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    Hurt by Lockdowns, California’s Small Businesses Push to Recall Newsom

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    #masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }At HomeBake: Maximalist BrowniesListen: To Pink SweatsGrow: RosesUnwind: With Ambience VideosAdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyHurt by Lockdowns, California’s Small Businesses Push to Recall GovernorThe pain for such enterprises been particularly acute in the state, leading some to back an effort to replace Gov. Gavin Newsom.Daniela Del Gaudio, left, and Alexandra Del Gaudio, are the founders of the Wild Plum, a yoga studio in the San Fernando Valley in California. By the time they reopened last month, they said, they had $70,000 in debt.Credit…Rozette Rago for The New York TimesFeb. 19, 2021Updated 6:26 p.m. ETLOS ANGELES — Alexandra and Daniela Del Gaudio had never been to a political rally before, let alone one to protest a coronavirus lockdown and recall Gov. Gavin Newsom. But things had changed in the sisters’ lives since they opened the Wild Plum, a yoga and wellness space, in 2018.The Wild Plum, in California’s San Fernando Valley, closed in March when Mr. Newsom issued pandemic stay-at-home orders for the state. By the time the Wild Plum reopened last month, when Mr. Newsom relaxed the latest lockdown restrictions, the sisters had amassed $70,000 in debt. So there they were at a recent anti-Newsom rally in a restaurant parking lot in the Sherman Oaks neighborhood of Los Angeles, along with dozens of other business owners.“Everyone says to walk away, but we put everything we have into this,” Daniela Del Gaudio, 33, said. “We’re banging our heads trying to figure out what to do.”California was one of the earliest states to go into lockdown last spring, and it is now emerging from a second lockdown, which started in December. That stop-start-stop has created a groundswell of anger toward Mr. Newsom, a Democrat in the third year of his first term, that is increasingly fueling a movement to recall him from office in one of the bluest of blue states.Demonstrators rally for a recall of Gov. Gavin Newsom in Huntington Beach, Calif., in November.Credit…Marcio Jose Sanchez/Associated PressThe recall threat to Mr. Newsom has considerable momentum. Since March, 1.5 million Californians have signed a petition to oust Mr. Newsom, enough to trigger an election for a new governor. If enough of the signatures are verified, it will be the fourth recall election of a governor in American history.After they are verified and costs are estimated, the state has 60 to 80 days to schedule an election. Voters will be asked two questions on the ballot. The first is whether Mr. Newsom should be recalled. The second: Who should replace him? If the first question on the recall comes up short, the second becomes moot.The recall campaign has been funded by the Republican National Committee, which committed $250,000, as well as Silicon Valley tech investors such as Chamath Palihapitiya, who donated $100,000. Small-business owners have also been an engine behind the effort, said Randy Economy, the spokesman for the Recall Gavin Newsom campaign.“He’s broken the back of small-business owners and put many of them out of business for the rest of their lives,” Mr. Economy said. He said many were incensed when Mr. Newsom was photographed in November having dinner at the French Laundry, a temple to haute cuisine in Napa Valley, in violation of state guidelines. (When photos of the dinner were leaked, Mr. Newsom apologized for his behavior.) Small businesses across the country have suffered from shutdowns that sometimes seem to flare up as suddenly as surges in the coronavirus itself. Restaurants, gyms, corner stores and spas have closed, some after trying to hang in there for months.The pain in California has been acute. Nearly 40,000 small businesses had closed in the state by September — more than in any other state since the pandemic began, according to a report compiled by Yelp. Half had shut permanently, according to the report, far more than the 6,400 that had closed permanently in New York.Few of the pandemic choices that Mr. Newsom has faced have been easy. California has suffered enormously from Covid-19, with more than 3.5 million cases and 47,000 deaths. Los Angeles County, one of the hardest-hit places in the recent virus surge, has more than 1.2 million cases and 19,000 deaths.Dan Newman, a political strategist for Mr. Newsom, said the governor was focused on coronavirus vaccinations and reopening the state. Mr. Newman blamed “state and national G.O.P. partisans” for supporting “this Republican recall scheme in hopes of creating an expensive, distracting and destructive circus.”Acknowledging that the pandemic has “heavily impacted our small businesses,” the director of the Governor’s Office of Business and Economic Development, Dee Dee Myers, pointed to several state programs that offer them help. They include the California Small Business