Big Island, Part One

Traveling from Oahu to the Big Island, I was reminded of the movie RRR -- water and fire, equally potent opposites. Our plane landed at the Kona airport in fields of old lava flow. The ground there has the bumpy, jagged, multi-surfaced structure in volcanic rock that Oahu has in reef. Of course there are waves and surf and water all around, but it was impossible for "active volcano" not to be at the forefront of my mind from the moment this youngest of the Hawaiian Islands (not counting Lō'ihi, still forming beneath the surface of the sea) came into view. The Big Island gains land mass with each new eruption; it's still growing. Its elevation rises from sea level dramatically up towards the nearly 14,000 foot heights of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea. At night, if you drive up to the Kilauea Caldera, you will see the boiling red maw of the currently erupting volcano. When we finally did that a few days later, we learned at the Visitors Center that the Big Island features 11 of Earth's 13 climate regions. 11 out of 13! [Okay, research that online and there is conflicting information, but I'm sticking with what I learned on site.] Considering that Matt and I had glimpsed snow-capped mountains while standing on the beach our first day in Kona, perhaps this shouldn't have come as a surprise. Still, it remains an astounding fact of a place whose entire perimeter can be seen in just an eight hour drive. "The Big Island generates its own weather patterns," we are told by a local land/sea adventures guide who knows all too well -- he was at the museum that day because he was forced by a high surf warning to take a day off of giving tours. In the course of our week exploring the island we got to know the changeable weather and the varied terrain quite well ourselves.

Sunny Kona, leeward side of the island - Greenwell Farm: Kona coffee, pepper plant, pineapple

Waipi'o Valley: old home of Hawaiian royalty

Windy, wet, mercurial Volcanoes National Park: Kīlauea Iki Trail

Rain-drenched, windward Hilo: Rainbow Falls before and after gigantic rainstorms

Matt and I had a few days in Kona on our own, and we got into the pattern of doing intense hikes to stunning, nearly secluded beach or snorkel spots. What keeps these amazing public beaches semi-private? They are really challenging to access. Why? Lava fields. I don't mean the floor is lava and you have to leap frog from safe zone to zone to move forward; I mean craggy, bumpy, choppy, pebbly, sharp cooled-out old lava flows make up a lot of the trail between parking spots and pristine beach. So take lots of water (do as we say, not as we did), wear sturdy shoes, and remember that you will eventually be hiking back uphill post-swim, -surf, -sunburn, -yoga, -snorkel, -misdirected stroll in the wrong direction...whatever you ended up doing down there...and that you will be carrying uphill, on your (sunburned) back, whatever it was you chose to haul down in the first place. We found that a giant shave ice with ice cream and condensed milk was a good reward at the end.

Hikes: Kekaha Kai State Beach, Captain Cook Monument Trail, and Poholū Valley Trail

Ululani's Shave Ice - cherry, guava, lilikoi (passionfruit)

My mom got a taste of Big Island climate variations in her first day on the island. From Kona airport, we headed directly to the Place of Refuge, Pu'uhonua Hōnaunau, a national park on the site where some of Hawaii's royal family members' bones were interred and where citizens who had broken kapu (laws) could seek haven and absolution by a priest. In times of war, disgraced warriors, women, and children could also seek solace there. We didn't last too long in the Place of Refuge ourselves because it was a a hot and humid 85 degrees with the sun directly overhead.

From the Place of Refuge, en route around the south of the island to Volcanoes National Park, we decided, of course, to do another beach hike. Take all our other hikes to and from amazing beaches and put them through an other-worldly color filter, add wind and rain (and therefore rainbows), mud, and at least two extra miles than any previous hike so far, and you've got the walk to Green Sand Beach. The sand was green, truly. The hike was on hard-packed red clay with tons of puddles from the constant aguaceros, as my mom called them. The grasses were tawny, wind-tossed, and the sea was aqua blue with white gnashing surf. Except for the tiny green beach at the end of the three mile hike out, it was all cliffs and jagged rock at the water's edge. Subtract the wind and rain and the fact that we got started late in the day and found ourselves racing the setting sun back the three miles to our car, and it was the easiest hike in terms of elevation change (almost none). Add all the wind, rain, and impending darkness back in and you're one wrong footfall away from coating yourself in a serious mud puddle. Ultimately, it was the favorite hike: there was something extra thrilling about the race against time and elements, the dependence we had on each other, the realization that rainbows so bright only happen when the weather is extreme, the prize of seeing green sand.