own food. Cool. But the second your chicken crosses property lines, Brenda’s at the town meeting like I’m not saying the rooster crowed at For where I am, but I did record it on my Ring Cam. Still, the land is beautiful, the seasons are cinematic, the soil is good, the barns are old, and the sunsets will make you forget temporarily that you owe $600 in retroactive septic plan filings. People still move out here. They fall in love with the idea of a simpler life. Then they meet Brenda, discover their property is shaped like a trapezoid and zoned for light commercial agurism only, and realize that going off-rid in New York isn’t about escaping the system. It’s about learning to fight it with a binder full of receipts and maybe a peace offering for Brenda. Colorado, the place where people move to live free and end up arguing about whether solar panels clash with the HOA’s earth tone pallet. It always starts the same. You see a little land listing outside Boulder, maybe 3 acres, some scrubby pines, a distant moose. You picture a wood burning stove, a few chickens, and finally getting back to the land. You know, like a responsible adult with a sourdough starter and a propane tank. You drive up, breathe in that high altitude air, and think, “Yes, this is it. Off-grid bliss.” And then the HOA sends you a letter handd delivered by a man in Patagonia fleece with a clipboard. Let’s be clear, Colorado is not anti-homestead. Colorado is pro- sustainability, pro-s solar, pro- farmto-table everything. The problem is that half the people who moved here also brought their love of rules, laminated them, and formed committees. They came from suburbs, built new suburbs, and now act like your compost pile is a gateway crime. You’ll hear phrases like, “We’re just trying to preserve the aesthetic of the neighborhood,” which is code for we want everyone’s house to look like a Chipotle. No tarps, no goats, no DIY windmills made out of bike parts and ambition. But the real villain, the HOA president. She’s not evil. She does yoga and composts. But she’s also on a mission. She has Google Earth screenshots of your roof, an HOA handbook with color-coded tabs, and the kind of time and energy normally reserved for tax auditors and Olympic gymnasts. And God help you if your shed has a metal roof that reflects sunlight into someone’s herb meditation zone. Now, it’s a violation. You’ll be asked to remediate your reflective structure by Thursday or face a $75 fine. and something called a community discussion. You haven’t lived until you’ve been publicly shamed for storing firewood on the wrong side of your cabin. And the county don’t think they’ll save you. Some parts of Colorado are totally fine with off-grid living as long as you file the permits, meet fire mitigation requirements, get an engineered septic plan, and submit your solar layout like you’re pitching to NASA. Other counties, they have no idea what to do with you and treat your graywater system like it’s witchcraft. But you press on because the air is clean, the views are unreal, and even when you’re in a shouting match with an HOA board member named Todd over whether your rain barrels are decorative enough, you still feel alive. Colorado gives you freedom, but it also gives you structure. Sometimes in the form of a four-page violation notice about your non-regulation chicken coupe. Sometimes in the form of a neighbor who invites you to kombucha night and then reports your unauthorized greenhouse the next morning. But hey, the sunsets are great. So if you’re heading to Colorado at homestead, pack your grit, your permits, your emotional resilience, and at least one set of Earthton Tone compliant solar panels. And always remember, the HOA isn’t watching you because they hate you. They’re watching you because it’s on the calendar. Now, if you thought these states were strict, wait till you see the ones that are about to turn into full-blown off-grid gold rush zones. Click the next video before everybody with a chicken and a dream moves there first. And hey, if you want to support me directly, help fund my ongoing legal battle with Brenda and her army of bylaws, you can join the channel. Perks include good karma, early content, and my eternal gratitude. Experience Socialism

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