I’d been reading about Masaya Volcano for the last few days. There’s a hiking path to the rim, but there’s also a paved road that lets you drive straight to the top. That detail alone dulled my curiosity. If I can reach the summit in a car, the hike loses its meaning.

We left later in the afternoon, crawling up the mountain in a van, sitting in traffic with everyone else hoping to see the glow. By now, the patterns were familiar. Volcanic soil that radiates heat. Steam seeping out of cracks in the ground. Black sand stretching in every direction. Every volcano has its own personality, but they all share the same warning signs that you’re standing on something powerful with the potential to blow at any moment.

A month earlier, this stop would have been a completely different experience. You could see the magma, glowing and churning just below the surface. Then it erupted. Now the lava has retreated deeper underground, out of sight, like a secret pulled back into the earth.

But timing still matters here.

At night, the volcano gives itself away. The crater breathes a deep red glow, subtle but unmistakable, a reminder that the fire never really leaves. You’re not watching lava flow, but you’re close enough to feel the presence of it, waiting.

Masaya isn’t about the climb. It’s about proximity. About standing at the edge of something active and alive, knowing that even when it looks quiet, it isn’t done.