Covid-19 Relief Grant Program, the California Rebuilding Fund and the Main Street Hiring Tax Credit.Ronna McDaniel, chairwoman of the Republican National Committee, said in a statement that Mr. Newsom had “proven that he is woefully unqualified to lead the state of California.”In places such as Los Angeles County, where Mr. Newsom won 72 percent of the vote in 2018, and neighboring Orange County, a more conservative area, the small-business anger is particularly intense. One local business owner leading the movement to open California’s economy is Andrew Gruel, 40, a chef who owns Slapfish, a seafood restaurant chain.Mr. Gruel argued in an interview last month that California’s lockdown rules were confusing and hurt small businesses disproportionately. “None of the rules make sense,” he said one afternoon from the Slapfish in Huntington Beach.As evidence, Mr. Gruel pointed to the Walmart just up the road. While local restaurants could not have diners sit outside in the first lockdown, even six feet apart and with plexiglass between them, a Burger King inside the Walmart remained open, he said.“And that was legal,” he said. “It’s like W.W.E. in there, people cross-body blocking each other for B.K. delight.”Opposition to Mr. Newsom’s pandemic policies is particularly intense among small businesses in the Los Angeles area.Credit…David Walter Banks for The New York TimesMr. Gruel said he had laid off 100 people, had closed one of his restaurants permanently and was worried about the rest of Slapfish’s two dozen locations. The company has lost around $100,000 and taken on a lot of debt, he added.That afternoon, he let people sit outside anyway, even though it was against the lockdown restrictions at the time. “You could do a citizen’s arrest,” he suggested.Local business associations said they were also furious. Nick Rimedio, who serves on the West Hollywood Chamber of Commerce, said the lockdowns had widened a class divide. While quarantine has been almost relaxing for what he called the wealthy “Zoom class,” it has been a nightmare for the poor and middle class who have storefronts or work service jobs in businesses in the area, he said.“If you’re well-to-do, if you have a healthy stock portfolio, if you can work from home, you’ve saved on your commute. You’re doing great,” Mr. Rimedio said.Angela Marsden, the owner of Pineapple Hill Saloon and Grill, a cozy bar in Sherman Oaks, has become another anti-lockdown leader. In December, she posted a video on Facebook in which she was masked and near tears. She pointed the camera at a movie set with outdoor tables, which was legal, and then contrasted that with her newly built outdoor dining setup, which had just been banned. The video went viral, and she started a GoFundMe page that has raised $220,000.Last month, Ms. Marsden, 48, gathered dozens of local business owners, including the Del Gaudio sisters, to discuss how to survive and what to do to push for reopening. Many owned bars and restaurants; others owned gyms or spas. Almost all of their locations had been closed since March.They sat at different tables, spaced a few feet apart. Most wore masks most of the time.“Our retirement savings are gone,” said Joe Lyons, who owns the Celtic Raven Pub in Winnetka, Calif., with his wife, Belinda.Credit…Rozette Rago for The New York TimesBelinda and Joe Lyons, who own the Celtic Raven Pub and co-own JJ Sullivan’s Irish Pub in the San Fernando Valley, said they had furloughed 12 people. One of their suppliers was demanding payments they could not make, they said. The Celtic Raven landlord has been pressuring them for 10 months of unpaid rent. By March 1, they will be personally liable for $49,000 in back rent.“It’s going to kill us,” Mr. Lyons said. “Our retirement savings are gone.”But the hardest part, Ms. Lyons said, was Mr. Newsom’s policies.“When we were told we could open last June by Gavin Newson, I put full insurance back with the intention of reopening, only to be told that we could not,” she said. “That cost me over $8,000 that I’m still paying, as the insurance company would not cancel.”Another attendee was Guido Murga, the owner of One Headlight, a hospitality supplies distributor. He said his business was down because restaurants, his main customers, were hurting.“I sell napkins, straws, cherries, olives, to-go cups. When they close, I close,” he said. “I’m drowning week to week.”Ms. Marsden had never led a rally before, but she got into the energy of it.“Come April or May, how many of us will be here?” she asked, her voice rising.“None!” some in the crowd shouted.“I’m drowning week to week,” said Guido Murga, whose supply business in Los Angeles depends on restaurants.Credit…Rozette Rago for The New York TimesThe event was disrupted midway through when a small group of virus skeptics who had joined the crowd grew boisterous and demanded that people stop wearing masks. The moment reflected the complexity at play. Those fighting to open businesses in a responsible way were tangling with more Trumpist factions, who saw new allies in some of the apolitical business owners.Carey Ysais, owner of the bar Kahuna Tiki, stood up to call everyone back to order.“Guys, where you’re at is a different place than where we’re at,” Mr. Ysais said, as the anti-mask crowd jeered. “Are you a bar owner? Excuse me, are you a bar owner?”The Del Gaudio sisters did not leave optimistic.“We were raised to work hard. We’re not even given that opportunity,” Alexandra Del Gaudio, 36, said. “We’re trying to pull our families out of poverty.”Thomas Fuller More

