Story: Water Falls & Lava Floes

When my friend Paul asked if I wanted to go to the Big Island, I immediately accepted, expecting to experience first-hand all those spectacular waterfalls I’d seen on reruns of Hawaii 5-0 and Magnum P.I., and on commercials for women’s shampoo. But seventy-two hours after arriving, I was heading back home without seeing a single one – somehow, the trip had turned into a quest for lava floes instead of waterfalls.

The obsession started with a trip to Volcanoes National Park for a quick look at Kilauea crater. But first we stopped at Thurston Lava Tube. The tube – a subway-sized tunnel lava-scoured through solid rock – was lit for the first 1,000 feet, but after that there was a sign warning that the tunnel ahead was not maintained, not lit, and not recommended for those without a flashlight.

Well, we had a flashlight – unfortunately grasped firmly in Paul’s hand – so off we went. None of the other tube-hikers ventured into the untamed end, so we were alone with a flashlight that seemed to get weaker with each shuffling step. A common, drugstore flashlight just isn’t equipped to deal with beneath-the-earth darkness; it cast a pitiful patch of gray a few feet ahead and to each side, but beyond that the light was thoroughly defeated by darkness. A few minutes with the light turned off confirmed that neither of us had ever even experienced true darkness before then.

Back outside, the sky was dimming to a lesser shade of black. We headed down Chain-of-Craters Road, expecting to view some fresh lava and then head back to Kona to spend the rest of our time relaxing on a black sand beach at the foot of a splashing waterfall.

But the road ended where hardened lava had paved over the surface, and a National Park Service shack wallpapered with ominous photographs and posters warned that they didn’t recommend going any further. But there was one sign that said fresh lava was only four miles away, so we ignored all the other signs, calculating that a four-mile-per-hour pace would get us out to the lava and back before darkness swooped in.

And so we started off. But four-miles-per-hour is a pretty fast pace, even on a freshly-paved sidewalk. We picked our way through ankle-twisting volcanic rubble and bloated mounds of rock that reminded us of those warning signs back at the shack, signs that showed exploding gasses throwing rocks – and people – hundreds of yards into the air.

But there were a few other people out there, so how dangerous could it be? Would they really allow us to wander off to our deaths with only a lukewarm warning that going further was “not recommended”? Wearing a seatbelt was mandatory. Driving fifty-five was mandatory. Even jaywalking was a crime. So, really, how dangerous could “not recommended” possibly be?
And besides, we could see a steaming cloud up ahead. Fresh, hot, bubbling lava was obviously just beyond the next pile of already-exploded rubble. How often would we get the chance to see that?

But that next pile of rubble led to another seemingly-endless expanse of cold lava, and the next another. Eventually the other groups thinned, leaving us completely alone for long stretches. The steaming landscape, punctuated by areas where the ground had caved in, or had burst upwards, reminded us of the warnings that molten lava could be just a few inches beneath our feet. The creaking and groaning that accompanied each footstep didn’t help either. I’d heard these same sounds while walking on ice, usually followed by a plunge into freezing water. Here, I’d plunge into boiling lava instead!

It was now getting frighteningly clear that, at very least, going further might mean getting caught out on the lava field at night. And it was difficult enough to negotiate in daylight; there’d be no chance at night, armed only with a three-dollar flashlight, batteries included.

Memories of the blackness in the lava tube returned, and while it might not get buried-alive dark out here, miles out in the middle of a lava field, it was also miles out in the middle of a lava field, with the ambient light of the nearest city over 40 miles away. A broken ankle and a night spent waiting for a helicopter wasn’t my ideal Hawaiian vacation, and might be getting off lightly, considering the other possibilities.

As we weighed our options, a pair of hikers appeared, heading back in. They told us that the lava was entering the ocean about forty-five minutes farther out, but they couldn’t get close enough to see much except steam.
This news, added to the encroaching darkness, decided us. We turned around and headed back. We passed one last group still heading outbound, apparently ignorant of the distance remaining and the time until sundown. We did the humane thing and warned them, but our warning had no more effect than the Park Service’s recommendation. They continued on. And were never seen again. Well, not by us anyway.

We consulted our guidebook and conspired to attack the next morning from the opposite direction, where, according to our maps, we could drive to within just two miles of the lava. That would mean an extra 100 miles of driving, but it seemed worth it to view molten lava in the wild. We drove back to our hotel dreaming of volcanic activity. At least I was dreaming – Paul had to drive.

