BURNING MAN 2024: Four days with a wagon

BY: Charles White

Introduction: Four Days Out

In this reflective journey, I set out on a four-day trek across the vast and unpredictable landscape of Burning Man, accompanied by my trusty wagon, affectionately named the Carl Sagan Rover. What began as a personal adventure became something much deeper—a story of solitude, connection, and the mysterious magic of the desert. This is a chronicle of encounters, lessons, and the unwavering spirit that binds us all in the dust.

Chapter 1: The Departure

The sun was merciless. Burning down from a sky so vast, it mocked the fragile human below. The desert, endless and cruel, waited for me. Not a soul around. Just the void. My wife, already absorbed by her duties in the Fire Art Safety Team. We said little because we both had our missions ahead of us.

My RV—21 feet of fleeting comfort—sat silent behind me. It had everything. Power. Air. Water. But comfort wasn’t what I sought. I needed to wander. To test myself. The supplies on my wagon, my “Carl Sagan Rover,” were meager. Four days of water. Food enough to survive. A mattress. A sleeping bag. And a Starlink—my only tether to the rest of existence, aptly named the “Carl Sagan Station.”

No, this wasn’t impulsive. This was deliberate. This was calculated. Like the missions I once participated in for distant planets, this journey required precision. I would walk in the ways of the Bedouin, nomads of the ancient sands. I had their garb—a kaftan, loose pants, a wide-brimmed hat. Protection from the desert’s wrath.

I had thought of everything. Chapstick for my cracking lips. Cream for the alkaline dust that consumed the air. And, yes, the camel—my wagon—was built for the unforgiving land. I rigged it with harnesses. I anticipated the moments when strangers would, like cosmic forces, drift in and lend their strength to my burden.

Shade was sparse, but I had it too. An umbrella for fleeting moments of relief. And a larger awning, my fortress against the sun when the city disappeared behind me.

I wasn’t here to survive. I was here to endure. To learn what the desert had to teach. The moment arrived. I left the city behind. The void welcomed me.

My wife, ever supportive, looked at me with joyful admiration. She understood—better than anyone—that the desert and I are intertwined, bound by something unspoken. Her eyes gleamed with pride, knowing this journey was as much a part of me as the landscape itself. We shared a moment, a loving farewell, before she headed off to her volunteer shift. As she disappeared into the day, I turned back to my preparations, the last pieces of the plan falling into place.

Chapter 2: The Test

As I walked through the bustling streets of the city, my camel in tow, people stared. Some with curiosity, others with disdain. Their minds raced with assumptions. Who was this bedraggled figure pulling a wagon? A homeless man? A freeloader, a 'wook' with no contribution to offer? The judgments were written plainly on their faces, but they didn’t understand. They were deceived, much like they are deceived by the illusion of safety within the city limits of this desert outpost.

My first stop was my wife’s volunteer station at the artery. A guard, stationed at the entrance, eyed me as I approached. I expected him to stop me, demand that the camel stay outside. But I was testing him—testing systems and people, as I have always done. Years of working as a Lessons Learned Investigator for NASA taught me that. He didn’t stop me. He let me pass. I wheeled the camel right in, straight to my wife’s workstation.

The volunteers greeted me with smiles, offering their best wishes for my journey. My wife, as always, beamed with pride. One last embrace, one last farewell. And now, with everything in place, the journey had officially begun.

On my way out, the same guard who had let me pass now seemed different. He raised his voice as I moved toward the exit, “Get that wagon out of here!” His emotional shift intrigued me. Why now? He had seen me before. We had made eye contact. He had even inspected the wagon.

I met his agitation with calm. “You do see I’m on my way out, my good sir,” I replied, my voice steady, almost amused.

“Fuck your Burn,” he spat, flipping me off, his anger boiling over.

I smiled, meeting his fury with serenity. “Burn your fucks,” I said softly. A strange exchange, where time—the fourth dimension—seemed misplaced. He should have yelled at me on the way in, not the way out. But the desert has its ways, its tricks. I could only assume—dehydration, a common culprit out here. The desert doesn’t care about your illusions. It strips away everything, even your sense.

In another moment, I might’ve parked the camel, offered him water. But dehydration makes people resistant. Aggressive. They don’t listen, not until their bodies collapse under the sun’s hammer.

So there he stood, frustrated and burning under the desert heat. And ahead of me, beyond the man and his turmoil, lay the burning cauldron of Center Camp. The real journey was just beginning.

Chapter 3: The Flame

The morning air was cool, though the desert sun threatened to scorch all in its path soon enough. My first destination called to me. 6 o’clock, the road between Center Camp and The Man. There, a cauldron burns—a fire born of sunlight. A magnifying glass, angled with precision, ignites this flame, capturing the energy of the star above. This fire is sacred. It burns all week. It is the fire that will consume The Man. And later, it will devour The Temple.

I set up camp. A simple moment of rest in a place where rest is rare. Umbrella up. Lawn chair unfolded. The world passed me by in waves—some curious, some indifferent. A few stopped. They asked about my mission, about the wagon and the supplies. I told them of my four days in the deep Playa. I could see it in their eyes. Envy. The desire for that kind of freedom. To roam. To explore Burning Man in a way few dared to imagine.

After an hour, I packed up. The journey was still ahead, and I had only begun to scratch the surface. I moved along the Esplanade, counter-clockwise, against the flow. First stop: BMIR, the radio station. I was looking for my old friend, Motorbikematt. I asked around, but as with all things here, chaos rules. He was nowhere to be found. Not surprising. Not in this place.

I moved on.

Next stop: the Bureau of Land Management Law Enforcement booth. The officers there, clad in their uniforms, looked at me with curiosity. I told them of my mission. They listened, fascinated. They peppered me with questions, testing my preparedness for the harshness of the desert. I answered them all. They nodded, satisfied. And then, they offered me two bright orange BLM mugs—a token, a gesture.

But the real gift came next. They asked if I wanted water. The answer in the desert is always yes. It’s not about need. It’s about ritual. It’s about survival. In the desert, you don’t refuse water. To offer water is to offer life. To decline it is to spit in the face of fortune. The water they gave me was cold—unexpectedly cold. I could feel it slide down my throat, cooling every inch of me until it settled in my belly, a refreshing shock in this relentless place.

I thanked them. They told me to be careful, to be safe. And, like others before them, they spoke of envy. Envy for the path I was taking. The path only I could walk.

The road stretched ahead. The desert waited. And I continued on.

Chapter 4: The Dance Card

The Esplanade stretched before me, buzzing with life. I walked with purpose, but my destination was as fluid as the desert wind. In my pocket, I carried my "dance card"—a list of camps that had extended invitations long before the burn. Thirty-two names, each one a connection, a friendly face offering shelter, conversation, or just a moment of peace. I had made my plans known on Facebook, expecting a few kind responses. Instead, thirty-two people offered me a place to rest, a drink, or a story by the fire.

