1985 : at nightfall,
I watch the beautiful western crater explosions from the wall
farthest down from the summit, near the Schiarra del Fuocco. All
of a sudden, a huge bull of lighting fills up my viewfinder and
thousands of bombs are hurled down between the edge of the crater
and the walls with a terrifying, deafening blast ; some of them
whistl past me within inches from my head. I take this picture
only a few seconds later, when I was still shaming a little from
Some Germans are staring incredously at a horribly magnificent
bomb which shines with its deadly heat within 3 feet from their
tent. Then, they set off, looking vainly for their dog, who has
run away howling into the night. I don't really feel like peeking
over the Devil's mouths anymore.
1994 : it had been
decades since the Stromboli had been as active as it was in 1994.
A dozen mouths,at least, following their own internal rhytm and,
more often than not, simultaneously.
A nice raspberry coloured lava frantically overflowed
from a huge hornito in a disorderly awy ; a tiny window at its
base let bombs out. The day after, it turned into a mouth which
was tens of feet wide ; it looked like a cylopean eye which hurled
bunches of bombs staight upward every 2 or 3 seconds.
Repeatedly, during the night, it got jammed for a few
seconds and then emptied itself with a terrifying howling noise.
You could tell how shrill it was by counting how many
bewildered faces were popping out their sleeping-bags...