part 2: arrival, my first burn

​​“I see you have a Ukrainian visa.” The border agent stopped flipping through my passport.
“I worked there for two years.” Was I a little anxious? Cress told me he never revealed he was going to Burning Man at the border—in case customs decided to search his vehicle—didn’t all Burners have illegal drugs?
I had left home early, wanting to get more than halfway to Nevada on the first day, arriving the next day with enough time to set up in daylight. Online survival guides indicated the following:

• The famous playa was on Federal Government Land, not subject to lenient Nevada laws.
• Burners had to follow a strict code to live by on the burn: radical self-reliance, radical inclusion and leave-no-trace were axioms.
• The Shut the fuck up! video summarized the organizers recommended attitude towards law enforcement

I found a hotel in northeast California. By mid-afternoon on day 2, I saw the Black Rock sign, joining several RVs ahead of me. The road widened on leaving asphalt, traffic cones marking lanes as I caught up. No one was obeying the 10mph limit until spotting the dust enveloping vehicles at the gate. ‘Have a great burn!’ called the masked greeter enthusiastically, directing me to WillCall for my pre-opening ticket between swirling dust clouds. The nearly empty playa stretched out in all directions, intermittent posts marking junctions of the clock-face spokes with concentric circles of Black Rock's set-up driving to BRO’s (Black Rock Observatory) "3:00 and G" coordinates. I pulled in, quickly drilling lag bolts to steady my tent corners in the pole-bending dusty gusts. Meeting my fellow campers, 

BRO starred location: 3:00 & G

Dust storm incoming

Temple at night

Temple streaming

we hurried through supper, knowing we had two days to finish BUILD. I woke next morning, tent stretched to the limit in the driving wind, dust piercing my closed zippers.
​Two days later, my first Meteorite Museum shift over, I was riding my bike at midnight, the Burning Man structure visible. I continued past, drawn to the lit Temple in the distance. I had composed a message to my departed mom at the Dear Mom camp earlier in the day. The host had told me I should bring the note to the Temple. The lit structure seemed nearly empty--I was one of the first to arrive after opening. Deciding to return the following day, I snapped 2 pictures, then rode back to camp. E-mailing my blurry pictures, I fictionalized my first night experience to satisfy others’ expectations of what Burning Man was about:
Dust & Illusions
BRO, Nevada: Amid the art, music, and revelry around creative Art-cars, the Temple was amazing, standing alone in the night. At first, I marvelled at the graceful construction--a wooden cathedral in the desert—so much work to build the Temple and fill the walls with loved ones' wishes before flames transport them skyward when the temple burns, the day after the Burning Man structure.
A lucid smear jolted me--the first signs that my drink had been laced by a passerby. I heard someone commenting "Super fucking acid, man." As the lysergic compound tripped in, I left the planet, the temple streaming away below me.
As for my actual first days’ experience at Burning Man, I highly recommend Black Rock Observatory: meteorites, space talks and two telescopes, one stellar to watch the sun's corona, sunspots and other plasma action. My shift showing burners meteorites, (Hold em! Moon rock, fantastic) was an experience. Burners were enthused. I went down so many rabbit holes with questions: did I believe in extra-terrestrials, we finally packed up after midnight.
In between the music and arts of our ‘festival’, there were Space Talks! 

Can you have?

Meteorite hunting

camp crew, all burners

​

part 3: my burn Experience

Wanting to see the Temple in daylight, I started off on my bike the next afternoon, the site map showing me how to get there (I thought). Several turns later in baking desert sun, I turned  past a shaded row of chairs lining the front of a saloon bar. Recognizing less tech music (no THUMPing for a change), I parked near the open bar counter.
The bartender was watching me. “Won’t you try our saloon doors?”
How did I not see the slat doors swinging on posts in the middle of the rocking chairs? Backtracking, my entrance brought cheers. Grabbing a craft beer, a man called Jerry was asking for 'goddam country!' He turned towards me, nodding as though he owned the bar (he did). “Alright!” 
I swung back out, dropping down on a rocker beside the noisy sprung doors. The beer was half-gone on my first ‘sip’. Biking burners passed by, half naked, bright red  bums, trailing costumes, loud and proud, or covered up like myself. Excluding my session at the foam shower camp, full nudity was rare. As I watched more bicycles approach, the doors swung half open. Someone fell out, the door springs pushing him forward, splashing his tipped glass. “Scheisse” He righted his broad hat, smiling; he’d saved some of his beer. 
“Yunno . . .”—he tipped his glass, swallowing. Was he German?
I got up and returned with two beers.
"How did you get me a beer without my glass?" An odd British/American/German accent. 
"Jerry saw you fall out the door."
​"You know Jerry?"
He was Austrian, had moved to Reno after living in England for 20 years. We compared histories for 30 minutes until I had to get to my scheduled kitchen shift back at BRO. We planned to meet later, but I found a different crowd on the way and stayed as I was very late. Ryan told me I couldn't miss the foam shower camp (I didn't). His parner, Louise, gave me an inscribed burner gift, a lustrous aluminum latch.
After a solar telescope shift the next afternoon, I set off again for the temple. On arrival I felt overwhelmed on entering the courtyard beneath the extended carved hand arch. Large posters with vibrant photos, some life size, radiated strength and youthful vigour. Attached notes described their character and contribution--how much they were missed, now that they were no longer present. Tears sprung to my eyes on seeing more photo, often smaller with an angry note demanding why? More and more writings on the wood columns and walls, all voicing a goodbye to friends, relatives, parents, lovers, drugs or lifestyle, a small ​number of others expressing joy at their continuation amongst so much ending.

---

I thought of my Mom and Dad. I'd never really expressed my loss at their passing. I wrote their names and years on an empty patch, surrounded by other names. I tried hard to remember all my friends who'd died, then found a high spot closer to the temple centre on a post and scratched as the marker quickly dried, touching up some letters to clarify who was written. I felt their release as I looked up at the names, joining thousands. l

Book signings