The next morning we made another 90-mile, 3-hour trip from Kona to Volcanoes National Park. We decided we had time to hike through Kilauea Iki caldera, where a sign told us that a 36-day eruption had occurred in 1959, with a record setting 1,900-foot fountain of lava. Now that’s what we were looking for! The sign said the lava was now a couple hundred feet below the surface, but it was easy to imagine it being closer while surrounded by steaming cracks and the smell of freshly-burnt matches.

But with many other people in easy sight, it didn’t have quite the feel of impending doom as the previous evening’s hike. The most dangerous-seeming part was the coven of sweatshirt-clad housewives circling a steam vent, waving stolen hotel towels. We retreated to the crater’s edge to spy from the safety of binocular range, but soon lost patience with the ritual, and left before the effects of their spell manifested themselves. None that we noticed anyway.

About fifty miles later, we came to the other end of the road we’d stopped at the previous night (the six-mile section between the two points had been overrun by lava). A path of sorts continued further, leading us through the town of Kalapana. Or where Kalapana had been until 1990, when lava destroyed it.

There were still stretches of road here and there, remnants of burnt-out cars, signs naming forgotten streets, hints of driveways leading to vanished houses. Amazingly a few homes still stood, Madam Pele having spared their inhabitants, who still lived without electricity or gas or telephone in these islands amongst a sea of cooled lava.

Eventually we were forced to travel by foot, and soon there was nothing but endless fields of cracked and broken lava on all sides. I imagined we’d somehow been transported to an alien planet, or a vast post-earthquake parking lot, or maybe a colossal pan of overcooked brownies.

The warning signs from the previous day again invaded my mind as we trudged around steaming mounds where gas pockets had spewed up chunks of rock, gaping cracks where the ground had split open, huge areas that had crashed down in a jumble of splintered rock and volcanic glass. With only one other group of people briefly glimpsed during a five-hour hike, those tragic newspaper clippings at the ranger shack seemed more and more possible, even likely. Maybe inevitable.

But we could also see a steaming cloud up ahead, again seemingly just over the next rise – or most certainly the next – promising a view of molten lava oozing into the ocean. We couldn’t just turn back now. At least not unless Paul suggested it first.

Eventually, we made it the object of our trek, though to gain a clearer view we had to get closer to the ocean. And, of course, another of last night’s warning signs had dealt with just this subject. This sign “recommended” that adventurous hikers stay at least 500 yards from the ocean in order to avoid being on a shelf of rock, possibly the size of several football fields, when it dropped into the ocean from the undercutting action of the waves. The cartoonish drawing illustrating this threat didn’t seem as amusing as it had last night, in the safety of the ranger shack.

But again we ignored the recommendations and shuffled closer. 150 yards from where lava met ocean, we decided we’d gone far enough, and we stood there watching the ocean boil and bubble like a witch’s cauldron. Rocks exploded and shot skyward, trailing smoking tails like comets. Occasionally, the wind blew the steam away to reveal brief glimpses of molten lava oozing into the ocean – waterfalls of liquid fire.

Nearly an hour later, we headed back across two undulating miles of volcanic rubble toward where we calculated “back” should be. We eventually made it, and drove through the empty streets of Kalapana to an inhabited town to celebrate our bravery over hot food and cold beer – we had glimpsed red, flowing lava and had made it back alive despite the ranger station warnings!
And, now that we’d gotten this unplanned compulsion out of our systems, we could spend our last full day lazing around on the beach nursing the blisters on our feet. Maybe we’d even find a waterfall or two.

But, as we leafed through the pages of the guidebook, reliving our victory, we came upon a yellow sticky note with four stars. This was the ultimate in ratings amongst the sticky notes Paul had placed between the guidebook’s pages, a must see, all day, 9-mile hike through pristine rainforest to the Pu’u O’o vent, the current home of the goddess Pele, the real-life, up-close, gaping maw of an active volcano!

After another beer we were calculating what time we’d have to get up to drive 100 miles, walk another nine, and get back out of the rainforest before sundown. We were on the road by six the next morning, a little behind the guidebook’s recommended schedule, but then we scoffed at recommendations.

The guidebook warned that the trail was only maintained monthly, so it might be difficult to tell the correct trail from all the other trails. And, it warned, most importantly, when you come to the edge of the rainforest, and the volcano is about a mile away, do not go any further! Stay at the forest’s edge! Do not approach the volcano!

The rainforest was stunning, with 20-foot ferns towering overhead and wild orchids in bloom, but during over four miles of hiking through it, we spent more time looking at the muddy ground than at the lush surroundings. We’d followed the guidebook’s recommendation of hiking boots and a walking stick, though hip waders and an oar might’ve been more appropriate to the bogs we encountered. There was much slogging, and back-tracking, and poking with walking sticks, but we eventually made it to the forest’s edge. There, we gazed across the mile of cooled lava at the Pu’u O’o vent. . . .

