As an introduction to an upcoming series of bikepacking routes, Brendan Collier tells the story of his experience in Wonder Valley, a small community in the Mojave Desert east of Joshua Tree and Twentynine Palms. Continue reading below for a glimpse into what makes this area special…

I breathe in. An anxious tension reverberates through my chest every time I step inside one of these cabins. Some still have doors; others do not. Almost all of the empty ones have had their windows broken out and boarded up to protect their interiors. I can’t see what I’m walking into until I’m already inside. A wave of emotion washes over me: fear, anxiety, and sadness. I feel a certain reverence for the lives lived here and the hopes dashed. I take a moment. I breathe out.

On a drive to Las Vegas for Interbike a few years ago, I took the “back way” through the desert, out past Twentynine Palms via Route 66, where I kept spotting these little, lonely cabins scattered across the landscape. Some were quite small, about the size of a flat-pack shed you might buy at Home Depot. Others resembled modest, reasonable houses, coming from my perspective as a guy who didn’t own a home yet.

Why are these cabins out here? Why are they so spread apart? Why don’t people live in them anymore?

With each trip to and from Las Vegas, the cabins piqued my curiosity again and again. I began to take time to get out of the car and explore. Many were graffitied; some still held artifacts of their past residents – broken dishes, a wall covered in Garbage Pail Kids stickers, crayon doodles from a child. A stack of asbestos tiles on the floor.

Returning from Las Vegas a couple years later, I noticed lights twinkling in the distance one night. Some of these cabins were still inhabited, I realized. Then I noticed the art installations.

Wonder Valley

The area many people lump together as “Joshua Tree” – spanning from Morongo Valley to Twentynine Palms – has captivated me since my first encounters during the Interbike days of the 2010s. The natural beauty of the area is undeniable; the quartz monzogranite formations that define the National Park and the ultra-dark stargazing skies of Wonder Valley command your attention. Yet beyond that surface beauty lie human stories– both in terms of what this land has meant, and continues to mean for so many, and the lives I’ve come to appreciate and relate to here.

There’s KC, a retired US Postal Service worker who’s been in the area his whole life and has graciously hosted me on a number of local rides, including an overnight trip to “Camp Dirtbag” once upon a time when I needed it most. It was a ride I’ll never forget. And there’s Ben, a high-powered LA architect who spends his available time doing good deeds for the community of Pioneertown. And there’s Bob, an outlaw biker (and part-time model) turned carpenter with a gift for gab with whom I’ve enjoyed many a long day of work with in Pioneertown. The high desert welcomes all types.

Since 2018, I’ve been coming to this area more often, attracted by something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, finding ways to spend more time here through my carpentry job. I briefly rented a crash pad room in Joshua Tree in early 2020 to be closer to my kids, who go to school in Big Bear, but that plan was quickly sidelined by the pandemic.

But the little cabins out beyond the ends of Twentynine Palms: What happened there?

What Happened There

I eventually learned the origin of the cabins through Kim Stringfellow’s seminal work, Jackrabbit Homestead. These structures are remnants of the Small Tract Act of 1938, a government program that offered five-acre parcels of public land to be given to citizens for homesteading. An aspiring homesteader could claim a plot of land to call their own in exchange for “improving” it by building a cabin, drilling a well, etc, within three years. Once verified, the homesteader would receive a deed, and the land would enter San Bernardino County’s private property tax rolls. A win-win.

The small tract program was popular among war veterans and Los Angelenos seeking affordable housing and clean air. Some folks saved their money to embark on occasional trips to build their cabin, others hired local companies that sprouted up specifically for the task of building cabins that would satisfy the minimum governmental requirements for the deal. By the 1960’s Wonder Valley had grown into a bona fide community, with some of the original homesteaders still in place, and others having abandoned their efforts, perhaps not up to the challenges of desert living. By the 1990’s some of the abandoned cabins had been reclaimed by San Bernardino County, seized for back taxes owed. Others were leveled by local residents in the name of cleaning up what they’d deemed to be eyesores, after doing their due diligence to reach out to non-responsive owners. Today’s community of Wonder Valley residents is a mix of longtime locals and weekend homeowners with upscale retreat getaways, the latter of which seem to be gaining popularity as the Joshua Tree region continues to grow since the pandemic.

