I came up on the DPW shack. A guy stepped up and offered to wash my windshield, for which I was grateful. “Headed to Reno?” he asked. “No.” “Salt Lake?” “Well, eastward,” I said. “So… Salt Lake,” he concluded, and I just replied, “Uh, yeah.” I gave them the bag of chips I was gifted after the Temple burn, and they seemed happy. The Gate was completely empty when I passed through, dust swirling around a lonely lamp. A truck appeared and rumbled past me.

The ground was very bumpy, and I had to slow down to keep from shaking the van apart. I kept looking behind me, fearful the bike would be bounced off its rack. A truck pulling a horse trailer passed me on the right. The road was jarring and uneven. I remembered the story of a guy coming down the Jungo Road, where it was so bad he actually got two flat tires-- at the same time. I tried to take it easy, but everything was bouncing around. More cars appeared and passed me. It began to get light in the east, and I could see just how much dust was in the air. Ahead, the pavement finally appeared. I waved at a handful of Perimiter folks at the exit and pulled up onto the asphalt. I was out! It took 49 minutes to get from camp to pavement—not too shabby.

It occurred to me that it could be dangerous to wait until after the event to leave. The traffic might be lighter, but there was much less infrastructure to assist you if something went wrong. There were fewer people on-playa to help you. A truck pulling an art car passed me, followed by an RV. The RV kept changing lanes, like it was going to pass the truck, but then pulled back. They were apparently together, because presently the truck got the message and they both pulled over. It was 6:27 when I pulled into Gerlach. There was no movement anywhere, except for the BLM Ranger cars at Bruno’s Motel. A Sheriff’s pickup was parked on the side.

 

Sunlight was on the western mountains as I pulled out. I was mostly alone on the highway. Every other time I’d left Burning Man, the side roads off Highway 447 have been crowded with cars and vehicles: early risers catching a nap after beating the Exodus rush. That year, however, the side roads were mostly empty. I did pass one car parked beside the wide company turn-off, the driver sound asleep in the shade on an inflatable mattress. Where was everybody? It was 7:15 when I passed a tow truck pulling a car out of the ditch. It had turned into a bright, sunny morning. A half hour later, Pyramid Lake came into view. I carefully observed the speed limit going through Nixon. The air was cool. There was a lot of playa blowing around inside the van, making me sneeze and giving me a sinus headache.

It was 8:18 when I rolled into Fernley. I pulled into the truck stop and tossed my little bag of trash into the dumpster. Inside, I cleaned up, brushed my teeth, and called home. I looked pretty gnarly in the mirror. A trucker in the bathroom said, “You been to the Burning Man, too?” He just laughed. I got a Dr. Pepper and headed east on Highway 50. It was 25 miles to Fallon. I stopped at a gas station in Fallon and got $30 worth of gas.

There were a couple climbing out of a van when I returned to the parking lot. “Did you go to Burning Man?” they asked, after seeing my playa-streaked car. They asked about rain, and said they got “hammered” by storms while they were in Utah. Across the highway, fighter jets from the Fallon Naval Air Station flew in formation. I headed east on 50, driving across the ancient, dry lake bed. The bordello I’d passed years before was burned to the ground, a high fence protecting the remains. I slowed down so that a pickup could pass a motorcycle. The road was lined with beautiful, exposed geologic formations. I crossed Sand Springs Pass, and the road descended into an ancient lake bed. Nearby was a B-17 practice range.

 

The air smelled of juniper, and got cool as I closed in on Ely. There was a big mine outside of town, the cliffs dwarfing a dump truck I saw riding along the crest. Ely, Nevada was a green , vibrant town with a pretty city park. It looked like there were some Civil War graves in the cemetery. It turned out Nevada sent 1,200 men to fight for the Union. I pulled into the Conoco station and got $20 worth of gas. A hunter in grey fatigues filling up his Ford F150 pickup recognized the playa dust on the van. He used to live in Reno. “I know about Black Rock,” he said, and he too asked if we got rain on the playa.

As I was leaving town, I noticed the gas as the Shoshone Nation gas station was 5 cents cheaper. A sign reported the local fire danger was “high.” I found a news station, and tried to catch up. Down the road, I pulled into the wide Spring Valley, but it had changed since my last visit. The base of the valley was filled with a long array of wind-powered generators, gently turning in the wind. Gone were the emerald-colored fields I remembered, replaced with acres of yellowed grass. It was just a big valley. I began the long, steady climb into the Snake Range. White, fluffy clouds meandered across a pretty blue sky. Satori was straining at 35 MPH until we crossed Sacramento Pass (7,154 feet).

Showered, with clean clothes, I still had a little daylight left, so I went into the store/bar/casino/restaurant and had a beer. The bartender’s name was Kevin, and he was watching a show about old airplanes on the History Channel. Going back to the van, I couldn’t find my wallet, and spent a frantic five minutes looking all over until I found it… where I always put it when I don’t have it on me. I must’ve been tired. That was a few more grey hairs for the collection. I got out the folding table and the propane stove and cooked up a can of stew, with Fritos in place of crackers. The sunset was beautiful, and even in the parking lot I felt like I had it all to myself. The temperature dropped suddenly as soon as the Sun went down. I drove 446 miles that day, almost all the way across Nevada. Was it still Tuesday?