It’s Friday night. You finally poured yourself a glass of wine. The fire pit is crackling. The wind is rustling through the Jeffrey pines. The birds have settled down for the evening. You are ready for a little mountain-town peace and quiet. Then it begins.
At first, I thought someone was murdering a howler monkey. Then I realized it was probably a Chihuahua. Soon I began to wonder how many chiuauhaus were inside that short-term retail two houses over.
My best guess is what could be causing this cacophony of horror movie-level noise? The latest guests just checked into the short-term rental down the street. Earlier that afternoon, I watched what appeared to be an entire convention of tiny dogs arrive alongside their owners. Since then, the barking has been non-stop. Welcome to the modern short-term rental nuisance.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I love dogs. I own a dog. My dog is wonderful. My dog may bark once when the Amazon driver walks up the porch, but when I say, “Quiet,” she stops. Because I trained her not to act like she’s announcing the arrival of invading Vikings every time a squirrel blinks.
Short-Term Rentals and Long-Term Headaches
The rest of us on Birdie Boulevard enjoy living in what has historically been a quiet neighborhood. Sure, we have a neighborhood group text. Doesn’t everybody? Every Friday afternoon the messages start rolling in.
“Oh no. They’re unloading coolers.”
“That’s a Rivian.”
“Multiple inflatable paddleboards.”
“God help us all.”
Everyone immediately knows what that means. Another weekend of noisy Airbnb neighbors. Another weekend of wondering whether we’re getting a nice family from Arizona or a bachelor party that believes quiet hours are a government conspiracy. And thus begins another chapter in the ongoing saga of mountain town Airbnb issues.
Twenty years ago, my biggest neighborhood concern was the house down the street that somehow transformed into a full-blown squatter village. They had tents. They had shopping carts. I’m pretty sure they had meth. They had enough activity to qualify as a small municipality. I called it Tent City.
Back then, there was no code enforcement hotline. The local sheriff’s department had bigger problems than dealing with your neighbor’s homemade campground. Whenever friends visited my cabin for the first time, I’d simply tell them, “Turn left at Tent City. You can’t miss it.” Honestly, they never did.
Welcome to Airbnb Hell: Living Next Door to a Mountain Party House
Fast-forward to 2026. The squatters are gone, but somehow the tents remain. The only difference is that now people are paying $700 a night to stay in them.
Now, I don’t usually brag about being a Karen. In fact, I try very hard not to be one. But when the party next door is still going strong at 2 a.m. on a Thursday and I’m lying awake staring at the ceiling knowing my alarm goes off at 5 a.m., I suddenly become very passionate about noise ordinances. For God’s sake, this is a quiet mountain neighborhood, not a rooftop nightclub in Las Vegas. Some of us actually live here. Sometimes I feel bad about being a bitch, but then I drown my sorrows in the San Bernardino County Complaint Helpline.
Last Friday, I noticed a massive tent being erected in the backyard of the nearby short-term rental. Naturally, I assumed it was a wedding. This immediately raised concerns. This neighborhood is not zoned for weddings. I did not move to a mountain town so I could listen to “YMCA” echoing through the forest at 10 p.m. while somebody’s cousin attempts the Electric Slide under a rented chandelier.
So I called the property management company. The response was less than inspiring. Apparently, unless the wedding march had already started or twenty-seven vehicles were blocking the road, there was nothing they intended to do. And this was all before my other neighbors heard gunshots ringing out from the backyard after midnight. Is this a wedding party, a shooting rage a wild chihuahua dog park, or a nudist colony? No one really knows what is going on behind that tent!
Then the next morning arrived. At precisely 7 a.m., the dogs began barking. I was sitting outside with my Norwegian Forest Cat, trying to enjoy the morning bird song and a little mountain-town zen. Instead, all I could hear was a Chihuahua named Chad screaming into the void. That was the moment I started researching short-term rental complaints and local vacation rental nuisance laws. And I also upgraded our security cameras to this solar-powered beauty. And then I bought some high-quality earplugs.
STRs: Because the Housing Crisis Needed More Karaoke at 2 A.M.
Here’s the thing: everyone who lives in a resort town understands tourism is part of the economy. Most of us welcome visitors. What we don’t welcome are party houses in resort towns that operate like Vegas nightclubs with pine trees. There is a difference.
Most visitors are wonderful. But every now and then, a short-term rental nuisance arrives that manages to unite an entire neighborhood faster than a wildfire evacuation notice.
Now, Big Bear is a wonderful place to live if you want to be in a small town in rural California. The problem is that the pandemic happened and all y’all living in the concrete jungle needed an escape from the masses. Boom, just like that, Big Bear became way more populated. Short-term rentals sprang up in each and every neighborhood.