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    Pete Wells's Odyssey as Restaurant Critic During Pandemic

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    #masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }At HomeMake: BirriaExplore: ‘Bridgerton’ StyleParent: With ImprovRead: Joyce Carol OatesAdvertisementContinue reading the main storySupported byContinue reading the main storyTimes InsiderChange by the Plateful: Covering Restaurants in a PandemicTo capture New York’s food scene in these times, I’ve adapted to many roles. But the essence of my job remains the same: hunting for a good meal.Pete Wells’s review of the restaurant Falansai was his first based solely on takeout and delivery.Credit…Adam Friedlander for The New York TimesFeb. 17, 2021, 5:00 a.m. ETTimes Insider explains who we are and what we do, and delivers behind-the-scenes insights into how our journalism comes together.In November, Falansai, a Vietnamese restaurant that had closed at the start of the pandemic, was taken over by a new owner and chef named Eric Tran. I was intrigued by his menu, which included confit duck necks and a seafood curry soup made with peanut milk. The backyard was supposed to be open for outdoor dining on warm nights, but there weren’t any. Too curious to wait for spring, I placed a delivery order, using my own name instead of an alias so the courier would know which bell to ring.Mr. Tran told me later that when he saw the order, he and his sous-chef asked each other whether they were cooking for the Times restaurant critic.“Why would Pete Wells order delivery from us?” the sous-chef asked.“Maybe he’s hungry?” Mr. Tran replied.I was. But I was on the job, too, and that first order persuaded me to review Mr. Tran’s restaurant without eating on the premises at all. It was the first review I’ve written based solely on takeout and delivery but, as restaurants, and my attempts to cover them, continue to adapt to the pandemic, I imagine it won’t be the last.For months after all the restaurant dining rooms in the city were forced to close last March, I wrote nothing that resembled a review. The entire business and all the people in it were suffering, and I spent my time as a reporter, finding out how some of them were getting along. I quickly learned that when talking with anybody who had earned a livelihood from restaurants or bars, I needed to budget at least an hour.Before the pandemic, I normally called chefs after I’d written a review of their restaurant but before it was published, to check facts. The chefs usually sounded as if I were calling with the results of a lab test. One chef called me back from a hospital and told me his wife was in the next room giving birth to their first child, but — oh no, don’t worry, it’s fine, he said; in fact, I’d picked a perfect time to call! These were, in other words, awkward conversations.The ones I had last spring were different. It was as if the fear and distrust all chefs feel toward all critics were gone. They talked about going bankrupt, they talked about crying and not wanting to get out of bed. What did they have left to lose by talking to me?By June, the crisis had settled into a kind of desperate stability. I was starting to run out of restaurants-in-extremis ideas when, midway through the month, the city announced that restaurants could serve on sidewalks and in the streets. On the day outdoor dining began, I rode my bike into Manhattan to have lunch at the first open restaurant I could find. I was as thrilled to eat someone else’s cooking as I was to do something that resembled my old job.It still took a few weeks before I wrote any reviews. At first, I worried that any opinion of mine would be unfair when restaurants were trying so hard to adapt to the new reality. Eventually, I understood that that was exactly what would make the reviews worth writing. Good food in a pandemic was great; great food seemed like a miracle, and I was finding great food all around.My pandemic reviews note the ways that restaurants have trimmed menus and simplified dishes, but even the shorter, stripped-down versions had a lot to praise. There was something that got to me about these small businesses — some of which had opened in the pandemic, all of which were fighting for survival — trying to bring New Yorkers some joy while keeping them healthy. I didn’t want to just report on it. I wanted to bang a drum so people would pay attention.The decision not to put stars on the reviews, as The Times has since the 1960s, was easy. Formerly, I