When the Dust Won’t Let You Sleep

Oh, silly Burner, you think you’re clever, thinking you can ride onto the playa at night with nothing but a half-packed camelbak, a hat already caked with dust, and a sparkly cape you found at the thrift store. I’ve seen it a hundred times–the same grin, the same overconfidence, the same “rules are for everyone else” look in your eyes.

I’ve been riding out there for years. Not for the pleasure of spinning in a dust storm like a glittery tornado—though I admit, sometimes it’s almost poetic.

I’m there because someone has to be. Someone has to make sure the art cars don’t crush each other, that the porta-potties actually exist where the map said they would, and that no one ends up lost in a swirl of fine alkaline dust that tastes like sand mixed with regret.

The nights start like any other–a pink-orange horizon, the wind just teasing at the edges of the tents. I was following the plan—because without a plan, all you’ve got is chaos and a mouthful of playa dust.

The kid I ran into, the one wearing sequins like they were armor, had other ideas, “I’m going to ride all night,” he said, eyes wide and sparkling, “Who needs planning when you have luck?”

I laughed, a low sound. “Kid,” I said, “luck is just what happens when planning takes a nap. And right now, planning’s wide awake.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t understand, his goofy grin lingering.

I sped away into the shadows, and the playa stretched like a sheet of silver dust under our hooves. Around me, lights winked in all directions, tiny islands of humanity clinging to art installations, music, and the illusion that they were untouchable.

Then the wind picked up. Oh, it picked up like it had been waiting all day to remind everyone exactly who’s in charge.

And suddenly, my little lesson in planning became very practical. The kid’s cape wrapped around his leg, tangled like a vine, and he yelped.

Lucky? No.

He was learning. I slowed, careful not to add my drama to the scene, “See,” I said gently, “rules exist because the dust doesn’t care how brave you feel.”

By 2 a.m., we were deep in the maze of scattered installations, and the horizon had gone black. I could see silhouettes wobbling in the wind.

“Water,” someone shouted. I hand off my spare bottle—because planning sometimes means carrying extra, even for the reckless.

I found my way back as the first pink streak of sunrise began to smear across the sky. The playa was quiet then, the chaos paused for just a moment.

The kid sat on a small dune, exhausted but smiling, “I get it,” he said. “I should’ve planned better.”

I nodded. “Yep. And next time, maybe don’t pretend luck’s a substitute for common sense.”

My quad coughed, probably agreeing more with me than the kid.

By morning light, I was covered in dust, tired to my bones, but satisfied. Because out there, the rules aren’t suggestions.

Survival is careful thought, and yes, even luck has to check in with reality before it comes calling. The kid? He learned that the hard way, but I’ll give him credit—he laughed about it, shiny sequins and all.

So, silly Burner, remember the playa will teach you lessons, but it doesn’t care about your grin. You can go all night chasing freedom, chasing sparkle, chasing the idea that rules are optional, or you can party with a plan, with water, with respect for the wind and the dust.

One makes a story, the other makes a cautionary tale. And me? I’ll be there, muddy, dusty, and all, making sure someone gets home in one piece—and maybe handing out a little wisdom along the way.