Phenomenal: A Hesitant Adventurer's Search for Wonder in the Natural World (10 page)

I’m touring via helicopter to witness the volcano’s lava production. I’m also interested in seeing Hawaii’s
, isolated areas of foliage surrounded by lava. From above, these sparred patches of land look like green arks sailing in dark, hardened seas. Once the molten lava flows around them have cooled, birds and winds will carry their seeds to repopulate desolate landscapes. My pilot’s name on this
, or seed ark, tour is—I kid you not—Noah.

Only 5 percent of Hawai‘i is populated. From the air, it’s a lunar landscape. This made the Jersey-based honeymooners I met at the heliport feel like they’d been duped by brochures. It makes me feel like I’ve been granted access to space, though I do agree with the disgruntled groom: The whole island looks like a construction zone. Probably because it is one.

On the North Carolina coast, where I went to high school, people worry about eroding waterfront lots. Here, there are landowners concerned that their seaside property might suddenly be located inland.
has added more than 500 miles to the landmass of Hawai‘i since 1983. The coastline is ever expanding.

We’re moving toward the eastern side of the island, home to the rift zone. This is where earth’s internal hot spot becomes a visible-to-the-naked-eye phenomenon. Our destination,
, has been active—as far as volcanologists know—since its formation roughly 300,000–600,000 years ago. The volcano has two main areas of action, Halema‘uma‘u, Pele’s home, and Pu‘u‘O‘o, an east rift vent.

When we pass Mauna Kea, Noah says of the volcano, “It’s almost like it’s satisfied with how big it is and it’s taking a break.” Currently, it holds the title of largest volcano on earth, though some volcanologists believe that
will ultimately rival its height.

Hawai‘i becomes geologically younger before our eyes; old lava flows stream into new. Noah points out a highway where plastic-smooth lava, called
, laps at asphalt like a frozen black tide. It’s a flow from the 1800s with a smooth surface, rock solid all the way through. Rockier lava is called
‘a‘a.
The island is a mix of the two types, which are chemically alike despite their differing appearance.

Noah takes the craft over monkey pod and albizia tree canopies that look like lily pads from the air, over rusty rooftops, macadamia nut plantations, and Hilo, the largest town on the island, named for the way its flows appear braided. Finally, we reach the edge of a tree line. Here, there is only lava. Miles of it.

Noah nods toward the hard-baked moonscape and says, “Try to picture this before the eruptions. It was forest all the way down to the ocean. Then flows began consuming this area and forming that cone.” He points to Pu‘u‘O‘o in the distance; its rim is sort of off center, like a semicrushed dunce hat.

In the 1980s, the area below us was covered in houses. Then, one day, a crack opened and started spewing lava. The ground seemed solid one minute, a curtain of fire the next. Without giving many signs of its plans, the earth dilated and new land was born, consuming a neighborhood of 200 homes.

This cone was formed over decades, magma cooling and building itself. From above, it looks like an open mouth with the cherry of a cigarette balanced on its lower lip. The flat land around the crater is full of salt-flat-style cracks, and smoke is rising from nearly all of them. An overnight rain has soaked into the ground and the moisture is coming out as steam. The place looks like a black sea full of whitecapped waves. To make things even more surreal, it’s hard to tell the vog—volcanic emissions that look like fog—from the morning’s low-hanging clouds. Smoke emanates from everywhere.

“Everything here is linked together,” Noah says. “What we see on the surface is connected to what’s going on under the surface.”

He twists around to get another look at the surrounding landscape. There’s no safe way to get to it from the ground. “This is an old lava system. It’s actually amazing to see it smoking like this,” Noah says. “You can see that it’s still hot, and it goes all the way down to the ocean.”

As
grows, it forms complex plumbing systems underground. Sometimes, when pressure is right, lava is pushed out of the main crater in dramatic shows, but most of the time, the volcano works its island-building magic behind the scenes, moving through underground tunnels. When these tunnels become dormant, they will be known as lava tubes, capillaries-turned-caves, created by fire.

Noah shakes his head: “There’s a lot going on under there that we just don’t even know about.” He points to the east where he’s observed a lava tube forming. “Let’s go see what it’s doing today,” he says.

We find a spot where magma is exiting the tube system. Its flows are pure orange on a black canvas. Odd iridescent silver-streams surround them, too hot to form crust. I can see where the surface layers have hardened and been pulled forth by new flows.

After he’s made a few rounds to make sure I get a good look, Noah moves on to the most famous
on the island, an oval of tropical forest that was once the center of the Royal Gardens subdivision. By 1990, pretty much every house in Royal Gardens had been destroyed by lava. Today, there’s only one left standing. It belongs to Jack Thompson. He still lives there.

Thompson’s house sits in the center of a
. It’s miles from another patch of green. He used to ride a motor scooter across lava and remaining roads. But, in time, all the roads were covered. Then the nearest town was destroyed. Now, according to Noah—who picks Thompson up from time to time for dentist appointments and rare, can’t-grow-it-in-the-garden grocery runs—Hawaii’s most famous hermit still makes infrequent hikes across landscapes that could devour him at any minute.