A scene from Burning Man's trash fence.
A scene from Burning Man's trash fence.
The first naked man could have been a fluke. But then came another. And another. And another. Each was in the vicinity of a solitary tent pitched on the outskirts of Black Rock City, in Burning Man’s open camping area out by the trash fence.
The trash fence, a 4-foot-high, 9.2-mile-long orange plastic barrier, marks the boundary of the event, but also blocks an abundance of garbage from blowing out of the weeklong pop-up city and into Nevada’s pristine Black Rock Desert.
Naked men are nothing new at Burning Man, where freedom of personal expression reigns. But this was my sixth time attending the event, and I had never encountered them in this context, all by themselves, basking quietly in the desert sun. It was strange, and it was exactly why I had chosen to hike the trash fence: to see what oddities I might encounter.
The trash fence is an element of Black Rock City that every Burner is aware of, and some even make pilgrimages to parts of it over the course of the event, whether it’s to escape the hectic city center, think about life, watch a sunrise or sunset, or attempt to catch a Daft Punk show (which they never will, because telling new Burners that Daft Punk is playing at the trash fence is a long-running prank). Few Burners think to explore the trash fence in its entirety, however.
When I set out to do that on Thursday morning, I knew I’d come across bizarre pieces of art and surreal desert scenery, and suspected I’d encounter a handful of Burners who had a similar fascination with the event’s farthest-flung corners. What I didn’t expect was to meet someone who would forever transform my understanding of Burning Man and its history. Or that he’d be one of those naked men.
A scene from Burning Man's trash fence.
A scene from Burning Man's trash fence.
Where to start with the trash fence?
If you’re at Burning Man and wanting to get to the trash fence in the shortest amount of time, the directions are easy: face directly away from the 100-foot effigy of the man at the center of the city, and head out.
In my case, because I was camped near the intersection of 4:30 and H streets, the closest region of the trash fence bordered Black Rock City’s municipal airport, which high-rolling Burners and celebrities fly in and out of. I biked out there to use it as a starting point, and also as a place to check on the weather. (Black Rock City’s airport workers are by necessity very informed on wind conditions and the chance of rain — just ask Diplo.)
Burners line up for free flights in small planes above Black Rock City.
Burners line up for free flights in small planes above Black Rock City.
A plane lands at Burning Man's municipal airport, just beyond the trash fence.
A plane lands at Burning Man's municipal airport, just beyond the trash fence.
When I arrived, a line of Burners intent on scoring scenic flights – which like nearly everything else in Black Rock City are free of charge – snaked out of the open-air departure lounge. I took one of those flights in 2023, just before the rain hit, and it was one of the best experiences I’ve had at Burning Man.
I was happy to see that there was still a cute little coffee stand, and a viewing deck where Burners could watch the small planes kicking up dust during lift-offs and landings. I parked my bike and wandered around until I found a nice volunteer (playa name: Mr. Awesome), who told me that the wind (aka the dust) was likely to kick up in a few hours, and that there was a significant chance of rain later in the day.
When I told him my plans to hike the entire trash fence, he perked up. “I did that at night one time,” Mr. Awesome said. “It was incredible.”
I was taken aback that the first Burner I met along my journey had already completed my challenge – so much for being original – but I was also eager to get some advice at the start of the journey. Mr. Awesome told me I might be approached by perimeter rangers who guard the city from interlopers, and that they might ask what I was doing.
Airport volunteer Mr. Awesome offered sage advice about journeying around Burning Man's trash fence.
Airport volunteer Mr. Awesome offered sage advice about journeying around Burning Man's trash fence.
The orange plastic trash fence at Burning Man catches windblown debris and also marks the boundary of the event.
The orange plastic trash fence at Burning Man catches windblown debris and also marks the boundary of the event.
I shouldn’t worry about it, he said, because Burners are within their rights to go on trash fence adventures. If the weather turned, he advised breaking up the journey into pieces, and possibly doing a leg of it at night, because looking back at the LEDs and lasers from various points along the trash fence was mesmerizing.
