High Camp

The other day, I was asked why I’ve never gone to Burning Man. I tapped my chin in thought. And remembered. We had a Burning Man of our own a few years ago—seventeen to be exact.

Sit back and let me tell you a story.

My Rodeo rattled up the dusty pock-marked road to the South Willow campground in the Stansbury Mountains. We stopped and filled our water jugs at the ranger’s station. We already had three five-gallon tanks of liquid, but these were filled with Long Island Iced Tea, some Hop, Skip and Go Naked and box after box of cheap white zin. A lot of liquor you might say, but this had to sustain us (and 37 others) for the whole Labor Day weekend.

Upon reaching the campground (which we had reserved months ago) we found two families with their tents pitched and camp chairs poised. We approached them and told them politely that this spot was reserved and they might want to find another site. One family obliged. The other dug in their heels saying that they were there first. We drove back to the ranger’s station to see if he would intervene. Ranger Ron followed us back to camp and approached the family. He returned with a compromise—telling us that they offered to squish into a corner somewhere. As he eyed my friend Roger unloading the disco ball, we told him that they really, really wouldn’t want to do that. Kim put the electric piano in a safe spot and the squatter family split. The first annual RuPaul Bunyan Pageant was about to begin.

In a bit of small talk with the ranger, I discovered that he was good friends with my dad when they used to attend the mountain man rendezvous together. We chatted some more and I told him he’d have to stop by later for a drink. He watched Steve and Jerry attach an inflatable flamingo to the bridge, and said “we’ll have to see.”

Little by little our group arrived until the last of the 40 tried to find a parking spot. Robert Scott showed up not only with his sleeping tent, but a dressing tent as well. The RuPaul Bunyan Pageant was a formal outing after all. 

Once the tents were pitched and the saloon was open, the guys gathered for cocktail hour in “camp central.” Gloria Gaynor blasted from the boom box as the men chattered and cackled like hens. Robert Scott joined the group in a red sequined cocktail dress.

Once the table was set in matching plates and table cloth bearing a Barbie motif, Roger placed a bonbon in the center of each setting. I gathered some wildflowers for the centerpieces. We rang the dinner bell and watched the red carpet fashion parade from the tents to the dining room. Scott (not I) and John wore matching tuxes. Another John wore a full-fledged bridal gown. There were pioneer skirts, go-go dresses even a couple of bedazzled blaze orange hunting vests.

Dinner was fabulous. The pageant committee ruled that no food could be pre-made or from a package so we had lots of dutch oven dishes like pot roast, chili and—not surprisingly—quiche.

Afterward we assembled around the fire and smoked Swisher Sweets. Robert Scott joined us in a smart Julie Christie number complete with a fur hat and muff.

We laughed, gossiped and laughed some more until we ran out of things to say. Strange, for this group. We stargazed and breathed in the Tooele County air.

Then the show began.

A bottle of Jagermeister was sent clockwise around the circle. Counter-clockwise was a bottle of Hot Damn. They both ended up in Roger’s hands at the top of the circle so he had a swig of each. (Caveat: Roger doesn’t really drink that much and had already been a frequent visitor to the Long Island cooler). He passed the bottles to Kim on his right and me on his left. We took a swig and handed them back to Roger. He took another swig and passed the bottles on. We handed them back to Roger again. This went on for a while until he caught on. It was then that his eyes widened, he dug in his heels, reared back in his chair, grabbed tight to the armrests—and hurled a projectile arc of puke clear over the fire. Well, you can guess with that much alcohol, the arc flared up in a flaming display that would make Bellagio green with envy.

We escorted poor Rog to his tent and duct-taped his door closed so he wouldn’t get out and fall in the river during the night.

Then it was back to the fire pit where we stared into the embers some more. In the darkness, you could hear the faint sound of Roger clawing at his tent flap. Scratch, scratch, hurl. Scratch, scratch hurl. 

Burning Man had nothing on us. We had one of our very own.