Hawai’i, the Big Island, like all the other islands in the 50th State of the US, has been formed by volcanic activity and is the youngest of all the islands. It sits over a hot spot in the Earth’s crust, resulting in two of the world’s most active volcanoes, Mauna Loa and Kilauea. Visiting Volcanoes gives you the opportunity to get up and close to a volcano and learn more about the science of volcanology and its role in the creation of these islands.
USA: Hawaii – Big Island (Hawai’i)
🌋 A Land Still Being Born
The Big Island of Hawaiʻi, situated at the south-eastern tip of the Hawaiian archipelago in the central Pacific Ocean, is the largest island in the United States — and one of the most geologically active places on the planet. Formed by a series of shield volcanoes, the island is quite literally still growing, with Kīlauea — one of the world’s most continuously active volcanoes — periodically adding new land to its coastline. Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, offers visitors the extraordinary opportunity to witness this ongoing creation up close, from steaming vents and hardened lava fields to glowing lava flows that remind you, in no uncertain terms, of nature’s supreme authority. This is not merely a backdrop — it is a dynamic, ever-changing landscape that rewards both the curious and the reverent in equal measure.
🏖️ A Diversity of Landscapes and Coastlines
Few islands in the world can match the sheer variety of environments packed into the Big Island’s roughly 10,400 square kilometres. The Kohala Coast to the north-west offers some of Hawaiʻi’s most celebrated resort beaches — calm, sun-drenched stretches of white and golden sand lapped by the warm Pacific. Travel east and the landscape shifts dramatically, with the Hamakua Coast delivering cascading waterfalls, dense rainforest, and the breathtaking Waipiʻo Valley, a sacred site of deep cultural significance to Native Hawaiians. The south of the island offers yet another contrast: Punalu’u Black Sand Beach, where volcanic minerals have created a striking shoreline unlike anything in the archipelago, frequently visited by Hawaiian green sea turtles basking in the afternoon sun. Hilo, the island’s largest city on the eastern coast, embraces its reputation for rainfall with lush botanical gardens and a laid-back, authentically Hawaiian atmosphere that feels refreshingly unhurried.
🌌 Culture, Stargazing and the Spirit of Aloha
Beyond its dramatic physical landscape, the Big Island holds immense cultural and spiritual significance. It is the birthplace of King Kamehameha I, the revered monarch who unified the Hawaiian Islands in the early nineteenth century, and the island’s many heiau — ancient Hawaiian temples — speak to a civilisation of remarkable sophistication and deep reverence for the natural world. Mauna Kea, a dormant volcano rising to 4,205 metres above sea level, is considered one of the most sacred sites in Hawaiian tradition and simultaneously hosts some of the world’s most advanced astronomical observatories, offering some of the clearest night skies on Earth. Visitors who take the time to engage with the island’s heritage — through cultural centres, guided tours with Native Hawaiian practitioners, and traditional luau — often find that it is this human dimension, layered so richly over the volcanic landscape, that lingers longest in the memory.
A perfect 3-day Hawai’i (Big Island) itinerary
DAY ONE
Rainbow Falls, Hilo
The Tsunami Museum
The tide pools at Wai Opae
DAY TWO
Explore Volcano National Park
DAY THREE
Kayak Kealakekua Bay
Visit the Captain Cook memorial
Explore the Black Beach
Day One
🌈 Rainbow Falls
We had been in Hilo for less than a day, and already the town had made its feelings perfectly clear about our presence by depositing roughly half the Pacific Ocean on our heads. Hilo, on the eastern side of the Big Island, is one of the wettest cities in the entire United States, receiving something in the region of 130 inches of rain per year. That’s not a typo. One hundred and thirty inches. For context, London — our famously damp capital, the city that invented the stereotype of the permanently soggy Englishman — manages a frankly embarrassing 23 inches. Hilo was not messing about.
