Advertisement
As I'm typing this there is still playa dust caked to my skin and I can feel the sunburn crinkling the corners of my eyes. I have seen the playa and it looks like Christmas with a dusty twist.
Although the trip had its challenges, all of my own devilish device, the week was a smashing success. A night at Leonard Hot Spring had me realizing that the orange water mites have heard of my fame for they came from far and wide to taste my sweet flesh...I fear I will itch for weeks from such adoration as they showed. I was searching for Neo and his daughters at the Greeter Camp, directions for which were fairly simple....."from the site of the old city, proceed between three and four miles north and about fourish miles east." Ignoring those, we entered at Twelve Mile and crossed toward Frog Pond, striking the camp we sought within minutes. Midway there, we met and accosted Rabbi of the DPW who told us that he had found it the night before ("can't miss that big blinky light!") but had been so hammered he couldn't remember which direction it might be. He gave a vague wave and we headed out, soon sighting a shimmering camp floating on a sea of mirage.
Tracker stood out from the crowd as the only 6'2" 350lb black man wearing white socks and a whiter smile. Figuring he'd be an easy name to remember, I discovered from him Neo's whereabouts and we began to set camp. A picture perfect day soon had us wandering off mid-set-up to meet new people and the playa, sensing weakness, promptly whipped up a small windstorm to destroy my half-finished and untethered parachute structure. High as a kite and not entirely sober, I lay in the flapping mess for an hour observing the process and wondering how to best approach it. I finally decided to simply take EVERYTHING entirely apart and do it over again the correct way. I now possess empirical evidence that parachutes are unworthy to cover anything that involves a straight line and am sold on shade cloth as a methodology. The point isn't to spend time on your shade structure, the point is to have shade to spend your time inside!
What I had heard described as "Greeter Camp" was perhaps more accurately "a camp from Sacramento" and specifically from the HorseCow Gallery. Out of 80 people overall about two-thirds were from Sacramento and about half of those were directly involved with the gallery. I loved them instantly and was crushed to discover them a batch of....damnit.....couples!! No, they were most wonderful. And they played Brenna Ball with verve and panache -- Brenna and her beau Keith possessing an immediate goofy charm and star quality that lends itself well to a variation of kickball....only with more balls....all of them on fire....some of them stuffed with explosives! An amazing tracer-generation rate at night with mushrooms.....
The evening of July 3rd was dramatic on the open desert. Thunderstorms carried squalls of black rain against the brilliantine blue of the sky. Levels of clouds danced orbits and let loose eerily-lit crackling lightning strikes. Once I had removed my "noise generator" from the truss structure, I thought of them as "invitation" towers for the electrical display and was careful to park the van well away from their position. Sunset was celebrated with ritual firings of the pulse jets (a fire-ring coughing ELF generator) and several large propane cannon.....the evening brought an extremely large pork tenderloin into the group dinner mix and a variety of enhancing seasonings for the brain....late that night Neo and I accompanied our new friend Jill to Frog Pond for a relaxing soak in the miraculously empty pond. Stars peeked between clouds and the moon rose over Trego Mountain, bats flitting through the air as we floated in the cacophony of bullfrogs.
Back on the desert, we returned to the thumpythumpy of high-powered bass and took bicycle rides across the shining surface -- not as rewarding a proposition as I had hoped, the playa surface crumbly and feathering into deep sand. Around 2am a Bronco carrying five hit a patch of soft sand at high speed and rolled, destroying the vehicle but amazingly hurting none of the drunks within. After that excitement had worn out, and the jokes worn down, we went back to blowing things up and playing with fire.
Sunday morning dawned cool and clear. The moonset just as the sun made its entry was a perfect backdrop for coffee with homemade kahlua and an escargot scramble that I threw together on the BBQ with roasted hearts of palm, heads of fresh garlic, sundried tomatoes and green onions. Soaking the escargot in vermouth before hitting the grill gave the moment its requisite batch of air-fuel mix fire and seemed dramatic enough to cement the reputation begun with the tenderloin the night before. Bwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! I spent most of the day getting to know everyone a bit better and picking up some construction tips -- this was the best-built camp I've ever seen and it drove home how difficult it is to build on the open playa -- even the scant construction of Black Rock City begins to act as a windbreak during the event.
About 11am, the grill running perfectly, I laid the brisket in with two PBR's with their tops cut off to act as moisteners and Neo and I packed the girls (his two teenage daughters, Jill and my friend Dani) and ran into Empire for beer and bacon. A stop at Bruno's for a snack yielded the man himself while a rumoured art car parade of vehicles built at Burning Bush never panned out. Neo and I had made the decision not to attend Burning Bush for several reasons -- the most basic was our timeline (a 26.5 mile drive up the Jungo Road was pessimistically a three-to-four hour one way trip) but we were also aware that the girls were very safe and protected in our small camp. Rumours of 600 people at Burning Bush seemed realistic given the number of people pulling through looking for it and I will say that there was a rougher element headed there -- not a place I'd want to lose a 15-year old girl who can pass for 22 with a little glitter! My friend Dani was already out of her element and overloaded enough that neither deserting her in a safe place nor taking her somewhere obviously wild seemed intelligent. The stories coming back were enticing, though. Loo returned from a two day stay saying that there wasn't a lot of music going on but that there were multiple vehicles under construction, demolition derbies taking place between camps, an amazing number of guns and a helluva lot of fire. She had helped pour molten metal for her own dagger and had the wide, visionary eyes of the happily sleepless.
