Somewhere on the 395

During the Covid pandemic, I made the questionable decision of moving to the mountains, an hour and a half east of Los Angeles. I had been living in the Arts District in downtown Los Angeles, and when it shut down the neighborhood felt bleak and my fancy (small) loft felt like an exposed-concrete cell. The mountain ended up feeling similar — albeit in a bigger house — but I had an entirely new landscape to explore. You could be in deserts, ghost towns, and snowy mountains within a couple of hours. I would drive around with my wonderful dog Meaux Meaux and my cameras (and go bags for both of us, in case I wanted to stay in a hotel or motel somewhere). I vaguely remember this photo. I think it was dusk, I had been driving for a while, and I kept driving up the 395 toward a little town with kitschy hotels and camping and mountaineering stores. The desert out there is very strange. The road goes forever. The Sierra Nevada was on my left for what felt like forever, and Joshua tree after Joshua tree on my right. I also remember passing Manzanar, where Japanese Americans were interned during World War II, which cast a weird vibe on the evening. I don't know what caught my eye about this Joshua tree in particular, but I'm glad it did. I like this photo a lot, and it jogged the memories of this drive. I don't remember much more about the trip, but it was fun to drive around this weird part of California with my dog, who I miss very much.