tried to make the stars reflect how close any given restaurant came to being an ideal version of itself. But in the pandemic, there were no ideal restaurants, only places that were making it up as they went along.Almost everything about outdoor dining appealed to me: the street life, the flower pots, the shoestring architecture of in-street platforms. Even the weather played along, staying mostly dry and temperate nearly through the end of December. But there was no question that by Christmas it was getting too cold to dine al fresco.In my reporter mode, I had been told by scientists, airflow engineers and other experts how Covid-19 is transmitted, and all last summer and fall I felt fairly certain that eating outdoors could be relatively safe for everyone. (Some public-health experts believe that now, even outdoor dining in New York City is unsafe while the local risk of Covid transmission remains very high.) I did not have the same certainty about dining indoors or about some of the plywood structures I call enclosed porches, particularly their windows and doors, which are closed so they have almost no ventilation. I have walked away from several of those.I wanted to keep reviewing restaurants, but I didn’t want to go back into their dining rooms both because of the risk and because I was afraid readers would take it as an all-clear signal. When the governor halted indoor dining again in December, my selfish reaction was relief. Then I briefly got depressed. How would restaurants survive? And how would I keep writing about them?One answer had already started to appear on sidewalks and streets in the form of small greenhouses, huts, tents and yurts. Inside these personal dining rooms, you can (and should) sit just with people from your own household. If the restaurant thoroughly airs the space out between seatings, any germs you breathe in should be the same ones that are bouncing around your home. Many restaurants instruct their servers to stay outside the structures as much as possible, though some don’t. Indoor dining is back on in New York, but for now, I order more takeout than I’ve ever done in my life. I am still going on my rounds, too, but I dress differently these days. The other night, I put on thermal underwear, thick wool socks, a heavy shirt, synthetic-blend trousers and a bulky sweater. After lacing up my lined hiking boots, I packed a scarf and a Microfleece travel blanket into a tote bag. Then I strapped on a couple of masks. I looked like I was embarking on an overnight snowshoeing trek, but I was only going to Manhattan to chase down some tacos.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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    Pizza Was the Restaurant Hero of 2020

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    #masthead-section-label, #masthead-bar-one { display: none }At HomeMake: BirriaExplore: ‘Bridgerton’ StyleParent: With ImprovRead: Joyce Carol OatesCredit…Tony Cenicola/The New York TimesSkip to contentSkip to site indexPizza Was the Restaurant Hero of 2020Its ease and affordability made it a pandemic staple for many families and a rare bright spot in an industry that has been decimated.Credit…Tony Cenicola/The New York TimesSupported byContinue reading the main storyFeb. 12, 2021, 10:31 a.m. ETA few times a week, Elizabeth Reninger ambles to a pizza restaurant near her job for lunch. She orders the same thing every time: a cheese slice and fries for $6. For a little adventure, she sprinkles on some Parmesan and red pepper flakes.Before the coronavirus pandemic swept across the country, Ms. Reninger, a criminology student at Northern Arizona University who also works at a dog day-care facility, estimated that she ate pizza only once every couple of months. That changed late last summer when she strolled into a Slice and Ice pizza parlor.“Maybe the warm, gooey cheese is some sort of comfort food for me with the pandemic,” Ms. Reninger said. “I go a couple of times a week, maybe three times some weeks, which is kind of embarrassing.”For many Americans, pizza has been a perfect pandemic option, a comfort food for a time that is anything but comfortable. Whether a thin-crust version topped with fresh vegetables or a stuffed-crust pie piled high with sausage and pepperoni, pizza has checked many boxes during these strange times, primarily because it travels well and can easily feed — sometimes fairly inexpensively — an entire family. Over the first nine months of 2020, the combined revenue of Domino’s and Papa John’s grew so much that it was roughly equivalent to their selling about 30 million more large cheese pizzas than they had the year before.In a year when restaurants across the country have struggled to stay afloat, with many unable to cover rent payments and pay employees because of government-mandated shutdowns, those that dished up pizza have generally fared better. Sales of pizza grew as much as 4 percent last year, according to Technomic, a food industry research and consulting firm. Pizza and chicken are the only foods categories expected to have grown.