But I knew, even as I held the card, that I wouldn’t visit all thirty-two. Time on the Playa moves in strange ways, and four days can vanish in the blink of an eye. So, I didn’t plan. I just headed “that way,” letting the desert guide me, letting chance dictate the rhythm of my journey.

As I walked, a young couple—perhaps in their mid-thirties—caught up to me. They commented on the wagon, my trusty “camel,” and admired its design. Without hesitation, I held out the red harnesses, offering them the reins with a smile. “Would you mind helping an old man bear his burden?” I asked, my tone light, playful.

They laughed, eager to help, and grabbed the reins without a second thought. This wasn’t about necessity. I had engineered the camel with the same precision I once used on spacecraft, finely tuned with the best roller bearings and lubrication. It moved smoothly, effortlessly. But at Burning Man, it’s not always about what you need; it’s about what you can offer. And I’ve learned, through years of building art projects, that offering others the chance to help is one of the greatest gifts. It’s a simple exchange—help given, humanity reaffirmed.

The couple and I fell into an easy rhythm, their pace quickening as we moved along. They asked questions about the camel, about my journey, and I shared stories, though I found myself pulling back on the reins, asking them to slow down. “Didn’t you say your camp was at 3:30?” I asked, noticing we had reached 3:00.

They giggled, admitting they were having so much fun that they hadn’t realized how far they’d come. “Where are you going?” they asked.

I looked ahead, the desert vast and open. “That a’way,” I said with a grin, pointing off into the distance. No plan, just forward.

They exchanged a glance and then, with excitement in their eyes, invited me back to their camp to hang out. We turned the camel in a wide arc, the three of us like a small caravan, their laughter filling the air as we made our way back.

What awaited me at their camp was more than I could have expected. It was one of those rare and wonderful moments, the kind that only happens when you allow the journey to unfold on its own terms. The desert, as always, had something beautiful in store.

Chapter 5: The Hidden Door

The Dusty Scouts of Camp Campy Camp, situated at 3:30 and A, became the first true waypoint on this odyssey—a place where the desert's whimsy and human connection intertwined. The couple who had so kindly helped me pull the camel along the Esplanade had, in jest, declared themselves my captors, and I was more than willing to be their willing prisoner for a time. Their camp unfolded like a mirage, revealing a shaded lounge where respite from the relentless sun was a luxury savored.

A closed sign hung over the bar, a silent sentinel discouraging the casual seeker of spirits. Yet the man, with a twinkle in his eye, offered me a drink. I gestured toward the sign, arching an eyebrow. "The bar seems to be closed," I noted, humor threading through my words. He waved away the objection with a dismissive hand. "Not for a VIP like you," he declared, and there was something in his tone that made me feel both welcomed and seen.

We settled into conversation, the kind that flows easily between strangers in this place out of time. We spoke of where we hailed from beyond the playa's borders, of the trials and tribulations that paved our paths to this ephemeral city. But beneath the surface chatter was an undercurrent of shared understanding—a recognition of kindred spirits meeting by chance in the vast expanse of the desert.

After a while, they exchanged a glance—subtle, conspiratorial. "There's something we'd like to show you," the woman said, rising from her seat. Intrigued, I followed as they led me to an unassuming wooden dresser, its surface worn and etched with the stories of countless gatherings. A mirror adorned its front, reflecting a world that seemed both immediate and distant.

They opened the door to reveal a collection of tattered jackets and timeworn garments. I smiled, thinking they intended to augment my attire with some eclectic costume piece. But then the woman reached deeper, her hand finding a hidden latch. With a soft click, a secret door at the back of the closet swung open. "Follow me," she whispered, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

I pushed aside the hanging clothes, stepping through the threshold into another realm. The space unfolded before me—a lounge even more inviting than the one we'd left, adorned with plush cushions and soft carpets that muffled the outside world. It was a sanctuary within a sanctuary, a hidden enclave reminiscent of the speakeasies from a century past, where whispers and laughter mingled beneath the veil of secrecy.

We lingered there, enveloped by the comfort and the thrill of the hidden. Time seemed to suspend, the outside world fading into irrelevance. Eventually, we retraced our steps, emerging back into the public lounge as if returning from a dream.

An hour slipped by, and a young man approached us—early thirties perhaps, his demeanor thoughtful yet carrying an undercurrent of restlessness. For the sake of preserving the sanctity of his true identity, I'll call him Rafael. My hosts introduced us, sharing a brief recounting of our encounter and the celestial conversations that had bridged the gaps between strangers.

Rafael listened with polite interest, but there was a weight upon him, a preoccupation that clouded his gaze. He spoke then of camp matters, logistical details that required attention, his words precise yet tinged with distraction. It was only at the conclusion of his report that he uttered a sentence that fell heavy between us, a confession more to himself than to any of us.

"I'm not a beautiful man," he said, his voice low, the words laden with a resignation that struck me like a physical blow.

I rose from my chair, crossing the short distance between us with a sudden urgency. "Did I hear you say you're not a beautiful man?" I asked, searching his face. He nodded, his eyes avoiding mine, and began to speak of the reasons he believed this to be true—a litany of perceived flaws and failures that he wore like a cloak of thorns.

Without hesitation, I extended my hands, palms upward, an offering of connection. He hesitated, then placed his hands in mine, the contact grounding us both. I looked into his eyes, willing him to feel the sincerity of my words. "That is the most ugly, and untrue thing I've heard since I arrived here," I said softly yet firmly. "You must not say that again, not ever. Not only because it's false, but because it diminishes the light that is inherently yours. Feelings are transient, shaped by moments and shadows, but they do not define the essence of who you are. Standing before me is not just a handsome young man from Brazil but a soul of depth and beauty, unfolding like a flower toward the sun."

There are moments in life when the usual currents that carry us forward pause, allowing us to truly see one another without pretense or distraction. This was such a moment—a crossroads where words held the power to heal wounds unseen.

We talked then, just the two of us, our conversation weaving through the labyrinth of his doubts and hopes. He spoke of his struggles, the internal battles that raged beneath a calm exterior. I listened, offering my elder insights where I could, but mostly just being present with him in that space. Tears traced paths down his cheeks. It was as if the desert itself had conspired to bring us together, the winds guiding us to this point of intersection. He told me he would never forget.

The couple who had brought me here watched from a respectful distance, their expressions reflecting the quiet significance of the exchange unfolding before them. I couldn't help but think about the serendipity of it all—the way the desert's vastness can shrink to the intimacy of a single conversation that holds the weight of transformation.

"I don't believe in destiny as a predetermined path," I mused, "but perhaps in the serendipitous collisions that offer us a chance to change, to grow, to see ourselves and others more clearly."

Rafael looked at me with a newfound softness. "Don't go away," he said. "I have something for you."

He disappeared briefly into the depths of the camp, returning with a beautifully decorated piece—a token of gratitude, of connection.?

