Landing a Seaplane inside the Rinjani Volcano is equivalent to Indonesia landing a Man on the Moon.
Mount Rinjani is an active volcano that built the island of Lombok. That is a realistic way of looking at a volcano’s role. When anyone mentions Mount Rinjani, they say it is on the island of Lombok. Wrong. The island is the volcano and, consequently, on the tectonic plate fault line that has spawned the longest and most active line of volcanic reactions on Earth along the Pacific Ring of Fire.

To get technical in a biblical fashion, Mount Samalas violently erupted and begat Mount Rinjani, which violently erupted and begat Mount Barujari, the current live volcano inside Rinjani. Like Russian Matryoshka dolls, a volcano inside a volcano inside a volcano. The eruption of Mount Samalas in 1257 CE was one of the most cataclysmic volcanic events in recorded history. Its impact reaches far beyond the island of Lombok. The immediate aftermath was catastrophic for the local population, as entire communities were buried under thick volcanic ash and pyroclastic flows.
The consequences of the Samalas eruption extended far beyond Southeast Asia, triggering what modern scientists call a “volcanic winter.” The enormous volume of ash and sulphur dioxide released into the atmosphere caused global temperatures to drop, leading to failed harvests and widespread famine. In Europe, this cooling event was linked to mass deaths and hardship, as evidenced by the discovery of thousands of medieval skeletons in a 1258 mass burial site in London. This eruption likely contributed to extreme weather patterns that devastated agricultural societies, demonstrating how interconnected human civilizations were—even in the medieval era. The global reach of Samalas’ devastation underscores how a single natural event can reverberate across continents, shaping the course of human history in unexpected ways.
Today, Mount Rinjani, the younger sibling of the once-mighty Samalas, stands as a sentinel over Lombok, a reminder of both destruction and resilience. The lush forests and thriving communities around Rinjani are testaments to nature’s ability to regenerate and human societies’ capacity to adapt in the wake of disaster.
Everybody on the island of Lombok owes their existence and livelihood to the volcano. The inevitable, if irregular, eruptions created the land they stood on and regularly enriched the soil for a bountiful harvest. With the tropical rains that fall on the island come the lush emerald-green forests and terraced rice fields that symbolize this exotic region of Indonesia.

Ying and Yang, the Moon and the Sun, Earth and Sky, darkness and light, good and evil, fire and water, life and death, and all the other polar opposites best describe the condition of living on Lombok or within the vicinity of any volcano, for that matter. Shaken by the sporadic and unpredictable eruptions, it’s no wonder the people of Lombok worship the spirit of the fiery inverted-cone-shaped mountain. They celebrate its existence and are careful not to enrage the spirits in charge. Don’t play with fire, don’t wake the sleeping giant, don’t rock the boat, don’t spit into the wind, and don’t tug on Superman’s cape. Don’t, don’t, don’t!
I don’t think I could live like that. Always tiptoeing around your creator. Always being a quiet, good little boy so as not to wake your godfather. Always offering to light the temple incense. Always gonging the gong to appease the sacred mountain spirits. Forever throwing white rice, green banana leaves, and saffron-coloured flowers into the abyss.
Although I was a good grandson and took out my grandma’s garbage regularly, I was also the one to rise to the challenges of our neighbourhood. Being told not to tempt fate was like a red flag for me. I led the raid on old man Apsit’s garden—not just because he had the best garden around but mostly because he guarded it so jealously. In doing so, he basically told me I was not allowed to go there. Mistake.
What is so tempting about the 12,296 ft Rinjani volcano is that somewhere in the distant past (late spring or summer of 1257), an enormous explosion tore off the top of the 15,000 ft volcano and left a gaping crater large enough to place a small city within. With thousands of years of tropical rain, the vast crater basin now holds the large, beautiful Segara Anak Lake, whose surface sits at about 6,600 ft elevation above sea level. Both the Balinese and the Muslim Sasak of Lombok Island make a pilgrimage to toss ritual rice banana leaves and goldfish into the clear mountain waters. At the risk of appearing irreverent, I will say that this sacred lake was begging for a seaplane pilot to pay homage.

