Days 4-6: SOAK, Tygh Valley, OR

I'm writing this post long after the fact and inserting it where it should've been originally, but as with any Burning Man related event, I wouldn't be able to capture it appropriately even if I were reporting directly from ground zero. In short, SOAK and Burning Man events more generally are experiments in intentional community, created in the middle of nowhere to distance ourselves from the rules we've chosen to live by in the "default world". Only bathrooms and ice are generally provided. The distance from civilization provides isolation and perspective, making it simultaneously an escape from reality and a reality check. It's also a giant party. The ratio of party to social experiment is a personal choice, and they aren't mutually exclusive.

As an experimental event, photography is controversial, and I took no pictures in order to respect people's freedom to try out new personalities and behaviors without being identified. Clothing, for instance, is thoroughly explored and frequently rejected.

If you're imagining a music festival, don't. That assumes a separation between performer and audience that doesn't belong here. No one asks who's playing SOAK this year, because the answer is this: you are. Everyone bought or earned a ticket because they want to participate. People bring and create art, turn their body or behavior into art, bring gifts for strangers, share experiences with others, or just push your own boundaries in public to invite others to do the same.

Visually, it is often said that there are only three colors at Burning Man: dust, fire, and rainbow. For SOAK, replace the dust with mud. If something is stationary, it will quickly be splashed due to frequent rain, and likely shoots fire from somewhere. If it's moving, it becomes lost in a sea of swimming rainbow LEDs, and also likely shoots fire. This includes the people: otherworldly costumes are common, from desert punk to my friend's rainbow burqa to super-fuzzy gear popular for its sheer impracticality in the dirt, and it all turns neon at night to avoid being hit by bikes or slow-moving "art cars" that have been deemed sufficiently weird to operate at the event.

Sonically, as one might expect, these events are loud. A cacophany of throbbing bass lines creates a kind of palpable white noise no matter where you are, though the loudest camps tend to be consolidated into a partially-effective quarantine. Propane-fueled fire displays are common, including ubiquitous "poofers" that hiss aggressively and throw flames into the air when triggered by aspiring mad scientists, art car drivers announcing their presence, or just somebody who found a button.

Sudden heat from random bursts of flame is maybe the most memorable tactile experience. Psychoactive drugs provide new sensations for those who are into that, as well, though they're by no means mandatory. Emotionally, it's common to bond with strangers exploring interactive art, making music, or just talking at a bar set up as someone's gift to the community. It seems that at least one period of introspective melancholy is also mandatory at some point in the event.

My experience of all this usually includes climbing anything that doesn't seem disrespectful to climb, improvising music with strangers, challenging innocent bystanders to sumo matches that I can't hope to win, and making personal connections at one of the more out-of-the-way bars with only a few people milling around. This behavior is in turns moderated or compelled by a thrift-store costume including some or all of the following: horrid 90's flame-print pants, a loose Hawaiian shirt, a ship captain's hat, a fluffy tutu, a dapper vest, and a corduroy jacket with a gigantic eagle embroidered on the back and inexplicably lined with a map of Manhattan.

This time was no different. I escaped from reality as intended and temporarily forgot about the trip, though I was glad for the chance to test my tarp-and-bivy setup in an environment where failure wouldn't create an emergency. Specific memories include lounging in a neon cargo net play structure, watching a demonstration of orbital mechanics using an elastic sheet and rubber balls, participating in a very serious boffer fight, and enthusiastically undoing the work of someone who was turning people into Star-Bellied Sneeches (as Dr. Seuss would've wanted). Returning to reality is always difficult, but it was especially hard this time as I had to say goodbye to friends I wouldn't be seeing for a while.