Passing the Torch at 9 & A
Between dust storms, torrential rain, and EDM chaos, Burning Man 2025 tested us all. For me, it was about bringing my son to his first Burn.
Tinkering with Time, Tech, and Culture #8 — After the Burn #1
Previously I wrote We Ride Together: Passing the Torch at Burning Man 2025, a reflection on legacy, fire, and family.
I just lived that story.
I headed back to Black Rock City — but not with my wife. This time I brought my oldest son, a virgin burner, riding my old playa bike into a world where the surreal is ordinary, time dissolves into dust, and the stories are written in neon, rebar, and fire.
This year’s Burn wasn’t about storms or art cars or even fire. For me, it was about bringing my oldest son to his first Burn — watching him roll in the dust, ring the Greeter bell, and step into a world that has shaped so much of my own life.
The Journey East
The plan was simple: leave Petaluma Saturday afternoon, drive through the night, and arrive at Gate around midnight. That’s the rhythm I’ve settled into over the years — not easy, but predictable. But Burning Man has a way of rewriting your plans. At the last minute, we scored early entry passes, and suddenly everything shifted.
Instead of idling all day and rolling out in the evening, we were up before dawn. By 5 am my truck and trailer were packed, dust masks and goggles tucked in the cab, and my son sitting beside me, buzzing with first-Burn anticipation. His first view of the Black Rock Desert wouldn’t be through exhaustion at midnight, but fresh, bright daylight.
On the drive east, we played my Ashes and Echoes album a few times. He listened quietly, not saying much. I wasn’t sure how much of it he understood — the songs are about fire and dust, gifting and loss, years of Burn stories folded into music. They’re hard to understand if you haven’t lived them.
We hit Gate by 1 pm. And then the miracle happened: by 2:15 we were through Greeters. If you’ve ever sat for hours on Gate Road, you know how unreal that is. One hour and fifteen minutes. My son didn’t understand how rare it was. He thought that was normal. He hopped out, tumbled in the dust, rang the Greeter bell, and grinned like he’d been waiting his whole life for it.
For me, it was déjà vu and revelation all at once. I saw myself in him, dusty and laughing, and realized this was the moment: the torch had been passed.
Landing at 9:00 & Atwood
We rolled into Weird Steel — though if the BORG let us, we’d still be calling ourselves Reared in Steel. Our camp manager checked us in, we parked the rig, and the work began. Less than 11 hours door-to-camp. Not bad.
Sunday and Monday were a blur of setup: pounding rebar, staking tents, rebuilding shade after the windstorms, and putting our hands on Guma, the camp’s giant dinosaur art project. That was my son’s first introduction to Burning Man — not dance floors or DJs, but steel and sweat, getting things working in the dust. He picked up a drill, held ladders, strung LEDs. He saw the work behind the magic.
The Sound of the Burn
The hardest part for him wasn’t what you’d expect. It wasn’t the destructive dust storm that ripped apart our shade structure and forced us to rebuild. It wasn’t the wicked rain storm that left five inches of mud caked to our boots as we struggled back to camp. He handled all of that like a champ.
What nearly broke him was the sound. The Playa has a soundtrack — and sometimes it’s inescapable. For him, the nonstop pounding of EDM was overwhelming. Nights were the hardest: when art cars stacked along Esplanade blasted until sunrise, it felt like there was no escape.
The Man Burn drove it home. We parked the Rhino and Ladybug art cars near the burn site, lining up with hundreds of others. That meant we were right in the blast radius of bass, surrounded by walls of speakers. There was nowhere to hide from the sound.
But I’d packed low-boy chairs. Small, squat, perfect for sneaking into the front rows without blocking anyone’s view. We carried them through the crowd and slipped into the inner ring. Suddenly, the noise dropped away. The roar of the crowd replaced the thump of the bass. The fire’s crackle and the desert’s silence cut through.
For him, it changed everything. He could sit, breathe, and watch the Man burn without flinching. For me, it was a reminder that even in chaos, you can find your place if you know where to look.
The Departure
Sunday came too soon. Before the Temple burn, we loaded into the Ladybug art car and drove to the Burner Express depot. My son was catching a flight from Reno. It felt strange, leaving him there while the city was still glowing, still alive.
On the way east from Petaluma, we’d listened to Ashes and Echoes. At the time, I wasn’t sure how much of it landed. Maybe the music just felt like another soundtrack to a long desert drive. But on the way out, something had shifted. He had lived inside the songs now. The dust, the fire, the chaos — they weren’t just lyrics. They were his story, too.
As I drove away from the Burner Express depot, I wondered: will he come back? A first Burn can overwhelm even the strongest soul. He might need weeks, months, maybe years to process the sensory flood. Or maybe once was enough.
I hope someday he does return. But even if he doesn’t, the desert is in him now. The music is in him. The fire is in him. And that means the torch has already been passed.
Next Up: Storms, Steel, and Survival — Dust, rain, and the bike-upgrade game Burning Man always throws curveballs. This year, the desert came at us hard...But instead of breaking us, the storms welded Weird Steel together.