Chasing the Dawn: My Sunrise Trek Up Bali’s Mount Batur Volcano

There’s something oddly compelling about waking up at an hour when even roosters are still snoring. Yet there I was at 1:30 AM, bleary-eyed and wondering if I’d completely lost my mind, fumbling for my headlamp in a pitch-black hotel room in Ubud. The plan? To climb an active volcano and watch the sunrise from its summit. Because apparently that’s what passes for a good time when you’re on vacation in Bali.

I’m not naturally a morning person—ask anyone who knows me. The promise of coffee barely gets me out of bed before 8 most days. But something about Mount Batur had been calling to me ever since I’d arrived in Bali. Maybe it was all those Instagram photos (I admit it), or maybe it was the slightly crazy idea of standing atop an active volcano as the first light breaks. Whatever it was, it was powerful enough to override my body’s desperate pleas for more sleep.

Looking back now, with sore calves but a camera roll full of golden memories, I can say it was worth every painful pre-dawn minute. But the journey to that realization? Well, that’s where the real story lies.

Why Mount Batur? The Pull of a Bali Sunrise

I’ve got this weird thing for volcanoes—don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s the danger factor, or the raw reminder that we’re all just hanging out on a thin crust above the earth’s molten core. Whatever the psychological reason, when I heard about Mount Batur, I was immediately intrigued.

Standing at 1,717 meters, Batur isn’t Bali’s tallest peak (that honor goes to Mount Agung), but it’s got something special going for it. The locals consider it sacred, part of the island’s spiritual geography. To the Balinese, mountains are the abode of the gods—which makes sense when you think about it. If I were a deity, I’d definitely choose a volcano with panoramic views over, say, a shopping mall.

I’d actually been torn between this trek and spending more time at the Tegallalang Rice Terraces near Ubud. Those iconic stepped fields are stunning in their own right, and crucially, don’t require a 2 AM wake-up call. I spent a good hour in my hotel room the night before, scrolling through photos of both and weighing my options. “You can see rice fields anywhere,” I told myself, which isn’t remotely true, but it helped settle the decision.

The clincher was something my taxi driver had mentioned offhandedly while driving me from the airport: “Batur sunrise is like watching the world being created again.” Pretty poetic for a guy who’d spent the previous ten minutes complaining about traffic. His casual endorsement stuck with me more than any guidebook recommendation.

I was a bit worried it would be too touristy, to be honest. Bali’s popularity has skyrocketed in recent years, and I generally try to avoid places where I’ll be jostling with a hundred other travelers for the same selfie spot. But sometimes the popular things are popular for a good reason, right? At least that’s what I told myself as I booked the trek through my guesthouse, handing over 350,000 Indonesian Rupiah (about $25) with a mixture of excitement and dread.

Getting Ready for the Climb—What I Wish I’d Known

Let me tell you something about preparing for a pre-dawn volcano trek: whatever you think you need, you probably need more of it. Except snacks. I somehow convinced myself I’d need enough granola bars to feed a small hiking group, which is how I ended up with a backpack that was about 30% essential gear and 70% unnecessary calories.

I booked my trek through my guesthouse in Ubud, which was convenient but probably not the cheapest option. The guy at the front desk—Made (pronounced “mah-day”), a perpetually smiling Balinese man who seemed to work 24 hours a day—set it all up with a phone call. No online booking, no email confirmation, just a handwritten note saying “Batur – 2am pickup” and a thumbs up. Welcome to Bali, where sometimes the most legit arrangements are the least official-looking ones.

The night before, I laid out what I thought was appropriate gear: sneakers (my only real “hiking” shoes), a light jacket, a bottle of water, a headlamp I’d panic-bought at a convenience store, and enough snacks to survive a minor apocalypse. In retrospect, I wish I’d packed:

A proper warm layer (it gets COLD up there before sunrise)
Gloves (my hands were numb halfway up)
Better shoes (the volcanic gravel is slippery as hell)
Less food (seriously, what was I thinking?)
More water (the opposite problem)

My alarm went off at 1:30 AM, which felt like a personal attack. I briefly considered abandoning the whole endeavor—my bed had never felt more comfortable—but the fear of wasting money is a powerful motivator. I splashed cold water on my face, dressed in layers, and stumbled downstairs where Made was waiting with a thermos of coffee. God bless that man.

