Images: All images taken on the slopes of Mt. Etna, SicilyMay 12 Etna
My love affair with Mount Etna continues. I do not know what it is, but she fascinates me more than any other landscape we have seen. She doesn't rise up, she towers, she broods, she surveys and rules all that she sees. The mood of the people is set by her. Today, we went to pay a foot and a homage to her majesty.
You have to understand that Etna is a living, active volcano. You can see the plumes of steam and sulfur dioxide rising hundreds of metres into the air. She spews rocks. One shattered the windshield of a jetliner flying thousands of feet above. She erupted in 2002, and in spectacular fashion in 1992, with rivers of orange rock running down her flanks. She gushed hot molten rock at the rate of thirty cubic yards per second. That is five dumptruck loads per second. Five miles from its source, the magma was still moving down at a rate of a foot and a half per hour and only stopped when its temperature dropped to 1,000 degrees. By that time the molten river was 20 feet high and a hundred feet across.
So today we drove up Etna, 10,824 feet above sea level. It was 26 degrees C when we started up, and we sang out the numbers on our car thermometer as we climbed like the countdown to New Year's. Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three; each km would slice another degree off.
As our little diesel car climbed, the scenery changed. The hills became grey moonscapes dotted with waves crested green. Huge blackened cinder boulders had been strewn everywhere by an angry, giant hand.
After 30 minutes of driving almost straight up, we crested a hill to find what looked like a frontier town on Mars. Everything was covered in grey/black volcanic ash, with very little vegetation to be seen. The thermometer read 10 degrees. Craters rose around us like fallen soufflés. Sightlines stretched to the sea, with all the Sicilian towns in between dotting the carpet of green that rolled to the water's edge.
We climbed a crater and looked down. There were no fences, and no warnings. Sicilians seem to think that a precipice with a drop of thousands of feet to the rocky valley below inspires its own cautionary message. I think they are right.
On the way down, we spotted a family (a “skulk?”, A “coven?” Barbara Lubert will know!) of foxes who had no problem at all with us photographing them.
Further on down, about 16 km from the top, we encountered an intrepid group of 50-somethings bicycling up Etna. Their 21-speed bikes were in first gear. I burst out laughing at the expression on the faces of some of them that could only be interpreted as “Who the Hell thought that this was going to be fun?” They still had 16 km to go. Straight up. Only Brian Layfield or John Harasym could possibly enjoy that.
On our return we stopped at a pasticceria to get some bread and dessert. Once inside we were accosted by a loud voice saying, “Hey where are you guys from??”
Seems that two New Yorkers had repatriated to Sicily, where their parents were from, and opened a bakery. Joseph and Anthony DiPasquale, of “My Way” (think Blue Eyes) Pasticceria were a breath of fresh air, and we spent about 30 minutes chatting about their adventures and ours while Anthony made us fresh cannoli.
They also told us that Etna had erupted last night and put on a beautiful show of fireworks in the evening. Had we stayed in our mountain home, we would have seen it.....
My love affair with Mount Etna continues. I do not know what it is, but she fascinates me more than any other landscape we have seen. She doesn't rise up, she towers, she broods, she surveys and rules all that she sees. The mood of the people is set by her. Today, we went to pay a foot and a homage to her majesty.
You have to understand that Etna is a living, active volcano. You can see the plumes of steam and sulfur dioxide rising hundreds of metres into the air. She spews rocks. One shattered the windshield of a jetliner flying thousands of feet above. She erupted in 2002, and in spectacular fashion in 1992, with rivers of orange rock running down her flanks. She gushed hot molten rock at the rate of thirty cubic yards per second. That is five dumptruck loads per second. Five miles from its source, the magma was still moving down at a rate of a foot and a half per hour and only stopped when its temperature dropped to 1,000 degrees. By that time the molten river was 20 feet high and a hundred feet across.
So today we drove up Etna, 10,824 feet above sea level. It was 26 degrees C when we started up, and we sang out the numbers on our car thermometer as we climbed like the countdown to New Year's. Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three; each km would slice another degree off.
As our little diesel car climbed, the scenery changed. The hills became grey moonscapes dotted with waves crested green. Huge blackened cinder boulders had been strewn everywhere by an angry, giant hand.
After 30 minutes of driving almost straight up, we crested a hill to find what looked like a frontier town on Mars. Everything was covered in grey/black volcanic ash, with very little vegetation to be seen. The thermometer read 10 degrees. Craters rose around us like fallen soufflés. Sightlines stretched to the sea, with all the Sicilian towns in between dotting the carpet of green that rolled to the water's edge.
We climbed a crater and looked down. There were no fences, and no warnings. Sicilians seem to think that a precipice with a drop of thousands of feet to the rocky valley below inspires its own cautionary message. I think they are right.
On the way down, we spotted a family (a “skulk?”, A “coven?” Barbara Lubert will know!) of foxes who had no problem at all with us photographing them.
Further on down, about 16 km from the top, we encountered an intrepid group of 50-somethings bicycling up Etna. Their 21-speed bikes were in first gear. I burst out laughing at the expression on the faces of some of them that could only be interpreted as “Who the Hell thought that this was going to be fun?” They still had 16 km to go. Straight up. Only Brian Layfield or John Harasym could possibly enjoy that.
On our return we stopped at a pasticceria to get some bread and dessert. Once inside we were accosted by a loud voice saying, “Hey where are you guys from??”
Seems that two New Yorkers had repatriated to Sicily, where their parents were from, and opened a bakery. Joseph and Anthony DiPasquale, of “My Way” (think Blue Eyes) Pasticceria were a breath of fresh air, and we spent about 30 minutes chatting about their adventures and ours while Anthony made us fresh cannoli.
They also told us that Etna had erupted last night and put on a beautiful show of fireworks in the evening. Had we stayed in our mountain home, we would have seen it.....
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