“The pizza category as a whole was a big winner,” said Sara Senatore, an analyst who covers restaurants at Bernstein. Ms. Senatore noted that it may have become a go-to meal for families that found themselves on a tight budget because of falling wages or lost jobs.(Le) Brix Pizza and Wine in Denver opened as a French brasserie but quickly pivoted, temporarily, to pizza to accommodate the demand for delivery foods.Credit…Benjamin Rasmussen for The New York TimesFor large pizza chains like Domino’s, Pizza Hut, Papa John’s and the privately held Little Caesars, the pandemic proved to be a sales boon. The four controlled 43 percent of the $44 billion U.S. market heading into the pandemic, according to Technomic. Some analysts say the big chains, most of which have not reported fourth-quarter earnings yet, almost assuredly gained more market share because their size allowed them to better navigate issues like paying rising prices for cheese and other ingredients, hiring additional help or covering rent after particularly lean weeks than independent pizza parlor owners.For the first nine months of last year, combined revenues at Domino’s and Papa John’s increased almost 12 percent, or $434 million. Pizza Hut’s revenues for the same period were down a tad from 2019’s levels. The chain was in the midst of a turnaround plan when it had to deal with Covid-related closings and restrictions at its dine-in restaurants across the country. Even frozen pizza performed well during the pandemic, with sales climbing nearly 21 percent to more than $6 billion, according to NielsenIQ.“Pizza was the perfect food for the pandemic, but I think it’s also the perfect food for all time,” said Ritch Allison, the chief executive of Domino’s, which saw double-digit increases in same-store sales in the United States, starting last spring. In the past year, Domino’s stock has soared 40 percent, to $385 a share. In the fall of 2008, it traded at a low of $3.“We entered the pandemic in a fortunate position,” said Mr. Allison, noting that the company had a robust delivery service and had invested in its digital capability over the past decade.(Le) Brix is considering continuing the pizza operation even after the pandemic ends. Credit…Benjamin Rasmussen for The New York TimesJeff Schwing keeps the pizza oven going. The co-owners built it over Thanksgiving weekend.Credit…Benjamin Rasmussen for The New York TimesStill, as demand soared during the pandemic, Domino’s rushed to hire 30,000 people; ramped up its production of the fresh dough that is sent to all of its locations; and faced occasional shortages of ingredients as meat producers shut down because of coronavirus outbreaks in their facilities. Television commercials, which normally take months to plan and shoot, were reshot in a matter of days so they could feature drivers wearing masks as they made deliveries.Mr. Allison said his company had also become quite nimble in responding to pandemic customer behaviors. When it noticed cheeseburgers and tacos were also popular pandemic options, it quickly created two specialty pies: cheeseburger and chicken taco. Both become hot sellers, Mr. Allison said.“My new favorite is the chicken taco, and I add extra jalapeños to give it some zip,” he added.The pandemic has been devastating to the restaurant industry over all. Last year, more than 68,000 restaurants closed permanently, with buffets, French bistros, and soup and salad spots being among the hardest hit, according to Datassential. But 11,000 restaurants opened during the pandemic. Pizzerias led the way, with nearly 2,000 openings.Justin Morse and his partners had hoped to be serving their version of escargots (served in little ramekins with saltine crackers) and steak frites to diners when they opened Brasserie Brixton, a cozy, 45-seat French bistro in Denver, in July. But they became increasingly nervous as dining restrictions in the city expanded in the late fall, and they found themselves unable to apply for government relief programs like the Paycheck Protection Program because they could not show a history of lost revenue.Mr. Morse and his co-owners knew they had to focus on delivery. Realizing that items like French onion soup do not travel particularly well, they did an about-face. Over Thanksgiving weekend, they built and installed a wood-fired pizza oven.The partners in (Le) Brix Pizza and Wine, from left: Amy Keil, Justin Morse and Nicholas Dalton. Mr. Morse delivers the bulk of the pizzas himself.Credit…Benjamin Rasmussen for The New York Times“What industry is already set up for delivery and takeout? Pizza,” Mr. Morse said. “We said, ‘Let’s mimic an industry that people are already comfortable with in terms of delivery and takeout.’” While their restaurant, temporarily renamed (Le) Brix Pizza & Wine, offers a classic Margherita pizza, it also sells pizzas with French flair. One comes with white anchovies and thyme and another with potato, crème fraîche and rosemary.