After a breakfast of bacon and eggs and the usual prep required before venturing away from camp, Nicole and I hopped on our bikes, rode down the dirt avenues through the dusty sunlight, partially clothed – but totally sunblocked, natch – to the bazaar-like entrails of Center Camp. A large, circular tent rose 30 or more feet into the air, surrounded by hundreds of parked (and locked) bicycles, and within it pulsed a writhing collection of yogis, singers, exhibitionists, naturalists, ravers, shamans, bloggers, families, jugglers, naked people, dreadlocks, tattoos, and – incongruously – a cafe.

The center of center camp was a circular space surrounded by pillows leaning against short walls, people lounging and stretched out upon them. Inside the circle was a random collection of individuals, couples, and tiny groups of people doing yoga. Beyond the circle stood the cafe, where gobs of folk stood in a slew of achingly long lines, looking for a fresh brew of java or whatever.

Also surrounding the inner circle were a stage and seating for an open mic; various collections of people debating karma, reading shakras, holding signs about the future, doing more yoga, perusing books, or posing in revealing duds. On the stage, a guitarist strummed and sang beautifully, as a few dozen people soaked it in, lounging on sofas and bean bags. We strolled around, trying to figure out where we fit in here.

We looked for but did not spot any particularly inviting seats. So we circled once or twice, until an open bench presented itself and we claimed it for ourselves. Nicole grabbed a couple copies of Piss Clear, and I pulled my MacBook out from it’s ziploc and got to twitterin‘. Well, for a little while until a young woman approached, gently asking if she might be able to use my mac for a few moments to check here email. Attempting to adopt the giving spirit of BRC, I kindly obliged.

Twenty or more minutes later, I got my cha-puter back. Meanwhile, I had been joined ‘pon the wooden bench by a kind, if desperate-seeming woman, who, I learned, was also at her first Burning Man. Having been told that she needed to bring something to share, she decided to bake a couple thousand cookies and bag them up, carry around several dozen at time (in her backpack) and then beg fellow Burners to take them, “Please help me, take them I still have 300 bags left and its already Friday oh thank you thank you thank you”. I wanted to tell her that she might want to tone down the desperation and lay off the guilt trip for those of us who kindly declined. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I typed in silence. She loved to share, so I soon learned that yesterday she had shaved the nuts of over 75 men. Then, that people had been giving her so many drugs the she did the only thing she could think of and turned them in to the Help Desk. “What am I supposed to do with all of them?” she begged. “Swallow them,” I said.

Later, she told me that I hold a lot of stress in my shoulders (she said that she reads shakras). That I don’t have to be so macho; it is OK to cry (oddly, it is true: I almost never cry (except for movies!)). That my heart is not open because I have not healed from my last relationship. Hmm. Then she gave me a long long hug.

Meanwhile, an unending parade of people living the BM mantra of Radical Self Expression streamed about, dusted and tanned, old and young, flabby and fit, dorky and unbelievably cool, clothed and nude, happy and – no, only happy. At one point, the sound of a digery doo began to emanate from just behind the bench where I was seated. A young man had simply walked up and started playing amongst us, adding to the atmosphere and delighting all. After a minute or two, he took his instrument and moved on.

I spent a good amount of time writing in my journal, during which I was once asked if I had found reality. “No,” I replied. It was hot and I was sweaty. Nicole had wandered of shortly after we first sat down, so I was by myself (so to speak). I gathered my things and made my way through the madness, looking for my cousin. Ten minutes of meandering and I found her. We shared our wonderment at the eclectic collection of people, all unique and endearing (except for the really smelly ones). We decided to move on, drop the ‘puter back at camp and go look at art.

So we knew that Crude Awakening and The Burninator were going to be there, offering massive explosions and interactive fire shows. We saw previews of the Steampunk Treehouse and the Temple of Forgiveness. In fact, up until we attended that preview show, I had become so focused on the challenges and unknowns about our pending expedition that the main emotion associated with the trip had become anxiety, rather than excitement!

Once I was reminded of the grand spectacles we’d soon be feasting our eyes on, my enthusiasm spiked. And once we were really there and got to see and experience the art installations in person – wow. Each view of these spectacular pieces of art (Big Rig Jig, The Monkeys, Flowerhead, Crude Awakening, Steampunk Treehouse, the Temple, the Cubatron, and The Burninator) was an emotional delight, and another reminder of how lucky we felt to be in BRC.

High expectations aside, I was never once let down or disappointed at Burning Man. The music was louder and better than I expected. The art cars were huger, more ornate, and far more numerous than I could have known. The art installations were gorgeous, huge, and involving. The costumed hoards were happy and flamboyant. Even the dust was neat (if super annoying at times). Comfort was not a focal point, and the lack of rest was a bump in the road, not a major discomfort. Yes, it was too hot to do anything – rest or move – at times. But as soon as I made it through that challenging part of the mid day, I could feel the energy and anticipation welling inside me. And to no one’s surprise, it was even better than I’d hoped.

