Editor’s Note: Burning Man 2016 is taking place August 28 – September 5, 2016 in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada.
Join a group of friends as they head to one of the largest social experiments in the world. 50,000 people meet in the desert to create a temporary city of art. The rules are simple: No commerce, bring what you need to survive, leave no trace, participants only, no spectators. Take a journey into a world of art, music, sexuality and fire. Lots of fire. Radical self-expression, radical self-reliance.
From The Burning Man Manifesto

That’s what I knew before I agreed to join my friend, writer Catherine Hiller, to camp out on the Nevada desert. Burning Man sounded, well, intensely interesting. Mad Max meets Timothy Leary. A feat of physical endurance. I needed a challenge to jolt me from my ever-expanding comfort zone.
Yes, the temperature would rise to three digits, hours and hours of blazing sun, sand, sand everywhere, of course, and sand storms, for which we donned goggles and wore burkas. We had to bring our own food and cooking utensils, at least a gallon of water per person, per day, nearly ten gallons, and whatever else we might need, including a used bike. That was August, 2008.
I spent five exhilarating seasons at Burning Man, the last being August, 2013. By that time, though, the population had topped at nearly 70,000. I was older, had a hip replacement, and the extra 20,000 made biking on the playa a tense affair with near collisions. Another thing too, there was a more felt hierarchy. In the distant sky, rich and famous flew down in private planes, and stayed in partitioned areas.
This was a very different vibe. Especially when you consider that Burning Man began as a bonfire on the summer solstice when a few friends met on Baker Beach in San Francisco, and burned a nine-foot wooden effigy of the Man in 1986. Now the Man is us, but He has grown to forty feet, visible from anywhere on the playa. And a huge twisted wire woman with arched head and back confronts him.
I think about Burning Man every August. This is when I’d be collecting my stuff – camping gear, my portable shower. Costumes found at thrift shops – old slips, tutus, tiaras. Yes, costuming is very important. Self-expression runs rampant. I never realized so many men like to wear skirts, often with nothing underneath.

I would pack several dozen special bandanas, placed in an ice chest, then worn around neck and wrists to cool off, and which I could gift. One of the wonders of Burning Man is its potlatch philosophy. People arrive with gifts for the community. One of the favorites was Bacon Camp, where people prepared and served bacon all day. There were Margarita camps and other more esoteric specialties. I once walked into a spanking camp, and walked out quickly. I loved Ping-Pong camp, run by a group of Australians, who at night, ignited the net and we played nearly blinded by the flames. I remember a memorable wedding gown giveaway, and dozens of us strolled down the aisles of the playa. Nearby, a naked men’s bike ride of hundreds commenced.
One of my strangest experiences was taking an elevator with perhaps a dozen people at a time, down underground into the playa. I could feel the motion of the elevator. When I arrived, there was a bar, of course, there were bars everywhere, where I was greeted with fresh mint Mojito. But I couldn’t wrap my mind around where I actually was. The floor was sandy, and a group waited to go up in the elevator. Later, when I had returned, I snuck around and discovered that the elevator was on tracks and was moving horizontally, not vertically.
Art is everywhere. One year, the theme was Metropolis, and an artist had created a subway in the desert, where you sat on rattling subway seats, looked out subway windows as video strips created the passing landscape. A miniature Chrysler Building, two stories high, stood nearby. And I found an old-fashioned telephone booth. I picked up the receiver. There was a dial tone.
On the Playa
Nightly I return to the mirage
of Black Rock City
somewhere nowhere on Nevada desert.
I recall our addresses: Bagdad at 4:30
Extinction and 4:15.
Toilets: Cairo and five o’clock.
The days are hot and dusty.
Dancing with Rhythm Wave
Escape into the Chill Dome
Of futons peopled with dreamers
Tattoos crawling on backs, legs, arms
I wrap myself in wet scarves and read.
Slowly the sun drops into the horizon slit
A white ball plunk into its pocket
The pink, purpling sky…
The heart of the playa begins to pound
Throbbing like a heartache, a hard-on
The soundtrack enflames the cool air.
We slip into our silver spacesuits
Lingerie with rabbit fur, fuzzy tails
High heel platform boots…
Headlights strapped to foreheads
We pedal shakily on our bikes
A black velvet sheath covers us.
That’s when they come out: Mutant Vehicles
Fierce, fire-breathing mammoths
Burners on board, ear-splitting bass.
Nightly I return to the black velvet sky
Darkness dotted with diamonds
To the bacchanal of the Burning
Of the neon Man who has watched over us
A beacon lighting our way home
We approach the pyre.
Fire dancers twirl flaming torches.
Skydivers plunge through a sky
Exploding with pyrotechnic genius.
The flames begin, golden tongues
Coil around the Man,
First his left arm falls off, then the right…
We scream, we weep as He burns
His legs, his torso, his head
Crumble and turn to ash.
Nightly I return to the hours afterwards
The Temple burned too
Our dear signs disappear.
No more streets
Nothing left behind
Just the flat expanse of desert
And the exodus of red lights.
Back to what Burners call
The default world
Our lives.
— Mesmera aka Sonia Pilcer