Thi thử VSTEP online 10 reading test 2 part 1

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 1

No one travels alone to the hottest place on Earth. You need, for starters, a driver and a Jeep stocked with water and four days of non-perishable food. There are no places to lodge or dine in this desert, so you'll need space for beds and someone who knows how to cook. And finally, because a journey like this costs many thousands of dollars, you'll need some fellow travelers to split the bill - the sort of people who like to fry themselves on vacation.

My father is the easiest recruit. Dad, who naps best roasting in the afternoon sun, is a lover of extreme heat. He's also an extreme traveler, drawn to the fringes of places, all the countries where no one vacations. From my father, I've inherited both tendencies: I'm known for getting bright pink sunburns, and also for stalking the edges of maps. The Danakil desert lies on the fringes of several countries, which claim a sliver of this sweltering, low-lying desert, named the cruelest place on earth. I don't have to mention this to my father - not the endless salt flats, lakes the bright color of mouthwash, or camels by the thousands. When dad starts calling this desert 'the frying pan', I know he's in.

We enlist three more people and in Mekele, the starting place for our voyage, we merge with four others. We fill five Jeeps and have nothing in common but a love of travel, and a willingness to sweat for it. The Jeeps plunge down mountains for hours. The heat, of course, is brutal. I remind myself this is just a warm-up. The real heat won't strike until we reach the sizzling edge of the frying pan, an uninhabited region, roughly 130 meters below sea level, called Dallol, which holds the record for the highest average annual temperature: 94 degrees.
As we continue, sand gives way to salt, and soon we're in a landscape of white crystals glinting in the fresh morning light. The ground is miraculously flat. Our driver, who has been battling fine sand, cannot resist the urge to go for it. We surge ahead of the other cars in what looks like a Jeep race across some frozen lake. Suddenly, in the pure white expanse, a huge brown mound appears. We're ordered by our guides to find a full liter of bottled water, and to bring it with us up the lumpy brown mountain.

At the summit, I find my travel mates standing in a kind of silent daydream. Astonished, they crouch down beside pale green toadstools - mineral formations whose glossy tabletops are smooth as marble. The hottest place on earth is an assault of color: yellow and deep rust, pea green and purple. Some of the formations look like coral reefs, others like egg shells, air-blown from the hot breath of the earth below. Everyone wanders off alone, crunching over the earth, heads down, staring at the ground and shaking their heads.
I know the ground is hot - you can even hear water boiling underground. Everywhere we step, things break and splinter. Just when I work up the nerve to step with force, the purple ground collapses beneath my foot. The sneaker I pull back out is covered in bright yellow stuff. You start to think: we really shouldn't be here. This desert wasn't built to handle a human intrusion, and the human body certainly wasn't built to handle this desert.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.

PASSAGE 2
Volcanoes are both creators and destroyers. They can shape lands and cultures, but can also cause great destruction and loss of life. Two of the best-known examples are found at opposite ends of the world, separated by the Pacific Ring of fire.

Japan’s Sacred Summit

Located in the center of Japan, Mount Fuji is a sacred site. Japan's native religion, Shintoism, considers Fuji a holy place. Other people believe the mountain and its waters have the power to make a sick person well. For many, climbing Fuji is also a rite of passage. Some do it as part of a religious journey; for others, it is a test of strength. Whatever their reason, reaching the top in order to stand on Fuji's summit at sunrise is a must for many Japanese – and every July and August, almost 400,000 people attempt to do so.

Fuji is more than a sacred site and tourist destination, however. It is also an active volcano around which four million people have settled, and sits just 112 kilometers (70 miles) from the crowded streets of Tokyo. The last time Fuji exploded, in 1707, it sent out a cloud of ash that covered the capital city and darkened the skies for weeks. [A]

Today, new data have some volcanologists concerned that Fuji may soon erupt again. According to Motoo Ukawa and his associates at the National Research Institute for Earth Science and Disaster Prevention, there has been an increase in activity under Fuji recently, which may be caused by low-frequency earthquakes. Understanding what causes these quakes may help scientists predict when Fuji, the largest of Japan's 86 active volcanoes, will come back to life. In the meantime, locals living near Fuji hold special festivals each year to offer gifts to the goddess of the volcano – as they have for generations – so that she will not erupt and destroy the land and its people below.

Mexico’s Smoking Mountain

Halfway across the globe from Fuji, El Popo – one of the world's tallest and most dangerous active volcanoes – stands just 60 kilometers (37 miles) southeast of Mexico City. Although the volcano has erupted many times over the centuries, scientists believe its last great eruption occurred around 820 A.D. In recent years, however, El Popo has been threatening to explode once more; in December 2000; almost 26,000 people were evacuated when it started to send out ash and smoke. As with all active volcanoes, the question is not if it will erupt again (an eruption is inevitable); the question is when it will happen. [B]

“Every volcano works in a different way,” explains Carlos Valdés González, a scientist who monitors El Popo. “What we're trying to learn here are the symptoms signaling that El Popo will erupt.” These include earthquakes, or any sign that the mountain's surface is changing or expanding. The hope is that scientists will be able to warn people in the surrounding areas so they have enough time to escape. A powerful eruption could displace over 20 million people – people whose lives can be saved if the warning is delivered early enough. [C]

For many people living near El Popo – especially the farmers – abandoning their land is unthinkable. As anyone who farms near a volcano knows, the world's richest soils are volcanic. They produce bananas and coffee in Central America, fine wines in California, and enormous amounts of rice in Indonesia. [D] People who live near El Popo consider it as a god, a mountain, and a human all at the same time and present their offerings, asking the volcano to protect and provide for one more season.