Blowing off some steam

By BOB MARRIOTT

The Bay of Plenty lies like a sheet of ruffled blue silk as we head for the horizon. Whakatane and the sun-blessed coast fall astern as we pass the dark hump of Whale Island. Our destination is White Island, one of the country's most active volcanoes.

A plume of steam hangs like an enormous feather above the island, the craggy cliffs jutting stark against a cloudless sky. Seabirds wheel overhead as the boat cruises in to drop anchor, rocking gently in a quiet inlet just off a small stony beach.

Our guides, Ben and Lani, wear pink hard hats to distinguish them from us tourists, who are equally conspicuous in bright yellow headgear. Lani, a dark-haired young woman, does the talking.

The boat cannot get any closer so we prepare to go ashore in an inflatable dinghy. By the time I arrive on shore the first group has gone on ahead with their guide and are now silhouetted against the rim of the crater, miniature figures against the towering walls.

The roar and hiss of escaping steam and gas increases as we move across the dusty, windblown landscape. Totally devoid of vegetation, it's my idea of an alien planet. The noise never ceases - at some points making conversation difficult. The ground is uneven and boulder-strewn. A thought crosses my mind that if the unthinkable happens and rocks this size are suddenly flung around by our hot-tempered host, my hard hat is not likely to be of much use.

Stopping at a large uneven depression, Lani tells us the crater used to be much deeper. "But now there is no lake and any rainwater drains off into the main crater. "They call this part of the crater 'Donald Duck'. Don't ask me why," she laughs. "Scientists give them the names, not us."

We move higher to where the path peters out at the edge of the drop. Lani points to cracks in the ground. The earth is quite soft and it crumbles away fairly easily. It's quite shallow and we must be careful.

"If you fall over there ... " Lani doesn't bother to finish the sentence, and peering apprehensively over the rim it needs little imagination on our part. The main crater is about 300m across and about 40m deep, taking it well below sea level.

Sheer walls drop to the crater lake that fills most of the base. The surface is as flat as a mirror and gleaming an ominous copper bronze in the sunlight. On the far side, ghostly clouds of acrid vapour issue from smaller cavities, drifting across the chasm, sometimes billowing in the wind and almost blotting out the evil-looking stretch of water. From a smaller crater a roaring jet of steam and gas soars above the sheer wall towering over 300m at the rear, dramatically etched against the skyline. Gazing into the cauldron, I suppress an involuntary shudder, yet this place has a strange, haunting beauty I am reluctant to leave.

A maze of fumaroles, with brilliant yellow sulphur-encrusted outlets, bubble and roar in uncontrolled fury. A gust of wind sends the steam towards us and, caught without my mask, acrid vapour burns my nose and throat. Coughing and wheezing I make my way back to the path.

In the remains of the old factory buildings, rusting, crumbling machinery fights a losing battle against the acid air. The concrete walls crack and disintegrate as the reinforcing rods fall apart. Wooden beams of Oregon pine brought at some stage from Canada withstand the corrosive atmosphere and the elements better than the metal.

A small solar panel powers equipment that faces the steam jet in the main crater, recording the eruption every half-hour and placing the results on the internet every hour.

Yet modern science is powerless if nature decides to take its own course. Lani points out two rectangular boxes set high on the cliff.

"They are solar panels to supply electricity to other recording instruments, but at the last big eruption they didn't work."

As we board the inflatable for a swift run back to the boat, the sun ignites the crater wall in a multi-hued blaze of glory. Several tourists, revelling in the warmth after a northern winter, are swimming and snorkelling in the quiet waters of the bay.

Heading for the mainland, the movement of the boat - PeeJay - lulls tired passengers to sleep. In silent wonder I watch the silhouette against an azure sky, defiantly emitting vapour clouds from its seething crater. Then White Island slips out of sight as a dying sun sends shards of burnished gold across the water.

White Island