This series features some of the colors of my life, of feeling, of articulation.
The long sorrow of the color RED... - Naomi Shihab Nye
I'm thinking about an exciting trip I’ve had before.
This one is code red, sort of, and can go all Dante's Peak (look it up on Netflix) where the inhabitants fight to survive a volcanic eruption.
Have I given you enough of a hint?
Are you ready?
Are you set?
Hubby and I have just settled in a rustic inn at the foot of the Arenal Volcano in Costa Rica. It's actually deceptively peaceful. I can hear the croo-ak of the frogs and the chirping crickets.
But out the window, silhouetted against the darkness, is the most uncanny view I'd ever seen - the glowing summit of a cone-shaped mountain looming large and ominous at 5,437 feet over the pastured green hillsides that surround its base.
Surreal, isn't it?
Scorching red lava is flowing down its sides scattering tiny points of fiery brightness. It looks like a phosphorescent rivulet gliding and burning through the darkness. Plumes of ash are rising from its pinnacle. It's like the rupture of fireworks bursting defiantly over the land. You can't miss it, even if you are out and about and down the street.
By bike.
By car.
By rocket ship?
I bet you can see it from outer space. Or maybe not.
Guess what I'm thinking? We're crazy to be here.
Arenal has remained the country’s most active volcano for the past 43 years with an average of 41 eruptions per day. Yes, being here may not be such a good idea.
I stare at it, speechless. My mouth opens and shuts and opens again without squeezing out a single word. And would you believe what we dared to do at daylight the following day? We hiked closer to the foot of the rumbling giant.
Nuts, right?
We can feel it. It's restless, alive, smelling like sulfur. With our every footstep, I seem to hear Death walking with us, chuckling softly in its throat. It's shapeless yet it hangs over everything. It's grinning, yet joyless and hollow-eyed.
Death the insatiable.
Death the implacable.
We shouldn't be here.
I can call to mind the story of the 87 or so people who were trapped underneath its ashes in a previous eruption, the quiet lament from the three small villages buried below.
Something is tumbling around in my mind. I'm playing, What if? What if the most powerful disaster of all is awaiting us, just around the corner?
Today.
Or in our sleep.
Tomorrow, perhaps?
The one that will be written about in poems and odes and all the missing third verses of hymns everywhere.
The one that will be passed down from generation to generation in hushed tones and whispers.
It has been nothing but a day of ill winds and the sorrow of an eternally-sizzling red-hot fire.
We should get out of here.
Spoiler alert: We managed to not kill ourselves on this trip.
This one is code red, sort of, and can go all Dante's Peak (look it up on Netflix) where the inhabitants fight to survive a volcanic eruption.
Have I given you enough of a hint?
Are you ready?
Are you set?
Hubby and I have just settled in a rustic inn at the foot of the Arenal Volcano in Costa Rica. It's actually deceptively peaceful. I can hear the croo-ak of the frogs and the chirping crickets.
But out the window, silhouetted against the darkness, is the most uncanny view I'd ever seen - the glowing summit of a cone-shaped mountain looming large and ominous at 5,437 feet over the pastured green hillsides that surround its base.
Surreal, isn't it?
Scorching red lava is flowing down its sides scattering tiny points of fiery brightness. It looks like a phosphorescent rivulet gliding and burning through the darkness. Plumes of ash are rising from its pinnacle. It's like the rupture of fireworks bursting defiantly over the land. You can't miss it, even if you are out and about and down the street.
By bike.
By car.
By rocket ship?
I bet you can see it from outer space. Or maybe not.
Guess what I'm thinking? We're crazy to be here.
Arenal has remained the country’s most active volcano for the past 43 years with an average of 41 eruptions per day. Yes, being here may not be such a good idea.
I stare at it, speechless. My mouth opens and shuts and opens again without squeezing out a single word. And would you believe what we dared to do at daylight the following day? We hiked closer to the foot of the rumbling giant.
Nuts, right?
We can feel it. It's restless, alive, smelling like sulfur. With our every footstep, I seem to hear Death walking with us, chuckling softly in its throat. It's shapeless yet it hangs over everything. It's grinning, yet joyless and hollow-eyed.
Death the insatiable.
Death the implacable.
We shouldn't be here.
I can call to mind the story of the 87 or so people who were trapped underneath its ashes in a previous eruption, the quiet lament from the three small villages buried below.
Something is tumbling around in my mind. I'm playing, What if? What if the most powerful disaster of all is awaiting us, just around the corner?
Today.
Or in our sleep.
Tomorrow, perhaps?
The one that will be written about in poems and odes and all the missing third verses of hymns everywhere.
The one that will be passed down from generation to generation in hushed tones and whispers.
It has been nothing but a day of ill winds and the sorrow of an eternally-sizzling red-hot fire.
We should get out of here.
Spoiler alert: We managed to not kill ourselves on this trip.
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