1
Volcanoes have a strange and powerful hold on us. Whether they are quiet, snow-capped peaks or rumbling, ash-choked behemoths mid-eruption, they stir something deep in the human imagination. They are terrifying and beautiful at the same time, reminders that the ground beneath our feet is alive and capable of changing in an instant. As volcanologists, we have devoted our lives to studying these forces of nature, but we have also noticed something troubling in the age of rolling news and social media. Passion for volcanoes too often gets tangled up with false claims, recycled images, and myths that have been repeated so many times they begin to sound like fact. This is not just a nuisance for scientists. It is dangerous. When misinformation spreads during a volcanic crisis, it warps people’s understanding of real hazards and risks, and it can push individuals, communities, and even governments to make decisions based on fear rather than facts. We have stood in the shadow of erupting volcanoes, spoken with people whose homes are at risk, and watched as rumours, old footage, and exaggerated headlines took on a life of their own. Our hope, with this work, is to help journalists and the public tell the difference between what is real and what is misleading, and to help everyone understand that while volcanoes are indeed dramatic, their truth is far more nuanced—and often more interesting—than the sensational stories we see online.
2
To understand how volcano myths take hold and spread, we joined forces with an international team of experts from universities, volcano observatories, and government agencies. We combed through hundreds of news articles published during volcanic events around the world between 2017 and 2022, analyzing the language, images, and ideas that shaped the narratives. What we found was striking: eighteen distinct misconceptions appeared again and again across borders, languages, and types of media. Some of these were big, dramatic concepts—the “Pacific Ring of Fire,” “supervolcanoes,” and “mega-tsunamis”—that conjure visions of planet-wide destruction. Others were quieter but just as misleading, reflecting basic misunderstandings about the inner workings of a volcano. Take volcanic ash, for instance. So often called “smoke” in news coverage and social media posts, volcanic ash is actually nothing like the smoke we know from fire. It is made of tiny, sharp fragments of rock, crystals, and volcanic glass, carried upward by gas and steam during an eruption. It can cut machinery, damage lungs, contaminate water supplies, and collapse roofs when wet. Calling it smoke makes it seem harmless, something you might wave away, when in fact it deserves respect and caution. Similarly, the word “magma chamber” suggests a vast, hollow underground cave filled with molten liquid. The reality is messier and more intriguing: beneath many volcanoes lies a complex network of partially molten rock, crystals, gas bubbles, and pockets of fluid that change and shift over time. No human being has ever seen this hidden system; we infer its shape through seismology, gas measurements, and satellite data. This is not just a matter of word choices—the language we use shapes how people imagine a volcano and what they think it might do next.
3
The consequences of these misconceptions become vivid when we look at real events. During the 2017 unrest and eruption of Mount Agung in Bali, fear rippled through the island and around the world. But much of what people saw online was not actually Mount Agung. Old footage of eruptions from other volcanoes was replayed as if it were live, while innocent clouds and gas emissions were framed as dramatic explosions. Some reports speculated that the eruption could devastate the whole island, even though volcanologists were carefully monitoring the volcano and working to communicate the actual hazards in specific zones. The impact was not abstract: tourists cancelled trips, hotels emptied, and local livelihoods were hit hard, all while scientists were left scrambling to debunk misinformation. A similar pattern appeared during a 2025 eruption of Mount Etna in Sicily. The eruption did produce a pyroclastic flow—a hot, fast-moving mixture of gas and rock—but it occurred in an area that was already closed to the public. Videos filmed by tourists outside the danger zone, calmly walking away, were shared with captions claiming they were fleeing for their lives. The imagery was dramatic and compelling, and it created the impression that all of Sicily was unsafe. Public anxiety rose, travellers reconsidered their plans, and the coverage greatly exaggerated the actual threat. These stories reveal a painful irony: in trying to grab attention with alarming language, media often obscures the real truth that volcanologists are trying to share. And the pattern repeats with nearly every major eruption, from Indonesia to Italy, leaving real questions about how we can trust what we see.
4
One volcano in particular has become a magnet for misunderstanding: Yellowstone in the United States. It is often portrayed as a ticking time bomb—an “overdue” supervolcano that could destroy humanity at any moment. Documentaries, disaster films, and tabloid headlines have long speculated that the ground beneath the park is getting restless, that earthquakes are a sign of doom, and that a catastrophe is imminent. But the geological evidence tells a very different story. Yellowstone’s last several dozen eruptions were lava flows, slow-moving and relatively local in impact; they did not cover the continent with ash, and they did not end civilization. The vast caldera system is of course active, and it is monitored carefully, but the idea of an “overdue” eruption is fundamentally flawed. Volcanoes do not follow calendars; they do not build up pressure on a schedule. An eruption happens when conditions—magma supply, pressure, and crustal structure—reach a threshold, not because a certain number of years have passed. Yet the myth persists, and it shapes how people think about risk. It leads to anxious questions on social media, to sensational documentaries that trade in fear, and to a style of reporting that says a volcano “could” cause a mass extinction even when the chance is vanishingly small. In reality, the most likely hazards at Yellowstone are the kind that scientists can describe clearly, with a range of possible scenarios and a sense of probability. None of that makes for as dramatic a headline, but it gives people a much truer picture of what is happening beneath the ground.
5
So what can we do? First, we can come back to basics about who to trust. When a volcano wakes up, the best information usually comes from the institutions that exist for exactly that purpose: volcano observatories, geological agencies, and emergency management authorities. These are the people who have spent years building monitoring networks, studying past eruptions, and preparing response plans. They may not post the flashiest content, but their updates are grounded in evidence. Scientists outside these agencies can also provide valuable insight, but it is worth pausing to ask whether they are speaking within their area of expertise. A chemist, for example, might not be the best source for forecasting an eruption, and a physicist who studies other planets may know less than a local volcanologist. The internet has blurred the line between informed opinion and expert knowledge, and we all need to be curious enough to ask who is telling this story and why. It is also crucial to distinguish between possibility and probability. A volcano scientist might mention a rare worst-case scenario, not because it is expected, but because emergency planners need to prepare for many possibilities. When that scenario is picked up by headlines, the word “could” quietly becomes “will,” and the public is left with the impression that an eruption is inevitable. The next time you see a story that says a volcano “could” produce a massive tsunami, look for the actual probabilities—what is the threat level, what is the realistic outcome, what are the experts and emergency managers actually planning for? That shift in perspective can make all the difference.
6
Finally, before sharing that striking video or dramatic photo, we should all learn to pause. A single image can tell a thousand stories, but those stories can be false. We have seen the same eruption footage used for three different volcanoes, in three different years, with a different date attached each time. We have seen photos of ancient events presented as live coverage of a new crisis. And with AI-generated content becoming more realistic by the day, the problem will only get worse. If you see a remarkable image, ask simple questions: Is the volcano in this image actually the one in the headline? Has this exact video appeared elsewhere online with a different location or date? Does the caption match what official sources are reporting? We are not asking everyone to become a geologist overnight, but we are asking everyone to bring a little more curiosity to what they read and share. Good communication is not about making things more scary or more comfortable; it is about giving people a fair and accurate picture of what is happening, what could happen, and what is most likely. This matters because people who live near volcanoes deserve better. They deserve to make decisions based on truth, not on fear. And volcanoes themselves deserve better than to be turned into a backdrop for misinformation. The truth is that volcanoes are already extraordinary enough. They shape landscapes, build islands, inspire art and culture, and remind us how dynamic our planet truly is. Our message to journalists, to social media users, and to anyone who has ever been captivated by these giants is simple: trust the science, be honest about uncertainty, and let the volcanoes speak for themselves.