Burning Man in 500 Words: Gate Road

The first installment of my experiences at the one week, radical arts festival in the Nevada desert, in 500 words (more) or less.
“You can’t hold it?”
“For seven hours? You crazy?”
It was a quarter after 2pm and I was tightening my goggles so my scarf would cover my nose. I had to time it perfectly, otherwise the seat and dashboard would be coated in dust in the three seconds it would take me to jump out the car and into the sea of RVs, trailers and cars to find the nearest port-o-potty.
This was the infamous Road to Burning Man.

Actually, it was more like a dusty parking lot of despair with random dance parties on RV roofs, beer chugging in lounge chairs (also on RV roofs and even on a couple of art-car trucks and buses) and the occasional fruit gift (there was a guy handing out watermelon chunks and Little Lilly, my second-time Burner Partner, and I gleefully accepted it through the open window).
We arrived to Gate Road from Route 447 from Reno at 11am on Sunday, August 26th. We left the University of California, Davis at 5:30am, so we were making near-miraculous time.
However, the Burning Man Information Radio station that provided updates on the pulsing and gate process, destroyed that blessing. Upon arrival, we had a three to four hour wait, as the gates had been closed due to extreme weather conditions. Couldn't move forward and we couldn’t go back.
By 2pm, the dusty white outs came more frequently and lasted longer. The BMIR station wait-time jumped from three to seven hours. Verbal frustration came soon after, as did the demands of our bladders (and stomaches).

The last thing we wanted to do was open the doors during a dust storm. That shit gets EVERYWHERE. It’s been four days since I left the Playa and yes, my bags, keys, and notebooks still have dusty patches.
Nevertheless, the call of nature had to be answered. I looked both ways on the road through the sudden clearing of the dust clouds out of habit, because those cars were definitely stuck in park like us. I took a breath, and opened the door.

I was immediately thrust back into the wildness of the Black Rock Desert.
I sucked in the air of otherworldly nostalgia through the cotton of my scarf as I disappeared into the billowing dust clouds, a curious pleasure to the senses.
The wind raged through my dreads, my hat standing zero chance against its beastly ferocity. The dust swirled, mildly pelting my stiff arms.
The sound of my breathing, the beating of my heart and the soft pounding of my boots on the sand whisked me out of my weary mind.
I forgot about the eight to nine hours of waiting that I faced, the inaccessibility of the food we had, and the fact that I had no idea which direction on the vanishing three-mile road the port-o-potties were in.
Only one thought danced in my mind as the mountains in the distance materialized through the dusty tempest:
“Welcome Home.”