My driver arrived at 2 AM sharp, which was surprising given the generally relaxed approach to timing in Bali. Even more surprising was the fact that there were already two other sleepy tourists in the back of his minivan—a German couple who acknowledged me with the minimal politeness that pre-dawn hours permit.

First Steps in the Dark

The drive to the starting point took about an hour, winding through empty villages and along dark roads where the only signs of life were stray dogs and the occasional 24-hour convenience store. I dozed off briefly, waking with a jolt when we hit a pothole. “Sorry!” called the driver, though I swear I caught him smirking in the rearview mirror.

We arrived at a small parking area at the base of the mountain around 3 AM. It was busier than I expected—maybe 20 other vans and a collection of sleepy tourists huddled in small groups. My guide, Ketut, found me immediately. “You Jack? I am Ketut. We go now, yes?” No time for formalities at 3 AM, apparently.

Image related to The Sunrise Trek to Bali’s Mount Batur Volcano

Ketut handed me a small flashlight as backup for my headlamp and gave my footwear a dubious once-over. “Shoes okay,” he said, in a tone that clearly meant they were not okay but we’d have to make do. The German couple had proper hiking boots, I noticed with a twinge of inadequacy.

The first steps of the trek were deceptively easy—a gentle path through what seemed to be farmland. “This is not so bad,” I thought, immediately cursing myself for the jinx. Because five minutes later, the real climbing began.

My legs were already complaining 20 minutes in—am I this out of shape? The path steepened dramatically, and the beam of my headlamp revealed loose volcanic gravel that slipped beneath my feet with each step. I was breathing hard, and we’d barely started. Ketut, meanwhile, was practically skipping up the trail in flip-flops, pausing occasionally to make sure I hadn’t tumbled to my death.

“Many people come, not all reach top,” he said encouragingly, which was both reassuring (I’m not alone in my struggle) and terrifying (some people don’t make it?). I’m not sure if his comment about wild dogs on the trail was a joke or a warning, but I kept my snacks zipped securely in my backpack just in case.

The Grind to the Summit—Pain, Sweat, and Surprises

If the first part of the trek was a wake-up call, the middle section was a full-blown reality check. The path grew steeper, the gravel looser, and my enthusiasm dimmer with each labored step. What had seemed like a reasonable fitness challenge from the comfort of my hotel room now felt like an exercise in masochism.

The darkness was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, I couldn’t see the intimidating incline that lay ahead; on the other, each step was a mini-adventure in not twisting an ankle. My headlamp created a small bubble of visibility, beyond which was just inky blackness and the distant pinpricks of other hikers’ lights moving up the mountain like a slow-motion string of Christmas lights.

I wasn’t alone in my suffering, which provided some comfort. The trail was busier than I’d expected—maybe 50-60 people spread out along various sections. Some zoomed past me (mostly fit twenty-somethings and local guides), while others (like a middle-aged couple from Australia I kept leap-frogging) seemed to be having an equally challenging time.

“You from where?” Ketut asked, clearly trying to distract me from my physical distress.

“America,” I panted.

“Ah! Obama!” he replied enthusiastically, which I’ve found is still a common response in many parts of Indonesia, regardless of current politics.

I wanted to engage in the conversation, I really did, but breathing had become my primary focus. Ketut, reading the room (or rather, the trail), fell silent except for occasional warnings about tricky sections. “Careful here,” he’d say, pointing out particularly treacherous patches of scree with his flashlight.

About halfway up, we stopped at a small wooden hut where an enterprising local was selling water, candy bars, and—I kid you not—hot coffee. The prices were highway robbery (15,000 Rupiah for a small bottle of water that would cost 5,000 in town), but I’ve never paid a markup more willingly. I chugged half the bottle, immediately regretted it as I realized I’d have to carry the extra weight, then silently thanked my past self for all those unnecessary snacks which now seemed like survival rations.

Those Brutal Last 30 Minutes

If there’s a special circle of hell reserved for out-of-shape hikers, it probably looks a lot like the final ascent to Mount Batur’s summit. The path narrowed and steepened to what felt like a 45-degree angle, with loose volcanic sand providing all the traction of a greased slide.

“Almost there,” Ketut assured me, which I quickly learned was his default encouragement regardless of our actual proximity to the top. I wanted to quit—genuinely considered announcing that this was far enough and the sunrise would look just fine from where we were, thank you very much.

What kept me going, oddly enough, was Ketut’s random singing. He’d break into snippets of what sounded like traditional Balinese songs, mixed with the occasional Bob Marley line. It was so unexpected and incongruous with our strenuous climb that it kept pulling me out of my misery spiral. I’m pretty sure I invented new curse words on that climb, but they were interspersed with reluctant chuckles at my guide’s musical performance.