The city was already packed, teeming with RVs, campers, trailers, vans, bicyclists, nudists, costumed peoples, tents, geodesic domes, wig wearers, tarps, ropes, bungee cords, and of course, lots of dust. Thanks to the neatly organized infrastucture, it was no trouble orienting ourselves and finding our desired lot. We ended up on a patch of dirt near the corner of 3:30 and Jungle, in a small open space between a geodome and an encampment known as ‘In Dust We Trust’.

The neighbors said sure, you can set up here, so we did. A borrowed tent, a rented tent, and a recently purchased shade thingy went up and were battened down with stakes, ties, rope and rebar. The sun set was greeted by great cheers and whoops from across the playa.

Darkness settled in and the fun began. I knew I’d be tired soon, given my 3.5 hours of sleep the previous night, but the adrenaline and excitement of finally being here squashed any sense of weariness. Here is an excerpt of my journal that documents the night:

We spent a couple of hours setting up our space: the van, two tents, shade thingy, light poles, lights, coolers, organizing. Et cetera.

I drank three beers while we did that. As soon as I determined our basics were up to snuff, I said ‘let’s get on our bikes and go explore’, so we did. We rode up our street, 3:30, to the center of the camp, known as the Esplinade.

Holy Mackerel. It was already after 10, I believe but thanks to the fullish moon, it is not pitch dark. But still, nothing could have prepared me for the anarchy of lights, sound systems, circus freaks, and general chaos in which we found ourselves engulfed.

There was an endless horizon of displays, attractions, flickering and flashing light shows, neon, strobe, structures, signs, tents full of dancers, flame eaters, Buddhists, costumed people of countless styles, all ages, and in general beyond description.

We, like hundreds of others, chose to explore the landscape by bike. The playa is vast, and with little or no idea of where we wanted to go, bikes provide the means to meander easily. Arrive somewhere you like? Just lean your bike down and head off. Come back … whenever, and your bike’ll be there. Really.

Art cars beyond imagination. Massive burning and exploding sculptures. 200-ft Oil Derrick. Immense temple – attached to a rave club. And, admidst all this, a squirrelling sea of bikes traversing the lanes and open spaces upon the playa, most lit with some form of neon, blinking, or other bright light. That part – so chaotic! – was a little scary at times, but also loads of fun.

We stopped by a dance club, danced to some fantastic progressive house. Surrounded, mostly, by costumed people. Then to the jaw dropping oil derrick. Then to some sort of ice mountain. Then to the Temple of Forgiveness.

Between the anchored attractions, the oddest assortment of Mutant Vehicles ever assembled. One was the Mobil Landfill. Funny. Also, a giant bicycle with a kite-like roof. Lots of double-decker rolling nightclubs. A UFO. And on and on.

Finally called it a night, came home and made a sandwich. Now — some sleep, maybe?

I spent the better part of the last month-and-a-half preparing to travel to and survive in the environmentally challenging environs of Black Rock City, a temporary metropolis of about 45,000 in the middle of the Nevada desert. BRC is, of course, home to Burning Man, the famously wild festival of art, music, and free spirits. Oh, and fire.

The journey began just over a year ago. Moments after I decided that I would not be making a last-minute go at the Man in 2006, I determined that I would not miss it this year. The plan was set and over time, little by little, I cobbled together thoughts, plans, lights, tools, ideas, information and even a list of the 100+ must-haves for the 5 days in the desert with no running water, no electricity, 100 degree days and cold cold nights. The last two months were spent actually turning the items on the list into reality.

It was a lot to do and pretty stressful at times. And expensive. Sometimes, despite all my efforts, it seemed like I just wasn’t making progress. I felt scared by the unknown and my perception of just how crazy things might be out on the playa. We briefly considered hiring a sherpa, of sorts, to aide our trip. But slowly, I began to become more comfortable with the prospect of spending a few days amidst a swarm of fellow revellers, ravers, hippies, and other Burners of all sorts.

And so the day came, last Wednesday, when Nicole and I hopped in our rented Dodge Caravan, along with a payload of bikes, tents, food, beer, and other desert survival gear. We headed north and east, away from the Bay, through Sacramento, past Reno and Sparks, into the vast open spaces of the Nevada desert. As we rolled deeper into the desert, we were joined by hundreds of other Burners, their wagons and RVs loaded and they, like us, full of anticipation at what we would soon be part of.

The pavement road finally ended, and we turned onto the playa, a crust of alkaline dust that forms the perfectly flat floor of BRC, and waited in line, in our van, for less than an hour before we handed off our $225 tickets to the show. At the gate, I was approached by a dusty woman with a huge smile who asked “Have you been to Burning Man before?” “No,” i told her. “Stop the car! Put it in Park and get out here!” she commanded. And we exited the vehicle. Moments later I was embraced by a tall, muscular man in a leapard thong who, hugging me, said “Welcome home.”

And thus began Burning Man.