This is a shorter version of my Burning Man Report. I put a little effort into making it more entertaining. But I wanted both copies here, the long boring report, and the more flashy fun one.
My first… and possibly last, Burning Man.
I’ll probably tell pieces of this story in fragments over the next few weeks, but here’s the full download while it’s still fresh in my bones.
Friday, August 22nd, 2025 — Day One: The Pilgrimage Begins
We were well prepared. Honestly, more prepared than I’ve ever been for anything. Jennie and I left early in the morning, hearts high, and met up with our magical friends Jim and Sarah in Park City. At their house we tied down the last straps, loaded the last bins, and set out in a caravan: my old 2005 Ford 350 pulling their trailer packed to the brim, and their SUV rolling behind.
Everything went smooth—until Wendover. That’s where the dreaded wrench light came on and my truck dropped into limp mode. My stomach sank. We pulled over, researched, tried everything. Finally, I called up an old high school buddy, Jim Burman, who’s a wizard with trucks. He immediately asked, “You towing something heavy?” Of course. He explained it was the computer not liking me running the turbo hard up steep grades. Solution? Stop the truck, reset it, and keep the turbo under 20 psi. It worked. But now we were climbing slower than we wanted.
A theme for the week: slower than we wanted.
Still, the ride was beautiful. Jim and I in the truck, the girls in the other car. We talked about politics, life, the universe, and then rolled into a long stretch of gratitude. I went so deep, I talked for over an hour straight. By the end, I was moved to tears at how blessed my life is. That one riff alone lifted me higher than any drug.
We stopped at Winnemucca Walmart in 100-degree heat for last-minute supplies, then pushed to Fernley and turned north toward the Black Rock Desert. The sun set. By the time we rolled into Gerlach, night had fallen. I worried about setting up camp in the dark. Jim reassured me it was better—cooler to work in.
He was half right.
We rolled up to the gates of Burning Man—and saw nothing but a sea of taillights. Hundreds. Thousands. The crawl had begun.
Seven-plus hours of stop-and-go purgatory. The gate was undermanned, the wait eternal. I was in high spirits the first five hours—laughing and talking with Jim, crawling through dust. But exhaustion ate me alive as the night dragged on. By the time we reached the greeters and got our map, it was 5:00 AM. The sun was rising. We hadn’t set up camp in the dark… because it was no longer dark.
Saturday, August 23rd, 2025 — Day Two: Broken on Arrival
No sleep. No energy. I was already wrecked.
We managed a barebones camp—carport and two tents—but when I crawled into our tent, I couldn’t sleep. Ever been so tired you can’t sleep? That was me. Delirious. Broken. Then the sun rose and the heat hit—100 degrees in a tin can tent. Forget sleep.
Luckily, C (one of our group) had an RV with AC. I laid on his bed for 30 miraculous minutes of true sleep before the unit died. Still, those 30 minutes were salvation.
The rest of the day? Jennie and Sarah worked like soldiers. Jim tied everything down with his genius rigging. I staggered around like a zombie, useless, hating myself for not contributing. I’d heard the saying: “Burning Man will break you, then bless you.” Well, it broke me before it blessed me.
By afternoon I was regaining a little strength—when the storm hit.
The storm the world would later hear about on the news.
I stood in the carport when the dust came like a wall. Goggles on, mask tight. Then a crash—Chuck’s shade structure ripped free and slammed into our carport, shredding the roof open. Metal bars bent like toys. Jennie and Jim were outside in the chaos; if those bars had hit them, they’d be dead.
The whiteout was total. Jennie vanished into the storm. For a terrifying moment, I thought she was gone—swallowed by the Playa. I lunged blindly, grabbing at her shirt, losing her again. By sheer luck she found her way to the truck. We dove in, followed by Jim and Sarah. The truck rocked violently in the gale, dust hammering us for two hours. Zero visibility.
It was insane. Terrifying. And, in a twisted way… exhilarating. Life-or-death in the middle of nowhere. My blood was awake in a way daily life rarely offers.
When the storm eased, we crawled out to assess. The camp was wrecked. Dust everywhere. Our sleeping tent was filled with an inch of dust. We ended up sleeping on Sarah and Jim’s floor that night in their shift pod.
Sunday, August 24th, 2025 — Day Three: Rebuild in Dust and Rain
We rebuilt everything. Cleaned thick layers of playa dust off the kitchen, tied everything down tighter, made it stronger. By afternoon, we heard rain was coming.
And it came.
Not quite the Rain Apocalypse from a couple years ago, but enough to shut the city down. No riding, no exploring. But inside Jim and Sarah’s shift pod, it was warm. Cozy. We laughed, swapped stories, listened to radio updates, ate Pho.
The Playa outside was mud and chaos. Inside, it was tribe and intimacy. That night, I realized—maybe Burning Man wasn’t about ecstasy or art cars or Orgy Domes. Maybe it was about surviving the storm together.
Monday, August 25th, 2025 — Day Four: Solitude & First Ride
At dawn, I walked alone across the Playa. Just me, the dust, and the towering wooden Man at the center. No phone. No music. Just silence. It wasn’t fireworks or spectacle—it was solitude. And it was sacred.
When I returned, it was Rebuild Number Two—cleaning mud from the camp after another storm. Then finally, the skies cleared and the desert hardened enough to ride. We biked out into the vastness. Art cars rumbled by, sculptures gleamed in the dusk, music floated in the distance. It was muted, sensible, not the crazy debauchery people imagine—but it was ours.
That night ended back at camp with three giant tour buses pulling up beside us at 2:00 AM, blasting music so loud it rattled our bones. Sleep was a fantasy. But still—we’d gotten our first taste of the Playa’s beauty.
Tuesday, August 26th, 2025 — Day Five: The Departure
We were frazzled, but it was time. Packed the camp under cloudy skies, ate a simple breakfast, and rolled out.
We hadn’t had the wild “Playa experience.” No drugs, no orgy tents, no manic all-night adventures. What we did have was storms, survival, and each other.
On the long drive home, Jennie took DJ duty, blasting a string of hits that carried me through the final stretch. We pulled into home at 11 PM, exhausted, grateful, contemplative.
Why had we gone?
What had we gained?
What had we given?
I don’t have final answers. Maybe I never will. Burning Man has a saying: Fuck Your Burn. You don’t get the burn you want—you get the burn you need.
Maybe I didn’t need what I wanted. Maybe I didn’t even want what I needed. But I got something: a test of skill, heart, and spirit. A reminder that humans can break, adapt, rebuild, and keep going.
And above all, I got this: Jennie and I came out stronger. We do hard things together. We survive storms together. And that’s worth more than any wild Playa night could have given me.