So, with somewhat modest expectations, we made our way to Rainbow Falls, which sits just a mile or two west of Hilo’s town centre, tucked into the lush rainforest folds of Wailuku River State Park. The falls have been known to Hawaiians for centuries — the great warrior-king Kamehameha I, who unified the Hawaiian Islands by 1810, reportedly had strong connections to this region, and Hilo itself served as a significant base during his campaigns. The Wailuku River, which feeds the falls, has long held a sacred place in native Hawaiian tradition.
Rainbow Falls — or Waiānuenue in Hawaiian, which translates rather poetically as “rainbow seen in water” — takes its English name from the mist-induced rainbows that form at the base on sunny mornings, when the light hits the spray at just the right angle. It is, by all accounts, a genuinely spectacular sight. We wouldn’t know. The sun had taken the day off.
What we did see — peering down from the viewing platform that sits conveniently at the top of the gorge, which, to be fair, is an excellent bit of park infrastructure — was a dramatic curtain of white water dropping roughly 80 feet straight down into a wide basalt pool below. The falls span nearly 100 feet across, which makes them impressively broad as well as tall, and the whole scene was framed by dense tropical vegetation in approximately forty-seven shades of green. Even without the famous rainbows, it was genuinely impressive. The sort of thing that makes you briefly forget how damp your socks are.
The falls are part of Hawai’i’s State Parks system, which, in a move that seems almost suspiciously reasonable, charges absolutely nothing for entry. No ticket booths, no car park charges, no “premium viewing experience” upgrade for an extra fifteen dollars. You simply drive up, park, and look at a waterfall. Radical stuff.
It took us perhaps twenty minutes in total, which felt about right. Long enough to appreciate it properly, short enough that we hadn’t entirely given up on the idea of seeing those rainbows one day. We’d just have to come back on a morning when Hawaii was in a slightly more cooperative mood.
🌊 Pacific Tsunami Museum, Hilo
We decided to visit the Pacific Tsunami Museum in Hilo, and frankly, given where we were staying, it turned out to be rather more relevant than we’d bargained for.
Hawaii’s position in the Pacific makes it particularly vulnerable to tsunamis, and the museum does an excellent job of explaining exactly why. The islands sit smack in the middle of what geologists call the “Ring of Fire” — a vast horseshoe-shaped arc stretching roughly 40,000 kilometres from New Zealand, up along the eastern edge of Asia, north across the Aleutian Islands of Alaska, and then south down the coastlines of North and South America. It’s not a cheerful sort of name, and it earns it. The Ring of Fire is home to over 75% of the world’s active and dormant volcanoes, and it’s responsible for generating the majority of the planet’s most damaging earthquakes. And where you get powerful undersea earthquakes, you very often get tsunamis tagging along behind, uninvited and catastrophically destructive.
Hilo itself has had a particularly rough time of it. The town has been struck by major tsunamis on multiple occasions throughout its history, and the museum chronicles these events in sobering detail. Two disasters stand out above the rest. On the 1st April 1946 — and yes, that really was April Fool’s Day, which history clearly found amusing even if nobody else did — a magnitude 8.6 earthquake struck near the Aleutian Islands in Alaska and sent a series of enormous waves racing across the Pacific. They arrived at Hilo with virtually no warning, and around 160 people were killed in Hawaii alone. Then, on the 23rd May 1960, a second catastrophe struck. An earthquake measuring 9.5 on the Richter scale — the most powerful earthquake ever recorded in human history — hit the coast of Chile, and the resulting tsunami crossed the Pacific over the following fourteen or so hours. When it reached Hilo at around midnight, it killed a further 61 people in the town. Combined, these two events claimed the lives of roughly 250 people in the Hilo area. The museum does a remarkable job of documenting both disasters through photographs, survivor testimonies, and exhibits that are genuinely moving.
All of which was very interesting and educational and, as it turned out, directly relevant to our sleeping arrangements.
Karen, to her enormous credit, took all of this information on board and immediately went to find a member of staff to ask a perfectly reasonable question: exactly how worried should we be, given that we were staying in a beach house approximately ten feet from the sea? The answer was not, shall we say, entirely reassuring. As it turned out, we were sitting in one of the highest-risk tsunami zones on the entire island.
Most disconcerting.
