Kilauea is at it again!

 

 Photo courtesy of B. Carr USGS

 

For a superbtimelapse video from NPS, click here

 

The Halema'uma'u crater at the summit of Kilauea began spewing lava on Sept. 29 after a series of earthquakes. Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park officials expect the eruption to be contained within the park, with no danger to homes or visitors. 

Officials cautioned that high levels of volcanic gas were the primary hazard of concern, noting that vog, or “volcanic smog” had already been observed downwind of Kilauea. Fanned by southerly winds, vog typically moves across the Ka‘u District, hitting first areas in south Hawaii like Pahala, Naalehu and Ocean View, before getting caught up in sea breezes that bring it toward West Hawaii and onshore.

NPS, Courtesy of Janice Wei

 

For some outstanding shots of previous eruptions (and even more inspiring shots of beautiful Hawaii) zip over to the Takaaze Art Gallery online.

 

 Photo courtesy of B. Carr USGS

Volcanoes Beckon

 Click Here for a crunchy Video of Kilauea Crater and steam banks

I was in Volcanoes National Park many years ago, before it was fancied up as it is now. We drove down the road to the edge of the Kilauea crater, and could actually hike across it if we wanted. Extraordinary, considering Mauna Loa and Kilauea are among the most active volcanoes in the world, and Kilauea has been spewing lava – often changing the landscape - every few years. One eruption was along a rift zone called Pu’u’o’o’ on the east side of the park; it lasted from 1983 to 2018. Another, from 2008 to 2018 caused the Kilauea summit – where we would have been hiking - to collapse. The latest eruption was in 2021, though it’s quiet for now except for dozens of little earthquakes. 

 

One word to describe this park is “vast”. To the north, the summit crater of Mauna Loa is over 13,600 feet. The entrance to the park, Kilauea Visitor Center, is near the Kilauea summit crater at 4000 feet.

 

 

Marked "August 1887"

It was intermittently cloudy but warm when I started on a 1.75-mile hike recommended by a ranger, beginning at the visitor’s center along the crater rim, ending in the steam banks, crossing the road to the sulphur banks and back through a forest to the visitor’s center.

The sulphur banks

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

Since the ranger said the Thurston Lava Tube would be most crowded between 10 and 2, I opted to drive the 20-mile-long twisted Chain of Craters Road through a rain forest down to the sea. 

The forest opened up to mind-blowing vistas – what I initially took to be the bluest of sky turned out to be the sea set against miles of new land created by the eruptions. I was disappointed that the petroglyphs required a mile-plus walk in the hot sun; I had to choose between them and the Thurston Lava Tube if I was to leave before dark. I’d advise visitors to begin around 10 in the morning to see everything, not starting at noon as I did. The Chain Road takes time to drive, especially if you stop off at one of the many sites along the way.

The end of the road

I was pleased to find that, though Hawaii is the "newest" island, another one is forming out in the Pacific to the south, about 30 miles away and 300 feet below the surface of the water.

I returned to Volcano House, waited a few minutes for a table at the small restaurant, and had a decent sandwich to revive myself. Then it was back down the road to Thurston Lava Tube. It’s situated in a beautiful, dripping, screaming green rain forest, and when I was there, was nearly deserted (about 5PM). The tube itself reminded me so much of the caves of France and Spain; it was surprisingly long, cool and wide. A must-see.

I made my way out of the park, west along the Hawaii Belt Rd. (Rte.11), foolishly assuming that sunset would be around 7:30. I forgot I was much closer to the equator, and by the time I was ready to find the turnoff to my next AirB&B, the sun had fallen with a thud. 

It's pahoehoe, not Aa, or ow ow, which is what you say when you step on it

This proved to be a problem.

 

Big Island Dreams

 

 It's been a while!

Climbing down the outside stair ramp from the airplane at the Kona airport, I was relieved that no air personnel needed to use their recent mask-fu training on me or anyone else. Now that they know they can slug us, they don’t feel the need to employ the “pretty please” voice when they tell you “Mask OVER the nose”).

Kona airport is small, and therefore completely manageable. In a few minutes, I was in my tiny rental Chevy and on the way to the Saddle Road (aka Daniel K. Inoue Hwy, but nobody calls it that). The day was overcast, humid and in the 80s.

It’s been more than 25 years since I last set foot on the big island, and I wanted to revisit a few of the things that thrilled me then. I had forgotten that this is the newest of the Hawaiian Islands, and much of the land surface is covered with gritty lava. The black ground was dotted with crowns of bright golden grass – the kind landscapers pay a bunch for a bunch.

The land changes coming up from Kona on the Saddle Road. More of a tinge of green, small trees and…goats. Wee feral goats graze on the wayside, and an occasional tusked pig makes an appearance. Coming from the mainland, the vast emptiness of this plain, on the slopes of Mauna Kea, looking south to Mauna Loa is breathtaking. You can see the enormous bases of both mountains, totally obscured by clouds.

