In 1999, Tungurahua roared back to life. While families evacuated, Carlos Sánchez stayed behind. He was a volunteer firefighter and electrical technician, not a scientist, but he became the volcano’s eyes. He was not seeking fame or fortune, only to fulfill a promise: to care for his people and watch every movement of the mountain.
Each day, Carlos climbed to a high point in Runtún, on the volcano’s flank. There, he built a wooden hut in a tree with a clear view of the crater and the Bascún River, where dangerous flows of mud and ash could descend. With patience and courage he turned that perch into his lookout post.
How did he alert others? With a handheld radio and direct contact with the Geophysical Institute, he transmitted every change: the intensity of the fumaroles, the direction of ash clouds, the sound of explosions rolling through the valley. At night, fire from the crater lit the sky, and the ground often trembled beneath him. Sometimes midday turned black as ash blotted out the sun, and the air filled with sulfur.
He collected jars of ash from each eruption, a silent record of the years when Baños lived under constant threat. It was not a job—it was a vigil, carried out with faith, patience, and unshakable resilience. The town knew that while they slept or prayed, one man was out there on the ridge, keeping watch on the volcano for them.
During long hours of watching the volcano, Carlos tied two ropes and a wooden plank to the tree. It was not planned as an attraction—it was a pastime, something to clear his mind between explosions and notes in his log. Yet the feeling of swinging into the void, with Tungurahua looming in the background, was unforgettable.
At first, only a handful of locals and curious travelers dared to sit on the swing. There were no fences, no ticket booths, only the creak of wood, the rush of wind, and the thunder of a living volcano. It was raw, frightening, and beautiful.
Then, in 2014, a photograph of the swing with Tungurahua erupting in the background won an international award with National Geographic. Overnight, the world learned about the “Swing at the End of the World.” What had begun as a distraction for a lone watchman became one of the most iconic images of Ecuador.
Today thousands arrive for the photo, but few know the origin. They see a swing, not a story. Yet behind it stands a man who once watched fire fall from the sky, and who turned solitude and vigilance into a gift the world would one day share.
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