start

to Reno

playa-bound

Camp Vermeer

Ranger HQ

I married someone

rise and shine

crash at Pepe's tower

no sleep this night

Rangers

art cars

people

pyrotechnics

SF-bound

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Burning Man 1998: Reno to Black Rock City

Having rested after a long week (and even longer weeks preceeding), our heroes head out in a fully-fueled, heavily-packed, sport utility vehicle, on their way to the portal of Black Rock City, a temporary city of 15,000 participants (no spectators!).

Ranger Lefty and I hit the Twin Cities Surplus Store (on East 4th Avenue, Reno) to pick up white gas (to supplement what's already in my spun aluminum fuel bottle) and a waterproofing mister for the parachute silk (if it isn't too windy on the playa to apply it). Then it was off to the El Dorado for their incredible buffet. Breakfast and lunch, with dessert, all rolled into one pre-trip snack. Ranger Lefty picked up a dead-tree edition of the New York Times. The top story was the death of 229 souls aboard a Swissair flight. (Personal aside: I can't see how they're going to be able to say anything other than the pilot made several really bad mistakes (including first turning back to distant Logan Airport in Boston and then making a long and time-cosuming turn over Margeret's Bay to dump fuel) in the sixteen minutes between declaring an emergency and plunging from 8000 feet into the ocean off Peggy's Cove. I suspect this accident will cause new regulations for faster emergency landings, including a controlled belly landing onto the water. Intact and inconveniently far from shore is much better than near to shore, under 120 feet of water.)

Last night we wandered Reno, the self-proclaimed "littlest big city in America", eyeballing Circus-Circus, Harrah's, and the others. Oh, the electrical bill for all the lights! The whole place strikes me a bit like Disneyland, what with the uniformely obsequious staff and immaculately groomed streets (the cobblestones of which almost shine in the light of the nightime profusion of incandescent bulbs, Ranger Lefty noticed). Not a detail is untouched or unconsidered: the catch trays of the one-armed bandits are made of metal to better broadcast the news of a pay-off to those around. Neither a clock nor the light of day or darkness of night can be seen from the gaming floors, to insulate you from the passage of time. Nor can you enter or exit anything - be it a casino or a Raley's supermarket - without having to walk by slot machines. Heck, I even saw slots that accepted bills: $1, $5, $10, $50. All for your convenience, of course. Pick up a quart of milk and drop half a C note.

Being back in Reno brings back several logistical memories. The first time we stayed here, after Burning Man 1996, we took a room at the Western Village, on the north side of 80. Inexpensive and clean. That first time Rose and I ventured over to the Nugget for a 4 am meal at the General Store Restaurant, open around the clock, home of the most satisfying Cobb Salad this side of the Black Rock Desert.

Friday at noon. We're on Highway 80 East, going from the Reno/Sparks area towards Wadsworth, where we'll head north on 447 past Pyramid Lake into the Gerlach and Empire area, just before we head off the playa. There are hills on both sides of us; we're about as high as we're going to get. It's mostly a gentle downhil from here.

Again and again we hear about a stalled hurricane off the Mexican coast that's driving rain through Los Angeles to Central Nevada. The surface of the playa, an alkalai hardpan dust, upon contact with water turns into muck and then cement. I hope we're able to at least set up camp while it's dry.

We turn off Hwy. 80 and head north. After a mile we bear left, getting onto 447. Immediately we see two local police cars dealing with a speeder. A quarter-mile down the road we see a California Highway Patrol car doing the same to another unfortunate driver. The attendees of Burning Man are making their contribution to the govenor's tax fund. (Personal aside: since I'm for having laws protect the citizenry rather than be a substitute for taxation it follows that I'd prefer to see the police ticket scofflaws for reckless endangerment rather than for violating an arbitrary speed limit. There's nothing dangerous about driving 70 mph on the empty road that shoots from Wadsworth to Gerlach. I'm stepping off the soap box.)

When they say 35 miles per hour, they mean it. The rest of the column of drivers goes from a low of 25 mph in the towns to 75 mph in the long straightaways inbetween. A UPS truck is behind us. Ranger Lefty muses: perhaps a pizza delivery to someone at Burning Man from Famous Ray's Pizza in New York?

Patches of very high layer of clouds (stratocumulus?) cover from horizon to horizon, making for a much cooler driving experience than yesterday's. From time to time we drive over cow grates in the road, over which cattle won't wander. Brown is the color du jour. Several types of scrub cover the land as far as the eye can see. Their hues are beautifully subtle earth tones, ranging from a bright tan wheat to a dark green sage.

Pyramid Lake makes its appearance, the spicky island rising out of the lake, looking like some sort of highway mirage. We head up the east side of the lake, into the town of Nixon. (Little Nixon is a few miles further east.) Back to a ribbon of asphalt. A tiny chipmunk runs across the road in front of us. We don't hit it. A painted white wooden cross is just off the west side of the road. Vehicular fatality? Another cow grate rattles our wheels.

We pass through Little Nixon.

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