It’s difficult to describe what Burning Man is about to those who have not experienced it. Some things that it is not: a backdrop for scantily clad Instagram models, a drug-fueled rave, a giant orgy. That said, if this is what you seek, you can certainly find it. Of note, I did not visit the Orgy Dome or the Pink Palace of Pain and Pleasure, though I did learn a bit of the art of rope bondage for suspension. But I am getting ahead of myself.
For those unfamiliar, Burning Man, while often mistaken for a festival, is a temporary city in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada. Visit in July and you will find only a barren dry lakebed of alkaline dust, but by the end of August, you will find a metropolis of 80,000 people (covered in said dust). By the end of September, you will find no trace of the city; only the lakebed remains.
With temperatures over 100° every day and windstorms so thick with dust that you cannot see more than a foot in front of you at times, this is perhaps the most inhospitable environment imaginable. And yet, every year tens of thousands return. Which begs the question: why?
The answer is, in part, the 10 Principles, which both guide and mirror the ethos and culture of Burning Man. I will list them here, but further reading is strongly recommended (see burningman.org). The 10 Principles are Radical Inclusion, Gifting, Decommodification, Radical Self-reliance, Radical Self-expression, Communal Effort, Civic Responsibility, Leaving No Trace, Participation, and Immediacy.
In August, I traveled to Black Rock City, the home of Burning Man, with my daughter, Rachel, and her husband, Danny, who were returning for their sixth and fifth times, respectively. Knowing that I would be wholly unprepared if left to my own devices, Rachel came to Chicago for four days to help me prep and ensure I was properly equipped. Some necessities I had from my late-onset marathon running hobby, including a hydration backpack and belt (the latter quite useful for whiskey). Other items were ready to go, thanks to COVID-19; goggles and masks are a must in the face of a dust storm. There was shopping for items familiar to any camper (e.g., headlamp and spork), and once we were in California, more shopping to ensure that we would have plenty to eat and drink and share for 10 days in the desert.
Rachel and I turned off the pavement onto Gate Road at around 11 p.m. on Friday night. As our passes allowed entry beginning at midnight Saturday, we hoped there would be enough of a line so that we wouldn’t be sent to the holding lot. As the wait turned out to be four hours, this problem resolved itself. As my knees and temperament are not well-suited to sitting for long stretches of time, I stepped out for a short walk and finally found our van again about an hour later. As I had left my phone behind, Rachel was on the verge of calling BMIR (the Burning Man radio station) to report a lost parent. Ultimately, the anxiety I caused her was overcome by the joy of sharing the “I brought my dad to Burning Man and lost him on Gate Road” story. We eventually made it, and I performed the time-honored rituals of making a dust angel, ringing a bell, and yelling “I’m not a virgin anymore” before finding our camp and Danny, and going to bed.
The next morning, the real work began. I helped build our camp, Tarwater (which is composed largely of archeologists closer to my age than Rachel’s). This community instantly became my camp family. Bill taught me how to pound t-posts and put up wind breaks. I went on ice runs with Shepherd, who taught me how to navigate the city (Gate Road was not the only place I got lost).
I accompanied Tom and Steve to ShamanDome, though I never did find my spirit animal. Patricia introduced me to Quadruple Scrabble, an excellent way to pass the time in a multi-hour dust storm. While campmates’ paths frequently diverged, most evenings, we had family dinner together as a camp. Though, on Friday night, Rachel and I ventured out to Milk and Honey for a less than traditional Shabbat service and vegan dinner with 800 others.
Unlike the world I normally live in (the “default world”), this alternate universe operates on a gifting economy. With nothing for sale except ice, my usual mantra of “anything I forget, I’ll buy once I’m there” did not apply. However, in this contradictory paradoxical world, one must both be prepared with everything they might possibly need, and at the same time, trust that when they inevitably lack something, help will be there.
There is no trading or bartering but rather a free sharing of thoughts, ideas, food, drink, music, and much more. Gifts are not limited to the tangible; a gift can be a hug or a blessing, or in Rachel’s case, mobile rosewater misting. Tarwater’s gifts included a bowling alley and a boutique.
The free economy led me to Café Brew HaHa, where I met Captain, who offered coffee every morning. It was there I met the Wizard, the artist who created the Phoenix Statue. He showed me pictures of the process, of creating the sculpture from the remnants of his home, reduced by the deadly 2018 Camp Fire to only a chimney and metal remains. A phoenix rising from the ashes, indeed.
I became friends with Kevin, who volunteered as a naked Burning Man Greeter. Of note, despite my concerns about how to respond when confronted with nudity, all manner of dress, and lack thereof, they quickly faded into the background. I learned that the DMV was the Department of Mutant Vehicles, which certified amazing creations from small art cars to massive vehicles that cost millions.
The culmination of Burning Man, for some, is the burning of the Man on Saturday night. Following a performance by over 1000 fire spinners, the massive effigy of a man is set ablaze, surrounded by tens of thousands of people and the sparkling lights and blaring music of mutant vehicles. Much partying ensues. That night and in the wee hours of Sunday morning, thousands of people begin their exodus. But, at the risk of not being radically inclusive, they’re wrong.
At sunset on Sunday, there is one final burn: the Temple. The Burning Man temple is not a religious space, but a supremely spiritual one, a space to gather together in reflection and remembrance, or to sit in peace and solitude, and to mourn and grieve. Over the course of the week, the walls are covered with photos, messages, and keepsakes honoring lost loved ones. I, too, brought memories to the temple to burn, and somehow managed to find the perfect open space.
I went to the Temple Sunday with my campmate, Katrina. She held my hand, and we mourned together as we watched it burn.
Having decided to write this editorial, and then having no idea what to write, I asked Rachel how she describes Burning Man, in brief. She replied with a series of coexisting contradictions: feeling at her most free, despite the most grueling work, exquisite beauty amid a punishing landscape, and a place with everything that exists in the world, but nothing is quite the same.
I am still processing it, but I met amazing and accomplished individuals from across the world, experienced incredible works of art, and spun fire for the first time in my life (burning only some of the hair off my back). And I learned that when I come back next year, I want an RV with air conditioning.