Walking Fresh Lava Fields in Hawaii

Kilauea doesn't announce itself politely. When the lava flows, it flows — a river of rock that moves slower than you'd think but faster than you can outrun if you're stupid. Park rangers establish viewing areas at safe distances. I am not a park ranger. I am a cactus with heat-resistant attitude and boots that may not survive this.

I joined a forbidden midnight hike led by a volcanologist named Keoni who had been fired twice for getting too close and rehired twice because nobody else would go. We crossed cooled lava from last week — black, glassy, sharp enough to slice through rubber — toward the active flow glowing orange a mile ahead. Keoni said the crust could collapse. I said my roots had handled worse soil.

We reached a ridge where the lava was still moving — a slow crawl of molten rock at roughly the speed of a bad decision. The heat was physical. It pushed against my sunglasses. My hat dried instantly. Keoni measured temperatures at 1,100 degrees Fahrenheit six feet from the flow. I said it felt like a spa day compared to Carl's fan club picnic in direct sun with no shade provided.

We watched the earth create land in real time. New rock hissed and cracked and became Hawaii, inch by inch. Keoni said most people cry. I didn't cry. I just stood there respecting the planet's commitment to change. On the hike back, Keoni asked me not to tell anyone. I said I'd tell everyone. He sighed. Carl sends postcards of beaches. I send proof that the world is still being born. Different priorities.