So from that point on, we took a rather keener interest in the island’s warning sirens, evacuation route signs, and the general direction of higher ground. Just in case.
🌊 Tidal Pools at Wai Opae
We had decided to base ourselves in Kapoho — a remote, wonderfully off-the-beaten-track corner of the Big Island, roughly 30 miles south-east of Hilo. Kapoho sits right on the Puna coast, a part of Hawaii that most tourists frankly never bother with, which of course is precisely why we liked it. Hilo itself — the largest city on the island — is a charming, slightly rain-soaked place that tends to get overlooked in favour of the sunny resort towns on the Kohala Coast. We, naturally, went in entirely the opposite direction.
Our beach house was a proper delight — built on stilts in that breezy, open-plan style that makes complete sense in the tropics, and decorated in exactly the sort of breezy island manner you’d hope for. Painted wood, rattan furniture, ceiling fans doing their lazy best. We were just a few feet from the ocean, which sounds marvellous until we mention that the house directly opposite blocked our view almost entirely. Tantalizingly — and this really was slightly maddening — we could hear the waves crashing on the reef just beyond. We could hear paradise. We just couldn’t quite see it. Classic.
There was also, as it turned out, no actual beach anywhere near our beach house. You’ll want to sit with that for a moment.
What we did have, however, was something considerably more interesting — the Wai Opae Tidepools, a marine life conservation area that sits just a short walk along the coastline. Wai Opae — pronounced roughly “vy oh-pie,” for those of us who spent three days getting it wrong — is a protected stretch of coastline where a natural lava reef barrier runs along the shore, effectively creating a long series of connected tidal pools between the land and the open sea. The lava itself is the product of centuries of volcanic activity from Kīlauea, one of the most continuously active volcanoes on Earth, which has been quietly reshaping this part of the coast for thousands of years. Indeed, much of the Kapoho coastline only exists because of old lava flows pushing the land out into the sea — which does give the whole area a somewhat raw, primordial feeling, as though it’s still deciding what it wants to be when it grows up.
The pools themselves vary enormously — some are no deeper than your ankles, warm and sun-baked and full of tiny creatures going about their business, while others drop away to several feet and open into proper snorkelling territory. The variety in size is equally striking; some pools are barely bigger than a garden pond, whilst others are broad, calm expanses you could swim across at a leisurely pace. Because the lava reef acts as a natural breakwater, the water inside is calm and largely protected from the swells of the open Pacific — which, given that the Pacific Ocean is not known for its gentleness, was rather reassuring. It made the whole place genuinely safe for all of us, including those among our party who might charitably be described as “enthusiastic but not technically gifted” in the water.
The one hazard worth noting — and it’s a genuine one — is the lava rock itself. It is extraordinarily sharp. Hawaiians have a word, a’ā (pronounced “ah-ah”), for the particularly jagged, rough-surfured type of lava, as opposed to the smoother pāhoehoe variety, and the rocks around Wai Opae are firmly in the a’ā camp. One slip without water shoes and you’ll know about it for the rest of your holiday. We wore ours. Mostly.
But really, the minor threat of laceration was entirely worth it. The corals were vivid and abundant — branching, plate, and brain corals all visible just beneath the surface — and the fish were simply extraordinary in number and variety. Parrotfish, triggerfish, Moorish idols, the ever-present humuhumunukunukuāpuaʻa (Hawaii’s state fish, and one of the finest words in any language), and clouds of tiny blue and yellow reef fish that parted around us as we kicked through. It was, without exaggeration, like being dropped into a very large, very well-maintained tropical fish tank — the kind you gawp at in dentists’ waiting rooms, except you’re actually in it, and nobody is asking you to fill in a form.
We spent far longer in those pools than we’d planned, which is exactly what tends to happen when somewhere is genuinely wonderful.
Day Two
🌋 Day Two — Volcanoes National Park
We spent our second day doing something that felt genuinely, mildly terrifying — visiting Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park, home to two of the most persistently active volcanoes on the planet. If you’ve ever wanted to stand near something that could, at any moment, decide to rearrange the local geography, this is very much the place for you.