And, quite frankly, I was disappointed. We’d woken up at 6 am, driven over 100 miles, trudged through more than 4 miles of muck, and there, before us, rose what looked like a small hill with a cloud behind it.

As we sat on a stricken tree, washing down granola bars with near-boiling water, thinking about that hike back through the mud-forest, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea to go just a little closer, maybe off to one side to try to get a better view. Paul pointed out the guidebook’s warning not to go any further, but by now we were experts at ignoring prudent advice, so off we went.

The “hill” seemed to split in two as we orchestrated our flanking maneuver, and we soon realized there was a huge chunk missing from the top of it. And the harmless-looking cloud? Well, that was now clearly sulfuric smoke belching from that gap in the hill.

Encouraged now, we decided to head closer, and struck out directly toward the vent. Soon, strange terrain came into view, stranger even than the dried lava that had become commonplace over the past few days. This was a rolling sand-colored landscape, like some hellish country club, perhaps the back nine at Satan’s personal golf course. And, stranger still, there appeared to be gigantic mushrooms growing out of it!

Eventually, the sand dunes became hills of pumice and the giant mushrooms burnt-out tree stumps, their wood scorched away and replaced by lava. We sat on the tree-molds, rested, and decided that since we’d come this far, we might as well press on, take a look over the hill’s crest, and hopefully see molten lava flowing down into the ocean.

We set off through the pumice fields, but like before our goal was always over the next rise. Eventually, a long valley-like slash blocked our path.
Pumice slipped over the edge like course sand, and we took a step back to plan our next move. With no hope of crossing, we’d have to either go around to the left, toward the volcano, or to the right. We looked right and noticed sulfuric fumes billowing up, bringing back warnings of “don’t get surrounded by lava”. As I looked left, I heard a yelp of surprise. Looking back – and then down – I found Paul hip-deep in pumice, his left leg swallowed, his eyes wide.

Fortunately there was no 2,000-degree lava involved, but the pumice did slice Paul’s leg up a bit. Personally, I was a little jealous of Paul’s souvenir, but Paul had a hard time appreciating it, and was now adamant that we start back immediately.

On the way back, I managed to divert Paul slightly closer to the volcano so I could read a yellow sign that we saw in the distance. The sign promised death – complete with skull-and-crossbones – to any misguided fools who continued past the sign and up the volcano. It seemed an obvious and overly-graphic warning, but then they were dealing with people like me and Paul, people who’d made it to that sign by ignoring milder recommendations.

As always, the way back seemed longer than the way in. With six slow miles ahead of us, and sunset looming closer, we began to notice that we hadn’t seen any sightseeing helicopters in a while, and hadn’t seen any other people all day.

We made the rainforest in pretty good time, but our legs didn’t lift over fallen trees or skirt around mud bogs as easily as they had that morning. And the sun was definitely setting now; the blue ribbons marking the trail grew less distinct as the forest dimmed.

Despite the rainforest’s many charms, spending the night in the middle of it wasn’t an appealing option, tired as we were and with nothing left to eat and only a pint of water between us. So when we realized that we no longer saw any blue ribbons, there was, perhaps, some mild panic.

Paul backtracked while I stayed put, but he couldn’t find any blue markers.
I went up the mucky hill to the left while Paul remained, and found an orange marker, and a pink. But no blue.

The promising gap in the brush to the right turned out to be another false trail as well.

That left us with a rocky outcrop surrounded by a small, muddy lake, but we both agreed that this couldn’t possibly be the way. Neither of us remembered passing by that spot on the way in, and it had a distinct look about it that one of us would certainly remember.

We began to plan our stay in the rainforest. But, after negotiating the mud lake, and scrabbling up the rock, there was thankfully a blue ribbon there to guide us onward.

By the time we pried off our muck-caked boots and peeled off our socks, the sun had set, marking the last day of our vacation. I hadn’t seen a single waterfall, but I had gained a strong desire to see other wonders and face other fears.

Two years later, after time had dulled the physical pains, we convinced our friend Bill and his new video camera to come along for another try at Pu’u O’o. We told him it would be the adventure of a lifetime, and assured him we had it all figured out this time. Of course, we’re not quite as smart as we think we are, and Madam Pele had other ideas. It was definitely an adventure, just not quite the one we’d planned. But that’s a whole other story. . . .