Lake Segara Anak, nestled within Mount Rinjani’s expansive caldera, stretches approximately five km in length and three km in width. Dominating its eastern expanse is Mount Barujari, a secondary cone that has been active for over two centuries. The surrounding caldera walls soar an additional three to four thousand feet, forming a majestic enclosure reminiscent of an ancient Colosseum’s crumbled walls. Notably, the caldera’s northern rim features a natural breach resulting from the initial volcanic explosion or subsequent erosion. This gap allows excess rainwater from the lake to escape, cascading down as waterfalls and feeding rivers that journey towards the sea. This gravel deposit is a natural campsite for hikers.
The usual way of getting to this wondrous lake and, for that matter, to the volcano peak is to hike up. Time Magazine did a feature on this particular climb in 2001 and declared it to be difficult, treacherous, and highly worthwhile. The adventure is akin to climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro but tougher. It takes two days of slogging up a tropical rainforest trail complete with heat, insects, thieving monkeys, freezing cold, and washed-out footpaths. On the morning of the second night, you awake early to make the rim at sunrise. Here, you can view the lake at its most serene before the inevitable mountaintop clouds form to cover the basin for the remainder of the day. From the 11,000 ft caldera rim, you can hike nearly 3,000 feet down to the lakeside campsite, but few hikers do. Even fewer make it to the 12,296-foot summit.
Despite being considered worthwhile, it is also regarded as dangerous. Sixteen hikers died making this climb in 2016 during an eruption, and seven died in 2007 from exposure. To hike to the rim relatively safely, you must be in excellent physical condition and tropically acclimatized. Walking down to the lake and back up again puts most hikers off, despite what they might have thought before leaving base camp in the village below.
I had no intention of making the hike into this timeless abyss. Not when I can have 675 horses pull me up. In fact, with 675 horses, I could have pulled up Nero and his chariot as well. Yes, I consider myself the decadent explorer. I decided to conquer the Colosseum with two water bottles, a dozen Dunkin’ Donuts, and the Pilot Operating Handbook.
This morning’s excursion was booked as a training flight with Alex, one of the Indonesian pilots I was training on the amphib Caravan. When I told him to flight plan us for a Rinjani over-flight, and I jumped in the captain’s seat, he immediately knew what I was up to. To his credit, however, he did not ask. It was one of my early morning spur-of-the-moment decisions that I did not wish to discuss with anyone lest they attempt to talk me out of “it.”
“It” being whatever I am going to do that I am not supposed to do.

In truth, we had spun the wheels of justice and gotten nowhere. On my behalf, the marketing manager approached the National Parks authorities and asked permission for me to land on the lake. They admitted that no regulations prohibited aircraft from landing inside the volcano. However, park regulations require a permit to enter. The park refused permission unless the DGCA pre-approved the landing, clearly putting the onus on the agency that regulated aviation safety. I then asked our DGAC representative for permission to land inside the volcano so that the Park authorities could permit me to enter.
No, they said, we can’t do that. Why not? There’s no precedent.
Since they had no laws against it, but no one had done it before, they did not want to be the first to permit me. How could there ever be a precedent if you’re never allowed to land there? On a parting note, they reminded me that, as the captain, I could legally divert an aircraft during an emergency. But someone’s life has to be in danger.
Just in case you think that I lack respect for authority, I must mention that I did have the go-ahead to attempt a landing on the lake in Rinjani. The authorization went something like this:
“You know, John, we have been thinking about this landing for some time. Of the last three pilots we hired, one said it was outright impossible, one said it was most likely possible but foolish, and the third said it was possible but he wouldn’t try. We would sure like your opinion, as you would be the most experienced of any of them. When you get a chance, see if you could give it a go.”
Flattery will get you anywhere.
The itsy-bitsy tininess of the villages and fields below gave a perspective on the enormity of the volcanic mountain we were about to enter.
Now, that sounds like a case of clear-cut authorization to me. So, on this beautiful, clear Balinese morning, we took off for Mount Rinjani. The Area Control cleared us up to our requested 11,000 feet, and during the 30 minutes it took us to reach the volcano, I leafed through the POH. The only relevant section I was concerned about was the settings for Take-off Power. I quickly discovered that contrary to what one pilot had said, the charts went up to and beyond 7,000 feet. (Not that I was about to let a little extrapolation get in my way.) In fact, the charts claimed that we could get full power, i.e., 675 hp, on takeoff.
As the Rinjani volcano was along our standard flight path from Bali to the luxury resort island of Amanwana, I had often surveyed the lake. This morning, I knew what I had to do. I approached the crater from west to east and flew past the northern side. That put the V-shaped cleft, where the lake overflow spills out as a waterfall, on my right (starboard) side. The tops of the cleft varied from 9,000 ft on the west to 10,000 ft high on the east, while the bottom of the cleft was at the lake level of approximately 6,300 feet.

