The following article was written for the Alta Journal by writer and Dorland Resident, Victoria Patterson. Victoria has spent countless hours researching Dorland’s history—speaking with residents and Dorland associates, gathering their memories of time spent in this enchanted place, and carefully fact-checking every detail. We’re deeply grateful for her dedication, her love for Dorland, and her support of our mission.
Her article is shared here with her permission.
At a book launch party, I was telling a friend about Dorland Mountain Arts, the longest running year-round artist residency in Southern California. Another author overheard, approached, and playfully shushed me. Then, more seriously, she offered to speak about Dorland in private. Eyeing the writers and artists who drifted around us, she said, “We don’t want them to find out.” Located on the northern ridge of the Palomar Mountain Range with a breathtaking view of Temecula Valley—about 100 miles southeast of Los Angeles and 60 miles north of San Diego—Dorland’s ten acres rest on a 300-acre nature preserve. It has remained a relatively unknown artist residency, and one with a remarkable history that includes an unlikely resurrection.
As an L.A. writer all these years, I hadn’t heard of the residency, which surprised me. I saw a post about it on Instagram. When I applied and was accepted in March of 2024, I was desperate for time, privacy, and space to work on my novel. Since then, I’ve stayed five more times—my shortest stay was a week, my longest over a month—and I’ve become enamored not only of the landscape and low-key vibe, but also of the history. Residencies are low-priced and self-directed. There are five private cottages (I’ve been in them all), two with baby-grand pianos, and each with a kitchen, bedspace, workspace, bathroom, and a covered porch—most with stunning views. The Dorland ethos honors the belief that solitude in nature deepens the creative process, so socialization is not required. Yet there are opportunities for community. Most of my time was spent alone, reading, writing, and taking long walks along the trails (Dorland has well-maintained trails throughout the 300 acres of the nature preserve). I’ve also made lovely new friendships.
My first time atop the mountain (and each time after), I felt a world away from Temecula’s endless sprawl of beige copycat tract homes; the Trump flags and strip malls; the enormous Walmart; and the western-themed Old Town, which is akin to stepping back in time into a Western movie—except that tattooed motorcycle bikers rather than gunslinging cowboys tend to populate the bars.
The encroachment of businesses and houses has altered the landscape, yet a connection to the past remains. The familiar SoCal sense of the sacred—indigenous land coupled with a racist and violent past—thrums loudly here. For centuries, the Temecula Valley has been inhabited by Native American tribes, including the ancestors of the Pechanga Band of Luiseño Indians. Archaeological evidence suggests occupation dating back at least 10,000 years. According to Pechanga’s creation story, they have inhabited the valley since the dawn of time.
Temeku, the Native American name of the area (changed by the early Spaniards to Temecula), is roughly translated as “that place where the sun breaks through the white mist.” And the first thing that struck me at Dorland, from my porch with its panoramic view, was the sheer breadth of the sky. In the mornings, hot air balloons drift in the distance above the Temecula wineries, as if in a fairy tale. Sweeping sunsets commandeer the valley at dusk. I was enthralled by the waxing and waning moon and its ghostly twin of a day moon; the abundance of stars and bright planets; the contrail streaks mixed with the clouds in shape-shifting art; the wind-journeying clouds themselves; the jeweled lights of the homes and businesses below at night; and the moving headlights and tail lights of the trucks and cars. For the first time, I understood why more UFO sightings occur in otherworldly desert regions than anywhere else—because I’m pretty sure I saw one, too. What else could that quick-moving spherical orb have been? Never before have I lived with so much sky.
As an L.A. writer all these years, I hadn’t heard of the residency, which surprised me. I saw a post about it on Instagram. When I applied and was accepted in March of 2024, I was desperate for time, privacy, and space to work on my novel. Since then, I’ve stayed five more times—my shortest stay was a week, my longest over a month—and I’ve become enamored not only of the landscape and low-key vibe, but also of the history. Residencies are low-priced and self-directed. There are five private cottages (I’ve been in them all), two with baby-grand pianos, and each with a kitchen, bedspace, workspace, bathroom, and a covered porch—most with stunning views. The Dorland ethos honors the belief that solitude in nature deepens the creative process, so socialization is not required. Yet there are opportunities for community. Most of my time was spent alone, reading, writing, and taking long walks along the trails (Dorland has well-maintained trails throughout the 300 acres of the nature preserve). I’ve also made lovely new friendships.
My first time atop the mountain (and each time after), I felt a world away from Temecula’s endless sprawl of beige copycat tract homes; the Trump flags and strip malls; the enormous Walmart; and the western-themed Old Town, which is akin to stepping back in time into a Western movie—except that tattooed motorcycle bikers rather than gunslinging cowboys tend to populate the bars.
The encroachment of businesses and houses has altered the landscape, yet a connection to the past remains. The familiar SoCal sense of the sacred—indigenous land coupled with a racist and violent past—thrums loudly here. For centuries, the Temecula Valley has been inhabited by Native American tribes, including the ancestors of the Pechanga Band of Luiseño Indians. Archaeological evidence suggests occupation dating back at least 10,000 years. According to Pechanga’s creation story, they have inhabited the valley since the dawn of time.
Temeku, the Native American name of the area (changed by the early Spaniards to Temecula), is roughly translated as “that place where the sun breaks through the white mist.” And the first thing that struck me at Dorland, from my porch with its panoramic view, was the sheer breadth of the sky. In the mornings, hot air balloons drift in the distance above the Temecula wineries, as if in a fairy tale. Sweeping sunsets commandeer the valley at dusk. I was enthralled by the waxing and waning moon and its ghostly twin of a day moon; the abundance of stars and bright planets; the contrail streaks mixed with the clouds in shape-shifting art; the wind-journeying clouds themselves; the jeweled lights of the homes and businesses below at night; and the moving headlights and tail lights of the trucks and cars. For the first time, I understood why more UFO sightings occur in otherworldly desert regions than anywhere else—because I’m pretty sure I saw one, too. What else could that quick-moving spherical orb have been? Never before have I lived with so much sky.
Read the entire article here.