Trekking Mount Bromo remains one of the most vivid and atmospheric memories from my London to Sydney overland journey between 2003-2004. That long journey, stitched together by buses, trains, ferries, and the occasional leap of faith, was as much about the people and landscapes encountered along the way as it was about the destination. Mount Bromo was one of those moments where everything aligned: place, timing, companionship, and a sense of quiet adventure that defined that entire trip.
Although often associated in travellers’ memories with Bali due to its proximity and role as a gateway, Mount Bromo itself lies on the island of Java, within the vast Tengger caldera. I reached it via Indonesia’s well-worn backpacker routes, moving eastward through the archipelago, carrying with me not only my pack but also memories of an earlier Indonesian adventure. Just two years before, in 2002, I had climbed Mount Batur in Bali. That experience had left a lasting impression, and in many ways, trekking Mount Bromo felt like a continuation of an unfinished conversation with volcanic landscapes.
The Context of the Journey
The London to Sydney trip was not a conventional holiday. It was a long, unfolding journey with no rigid structure, driven more by curiosity than by checklists. By the time I reached Indonesia, I had already crossed multiple borders, cultures, climates, and states of mind. Travel at that pace strips away routine and replaces it with attentiveness. Every place feels sharper, every encounter more significant.
Indonesia, with its sheer scale and intensity, made an immediate impression. The air felt heavier, the colours richer, the sounds louder. Volcanoes loomed not as distant curiosities but as dominant presences in everyday life. Having previously trekked Mount Batur, I felt a mixture of familiarity and anticipation. I knew the early starts, the physical effort, and the reward of seeing landscapes shaped by fire and time. But I also knew that no two volcanoes — and no two journeys — are ever the same.
Meeting a Fellow Traveller
I did not trek Mount Bromo alone. Somewhere along the route, as so often happens when travelling long-term, I met a fellow traveller with similar plans and an easy compatibility. There was no lengthy deliberation; we simply decided to go together. That simplicity is one of the quiet joys of travel — friendships formed quickly, intensely, and without expectation.
Trekking with someone else changes the experience. There is shared motivation during difficult moments, conversation to fill the long stretches of walking, and the unspoken reassurance that comes from not being entirely alone in unfamiliar terrain. We shared stories of where we had come from and vague ideas of where we might go next, knowing full well that those plans would almost certainly change.
Approaching Mount Bromo
Mount Bromo does not reveal itself all at once. The journey towards it is gradual, layered. The surrounding landscape shifts from villages and farmland into something more stark and otherworldly. The Tengger caldera is immense — a vast bowl of volcanic sand, ash, and rock that feels less like Earth and more like a lunar surface.
Even before beginning the trek, there was a sense of anticipation. Bromo is not especially high, but it commands attention through presence rather than elevation. It smokes quietly, almost casually, reminding you that it is active and alive. The smell of sulphur lingers in the air, subtle but unmistakable.
The Trek Begins
The trek itself began early, long before sunrise. This felt familiar after Mount Batur, yet the atmosphere here was different. Where Batur had felt enclosed and intimate, Bromo felt vast and exposed. The ground underfoot was fine volcanic sand, shifting with each step, making progress feel slower than it actually was.
As we walked, the cold cut through our layers. Indonesia is associated with heat and humidity, but at altitude and before dawn, the chill is real and biting. Breath became visible in the torchlight, and conversation came in short bursts between stretches of silence.
The darkness amplified every sound — the crunch of sand, the distant murmur of other trekkers, the low, constant sigh of the volcano itself. There was something deeply humbling about moving through that landscape, aware of how small we were in comparison to the forces that had shaped it.
Climbing the Crater
The final ascent to the crater of Mount Bromo was both short and demanding. Steps carved into the volcanic slope led upward, but each one felt slightly unstable beneath tired legs. The smell of sulphur grew stronger as we climbed, carried on the cold morning air.
Reaching the crater edge was a moment of quiet awe. Looking down into the smoking heart of the volcano, it was impossible not to feel a mix of fascination and respect. The sound was constant — a deep, resonant rumble, like the earth breathing. This was not a passive landscape; it was active, restless, and indifferent to the people standing at its edge.
As dawn approached, the light began to change. The sky softened from black to deep blue, then to pale gold. The surrounding volcanoes emerged one by one from the darkness, their silhouettes sharpening as the sun rose. It was one of those rare moments where time seems suspended, where nothing exists beyond the immediate present.
Descent and an Unexpected Encounter
Descending Mount Bromo was easier on the lungs but harder on the legs. The loose sand turned the path into a natural slide, and we half-walked, half-surfed our way down, laughing at our lack of control. The tension of the climb gave way to relief and lightness.
It was during this descent that one of the most human moments of the trek occurred. As we approached the lower slopes near a nearby village, we were greeted by a couple of young local boys. They appeared almost out of nowhere, smiling broadly, curious and unguarded.
They walked alongside us for a short while, asking simple questions, practising fragments of English, and laughing freely. There was no sense of expectation or transaction — just curiosity and warmth. In that brief interaction, the vast, dramatic experience of the volcano was gently grounded back into everyday life.
Those boys, living in the shadow of an active volcano, reminded me that extraordinary landscapes are ordinary homes to the people who grow up among them. For them, Mount Bromo was not a once-in-a-lifetime adventure; it was simply part of the world they knew.
Reflection
Looking back now, Mount Bromo occupies a special place in my memory, not only because of its dramatic setting but because of where it sat within my wider journey. It came at a point where travel had stripped away novelty and replaced it with something deeper — an attentiveness to moments, landscapes, and people.
Having climbed Mount Batur in 2002, I could see parallels and contrasts. Batur felt intimate and contained, Bromo vast and elemental. Both demanded effort, patience, and early starts, yet each offered something unique. Together, they shaped my understanding of Indonesia as a land defined by both beauty and volatility.
The London to Sydney journey eventually carried me far beyond Indonesia, across continents and cultures, but Mount Bromo remains one of the clearest memories. Not because it was the hardest trek, or the highest summit, but because it captured the essence of travel: shared experience, quiet challenge, unexpected human connection, and moments of awe that linger long after the dust has settled.
In the end, trekking Mount Bromo was not just about standing on the edge of a crater. It was about movement — through landscapes, through conversations, through phases of life. It was one small chapter in a long journey, but one that continues to echo years later, shaped by volcanic sand, cold dawn air, and the smiles of two young boys on a mountainside.
