These are my thoughts about why I went with a dry cabin. It's why I do a lot of things the way I do. The principle is worth considering, even if you don't agree with me on running water per se. The size of your cabin doesn't matter. Of course, building codes might matter.
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Running Water Isn’t a Necessity, It’s a Waste
Why I built a dry cabin, haul jugs, and resist indoor plumbing—inspired by Jevons Paradox and voluntary simplicity.
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“If you put in an uphill cistern, you could easily plumb running water into your cabin,” said “Wayne.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, dismissing the idea with a smile.
“No, really!”
“Nah, don’t want to.”
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What Wayne didn’t get is that I had a reason—a specific, intentional, and frankly stubborn reason—for building what’s called a “dry cabin,” the kind without plumbing. It wasn’t because cisterns are too expensive. And it wasn’t because there’s no municipal water out here on the Mesa. (There isn’t, but that’s beside the point.) I could have done it. I knew how. I had options. But I didn’t. Because it was never about what I could do. It was about what I shouldn’t.
It was about restraint. About minimizing water use—a self-imposed limit in a life built around walking a little more softly on this trampled earth. Better to haul jugs from the community well than ape the habits of suburbia just to feel civilized. As Thoreau put it, “It is best to avoid the beginnings of evil.”
A lot of my lifestyle is about that. Keep it small. Keep it simple. Don’t make it too easy to live big, or pretty soon your life bloats with bills, bullshit, and a bigger carbon footprint than a dually doing donuts in a Walmart parking lot.
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And when it comes to water, America is certifiable. The average American uses around 100 gallons a day at home. Here in the Southwest—where water is scarcer than humility in Congress—people somehow use more. Arizonans average 150 gallons a day. In Utah, it’s closer to 200. And in red rock country—Washington County, Utah—folks hit over 300 gallons per day, building their Zion of green lawns and splash pads in the middle of the damn desert.
Those numbers are bananas. So here’s some perspective.
Back when I lived in the van with my little Chihuahua, Coco, I used about a gallon and a half of water per day. That’s 1.5% of the national average—and yes, that covered drinking, cooking, cleaning. If I needed to wash more than my pits, I’d wade into a creek, no soap, just a sandy scrub.
Nowadays I've settled down at Hippies End with Sissy, my sixty-pound pit mix and full-time reality checker. We average around 2.5 gallons per day between the two of us—that’s about 2.5% of what most Americans use.
I’ve even got a rain catchment system my neighbor and I built: gutters to four 50-gallon barrels, plus two big 275-gallon IBC totes for the overflow. Right now, that’s only backup and gardening water, but if I wanted to filter it, that’s even less I’d be pulling from the community well.
And no, I’m not dried out like jerky. I’m not trailing dust like Pig-Pen from Peanuts—except maybe my feet, a badge of honor for any true sandalero. If I stink, nobody’s said anything—not even Sissy, who’s got a sensitive nose and no compunction against barking her mind.
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But look, I’m not Mr. Discipline. I’m just as wasteful as the next fella when it’s easy. When I’ve lived with running water, I’ve used more. It’s tempting to linger in a hot shower, or let the faucet run while you argue with a podcast. When water flows freely, so does our waste.
Economists have a name for this: Jevons Paradox. It says that when something gets more efficient or easier to use, we tend to use more of it, not less. So make water cheap and convenient, and people behave like it’s infinite.
Same thing happened with LEDs. They were supposed to save electricity. And per bulb, sure, they do. But instead of using fewer lights, people just bought more. Now the urbs and 'burbs are lit up like a casino parking lot, and total electricity use for lighting? It went up. Totally ass-backwards.
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That’s why I don’t have a cistern piped into my cabin. Not because I hate comfort. Not because I’m a Luddite. (Okay, maybe a little.) But because the simplest way to use less of something is to build in a limit. No heroic willpower needed. Just don’t make overuse an option.
I learned that trick back when I was a junior manager at an international megacorp. (Different life. Long ago.) The company didn’t control spending by micromanaging every line item. They just capped headcount. Because every new hire comes with hidden costs: office space, tech support, dental, lawsuits, birthday cakes. Limit the bodies, and the budgets stay in check.
Same deal here. I kept my cabin small—96 square feet. Not for magazine spreads or tiny house hashtags, but because it keeps my life small. And small keeps me sane. A big house demands more: furniture, heating, cleaning, insurance, maintenance, headaches. A small house caps the chaos, limits the cost and carbon footprint.
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Same with water. By limiting how much I can easily access, I limit how much I use. It forces me to pay attention, reuse what I can, adapt where I must. I don’t have to make noble decisions every day—I just made one smart design choice up front.
And that’s the quiet beauty of structural limits: they’re passive. They don’t require daily discipline or moral acrobatics. They just are. And that makes it easier to live right—even if you're a little lazy, like me.
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