Chapter 6: The Gift

Rafael held out the object with both hands, and I could feel the weight of its meaning before I even laid eyes on it. It was of medium size, but its presence filled the air between us. A circular wall ornament, vibrant with life. The background exploded with color—abstract shapes, butterflies, and swirling designs in hues of red, blue, yellow, orange, and green. Each shade, each pattern, seemed to pulse with joy, an energy that felt both personal and universal, as if it captured the very spirit of the desert itself.

In the center of this kaleidoscope was a word, simple yet profound: Axé. Bold, raised wooden letters standing out against the colorful chaos, commanding attention. Rafael told me it meant positive energy, blessings, something sacred in his culture. The word seemed to hum with the weight of all that it represented.

Hanging from the bottom were tassels—a tangle of bright strings, ribbons, and beads in colors as lively as the piece itself. They danced slightly in the breeze, catching the light as they swayed, their textures as varied as the lives we all led here in this temporary city. There was craftsmanship in it, but more than that, there was love. A gift of intention. Handmade. Thoughtful. Alive with meaning.

I accepted the gift carefully, feeling the textured warmth of the piece, knowing this was no small token. I wrapped it in cloth, placing it in the camel’s safe keeping, a reminder of this moment, of the connection we had forged here. It wasn’t just an object; it was a symbol of the change that had occurred, of the words exchanged and the truths spoken.

For a few more minutes, we sat in silence. No words were needed. We both knew what had happened here—an accidental collision of souls, the kind that only the desert can conjure. We had touched each other’s lives, left a mark that couldn’t be undone. We had changed.

But the desert has a way of reminding you when it’s time to move. The invisible winds began to stir, carrying with them the whispers of the vast unknown that lay ahead. It was time.

I rose, giving Rafael one last look, knowing that the journey would continue, that this moment would now be carried with me. The winds pushed at my back, urging me onward, into the vast, open void of the playa and the city. The desert was calling once again, and I had to answer.

With the gift stored safely, I set off, knowing that the journey would never truly end—only transform.

Chapter 7: The City Beckons

I set off from 3:30 and A, the sun climbing higher, the desert alive with possibilities. My destination was Gigsville, where my new friend Wolf awaited. I had a gift for her—a pair of translucent white angel wings, stored safely back at my base camp. We’d planned to walk the city together during my journey. But Gigsville was no small trek, eight sprawling city blocks away at 4:30 and F. Between me and Gigsville lay a labyrinth of camps, each one a siren's call, luring wanderers in with stories, music, and magic.

It didn’t take long for temptation to catch me. Right across the street from Dusty Scouts of Camp Campy Camp was the Academy of Arts & Sciences. A camp buzzing with minds as sharp as the desert heat, talking of science and exploration. I knew if I let them know I’d retired after 37 years at NASA, I’d be lost in conversation for hours. So I simply listened. I soaked in their discussions, the passion of their words, and the sheer joy of sharing knowledge.

They had a sign on the ground that read, “Mad Scientist at Work,” fashioned like an industrial caution sign. I couldn’t resist. I crouched beside it, asking a passerby to snap my photo. But as people began to gather, curious about the wagon and my journey, I felt the pull to stay. I knew better. Gigsville and Wolf were waiting. I took up the reins of the camel and continued.

By the time I reached 3:30 and C, another camp caught my eye—Black Rock City Welding and Repair. As an art car builder myself, with a backyard shop full of welding rigs, I knew I had to stop. The sound of metal meeting fire, the sparks dancing in the air, called to me. Yet again, I stood in silence, watching, knowing that I could lose myself here for hours. I could see the beauty in their work, the way they shaped metal into form, but I also knew that this was not my destination.

And then it happened again. I’ve always had this strange ability—to be invisible. Not in the literal sense, but in a way that’s unnerving even to those close to me. My wife, Pinky, calls it my disappearing act. I’ll be standing right next to her, and she’ll call out my name as if I’m nowhere to be found. I reply, and she jumps, startled every time.

Here, in the welder’s camp, it happened again. A young woman, eyes seemingly fixed right on me, walked straight into me with a thud. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you!” she exclaimed, her face flushed with embarrassment. I couldn’t help but laugh. “It happens,” I told her, sharing the tale of my wife and her frequent startles. We exchanged a few lighthearted words, chuckling at my strange talent for invisibility. But the desert called, and it was time to move on once more.

Next door, at 3:30 and D, I found Wanderer's Camp. It seemed like the perfect place to stop, a camp filled with kindred spirits—wanderers like myself. I wanted to share my story, to tell them of my four-day adventure, but as fate would have it, I was visible this time and they were the ones who had vanished. The camp stood empty, not a soul to be found. I laughed out loud at the irony. Of course, they were out wandering. Their name foretold it. The desert, once again, urged me onward.

I turned onto D street, named “Delight” for this year’s burn. I was searching for my friends at Camp Y Knot, confident I was in the right area. But as I wandered, I realized they were just out of reach, one street over on Enchant, E street. Missed them by inches, the desert playing its tricks.

As I continued through the city, camp after camp unfolded before me like pages of a novel—each one a chapter filled with people, stories, and experiences. I lost myself in the conversations, the laughter, the brief connections that only a place like this can offer. Every step, every encounter, was a gift, and yet I felt a quiet regret growing in the back of my mind.

So many moments had passed, fleeting as the desert winds, and I had not taken note of them. I hadn’t written anything down, hadn’t snapped enough photos, hadn’t recorded the vivid, fleeting details. The principle of immediacy had swallowed me whole, as it so often does out here. I had been living in the moment, fully and completely, but the memories slipped through my fingers like the fine Playa dust.

I wished, for just a second, that I had captured more. But then, as the city buzzed around me, I realized the beauty in that. The desert doesn’t need to be remembered; it simply needs to be lived.

Chapter 8: The Slalom Course

Walking down the long, dusty blocks of the named streets, I spotted something curious in the road ahead. A line of traffic cones, neatly spaced, like markers of some mysterious ritual. A man stood there, camera in hand, directing passing cyclists with a loud voice. “Take the slalom course through the gates!” he shouted, and without hesitation, the cyclists began to weave. Each bike danced through the cones, carving out its own graceful path, as if caught in a silent, choreographed performance. The cones became gates, and the riders painted invisible lines in the desert air, creating an artistic wave of form with their movements.

By the time I reached the cones, the cyclists had disappeared. It was just me, my camel, and the man with his camera. I stopped the wagon well before the first cone, intrigued by the challenge before me. I approached the man. “Record a movie,” I said with a grin.

He looked at me, puzzled. “Why?” he asked, his confusion lingering as I walked away. But then, understanding dawned on him as I turned and began to guide my wagon camel through the slalom course.

His confusion melted into delight. “Go! Go!” he cheered, as I navigated each cone with exaggerated slowness, mimicking the flowing precision of the cyclists before me. The wheels of the camel followed my lead, weaving back and forth in slow motion, as if the desert itself had slowed to watch this spectacle unfold.

