We were traveling along Route 80, and for once, Reno seemed almost pretty, or at least the parts of it you see from the highway. In summer you can’t believe how ugly it is, the big brown hills of sun-blasted dirt. But now you were noticing the scattered trees, leaves glowing bright yellow in the slanting noonday sun.
We had to be up in Reno for a couple of days, and we had the chance to squeeze in a side trip to the playa, and we took it. It seemed wrong never to have experienced the Black Rock Desert when there wasn’t a festival going on, and we were determined to rectify the situation.
Now the car is full of playa dust again, and it couldn’t smell sweeter.
Parts of the journey felt familiar. You felt the tightness in your stomach as you left the interstate at Wadsworth and headed out across the Indian land. There wouldn’t be any art or any music or any fire waiting for you at your destination, and all the amazing people weren’t going to be there, either, but it didn’t matter. You felt the pull. It was just going to be you and the desert and the dust.
Burning Man has always had a quality of aloneness to it. Yes, you are surrounded by 40,000 like-minded souls, and one of the reasons you go is to feel connection and community. But still, there are times when you are alone with yourself, and if you haven’t felt that sense of being a single, solitary person, even in the middle of that huge party, maybe you haven’t gotten all there is to get at Burning Man. People come to escape the loneliness, but it finds them there, too. Moments, in between, it finds you.
There were no black Nevada Highway Patrol cars lurking around, but still you slowed down in Nixon and Empire and then finally Gerlach. Yellow highway signs reminded you to be cautious, because cattle might be crossing the road. This is an open range, after all.
But even the spectacularly gorgeous fall day couldn’t make Gerlach seem anything but desolate. There was no crowd at the gas station, just the attendant, who was walking out in front of the pumps, hands plunged into the pockets of his denim overalls, and he was kicking pebbles as he shuffled along. It seemed an act of resignation. “This is what my life is,” he could be saying. “It’s lonesome and dull, and winter is coming on.”
It’s 55 degrees, not 105, and although the afternoon will warm up a bit, there’s a chill in the air.
The desert floor looked different in the late fall. The surface seemed smoother and paler, like the salts from recent rains had risen to the surface. There was a delicate crust, like a water truck had soaked the entire site, and everyone decided not to walk on it, just let it dry naturally. The crust is light and flaky and easily disturbed. Fragile.
And it made you wonder as you stood at the place where there had been flags and cones to guide you to Black Rock City. Did we really leave no trace?
It would appear so. Random tracks led off in all directions at the entrance to the desert, but these were from the random and occasional off-roaders who reclaim the desert after we’re gone. Everything looked clean and undisturbed.
But before you take any bows for conscientiousness and cleanliness, though, you’d want to hear from the Playa Restoration crew, which spent so many long weeks after the event making sure that things were left as we found them. (And as the JackRabbit Speaks has noted, Burning Man did pass the federal inspection standard of no more than a foot of MOOP for every acre surveyed.) I did my own little survey, out where I thought Center Camp had been. I walked maybe 30 yards in a rough circle, looking for anything that wasn’t native. I found two very small pieces of black plastic, and a tiny silver bauble that made me wonder what kind of costume it had fallen off of.
Out in the middle of the playa now, there was only silence. No wind, no dust, just silence. Things looked as they no doubt have looked for thousands of years. Peaceful. Timeless. Beautiful.
It made sense to head out across the playa, following slightly-worn tracks left by vehicles much better equipped for the desert than mine. There are signs at every desert entry warning that the playa becomes impassible when it is wet, and you should take those warnings seriously. But today the conditions were perfect; there had been rain to tamp everything down, and now it seemed fine to be barreling across the playa floor, out past where the perimeter fence would have been, hitting a fast-for-me but still pretty tame 60 mph, watching the huge dust plume stretching out behind.
I went to the base of the mountain you see to the southeast of Black Rock City and looked for the railroad crossing. I knew that’s where the Trego Hot Springs were, and I knew that the Frog Hot Springs were over there too. As I crossed the railroad tracks, I noted the shotgun spray on the crossing sign and remembered again that yep, this is the wild West alright.
I never did find Trego, but I double-backed and found the Frog springs. There were plenty of signs of use: A wooden ladder descending into the first spring, and a fire pit, and a table, and a beat-up old stove that had seen plenty of fires.
The water was clear, warm and beautiful. The nestling of trees surrounding the springs were turning gold, too, just like the ones outside Reno.
On my way out I noticed that someone had carved six-inch-high letters, deeply and seemingly angrily, into the permanently open wooden fence at the entrance to the springs. The letters spelled out “homewrecker.” I wondered about what had gone on there, who had hooked up with whom. But when I thought about the person who was blaming the hot springs for whatever had happened, I thought that the anger was misdirected. Whatever had happened didn’t have anything to do with the springs. My guess was that the situation was, as the health insurance people like to say, a pre-existing condition.
I tried to retrace my path across the desert, to go back exactly the way I had come in, but it was futile. There were too many random tracks, and it was easy to get waylaid. But there was plenty of light, and it was easy to figure out where I had to go.
By the time I finally reached the highway and headed back to Gerlach, the dust the car had raised had already settled. The desert was smooth and calm again.
Smooth and calm. A good description of the overall mood. I’d had a couple of hours out there in the vastness, but now I wanted a couple of weeks.