Tag Archives: camping

Jack It Out: An original Burner hack by Huggable Meps

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Meps, aka Huggable

Huggable Meps

Over the past 10 years, I’ve seen many storms at Burning Man that were powerful enough to launch tents. Seeing a tent flying above the city makes me sad. So, at the beginning of each Burn, I hammer rebar into the ground with a sledgehammer to secure my tent and monkey hut shade structure.

Getting those pieces of rebar back out of the ground used to be my least-favorite part of the Burn — worse than port-a-potties! Then I came up with Jack It Out, my personal technique for pulling rebar without damaging wrists and elbows that I’ve already damaged through other Burning Man-related activities. Now my least-favorite part of Burning Man is the potties, not the rebar.

My explanation of the technique follows. It requires two simple things you probably have with you, even if you travel in a small car, like I do. May it make your teardown a more pleasant experience and keep the playa free of abandoned rebar.

How to Jack It Out

  1. You need two items: A pair of Vise Grips (also known as locking pliers) and the scissors jack that comes with most passenger cars.
  2. Clamp the Vise Grips to the top of the rebar and wedge the scissors jack under them, right next to the rebar.
  3. Crank up the scissors jack.
  4. Watch your rebar magically come out of the playa.
4-part photo showing how to jack rebar out of the playa

Illustration of the Jack It Out process

Huggable Meps granted Larry Harvey his official artistic license in 2016. (It has since expired and he has not chosen to renew.) She leads the DMV Adornment and Beautification Team and can be found in the Happy Spot.

You have to have a tent

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I hit the road yesterday from Vero Beach, Florida in Bon-Bon, my Toyota Matrix. I packed everything I’d need for the drive to Seattle via Las Vegas, including a folding bicycle, an inflatable kayak, clothes, art supplies, and two boxes of Strangers Have the Best Candy. I also brought lots of pillows, three teddy bears, a brand-new Therm-a-Rest pad, a couple of blankets, and a sleeping bag. I can make a cushy blanket fort in the back of the car and sleep anywhere.

In the late afternoon, I saw a sign for Withlacoochee River Park. It seemed like a nice county park, about 5 miles off the highway. I circled the camping area, which was mostly empty, then followed the sign to the office.

A young park ranger was outside the building as I got out of my car. He greeted me with a smile and asked how he could help me. “Is this where I pay for a campsite?” I asked. “Yes, it is,” he told me. “What kind of site do you need?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t particularly matter.”

“Do you have a tent?” he asked me.

When I said no, his smile disappeared. “You have to have a tent.”

I continued smiling. “I can just pay the RV rate,” I said. He looked at my car and shook his head. I couldn’t figure out how they could have a rule against sleeping in the car, but I was determined to figure out a way around it.

What if I put my sleeping bag on the ground next to the car? Nope. What if I rigged a tarp as a tent? Nope. What if we called it a Toyota Matrix RV? Nope. At that point, he suggested that I wait for his supervisor.

While I waited, I thought about telling them my tent was six feet tall, pink, and went by the name of Harvey. Unfortunately, the supervisor who appeared was much more humorless, so I stayed quiet about having an invisible tent.

Condescendingly, he showed me the written rules, which said that I had to have a “commercially-made, flame-retardant tent.” When I told him my car was a very small RV, he rolled his eyes. “That? No way.”

I just waited. Finally, he said, “If you insist, I will call my supervisor, even though it is after hours on a Saturday evening, and I will have to call him at home.”

I nodded and said, “Would you, please?” He picked up the phone and called his supervisor. “I am so sorry to bother you at home, after hours, on a Saturday, but there’s this lady here who wants to camp…” His tone spoke volumes. “And she doesn’t have a tent, and she’s just driving a car.”

The man on the other end of the line said something. Then he said, “That’s what I told her, but she insisted that I call my supervisor, after hours, on a Saturday, at home.” He hung up with a smirk.

I put on my most gracious smile and said, “Thank you very much,” then I turned and went out to my teeny-tiny RV and drove back out to the road.

I pulled out my phone and ran a search for nearby campgrounds, and a listing popped up just a few miles up the river. When I clicked on the Sawmill Resort and Campground, the first thing I saw was the photo on the homepage. It featured three hot guys, two of them shirtless. This was not your every day campground. The list of amenities included a pool and several nightclubs. I read further, and found the statement “…the premier gay and lesbian community in the Southeast.”

I called to make sure they had a campsite for a person without a tent. No problem. I didn’t tell the woman I was straight.

In the camp store, the young woman took my credit card and gave me a wristband. “You do know this place is, um, alternative, right?” I just nodded.

When I asked where to set up camp, she wasn’t certain. “I’ve had this job for five days,” she told me, “and I actually haven’t been back there yet.” She was referring to the 120-acre community on the other side of the fence.

When I drove through the gate, I was unnerved to find that there were no other women “back there.” Just me and a few hundred guys of all ages, doing what everybody does on vacation: Relaxing. I stuck out like a sore thumb, but I felt completely safe.

More importantly, I felt completely welcome. As the FAQ said, in answer to the question, “Are Women allowed at Sawmill?” ”YES!  We are open to anyone who is open minded.”

It’s OK that I don’t have a tent. It’s OK that I’m not gay. Saturday’s curious turn of events reminded me that being surrounded by open-minded people is more important to me than anything else.