I dreamed I was hearing music: “The world is black / The world is
white / it turns by day and then by night…” I went back to sleep and
dreamed about an old boarding house or motel. An old lady with an oxygen
tank rolled it to the lobby couch and sat down. She just came back from
a date. “So, did he get lucky with you?” someone asked. She indignantly
adjusted the line running to her nose and said, “He was gonna give me fishing
rights on his land--!”
The clunk! of a cottonwood seedpod woke me up. The sky was just starting to light up for the day. Across the road, sunlight already fell on the hilltops beyond. Birds were already awake, chirping happily. I went to the bathroom. A thermometer on a tree said it was 63 degrees out. One of the trailers that had been parked in the campground was gone. When I saw Sixtoe, he said the guy in that trailer had pulled out early
that morning. That might’ve been the music I heard. The trailer guy had
gone to the hot springs several times the day before, so Sixtoe imagined
he got very relaxed and had a good night’s sleep.
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I hit the road just before 7:30 in the morning. The air was cool and pleasant. It was 88 miles to Tonopah. I passed a school bus parked near Boiling Pot Road. It was the first day of school for Nevada kids. My cellphone woke up enough to tell me I had no service. Most of Nevada turned out to be dead space for my phone. It was quiet on Highway 95; hardly any traffic at all. I did pass a car parked alongside the road, and got a quick glimpse of a bundled-up sleeping bag, a flash of blonde hair peeking out from within. Burners. About 20 miles down the road I passed the Shady Lady brothel. Not long afterwards, I passed a 5-acre ranch next to the road, boarded-up and for sale. I seemed to remember it had been another brothel, and it was a sad statement on the economy when brothels were forced to close down.
I came over a hill, and passed through fields of yucca plants. It was like orchards of them. I remembered there had been a few down that road, but now they were all over the place. Amongst the yucca plants was a tiny roadside memorial to someone named Stevie: a little cross, some rocks, a handful of flowers. About an hour out of the campsite I crossed over the Goldfield Summit, 6.097 feet elevation. The old mining town of Goldfield lay just beyond. It was the site of the Yucca Mountain Oversight Project offices. An RV park advertised $8 a night camping. I stopped to get a picture of an old arch. I still had another 28 miles to Tonopah. Back on the highway, the scale of the Nevada landscape became overwhelming.
Vast miles of flat land rose gently like the swell of an ocean current to break against craggy mountains in the distance. It can be humbling to realize the hairline on the horizon is actually the highway you’re traveling on. In Tonopah, I got some gasoline, the first time I paid more than $4 a gallon for gas ($4.09, though the most expensive place in town was selling it for $4.39 a gallon). When I went in to pay, the clerk asked, “Which pump?” Mine was the only car at the pumps. Downtown Tonopah had several statues and monuments to their mining history. Outside of town, it was another 41 miles to Coaldale Junction. A sign demanded “Headlights next 100 miles.” A white lizard started at me from the yellow line in the road. A vehicle carrying 12-foot poles on its roof passed me; a Burner with a teepee? On the radio, I found a station playing an Eric Clapton concert, recorded live. The long, straight Nevada highways rolled on and on. I’d been down these roads before. Just before 10 AM, I crossed a summit near the ghost town of Candelaria. It was at the intersection of Highway 95 and Highway 360 that I once again passed Graffiti Junction, the jumble of odd concrete shapes covered with spray paint. It looked bigger than I remembered it.
About a half hour after leaving Mina, the blue waters of Walker Lake
came into view. I rolled into Hawthorne, home of the Naval Undersea Warfare
Center. Hawthorne is proud of its history with army ordinance. One of the
city parks has sculptures made out of diffused bombs. The cheapest gas
in town was $3.95 a gallon. I seemed to be spending much more on gas than
I expected, possibly because my mileage was not so good. Was it because
of all the ethanol everyone was putting in their gas? The ice-blue waters
of Walker Lake were beautiful, but I didn’t see any boats out on the water
at all. Nobody was at the marina. At all the lakeside campgrounds, every
spot I passed was completely empty. I passed a street called King Arthur
Court. Just outside Schurtz, I had to do a double-take as I passed a shoe
tree alongside the road! I had fond memories of the Nevada Shoe Tree on
Highway 50, but this one was new to me.
