Going into my 26th Burning Man, I admit I was crestfallen at the news that “Midnight Poutine” was not returning. The Canadian dish is a funny mix of fries, gravy and cheese curds, and it was always comforting to know that this culinary option was available, starting back in 2009. No matter how peculiar, everything tastes great at midnight in the desert.
Because my mind lives in a spiral of political doom, it sped to: “Canadians hate America and they’re giving up on Burning Man.” Even worse, I thought, “The next thing you know, there won’t be a Swedish Meatball Camp.”
Still, this past August, 80,000 people converged in the Nevada desert to set up what aspires to be a peaceful global village. The hardest part of my years of being part of this temporary city is answering the question on my return: “How was it?”
All I can say is that it’s reunion for some, tribal for others. It would be a long voyage just to get intoxicated, dance and see some art. Perhaps there’s something hopeful to it that brings together thousands of people from all over the world.
In general, it is hot, dusty and increasingly rainy. The cheapest admission price is $550. Getting in and out of the instant town involves long waits and scary driving on Nevada State Route 447. Once there, you could feel right at home—or not.
Its origin story is that of founders Larry Harvey and Jerry James burning an effigy on San Francisco’s Baker Beach in 1986. That spontaneous whimsy outgrew the beach and ended up being planted in the dust of Nevada’s Black Rock Desert. Then, like a rhizomatous plant, its tentacles have spread, producing clones around the world. Smaller regional burns now mimic the original.
For crowd context, at least 15 college football stadiums seat more people than Burning Man’s giant campground. Of course, the football fans are only there for an afternoon while most Burning Man participants stay the seven days leading up to Labor Day. Other volunteers stay weeks after to clean it up to Bureau of Land Management permit standards, since the event takes place on public land.
There are all kinds of reasons to avoid Burning Man, and I get an earful every year. Even though “burning” is in the name, some hate the event for burning valuable resources. To partially address this, over the years event organizers have added composting toilets and solar to the mix. Burning Man poop will help gardens grow elsewhere. Most of the art pieces, other than the centerpiece “man,” are not burned. They live second lives at parks and town squares around the world.
The other question I hear every year is: “Is there crime at Burning Man?” The answer, unfortunately, is yes— traffic accidents and every kind of bad behavior you would see anywhere else. In 2005, I was the victim of an assault by a bicyclist who never stopped to see who he’d run over. It was bad. It was solved. The perp was convicted. It has not stopped me from returning.
This year there was also a rare birth, said to be completely unexpected, and a death of unconfirmed cause occurred at the time I left.
International attendance was up overall. I worked with photographers from Iran, Ireland, France and Belgium. The largest art piece on the playa was designed and constructed—inflated actually—by Ukraine. Its “Black Cloud” artwork was magnificent while it lasted, combining music and erratic bursts of light. Sadly, it succumbed to a 50-mph blast of wind.
In the midst of war, the Ukrainian artists thought Burning Man was one of the best ways to bring attention to their gallant and determined people, who have been fighting for survival since Russian troops invaded Ukraine in 2002.
There was also a 20-foot F*** You Elon metal sculpture that seemed like a profane waste of energy. People mostly climbed around on it to take their selfies. And about that missing Canadian delicacy—were the Canadians especially anti-America? Some swear the poutine crew had just planned to take a year off. I’m looking forward to Midnight Poutine next year.
Dennis Hinkamp is a contributor to Writers on the Range, writersontherange.org, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He lives in Utah.
