OFF THE MAP

Somewhere along Interstate 5, the Pyrobar caught fire. Our Burning Man art car was designed to shoot flames, not be in flames, and the irony of its predicament was not lost on anyone. The engine fire was put out quickly, but police shut down the interstate for two hours, just to be on the safe side. I pictured local newscasters pointing out the “PYROBAR” license plate to the camera and making wisecracks about the intelligence of the hippies flocking to the Burning Man Festival.

I failed to witness the catastrophe because I was hundreds of miles away in the Black Rock Desert with Kitty and the rest of the Santa Barbara crew, wondering when the Pyrobar and the rest of our fearless leaders would arrive. As tempting as it was to sit on our thumbs and wait for instructions, we felt compelled to develop our piece of Black Rock City real estate. We had been given a coveted place on the Esplanade by the Burning Man authorities and were expected to host a party or two once the gates opened to the public in twenty-four hours. Our early-arrival passes allowed us to experience the calm before the storm. Soon, this lifeless patch of Northwestern Nevada would be fully transformed into the state’s fourth-largest city, and then the insanity would begin in earnest.