Mount Nyiragongo in the Democratic Republic of Congo keeps a lava lake simmering at its summit like some kind of planetary mood ring. And people camp there.
Not just scientists in fireproof suits—actual tourists who pay approximately $300 for the privilege of sleeping 600 feet above molten rock that occasionally decides to drain through the mountain’s flanks and chase people through the city of Goma. This happened in 2002, killing 147 people. It happened again in 2021, sending 400,000 residents scrambling. But the camping permits? Still available.
When Your Sleeping Bag Costs Less Than the Insurance Nobody Offers
Here’s the thing about active volcanoes: they’re not particularly interested in your vacation schedule. Mount Etna in Sicily has erupted roughly 200 times since records began, and yet the refuges on its slopes—wooden huts that smell like sulfur and optimism—stay booked solid during summer months. Climbers ascend to 10,900 feet, pitch tents on volcanic ash that’s sometimes still warm, and wake up to Strombolian eruptions launching incandescent tephra into the Mediterranean sky.
The Italian authorities close the summit zones during active phases. Mostly.
Turns out the definition of “active phase” gets delightfully flexible when tourism revenue is involed. Mount Etna generates approximately €1 billion annually for Sicily’s economy, so there’s considerable motivation to interpret seismic data optimistically. The volcano has been in a state of continuous eruption since 2011, but guided tours continue, threading between fresh lava flows like geological jaywalking.
The Cheerful Insanity of Sleeping on Guatemala’s Acatenango
Acatenango sits next to Volcán de Fuego, which translates to “Volcano of Fire” because Guatemalans are pragmatists. Fuego erupts every 15 to 20 minutes—not metaphorically, not eventually, but right now while you’re reading this sentence. It’s one of Central America’s most active volcanoes, and Acatenango’s summit camps offer front-row seats to explosions that hurl lava bombs 1,000 meters into the air.
The hike takes six hours through cloud forest that gives way to volcanic moonscape. At 13,045 feet, temperatures drop to near freezing while Fuego performs its pyroclastic theater across the valley. Tour operators provide tents, sleeping bags, and hot chocolate. They do not provide escape plans for pyroclastic flows, which can travel at 450 mph and incinerate everything within miles.
Wait—maybe that’s the appeal?
In June 2018, Fuego killed 194 people during an eruption that buried entire villages under superheated ash. The camping tours resumed within months. Risk assessment apparently operates on a different timescale when you’re dealing with mountains that have been exploding for 400,000 years.
Why People Pay Money to Sleep on Geology’s Anger Issues
Iceland’s Fagradalsfjall erupted in 2021 after 800 years of silence, and within days it became the country’s hottest tourist attraction—literally. Thousands hiked across fresh lava fields, some camping overnight on ground so hot it melted their boot soles. The Icelandic authorities erected rope barriers, which people ignored with impressive consistency, occasionally falling through the cooled crust into molten pockets beneath.
The volcano became a selfie background. A marriage proposal location. A place where someone flew a drone directly into the lava fountain for footage that admittedly looked incredible before the drone vaporized.
The Mathematics of Sleeping Near Things That Want to Kill You
Volcanologists use the Volcanic Explosivity Index, which ranges from 0 to 8, to measure eruption magnitude. Most campable volcanoes operate at VEI 1 or 2—frequent small eruptions that make for spectacular photos and minimal mortality. Probably. The statistics get murky because “died while camping on an active volcano” isn’t a category most countries track rigorously.
Mount Yasur in Vanuatu holds the distinction of being the world’s most accessible active volcano. You can drive to the rim, where explosions occur every few minutes, launching volcanic bombs that occasionally land on the parking lot. The local tour operators have a casual relationship with safety protocols that would give Western insurance adjusters cardiac episodes. But the camping? Absolutely magnificent, assuming you enjoy the sound of the Earth’s crust rupturing 400 meters from your tent.
What Happens When the Mountain Decides Enough Is Enough
The truth is, most volcanic campgrounds exist because the mountains tolerate them. Nyiragongo’s lava lake has drained catastrophically only twice in recent history. Etna’s eruptions mostly follow predictable patterns. Fuego’s explosions rarely exceed its normal temper tantrums.
Until they don’t.
The people who camp on these geological time bombs aren’t ignorant—they’re making calculated bets that the volcano will maintain its current behavior for precisely the duration of their visit. It’s not stupidity; it’s statistical optimism applied to molten rock. And sometimes, when the sunrise illuminates Fuego’s ash plume from your freezing tent on Acatenango’s summit, the mathematics almost make sense.
