Arid but vivid

A murder is about to happen. Fifteen metres away from us, beside a bullet-ridden oil can, a coyote sniffs the air. My daughters stop the Indian Runner jog they have recently developed across the acres of unfenced Mojave desert, and watch. The victim-to-be, a clueless jackrabbit, sits between us and the coyote, among a family of quail, who are scrabbling for insects under a scrubby creosote bush.

"Stay still," I murmur, grappling in my pocket. I pull out my Swiss Army knife and open it up. I know that coyotes rarely attack but best to be prepared. "That's the corkscrew bit, Mum," my 7-year-old, Ruby, says.

"It's the only one I can do with my nails," I whisper.

Luckily for me, the wild dog decides none of us, not even the jackrabbit, is worth bothering about and trots off towards the San Gorgonio mountains 60 miles to the west, an image straight out of a novel.

With hazards like these, I had to think long and hard before taking up a friend's offer to stay in her three-roomed cabin in this remote area of the Southern Californian desert. "What if the kids get bitten by a scorpion or a snake?" our friends said.

It's not that I didn't consider all this. Remoteness, nature and relaxation were what we craved. The kind of American wilderness holiday we took before kids, that let us wind down properly.

As I watch the girls running ahead, their hair thick with desert dust, I realise something miraculous has happened. This is turning out to be the most relaxing holiday we've had and the girls, who a week ago screamed if they saw a spider in the bath, are hunting for tarantulas.

Underrated wonder

For a place with a name so evocative of images of Americana, Wonder Valley is largely undiscovered. Not that it is concealed geographically; 1.4 million visitors stop just a few miles away each year to hike and climb in Joshua Tree National Park, yet few explore an area that, from afar, looks like a flat, arid expanse. Come nightfall, however, and the secretive community reveals itself, the black desert strung with the soft glow of cabin lights. To the north, a marine base with 25,000 inhabitants shines like a spaceship.

We are armed with a list of ways to entertain the kids. There is a children's museum in Palm Springs, an hour's drive away; hotels where we can swim; perhaps some horse riding. Then, on the first morning, we open the cabin door.

Sunshine explodes in. It takes a minute for our eyes to adjust to what we are seeing. Nothing. Outside, there is absolutely nothing. Between us and the Sheephole Mountains, 20 miles off to the east, there are no houses, no trees, just sand dotted with creosote bushes and the odd homestead cabin, most of them derelict.

Our nearest neighbour is three miles away. It is an illusion that there's nothing in the desert. We keep meaning to leave the cabin, we really do. But after three days, the car is still where we parked it the first night.

Freed from the restrictions of city life, the girls have undergone a strange transformation. They have taken to wearing snow boots, long skirts, neon sunglasses and shiny cardigans. They have also transmogrified into two elderly American ladies called Lucinda and Amy, who live out the back in a newly constructed "clubhouse" made from rusted sun chairs, the bullet-ridden oil can and "cakes" made from the white quartz we find scattered everywhere.

The desert reveals itself to be a gold mine for their den. Each day we hike across the unfenced homesteads, donated in the 1930s to families prepared to work the land but now mostly derelict. Old clothes, rusty cans and broken appliances litter their fronts. A forgotten plastic Christmas tree makes the girls' day. They drag it back to their den between them.

Although the days are relaxing, I wonder how the girls will feel about the dark, silent evenings out here. As each day ends, they lie on the porch doing feverish paintings of the sunsets that break above our heads in scarlet and purple streaks. They play dominoes by the fire before collapsing in the bedroom and sleep till late the next morning. When the food starts to run out, we are forced to leave the cabin.

Off to the lodge

The nearest town is Twentynine Palms, so we head there, stopping to meet Jeff Hafler along the way. Jeff and his partner, artist Mikal Winn, own Moon Way Lodge, a two-bedroom B&B on a 10-acre patch hidden up a dirt road.

"Welcome to the desert!" Jeff says. Their 5-year-old son, Cash, whips the girls off in his electric car through mesquite and jojoba bushes to see rabbits and Jeff shows us round. The Moon Way Lodge has a solar-heated swimming pool, neighbours, complimentary breakfast and a loan of Cash's swings and slide. "I always say it's like sitting at the ocean," Jeff says, as we gawp at the guests' fire pit, which overlooks a 50-mile flat, empty expanse of desert.

Thrifty treasure trove

Inspired by Jeff and Mikal's decor, we spend the afternoon shopping in Twentynine Palms. Unlike UK charity shops, these are sprawling yards of clothes, furniture, ornaments and household items, and keep the girls engrossed for an hour. They snap up Mexican lace dresses and toys. I buy presents to take home: a 1950s cook's prayer wall hanging and a plate covered in cacti and roadrunners.

We have to think twice about taking our wild desert children into a restaurant after days without human contact. But after vigorous hairbrushing, they are decent enough to avoid ejection from the 29 Palms Inn, which sits under shaggy fan palms in a natural oasis. We're here for the food, however, much of which is grown in the inn's garden.

The girls eat burgers while we tuck into shrimp tacos with fresh salsa, all for $30 (Dh110) and browse the walls, which display work by the town's numerous artists. I've already salivated over a diamant jackrabbit by Mikal, which we passed in the 29 Palms Creative Centre Gallery earlier, so my willpower is low.

Back in the glorious quiet of the cabin, we make no effort to leave until the end of the week. Under a spidery ocotillo cactus, the girls build a fairy garden from pebbles painted with nail varnish; and act out a wedding in their Mexican dresses.

Sunset stills

Finally, we persuade them out to Joshua Tree National Park to view the yucca palms.

Wistfully, my husband and I recall previous national-park trips, when we headed off into the wilderness with our tent. A one-mile trail packed with tourist groups seems a shoddy replacement.

The girls scramble up the large boulders with exciting names such as Skull Rock and run amok among cacti.

At sunset, I notice "Lucinda" is standing stock still, watching the beseeching arms of a thousand Joshua trees turn black against a reddening sky. Later, before bed, I wash a week's worth of desert dust out of her hair. Bracing myself for the usual screaming about shampoo, I realise she is standing in the shower, her lips tightly held shut.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"I won't make a fuss about silly things. I will grow up, " she says. We lock the gate reluctantly behind us the next morning and head off, taking a little piece of desert calm with us.