Pele's Palette (Hawai'i Volcanoes NP)

Saturday, 18 February 2023, Hilo

Let me say this up front: if you've come to this posting looking for beautiful photographic vistas of Hawai'i... may I refer to any of my other island posts. The Kona Low amplified itself today, sending torrents of water our way, a day not fit for man nor camera. (We'd tried to buy umbrellas yesterday to get us through these downpours, but Wal-Mart had sold out.)

Once again, overnight deluges left a lake in our yard. (I would've gone swimming, but the lifeguard was off-duty...) The radio deejay somberly announced road closures in the area, saying the weather bureau encouraged people not to travel. But we were on vacation! and the other park - Hawai'i Volcanoes NP - called out to us. We drove an hour to get there, as it rained cats and dogs - sorry, rained nēnēs and mongooses - around us.

An inundated parking lot guarded the entrance to the (crowded) Visitor Center, where we stopped for recommendations. The ranger urged us to drive the Chain of Craters Road, which twisted 19 miles past old lava flows and craters to the sea. (It's a dead-end road, since an old lava flow closed the road past that point.)

We passed numerous pullouts on the drive, showcasing various lava flows from the 1970s on, showing how the land has slowly recovered.

It rained consistently on our drive, discouraging me from exiting the car except for short forays for a picture. I declined to expose my camera to the rain, shooting photos instead with my cell phone.

At one relatively recent flow, I quick-stepped for a few yards to get a better feel for the landscape. Lava covered the ground,

but I noticed colonizing plants that had taken the first steps to transform the land back to a verdant paradise.

At the next stop, I could almost make out the coast through the overhanging clouds. (Sue wisely opted to stay dry and in the car - one sodden tourist in the car was enough.)

As the road finally turned to parallel the coast, the rain lessened to a thin drizzle - light enough for me scramble over the lava landscape to shoot a photo of the waves lashing against the sea cliffs.

Returning to the car, I noticed the intricate patterns made by the lava as it cooled.

We reached the end of the road just as the rain petered out. What timing! A short hike took us to the overlook of the Hōlei Sea Arch, a 90'-tall rock formation cut from the cliff by the pounding waves.

I hiked a short distance further, aiming for an photo of the 'oasis' of palms

that had taken root there. Turns out that hike lasted just too long, as the drenching rains returned with us still a minute away from the car. (By this time, I was soaked. My canvas shoes stayed wet for the rest of our trip, relegating me to wearing my Teva sandals the next three days.)

Returning along Chain of Craters - since I couldn't get much wetter - I still hopped out of the car for photo ops at a pair of craters,

and to hike through a lava tube.

Even there, I couldn't escape the water. 'Underground' doesn't amount for anything when the water freely drips from the roof of the tube. Back in the car, the words from an Eddie Rabbitt song kept running through my head.

So much for the old flows; what about the current activity? We drove past the visitor center toward Kilauea Crater. (The lava flows you may have heard about late last year came from Mauna Loa, and they have ended for now.) Steam vents spewed forth warm, white clouds as we passed them

on the way to viewing the crater. At the main overlook, we could see clouds rising from the depression, but in the daylight (and with the drizzle filling the air),

I couldn't see any glow. But I still had hopes: two or three people had told us that you need to see it after sunset, when you can really see the glow.

Time for a new plan. The rain showed no promise of relenting today, so we returned home for a nice dinner-and-movie night. Tomorrow night, we could try again.

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Sunday evening, 19 February 2023

We got back to the park well before sunset, time enough to drive the road up Mauna Loa. NOT! A gate closed the road after a mile - the ranger later told us that storms like this often littered the road with tree branches, so they closed it for the duration. As we backtracked to the main road, though, Sue excitedly pointed to the roadside, saying, "Look! It's a nēnē!"

She referred to the state bird of the islands, also called the Hawai'ian goose. We'd longed to see one of them, to prove we'd been there. The bird had an interesting history: It evolved from a wayward Canada goose that arrived here, far off course, half a million years ago. (He should have asked some passing whale for directions.) Over the eons, it evolved into a unique species. It lost much of the padding on its feet, allowing it to more easily walk across lava. (Other species here have also evolved, losing defensive mechanisms after eons without predators: mint plants without the smell or taste of mint; nettle-less nettles; stink bugs that don't stink.)

We returned to Kilauea, excited about netting our nēnē sighting. (Weeks later, as I penned this blog, I went to Wikipedia for more info, and quickly realized that our bird looked nothing like the nēnēs online. Worse, none of the galleries of Hawai'ian birds contained a photo that looked like our bird. Go ahead, Hawai'i, rain on our parade! I have sent an email to the park rangers, asking if they could identify it. Maybe we discovered a new species, that they'll name after us...)

The official park film at the visitor center entertained us until the light began fading, and we drove to the main overlook in a thin drizzle. However, the small parking lot had filled, and we found ourselves in a line of over a dozen cars, waiting for people to leave. It took 15 minutes before a spot opened for us. I put on my poncho and headlamp, promised Sue to come get her if it was a must-see, and set off on the short trek to the rim.

Fizzle. I could see one hot spot, an occasional glow in the steam, and a few other pinpoints of red. Looking at the park website a week later, it turns out the volcano had "a large deflationary tilt signal" that began the day before we arrived,

deflating the lava mound and greatly diminishing the eruption. Indeed, Sue overheard people talking about it in the airport as we left for home, and they claimed the views early in the week were spectacular. Sometimes Mother Nature (or the goddess Pele, in this case) just won't cooperate.

At least tomorrow has to turn out better!