More than halfway to Hilo, near the road to the Observatory Station, the terrain changes again. I’ve been passing through wispy clouds for a few minutes, and now they’re turned to chilly rain. And a forest of tall trees whips past my windows. From there, dropping down into Hilo, which still looks like Hawaii to me. Green growth everywhere, Houses on stilts for air circulation, sun-faded buildings, slickness kept to a minimum.

Along Kamehameha Blvd

Of course, it’s not all old-school. My first stop was at a faintly clinical Macy’s to use the facilities.

 

 

Punta Egas/Is. Santiago

Yes, I am fabulous.

 Today we hiked among the beautiful tidepools at Punta Egas on Is. Santiago. Plenty of Galapagos doves, finches, hawks, marine iguanas and sea lions, plus a colony of fur seals--many fewer in number than the omnipresent sea lions (the Galapagans call sea lions "sea dogs" and the fur seals "sea wolves"). The vegetation is more lush, at least for the Galapagos. A family that mined salt once lived on the bluff overlooking the sea, and the shell of their home remains; the crews from three tourist ships met in the field behind the house for a game of futball while we attempted to snorkel in the murky waters. 

One female sea lion came ashore to pose and preen for us, and when she tired of her game, fell asleep where she lay on the warm black sand beach.

After a short cruise north to Buccaneer's Cove (not much to see there), we motored to Playa Espumilla--aptly named, as the beach was as foamy as an over-soaped washing machine. The break was so shallow and close to the beach we had to jump in up to our necks and swim ashore through the breakers. Fabrizio said a panga overturned here before, so now they don't try to land on the beach itself. Playa Espumilla was stunning: at least a mile long with white-beige sand. It was dotted with a scattering of bright orange ghost crabs, who would scurry rapidly en masse into their little beach holes whenever we approached. These are the crabs Sponge Bob Squarepants--star of stage and screen--made famous, and can they move! We walked up the beach and saw a sad sight--a number of turtle egg nests that had been destroyed by the waves and sun. The eggs were exposed and dead--life is not easy here.

 

Several of us tried to swim in the surf to cool off--fighting that break was an effort, and at least one of our party got swamped. Getting back in the pangas took some timing. I got my first sunburn today, falling asleep on the sun deck after fighting the waves. Fabrizio tried to body-surf, and like the rest of us, ended up with a pants-full of black sand. I don't envy the crewmember who has to clean up the showers tomorrow.

Some days the crew is very attentive to my dairy allergy, other days, not so much. Today was one of those, when they could just about conceal their annoyance. I don't know whether the cook didn't have enough warning before he had to shop for the trip, or, in spite of the boat owner's efforts to inquire about food allergies and preferences, they really don't care. All that aside, the cook was a genius at salads and vegetables, and I feel the crew really made an effort to make us comfortable. Special thanks to Carlos, the panga expert, for getting us out of a potentially bad situation at Bahia Urbina. It's customary to leave tips for the crew and guide--they deserve it.

Tonight is my last night--tomorrow we go to the Darwin Research Station and breeding center outside Punta Ayora (the big city hereabouts) before boarding a bus to Baltra for the plane.

Shipwreck!..Well, almost.

A bit of excitement this morning as we brought the panga to the shore of the lava fields at Bahia Urbina on Is. Isabela: the boat was nearly swamped by a big sneaker wave. We were upended from the rear of the boat, and I wasn't sure we could turn the boat in time to face the rest of the incoming swells. If we didn't, all eight of us would have been dumped into the bay to face heavy breakers and shallow rocks. We just made it, and flew, face up over four more incoming giant swells. When we we're able to turn the boat and head for shore, we scrambled up a wet lava face, then took a precarious mile-long walk over an extensive lava field. 

The field, covered with pa hoe'hoe (ropy) lava mixed with the broken, treacherous a'a lava was the product of three huge surrounding volcanoes. I had to pay a lot of attention to where I was walking. We passed a couple of brackish ponds with turtles and rays, and ended up at a pond to visit three feeding flamingos. I passed on the morning snorkel--another rough and murky sea. The sundeck, with its cool breezes and beautiful views is the place for me. The group that went out came back in about 30 minutes--conditions were as bad as predicted.

palos santos trees over Darwin Lake

 After lunch, we motored to another spot on Isabela--Punta Tagus. After viewing graffiti from the 1800s and a scramble up a rock face that smelled of eons of bird poop, we climbed 100 steps and hiked up the hill to an overlook of Darwin Lake--as salty and lifeless as the Dead Sea. There's a lot more vegetation here, though, because this part of the island was covered in ash rather than lava after the most recent eruption. The palos santos trees, dormant until the rains, bloom in tiny yellowish flowers, and bleed a red sap that smells like a sweet incense, hence the name "holy tree". Normally in bloom this time of year, the trees remain dormant due to lack of rain--global warming is having a major effect here. 