“We’re not selling enough pizzas to cover all of the costs, but it’s better than the alternative,” said Mr. Morse, who delivers the bulk of the pizzas himself. He said the group hoped to return to French fare in a few months, but was considering continuing the pizza business at a different location.Mr. Allison of Domino’s said he believed that demand for pizza would remain robust even after the pandemic ended.“We’ve been given the opportunity to serve a lot of new customers during the pandemic who had never ordered from us or not ordered in a long time,” he said. “We hope we’ve done a great job to serve them and that they become loyal customers.”AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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    Is Inflation About to Take Off? That’s the Wrong Question

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    Is Inflation About to Rise? That's the Wrong Question

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    @media (pointer: coarse) { .at-home-nav__outerContainer { overflow-x: scroll; -webkit-overflow-scrolling: touch; } } .at-home-nav__outerContainer { position: relative; display: flex; align-items: center; /* Fixes IE */ overflow-x: auto; box-shadow: -6px 0 white, 6px 0 white, 1px 3px 6px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.15); padding: 10px 1.25em 10px; transition: all 250ms; margin-bottom: 20px; -ms-overflow-style: none; /* IE 10+ */ […] More

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    A Long, Lonesome Look at America

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    Twilight falls over a county road in Crook, Colorado.Flags billow along an empty sidewalk in Martin, Tennessee.In Detroit, Oregon, the wreckage from a wildfire sits beneath burned-out hills.These photographs were taken on a 10,000-mile road trip across the United States.They reflect our country’s beauty, loss, confusion, hope, division, grace and grandeur.They’re scenes of an America cloaked in solitude — and of a country on edge.Supported byContinue reading the main storyThe World Through a LensA Long, Lonesome Look at AmericaJan. 11, 2021, 5:00 a.m. ETI was only a few days into a meandering trip across America, and already I was easing into something of a nighttime routine. Earlier in the day I’d pinpointed a promising campsite in Ozark National Forest. Now, I found myself ascending an isolated forestry road to get to it, my tires crackling over its rough, potholed surface.When I could no longer hear the road noise from the scenic highway that carried me into the mountains, I found a small clearing in the woods, shimmied my car into a level position and climbed into the back. Gathering my camping stove, I stepped outside into a light rainfall and, under a tall canopy of trees, lit the burner.All night I’d been enveloped in a thick foggy haze: not much to see, wipers running full tilt. I hadn’t interacted with anyone in days, and now even the landscape was hidden from view. But the rain seemed to be letting up — enough in this small glade, at least, for me to heat a pot of water for a solitary cup of tea. In the morning, I thought, if things cleared, there’d even be hope of seeing the surrounding mountains in their autumnal glory.Lichens on the rock reflect the turning of the leaves at Sam’s Throne, in Ozark National Forest.So it went, it seems, with much of 2020: our lives — and our country — enveloped in a haze of uncertainty, without our knowing whether the next day would bring a modicum of relief or a deepening of our solitude.Cattle in a field near Encino, N.M.Flocks of geese head west over Nebraska.In October I set off on a trip to witness and document this singular moment in American history — to look quietly and intently at our country, to parse its scenery.A polka-dotted awning on a vacant street in Glenwood, Ark.A boarded-up building in Carter, Wyo.The Rio Grande near Taos, N.M.To limit interaction and prevent exposure, I outfitted my car as a makeshift camper van, removing the rear seats and installing a sleeping (and living and working) platform in their place.After stocking up on food and water, I headed southwest from my hometown, Hudson, Ohio, largely avoiding highways and preferring instead to pass more slowly through less populated areas. Most nights I spent at remote, unimproved campsites — away from any developed campgrounds — in our sprawling network of national forests.The fringes of Kootenai National Forest, in northwest Montana.A barn near Libby, Mont.On many of my previous trips across the country, my spirits have been buoyed by the fleeting social interactions that occur sporadically throughout the day — at diners, motels, knickknack shops, campgrounds.Traveling in isolation, though, was a categorically different experience.Even in the casual places where travelers still gathered — gas stations, coffee shops, rest areas — there were generally no offhand conversations, no sharing of experiences, no sense of spontaneous connection. Strangers transacted and, still strangers, went their separate ways.A service station