The final push was a blur of burning thighs, desperate gasps for air, and Ketut’s hand occasionally reaching back to pull me up particularly challenging sections. I’d like to say I conquered that mountain with grace and strength, but the reality was far messier—all sweat, red-faced effort, and internal bargaining with whatever deity might be listening.

Surprises Along the Way

Despite the physical torture, the climb wasn’t without its moments of unexpected wonder. As we neared the top, my headlamp caught a pair of reflective eyes watching us from the brush. “Monkey,” Ketut explained casually, as if encountering wildlife on a predawn volcano climb was perfectly normal. The macaque regarded us with what looked like judgment before disappearing into the darkness.

I hadn’t expected the mountain to feel so… alive. In certain spots, Ketut pointed out small vents where steam escaped from the ground—a reminder that Batur isn’t just a big hill but an active volcano with molten ambitions. The ground was warm in places, which was both comforting in the pre-dawn chill and slightly unnerving.

Another surprise was the camaraderie that developed among strangers on the trail. When I slipped on a particularly treacherous section, a hiker from somewhere in Scandinavia (based on his accent) steadied me with a strong grip and a simple “I got you.” No other words were exchanged—just a nod of thanks from me and we continued on our separate ways.

I thought I’d be alone with my thoughts on this trek, but nope, someone’s selfie stick was always in the way. At one point, I found myself behind a group of four friends who were documenting every step of their journey with GoPros and dramatic narration. “We’re LITERALLY climbing a VOLCANO right now!” one of them announced to their future viewers, while I silently wondered if I could pass them without appearing rude.

The biggest surprise, though, was how quickly misery could turn to awe. Just when I was seriously questioning my life choices, we crested a ridge, and Ketut pointed ahead. “Look,” he said simply. In the faintest pre-dawn light, I could make out the summit—tantalizingly close now. And beyond it, the vast shadow of what I knew was Lake Batur, waiting to be revealed by the coming sun.

Sunrise at the Top—Was It Everything I Hoped?

We reached the summit with about 20 minutes to spare before sunrise—enough time for me to find a spot to sit, catch my breath, and wonder if my legs would ever forgive me. The top of Mount Batur was busier than I’d expected, with maybe 60-70 people spread across various rocky outcrops. Ketut led me to a slightly less crowded spot with a clear view eastward.

The temperature at the summit caught me off guard. Despite the sweat-soaked climb, I was suddenly shivering in the pre-dawn chill. The thin jacket I’d brought was laughably inadequate, a fact that Ketut noted with a raised eyebrow before disappearing briefly. He returned with a thermos of hot tea that he’d somehow produced from his small backpack, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat.

“Drink,” he instructed, and I gratefully wrapped my cold fingers around the cup. The tea was sweet and gingery, warming me from the inside as I settled in to wait for the main event.

The darkness began to lift imperceptibly at first, then with gathering momentum. The world below was revealed in stages—first the vast caldera of Lake Batur, a perfect blue oval cradled in ancient volcanic walls. Then the distant peaks of other mountains, including Mount Agung, Bali’s highest point, its perfect cone silhouetted against the lightening sky.

I forgot how tired I was for a minute—it’s hard to explain, but it felt like the world was waking up with me. The sky shifted from black to navy to a soft purple, then erupted in bands of orange and gold as the sun approached the horizon. When it finally breached—a perfect golden disc rising with surprising speed—a spontaneous cheer went up from several points around the summit.

I’d like to say it was a perfect, postcard moment, but reality’s messier—and still beautiful. A bank of clouds obscured part of the view, and someone’s drone buzzed overhead, breaking the natural silence. A group nearby was having a loud FaceTime call with family back home (“CAN YOU SEE THE SUN, MOM? CAN YOU SEE IT?”).

Yet somehow, these imperfections didn’t diminish the magic. If anything, they made it more real. I might’ve teared up a bit as the full panorama revealed itself in the growing light, but I’ll blame the wind and volcanic dust.

The sunrise reminded me of another dawn I’d watched years ago from a beach in Thailand—less dramatic in setting perhaps, but similar in how it made time seem to stand still. That morning had marked the beginning of a significant change in my life; I wondered fleetingly if this one would do the same.

