Wild Hawaii

Hawaii
image courtesy Hawaii Tourism Japan

With 10 of the world's 14 climatic zones, the Big Island has it all

Story by Eric Lindberg, photos courtesy of Hawaii Convention and Visitors Bureau

Along with a dozen other shivering souls, I'm standing on the world's tallest mountain. As the sun dips below the horizon and the wind bites at my face, I pull the fleece cap down snug. Freezing temperatures are coming, but we linger, waiting for one of the most spectacular night skies on Earth.

If this sounds like a Himalayan mountaintop, guess again. I'm standing on top of Mauna Kea on the island of Hawaii. Rising more than 33,000 feet from its ocean floor base, this dormant volcano tops out at 13,796 feet above sea level. With 40% less oxygen here than at sea level, I'm gasping like a fish out of water.

image courtesy Hawaii's Big Island Visitor Bureau

As twilight darkens the sky, thousands of stars shimmer overhead, undimmed by air pollution or city lights. The stars guided Polynesian navigators to these islands centuries ago. Tonight they evoke exclamations of wonder. Because of the dark, clear nights, the summit is home to a dozen world-class telescopes. At dusk, observatory doors swing back, domes swivel, and scientists begin searching the heavens.

The overhead show will continue for hours, but so will the cold. Thirty minutes after driving down from the frigid summit, I'm peeling off layers as warm trade winds stream through the car window.

The island of Hawaii, often known as the Big Island, contains 10 of the world's 14 climatic zones within a chunk of land the size of Connecticut. Rain forests, scorched lavascapes, snowcapped mountains, living volcanoes, sandy coastline—it's all here.

While the other islands are compact and distances are short, Hawaii itself is another story. Larger than all the other islands combined, Hawaii keeps getting bigger, thanks to a continual lava flow from Kilauea Volcano. It's a claim no other U.S. state can make.

And it's black lava rock, not palm-fringed beaches, that greets travelers outside the Kona airport. This is no surprise, considering the island is home to five volcanoes. Part of the airport sits on a lava flow from 1801. It's a bleak first impression.

image courtesy Hawaii Tourism Japan

On a cloudless morning I drive up the Kona coast through miles of sun-blasted lava where pili grass dances in the windy gusts. If not for wild donkey-crossing signs, the setting could be a barren corner of Africa.

An hour later I'm standing at the base of a waterfall, eating wild guavas. Our small hiking party is exploring the lush Kohala countryside on the northern tip of the island. For two hours we've followed streams past quiet pools, old canals, and numerous waterfalls. It's a landscape carved by water, as guide Jon Knight from Hawaii Forest & Trails points out.

We stop at an ancestral, stream-fed taro patch. "People have depended on these fresh water sources for hundreds of years. Just a few miles down slope, there's not enough rain to grow crops."

He points out native plants growing among the many introduced varieties. Many of the island's native bird and plant species are now extinct, with others threatened by habitat loss and invasive intruders such as mongoose and wild pigs. Despite efforts to protect the few that remain, it's unclear whether they will survive.

Jon has lived here for seven years, and he doesn't hesitate to offer advice on exploring the Big Island's 4,000 square miles.

"Make time to slow down and connect with the natural world. Lie on a Kona beach during the day and then watch the sun set from Mauna Kea, followed by more stars than you've ever seen in your life. Or tour a coffee plantation, then go watch the earth being born at Volcanoes National Park."

Morning finds me driving east along the flanks of Kohala volcano. The radio serves up country, reggae and rap with a homespun Hawaiian flavor. While not always polished, the DJs are spirited, discoursing in a soft island lilt on hula, pig recipes and proper drinking etiquette at parties. It's like a favorite uncle holding court at a backyard barbeque.

Just outside Waimea, the dry scrublands end abruptly, turning into a lush world of green pastures and upland forests. In just a few miles I've gone from desert to humid woodland, leaving the rain shadow of Mauna Kea and crossing into the path of the moist trades that spill around the sides of the volcano. Bananas and papayas grow in backyard plots bordered by bamboo thickets. Clouds blot out the sun, and within minutes a misty rain darkens the road to Hilo.

This east coast road winds through a landscape that is worlds apart from the arid leeward side of the island. Tangled jungle fills deep ravines with a dozen shades of green. Brief cloudbursts blow through, slowing traffic and drenching the land. Around the next bend, the sun returns.

According to Hugh Montgomery, owner of Hawaiian Walkways and longtime island resident, there's a logical explanation for these climatic extremes. "When wet trade winds hit the windward side, Mauna Kea blocks them from going further, and this side of the island gets dumped on."

How much? "Around 120 inches a year," says Hugh. "The leeward Kona side lies in the rain shadow of the volcanoes. It only gets around 10 inches a year." Less rain means less runoff into the ocean, resulting in clearer water, more sandy beaches and more coral reefs.

image courtesy Hawaii Tourism Authority

Hugh is leading our group of hikers around Volcanoes National Park, 30 miles southwest of Hilo. We begin in the wooded upper reaches where fern forests fill moist gullies. Apapane and Amakihi birds flit and feed on the nectar of the 'ohi'a lehua tree blossoms. Passing the stinking steam vents at Sulfur Bank, the road drops into Kilauea Caldera under a baking midday sun. Parking at the bottom, we hike to Halema'uma'u Crater, said to be the home of volcano goddess Pele. Columns of sulfurous vapors rise from fissures in the hardened lava. A few scraggly bushes and tufts of grass bend in the hot wind.

Yet there is beauty. The hardened magma beneath our feet swirls like a frozen river. A solitary flowering bush rises from the undulating rock. Overhead, white-tailed tropic birds dip and swerve, unwilling to alight in this desolate expanse.

After a dry day in the volcano, I've earned some beach time. Back on the leeward side the next morning, a 22-mile drive south of Kailua-Kona brings me to Pu'uhonua o Honaunau Historical Park. Known as the Place of Refuge, it was built around 1550 as a royal residence. If commoners who had broken kapu (laws) could elude capture and reach this place, they were absolved and set free.

In the park, the annual cultural festival is underway. Locals demonstrate hula, palm frond weaving and lei-making.

I try poi, a pasty Hawaiian staple made from taro, and kava, a mildly stimulating drink. It looks and tastes like muddy water.

Mouth numbed by kava, I stroll the rocky shoreline, stopping to watch two green sea turtles nibbling algae from the rocks. They ride the incoming surge like seasoned surfers, grabbing a few quick bites before the outgoing flow pulls them away from the rocks.

It has taken close to a million years of trade winds and clouds, sun and rain, lava flows and ocean currents, to shape Hawaii and bring life here. This island, perhaps more than the others, is a place to slow down and feel these forces at work. The entire island chain is still growing, and to watch it happen, there's no better spot than the island of Hawaii.

Eric Lindberg is a Lakewood-based writer and photographer.