Kīlauea, on Hawaii's Big Island, is one of the most active volcanoes on Earth, and its summit pit dropped about 500 metres in 2018. To Native Hawaiians that pit, Halemaʻumaʻu, is not scenery at all. It is a wahi kapu, a sacred place and the living home of Pele, the volcano goddess, and offerings wrapped in leaves are still left along the rim. What she has been doing lately is easy to follow. Over three months in 2018 the floor fell in while lava poured out of the flank and destroyed 700 homes, and the pit ended up more than twice as wide. By late 2020 groundwater had filled it with a green lake some fifty metres deep, and an eruption boiled it away in about ninety minutes. Since December 2024 it has worked in bursts, hours of lava fountains from the same vent and then days or weeks of nothing, so whether you see one is luck. What carries almost every night is the glow: from the overlooks after dark, the light off the lava bleeds orange into the gas plume standing over the crater.
By day you walk on what earlier eruptions left. The Kīlauea Iki trail drops through ʻōhiʻa rainforest and comes out onto the flat, cracked floor of a crater that held a churning lava lake in 1959, with steam still rising through the cracks under your boots. Nāhuku is a tunnel that a river of lava drained about five hundred years ago, cool enough now for you to stroll through in minutes, ferns crowding the entrance and fine ʻōhiʻa roots feeling their way down through the ceiling. The red lehua blossom on those trees is the first thing to take hold on new black rock. Kīlauea takes the attention, but the same park holds Mauna Loa, which makes up about half the island and, measured from the sea floor, stands higher than Everest. And the fountains throw out volcanic glass that carries her name too: glossy black beads called Pele's tears, and hair-fine golden strands, Pele's hair, that catch in the rocks downwind.