The island was a long hill of ashes

The island was a long, moderately high hill of ashes – nothing but gray ashes and pumice stone, in which we sunk to our knees at every step – and all around the top was a forbidding wall of scorched and blasted rocks. When we reached the top and got within the wall, we found simply a shallow, far reaching basin, carpeted with ashes, and here and there a patch of fine sand. In places, picturesque jets of stream shot up of crevices, giving evidence that although this ancient crater had gone out of active business, there was still some fire left in its furnaces. Close to one of these jets of steams stood the only tree on the island a small pine of most graceful shape and most faultless symmetry; its colour was a brilliant green, for the steam drifted unceasingly through its branches and kept them always moist. It contrasted strangely enough, did this vigorous and beautiful outcast, with its dead and dismal surroundings. It was like a cheerful spirit in a mourning household.
We hunted for the spring everywhere, traversing the full length of the island (two or three miles), and crossing it twice – climbing ash hills patiently, and then slidding down the other side in a sitting posture, plowing up smothering volumes of gray dust.. But we found nothing but solitude, ashes and a heart breaking silence. Finally we noticed that the wind had risen, and we forgot our thirst in a solitude of grater importance; for, the lake being quiet, we had not taken pains about securing our landing place, and then – but mere words cannot describe our dismay- the boat was gone!
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”