Climbing the DRC's Nyiragongo Volcano

Standing on the Edge of the Earth

Mount Nyiragongo looks very much like a volcano in the storybook sense. It rises dramatically from the Virunga Mountains, just north of Goma, close enough to Rwanda that you can feel how little separates one country from the next. But beneath that calm exterior is something far more unsettling. Nyiragongo holds the largest open lava lake on the planet—a churning, molten cauldron that has risen and fallen by hundreds of meters over time, carving enormous terraces into the crater walls. It’s beautiful in the way only something genuinely dangerous can be.

The volcano sits inside Virunga National Park, one of Africa’s oldest and most biologically rich protected areas—and one of its most troubled. Virunga is home to mountain gorillas, dense forests, lava fields, and armed groups that have operated in the region for decades. Rangers are routinely killed protecting the park. Tourism exists, but it does so in the shadow of insurgency, smuggling routes, and a fragile state presence. You don’t forget where you are—not for a second.

In July 2018, while working out of the UNDP office in Kigali, I decided to take a long weekend and cross the border into the Democratic Republic of Congo. It was one of the few African countries I hadn’t yet visited, despite years of travel on the continent. I’d climbed Mount Kilimanjaro three times—a dormant volcano, majestic but essentially asleep. Nyiragongo was very much awake. That was the appeal.

I traveled from Kigali the day before and spent the night near the border. Early the next morning, I crossed at Grande Barrière, where the Virunga tourism team met me on the Congolese side (see this page to organize your own visit). Permits were checked, logistics sorted, and before long we were driven to the Kibati Ranger Post—the starting point of the climb. I joined a small group of hikers, and we set off late in the morning, accompanied by armed park rangers. Their presence was reassuring, but also a reminder that this wasn’t a casual hike.

Armed Virunga National Park rangers escort us up Mount Nyiragongo—part protectors, part guardians of one of the most volatile landscapes on Earth, where conservation, conflict, and raw geology collide.

The ascent is relentless. It begins in dense forest, the air heavy and green, with occasional glimpses of monkeys and antelope darting through the trees. Higher up, the forest thins and the views open out—Lake Kivu far below, the patchwork of hills stretching toward Rwanda. Then the terrain changes again, turning into old lava flows and steaming fissures, the ground underfoot sharp and uneven. The final stretch is a steep push straight up to the rim, legs burning, lungs working overtime.

By the time we reached the summit, I was exhausted. The crater itself was mostly hidden in daylight, veiled by thick white smoke pouring out of the depths. You could sense something immense below you, but not quite see it. There were a handful of simple huts perched along the rim—one serving as a kitchen and dining area, the others as sleeping quarters. Temperatures dropped quickly once the sun went down.

And then night fell.

That’s when Nyiragongo revealed itself. As darkness settled, the smoke thinned just enough for the glow to break through. The crater lit up from below, a deep, pulsing red, the lava lake churning far beneath our feet. What had been invisible during the day suddenly illuminated everything—the crater walls, the steam, the faces of the hikers standing silently at the edge. It felt less like looking at a volcano and more like staring straight into the planet’s core.

Nyiragongo’s lava lake after dark—an open wound in the Earth, burning bright orange beneath a cold night sky, reminding you just how thin the crust is between solid ground and molten chaos.

I stayed up as long as I could, cold and tired but unable to tear myself away. There was something hypnotic about it—beautiful, terrifying, and completely indifferent to the people watching from above.

We descended early the next morning, retracing our steps back down the mountain and into something resembling normal life. The rangers remained friendly throughout, though always alert, rifles slung over their shoulders. By midday, I was back in Goma, and shortly after, back across the border into Rwanda.

The border between the DRC and Rwanda—dust and gravel on one side, smooth pavement on the other, a quiet but telling line where two countries, systems, and realities meet.

When I returned to the office in Kigali, reality caught up with me. It took about ten days before I could walk properly again. My legs were wrecked, every stair a reminder of that brutal descent. Still, it was worth every step.

Three years later, in May 2021, Nyiragongo erupted again. Lava poured from fissures on the volcano’s southern flank, following the same deadly path it had taken in 2002. More than thirty people were killed, thousands displaced, and parts of Goma were once again consumed by fire. Nearly two million people now live in the shadow of that crater, with limited monitoring and little warning of what might come next.

Standing on Nyiragongo’s rim in 2018, watching that lava lake glow in the dark, it was impossible not to feel small. The volcano doesn’t care about borders, politics, or funding gaps. It will rise when it rises. And when it does, the consequences are never abstract.

Three years after my visit, in May 2021, Nyiragongo erupted again. Lava flowed down the paths that we used to climb up to the crater.