The TV crews were looking for suitable sound bites from travelers booking their one-day hikes up Villarrica, an active volcano in Chile that had decided to erupt that day. All I could say in Spanish was “bueno,” which somehow made it onto the national news that night.

I had no idea what the reporter was asking, but it must have been along the lines of, “Don’t you think you’re being a little stupid to climb an erupting volcano?” To which my answer translated as, “Yes.”

Hiking up Villarrica, located 20 miles (32 km) from the Chilean lakeside resort town of Pucón, has been a popular activity for 22 years, since William Hatcher first offered guided tours up the volcano’s steep, snowy slopes. Today there are more than 18 operators in the small town, some of dubious quality when it comes to equipment or safety.

Pucón is cabin country, located in the Lake District, where many Chileans like to go for fishing, rafting and geothermal hot springs. The volcano, on the other hand, draws international travelers like moths to a lava lamp.

I rejoiced at the summit before retreating, the mountain’s roar ringing in my ears.

“The Chileans come for the lake, the gringos for the volcano, and neither seems to want the other [diversion],” says William in his indistinguishable accent, a cross between U.S. English and Latin American “Spanglish.”

Like me, everyone I meet has come for the volcano, and discovered Pucón’s other attractions almost by accident.

Subsequently, a weekend outing turns into a week filled with river rafting, tree-canopy exploring, horseback riding and lazing about in beautiful, social thermal springs. But at 9,383 feet (2860 m), the volcano looms in the distance like Mount Doom, glowing pink in the afternoon sun like an ice-cream cone.

The morning I decide to hike the volcano, the front page of the local newspaper shows people running from the rim as lava erupts from the crater. William thinks the authorities are being ridiculous. “Every time it grumbles they go crazy,” he says. Villarrica has only seriously grumbled three times in the last 50 years, and not to a level that has ever threatened the town of Pucón.

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With this in mind, I saw no reason not to strap up and take a look-see for myself. William’s company, Sol y Nieve, was guiding a group the next day, along with every other operator in town. Rumors persisted that government authorities were restricting hikers from reaching the crater, but like the weather, we’d have to see on the day itself. That night I dreamed of making a premature exit at the hands of an angry mountain, aided in no small part by trucks backfiring on the main road outside my window.

We left early in the morning, supplied with waterproof clothing, razor-sharp crampons, backpacks, ice picks and a protective helmet should we be immersed in lava. I felt in capable hands, as our guide, Oscar, had been hiking Villarrica for ten years, and is a member of the Chilean National Rescue Team. The bus dropped us off at the bottom, where we hitched a ride on a ski lift, taking an hour off the ascent.