Lava Refugee
By Jane Howard, Huxley Class of 1989
Leilani Avenue outside of Pahoa. Photo by Jane Howard.
The day fissure 8 began shooting lava 200 feet in the air was a day that runs through my mind’s eye like a repeating clip in a scary movie. My neighbors said they experienced hundreds of earthquakes a day in my neighborhood on the Big Island of Hawaii , but I was intent on getting home. My succulent white pineapples would be ripe and my limes would be ready for picking. I was a wild adventurer journeying to the front line of a threatening target zone. I knew I lived on an active volcano, but always believed that I would be granted a nano-second in geologic time, like 20 or maybe 30 years, in which to delight in this superabundant tropical paradise.
She called me a refugee! That’s got to be a first. It felt debilitating to be labeled a refugee. Leila approached me to give me a deep long hug, took my hands in hers and then sat down at her desk and prayed for me in Hawaiian. This tiny sweet loan officer, who had made it possible for me to fund my forever-dream-home on the Big Island, had just erased my mortgage with a single click. I was now officially a “lava refugee” and homeless. All my adrenaline was gone. I felt deflated, like a sad balloon. I sat there in that plush blue Bank of Hawaii chair feeling completely numb. Resilience, I told myself. Before stumbling outside, Leila asked me if I wanted a one way ticket to the mainland.
Crossing the Civil Defense road barrier. Photo by Jane Howard.
Days earlier, I still had a place to live. According to drone reports, the lava lake had overflowed and was sending tributaries of molten rock towards my home. Despite the risk, my neighbor Ella and I were intent on going in. At first nothing looked changed, but as we drove further into our neighborhood, we encountered two fully-suited National Guard soldiers, waving from the middle of the road. They warned us that the area ahead was extremely volatile and to leave immediately. Ella stepped on the gas and we shot through the barricade. The soldiers yelled, “YOU are on your own!”
Momentary thoughts of doubt and fear attacked as lava swallowed homes. Visibility was analogous to a mountaintop white-out, yet we crawled through the blinding ash and steam. I was hyperventilating in the stifling respirator and my heart was racing. My cell phone rang. It was my son. He had been following Civil Defense reports and told me which roads were already impassable. The call was super short and his last words were, “Mom, get the heck out of there! Don’t go back!”
Everything had changed. My mental list of what to grab in 5 minutes was gone. Forget the kitchen. Forget the clothes. Forget the STUFF!
Unstoppable molten lava pours down Nohea Street. Photo by Jane Howard.
We drove down and backed out of numerous streets to avoid the widening channel of 40 mile-an-hour flowing lava. Images of an open artery pumping life-blood to the edge of living land was forged in my soul. Mesmerized, I felt like I could be sucked in. The forest was aflame with eerie blue gas seeping out of widening cracks in the pavement. I watched lava swallowing homes as we passed scenes out of Yellowstone National Park, with waterfalls of yellow sulfur banks steaming, burping and crusting over. My familiar Sunday bike route looked like a pulsating red-hot open wound in a charred, blackened arm. I felt an inexplicable urgency to get home to grab some things, despite knowing that everything is “on loan” and nothing is permanent, and just when you think you can count on something, things shift.
Going beyond the civil defense barriers was like entering a war zone. Our truck was pelted with lava rocks as we swerved around widening cracks. Thin shards of hardened lava stuck in my hair. My contacts felt like they were melting on my eyeballs. Layers of fine, shards of lava crunched underfoot like broken glass. Lava bombs exploded like jet engines taking off. It was deafening, extremely dangerous and definitely not a smart place to be. I was afraid I would become trapped and unable to get out.
Widening fissures trap cars. Photo by Jane Howard.
In less than a minute, Ella came out of her house clutching a wooden box. “Let’s go!” She barked.
Across the street my gate was burning. The sky was colored a deep hot sepia. Everything was dead and defoliated. Dry brown leaves littered the landscape like confetti. In a moment of clarity, I was suddenly struck by this apocalyptic scene. Everything had changed. My mental list of what to grab in 5 minutes was gone. Forget the kitchen. Forget the clothes. Of course, forget the furniture and the car. Where was my passport? Oh, I must grab my grandmother’s silverware. No! Forget the STUFF!
Every day is both a risk and a joy. For me, being there in that moment-truly in the flow- was frightening, humbling and yet powerfully natural. Now that 40 feet of lava covers our homes, people still ask, “What did you grab?” While Ella rescued her late husband’s ashes, I grabbed my sensibilities. Now I know that wherever I am, I am already home.
What else is there to do but think positive and start over? Photo by Jane Howard.
About the author
After sleeping in her driftwood shelter in Alaska and living off razor clams, she returned to the lower 48 to travel with an improvisational theater group throughout the West. She’s also worked for the Smithsonian, Pacific Science Center, Island Institute, National Audubon Society and as a renowned travel adviser. She is recognized as a licensed inspirational teacher, experienced guide and travel consultant with Islandjane Ecotours and Girls on the Go Destinations. Her work and adventures have brought her face-to-face with whales, remote glacial rivers and active volcanoes.
"I am interested in the fragile relationship between nature, the elements and the passing cycles of time." — Jane Howard