# The Black Rock Desert is Trying to Kill Me (1)



## FilXeno (Dec 28, 2009)

The Black Rock Desert is a flat expanse of dry land completely devoid of vegetation. Seventy miles north/north east of Reno, the desert was once one of Nevada's largest lakes (before anybody called it Nevada, of course). The dust is bone dry, the length of the 'playa' is near fifty miles in one direction, and during the winter months it is totally impassable.
I grew up in a town south of Reno, so I had made the pilgrimage to the wasteland a couple times before with my dad and various family friends. It's a good place to play with rockets, fire, fireworks, cars, and various other motorized vehicles, which is one of the reasons the Burning Man festival is held there.


After leaving home, I had camped in the Black Rock a couple of times, and on Halloween of 2008, I returned with my friend, Geoff. I had called to ask his Halloween plans to the response of 'I don't know. Maybe a party or something. You?' I proposed a last minute camping trip and he agreed to meet me in fifteen minutes. We swung by a store and bought a couple cans of chili and a six pack. The two hour drive was beautiful as always; wide open desert is solemnly amazing. Solitude is easily achieved here. Before we knew it, we were passing through Gerlach, NV and shortly thereafter were pulling off the desert road onto a gravel trail. It dropped down immediately and delivered us to the dry lake bed. I stepped on the gas and put cruise control on at about eighty mph. I loosely aimed for the 'Black Rock' in the distance (the dark mountain that lends its name to the desert) and took my hands off the wheel. Nothing to steer around here.


We hung out of the windows, rode side saddle, ect. I let off cruise control and we decided that the place we rolled to a stop would be camp. We jumped out at about five mph and walked behind until it slowed to a stop. Unloading the tuck bed, we made a pile of wood pallets and rolled out a foam pad in the pickup truck bed. The Black Rock is like a blank canvas. The only shade is your own shadow. The only resources are the ones you bring. 


I had recently installed a cheap shell, and it was holding steady. Noticing we forgot a cook stove, I dug a hole and laid a small metal grate on top of it. We started a fire, cooked up chili, and ate as the sun dripped low. Clouds were hanging in the west, but the weather report showed no rain-which is good because rain mixes with the playa dust to make the equivalent of wet cement. 


The last rays of sun ran into the light clouds turning the sky orange, then red, then purple, before reverting to black. A star broke through directly above us, so we turned to our recently assembled makeshift wood tower. I grabbed the two gallons of dirty gasoline and made a trail. Geoff dropped a torch on the line and we watched it lunge at the gas soaked tower. It lit and illuminated everything within 20 feet. Which was my truck, and baron desert floor. We played with the fire, drank a couple beers, and talked for a while. 


We bedded up in the back of my pickup truck with the embers glowing. I fell asleep quick and slept well until I awoke in the middle of the night. Rain was pattering on the metal shell above us. "Fuck!" I yelled. "Geoff, we're fucked." We put our boots on and I hopped out to check the soil. Assuming I would sink, I was surprised when the ground was solid. I walked around to the driver's side and noticed a problem: mud was increasingly sticking to my feet. It was like walking up stairs. By the time I sat down, my shoes were big as basket balls, and ten times as heavy. Geoff and I tried to decide on a course of action. We could either stay put and wait the storm out, or try to get out before the desert got too wet. 


We packed up our shit and decided on the worse thing you can do in this situation: try to drive. I slowly idled as Geoff checked the wheels for sinkage. "We're ok," he yelled as he hopped in. Driving was extremely jerky and the truck was being pulled down like it had driven into quicksand. Geoff hung out the window and inspected the tires with a flashlight. He informed me that the wheels had collected about four inches of mud, making them almost too big for the wheel wells. "Step on it." I did and made it up to about seventy mph. We were going to fast for the cement to pull us down - kind of like a lizard skipping over water. Nerves were tight. Making light of the situation, we continued to hang out the windows and watch the rain fall from the moonlit sky. The lights of Gerlach came into view. Mountains were invisible, so the four small lights were all we had to aim for. After twenty minutes of gut wrenching worry, the car made a weird noise. We had made it to a line of dirt that is packed tight by the Burningman people.


I slowed down a little only to find the same resistance. I sped back up and let loose once again as we approached the pavement. With a last sputter and jerk, we hit pavement.
The rain fell for a few days. And that was the first time I narrowly escaped from the Black Rock Desert. Hell, it was better than going to a lame costume party.


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