And then, the clouds parted...

As soon as the clouds parted, I left my cozy spot in front of the wood stove, donned my boots, and grabbed my camera. The five of us had already settled in with our glasses of wine before dinner and hadn't anticipated doing more than listening to podcasts referencing Obama's state of the union address or savoring a meal of pork chops and stir fried cabbage and noodles. Standing on the lawn, I noticed the white shoulder of the smoldering mountain I had heard so much about. I asked Roger, "Is that Volcan Villarica?"



One minute later, Grandma Norma, Caren, Roger, Will and I were piled in the Subaru, camera in one hand and wine glasses in the other, hurdling down the narrow gravel driveway toward the flood swollen river bed where we could snap photos and catch glimpses of the volcano just before the sunset peaked. We hadn't gotten more than a minute to glimpse the volcano's alluring peak when Roger, seized by an ecstatic frenzy fueled by the desire to show us how stunning the scenery is in Pucon, ordered us back into the car and we positively flew up an even smaller gravel road, swerving around engine block crushing boulders. Roger was determined as hell to whip around the mountainside before the sun fully set so we could see the looming snow covered volcano contrasted against the lush pinnacles, volcanic rocks, and colorful lichen. We missed the sunset by mere minutes, but we're dearly rewarded with the sight of the moonrise.


This was the photo I took along the river, before rounding the mountain to move closer.

Despite the nearly complete darkness, The volcano, no longer shrouded by clouds, never disappeared from sight. It's perfectly conical white peak was illuminated by the hazy dusk reflecting off the snow.