I could have spiralled down from the top of the crater rim, but I was planning for the dramatic. I wanted the entrance into the crater to be grand, and flying through the narrowness of the cut into the enormity of the basin would be like flying into another world and another time, like entering Jurassic Park.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking; we have just left the present and returned to the beginning of time.
I flew past the cut and the waterfall at about 10,000 ft and did a slow left descending turn, away from the volcano and over the terraced glistening rice fields far below. The smallness of the villages and fields below gave a perspective on the enormity of the volcanic mountain we were about to enter. I descended to 8,000 ft and finished my 270-degree turn, facing due south straight into the V-shaped entrance. From this vista, we could see the lake nestled inside the cone. It looked small, and I had to fight the illusion that the crater basin would be too small to circle inside. Proximity claustrophobia began to set in. That is when you are flying between mountains, and the canyon walls seem to be closing in when they are not. If you panic, you will attempt to turn when you should keep going straight ahead.
In the turn, I slowed the aircraft down to 120 knots, and before I entered the crater, I selected 10 degrees of flaps and slowed to 105 knots. Slowing down gives the passengers a better view, and lowering the flaps gives me a better view – over the nose. As we entered, I banked and turned right to follow the rim just below the edge, giving the sensation of being inside the basin without getting too low too quickly. Once inside, I started a slow left turn, passing the 12,296 ft peak on my right and placing the 7,838 ft Gunung Barujari “daughter” cone on my left.
I carried through while banking wing low over the crater of the daughter cone, allowing us to look inside the vent. Alex and I saw the steam and smoke rising from the still-active cone.
In fact, when we entered the main crater, Alex startled me by hollering, “Look, the volcano is erupting!” Just below the daughter cone was a large fresh flow of lava, differentiated from the older flows by the blackness of the lava and by the fact that there was no vegetation growing on it. It was indeed a new flow in volcano time, but it was from eight years ago. Alex was convinced it had happened since our last overflight on the way to the resort the day before. I mused that the water would be boiling and steaming if it were recent.
“Oh, yeah,” he admitted.
As we circled, I had a good look at the water. My first concern was, of course, the depth. With the water sitting in an expansive cereal-bowl-like hole, you don’t have to be a geologist to extrapolate that the lake would be deep—possibly very deep—reportedly nearly 800 ft deep. I would have deep water if I landed anywhere away from the crater sides. Besides, I could readily see to untold depths in the relatively clear water. No sea monsters be here.

I admit, though, I was slightly concerned that the water might have been contaminated with sulphate or chloride, which are both corrosive and can be found in volcanic waters if the area is active. One of the previous pilots had convinced everyone that the sulfuric acid would melt the floats and all on board would perish. The lake, however, looked like any mountain lake in the Canadian Rockies. The water was a slightly opaque blue-green that appeared clear despite the evident dissolved minerals obscuring the light’s transmission.
The real clue as to the safety of the water was the colour and health of the trees near the shore. Even from 2,000 feet, I could see that the trees growing along the water’s edge were a healthy green and not yellow as they would be if the water had turned poisonous. The trees acted as our canary in the coal mine. If there had been any recent serious chemical activity, the vent would have been issuing carbon dioxide, killing the nearby trees, and the water closest to the eruption would have been milky yellow from sulphur. There were no dead trees.
I can see why the other pilots had held off. Every survival instinct told me to abort and go around.
As I passed between the peak on my right and the daughter cone on my left, I set up for my final approach. Flying once around the inside of the rim was partly for effect, but it also served a useful purpose. It allowed me to gauge a feel for the winds that might have been bowling over and around the peak that would affect my final approach. This morning, and I suspect most mornings, it was dead calm. I would be contending with a glassy water landing. The fly-around also allowed me time to gain perspective on distance and height.
I flew past the entrance, which was also to be our exit, and over the open water of the main body of the lake and made a tight 40-degree bank to the left, swinging around to the backside of the daughter cone again. The 180-degree turn served two purposes. For one, it allowed the passengers on the right side of the aircraft (that is, when and if we ever flew passengers into the crater) to have a look inside the active cone, and secondly, it allowed me to set up for a full flap descending final with a slow right turn directly onto the main body of the lake. Dropping down low over the backside of the active cone allowed us to spot the many steaming vents and hot springs we had not seen from higher up.
Only as I came onto the final approach did I realize how big the crater and associated lake really were. I knew the lake was about five km long, but confined inside the caldera’s rim, it looked small. In fact, without proper reference, previous pilots had said it was too small to take off from. The problem was finding a perspective to judge actual distances and relative sizes. A cliff or rock can be large or small. A tree can be large or dwarfed. The water had no perspective value, and the air was so severe-clear at this time in the morning that I could not judge distances correctly. In essence, I had no reference. I did not even know the actual water level, and with glassy water, how would I know to round off before taking a nosedive? I can see why the other pilots had held off. Every survival instinct told me to abort and go around.