Back with the HorseCow folks for the afternoon, I wrapped the brisket with fresh herbs and garlic, tossed a PBR into the wrap and went back to the time-honored pastime of drinking tequila with people who clearly enjoyed witty repartee. A few squalls moved through but nothing as large as the past few days. Twisters moved up the desert floor with purpose and trucks on the main road left rooster tails of dust hanging behind. The heat intensified through the day, reminding me how good it feels for the bones to attain such temperatures! A lot of the Greeters left for a wedding at Frog Pond, visitors from other places arrived and we began to form a picture of these small tribes scattered about the world....as evening fell, distant plumes of fire again jetted into the night. With some folks having left for Burning Bush and others at the wedding, the camp was quieter, more eclectic -- the musical taste ran more between funny and freaky than from thump to thump, a welcome change after 48 hours of nonstop thump!! The brisket was, of course, a huge hit and the evening slid into night and I began to think of tearing down and the return home. My traveling companion had pretty much locked herself in the van the entire time, reading a self-help book, and I felt some responsibility to getting her home since she wasn't going to survive in style out here. Somewhere around 2am, I sat myself down in the overstuffed green leather chair and drifted in the desert air, watching the occasional flash of explosive light far north. Off in the distance, a blue light resolved. Seeming to float and wiggle above the desert floor, it grew slowly more distinct...finally sound began to accompany the light, now clearly wiggling like a demented luminescent fish....The Slug came out of the night like a baying pack of hounds pursuing a Baskerville, four dozen revelers hanging from all sides of the double-decker disco and bar patrons gamely holding their seats at the back. A full circle around our camp woke the sleeping and summoned a general attendance while the barkeep dispensed prescription drugs with alcohol and beer. Dueling stripper poles were well-adorned, fur coats were in fine form and the dawn snuck up on us again.
Breakdown was simple enough after a breakfast of bacon and eggs over-medium on the griddle. We passed Planet X as the clock hit 11am and were home in Portland before 10pm after a stop at Seven Pipes for a relaxing soak. I'm off to the Canadian border for a pirate radio transmission test this weekend and am not even going to unpack the bulk of the van -- anything less than the playa shouldn't phase my structure and the dust will add a nice aura to my arrival.
Deelicious Clint
Dusted.
Although the trip had its challenges, all of my own devilish device, the week was a smashing success. A night at Leonard Hot Spring had me realizing that the orange water mites have heard of my fame for they came from far and wide to taste my sweet flesh...I fear I will itch for weeks from such adoration as they showed. I was searching for Neo and his daughters at the Greeter Camp, directions for which were fairly simple....."from the site of the old city, proceed between three and four miles north and about fourish miles east." Ignoring those, we entered at Twelve Mile and crossed toward Frog Pond, striking the camp we sought within minutes. Midway there, we met and accosted Rabbi of the DPW who told us that he had found it the night before ("can't miss that big blinky light!") but had been so hammered he couldn't remember which direction it might be. He gave a vague wave and we headed out, soon sighting a shimmering camp floating on a sea of mirage.
Tracker stood out from the crowd as the only 6'2" 350lb black man wearing white socks and a whiter smile. Figuring he'd be an easy name to remember, I discovered from him Neo's whereabouts and we began to set camp. A picture perfect day soon had us wandering off mid-set-up to meet new people and the playa, sensing weakness, promptly whipped up a small windstorm to destroy my half-finished and untethered parachute structure. High as a kite and not entirely sober, I lay in the flapping mess for an hour observing the process and wondering how to best approach it. I finally decided to simply take EVERYTHING entirely apart and do it over again the correct way. I now possess empirical evidence that parachutes are unworthy to cover anything that involves a straight line and am sold on shade cloth as a methodology. The point isn't to spend time on your shade structure, the point is to have shade to spend your time inside!
What I had heard described as "Greeter Camp" was perhaps more accurately "a camp from Sacramento" and specifically from the HorseCow Gallery. Out of 80 people overall about two-thirds were from Sacramento and about half of those were directly involved with the gallery. I loved them instantly and was crushed to discover them a batch of....damnit.....couples!! No, they were most wonderful. And they played Brenna Ball with verve and panache -- Brenna and her beau Keith possessing an immediate goofy charm and star quality that lends itself well to a variation of kickball....only with more balls....all of them on fire....some of them stuffed with explosives! An amazing tracer-generation rate at night with mushrooms.....