By the time I reached the last gate, I couldn't resist a bit of flair. I kicked up a cloud of dust with my heels and shouted, “A new Burning Man wagon record!” My voice rang out in triumph, the absurdity of the moment adding to its magic.

The man laughed, joy spilling from him as he lowered the camera and rushed over to give me a hug. There was something genuine in that embrace, something shared between two strangers who had just created a small piece of Burning Man magic.

He pulled back, eyes gleaming. “Tell me about the camel,” he said, curiosity shining in his voice. And so, I told him of my trek—of my mission, the four days, the adventure I had set out on. He listened intently, nodding along, soaking in every word as if it were a story he had been waiting his whole life to hear.

When I finished, he smiled wide. “I love it,” he said. “Good luck out there.” His words hung in the air like a blessing, a promise of the journey yet to come. And with that, I took up the reins of my camel once more, the desert stretching endlessly ahead.

Chapter 9: The Shortest Journey

Finally, Gigsville loomed into view, a familiar sight in the distance. I had so many friends in this camp—old companions from burns past. I expected to be smothered in a dog pile of hugs as soon as I arrived, but apparently, my invisibility cloak was still in full effect. I wandered past a camp member I didn’t recognize, the infamous Car-B-Q flickering in the distance. It’s exactly what it sounds like—a rusted, burnt-out car, modified into a BBQ grill, an absurd monument to Gigsville’s signature humor. It crackled with fire, a strange beacon of warmth and comedy rolled into one.

But no one noticed me. I uncloaked myself, figuratively speaking, and asked a passing camp lead where I might find my friend Wolf. He pointed toward her tent, but with a quick glance, noted her bicycle was gone—she was likely out in the city herself, adventuring. The camp lead, intrigued by my wagon, asked about my journey. After I filled him in on my four-day trek, he extended an invitation for me to stay the night. Gigsville would welcome me with open arms, he said. And I considered it. I lingered there for an hour, resting in their front lounge, facing the corner of 4:30 and F, taking in the warmth of the fire, the Car-B-Q’s flame a silent companion. But something in me stirred—restlessness or perhaps just that old familiar pull of the desert.

I knew I couldn’t stay. The desert was calling again, whispering its secrets, so I took one last look at Gigsville, at the place where my friends had once been, in the absence of Wolf, and I departed into the night.

Crossing the street, I passed an RV that had transformed itself into something curious. Its side had opened like a makeshift food truck, and from behind the bar inside, a man called out, “Hey... where are you going?”

I shifted my path and approached. The camp was called Camp Stoop, and stools lined the open side of the trailer, inviting weary travelers to stop and stay a while. I parked my wagon and sat down, a new chapter beginning in this corner of the Playa. I told him of my adventure—how I had missed my connection at Gigsville, how the city had swallowed my friends whole, leaving me to drift.

He listened with fascination, the way only someone new to the tale can, eyes wide, absorbing every word. And just like that, the desert provided once again. They offered me food, a hot rice dish and alcohol to wash it down. For two hours, we sat there, the conversation flowing as easily as the drinks. He asked where I was headed next, and I answered, as I always did, “Out there, someplace.”

Before long, he invited me to walk around Camp Stoop, and with a friendly gesture, picked out a place for me to spend the night. It wasn’t far—close enough to Gigsville that I could still keep watch for my friends, but nestled safely among the warmth and welcome of Camp Stoop. They had bribed me with food and drink, and it wasn’t a hard sell. So, I settled in by the fire on the corner of 4:30 and F, across from the faint flicker of Gigsville. I sat there, into the night, letting the fire’s warmth seep into my bones as the world around me moved in its wild, untamed rhythm.

As the darkness deepened, I prepared for my first night out on the trek. My rig was well-equipped, lights glowing from my wagon, casting a soft halo around the camp. But the desert isn’t always kind. My cot, once a reliable companion, decided to betray me—two of its legs collapsed under the weight of the day’s journey. I adapted, shifting the broken legs to the foot of the cot, thinking I’d found a passable solution. For a moment, it worked. But the creeping ache in my back soon reminded me that comfort would not come easily tonight.

And then there was the noise. F Street, now christened Fascinate for this burn, never sleeps. Even at 1 a.m., the bikes whizzed past, art cars rumbled by, music blasted from every direction, and the voices of drunken burners filled the air, their laughter a chaotic symphony that kept sleep at bay. But what finally pushed me over the edge was the generator. Not just any generator, but one of those open-frame, industrial beasts, the kind you hear on construction sites. Its roar broke the last thread of peace I had managed to hold onto.

I had enjoyed Camp Stoop, its hospitality and warmth, but my mission called for more than this. The night desert beckoned, as it always does, with its silent, infinite expanse. I packed my things, said my quiet goodbyes, and set off once again, the stars above lighting my way. The journey wasn’t over. The desert had more to reveal.

Chapter 10: The Oasis of Night

This was something new. Walking with the camel through the streets in the dark of night, the vast emptiness around me now veiled by a comforting cloak of shadows. Though I had light—an ungodly headlight cutting through the blackness—there was something soothing about being wrapped in darkness. The air was cool, and there was no relentless wind to battle. It made sense now, why the creatures of the desert emerge under the moon. Why the Bedouins travel by night. We desert people are nocturnal by necessity, our bond with the stars stronger than with the sun.

Not far from where I’d left Camp Stoop lay the 4:30 and G plaza, a wide circle with an art structure planted at its heart. On the far side, like an oasis shimmering in the desert, was a camp named CoCoDisco. But this wasn’t just metaphorical—it was a real oasis. Plastic Palm trees standing in the still air, plastic plants dotted the ground, and a huge carpet stretched out like a welcome mat from some mirage. The bar stood vacant, as did the DJ booth, the dance floor. But what caught my attention most was the lounge.

It was vast. Rows of mattresses—queen-sized, king-sized, even larger—spread out, each one pristine, draped in sheets, pillows piled high, blankets folded neatly. I stopped in awe. The quiet desert night played tricks on the eyes, but this was no mirage. It was real, standing silent and perfect under the stars.

It was 2:30 in the morning, and exhaustion tugged at me. I parked the camel next to the closest king-sized mattress, still packed and ready to move at a moment’s notice. There was no one to ask permission from, no camp members in sight. But the draw of this empty oasis was too strong. I plopped down onto the soft bed, sinking into their pillows, pulling their blanket over me. A part of me remained alert, listening for any sign that I needed to leave, but the other part—the tired traveler—surrendered to the comfort.

Before sleep claimed me, I marveled at what I had stumbled upon. CoCoDisco wasn’t just a camp—it was immaculate, a creation of effort and care. Every detail was pristine, perfect. Who had built this? And where were they now? My thoughts drifted as my eyelids grew heavy, and soon I slipped into sleep, cradled by the desert’s embrace.

