I was driving over Mauna Kea when the sheer size of the island that cradles it dawned on me. It was like a light bulb had illuminated just how big the island of Hawaiʻi really is.
My location definitely helped. Coming to terms with this enormity is easy when you’re in the shadow of Mauna Kea, the tallest mountain in the Pacific – and if measured from its base on the ocean floor, at 10,000m (33,500ft), it stands as the tallest mountain in the world (Everest is 8,848m/29,029ft).
Nothing like a superlative mountain to make you feel small. The distance I had driven enhanced that feeling, too. I only had to go so far in any direction before land became water. There’s something fascinating about a place that is an island on the one hand, yet feels continental on the other.
The navel of the world
Properly known as the island of Hawaiʻi, it is often deemed a microcontinent. It’s only fair this landmass lends her name to the whole state of Hawaii, given this island’s centrality to Hawaiian culture and history. Native Hawaiians believe Mauna Kea is ‘ka piko o ka moku’ – the navel of the world; bridge between this and the spirit realm; the axis the world revolves around.
Such a place should embody all the world’s climates, and the island of Hawaiʻi comes remarkably close. It is interesting to note that within this microcontinent, one can find four out of the world’s five major climate zones, and depending on who you ask, eight or ten of its sub-zones (based on the Köppen climate classification chart).
The divisions feel much more visceral when you’re driving around the island. In less than an hour, you can cross from the fertile green slopes of the Kona Coffee belt into the ochre deserts of South Kohala. Continuing north, the land transforms into the surreal, wind-whipped grasslands of North Kohala. Cross the mountain in one direction and you’ve entered lush tropical rainforests; in another direction, a red pit of lava resembles a gateway to a Dante Alighieri poem.
At that moment, I was in an alpine wonderland. My car climbed Mauna Kea, passing bands of brown scree peppered with ‘āheahea shrubs and bladderfern. I was apprehensive about fog – the mountain acts as a giant geologic rain catcher, and on the roads around it, you have to be cautious of cotton ball mist that severely limits visibility. Eventually, my car began to push past fields of sugary snow. You can’t guarantee its presence while driving across Mauna Kea, but when you encounter it – about 90 minutes from deep blue beaches and red-hot sunbathing – you realize you’re in a unique landscape; a place close to Mother Nature’s essence.
Dry zones and razor rocks
The word ‘Hawaiʻi’ often inspires visions of tropical greenery, but in coastal South Kohala, on the northwest side of the island, you’ll discover an enormous dry zone of dark lava desert and spiky fields of yellow steppe grass. Dotted here and there are luxurious resorts with pumped-in water, golf courses, and timeshares. While these resorts seem like a peculiar addition, they capitalize on the sunny weather that rarely sees rainfall, attracting those from the mainland.
I pulled into a small lot on the side of the highway and followed a faint foot track winding through the lava rocks. It was rough going over a field of ‘a’ā (ah ah); ‘a’ā lava contains gas bubbles that expand into needle-like spikes upon drying. Walking on this terrain is akin to crossing a bed of petrified needles. However, the rewards at the end of the trail are isolated beaches, such as Kiholo Bay and Makalawena, where it is just you, perhaps a few respectful locals, and an ocean as blue as the expansive sky above.
Finding refuge
I drove in long, winding loops and made sharp turns on little country roads as I piloted my car through the jungles of the Kona Coffee belt. An archway of branches opened up to sunset-purple clouds of bougainvillea, before a narrow road snaked to the parking lot at Kealakekua Bay. Here, a small heiau, a native Hawaiian temple, nestled like a modest distraction from the breathtaking natural vistas around me. Steep rock walls ascended from a cove of dark blue waters, peppered with spinner dolphins, against the backdrop of sheer cliffs and a relentless breeze of salty air.
Ancient Hawaiʻi was governed by the kapu system, a series of laws that managed societal roles, class structure, and resource allocation. Breaching kapu often meant death, unless one could find refuge at Puʻuhonua o Hōnaunau, approximately four miles south of Kealakekua Bay. This significant place means ‘Place of Refuge’ and describes a temple complex surrounded by sand, rocks, and small lagoons. Here, those who broke kapu would seek sanctuary and atonement from local priests.
My purpose was to explore the beautiful National Park site that now preserves this sanctuary and to see some marine life. While the temple complex is charming, the real allure of this area lies in a small cove accessibly via a pair of rock lodges, famously known as ‘Two-Step.’ I donned a mask and flippers, took the two steps, and immersed myself in a vibrant underwater world. The water lapped over my head, introducing me to rainbow clouds of tropical fish darting amongst iridescent coral fields. I swam around until I had to reluctantly depart or risk exhaustion – the diversity of the land serves as a prelude to the magnificent aquatic wonders it conceals.
The forge of creation
The east side of the island of Hawaiʻi brims with mana, a Polynesian cultural concept that translates roughly to creative potential or life force. Majestic Mauna Kea largely retains the rains to this side of the island, resulting in a land that is lush and fertile to the point of distraction.
Within the expansive Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park, the island is literally formed from the Earth, serving as a potent testament to mana in action. As I drove further upcountry, navigating through dark groves of mid-altitude forests, my eyes were rewarded with the sight of Kīlauea, the most active volcano in the Hawaiian islands. Its name means ‘spewing,’ evoking imagery of a land that channels the fertility of the world.
During my road trip across the island, Kīlauea’s lava had created natural roadblocks in Puna, creating a surreal landscape adorned with jungles and invasive Albizia trees. This area is alive with motion; even at night, the stillness is disrupted by the stereo rumble of thousands of coqui frogs (also invasive). I ventured to Kalapana, a former community that was swallowed by Kīlauea’s wrath, leaving behind black ash. Here, the end of the road is literal – the path was obliterated by molten rock. Tourists and I strolled over extensive black expanses of ash soil to witness waves battering a cliff. Beyond this chaotic beauty, a distant red glow beckoned.
This glow was the result of lava blub-blubbing into the ocean, hardening, and transforming into rock – a world reborn. The four elements coalesced – the wind from the ocean, the waves crashing into thousands of flashes, the jagged, rocky cliffs, and the fiery heart of the volcano itself – and together they fashioned new inches of microcontinent, a place that can encapsulate almost all of the world’s climates, crafting the dimensions of an optimal road trip.
Adam Karlin traveled to Hawaiʻi in December 2016, and this account reflects his personal experiences.
GoTravelDaily has crafted this article for The Hawaiian Islands. All editorial views are those of GoTravelDaily alone and reflect our policy of editorial independence and impartiality.
