A week ago Dan and I skirted the alluvial slopes of the Eastern Sierras on a long drive north to the Black Rock desert for Burning Man. (Another planet worth visiting.) Over the holiday weekend, we spun in the outer orbits of decadent spontaneity as the playa dust and California smoke slipped into our bloodstream. Northward-bound again, this time in a jet, I see that the Yosemite fire is still billowing. Thousands of feet above the flames a white cauliflower head rises suspended in a lavender-gray expanse of airborne trees and critters. Their remains travel far to the Arctic Circle.