I was thinking about our recent trip to Sicily.
And, more specifically, our excursion to Mount Etna.
We climbed it.
Well, sort of.
We made it to approximately 5,000 feet above sea level.
The summit is over 11,000 feet.
I know what you’re thinking.
Quitters.
But before you pass judgment, allow me to point out that we were climbing an active volcano.
One that had already demonstrated a rather inconvenient willingness to interfere with our travel plans.
And given our experience getting to Sicily, I wasn’t particularly interested in giving Etna another opportunity to rearrange our itinerary.
Especially one that might involve a helicopter.
Or a stretcher.
I’ve discovered something interesting about getting older.
My sense of adventure hasn’t diminished.
But my death wish has.
Considerably.
Still, walking the well-worn volcanic trails was as exciting as it was educational.
Our guide was a geologist.
An excellent choice, I thought, considering we were walking on a mountain that occasionally explodes.
I prefer my tour guides to have a working knowledge of what might kill me.
As we walked, he explained the geology of Etna, its eruptions, and the extraordinary forces responsible for creating this enormous mountain.
Etna is Europe’s tallest active volcano, and one of the most active volcanoes on Earth.
For hundreds of thousands of years, successive eruptions have deposited layers of lava, ash, and fragmented volcanic rock, building a mountain that continues to reshape itself.
Think about that.
A mountain that is still under construction.
And the contractor has absolutely no regard for zoning regulations.
Etna is also a UNESCO World Heritage Site, recognized for its extraordinary geological importance.
But standing there, listening to our guide, I found myself distracted by something else.
People.
Far in the distance, a long line of hikers was making its way along the crest of a steep, black volcanic ridge.
Single file.
Like ants marching toward a barbecue.
I raised my camera.
And suddenly, through the lens, I realized just how small they were.
And how enormous the mountain was.
It was a remarkable perspective.
Here were human beings, supposedly the most intelligent creatures on the planet, voluntarily climbing a steep pile of loose volcanic rock.
For recreation.
No food at the top.
No prize money.
Not even a cannolo.
Just the satisfaction of getting there.
And, presumably, the opportunity to walk all the way back down.
As we continued our own adventure, I began to appreciate the determination involved.
The ground was covered in places with loose volcanic gravel called scoria and other fragmented rock.
It shifted beneath our feet.
Sometimes a little.
Sometimes enough to remind you that gravity was not merely a theory.
People developed different strategies.
Some took tiny baby steps.
Others walked flat-footed, carefully distributing their weight to maintain traction.
A few held hands or steadied their companions.
And then there were those who marched confidently forward like Sergeant Preston of the Yukon.
Apparently oblivious to the possibility that the mountain might have a different opinion.
I watched one person carefully help another negotiate a particularly difficult section.
And that small gesture struck me.
Because there was something more important happening here than simply climbing a mountain.
There was cooperation.
Trust.
Determination.
Curiosity.
And a willingness to help someone else accomplish something difficult.
All against the backdrop of one of nature’s most powerful creations.
Above us, Etna disappeared into enormous billowing clouds.
Occasionally, wisps of volcanic gas and steam joined the clouds, reminding us that the mountain was very much alive.
The landscape was an extraordinary collection of blacks, browns, and muted greens.
Lava fields.
Volcanic cones.
Pine forests.
And slopes so vast that the people traversing them appeared almost insignificant.
Almost.
Because the more I watched those hikers, the more I began to think about what makes human beings remarkable.
We are curious creatures.
We explore places we have never seen.
We cross oceans.
We climb mountains.
We descend into caves.
We travel to the poles.
We have even walked on the Moon.
Not always because we need to.
But because we want to know what’s there.
Of course, other animals explore, cooperate, solve problems, and demonstrate extraordinary intelligence.
But humans have developed an astonishing ability to combine curiosity, imagination, knowledge, and cooperation to venture far beyond the environments in which we evolved.
We imagine a destination.
We make a plan.
We convince a few friends that it’s a good idea.
And then we set off.
Sometimes without fully appreciating what we’ve gotten ourselves into.
Sound familiar?
Standing on Etna, I thought about the generations of Sicilians who have lived beneath this extraordinary mountain.
For them, Etna is more than a geological phenomenon.
It is part of their identity.
A source of fertile soil, a powerful influence on the landscape, and a constant reminder that nature ultimately makes the rules.
Yet people continue to live, farm, build, and raise families on its slopes.
And visitors like us continue to arrive from around the world, eager to experience its magnificence.
Why?
Perhaps because we are drawn to things that remind us how small we are.
The ocean.
The night sky.
An ancient forest.
A mountain that reaches into the clouds.
They put our lives into perspective.
They remind us that the world is much larger than our daily concerns.
And sometimes, they inspire us to become a little larger ourselves.
I looked once more at those tiny hikers making their way along the ridge.
One careful step after another.
No shortcuts.
No guarantees.
Just the determination to keep moving forward.
And I realized that the most impressive thing in my photograph wasn’t the enormous mountain.
It was the tiny people climbing it.
Because while nature gives us mountains, human curiosity gives us the desire to climb them.
And compassion gives us the good sense to reach back and help the next person along.
As for me?
Five thousand feet was quite enough.
Besides, I had another important Sicilian summit to conquer.
Dinner.
And unlike Mount Etna, I was reasonably confident there would be a cannolo waiting at the top.
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