The park sits on the Big Island of Hawai’i and was established back in 1916, making it one of America’s oldest national parks. It covers around 323,000 acres and sits within what geologists call a “hot spot” — a place where an unusually hot plume of mantle material burns through the Pacific Plate like a blowtorch through a biscuit tin lid. The result, over millions of years, has been the entire Hawaiian island chain. The Big Island is simply the most recent addition, and it’s still very much a work in progress.
The two main attractions, volcanically speaking, are Mauna Loa and Kīlauea. Mauna Loa, whose name means “Long Mountain” in Hawaiian, is the largest active volcano on Earth by volume and surface area. Measured from its base on the seafloor — some 18,000 feet below the surface — all the way to its summit at 13,679 feet above sea level, it’s actually taller than Everest. Nobody tells you that at school, do they. Mauna Loa last had a significant eruption in November 2022, its first in 38 years, which must have focused a few minds locally.
Kīlauea, on the other hand, barely needs an excuse. It’s been more or less continuously erupting since 1983 — a 40-year run that would be exhausting even for a volcano. The name means “spewing” or “much spreading” in Hawaiian, which is rather on the nose. It sits on Mauna Loa’s southeastern flank and has, over the decades, added considerable new real estate to the island’s coastline. Magma vents on the seafloor send lava shooting upward, and molten streams pour straight into the Pacific, hissing and steaming as they hit the water, solidifying into new land. It’s creation in real time, which is genuinely astonishing — assuming you can see anything at all.
Which, on the day we visited, was something of an issue.
The windward sides of the Hawaiian Islands are famous for being lush and green. They’re lush and green, of course, because they get absolutely rained on. The trade winds sweep in off the Pacific and dump their moisture on whichever slope happens to be in the way, and the national park, sitting on the eastern side of the Big Island, cops a fair bit of this. Low cloud had settled in firmly, wrapping itself around the caldera like damp cotton wool, and it was periodically delivering small, apologetic amounts of rain onto our heads as if to say, “Sorry about this, but we did warn you.”
We retreated to the Kīlauea Visitor Centre, which opened in its current form in 2012 and is actually a rather good facility. We watched a film about the volcanoes, the geology, and the extraordinary ecosystem of the park — which encompasses everything from tropical rainforest to high-altitude desert, depending on which side you’re standing on. The park is also considered sacred in Native Hawaiian culture. Kīlauea in particular is regarded as the home of Pele, the goddess of volcanoes and fire, a figure central to Hawaiian mythology whose moods, conveniently, explain most geological activity in the region.
Between the showers, we ventured out onto the crater rim of Kīlauea — or rather, what we could see of it, which wasn’t an awful lot. The Kīlauea caldera is enormous, roughly three miles long and two miles wide, and was formed by repeated collapses over thousands of years. In 2018 a particularly dramatic series of eruptions caused the caldera floor to drop by some 1,600 feet in a matter of weeks, which is the kind of thing that makes you feel the ground beneath your feet is perhaps less permanent than you’d like.
The volcano was, as advertised, clearly still very much alive. Gases rose in pale wisps from vents along the crater rim, mostly sulphur dioxide and water vapour, the sort of exhalations that remind you this landscape is essentially breathing. We walked along the rim trails — which, visibility aside, are genuinely scenic and well-maintained — and made our way out to the steam vents, where groundwater seeps down through cracks in the rock, meets the heat below, and comes back up as steam. It’s a slightly unnerving walk on a clear day; in the mist, it felt like wandering through a particularly dramatic scene from a low-budget science fiction film.
The highlight, if “highlight” is the right word for something that smells absolutely dreadful, was the Sulphur Banks. The path winds through an area where the ground is stained vivid yellow by sulphur deposits, and the air carries that distinctive, inescapable stench of hydrogen sulphide — the rotten-egg smell that confirms you are standing somewhere most sensible life forms would prefer not to. We smelt the banks well before we saw them, which is really the only way to experience them properly. Unlike most vents in the area, which emit mainly steam and carbon dioxide, the Sulphur Banks are one of the few places on Kīlauea where hydrogen sulphide is given off in quantity, depositing its bright mineral crust around the vents over time.
