Roughly 100 km off the coast of Africa, next to Morocco and Western Sahara, sit the Spanish Canary Islands. There are seven of them, all volcanic, and all very different. They are close too, and you can see some from others if you are high enough and if it is clear. The weather is perfect and the same no matter the season; the relaxed lifestyles that draws 12 million tourists a year make it hard to imagine the destructive magma flows and eruptions and landslides that created such an extraterrestrial landscape not even that long ago. The big one erupted last in 1909. Columbus saw, "a great fire in the Orotava Valley" as he sailed past Tenerife in 1492. The small island of Hierro was active in 2011. Thoughts like this as you stand 12,000 feet on Teide's peak, seeing everything in all directions, are like thoughts about Jellyfish while swimming in the ocean when you cannot feel the bottom. Every bubble starts to look hostile and you feel very out of control.
Months ago I decided to come here because I had never been to an island and had never seen a volcano. There were volcanos in Spain, and I didn't want to leave Spain, so it all worked and I passed on Mallorca. The German beaches and the discotecas of Ibiza are for another time, and it's better that way. I was drawn out into the Atlantic for nine days for some reason and I am glad I went.
I spent the first few days on the beach in the capital city. It was nice to unwind and swim and run along the water, but the coasts within las Palmas were far too easy and what most people would do. I needed to get into the mountains, because they were there, so I climbed higher than anyone else, to the highest municipality, and saw ocean on all sides and Tenerife in the distance.
The days in that small hostel on the side of the cliff were as simple as I have ever had. I cooked easy meals and at night I sat under an amazing set of stars, next to a delightful girl from Bavaria. A Swedish machine keen on escaping the terrible winters of his country took me on a two hour run one afternoon, up to the many places you cannot reach by car. I love the views you must work for, and we certainly worked for this one. The people at the top are in a common sort of bond, fit enough and wanting it badly enough to make it all happen. When I will not climb for a view, you know I am withering away.
An early morning bus took me off the mountain as the sun just started peaking above the clouds. I got on a ferry and went three hours across the ocean with the tall volcano on Tenerife beconing forward all the way. The next chapter, the next island, had arrived, but would quickly depart a few days later on a plane back to Seville.
A girl I know complained about the Canary Islands when she returned. She said she was expecting waterfalls and lakes and colorful parrots -- tropical Hawaiian paradises. Instead she got a dry and barren landscape that could be mars or the moon. For me it was exactly why I fell in love, and thats typical of me to like what other people hate.
My Swedish friend told me one night how much he hates seeing places. He lived in London and never once went to see Big Ben. He hates crowds and noises and cities, cathedrals and bridges and all the things you are supposed to see. He was not antisocial -- he just didn't need it -- and as we ran in silence, burning under the sun, I think our minds wandered to the same simple places alone on the trail.
I took a bus to Teide my last day in the Canaries, high above the clouds of Tenerife. It's the highest peak in Spain, and the third highest volcano in the world; it was the highest I had ever been in my life, really. The last 30 minutes of hiking to the crater was prohibited without a permit, so I hiked around to the other side where there were no people, left the designated trail, and crawled up until it got too steep. I sat back and closed my eyes and listened to how absolutely still and quiet it was and when I opened them I could see the curve of earth before me. My dad uses the word humbling a lot, and I think it was a good time to use it. I hugged the side of the volcano, slipping on volcanic rock, watching it descend into the clouds and islands and oceans below.
My cab driver said Teide is only sleeping. He made the motion with his hands and pretended to snore. Some say it could be another Vesuvius or Etna with all the small cities below. Humans flirt so much with disaster, but it is accompanied by the best of things. We make our choices in a great balancing act, or maybe we don't think at all.
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