I planned to get down as close to the outside shore as possible and use the shoreline to reference my height above the water while reading the actual altitude. This worked fine, except that getting my reference was still tricky. Assuming that the trees inside a 7,000 to 10,000 ft crater would be stunted and small, I kept thinking I was close to the shore when I was not close at all. It took some concentration and conscious effort to get myself to fly the aircraft closer and closer to the near-vertical cliff-face shoreline to judge my height above the water properly. When I got close, I realized the trees were much larger than I had imagined. No wonder my perspective was thrown so far off.
Once I worked out the water’s altitude, I turned out toward the main body of the lake, skimmed the water with my floats, and headed toward the cleft in the crater rim. The landing/takeoff area could not have been blessed any more perfectly. The area I chose was:
- the longest straight stretch on the lake,
- into any wind that would come up later in the morning,
- in the direction of the hikers’ camping site if we ever wanted to go ashore, and finally,
- facing straight toward the exit for both the takeoff and for any necessary go-around.
As this was my practice go-around and simulated takeoff (without actually committing myself), I waited until about halfway down the lake and then applied full power. Alex was waiting to take the readings of ITT (turbine temperature) and rate of climb. From 6,300 ft, we eventually climbed to 8,000 ft with less than 740 degrees Celsius on the ITT (within the green) and over 500 ft per minute climb—both well within acceptable limits. At 500 ft above the lake level, I pulled the power slightly and headed out the exit to visualize what the escape would feel like. I could have stayed inside the basin and spiral-climbed my way out of the top, but flying through the narrow walls of the cut was again a way to feel the transition with a dramatic flare.
Exiting through the cut, we flew right over the hikers’ camping site, the hot springs, and the falls, and then the landscape dropped away. I could feel the rush as the earth fell away, leaving us suspended in space. We climbed just enough to make an “operations normal” report to the Area Control frequency, and then I banked left and headed back inside. I did another approach and, this time, followed up with a full-stop landing. Landing in that clear mountain water was like landing on a mirror. Struggling with spatial disorientation, I felt like we were still suspended in the air as I could see the reflections of trees, rocks, and clouds below me.
After falling off the step, I feathered the prop, and Alex got out on the float to take a water sample. I wanted to prove the water was not corrosive. The water was as clear and pure as from any spring. I later teased Alex that he could quit flying for a living and start bottling and selling that water—Alex’s Rinjani Spring Water.

The feeling of having been the first person ever to land on this lake and possibly the first person to have even been on the water, as there was no evidence of a boat, did not sink in while we floated on the beautiful lake. All I could think of was getting airborne again. As soon as Alex strapped in, I applied full power and started my takeoff run. Although I was getting full power on the torque, I was not getting full thrust from the bite of the prop. The thin air certainly affected both thrust and lift. I had to use every tiny bit of my floatplane experience to coax my baby onto the step.
Before applying full power, I pulled the control column right back with full up-elevator deflection. The nose rose agonizingly slowly until it rose no more. At this point, I relaxed the pressure on the control column, allowing the nose to drop slightly. This helped the prop to “pull” the aircraft onto the step, changing the center of buoyancy from the rear of the floats toward the center and allowing the airflow to build up over the wings, creating lift. As the buoyancy moved forward, I could feel the force of the water starting to push the aircraft onto the step, so I rocked the control slightly ahead to “help” her fulcrum her way into the hydroplaning attitude.
As soon as she gained the step, I pulled back gently on the control column again to search for the “sweet spot,” or the ideal attitude where neither the bows nor heels are digging or dragging, and the aircraft is riding solely on the narrowest section of the V-shaped keel. When she was ready to fly, I broke the right and, almost simultaneously, the left float away from the smooth lake’s surface tension and was airborne. The rest was easy. Alex and I had earned our donuts that day.
I had learned many years ago that a two-arm wave means someone is in trouble.
Oddly enough, I savoured my conquest and did not tell anyone for a few days. Besides, we did not technically have landing authorization. When I finally ventured to mention it to the head office in an Oh, by the way, conversation, they were ecstatic. I was congratulated with an official fax from the head office thanking me for my effort.