I woke just before dawn, as I often do. The sun had yet to rise, but the cool stillness of the morning pressed against me. I had slept enough, yet something kept me rooted to the mattress. I lay there, surrounded by the beauty of the empty camp, reluctant to leave. The call of the desert urged me onward, but my body resisted. I made the bed, carefully restoring it to the way I’d found it, returning everything to its perfect order. There would be no trace of me here, no evidence that I had passed through.

Like the creatures of the desert, I was invisible once again. Seen, perhaps, but unnoticed. I waited for a sign that I might meet someone from this camp, but time stretched, and no one appeared. Finally, as the sun began to creep up over the horizon, I lost hope of encountering anyone from this beautifully abandoned oasis. I began to pack up, pulling the camel to its feet, ready to head back into the unknown.

Just as I was about to leave, a single figure emerged. A camp member, bleary-eyed and on a mission, making a hurried dash to the porta-potties one street over. I caught his eye and, with a grin, said, “Thanks for letting me stay the night.”

He blinked, confused, still half-asleep. He mumbled something incoherent, clearly more focused on his urgent task than my words. The moment passed, and I laughed quietly to myself, watching him disappear down the street.

I gathered my things, took one last look at the serene, empty camp, and with a salute to CoCoDisco, I departed.

Chapter 11: The Desert’s Hand

Day 2 began with the kind of quiet stillness that only the desert can provide. The sun had yet to fully rise, and I found myself standing at the 4:30 and G plaza, where a signboard with a fully detailed map of the city lay before me. I rolled over to it, my camel by my side, ready to chart the course for the day ahead. I had a destination in mind, and my path was quickly drawn. The playa stretched out in every direction, calling to me with its endless possibilities.

Just as I was preparing to leave, a man rolled up to me on his bike. He looked ragged, not from the ride, but from the wear of an all-night party that had stretched into the early morning hours. His body moved sluggishly, his eyes barely able to focus. This was Wednesday, which meant he might have been awake since Monday. It’s not uncommon. Burning Man has a way of swallowing time, of stretching the boundaries of endurance. Here, people augment their bodies, their minds, pushing themselves beyond the ordinary. But the desert always waits. It always stalks. The silent hand of the desert rests on everyone's shoulder—no matter their experience, no matter their strength. I feel it too, but I know to listen when it presses down.

The man, as I suspected, was lost. He didn’t know where he was, and his connection to his camp was even more fragile. He had some idea of where he belonged, but nothing more than a vague notion. His exhaustion was palpable, his mind trying to piece together memories of a night long passed.

We figured it out together. His camp was far across the city, way off in the open camping area near 7:30 and G. He’d wandered quite a distance, carried by whatever party or art car had led him astray. I told him simply, "Head down this G street, and when you hit 7:30, take a left." His gratitude was immediate. He hugged me, awkwardly wrapping his arms around the handlebar between us, thanking me for being there when he needed someone to anchor him back to reality. As is tradition, I handed him one of my water bottles. He smiled, an act of kindness exchanged, and rode off, hopefully toward some much-needed rest.

Just as he disappeared, a black Ford F-150 came barreling down the street, nearly hitting him as it sped past. My heart leapt, thinking for a moment that the desert’s hand had caught him after all. But no—it wasn’t him the truck was after. It was me.

The truck screeched to a stop, dust swirling in its wake. The driver jumped out, frantic, eyes wide with panic. “How do I get to medical?” he asked, his voice thick with urgency. Before I could answer, my eyes shifted to the passenger seat. There, slumped over, was a woman. Her eyes were closed, her face contorted with pain, though she was awake. Barely.

In that split second, everything around me slowed. Time stretched as I processed the scene with the kind of clarity that only moments of crisis bring. I showed the driver on the map where ESD Rampart, the medical center, was located—between 5:00 and 5:30 on the Esplanade. My words were quick but calm. "Drive straight up 4:30, ignore the ‘no driving on the playa’ signs. Just go. Nobody will stop you. Get there now."

The driver nodded, his panic momentarily stilled by the certainty of direction. He thanked me profusely as he jumped back in the truck. The woman, her eyes heavy with pain, managed a small nod in my direction, a silent thank you, before they sped off into the rising sun.

As the truck disappeared, a strange realization settled over me. I had saved two people—simply by being there, by standing at that map, by carrying the knowledge and experience the desert had given me over the years. I joked to myself, half-serious, "Maybe next year, I should set up a table here with a sign that reads, 'I'm your guide. Where do you want to go?'"

The desert had its hand on my shoulder too, but I knew where I needed to go. With the rising sun now fully in view, I turned my camel toward the light and began my journey once more.

Chapter 12: The Wilds of Open Camping

Day two began with a sense of purpose and energy. After my restful night, I was ready to move on, my new destination far ahead but clear in my mind. I set off, making my way down G Street—named Gobsmack for this burn—passing the intersection of 4:00 and G. The city shifted around me as I walked, its familiar rhythm turning into something new.

This part of the city is different from the orderly chaos of the rest. Most of Black Rock City, about 75%, is allocated to placed camps—theme camps carefully planned by the Placement department months in advance. These camps make the city function, each with its own contribution to the ever-changing landscape. Volunteer camps, like my wife’s Fire Art Safety Team (FAST), exist within this space too, but they operate differently. Volunteers use their own vehicles, granted temporary status as staff cars. They need these to navigate the vastness of the Playa, especially FAST, who certify fire structures all over the inner city and the art installations on the open Playa, and manage the actual burns.

Logistics camps are woven into the fabric of the city, largely invisible to the casual observer. These camps are essential, managing the heavy equipment—cranes, trench diggers, and forklifts—that make the art and infrastructure possible. They are the quiet machine behind the spectacle, hidden in plain sight amid the spectacle of it all.

But the area I was about to walk through was nothing like that. I was about to enter the untamed wilderness of Open Camping.

Open camping is, as the name suggests, a free-for-all. Here, there are no lines, no rigid grids, no careful placement. It's the antithesis of the city’s six-inch grid—the meticulous system of organization that keeps placed camps harmonious, and at times, prevents camp drama from fracturing friendships. I’ve written before about the six-inch grid, so I won’t dive into the details now. Let’s just say, when it’s ignored, chaos ensues. But out here, in the open camp areas, there is no grid. There’s no structure, no planning. It’s random and loose, with everyone respecting each other’s space but taking up much more ground than the city’s planned camps. It’s inefficient, but it works in its own way.

Occasionally, you’ll spot a full-fledged theme camp here in the open spaces. They end up here for various reasons—sometimes they missed the bureaucratic steps to secure a placed spot, sometimes they lost their placement, and sometimes they simply don’t care. They prefer the freedom of this unstructured zone. Whatever the reason, the open camping area has a vibe all its own.

