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It’s 3:30am and the sky is liquorice black, except for the silvery glow of the moon and pinprick of shimmering stars. Rather than being sensibly asleep, I’m standing at the foot of Mount Batur, one of Bali’s active volcanoes with my husband Craig, ready to tackle the sunrise hike. And I’m worried. It’s not the thought of Mount Batur suddenly erupting beneath my feet that plagues my mind, although that is a concern. I’m debating whether my adequate fitness levels are up for the challenge, since my last serious hike was over a decade ago, climbing Borneo’s Mount Kinabalu. Fortunately, at 1,717 metres, Mount Batur may not be Bali’s tallest volcano, but it is one of the most accessible. Breathing in the cool night air, we begin our two-hour trek, our torches illuminating the unknown path ahead as we tread carefully along a gravel track. Suddenly, a bright beam of light flashes behind us and the eerie silence is broken by the scuttering of a motorbike struggling its way uphill. I immediately wonder, if a motorbike can’t reach the top, how will I? Fortunately, the driver springs the engine back to life as it spurts its way upwards and we follow in its dusty tracks. Higher up, we reach a fork in the path beckoning us to make a decision. Go left and climb the easier, but longer route, or go right for a steep slog through the thick forest of eucalyptus and pine trees. “If you’re looking for a challenge, you should go right” suggests Wayan, our Balinese guide who has tackled this climb dozens of times and has yet to break a sweat. Tempted by his words, we continue right, our breathing becoming heavier as we scramble around in the dark, tripping over twisted tree roots before our path turns into a steep slope of slippery gravel. Wishing I was wearing a headlamp rather than holding a torch, I follow in Wayan’s footsteps, leaping over rocks and clambering up jagged boulders. I’m not sure whether this ominous darkness is a blessing or a curse, as I concentrate on staying upright, my cheeks burning red and my back trickling with sweat. Suddenly, I lose my footing, and I know this is going to hurt. Before my face ploughs into the abyss of rocky darkness, Wayan catches my arm and breaks my fall. I mutter a grateful ‘thank you’ before graciously accepting his hand, all thoughts of tackling the volcano independently long forgotten as I appreciate his strong arm tugging me up the sketchy parts of the unseen mountain. Ahead, twinkling torchlight catches my attention. We’re almost there. As the heavy fog of darkness begins to lift, we round the final corner and come face to face with thrilled hikers who have already summited, greeting us with friendly "hello’s". Slumping down on a simple wooden bench, I’m paralysed with emotion as the charcoal black sky fades and unveils a blood red and burnt orange sun peeking over the horizon, spreading its hues like a dripping watercolour painting. Wispy clouds break away, revealing Lake Batur, an enormous volcanic crater lake reflecting the colours of daybreak. To our right, Mount Agung, Bali’s most sacred peak, dubbed the ‘Mother Mountain’ stands proud at 3,031 metres above sea level, still smoking from its eruption a week ago. We fill our growling stomachs with banana sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, freshly cooked by Wayan in the hot volcanic steam vents, before walking single file around the crater’s precarious ridge. Wary of the devilish drops to our left and right, we nervously peer into the steep, rocky caldera, covered in long grasses and rugged shrubs and watch the volcanic steam rise. In the distance, we spot the dark grey, crumbly lava flows from the 1968 and 1974 eruptions, the land still desolate. The people all gone. It’s only whilst descending the zig-zag path that I appreciate the true scale of Mount Batur, and smile at my success. Tracing the outline of Mount Agung, Wayan describes its challenging seven-hour climb, aimed at the serious climber. Temptation has already won, as I silently recite the words of John Muir, “the mountains are calling and I must go.”