“For Travira Air, your landing inside the Rinjani volcano is equivalent to Indonesia landing a man on the Moon.”
They could hardly wait to see the photographs.
Alex and I looked at each other. We had no photographs, and neither of us had brought a camera. As there were no witnesses, how could we prove that we had landed on the lake? We did not exist.
When the operations manager lamented that we did not have photographs, he smoothed the way for a second flight by saying, “Make sure you get pictures next time!”
Two days later, Alex and I were off again. This time, on landing, I shut down the turbine and was enveloped by an eerie silence as we ghosted to a stop. Alex and I got out to document our landing for posterity. Alex had devised the idea that we should shoot each other holding newspapers. He had even brought the original papers from the morning we had done the first landing, as that would be more authentic. Now, we could prove that we had actually been there that morning. The irony was that the papers I held carried stories about Bin Laden and Al Qaeda shortly after the 9/11 attacks on America. I looked like a hostage being held for ransom.
The early morning sunlight was beautiful, and the crisp air was so refreshing that I did not want to leave. The opaque emerald-green water was calm and clear, and I could see deep beneath the surface. The trees were tall, straight pines, like descendants from the Mesozoic Period, blending with the alpine atmosphere. The feeling was that of a summer morning in the Rocky Mountains.

Alex said,
“I’ve never been to Canada, but I imagine this is what it is like.”
I said, “Yes… except for the volcano,” towering over the east end of the lake. Silhouetted against the morning sun, I could make out the steam rising from the volcano cone. The steam appeared thin and wispy from the distance, but it was venting nonetheless. In other words, the volcano was still active and threatening. It was hard to believe that something majestic and beautiful could be potentially dangerous. In the calm cool of the morning, the tension I felt was not caused by the awareness of possible death. The feeling was rather one of unfulfilled opportunity, like that of not having said goodbye to a dying father. I certainly understand how a volcano could come to be worshipped.
Because this flight was also booked as a training flight, I let Alex take over the left seat so he could do the takeoff. I already had my fun.
After liftoff, we flew out the cut toward home. Alex looked down at the campsite and said, “Oh, oh, we are in trouble. Some guy is angry with us.”
I said, how do you know he is angry?
He is waving.
Is he shaking his fist? No.
Is he waving his hand? No.
How is he waving?
He’s waving with both arms over his head.
As any good search and rescue pilot knows, that is the universal sign for someone in trouble.
Much to Alex’s amazement, I decided to investigate. He reasoned that we should avoid the person if we were in trouble. I reasoned that if we were in trouble, we should confront and negotiate with the person, but more likely, we would be assisting someone who needed our help. Alex made his first glassy water landing, and we step-taxied toward the shore. When he decided we were getting close to the shoreline, he pulled her off the step, but to both of our amusement, the waving person was a tiny little dot on the horizon. We were still a kilometre away. The severe clear air and the mountain’s sheer magnitude had fooled our senses again.
As we approached the shore, I had Alex shut down the turbine early. We pulled out the aluminum paddles and slowly worked our way toward the shoreline. The rocky beach was gradual, making it easy to nose in the aircraft. With no waves or tide to worry about, we only had to hitch a rope and leave her floating.

The waver turned out to be Jaron Starling from Australia.
Jaron was a backpacker who had hired local guides from the village below and set out to experience this legendary lake firsthand. He said it took him three days to get this far when one of his guides came down with pneumonia. The poor guy had been holed up in his tent for several days with no sign of improvement. Jaron said the guy had a fever and could hardly breathe. He certainly did not want to risk hiking three to four hours back up to the crater rim and then another eight hours back down to the village. Jaron was getting low on supplies and concerned about his guide’s health. Could we possibly carry this sick man back down to civilization?

To me, this sick man was a minor miracle. We weren’t supposed to be here in the first place, but he was our perfect reason for coming here.
“We were flying over and saw that someone was in trouble.”
That was the truth, plain and simple. We had no choice but to land. It was an emergency.
By the time we reached sea level, he could already breathe easier, and the colour returned to his face. It took him three days to get up the mountain and less than 20 minutes to get back down.
Watching him trod slowly toward the waiting ambulance, I felt like I had accomplished something more important than just being the first person to have landed on the Indonesian Moon.
We undoubtedly saved a man’s life thanks to Jaron Miles Starling of Australia and his two-armed wave.
