The view as we waited for the gate to be opened was breathtaking. And barren. It was a combination of our first stunned sightings of Mount Etna, its steam puffing into the dusk sky, and the damp dark rolling in over the empty, treeless hills we were perched upon. It was cold excitement, nervous anticipation. The views off the side of the hill probably seemed so inviting because the one before us, of shuttered gates and dirt roads disappearing around the folds of the hills, was so secretive. In retrospect, we should have known. We should have listened. But we didn’t, and, instead, we followed the man bicycling in torn…