The evening of July 3rd was dramatic on the open desert. Thunderstorms carried squalls of black rain against the brilliantine blue of the sky. Levels of clouds danced orbits and let loose eerily-lit crackling lightning strikes. Once I had removed my "noise generator" from the truss structure, I thought of them as "invitation" towers for the electrical display and was careful to park the van well away from their position. Sunset was celebrated with ritual firings of the pulse jets (a fire-ring coughing ELF generator) and several large propane cannon.....the evening brought an extremely large pork tenderloin into the group dinner mix and a variety of enhancing seasonings for the brain....late that night Neo and I accompanied our new friend Jill to Frog Pond for a relaxing soak in the miraculously empty pond. Stars peeked between clouds and the moon rose over Trego Mountain, bats flitting through the air as we floated in the cacophony of bullfrogs.
Back on the desert, we returned to the thumpythumpy of high-powered bass and took bicycle rides across the shining surface -- not as rewarding a proposition as I had hoped, the playa surface crumbly and feathering into deep sand. Around 2am a Bronco carrying five hit a patch of soft sand at high speed and rolled, destroying the vehicle but amazingly hurting none of the drunks within. After that excitement had worn out, and the jokes worn down, we went back to blowing things up and playing with fire.
Sunday morning dawned cool and clear. The moonset just as the sun made its entry was a perfect backdrop for coffee with homemade kahlua and an escargot scramble that I threw together on the BBQ with roasted hearts of palm, heads of fresh garlic, sundried tomatoes and green onions. Soaking the escargot in vermouth before hitting the grill gave the moment its requisite batch of air-fuel mix fire and seemed dramatic enough to cement the reputation begun with the tenderloin the night before. Bwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! I spent most of the day getting to know everyone a bit better and picking up some construction tips -- this was the best-built camp I've ever seen and it drove home how difficult it is to build on the open playa -- even the scant construction of Black Rock City begins to act as a windbreak during the event.
About 11am, the grill running perfectly, I laid the brisket in with two PBR's with their tops cut off to act as moisteners and Neo and I packed the girls (his two teenage daughters, Jill and my friend Dani) and ran into Empire for beer and bacon. A stop at Bruno's for a snack yielded the man himself while a rumoured art car parade of vehicles built at Burning Bush never panned out. Neo and I had made the decision not to attend Burning Bush for several reasons -- the most basic was our timeline (a 26.5 mile drive up the Jungo Road was pessimistically a three-to-four hour one way trip) but we were also aware that the girls were very safe and protected in our small camp. Rumours of 600 people at Burning Bush seemed realistic given the number of people pulling through looking for it and I will say that there was a rougher element headed there -- not a place I'd want to lose a 15-year old girl who can pass for 22 with a little glitter! My friend Dani was already out of her element and overloaded enough that neither deserting her in a safe place nor taking her somewhere obviously wild seemed intelligent. The stories coming back were enticing, though. Loo returned from a two day stay saying that there wasn't a lot of music going on but that there were multiple vehicles under construction, demolition derbies taking place between camps, an amazing number of guns and a helluva lot of fire. She had helped pour molten metal for her own dagger and had the wide, visionary eyes of the happily sleepless.
Back with the HorseCow folks for the afternoon, I wrapped the brisket with fresh herbs and garlic, tossed a PBR into the wrap and went back to the time-honored pastime of drinking tequila with people who clearly enjoyed witty repartee. A few squalls moved through but nothing as large as the past few days. Twisters moved up the desert floor with purpose and trucks on the main road left rooster tails of dust hanging behind. The heat intensified through the day, reminding me how good it feels for the bones to attain such temperatures! A lot of the Greeters left for a wedding at Frog Pond, visitors from other places arrived and we began to form a picture of these small tribes scattered about the world....as evening fell, distant plumes of fire again jetted into the night. With some folks having left for Burning Bush and others at the wedding, the camp was quieter, more eclectic -- the musical taste ran more between funny and freaky than from thump to thump, a welcome change after 48 hours of nonstop thump!! The brisket was, of course, a huge hit and the evening slid into night and I began to think of tearing down and the return home. My traveling companion had pretty much locked herself in the van the entire time, reading a self-help book, and I felt some responsibility to getting her home since she wasn't going to survive in style out here. Somewhere around 2am, I sat myself down in the overstuffed green leather chair and drifted in the desert air, watching the occasional flash of explosive light far north. Off in the distance, a blue light resolved. Seeming to float and wiggle above the desert floor, it grew slowly more distinct...finally sound began to accompany the light, now clearly wiggling like a demented luminescent fish....The Slug came out of the night like a baying pack of hounds pursuing a Baskerville, four dozen revelers hanging from all sides of the double-decker disco and bar patrons gamely holding their seats at the back. A full circle around our camp woke the sleeping and summoned a general attendance while the barkeep dispensed prescription drugs with alcohol and beer. Dueling stripper poles were well-adorned, fur coats were in fine form and the dawn snuck up on us again.
Breakdown was simple enough after a breakfast of bacon and eggs over-medium on the griddle. We passed Planet X as the clock hit 11am and were home in Portland before 10pm after a stop at Seven Pipes for a relaxing soak. I'm off to the Canadian border for a pirate radio transmission test this weekend and am not even going to unpack the bulk of the van -- anything less than the playa shouldn't phase my structure and the dust will add a nice aura to my arrival.
Deelicious Clint
Dusted.
posted by:
|
Christmas Island
|
Advertisement
Advertisement
