Week Nine: As the Man Burns

“Big dust storm comin’!” announced a burly ranger, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Best be getting back to your tents… batten down the hatches.” I glanced at my friends, gave a nod, and we wove our way back through the crowds to where our bikes were parked. Recalling the ferocity of yesterday’s storm, we hurriedly pedaled away from the iconic wooden figure of the forty-foot, triangle-headed Man, back across the playa to our encampment. A wall of grayish-brown wind surged through the southern streets of Black Rock City, and I hoped we would make it home in time before the dust made it impossible to navigate.




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