Jack Rabbit Homestead Cabins
by Kim Stringfellow
February 18, 2010

Beyond the proliferation of big box chains, car dealerships, fast food joints, and the nameless sprawl located along Highway 62 the desert opens up. Out there, where signs of familiar habitation seem to fade from view, a variance appears in the landscape in the form of small, dusty cabins—mostly abandoned—scattered across the landscape.

The majority of the existing shacks, historically found throughout the larger region known as the Morongo Basin, lie east of Twentynine Palms in outlying Wonder Valley. The curious presence of these structures indicates that you are entering one of the remaining communities of “jackrabbit” homesteads left in the American West. The mostly derelict structures located among the few inhabited ones are the remaining physical evidence of former occupants who were some of the last to receive land from Uncle Sam for a nominal fee through the Small Tract Act of 1938.

One of the many land acts designed to dispose of “useless” federal lands from the public domain, the Small Tract Act authorized the lease of up to five acres of public land for recreational purpose or use as a home, cabin, camp, health, convalescent, or business site.If the applicant made the necessary improvements to his or her claim by constructing a small dwelling within three years of the lease, the applicant could file for a patent—the federal government’s form of a deed—after purchasing the parcel for the appraised price (on average $10 to $20 an acre).

This highly popular mid-century homestead movement reflects the quintessential American desire to claim territory and own a piece of the land even if the property in question is virtually “worthless” from an economic perspective.

The trend seemed to attract a mostly working class crowd, but people of all walks of life and economic backgrounds were involved. The act also allowed many folks who had only previously rented properties to purchase a piece of land. The Los Angeles Times called the phenomena “one of the strangest land rushes in Southern California history.” Hundreds of applicants flooded regional land offices managed by the BLM after reading how simple it was to file a claim. Requirements for the five-acre homesteads did not necessitate that they live off the land as the original homestead laws required, freeing many to “prove up” their lease when they were able. Most came from the Los Angeles metropolitan area seeking solitude, repose, and isolation from traffic jams, smog, and other perils of urban life.

Many jackrabbit homesteaders took great pleasure proving up their lease by constructing cabins themselves over weekends and holidays. Others simply purchased prefab cabin models that fulfilled the basic lease requirements from vendors such as Homestead Supplies. “Spreads” were often humorously named: Aching Back, Calloused Palms, Canta-Forda Rancho, Cost-a-Plenty, Dun Movin’, Jackass Junction, Lizard Acres, Rancho Azoff, and Withering Heights.

In my research I discovered that a number of single women who participated in jackrabbit homesteading. They often referred to themselves as “tenderfoots.” Two of these woman—Melissa Branson Stedman and Catherine Venn—wrote about their experiences in Desert Magazine, which was one of the main boosters of Jackrabbit Homesteading in the region.

The following excerpt is from Catherine Venn’s 6-part series, “Diary of a Jackrabbit Homesteader” published by Desert Magazine in 1950.

“That first night on my jackrabbit homestead was one of the longest nights of my life. The light of the lamps from my windows gave me an uneasy, target-like feeling, so I turned down the wicks and puffed out the flames. I held my cold hands to the chimneys, clinging to such warmth as they gave as the unheated cabana was fast taking on the atmosphere of an ice box.

It quieted my uneasiness to peer out the windows to see what I could see. Faintly discernible in the pallid light of the new moon, the shrubbery moved in wraith-like forms in the breeze, and I could fancy all sorts of grotesque figures in the rocks and cacti. In the stillness the creaking noises of the cabana as it settled on its foundation did not settle my city nerves. I thought of staying up all night, but was soon driven to bed for warmth. I must have been nearly asleep when I was startled by a strange sound. I jumped up and peered out the window. There was a stealthy movement on my little rock hill. My heart beat loudly as I waited for some sound that would identify the curious visitor out there in the darkness.

Then I heard two sharp yelps. I moved to the other window and saw what looked like a couple of wolves milling about. Thinking a light might frighten away the beasts I set a lamp in the window. The shaft of light caught two animals pawing my thermos bottle around as if it were a football. Then I remembered I had left the supper snack mother had prepared for me on a rock outside. In the excitement of my first night in the cabin I had forgotten about eating.

I rapped and banged loudly about the cabana, and they disappeared. I stood watch until I was numb with cold afraid they would return—and disappointed when they failed to do so. The next day at the nearest gas station, I learned that my reception committee was a group of hungry coyotes on a nocturnal forage. But they were still wolves to me! It was near dawn before I finally went to sleep.

I had thought I would be braver, but I discovered when a city woman transplants herself to a solitary, untested environment, it is too overwhelming an experience to be conquered overnight. Often I am asked “Aren’t you afraid?” and “Don’t you get terribly lonesome?” But conquering fear and emotions have been just part of the challenge of my adventure. There were many tales in the area of bold coyotes, which made me afraid to step out of my door after dark. And little did I know then that two months later I would be on speaking terms with a large one I called ‘Boy,’ who was never late in keeping his rendezvous with me on the first night of every new moon.” —Condensed excerpt from Catherine Venn’s, “Diary of a Jackrabbit Homesteader,” Desert Magazine, August 1950.

Kim Stringfellow is an artist/educator currently residing in Joshua Tree, CA. Her creative practice addresses ecological, historical, and activist issues related to land use and the built environment through hybrid documentary forms. She teaches in the Multimedia area as an Associate Professor in School of Art, Design, and Art History at San Diego State University. Her newest book is Jackrabbit Homestead: Tracing the Small Tract Act in the Southern CA Landscape, 1938-2008.

For more information KimStringfellow.com