In the Mojave Desert, the bright yellow desert gold flowers open wide in the sunshine. They look like little suns shining across the sand. Bees love to visit, buzzing from one bloom to the next, sipping sweet nectar and rolling in golden pollen.
As the sun sinks low, the flowers start to close their petals. It’s bedtime for desert gold. But sometimes, a bee is still inside. When the petals fold shut, the bee is tucked in—safe and snug in a soft bed of pollen. The flower becomes a tiny motel room just for bees.
On windy nights, the motel isn’t always calm. The flower sways and shakes, tossing the bee about like a boat on stormy water. That’s what makes it “wild” life. But even if it gets bumpy, the bee is better off inside than out in the cold desert night.
Bees are hard workers with a wonderful work ethic. They don’t even leave the job when it’s time to rest. They sleep right at work, in golden beds of pollen. And when the morning sun warms the desert and the flowers open again, the bees are already up and ready—buzzing off to do their important work all over again.
In the early 1990s, Rancho Lucerne was introduced as an ambitious master-planned development for Lucerne Valley. The proposal covered nearly 1,400 acres and envisioned 4,257 homes, a 27-hole golf course, and commercial amenities. A Draft Environmental Impact Report was released in 1993, and early grading even took place near the high school. To its backers, Rancho Lucerne promised to transform the valley from a quiet agricultural community into a suburban center.
But the project unraveled almost as quickly as it appeared. The financier behind Rancho Lucerne was charged with embezzlement, money dried up, and by 2001 the plan was abandoned. What remained was a scar of disrupted desert soil, a reminder of what might have been.
At first glance, this collapse may have seemed like a failed opportunity for growth. In reality, it became a turning point that preserved Lucerne Valley’s traditional identity. Without Rancho Lucerne, the valley avoided the massive shift toward suburban sprawl. Instead, it stayed closer to its roots—scattered ranch homes, small farms, alfalfa fields, and open desert stretching to the horizon. Growth continued on a modest, individual scale, with new homes built one lot at a time rather than through sweeping developments.
The deeper reason for resistance lay in water. Lucerne Valley relies on its underground aquifer, a fragile supply that has always been stretched between farms, families, and the desert ecosystem. A project of Rancho Lucerne’s scale—thousands of houses and a golf course—would have drawn heavily from this source. For many locals, that alone made the project unsustainable. By failing, Rancho Lucerne spared the valley from a major new demand on its water, leaving space for the slower pace of development that better fits the desert.
Even today, when the project resurfaces in planning discussions, conservation groups such as the Morongo Basin Conservation Association push back, citing water, wastewater, air quality, traffic, cultural resources, and environmental justice. The mood of the community leans strongly against large-scale development. Rancho Lucerne has become a kind of cautionary tale: a reminder that the valley’s future is best secured by honoring its agricultural heritage and protecting its limited resources.
Looking back, the unbuilt project didn’t just fade into history—it helped define the community’s values. By collapsing, Rancho Lucerne reinforced the belief that Lucerne Valley’s strength lies not in suburban expansion but in its rural heart, where water, land, and tradition are treated as treasures too rare to gamble away.
Them dreams ain’t broken. They is just done playin’
There’s an old motel squatting beside the highway, its sign missing letters so it only spells half a word. Rows of doors face the road, all painted the same tired color, their numbers faded and flaking. The pool out back is nothing but cracked plaster and tumbleweeds. Travelers glance at it now and mutter, “broken dreams.”
But for a time, this place was buzzing. Neon glowed red and blue against the desert night, a beacon for weary drivers. Families pulled in with dust on their bumpers, kids tumbling out of cars and racing to the pool. Truckers parked out front, stretching stiff legs before grabbing a room. The ice machine clattered, the soda machine hummed, and radios crackled through thin walls. Each door held a story—honeymooners, salesmen, wanderers chasing the horizon.
The motel didn’t die because dreams collapsed. It faded when the road shifted, when chains offered cheaper beds closer to the freeway, when travel changed shape. The neon flickered out one night, the owner sold off the furniture, and the desert began to sift sand across the parking lot.
Now it sits in silence, a hollow frame where laughter once echoed. If you stand there at dusk, when the sky goes purple and the wind rattles the broken sign, you can almost hear the faint splash of kids in the pool, the muffled slam of a screen door, the hum of neon calling strangers in from the dark. Not broken dreams. Just the afterglow of a place that served its purpose and then stepped aside.
Dunes Motel
The Dunes Motel on Route 66 near Lenwood, California, was built in the late 1940s or 1950s. It had four buildings, each with four rooms (16 total), centered around a swimming pool designed to create a desert oasis feel. Located about 2.5 miles west of Lenwood at 23135 National Trails Highway, it catered to travelers during the heyday of Route 66.
Over time, with the arrival of Interstate 15 pulling traffic away, the motel declined. Today, it stands abandoned, with boarded windows, graffiti, and remnants like its old sign and pool still visible. Some recall it functioning more like an apartment complex in its later years, and it has even acquired a reputation for being haunted.
Lenwood itself once hosted several motels, cafes, and even a drive-in theater, but like the Dunes, most faded after the freeways bypassed Route 66.