The boundary of the event is a pentagon shape, he explained, with five equally spaced points. Then he pointed up at a tall sign in the distance, which read “Point 5.” Mr. Awesome recommended going counter-clockwise, to Point 4 and then Point 3 at the top of the pentagon, where Burners typically go to watch sunrise and sunset and take photos. He also thought I should walk with my bike, just in case the weather turned.
I thanked Mr. Awesome profusely, feeling an instant bond with a fellow trash fence explorer, and headed out into nowhere.
‘This is the sacred place for me’
Trudging northeast from Point 5 to Point 4, it was remarkable how little trash could be seen along the orange plastic fence. Two items I noticed: one can of Modelo, one black dust mask, and the mask was actually on the far side of the fence.
Just when I began to wonder if some of this journey might be pretty dull, a small tent appeared on the horizon, and as I got closer, I saw that a man was sprawled out beside it. I started to move toward him, interested to hear what inspired a Burner to opt for the open camping area so far from the rest of the event. But when I saw he was totally naked, I changed my mind and kept moving along the fence.
At Burning Man, each corner of the pentagon perimeter features a sign displaying the point number.
At Burning Man, each corner of the pentagon perimeter features a sign displaying the point number.
A perimeter ranger patrols the trash fence at Burning Man.
A perimeter ranger patrols the trash fence at Burning Man.
Soon, another pair of naked men came into view. They appeared to be doing some sort of calisthenics or maybe partner yoga? My interest in these nudist isolationists was growing, but I felt hesitant to approach. People who ventured all the way out here didn’t seem likely to want company.
When I saw the fourth naked man standing beside his gray tent, I thought I might bypass him, too. But when he looked over, there was an openness to his expression, and I decided to approach. It was perhaps the best decision I made at this year’s Burning Man.
As I got closer, the man donned a tan, floor-length robe, and he smiled. I told him I was hiking the whole trash fence and interviewing people I met along the way for a story. He invited me to come sit beneath his teal-colored shade structure, out of the wind, where we could chat.
“I’m Junebug,” he said once we were settled, offering his playa name. He had come from Tokyo for Burning Man for the 15th time, he said, but in the last four or five years, Junebug had been doing Burning Man a little differently, to say the least.
Junebug enjoys welcoming visitors beneath his shade structure on the outskirts of Black Rock City.
Junebug enjoys welcoming visitors beneath his shade structure on the outskirts of Black Rock City.
“I started out just like everybody,” he said, gesturing toward the city. “I started there, enjoying the man, dancing, drinking, going crazy. And at some point, something came into my mind … Why I’m coming here?”
In truth, Junebug was bored of the partying, but he still found himself drawn to the Black Rock Desert. He started doing research about how Burning Man ended up being held at this particular location, and what he learned fascinated him.
Many people know that Burning Man’s originators, Larry Harvey and Jerry James, organized the first event in 1986 on San Francisco’s Baker Beach. And many are aware that by the time police forced Burning Man off that beach in 1990, a group of Bay Area artists and pranksters called the Cacophony Society had become involved. The group was instrumental in selecting the next location, but exactly how they chose the Black Rock Desert rarely comes up.
“Have you ever heard of a zone trip?” Junebug asked me. I hadn’t. The concept of a zone trip, he explained, originated with the 1979 Soviet science-fiction film “Stalker,” in which a guide leads two men into a mysterious, forbidden landscape where usual laws don’t apply and people’s deepest desires can be achieved.
An advertisement for Burning Man greeters has blown over to the event's trash fence.
An advertisement for Burning Man greeters has blown over to the event's trash fence.
A giant sign for "RV Services" has found its way to the trash fence.
A giant sign for "RV Services" has found its way to the trash fence.
The Cacophony Society was heavily influenced by “Stalker,” Junebug said, and frequently embarked on “zone trips” into unfamiliar places, adapting new sets of rules within the zones. “You see that this place, this area, is your zone,” he said. “And there, in the zone, you can make a dream come true.”
Black Rock Desert’s playa was zone trip four, Junebug told me. Taking the idea of a zone even further, the Cacophony Society marked off the area with rebar, he said, and they joined hands and all jumped into the zone at once. “That’s how Burning Man started,” he said.
