When the Playa Clings Like Family

Home, at last. The front door clicked behind me, and I paused, listening to the faint hum of a quiet house—so different from the endless whisper of the Black Rock Desert, where dust sneaks into every crevice, every thought.

Some folks stop for a beer at Bruno’s on the way back. Me? I headed east on Pyramid Highway, past Nixon, onto I-80 before veering off onto USA Parkway. My destination–Lahontan Reservoir, and their camp showers, which—let me tell you—feel like a private spa after a weekend of volunteering in a place that has a talent for sticking to you.

The playa has a way of embedding itself into your life. Not in a sentimental, Instagram-ready way, mind you, but literally, physically.

Dust in your boots, dust in your hair, dust in places you didn’t even know could hold dust. You wash your hands, and your fingertips still find little grains sneaking up from your nails. It’s humbling, in a humbling way, the desert teaching you how small and persistent it can be.

I spent an hour and a half under hot water. I’d never thought I’d appreciate a shower that much, but there it was—steam like a soft blanket, water that actually meant “clean,” and me, thinking maybe this is what happiness smells like–hot water and self-respect.

Clean towels and fresh clothes are waiting after I reduce a new bar of soap to a sliver. For the first time in a couple of days, I felt like a person who could sit in a chair without leaving a trail of gray behind me.

I opened a beer when I got home, ignoring the clock that read 8:12 p.m.—past my usual bedtime, but so what? The work I do tomorrow starts at 4 a.m., but I figured a little rebellion before sunrise was acceptable.

My mind wandered, thinking about all the folks out there in the desert–neighbors helping neighbors, strangers sharing sunscreen, and camp chairs that mysteriously end up where they’re unneeded. The playa has a way of knitting people together, even if it’s mostly through shared misery and mutual embarrassment when the wind flips your shade structure upside down.

Sitting here, sipping beer, I realized that no matter how much you try to wash it off, the desert leaves its mark, not in a sticky, inconvenient way, but like a good story left on the shelf for later. You carry it with you, like dust in your shoes or a memory tucked behind your ribs. You remember the heat, the wind, the way the light bounced off the flat just right, and you smile, even if your jeans look like a battlefield casualty.

Sleep will come later, after a quick check of the house for dust hiding in corners, maybe a towel on the bed to catch anything the playa decided to smuggle in.

And yes, tomorrow, I’d wake at 4 a.m., hoping the desert had been courteous enough to let my ears stay dust-free. But tonight, right now, beer in hand, I feel the clean that matters. Not just the clean of water and soap, but the clean of coming home and knowing you’ve done something worth doing, even if it left half the desert stuck in your hair.

Sometimes, the best part of coming home isn’t the bed or the shower—it’s knowing you’ve earned a quiet moment, even if it’s eight minutes past your bedtime, with a cold beer and the simple satisfaction that the playa, in all its stubborn glory, is now just a story in your shoes, and maybe a little dust behind your ears.