Playa Whip Back

Two years ago, the playa threw one of its infamous tantrums. Sheets of rain fell so hard it looked like the sky was trying to wash us clean, and the mud, well, that mud wasn’t just thick—it was the kind that laughs at your feet and sticks to your soul like it had a personal vendetta.

This year has been the same, and I swear, I spent hours scraping it off with my fingernails. And it still had the nerve to laugh at me.

The wind, too, wasn’t just wind. It was a referee, a drill sergeant, and an old uncle all rolled into one, reminding every tent and every freestanding shade structure who was really in charge out here.

Rebar bent. Shade cloths tore in half like cheap paper.

Dust storms rolled in like they had appointments to keep. And there we were, a ragtag bunch of humans thinking we could outsmart nature.

But that’s where the magic comes in, because burners are resilient. And neighbors become lifelines.

One minute you’re wrestling a tent that’s trying to fly off into the sunset, the next, someone’s handing you extra stakes with a grin, muttering, “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

And they do. Everyone does.

I helped reset a row of rebar for a communal shade. Bent rods, shredded tarps, and a sense of impending doom—you know, the usual Friday night vibe.

But somewhere between tying down one stubborn pole and laughing at another getting tossed by a rogue gust, we all started laughing at ourselves. There’s something about dirt caked into your hair, wind whipping your socks inside-out, and the smell of wet playa that makes humility and humor come easy.

By noon, the tents are up, part shelter, and part miracle. Someone even managed to resurrect a sculpture that had taken a nosedive during the early morning dust storm.

And through it all, laughter threaded through the chaos, like a stubborn little ember that refuses to die. That’s the spirit of Burning Man–when the playa tests you, it isn’t trying to break you—it’s just figuring out how stubborn you really are.

And the beauty of it is, you don’t face it alone. Help comes in the form of a nod, a rope, and a dust-filled cup of lukewarm coffee offered with a wink.

And if all else fails, you roll in the mud and laugh, because what else are you going to do? Complain? You’ll get more mud in your mouth.

And yes, there’s always MOOP patrol, the unsung heroes who sweep up Matter Out of Place with the patience of saints and the diligence of border collies. They don’t take a day off, even in the wind, even in the mud, even when you’re pretty sure a rogue dust devil just rearranged the entire city. Respect them, bow to them, or at least, don’t throw glitter at them.

By the end of the day, the playa is still wild, untamed, and a little bit terrifying. But we were there, standing together, our hands muddy, our laughter echoing across the flats. And I realized that maybe the playa isn’t trying to make us suffer—it’s trying to remind us of what we’re capable of when we don’t go it alone.

So next time the wind whips and the dust storms roll in, remember to tie it down, help your neighbor, laugh at yourself, and maybe buy an extra pair of socks. Because the playa will test you, but it will never beat the heart of a burner.