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Thirty miles out of Fernley, my cellphone lost service. An RV was parked beside the road, its driver sitting in a lawn chair reading something. When the green bus passed, the wind was like a cannon shot, blowing the driver’s hat off into the bushes. Traffic slowed and then ground to a halt as a sign declared “accident ahead.” It looked like a trailer-load of gear had become detached and ran off the road. There was a trail of deep gouges in the asphalt. Traffic sped up again. Highway 447 to Gerlach is a long, lonely, boring road; it occurred to me it would be much better with Burma Shave signs.
As I got closer to Empire, I noticed what looked like smoke from a forest fire climbing from behind the mountains to the west. There were dozens of vehicles stopped at the Empire store; I thought I saw my friend Celebration, whom I met at Interfuse. That was where I finally started picking up BMIR, the Burning Man radio station. Outside of Empire, I realized the smoke I’d seen was actually a tremendous dust cloud. I thought, Holy Christ, that’s gotta be five thousand feet high! It looked like it was heading straight for Black Rock City. |
A few months before the event, I brought
up the topic of photography on a Burning Man website. I was surprised at
the level of hostility towards photographers. I admit the tone of
my original post was confrontational-- for which I later apologized-- but
even taking that into account, responses ran about 10-to-1 against
people with cameras at Burning Man. I had no idea people felt so strongly
about having their picture taken. I'm used to taking pictures at renaissance
faires and science fiction conventions-- places where people spend months
putting together costumes and are usually delighted to have their
pictures taken.
A woman cited the "Girls Gone Wild" videos and responded
that people do stuff at Burning Man that they wouldn't want the world to
know about. She said published photos of someone doing certain things could
"ruin their life." It is granted that some people can be jerks, and some
people with cameras can be jerks, but that doesn't mean everyone
with a camera is a jerk out to ruin your life. (And personally speaking,
if you're doing something that could "ruin" your life --regardless if it's
at Burning Man or not-- I don't think it's the photographer's behavior
that needs to be in question.)
The point that seemed to be made was that people's privacy needed to be respected. Everyone should be polite. I'm all for that. I wasn't talking about sticking a camera down somebody's pants or anything... But sometimes, something amazing and beautiful happens right in front of you, and there's only a split-second to catch it on film. It's a false assumption that the only good photograph is a posed photograph. There's not always time to ask someone if it's okay to take their picture. Asking first might be the polite thing to do, but sometimes there's no time. I mean, look at this iconic picture at the right. This was taken in Times Square on the day Japan surrerendered at the end of World War II. Two people kissing on an historic day: a spur-of-the-moment, impulsive act of joy -- and a once in a lifetime chance to capture that image. It's inspired photographers for decades. Can you imagine the phographer waiting until afterwards, as the two people were walking away, and saying, "Um, excuse me, could you two people go back and do that again so I could take your picture...?" It would be too late by then. The moment would have passed forever. (Or worse: imagine one of the those people not wanting their picture taken, and forcing the photographer to destroy the historic image.) I looked up the law, and according to what I found, it's legal to take pictures of people pretty much anywhere --except at military installations (for security reasons) and in places where there is a reasonable expectation of privacy, like a bedroom or bathroom. That's acceptable. So if you're out on the street, out in the open in a public area, it should be okay to take pictures without asking. In a public area where amazing things are happening, it's a reasonable expectation that somebody might and probably will take your picture. In fact, the law says that if people harass a photographer about taking pictures, they can be subject to arrest. The argument that Burning Man is a "private" event and
not subject to such laws is hogwash. How can anything with forty thousand
people be "private?" This isn't a kegger at Uncle Frank's house we're
talking about-- it's Burning Man! How can it be "private" when tickets
are sold to the public? Even the first of the Ten Principles of
Burning Man states: "Anyone may be a part of Burning Man. We
welcome and respect the stranger. No prerequisites exist for participation
in our community." That would include people with cameras, wouldn't
it?
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Las Vegas to Beatty
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Links:
Photographer's Rights Photography Hall of Shame Camera Debate on Tribe.Net Funeral Mountains Alfred Eisenstaedt Walker River Indian Reservation |
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