Saul Goodman - Get Off the Grid! - Saul Goodman's Guide to Staying Off the Radar

Intentionally going full nomad is a different ball of wax than slipping out of your former life and reestablishing a new homestead elsewhere. Money is different—I’d argue you that you need more cash to start with and a really good way to hide it—and you’ll also want to plan some kind of route before you get moving.

Nice thing about that is if you are down with natural living, the United States of America already has a long and winding path laid down for you, and if you play your cards right, there is every chance you could live along this path and never run into unwanted prying eyes again. Other people, sure, but not detectives either private or government-paid. They rarely strap on the hiking boots when they’re on duty. I’d add: some of these natural solutions to disappearing and rebooting your life may not be great for more than a kind of buffering strategy, but they’re a way to give yourself time to think the next steps through.…

Me? Well, I’m honestly more of a city guy. I can’t help it if I’m a fan of the readily available goods and services that exist in even the most out-of-the-way municipalities. But if I lost my mind completely and elected to take the hobo option, I’ll tell you one place I might go: East, young friend. I would cross the mighty Mississippi River, and shuffle on into Old Dixie and eventually make my way to the southern head of the roughly 2,200 mile Appalachian Trail.

The trail’s southern end begins in Georgia and it ends in Maine. If you look at it on a big map of America, it looks like a slightly squiggly but semi-straight line running up the country.

Before you reject the idea out of hand as equivalent to an attempted mounting of Everest, consider this: chances are, you wouldn’t be the only lonely soul out on that trail hiding from life, the universe, or a Juarez-based assassin nicknamed The Grapefruit. A quick case study is worth mentioning when it comes to defending the trail option.

We’ll just use his first name, James. He had a fine job handling vendor accounting and payments for his firm in one of Ohio’s big cities. Then one day, James—a well-respected and veteran employee—was called in regarding evidence of fraud afoot within the company. James told those federal investigators he didn’t know squat. He left work, returned to his home in Kentucky, and promptly disappeared.

Cut to roughly five years down the road.

An Appalachian Trail enthusiast was sitting at home watching TV, a true crime show that sometimes profiled fugitives on the run. The show aired a segment about a guy wanted by the FBI for embezzling a cool $8.7 million from his Ohio employer over the course of eleven years or so. I don’t know what said trail-lover thought at the time, but it was probably something on the order of “Holy shitwhistles,” because there on the flat screen the hiker saw the face of a trail buddy known only as “Bismarck.”

Bismarck was not some displaced German royal, he was James from Ohio! The guy had disappeared after the FBI interrogation, packed up whatever he needed, and proceeded to spend the next several years, in the FBI’s own words, “hiding in plain sight on the Appalachian Trail.”

Right away you probably see, after all we’ve discussed here, where our pal went wrong: he was a friendly, outgoing sort, and easily made pals along the trail.

Still, we’re not here to condemn James, but to praise him. Were it not for his unfortunate extroversion, he might still be making his way up and down that immense trail today. He chose well, too. The Appalachian Trail has a few dangers, but if you’re going to vanish into any kind of wilderness, it also has major advantages.

It’s well-marked, to the degree that you kind of have to work at getting lost. There are shelters along the trail and plenty of campsites. If you have gone at least as far as a fake ID, then there are plenty of homes, cabins, you name it along parts of the trail. Their owners and landlords are happy to help campers out with shelter sometimes.

Considering its length, the Appalachian Trail isn’t really all that dangerous. There have been violent crimes, but they’re pretty rare—as are predators from the animal kingdom. As a hiker goes north into New England, the biggest threat is going to be the frigid winter. If you use trail guides and pay attention to the passing of the seasons, you could end up hiding out just like Bismarck Jim—maybe longer if you’re careful about concealing your appearance when dealing with others. Even better: try to avoid them all together!

If this has you excited at the prospect of life in the great wide open, hey, that’s wonderful. Grow your Grizzly Adams beard right now, put your hair in a pioneer woman’s braid, and start prepping your mess kit.

However, if this is a full-lifetime life change you’re looking at, confront the prospect of trying to grow old out there. The Appalachian Trail might be, at best, a short-term solution. But if you have the time to put together a decent bug-out bag and you’ve been blessed with some camping knowhow from an outdoorsy friend or a long run with the Scouts, it seems like the perfect solution to give you time to think about your next move.

By the way, finding a way to Georgia and starting there is not your only option. There’s the American Discovery Trail, which cuts across the center of the nation; a trail along the Continental Divide in the west; and the Pacific Crest Trail, which runs the length of the West Coast. Any of them will provide a scenic path to appreciate for a while, at least until some of the heat is off.

This might seem like a part of some kind of outdoorsy theme I’ve got going on, but it’s not. I’m talking about a camouflaging move, a fake-out.

There is no better place to vanish than the desert. Think about the environment: no one wants go wandering through that bone-dry wasteland. Trust me when I say you don’t willingly head out into the desert unless there’s an urgent need for privacy and/or someone has you at gunpoint.

No one wants to follow you into the desert. It’s just creosote bushes, tarantulas, death, and eventual mummification awaiting you out there.

If you bring enough water and find some shade, sure—you can disappear, but only as a stopgap measure. Step one on the road to becoming your new self—at least that’s how I look at it. Plenty of folks live out in the desert. They make their homes there. The oh-so-generous U.S. government many years ago graciously bequeathed our native brethren huge sections of desert for reservations (that’s sarcasm, for those who have trouble discerning tone).

If there’s a desert within driving distance of where you are, there’s value in using it to convince anyone who might be on your tail that following you could be fruitless. Someone wants you dead, and you head straight for a barren hellscape? They’re going to assume you’re doing their job for them.

Consider a few different gambits in the desert wanderer game as a way to convince those who knew you in your old life that you’re gone for good.

Suicide.A casual stroll into the dry lands in just about any season with no apparent return path is a sure way to buy the farm beside a cactus. If you’re looking to disappear forever in the eyes of the lawmen or at minimum the ex-husbands seeking you, concoct an apparent desert suicide. This would involve some serious planning and careful attention to blurring your trail, but it isn’t impossible. Follow one of the many unpaved roads that lead from state highways through desert lands. Park your car next to an ND vehicle that you just happened to drop off there at an earlier point in time. For good measure, leave a door open and a plaintive note about your tortured existence here on this physical plane. Trudge a certain distance, then trudge a little farther.