The Path of Elements: Carrying Muktinath’s Waters to Agung’s Crater

For months, Mount Agung had been a constant presence in my days—its silhouette rising over the horizon, the sacred spine of Bali, both powerful and untouchable. I knew the water I carried from Muktinath in Nepal was meant for this mountain. Collected from the 108 water spouts blessed by the eternal flame of Jwala Mai, it had traveled with me, waiting for the right moment to be offered to the gods.

That moment came on the day of the full moon, just after the peak of the Lion’s Gate opening, when the mountain seemed to call me. Our small group met at the temple at the trailhead, where our guide, a man deeply connected to the mountain’s spirit prepared a canang sari, a delicate offering of palm leaves, flowers, rice, and incense. With bowed head, he recited prayers in the old Balinese way, placing the offering carefully at the entrance. This act was repeated along the trail, even in the dark of night, as if each step forward required permission from the spirit of Agung.

We began our climb in the afternoon under a cloud-covered sky that spared us the heat of the afternoon. The air was cool, the forest alive with the smell of wet leaves and volcanic earth. The path wound through lush greenery before giving way to open ridges of black rock. By the time we reached our campsite above 2000 meters, the clouds had gathered beneath us, forming a vast, shifting sea. At sunset, they turned to gold and rose, wrapping the mountain in a dreamlike stillness.

The night on the holy mountain was restless but alive. I drifted in and out of sleep, my dreams vivid and charged, as if the mountain itself was speaking. The energy of the full moon, hidden behind clouds, still pulsed in the air. At 2 a.m., we rose to begin the final ascent, sharing tea in the cold before stepping into the darkness.

The trail grew steeper, the volcanic gravel shifting underfoot. Above us, the sky began to clear, and we climbed past the last layer of clouds. The moonlight revealed a world suspended between earth and heaven, the ocean glimmering faintly in the distance. The final ridge was narrow and exposed, with the vast crater yawning on one side and a steep drop on the other. Each step demanded focus, but the pull of the summit was stronger than fatigue.

We arrived at the top just before sunrise, joining a crowd of climbers who had come to celebrate Indonesia’s Independence Day. Flags waved in the cold wind, incense drifted in the air, and voices rose in song. Amid the joyful chaos, I found a quiet edge of the crater for my offering.

I held the water from Muktinath in my hands, its journey from the Himalayas to Bali complete. Reciting my favorite mantra, I focused on the connection between these two sacred mountains, Shiva’s power in Agung and Vishnu’s blessing in Muktinath. Slowly, I poured the water into the heart of the volcano, watching it disappear into the depths. It was a gesture of unity, of gratitude, and of trust in the invisible threads that tie sacred places together.

The descent tested me in a different way. The steep, loose gravel forced each step to be deliberate, and pain began to bloom in my knees. Yet even in the discomfort, there was a strange satisfaction, an awareness that the mountain was still teaching, still shaping the journey.

By the time we reached the base, the songs and drums of celebration had faded. But inside me, the connection remained, the waters of Muktinath now resting in Agung’s crater, and Agung’s power flowing through me. This was not just a climb. It was a pilgrimage, a meeting of mountains, and a reminder that every offering given with intention becomes part of something eternal.