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As local and state authorities scramble to limit indoor risks amid rising coronavirus infections, Southern Californians are increasingly looking to local parks, beaches and trails for exercise and relief. But recent high temperatures — above 90 degrees in many places — and wildfire outbreaks pose ificant challenges in several areas. The closure order will continue until Sept. The fire started Friday and was caused by a car malfunction.

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Years: 19
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I like to drink: Rum
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Brandt's mother is an avid crocheter. She sent us on the road with handmade throws to keep us warm while going south on Interstate 95 outside of Hawthorne, Nev. We were bound for Austin, Texas, and technically, this was our fourth date. But as I watched Brandt from behind the bushes outside of the Oakland restaurant Mua, where we were to meet for the first time, I caught no murder vibes.

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All I knew was that he was handsome, polite and surprisingly wholesome-seeming for a man who claimed to love Lou Reed as much as he does. In the year that followed, I saw more of the United States than I had in my entire life up to that point. My time spent living and working on the road with Brandt and his now our pug Sally, is among the happiest of my life.

And it almost never happened. Instead of playing it cool, as the misguided s romantic comedies of our youth advised, Brandt and I dove in — texting and talking on the phone nonstop during those first two months of long-distance dating.

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I hesitated only momentarily wondering if driving from Oakland to San Diego at 5 p. Remember the time I drove all night? It had to be aright? When I arrived, well after midnight, Brandt greeted me in the street.

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Before I could get out of the car, Sally leapt through my window and into my lap, planting gross but cute dog kisses on my face. I had wanted to road trip across the U. Take Austin, for example, where we were headed now: I had wanted to visit since I was in my early twenties, but had never been. Suddenly, the fact that my writing work was freelance no longer felt like a personal failing on my part, but kismet. There is something deeply meditative, almost mesmerizing, about seeing the world from 6 feet above the road through the wide-screen windshield of a semi-truck.

During the first several hundred miles of our trip to Texas, I delighted in every cactus, Joshua tree and desert rock formation I saw. I remember the first time we crossed time zones: from Pacific to Mountain in Arizona, and from Mountain to Central as we rolled into Texas. Brandt pointed to the helado-colored shanties in hues of fresa, chicle, mango on the hillside across the Rio Grande in Ciudad Juarez.

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We noticed the way the chones and chaquetas were strung up on clotheslines like family flags. It had been two weeks since a white gunman had killed 23 mostly Latinx people in this border town. This, too, was what seeing America was about. I delighted in the easy way our linemates chatted with us, as though we were all waiting to go on a roller coaster, not a meat bender.

Conversation there seems to flow as naturally and without worry as sweat does in the Southern heat. Though Brandt had a delivery in east Texas the following Monday, and I had a deadline approaching, the weekend was ours. Over time, our long days on the road began to take on a shape of their own.

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He and his ex-wife had been separated for over a decade, and Brandt had spent the past five years on the road working for a moving company, reuniting newly relocated people with their worldly possessions. Once I ed him, Brandt and I passed the time listening to history podcasts, books on tape and an ever-growing playlist of shared songs that was now three months deep.

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My time on the road with Brandt lasted nearly nine months. We were sharing a gray upholstered living space that was approximately 7 feet by 5 feet. Each and every item we brought with us had to have a deated place. Our first purchase together was a fancy XL twin mattress to ease the back aches that come from two adults — including one who is 6 feet 2 inches tall — spooning in cramped, creative configurations most nights.

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If one of us had to get out of bed, not smooshing the other person or the dog involved a complex choreography. And, almost inevitably, as soon as I was settled in for the evening, Brandt and Sally lulling me with their tandem snoring, I would have to pee. I would lay there at 3 a. Over time, I took to cooking dinner utilizing an air fryer, an electric skillet, a rice cooker, a folding table and an extension cord we ran from the cab of the truck outdoors.

Meal planning, prep and clean-up added an extra 2 to 3 hours each day to our already tight schedule, but it was better than living on fast food. From Texas, we cut up through Oklahoma and Kansas, where summer lightning storms lit up the road in silver flashes and mosquitoes savaged my ankles.

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We stopped in Colorado Springs for a few days, then pushed through Utah and Idaho, where I ogled the giant red and gold rock cliffs that reminded me of old "Road Runner" cartoons. This leg of the trip was two weeks. But we never made it, and it had taken me 39 years to get this close.

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So I asked Brandt to turn Kevin around. The stop meant we would have to make up for lost time later, but it was worth it for our conversations with locals and a long walk in the autumn woods with Sally.

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Brandt was on a cross-country work trip with his eldest son, Zion, To get to running water, Brandt and Zion had to go where other people congregated: truck stop bathrooms, showers at the gym. To do his essential job, Brandt was required to go into the homes of strangers. For a while, even the fast-food restaurants were shut down, and Brandt sent me photos of empty supermarket shelves.

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He and Zion got sick out on the road, with chest colds that would not go away and left them weak, but in those early days testing sites were nearly impossible to find. I spent those weeks we were apart in a blind panic, worried for Brandt and Zion, watching as my freelance work dried up, and as the businesses of many of my friends folded overnight. When Brandt finally got off the road six weeks later, in late April, I made the typically hour drive from Mendocino to San Diego in nine hours flat — the once congested freeways were ghostly quiet.

Now, a year later, our lives look nothing like our early days together on the road. Brandt was laid off, and we decided to ride out the pandemic in the small coastal California town of Fort Bragg, where I grew up.

A local trucking company hired him for work that kept him closer to home, delivering items like dialysis machines to our local hospital, dog food to the local feed stores, organic flour to the small bakeries. Whenever possible, I go with him. But for now, without it feeling safe to go to restaurants or see live music, the road has gone from a place of spontaneity and possibility to one where we, by necessity, continue our isolation.

Like many of us, most of the traveling I did in the past year was in my memory and imagination. Esther Liner is a freelance writer and photographer based on the Mendocino Coast. Californians can't agree.

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Lake Shasta in October Esther Liner Instead of playing it cool, as the misguided s romantic comedies of our youth advised, Brandt and I dove in — texting and talking on the phone nonstop during those first two months of long-distance dating. A winter weekend in the Florida Keys, Tavernier, Fla. More California Travel Stories. Top shopping picks. How to keep your feet dry er when cycling. These Merrell sandals are like walking on a cloud.

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