The calm before the storm

On the way back down, as we descended the stairs, a large bull seal blocked the path to the panga; he was defending his female and pup that were lounging about on the shore. Fabrizio clapped his hands, and the bull charged. Our guide wisely backed up. By the third try, the bull must have felt he got his point across, and the little family took to the water.

Fabrizio told us that of the 32,000 inhabitants on the Galapagos islands, 10,000 are illegal, that is, people who are not born on the islands, part-time residents who make money from tourism and spend it on the mainland. Tourism has been a mixed blessing, bringing jobs, higher prices, too many people, too many cars. Water is a perennial problem, as there are no water sources other than rain, and almost everything is brought in from the Ecuadorian coast. Big foreign corporations control a lot of what goes down here politically, and they're also responsible for the big cruise ships that frequent the islands, but take the money to Ecuador or beyond instead of enriching the local economy.

Several of us recorded the ship's instruments as they went to zero tonight, indicating our arrival at the equator (again--we passed it in the middle of the night on the way in).  See the video at vimeo.com/joanneorionmiller

Punta Moreno, Is. Isabela

Hard to believe, but I've already lost sense of what day it is. I find myself content to watch the sea out of the window of my cabin. We had a busy day today. First, we motored all night--a 14-hour trip--to Punta Moreno on Is. Isabela, the largest island in the archipelago and our southernmost point, where we hiked into a pa hoe'hoe lava field that looked like melted licorice frosting on an enormous cake of sand. Every surface was covered by marine iguanas; it took profound attention to not step on one. They're big as chihuahuas, with a disdainful expression fortified by their frequent need to snort out a stream of salt from their nostrils--a by-product of living on a diet of ocean algae. These iguanas have developed special glands that filter the salt, and they nod their heads to bring the salty stream to the nostrils. Other iguanas--and frequently, our legs and feet--got a shot of the crusty white. The females are smaller and darker, but just as pugnacious-looking, in a feminine way of course. We walked a distance on the sand and encountered more sea lions and their puppy-like babies, including one that was alone. 

Death is a constant here--occasional decomposing carcasses feed the struggling multitude. Skeletons of a seal and whale were equally picked clean. We went out on the pangas (motor launches) later to snorkel. The water in the cove we chose was murky, with poor visibility--the Galapagos, relatively speaking, are young volcanic islands, and there is plenty of ash in the water, stirred up by a choppy current in the western archipelago. I fear I'm fated to never get close to a tortuga. Others spot penguins, rays and plenty of turtles, while I drift among the tropical fish--pretty, but not exciting.

 After lunch, we motored to Punta Espinosa on Fernandina island, the westernmost of the large islands. We walked through a forest of sorts--dry, brush-like trees, some with bright yellow flowers, and a pretty, poisonous tree that could have stood in the Garden of Eden, the manzanillo. The temperature away from the shore soared, and sweat dampened a lot more than my upper lip as we marched along the dusty trail. In the forest, the twittering of Darwin finches could be heard among the trees. 

We spotted several tortoises, one so close to the trail we almost had to step over him. 

We also encountered a few land iguanas--so different from their marine cousins. One in particular was bright yellow; his diet consisted of yellow flowers from the trees.

Some passengers went for a snorkel from the beach later, and I dipped into the water, which was as murky as this morning, a little rough, and full of seaweed. I came back in, took off my gear, and contented myself with a swim close to shore. Returning snorkelers told tales of rays and turtles, and I was annoyed with myself for not going out further. I swallowed too much water when I first went out and struggle with memories of nearly drowning as a teenager every time I set foot in the ocean. Several of the young people (and one of the intrepid oldsters) swam to the boat from shore--600 yards.

Tonight, a peaceful (or as our guide Fabrizio Maldonado would say in his charming accent, "pissful") night.  Fabrizio, born to a couple of elementary school teachers here in the Galapagos, is fervent about ecological protection of the islands, and incredibly knowledgeable, which makes up for the occasional absence of "first class" hosting skills by the crew. I think any lapses are due more to inexperience than intention; each crew is hired anew for each tour, though most of our seven-member crew (plus Fabrizio) worked together before. We motored all last night over rough sea to get here, and now we're bedded down in a cove until morning.

A shield volcano on Isabela

Picture this: on front of us, the shield volcanoes of Isabella island form deep gray mounds against a near-black sky. What keeps the heavens from their habitual darkness is a brilliant white moon, set high above the island. On the sun deck, the wind is blowing steadily from the south; like everything here on the equator, it's a mix of hot and cold. The moon is so bright, it lights a wide swath of water rather than a narrow beam. If you stare down at the light on the water, and let your eyes go slightly out of focus, patterns form: a kaleidoscope made from bits of black paper and silver leaves. Orion, my namesake is overhead, but there are bright stars here that only are seen by eyes in the southern hemisphere. The breeze brings the scent of the land--dry vegetation and rotting earth, and the clean smell of the sea.