Living Next to an Airbnb: A Mountain Town Guide to Surviving Short-Term Rental Chaos
These days, mountain town Airbnb issues seem to be as trendy as Teslas, Stanley Cups, and pretending pickleball is a personality trait. Ski towns from Mammoth Lakes to Lake Tahoe to Big Bear Lake are all dealing with the same problem. Locals are increasingly frustrated by noisy vacation rentals, overflowing parking, barking dogs, and party houses that seem to operate under the assumption that everyone within a three-block radius is also on vacation. Yet here we are, still trying to peacefully coexist with short-term rental nuisances because, well, that’s life in a resort town.
Now, I work in the tourism industry. Tourism literally pays my bills. It’s my job to be a good ambassador for Big Bear Lake, the San Bernardino Mountains, and all the amazing outdoor adventures our little mountain town has to offer. I genuinely enjoy meeting visitors and helping people fall in love with this place the same way I did. What wears me down is spending all day picking up abandoned blue bags of dog poop along hiking trails, hauling discarded water bottles out of the forest, or discovering dirty diapers tossed into the wilderness. Then I come home, hoping for a little mountain-town peace and quiet, only to find a party house next door full of influencers who seem convinced they booked a penthouse suite in Las Vegas. Those are the kinds of short-term rental nuisances that chip away at a local’s zen one weekend at a time.
How to Report Airbnb Problems Before You Start Writing Angry Facebook Posts
Before the shit hits the fan (Or you feel like acting like an angry shithead) get the STR hotline phone numbers for your area. Sure, that ST
R down the street may have a handy neighbor’s helping neighbors phone number attached to the siding but if you call a jackass company like Destination Big Bear, they will not send anyone out to the rental to do anything about the yipping canines. Furthermore, they may just straight-out lie to code enforcement when they call about the complaint and say no one complained in the first place! Does this sound like a true story? Because it sure is not a party house in resort towns, fairytale!
Purchasing top quality outdoor cameras is a great option to always know who is partying around your neighborhood, who just peed on your organic peach tree and who just threw an empty beer bottle in your organic potato garden.
Party houses in resort towns are a whole different ball game. Yeah, we had one of those next door, too. The local sheriff would not take me seriously until the stoned underage kids showed up on my property yelling, “Come out, Amber so we can kick your ass!” after I called the rental company to complain about partying hooligan children and loud music at midnight on a Tuesday. And obvioulsy the short-term rental company told these youngsters, “Oh, the next-door neighbor, Amber, complained about you. She always complains because she has a real job and enjoys sleeping at night.”
A Helpful Local’s Guide to Not Acting Like a Feral Raccoon in a Vacation Rental
If you are traveling to a resort town this summer season, just try not to be an ass. I realize this is a complicated ask in the year 2026, when common sense apparently needs a subscription plan, but here we are. Act like a neighbor. Not a feral raccoon with a Costco margarita machine. No one wants to be that short-term rental nuisance.
Everyone sleeps with their windows open in these mountain towns during the summertime. Few houses have air conditioning because, historically, we relied on crisp mountain air, pine trees and the sweet sound of not hearing Brad from Orange County scream-singing Morgan Wallen from a hot tub at 2 a.m. If you are partying in the jacuzzi until last call while listening to house music loud enough to summon coyotes from three ridgelines away, every neighbor around is going to hear it. Including the lady who has to be up at 5 a.m. to guide tourists through the wilderness while pretending she is not fantasizing about feeding your Bluetooth speaker to a bear.
Don’t be that short-term rental nuisance
And while we are all thrilled you discovered the great outdoors, please try not to turn your rental driveway into Burning Man’s foreclosure edition. Do not set up a sprawling tent city in the front yard, do not park seven cars sideways like you are storming Normandy, and please do not bring down the home values on Birdie Boulevard because your group decided “mountain vacation” means “homeless encampment with better charcuterie.”
Resort towns are real towns. People live here. People work here. People raise kids here, walk dogs here, care for elderly neighbors here and occasionally try to enjoy five uninterrupted minutes of peace without hearing someone named Kyle explain his crypto portfolio from a spa. These short-term rental nuisances are getting old quickly.
So come visit. Hike the trails. Eat the overpriced fudge. Take selfies with the local bald eagles. Support local businesses. Enjoy the pine trees and the fresh air and the fact that for one magical weekend, you are not sweating through your soul in the flatlands.
Just remember: vacation like a guest, not like a short-term rental nuisance with a hot tub reservation. The mountains are not your frat house. Birdie Boulevard is not Coachella. And the locals? We are very friendly — right up until you make us sleep with earplugs in our own homes.
