MOAB, Utah (AP) -
Daniel Suelo gets the same question, all the time: "Why?" The 48-year-old kneels in front of the desert cave he calls home, sips cedar tea from a chipped mug and explains, again, why he has intentionally lived the past nine years without using money. It's instinctual to live without money; it's the way we were born, he says. It's political. The addiction to money fuels corruption, he says, and he refuses to support a corrupt system. There's also a spiritual basis for his life, a philosophical framework.
"The understanding that, really, we all possess nothing is the cornerstone of all spiritual endeavors and religions," he says.
And there are health reasons. Suelo, who was born with the last name Shellabarger, is unfettered with worries about a mortgage or bills or income. Tanned, with a mop of gray locks framing his Buddy Holly glasses, he is a picture of contentment, his lithe frame stretched in the fall sun amid prickly pear cactus and red rock.
"I think taking things as they come naturally is the key to good health," he says.
A decade ago, Suelo was dizzy with depression. His University of Colorado degree in anthropology wasn't fulfilling. He had just returned from two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ecuador. He was disillusioned with his job working at homeless shelters and enclaves for battered women in Denver and Boulder.
Eventually, he concluded his growing despair was tied to fretting over his financial ability to maintain his stuff. Stuff, he realized, he didn't need. So, he gave it all away.
"We use all our energy to maintain our possessions, and it becomes an ugly cycle," he says.
He doesn't barter or work for food or rent. Barter is another form of money, and Suelo doesn't deal with any form of currency. Today, he embraces an ascetic life of "art and philosophizing." He's hardly the growling hermit, instead circling town on his trash-bin-built bike, engaging a wide circle of pals.
"He is truly the happiest person I have ever met. He is so deeply peaceful, it's contagious," says Damian Nash, Suelo's college roommate and a high school teacher in Moab. "He is living proof that money can't buy happiness."
Every summer, when the heat in Moab reaches unbearable -- especially for a cave-dweller -- Suelo hits the road, visiting friends and gatherings along the West Coast, where he is known only as "Suelo."
"I have no idea what the future holds, and I don't worry about it. But the longer I do this, it seems absurd to go back," he says. "It would be like going back to slavery. There's just too much of a price to pay."
His cozy cave is an hour's stroll from town.
Maybe 15 feet by 5 feet, the one-man crevice is crammed with buckets holding a few days' worth of rice and beans, books and cooking pots.
The hole in the wall is tidy, with his bedroll neatly folded into a nook. Cupped ridges on the wall hold knickknacks. While the cave carries a strong smell of patchouli oil, Suelo doesn't import any odoriferous whiff of homelessness. He bathes daily in the stream below his cave. His clothes -- which he found in the trash -- are uncommonly formal for a man who camps year-round. Dress shoes and slacks, shirt buttoned to the top and a fresh wide-brimmed hat form a Suelo style that is more Bohemian chic than homeless bum.
Suelo lives an abundant albeit frugal life, thriving on the waste of a small town. Every week, he inspects Moab's trash, finding more than he needs. Supermarket throwaways keep him well-fed. He eats healthily, often eschewing the abundant supply of day-old doughnuts or expired sweets -- although, he says, chocolate is "my gold."
The wild onions, watercress, prickly pear fruit, serviceberries, globe mallow and pine nuts that grow near his home add fresh-grown flair to the trash-bin-derived dishes he cooks over fire-branded coffee cans molded into stoves. He occasionally cooks roadkill gathered around Moab, and says he has never fallen ill from spoiled food.
The piles of trash behind Moab's half-dozen self-storage facilities provide a steady supply of clothes, tools, bedding and utensils.
"People don't realize how much perfectly good stuff is thrown away with just a blemish," he says. "Even after all these years, I'm still asking myself, 'Why would anyone throw this out?' "
He used to bristle when he heard people call him a mooch, a leech or sponge off society. The occasional "get a job" comments from friends, family and readers of his blog (which he writes from computers in public libraries) don't bother him much anymore. He says he has stopped worrying about what people think about him.
"The understanding that, really, we all possess nothing is the cornerstone of all spiritual endeavors and religions," he says.
And there are health reasons. Suelo, who was born with the last name Shellabarger, is unfettered with worries about a mortgage or bills or income. Tanned, with a mop of gray locks framing his Buddy Holly glasses, he is a picture of contentment, his lithe frame stretched in the fall sun amid prickly pear cactus and red rock.
"I think taking things as they come naturally is the key to good health," he says.
A decade ago, Suelo was dizzy with depression. His University of Colorado degree in anthropology wasn't fulfilling. He had just returned from two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in Ecuador. He was disillusioned with his job working at homeless shelters and enclaves for battered women in Denver and Boulder.
Eventually, he concluded his growing despair was tied to fretting over his financial ability to maintain his stuff. Stuff, he realized, he didn't need. So, he gave it all away.
"We use all our energy to maintain our possessions, and it becomes an ugly cycle," he says.
He doesn't barter or work for food or rent. Barter is another form of money, and Suelo doesn't deal with any form of currency. Today, he embraces an ascetic life of "art and philosophizing." He's hardly the growling hermit, instead circling town on his trash-bin-built bike, engaging a wide circle of pals.
"He is truly the happiest person I have ever met. He is so deeply peaceful, it's contagious," says Damian Nash, Suelo's college roommate and a high school teacher in Moab. "He is living proof that money can't buy happiness."
Every summer, when the heat in Moab reaches unbearable -- especially for a cave-dweller -- Suelo hits the road, visiting friends and gatherings along the West Coast, where he is known only as "Suelo."
"I have no idea what the future holds, and I don't worry about it. But the longer I do this, it seems absurd to go back," he says. "It would be like going back to slavery. There's just too much of a price to pay."
His cozy cave is an hour's stroll from town.
Maybe 15 feet by 5 feet, the one-man crevice is crammed with buckets holding a few days' worth of rice and beans, books and cooking pots.
The hole in the wall is tidy, with his bedroll neatly folded into a nook. Cupped ridges on the wall hold knickknacks. While the cave carries a strong smell of patchouli oil, Suelo doesn't import any odoriferous whiff of homelessness. He bathes daily in the stream below his cave. His clothes -- which he found in the trash -- are uncommonly formal for a man who camps year-round. Dress shoes and slacks, shirt buttoned to the top and a fresh wide-brimmed hat form a Suelo style that is more Bohemian chic than homeless bum.
Suelo lives an abundant albeit frugal life, thriving on the waste of a small town. Every week, he inspects Moab's trash, finding more than he needs. Supermarket throwaways keep him well-fed. He eats healthily, often eschewing the abundant supply of day-old doughnuts or expired sweets -- although, he says, chocolate is "my gold."
The wild onions, watercress, prickly pear fruit, serviceberries, globe mallow and pine nuts that grow near his home add fresh-grown flair to the trash-bin-derived dishes he cooks over fire-branded coffee cans molded into stoves. He occasionally cooks roadkill gathered around Moab, and says he has never fallen ill from spoiled food.
The piles of trash behind Moab's half-dozen self-storage facilities provide a steady supply of clothes, tools, bedding and utensils.
"People don't realize how much perfectly good stuff is thrown away with just a blemish," he says. "Even after all these years, I'm still asking myself, 'Why would anyone throw this out?' "
He used to bristle when he heard people call him a mooch, a leech or sponge off society. The occasional "get a job" comments from friends, family and readers of his blog (which he writes from computers in public libraries) don't bother him much anymore. He says he has stopped worrying about what people think about him.
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