Ketut interrupted my philosophical musings by pointing out Mount Rinjani in the distance—the massive volcano on neighboring Lombok island. “Very big,” he said with respect in his voice. “Three days to climb that one.” My legs twinged in protest at the very thought.

As the sun climbed higher, the spell began to break. People started taking selfies, packing up, preparing for the descent. I lingered, trying to imprint the moment in my memory—the golden light on Lake Batur, the distant mountains emerging from shadow, the warmth finally reaching my cold hands. Worth the climb? Absolutely. Worth the 2 AM wake-up? I was still debating that one.

Coming Down and Looking Back—Tips and Thoughts

If I thought going up was challenging, coming down introduced a whole new dimension of difficulty. The loose gravel that had been a struggle to climb became a treacherous slide on the descent. Within the first five minutes, I’d nearly wiped out twice, saved only by Ketut’s quick reflexes and my increasingly undignified crab-walk technique.

“Go sideways,” Ketut advised, demonstrating a zigzag pattern that distributed weight more effectively on the unstable surface. I followed his lead, and while it was slower, it kept me mostly upright. Mostly. There was one spectacular slip where I ended up sliding about three meters on my backside, much to the amusement of the German couple who had somehow transformed from sleepy van-mates to skilled mountain goats during our ascent.

The descent revealed views that had been hidden in darkness during our climb—terraced fields, small villages, and the full scale of the volcano we’d just conquered. In daylight, I could see how the landscape had been shaped by past eruptions, with ancient lava flows visible as dark streaks down the mountain’s flanks.

We stopped at a different rest area on the way down, where Ketut suggested we take a break. This spot offered something the summit hadn’t—monkeys, and lots of them. Bold little macaques that clearly associated humans with food swarmed the area. “Don’t smile at them,” Ketut warned. “They think you showing teeth is threat.” Great, so in addition to not falling down a volcano, I now had to monitor my facial expressions.

One particularly enterprising monkey made a lightning-fast grab for my water bottle while I was distracted taking photos. I instinctively yanked it back, then remembered every wildlife documentary I’d ever seen and reluctantly let go. “Smart choice,” Ketut laughed. “Bottle or fingers, which you want to keep?”

Back at the base, a small warung (local food stall) was serving breakfast to returning hikers. I collapsed onto a plastic chair and ordered Balinese coffee and nasi goreng (fried rice), both of which tasted like the most gourmet meal I’d ever had. My legs were trembling with exertion, my shoes were coated in volcanic dust, and I had a distinctly disheveled appearance compared to the fresh-faced tourists just arriving for daytime activities.

“Good climb?” asked the woman who brought my coffee, her smile suggesting she’d seen plenty of wrecked hikers like me.

“Amazing,” I replied, surprised to find I meant it despite my physical state.

So would I recommend the Mount Batur sunrise trek? Absolutely, but with some hard-earned advice:

Wear proper hiking shoes with good grip. My sneakers were a rookie mistake.
Layer your clothing—it’s cold at the top but you’ll be sweating on the climb.
Bring gloves if your hands get cold easily (mine were numb at the summit).
A headlamp is essential—don’t rely on your phone flashlight.
Pack light but bring more water than you think you’ll need.
Get a guide. The trail isn’t always clear, especially in the dark.
Bring small bills for the warungs along the way—they don’t make change easily.

I swore I’d never hike again halfway up, but now I’m Googling other volcanoes. What’s wrong with me? There’s something addictive about that feeling at the top—part accomplishment, part awe, part relief that you can finally stop climbing.

I’m not sure if it’s for everyone—honestly, you’ve gotta love a challenge. If your idea of a perfect vacation is purely relaxation, the 2 AM wake-up call and physical demands might outweigh the reward. But if you’re on the fence, I’d say lean toward doing it. Some experiences are worth the discomfort.

As I rode back to my hotel in Ubud, drowsy but content, I felt a quiet gratitude—for Ketut’s patience, for my body’s reluctant cooperation, for the privilege of witnessing something so beautiful. Even for the struggle itself, which made the reward that much sweeter.

That afternoon, I slept for three hours straight, woke up with legs so sore I could barely walk to dinner, and still found myself flipping through my photos with a ridiculous grin on my face. Sometimes the best travel memories come wrapped in a package of pain, exhaustion, and moments of doubt—but those are exactly the ones that stick with you long after the postcards have faded.

And if you’re wondering whether that 2 AM alarm was worth it? Ask me again after my legs stop hurting. But yeah, I think it was.

About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.

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