Let me take a brief detour to tell you a side story that unfolded just days before my trek. A German couple had rented a van and pulled into our staff camp, mistakenly thinking it was an open camping area. In staff camps like ours, volunteers work throughout the day, returning in the evening for a glass of wine and an early bed, ready to face another day of work. It’s a different kind of burn, one built on shifts and service. This couple, however, didn’t seem to grasp the concept. They parked their van in the tight space reserved for staff cars and began setting up camp.

I approached them, asking if they were volunteers. It quickly became clear they were squatters, looking for a place to settle in. I explained the workings of the city, the designated spaces, and how things had functioned for over 20 years. The man nodded, understanding, but the woman—oh, she reminded me of my German mother in her firm objections. She insisted that Burning Man had misunderstood how people wanted to camp. I politely corrected her—no, it was she who misunderstood how the city worked. After a brief exchange, I sent them on their way with a courteous “Welcome to Nevada” and a less subtle stink-eye to ensure they moved along.

So, as I walked through open camping now, I smiled at the memory. These wilds have their own rules, their own culture. I passed by a camp with two hammocks hanging lazily between poles. I paused to admire the quality of the hammocks, and soon enough, an open camper invited me to rest in one of them. I declined the hammock but asked if I could use their table to eat a morning meal from my wagon. He welcomed me, and as I sat down, more open campers emerged, eager to socialize.

The conversation was light, friendly, the kind of easy exchange that happens out here, away from the frenetic energy of the central city. We shared stories, laughter, and for a while, I was content in the company of strangers who, for a moment, felt like old friends. Again, I regretted not taking more photos. Moments like these pass too quickly, leaving only memories that grow hazy with time. But I suppose that’s part of the ethos here—the principle of immediacy, of living fully in the present.

My time in the wilds of open camping reminded me of the beauty of Burning Man’s chaos, the freedom to connect without expectation, to wander without a map. As I packed up to continue my trek, I felt a pang of regret but also a deep sense of gratitude. The desert was calling once again, and it was time to move on.

Chapter 13: Intentionally Left Blank

It is fitting that this chapter falls as number 13. Have you ever opened a book, a report, or some document, only to find a page with the words, “This page intentionally left blank”??

[THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK]

That is what Chapter 13 will be for me—a space left vacant, unwritten, yet heavy with meaning. It is a chapter that may be written in the future, or perhaps it will remain a void, a moment in time that exists without need for detail.

But I will say this: It was an incident that left me broken, betrayed by forces I never saw coming. The weight of it lingers, a shadow that stretches across my journey. Yet, I am lucky. I have the freedom to move on. To escape what tries to harm me. My first rule has always been simple: run. And that’s exactly what I did, not in fear, but in pain.

This was a dark chapter in my life, one that I will not dwell on, but it exists here—intentionally left blank, yet filled with the unspoken scars of experience.

Chapter 14: Desert Magic Saved Me

Oh, the desert is magic. The winds that carry you across its vast, shifting sands can drive you into the depths of despair or lift you to the highest peaks of joy. That’s the way of the desert. And so, Chapter 14 stands in stark contrast to Chapter 13. Darkness followed by light, like the shifting of dunes beneath the sun.

As I made my escape from the sorrow that had clung to me, I felt a tear slip down my 64-year-old cheek. In the Fremen tradition, no water is wasted. I quickly wiped the tear with my finger and brought it to my lips, letting the moisture return to me, rather than to the parched dust at my feet. A small act of survival, but it meant something.

And in that instant—no more than a nanosecond—the winds shifted. From a nearby camp, two tall Finnish women emerged and called out, “Charles, Charles, Charles!” I stopped, startled out of my haze, and realized I had been blindly passing one of the most sacred places on the Playa: the Black Rock Sauna Society.

They recognized me immediately and pulled me into the heart of the camp, past the public fa?ade and into the private, more intimate quarters in the back. Camps are often divided this way—an open, public-facing front and a hidden retreat in the rear, where kitchens, private lounges, and tents huddle under shaded awnings. Here, in the rear, I was greeted with a chorus of excited friends, old and new, all gathering around with beaming faces. Some had known I was coming; others were surprised. And some I had never met before but welcomed me as if I were a long-lost family member.

The Black Rock Sauna Society is, as the name suggests, devoted to the ancient art of the sauna. Sauna in the morning, sauna at night—it’s their lifeblood, their ritual. Even in the midst of the desert’s heat, they crave more heat. These Finns, alongside Norwegians, Germans, and a smattering of Americans, bring with them a 20-foot cargo container, converted into a giant, functional sauna. Another container serves as a changing room, where dusty playa garments are shed and people go naked or modestly wrapped, stepping into the steamy embrace of the sauna. Inside, the walls are lined with rich, aromatic wood, filling the air with a scent foreign to the desert—something wild and primal.

The heat inside the sauna? It’s intense, but it’s life-giving. For the Finns, sauna is more than just tradition—it’s a sanctuary, a place to cleanse not only the body but the spirit. It is, in their culture, a ritual of rebirth. A place where worries melt away, where friendships are deepened, where one becomes renewed.

My history with the camp runs deep. My dear friend Tommi, though absent from this year’s burn, had once invited me to bless opening of a static art structure known as the Cosmic Egg they had brought all the way from Finland. It was one of the proudest moments of my role as the Space Pope, standing before them, offering words that connected us all. From that day on, we were friends for life.?

They had even flown me to Helsinki to bless their Decompression Event—a post-Burning Man celebration. I traveled halfway around the world to be with these kind souls, and they welcomed me like family where they gave me a traditional Finish drum for future ceremonies.

Earlier this morning, I had saved two people by being in the right place at the right time. Now, I realized, 60 people were saving me. Pulling me out of the dark place that had tried to swallow me whole. They reminded me who I am—of my worth, my value in this world.

For the next 24 hours, it was nothing but pure joy. Food and drink flowed freely, conversations deepened under the desert sky. We spoke of philosophy, science, NASA, life. I shared wisdom, and they shared theirs in return. We laughed, we exchanged stories, and in their warmth, I felt the weight of the horrible previous hours lift from my shoulders.

The desert’s magic was at play once again. I had been blown into this camp by the winds of the Playa, and here, in the heart of the Black Rock Sauna Society, I found healing. Just as the desert can break you, it can also rebuild you. And in the heat of the sauna and the embrace of friends, I felt whole again.

Desert magic. It’s real. It’s here. And it’s alive.

Chapter 15: The Envious Call of a Far Away Camp

Day 3 began early for me. I was the first to wake at the Sauna Camp, while everyone else still slumbered after a night at the White Party hosted by Opulent Temple. I had planned to go, even packed my white NASA flight suit for the occasion, hoping to meet my friend Cindy there. But exhaustion—emotional more than physical—had finally caught up with me. Even an overdose of positive energy can be draining.? I found myself enjoying the quiet comfort of the sacred sanctuary that surrounded me. The call to depart was strong, but the pull to stay, to say proper goodbyes to my friends, was stronger.