in Dale, Ore.Without the promise of social interaction, the landscape itself — both natural and built — became my focus.Often it felt like a companion. Often it felt like a manuscript, open to interpretation.Early morning light illuminates the Guadalupe Mountains, east of El Paso.A pair of deer in McKittrick Canyon.Wintry colors in Prineville, Ore.Reviewing the photographs from my trip, I found that my eyes were drawn to projections of my own isolation: lone structures, unpeopled scenes, solitary sets of tire tracks.The Fox Community Church in Grant County, Ore.A Forest Service road near Sisters, Ore.A vacant strip mall in northwest Tennessee.Looking outward, I saw within.An aptly named business in Ronan, Mont.Silhouettes against the night sky in Craters of the Moon National Monument and Preserve, in central Idaho.What also struck me were the scars. In town after town I saw sidewalks emptied, shops struggling, restaurants barely clinging to life.It all added up to the same bleak assessment: The pandemic has acted like an accelerant, hastening trends toward online commerce that threaten the future of brick-and-mortar stores and streetside businesses — the economic and communal mainstays of small towns throughout America.A café in Ojo Caliente, N.M.A service station in Vaughn, N.M.The economic fallout wasn’t the only visible trauma. In Colorado, Oregon and California, the widespread effects of the worst fire season on record were ubiquitous.Heading west from Fort Collins, Colo., along State Highway 14, I watched as crews scrambled to battle the Cameron Peak fire, the largest in Colorado history. The devastation along Highway 22 in Oregon was astonishing.Handmade signs along State Highway 14 in northern Colorado.A scorched tree trunk in Willamette National Forest.The charred remains of a home in Detroit, Ore.Our country’s political divisions were also omnipresent — in the form of yard signs, flags, billboards.In some places, the public posturing read like communal declarations. More than at other points in recent memory, businesses (as opposed solely to individuals or residences) seemed to trumpet their political affiliations.A politicized marquee on a theater on North Main Street in Springhill, La.A billboard in Carlsbad, N.M.A sign outside a farm in Bossier Parish, La.A roadside stand offering political merchandise in Medina, Tenn.There was, of course, an endless array of beauty. Gazing at the sandstone arches in eastern Utah, standing silently over the pristine waters of the McDonald Creek in northern Montana, looking out at a herd of bison in Southern Colorado, I saw the sublimity and the precariousness of our natural treasures reflected in their own forms.The Corona Arch, near Moab, Utah.McDonald Creek in Glacier National Park.A bison at the Medano-Zapata Ranch, on the eastern edge of Colorado’s San Luis Valley. In the 19th century, American bison were hunted nearly to extinction; fewer than a thousand remained from an estimated population of 30 to 60 million.If much of the American landscape can be read, then much is also continuously rewritten — particularly in our forests, grasslands and wildlife refuges, the arenas for our never-ending attempts to strike a balance between conservation and extraction, between profit and preservation.A U.S. Forest Service sign in Ouachita National Forest.A nearby logging operation.In many ways the trip felt like an extended ode to such places — our national forests in particular.Twelve days and some 4,500 miles in, I woke before dawn in the southern stretches of Bitterroot National Forest, near the border between Idaho and Montana. Temperatures outside had fallen into the low 20s; cocooned in my car, I hadn’t noticed. But, cracking the door open, I felt a rush of cold air.I peered out into the darkness.Clear skies above Bitterroot National Forest.Startled by the cold and beckoned by the Montanan scenery, I opted for an early start, descending the mountains north toward Missoula. I fell into an early-morning trance — until, 20 minutes later, I saw a fellow traveler who’d pulled his car to the side of the road and exited it. He was staring into the distance.I turned to my left, in the direction of his gaze, and saw Trapper Peak, purple and majestic, dressed in unspeakable beauty. Somehow, inexplicably, I hadn’t noticed its grandeur.I pressed the brakes and slowed to a stop some 100 feet away. I, too, exited my car and stood alongside the road.Together in solitude, we took in the scene.Pastel skies at sunrise over Trapper Peak, in the Bitterroot Mountains.Stephen Hiltner is an editor on The New York Times’s Travel desk, where he edits the weekly World Through a Lens column. You can follow his work on Instagram and Twitter.Follow New York Times Travel on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. And sign up for our weekly Travel Dispatch newsletter to receive expert tips on traveling smarter and inspiration for your next vacation.AdvertisementContinue reading the main story More

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