I sat quietly, feeling the gravity of the moment wash over me. For the first time since I started going to Burning Man in 2016, I understood why being in this place feels so powerful. It’s not an accident that in all ways, Burning Man resembles another universe, with different rules and different values. It was specifically designed this way by people who wanted to live outside of the norm, pursuing their own dreams of how a society could be, if only for a week.
Junebug travels from Tokyo each year to camp on the edge of Burning Man's open camping area, near the trash fence.
Junebug travels from Tokyo each year to camp on the edge of Burning Man's open camping area, near the trash fence.
And here was Junebug – a 55-year-old computer engineer from Japan – using his vacation time every year to come to Burning Man, camp near the trash fence and live his dream.
He stays here in his tent, recording his thoughts, and eating ramen he carried a mile from where his rental car is parked. Once a day, he brings his piss bottle to the nearest portable toilet and then comes right back to camp. When the wind blows hard, he’s in a whiteout, all on his own. When it rains, he’s isolated until the sun comes out and dries the ancient lakebed. Occasionally, Burners and rangers stop by to chat, but mostly it’s a couple of black birds that keep him company.
Junebug isn’t religious, but the way he feels when he camps in his zone, well, nothing really compares. And while he’s tried finding other zones, attending regional burns in Japan and Israel, they haven’t quite measured up to the edge of Black Rock City.
“It's a long trip … for nothing, right? This is all I have,” Junebug said, gesturing at his scant supplies. “Other people are going the American way, doing the American dream. They’re trying to make a big statue. They burn the big thing. They want a big RV. They came in by a jet. You know, bigger is better in America. In Japan, it's different. It's not adding, adding, adding. We're trying to minus, minus, minus.”
Junebug tells me he’s glad I came by, that the conversation was special for him, and offers me one of his beers. He likes that I too have been compelled to spend time near the trash fence, and that I’ve come into his zone.
“This desert is the sacred place for me,” he tells me as I leave. “And the sacred place is not the man, but this trash fence area.”
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Animals are rarely seen in Black Rock City, but this black bird visits Junebug regularly at his campsite.
Animals are rarely seen in Black Rock City, but this black bird visits Junebug regularly at his campsite.
Other wonders of the trash fence
I probably could have headed back to camp then, because my first two hours hiking the trash fence had already provided me with one of the most interesting and impactful conversations I would have at this year’s Burn.
But instead, I kept going. And the benefits of hiking the trash fence kept accumulating.
As I closed in on Point 4, the way the light illuminated the mountains of the Selenite Range became increasingly pretty, and the trash at the bottom of the fence got progressively weirder. There was a CD with pink wires sticking up through it, some advertisements for becoming a Burning Man greeter and an oversized upside-down sign that read “RV SERVICE.”
I came upon a set of Ecozoic composting toilets, which were delightfully clean and odorless thanks to ventilation fans. And several perimeter guards drove by in trucks, though none seemed concerned with my presence.
These Ecozoic toilets are the cushiest bathrooms at Burning Man.
These Ecozoic toilets are the cushiest bathrooms at Burning Man.
Near the trash fence lies a bizarre CD with pink wires.
Near the trash fence lies a bizarre CD with pink wires.
Found in a box at the trash fence, this ticket enables Burners to skip the line for a popular art exhibit. The only problem is, the exhibit only existed in 2019.
Found in a box at the trash fence, this ticket enables Burners to skip the line for a popular art exhibit. The only problem is, the exhibit only existed in 2019.
Art pieces started to pop up, many of which were hilarious. A box placed by the “department of whining and playa relations” offered unofficial complaint forms, where a Burner could share their name, then indicate nature of their complaints in checkboxes (for instance, dusty parts or speeding e-bikes).
Nearby, a small blue box contained tickets to a popular art piece from 2019 called Head Maze. Because the line to get in was long, rumors began circulating that tickets hidden at the trash fence allowed ticket holders to skip the line. “In 2019 there were no Head Maze tickets, but there are now!” the tickets explained. “Enjoy!”