The aspirations of those original homesteaders of the 50’s and 60’s are relatable. You could dream up and do just about anything out here, I thought. I found myself scrolling high desert real estate listings. It seems a little money can go a long way out here and property seems affordable compared to the little mountain town I live in, which is frankly more affordable than most of Southern California. Real estate prices out here are affected by supply and demand economics as much as anything, and one thing’s certain about the desert: there sure is a lot of it. Notably, this concept of peeling off tracts of public land for private home ownership re-entered the public discourse during the 2024 US election season by both parties as a possible tool to help ease the problems of the housing crisis.

Wanting to learn more about Wonder Valley and the story of these cabins experientially, I pulled out my maps, asked friends a few questions, and returned with a bike. I parked my truck and set off riding. Exploring this area by bike would afford me a more immersive experience, I thought.

Finding Balance

Riding here, Wonder Valley presents itself as an analog for America, and what it feels like to be a Californian today. There are newly renovated homes adorned with the same architectural features you might see in Northeast LA: dark exteriors with minimalist light fixtures, and craftsman-built fences juxtaposed alongside utterly wrecked and long-forgotten cabins. Short-term rental cabins showcase social media-ready photo ops, like shiny Airstream trailers or beautiful hot springs (I stayed at one of Wonder Valley Hot Springs’ modest cabins and can attest it was everything I’d hoped for, and more). Art installations warn us of the dangers of capitalism and climate change, or remind us to put down the phone and be in the moment.

Out here you will see newly constructed luxury homes just down the road from long-established, anonymous homes sitting back from the road beneath tall, decades-old shade trees. Modest Jackrabbit Homesteads undergoing renovation, sporting Starlink antennas and solar panels on the rooftop with no connection to the municipal power grid, perhaps the weekend project of aspirational Los Angelenos who’ve come to love the area. A militaristic compound with barking dogs boasts shipping containers stacked high, encircled by off-road vehicles and tall chain-link fences a short distance from one of the area’s many large-scale outdoor art installations. It’s important to use caution and respect when entering the abandoned cabins; fully unmarked cabins seem fairly safe to enter, but I’m always sure to be respectful of the neighbors and the locals’ way of life.

There’s gentrification at play throughout the entire area. My friend KC once remarked on the newly constructed Taco Bell and Panda Express in nearby Joshua Tree, saying something like, “I dunno why we needed these things, but I guess people like it.” He said this long before the pandemic, when the area exploded in popularity and real estate prices went up accordingly.

But still, people find their balance out here. I try not to be judgy about the A-frame homes being built in the desert where there is no worry about snow load on the roof, and heat rising to the upper floors can be a major concern. Because the desert takes all types. And there’s a lot of it.

When Ben isn’t tending to his dazzling architectural projects in LA, he advocates for the use of adobe (mud) as a building material, and he once helped organize an informal group on a campaign to force San Bernardino County to replace Pioneertown’s water supply lines after years of noncompliance with EPA drinking water standards. Bob traded the bells and whistles of condo living in Santa Monica for a simpler existence in Landers. He’s a bit of a misfit, and that probably helps him fit in just fine here. As for me, I have long felt the call of this area too, and grappled with the possibilities as I struggled in the pursuit of home ownership, making ends meet, and a logistically daunting co-parenting arrangement. I have come to love this desert land and the communities here.

Wonder Valley and the dream of these Jackrabbit Homesteads expose to us the well-manicured landscaping of hope, alongside the peeling paint and boarded-up windows of despair. We Americans gaze into a mirror here – finding ourselves in a state of ambiguity, striving to persevere when we have the energy, sometimes yearning for something greater, while other times resting in acceptance of who and what we are today.

Brendan Collier is the creator of the Stagecoach 400 bikepacking route and is currently working on a new series of bikepacking routes, The Desert Collective. The routes will be published on his website and on Bikepackingroots.org