OFF THE MAP

Somewhere along Interstate 5, the Pyrobar caught fire. Our Burning Man art car was designed to shoot flames, not be in flames, and the irony of its predicament was not lost on anyone. The engine fire was put out quickly, but police shut down the interstate for two hours, just to be on the safe side. I pictured local newscasters pointing out the “PYROBAR” license plate to the camera and making wisecracks about the intelligence of the hippies flocking to the Burning Man Festival.
I failed to witness the catastrophe because I was hundreds of miles away in the Black Rock Desert with Kitty and the rest of the Santa Barbara crew, wondering when the Pyrobar and the rest of our fearless leaders would arrive. As tempting as it was to sit on our thumbs and wait for instructions, we felt compelled to develop our piece of Black Rock City real estate. We had been given a coveted place on the Esplanade by the Burning Man authorities and were expected to host a party or two once the gates opened to the public in twenty-four hours. Our early-arrival passes allowed us to experience the calm before the storm. Soon, this lifeless patch of Northwestern Nevada would be fully transformed into the state’s fourth-largest city, and then the insanity would begin in earnest.
In the meantime, we had our hands full with our own camp’s preparations. We built a kitchen and several shade structures out of carports and lycra, but that was the easy part. The centerpiece for our village was a circular lattice structure called the Stereobot that was meant to rest on tripods and float in midair, like a giant halo. The trouble was, we had borrowed this structure from a company in Los Angeles, and it had never been put together in this particular configuration before. Our chief engineer was still stuck with the Pyrobar somewhere in the Mohave Desert, along with most of our tools, so we were left to assemble what I lovingly called “Satan’s Tinkertoys” on our own. Those accursed aluminum poles fought us every step of the way. At least while we were sweating in the brutal Nevada sun, our campmates were kind enough to bring us coconut water and sliced watermelon now and again.
Back near the Nevada border, the resurrected Pyrobar was still inching its way along Interstate 395, overheating perpetually and losing fluids from a dozen different orifices. In the last month, the vehicle had undergone an engine transplant, but it appeared to be rejecting the foreign tissue. With nothing left to lose, the drivers put money down on a new radiator, hoping that might fix the problem.
Those of us already in Black Rock City had little knowledge of the ordeal our leaders were going through. Wireless signals for our cell phones were few and far between. Meanwhile, the gates finally opened, and the first of 70,000 people streamed through and began setting up their own camps along the streets of the city. My fellow workers and I were still trying to figure out how we could raise the aluminum ring onto the tripods without it fracturing under internal stresses. Eventually we called it a night and retired to our tents, intending to wake up early the next morning for a final push to fulfill our objectives.
Thunderbolts at sunrise meant that plans were likely to change even further. Rainfall in the Black Rock Desert is a rarity, and when it happens, all the roads shut down in order to keep the flat playa surface from becoming rutted and destroyed. The alkaline dust turns into a viscous mud that clings to tires and boots and makes all movement difficult. Nevertheless, during a break in the rain, I ventured outside my tent to see if anyone else from my camp had reported for duty.
Everyone I knew was still hiding out from the storm. But three people from our neighboring camp had jammed themselves into a plastic kiddie pool and were holding up parasols, shouting frantically to passersby to “GET OUT OF THE RAIN!” and come join them, even though no rain was currently falling. They had made one convert so far, and were now trying to lure a county sheriff from her vehicle. More lightning flashed across the desert, and I had to admire how these characters were willing to risk their lives to make a ridiculous, comedic statement worthy of Burning Man.
The gates were closed for the rest of the day, which left thousands of attendees stranded on the highway but gave us additional time to get our camp in order. Unfortunately, without our key engineer, nobody felt confident enough to call in the Department of Public Works to help lift the Stereobot structure and set it in place atop the tripods. So it remained grounded. There was a big hole in our camp where the Pyrobar should be, and our morale was suffering. Plus, our biggest party of the week was supposed to be tomorrow night, and we weren’t psychologically or physically ready to handle it.
But the following afternoon, to our surprise, the beloved vehicle came limping into camp. The anticipated one-day journey of the Pyrobar had ultimately taken four days and three nights, and on top of everything that had gone wrong, the alternator decided to fail right at the gates to Black Rock City. They had to hook up a generator to the battery just so it could travel the final mile.
Quickly, we removed the side mirrors, raised the awnings and pulled out the bar benches, transforming the vehicle into the semblance of an oriental teahouse, complete with hanging gas lanterns. The crane attachment would have to wait until tomorrow, and the flame cannons likewise. Even without them, we still had everything we needed for a party: a DJ, our long-lost friends, and plenty of moonshine to serve to patrons. Every drop was free of charge, of course. Burning Man is many things, but one of them is a celebration of gratitude, and tonight we had much to be thankful for.

Bryan Snyder is a 1991 Norwich High School graduate and author of "Off The Map: Fifty-five Adventures in the Great American Wilderness and Beyond,” available at Amazon.com.  For additional photos, visit www.facebook.com/offthemaponline.