Burning Man's complaint box offers Burners an opportunity to vent about dust, jerks, bad music and other things.
Burning Man's complaint box offers Burners an opportunity to vent about dust, jerks, bad music and other things.
This complaint form has a checkbox for Burners to indicate whether they are virgins.
This complaint form has a checkbox for Burners to indicate whether they are virgins.
At an art piece just beyond, a large platform read “no jokes allowed,” and Burners were taking turns stepping up and telling them. That’s where I met Beandip, a seven-time Burner and Oakland resident with a background in biotech.
She overheard me telling someone I was hiking the whole trash fence, and approached to say that she, too, had made a ritual of that. “I would break it up into the five quadrants,” she said. “I think I did it for about four years.”
She started doing it, she told me, because it feels achievable. But also because she likes the self-directed nature of it.
Beandip has made a ritual of exploring Burning Man's trash fence every year.
Beandip has made a ritual of exploring Burning Man's trash fence every year.
A platform for telling jokes at Burning Man's trash fence.
A platform for telling jokes at Burning Man's trash fence.
“There's all these things that you can do and see at Burning Man, and it's like, you’re doing something someone else arranged, you're seeing someone else's art, you're participating in other people's camps,” Beandip said. “This feels like my solo adventure that I'm in charge of … I always do it alone, and it's kind of my moment, I think, to just reflect. I like to stop and just stare out into the open desert.”
Beandip was contemplating doing the trash fence again today, she said, but was slightly concerned about the wind picking up. A few seconds later, a light sprinkle began to rain down from the gray sky. I wanted to at least make it to Point 3, though, so I wished Beandip a good Burn and continued along the fence.
To visit the trash fence is to say, ‘hey, I’m still alive’
When I reached the most popular pilgrimage spot, Point 3, the sprinkling had stopped but the wind had picked up, and dust was starting to churn in the air. A solitary Burner in safari-esque attire had just parked his bike at the point's sign, to which a box full of stickers, pins and other goodies was affixed.
After touching the sign’s pole, he traded a pin he created for a different one from the box. And when asked if he’d be interested in talking about what brought him to the trash fence in a brewing dust storm, he immediately agreed.
Known on playa as Bookie, Pete Lafavre of Redondo Beach considers this particular spot on the playa “a point of contact,” he explained, where each year he checks in. And here’s why.
Bookie makes his yearly pilgrimage to Burning Man's trash fence.
Bookie makes his yearly pilgrimage to Burning Man's trash fence.
At Point 3 along Burning Man's trash fence, Burners can exchange stickers, buttons and other trinkets.
At Point 3 along Burning Man's trash fence, Burners can exchange stickers, buttons and other trinkets.
“In 2020, I was diagnosed with lymphoma, and I went through the chemo thing and survived,” he told me. “…This, to me, is a reminder. I can still do stuff like this. I'm still here to be able to. I've got enough energy and desire to be all the way out here in the fricking middle of nowhere to be able to do a simple thing like this.”
To visit the trash fence, for Bookie, is to be able to say “hey, I’m still alive,” and he feels honored to have been afforded the opportunity.
After the dust kept picking up, and Bookie headed back to the city. I was ready to pause my own journey as well, having completed around 5 of the 9.2 miles, when I spotted a patrol vehicle stopped near the fence. When I approached, the perimeter rangers inside seemed far from concerned about my presence, and agreed to a short interview on background because they aren’t allowed to speak to the media.
Bookie made it out to Burning Man's trash fence once again in 2026.
Bookie made it out to Burning Man's trash fence once again in 2026.
They were there to protect the city, they told me, and to stop people from sneaking in. When I asked the woman in the passenger seat what she likes most about being out here, she said it’s the mountain scenery.
I couldn’t help but agree that the backdrop is pretty. But as I started back toward my camp through the dust, I knew that what I’d remember most were the humans – Mr. Awesome, Junebug, Beandip and Bookie – and the passion we all share for Burning Man’s one-of-a-kind trash fence.
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Sep 7, 2026