At the summer solstice of 1986, two San Francisco men, Larry Harvey and Jerry James, dragged an eight-foot wooden figure down the sand at Baker Beach, doused it, and set it on fire. A few dozen strangers came up the beach toward the light. Somebody played a song. By Harvey’s own retelling, a woman ran forward and held the burning figure’s hand. There was no gate, no ticket, no name on anything, no plan for a second year. The fire was the entire production, free to attend, free to leave, over when the embers said so. Every question anyone now asks about Burning Man is a question about the distance from that evening.

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