So, I stayed. Until 11 a.m. or so. We shared lunch together, and just as I was preparing to leave, something wonderful happened. They asked me to stay another night. The temptation was real. I could have altered my mission for this, and I would have been justified in doing so. But the mission still called. I had no idea what awaited me out there on the Playa, and that uncertainty is what drove me forward.

They understood. Then, someone called out, "Let’s get a group photo with Charley!" I have that photo—me standing in front of the sauna container, surrounded by over a dozen beautiful souls who had lifted me out of a dark place. These friends had diverted my mind from the blankness of Chapter 13, and for that, I will always be grateful. I treasure that moment, frozen in time.

I departed with fond memories, and perhaps, the hope of another journey to Finland one day. There is so much more to this story, so much I could say, but alas, the desert waits for no one.

This leg of the journey was different, though. During my stay at Sauna Camp, I had the chance to break out my photographic gimbal mount, attaching it to my wagon to capture more video of my travels. It worked perfectly, and I was able to film parts of my journey to share with the members of Camp Envy.

Camp Envy is not like any other camp at Burning Man. In fact, it's the largest camp in the history of the event. But there's a catch: Camp Envy isn’t on the Playa. Its members—vast and diverse—don’t attend Burning Man in person. For some, it's a temporary absence. Burners who couldn’t make it this year, teachers or professionals tied to commitments that kept them away. For others, it’s their first exposure to the event, watching from afar and yearning for a future burn.

Camp Envy exists on the Internet, a digital community of participants and observers. And they rely on people like me to share our experiences in near real-time. That’s why I carry my Starlink antenna mounted on the wagon, to upload my adventures to the web.?

This isn’t new for me. Back in 2013 to 2015, my Mars Rover Art Car was the first to broadcast the burn live from its mounted cameras. Our chief engineer, Motorbikematt, even worked with Burning Man’s organizers to become the official webcast producer in later years. To this day, he’s still pushing the boundaries, exploring new ways to bring Burning Man to Camp Envy respectfully, as I do.

Sharing the burn this way takes skill and a strong sense of responsibility. Broadcasting from the Playa is legal, but it requires a careful balance of respect, privacy, and consent—a code of honor we helped establish with the Mars Rover Art Car. I followed these rules, sharing stories with Camp Envy every day, except for my four-day trek with the wagon. The videos I captured would be edited and uploaded later, after I had time to reflect on the journey.

As I rolled onward, the next destination came into view: Camp Pandamonium.

Chapter 16: Pandemonium and Peace

My friend Rach, a real-world neighbor from just a few miles down the road from my ranch, was here at Camp Pandamonium. Rach is the kind of friend who’s a few years younger than me, but in spirit, he’s a playful 16-year-old to my 12. He helped me build the critical aluminum rocker bogies for the Mars Rover Art Car back in 2013. Over the years, he, his kids, and even his elder mother would visit my property. Rach founded Camp Pandamonium, a place that reflects his youthful, chaotic energy—where the usual rules are suspended, and spontaneity reigns.

Camp Pandamonium, true to its name, is an eruption of wild, unrestrained joy, a carnival of chaos where parties blur the line between day and night. Clothing optional, boundaries all consensual, it’s a place where the usual worries and judgments disappear. The camp’s swirling energy is a deliberate mess of music, art, and unpredictable moments that encapsulate the freedom of the Playa.

As I approached, I made sure to turn off all my cameras, tucking them away just in time as a naked female friend greeted me warmly. I then met others.?

No cameras needed for this part of the journey—it was time to immerse myself fully in the chaos. They took me to Rach, who was resting in his bunk, still recovering from the night before. Despite his exhaustion, he was happy to see me and immediately asked, "Where are you going to sleep?"

I hadn’t planned to stay the night, but as always, the desert has its own plans. I met three new friends visiting from Canada, and they showed me a spot next to their tents where I could drop my wagon. It was easy to make friends at Camp Pandamonium. Here, nobody cared about the trivial details of life. Nobody cared if you were clothed or not, if you liked apples or oranges, or what your background was. They cared about you, but beyond that, they let everything else go. It was a radical playground of self-expression, dancing, and relaxation, and I felt right at home.

The music at the camp was a perfect reflection of the mood. A female DJ in her late 20s played a set of Dad Rock classics—Johnny Cash, the Rolling Stones, Tom Petty, and the Eagles. I pulled up a chair near her, listening to her entire set. It was magnetic, pulling in older burners like me, who couldn’t help but smile as they biked over to tell her she was playing the best music on the Playa.

After her set, something new caught my attention. The next DJ brought along a buddy with a wireless electric guitar. As the DJ spun his tracks, the guitarist added live riffs, creating a hybrid of electronic and rock that got me off my chair. I danced, holding up signs and acting as a “barker” to draw in others. The blend of DJ beats and live music was electric, something special even for Burning Man.

That evening, the camp provided another treat—a thick, juicy backyard-style hamburger. It was a simple meal, but out here, food tastes different. It’s richer, more satisfying, as if the desert magnifies every flavor. I took a moment to reflect on how little of my four-day supply of food and water I had gone through. At this rate, I thought, I could last 14 days more.

As the night wore on, it became clear that the energy in camp was shifting. People were getting ready for the first art burns on the Playa. The air was thick with anticipation. Just as I was contemplating where the night would take me, my Starlink buzzed with a message from Pinky. She asked where I was and if I wanted to join her for the Cone Burn. Pinky, with her FAST staff badge and handicap vehicle pass due to her leg issues, offered to pick me up in the truck and take me there.

When she arrived, I joked, “My limo is here,” watching the surprised looks on the campmates' faces as we drove off. We headed toward the burn site, parking in the designated area where vehicles were allowed. From our spot, we had a perfect view of the burn, well away from the crowd but close enough to feel the heat.

As we waited for the Cone Burn, there was an additional spectacle, because there was something new in the sky above. With fireworks bursting from the wings of Burning Man’s first ever art plane in the sky. The lasers, pyrotechnics, and final explosion of fireworks shaped like angel wings captivated everyone.?

The Cone burned faster than usual, collapsing into itself in a quick blaze of light and heat. From our vantage point, we also spotted my friend Widget, the burn event manager, diligently overseeing the safety of the burn as part of the FAST team. It was impressive to watch him work, keeping order in the chaos.

Afterward, Pinky drove me back to Camp Pandamonium. We said our goodbyes and goodnights, sharing stories of our respective adventures. She was pleased with how my trek had gone so far, and I was grateful for the chance to share it with her, even for a brief moment.

As I watched her drive off into the distance, I returned to my wagon, my trusty camel. I couldn’t help but smile, thinking it probably missed me. The camp had quieted down, the pandemonium of the day replaced by a calm silence. No wild parties, no dancing in the streets—just the soft hum of the desert night.

And in that stillness, I felt at peace and slept.

