We checked into our motel, the only motel in the town of Gerlach, population 250. The school district here raises its funds by selling ice to the 25,000 residents of the local summer Brigadoon, the Burning Man festival. Stopping for coffee before heading out farther into the Empty Quarter, we were warned by a lanky, gruff man in a cowboy hat not to drive out onto the playa. The rains, he said, made it too dangerous, as we might venture into a muddy area beyond the horizon and get stuck, never to be seen again.

As we were sipping our drinks and considering whether or not to heed the advise of the admonishing stranger, Judy noticed a former student who was entering the café, followed by his family. I was glad to meet these people, as I had never before encountered any “double Indians.” This man was a native of New Delhi who had married a local Native American woman. Their children bore a resemblance to both parents and were probably similar to the folks who met Christopher Columbus on the beach in Florida and caused all the ensuing semantic confusion.

We left Gerlach and drove north, turning onto highway 34. When her seasoned eyes spotted a linear cloud of steam by the side of the road we pulled over to discover a little stream of boiling water. It emerges from a pile of rocks and roils downstream for 150 feet before it disappear back into its underground cauldron. As it tumbles over rocks it makes a curious sound, the combination of a murmuring brook and the simmering of a kettle on boil. But boiling water was not, so to speak, our cup of tea. We were searching for the more body-friendly thermal springs of the Fly Geysers farther along the road.

On the way we passed the entrance to the playa of the Black Rock desert. Besides hosting Burning Man, the hard level lakebed is the site for the land speed records set by rocket powered cars (EPA rating: 85 GPM) of more than 600 MPH. After we saw some locals in an SUV driving on the sand, we ignored all the warnings and entered the playa. Following the tracks of others, we figured, would keep us safe. I presume a similar thought was entertained by that saber toothed tiger before he was immortalized in the La Brea tar pits.

If this were summertime, when the last remaining pockets of mud have long since dried to cement and dust, I’m sure Judy would done as any self-respecting local would do and seek her own land speed record. On this occasion, however, I was relieved that she wasn’t in a doughnut-making mood.