Off to See the Wizard, and This Time I Mean It

No plan survives contact with the enemy.
   -- Helmuth von Multke

Three of us were to convoy at three. Or four. At four I was still thrashing through my stuff and getting it into boxes, and discovering more stuff that I might need (bedding, say) and figuring out how to package it. Bags wouldn't do: It was all going into a truck already loaded with propane cans and other sharp edges. I found and scrounged boxes and by five actually had as much of everything together as could be expected considering the combinations of panic and ennui that had characterized the week.

But by then one of our number was long gone, having an appointment at the airport in Reno. The other was very patient, and even more so when learning after we had succeeded in reloading the truck and trailer, which took a couple hours, and actually hit the road that I still hadn't done any food shopping.

She helped me tear through Winco at a minimalist's furious pace and we were actually on the freeway before it was completely dark. Meanwhile two of our number were chilling in Reno somewhere waiting for us, and we figured to get on the playa by midnight. The truck I was driving was not powered for such a heavy load and as I climbed the Sierra I had to shift into fourth and even third fairly often. We wound along, passed by large trucks, and it was round about Colfax (less than an hour along) that I realized every Burner's favorite nightmare.

My ticket was still at home.

I pulled over and gave the news, and my partner went on ahead while I turned back home. It was a blessing, really. Back at the shop I now had time to repair my bicycle (which I had planned to do in the desert -- no big deal, we are also going to repair our tower's elevator in the desert) and load an extra piece of old carpet to cover the ground before my front door. At this point I actually started to relax.

A word about early arrival. No one is allowed through the gate for Burning Man before the event actually starts. That's Monday, so the gate opens at midnight. Arrivals prior to that are subject to detention in the dreaded Lot D, where you might languish for hours, perhaps till sunrise, while the less eager are let in before you. Folks who hang about on the highways are subject to citation by the Nevada Highway Patrol. Folks who hang about the small towns are subject to tickets for loitering. Message: Don't go early. They're strict about this so as to minimize the impact on the local communities.

But: Early arrival passes are available on a strictly controlled basis for people helping build the city. That's how I got in early last year. Would have this year too but for a long and painful story I may or may not ever tell. Suffice it to say some of us are getting in through various types of clever subterfuge. The gentleman collected at the airport had an early arrival of the clever subterfuge type awaiting him. However at two thirty in the morning I got a call that the ruse wasn't working out as planned, and could he use my pass instead (which wasn't with me, but was up there with them). I said sure, no problem, and happily turned off my alarm clock and went back to sleep.

Today I've had a chance to decompress and make a list and buy things I might need and generally lower my blood pressure. Forgetting my ticket was a blessing in disguise, no question. I feel much better now. Couple hours ago I got a call that they have sorted things out up there in the desert and an early arrival pass is available for me as soon as I arrive. So in a little bit I will go and repack the truck again, and this time hit the road for real. And this time, I am sincerely looking forward to it.

Whew.

A word about pictures. Taking them is a pain in the ass. Unless loading up your camera with pictures to show the folks back home is your primary purpose in going to Burning Man (and it shouldn't be), lugging a camera around and protecting it and stopping every three seconds to capture something interesting (and there is always something interesting more often than that) interferes with the fun and relaxation and general zeitgeist of being there. That at least is my experience, and I am an avid picture-taker. So if you know someone who is going, expect to get less pictures than you expect. (I love the recursive nature of that statement, as it inevitably leads to expecting none.)

(B'sides, there are plenty on the web. Here's a fun one to zoom in and around in that was found by our favorite desert gekko. Can you find the nicely-endowed topless chick? The orphaned bicycle wheel? The batting cage? Waldo? dota-3row.jpg)

I'll take my little pocket camera. It will probably become another camera-shaped paperweight. I might take my big DSLR, but there's only one thing I'd use it for, and I'm not even sure about that; and no, I'm not going to say what that is.

And now, I've sat around long enough. One last reload of purchases into a box, a refill of the ice chest and of the gas tank, and I am off to see the Man behind that dusty curtain.