Chapter 17: The Dawn of Day Four

Once again, I was awake just before dawn. The desert has a way of whispering to those who listen, calling them to rise with the sun. I quietly packed up my camp, loading everything onto the wagon, slipping into the cloak of invisibility I’ve grown so accustomed to. Without a sound, I made my way into the streets of the city, leaving no trace of my presence. The sun had just begun its ascent, and I paused for a moment, taking a last photo of the rising sun over the Camp Pandamonium sign. A final salute to my sleeping friends. Day 4 of my journey had officially begun.

In the gentle light of morning, I captured an incredible video—me, walking alongside the wagon, long shadows stretching out on the Playa beneath the rising sun. It was one of those quiet, perfect moments that only the desert can offer. I wandered through the city, visiting a few art installations along the way. One, in particular, caught my eye—a Tesla parked beside a large art piece, its power being used as a generator for the installation. The artists were already in the process of disassembling their work, packing up even though it was only Thursday. For some, the burn was already over, and the exodus had begun.

As I prepared to move on, I heard a cry of pain. One of the artists had sliced open his finger, a sharp contrast to the serene morning. Without hesitation, I rushed over, instructing him to apply pressure on the wound. I led him back to the wagon, where, inside my trusty camel, I kept a fully stocked first-aid kit—industrial strength, no less. In the stillness of the morning, I cleaned his wound, applied antibiotic gel, and bandaged the cut. I gave him a few extra bandages for the coming days, knowing that even small injuries could become a problem out here in the desert. Grateful, he thanked me, and once again, I was on my way. The Playa provides, and I, in turn, provided for those in need.

Not long after, I encountered a Black Rock Ranger. He looked like he’d been awake all night, maybe on shift or maybe not—it was hard to tell. Rangers are rarely alone, but this one was wandering the Playa solo. There was something about him, though—his mood was lighter, more interactive than most Rangers I’d encountered. We started talking, the kind of easy banter that only happens after a long night in the desert. Before long, we were joking and chumming around like old friends.

The energy was infectious, so I asked if I could capture our antics on video. To my surprise, he agreed, and for a moment, I thought I had caught a perfect piece of spontaneous Playa magic on camera. But later, I discovered that none of the footage had been recorded. A disappointment, sure, but perhaps it was for the best. Some moments are meant to be fleeting, carried only in memory. And maybe, given his state, it was better for him that our impromptu performance stayed out of the Ranger’s management eyes. Still, I couldn’t help but smile, knowing I had witnessed something special, even if the camera hadn’t.

Chapter 18: The Return

As I ventured toward The Man, I found myself setting up camp right on the side of the 6 o'clock road, between Center Camp and the great figure itself. For two hours, I sat there, taking it all in.?

The energy around me had shifted dramatically since my first day, four days ago. Back then, excitement buzzed in the air—curiosity and purpose filled every step of those passing by. But now, it was different. The people walking by were like zombies, trudging along, faces blank, their steps aimless. They were burnt out, worn down by the desert. Only one person took note of me, stopping to ask if I had spent my entire Burn in this spot. When I explained my journey, he simply said “oh” and walked off, under the spell of whatever force had taken hold of him. The desert’s hand was heavy on them all.

After a while, I packed up and made my way to the 7:00 road, the road that would take me back to my base camp—back to Susan, Widget, Scott, and all my other friends at FAST. But first, there was a stop I needed to make. At Esplanade and 7, there was a set of swings, and as I often say… I’m 12.

I swung back and forth for a while, laughing to myself, letting the weight of the journey fall away in that simple, 64 year old childlike joy. When I was done, I set off again, thinking my adventure was finally winding down. But the desert had one last surprise for me.?

A camp along the way had a guy yelling out, offering coffee to passersby. I parked the wagon and grabbed my cup, grateful for the break. It turned out to be the best coffee I’d had during the entire trek, a final little treat before the close.

Soon, I was back on the final stretch. I could see base camp ahead. Widget spotted me first and hurried to tell Pinky. As I pulled into camp, I was greeted with the biggest hugs from them all. It wasn’t the time to tell stories just yet—that would come later. Now was the time to sit, to breathe, to let the mission close out.

In the spacecraft industry, there’s a phase called post-mission closeout—a time for reflection, for tying up loose ends, and preparing for what’s next. I knew this phase well. Mission complete.

At no time during my journey was I ever truly alone. I had the city, my friends, and the desert itself with me every step of the way. This 64-year-old body did better than I expected, carried by something greater than just willpower.

Now, it was time to rest.

Epilogue: A Journey of Dust, Spirit, and Solitude

The desert is a paradox. It strips you bare, revealing the core of who you are, while simultaneously cloaking you in mystery. It is a place of unrelenting harshness and unbridled beauty. For four days, I walked that fine line, dragging my wagon—my faithful camel—through the ever-shifting sands of Burning Man. What began as a simple journey, a test of self-reliance and exploration, became something much deeper. It became a voyage into the essence of who I am, of what it means to be truly alone, yet never without company.

I set off with a goal, a mission, as I always have. But the desert does not care for your plans, your neatly drawn lines, or the paths you think you must follow. It bends you to its will, pushes you to the edge of yourself, and then—just when you think it will break you—it reveals its magic. It is a place where light and shadow blend into one, where the boundary between the self and the world blurs, and where even the most seasoned traveler can find themselves lost in wonder.

There were moments on this journey when I felt like a ghost, unseen and unnoticed. But it was in those moments of invisibility that I saw the most. I saw the burn in its rawest form, the people worn thin by days of heat, dust, and delirium, but still moving, still striving. I saw the quiet strength in the chaos. I became a watcher, an observer, part of the city and yet apart from it.

The desert tested me, as it tests all who come to it. It reminded me of fragility—both of the body and the spirit. But it also showed me the strength within, the power of community, and the deep, unspoken bond between all who walk this path. It gave me moments of respite, moments of connection, where the hands of friends and strangers alike pulled me back from the edge of solitude. The Black Rock Sauna Society lifted my spirit, while Camp Pandamonium reminded me that in the madness, there is still joy, still laughter, still life.

And in the end, it was the desert itself that carried me home. It was the wind, the dust, the quiet hum of a place so far removed from the world, yet so intertwined with the pulse of the universe. I returned to my base camp, greeted with hugs and love, but something within me had shifted. I had traversed the inner and outer worlds, had faced down the blank page of my soul, and had come through on the other side.

This journey wasn’t just about survival. It wasn’t just about four days of wandering through a festival (yes, I said festival) in the desert. It was a pilgrimage—into the unknown, into the heart of myself. And in that emptiness, I found something beautiful: the knowledge that no matter where you go, no matter how far you wander, the desert will always hold you. It is relentless, yes, but it is also kind in its own way. It strips away the unnecessary, leaving only the truth.

I walked as a man seeking something, not knowing what I would find. I leave this place knowing that the journey was the answer. It always has been. And now, as I rest, I carry with me the dust of the Playa, the laughter of friends, and the quiet, powerful reminder that even in the vastness of the desert, I am never alone.

/s/ Charles White, Desert Dweller, Space Explorer