The butterfly seemed anachronistic; brilliant colors and joyful fluttering against the blackness of Mount Etna’s burial ground. The hills smell of char, burnt earth and communities long ago swallowed up by its outpouring. 

Etna’s name is derived from the Phoenician word ‘attuna’, meaning furnace or chimney.  It remains one of the most active volcanoes in the world, the latest eruption occurring in 2012.  Situated on the northeastern side of the island of Sicily, the awesome Mount Etna is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  Its gaping, burping maw is often crowned in clouds, allowing the briefest glimpse by tourists willing to spend the day and their dollars being transported to the top in all-terrain vehicles by dull guides with shallow information, their hands constantly outstretched for tips.

Instead, we allowed ourselves to be guided by the brilliant book Walking In Sicily written by a Brit (the finest walkers), Gillian Price.  We hiked Mount Etna for hours without encountering another soul; a sweaty, steep, slow incline through lovely new growth forest and into blindingly bright clearings of hardened, shiny black lava the size of tall buildings washed down the side of the mountain.   Standing at the base of this blackness in Sicily’s unyielding sun, I was overcome with a sense of unease.  Mount Etna is otherworldly, spooky.  A weird energy emanates from its territory, as often noted by the assorted new age hippies attracted to the area.

The ever-present sooty ash is a constant reminder of Nature’s callous ability to wipe away and start anew; indeed, the volcanic soils left behind are incredibly fertile.  Stunning vineyards and orchards are spread wide across the lower belly of the mountain giant.  Soils the color of night burst with productivity; some very fine wines from unfamiliar varietals are produced here.  Honey from small family farms, high quality pistachios, and vivid green extra virgin olive oils all hail from this mountain’s cataclysm. 

I have learned to be cognizant of time when traveling in many Mediterranean countries: most shops open from 9-1 and re-open from 5-7.   Italian breakfast consists of coffee, pastry and a cigarette and restaurants serve lunch from 1-3.  Fucking period.  If you don’t eat then, you’re munching on car snacks until dinner is served after 8pm.  We rushed down from our mountain hike in order to score a late lunch at a nearby restaurant.  The place reminded me of a newly constructed Sonoma winery built by gobs of recently acquired wealth:  lots of tile and glass and reclaimed wood with freshly planted grasses and olive trees and the requisite fountains.

We sat in the garden under a canopy, Mount Etna’s ever-changing weather suddenly showering us with a summer rain.  We listened to the rumble of thunder as we gorged on antipasti of fiery roasted red peppers with garlic, cured meaty green olives, baked cipollini onions in vinegar, hearty sheep’s milk cheeses, and local salumi laced with silken lardo.  We slated our thirst with artisanal beers from southern Sicily poured from enormous bottles under the ever-threatening gaze of glorious Mount Etna.