It was, in truth, not our most visually spectacular day. The cloud stayed put and the panoramic views of the caldera remained stubbornly theoretical. But there was still something remarkable about standing on the rim of an active volcano, breathing in gases that had just come up from somewhere deep and hot and ancient, and knowing that the ground a few hundred feet below was liquid rock. You don’t really need a view for that to sink in. The geology does the work on its own.
🌋 Lava at Midnight — Kīlauea’s Ocean Entry
Now, here’s the thing about volcanoes. Standing near one in the drizzle, peering into cloud and smelling sulphur, is all very well. But finding out that, fifteen miles up the road, actual red-hot lava is pouring into the actual ocean, right now, tonight — well, that rather changes the agenda.
The vent responsible for all this drama is part of the East Rift Zone of Kīlauea, and it’s been more or less continuously misbehaving since January 1983. Over four decades, the flows from this system — at various points referred to as the Pu’u ‘Ō’ō eruption, one of the longest-running in the volcano’s recorded history — had consumed over 200 homes, buried entire neighbourhoods, and casually erased several miles of coastal highway under several metres of solid rock. The lava doesn’t hurry. It doesn’t need to. It just keeps coming.
The ocean entry point — where the lava meets the sea — was barely fifteen miles from where we were staying, which felt both thrillingly close and mildly alarming when you thought about it too hard. We learnt fairly quickly that the correct time to go is after dark. In daylight you get warm rock and the odd plume of steam. At night you get something else entirely.
The National Park Service, sensibly enough, had established a car park roughly half a mile from the active flows, beyond which the road — or what remained of it — gave way to rough, solidified lava. This apparently deterred nobody. People were making the crossing in their thousands, picking their way across ancient and not-so-ancient rock in the dark, because when a volcano is doing something this extraordinary, you don’t stay in the hotel and watch television.
By the time we arrived, the car park was essentially full — a small village of vehicles belonging to people who had all had exactly the same idea we had. We ended up parking on the road itself, which added a considerable amount to our walk. In total we covered about two miles each way, though to be fair only the last half mile was the genuinely technical bit — the rough lava crossing in the dark that requires a torch, sensible footwear, and a willingness to accept that your ankles are on their own.
At the end of the tarmac, where the road simply stopped, you could look down at what used to be part of the coastal highway — Route 130, swallowed by the 1990 flows that buried the town of Kalapana — and see that the road surface itself was now a burning mass. The lava had crossed it and, in places, was still moving across it. Further up into the hills, rivers of red were clearly visible in the darkness, tracing bright, unhurried paths down through the black landscape toward the coast. It was the sort of view that makes your brain temporarily forget how to form sentences.
Armed with torches — flashlights, as our American friends insist, though the word “torch” was perfectly adequate for thousands of years and I see no reason to apologise for it — we picked our way carefully across the lava field, following the trail marked by dozens of other visitors doing the same thing. There’s something slightly absurd about a crocodile of tourists in the dark, shuffling across what is geologically speaking a very young and still-cooling planetary surface, but there we were.
And then we reached the sea cliffs, and it was worth every stumble.
Several distinct rivers of lava were making their way to the cliff edge and dropping into the Pacific below, and the sight was, without exaggeration, stunning. The lava glowed a deep, furious red, bright enough to throw colour into the clouds of steam that billowed up where the molten rock hit the seawater. The steam plumes rose high into the night sky, catching the orange glow from below. The whole scene had an almost theatrical quality — the darkness, the heat, the noise of the ocean, the hissing and crackling — except that no theatre budget has ever produced anything remotely like this.
What really got us excited were the occasional moments when lava pooled at the cliff edge and sent globules spitting upward into the air, brief bright fountains against the dark, before the whole mass tipped over and vanished into the sea below. We stood there far longer than strictly necessary, entirely transfixed, taking photographs that would later prove completely inadequate at conveying what we’d actually seen.
It is, without question, one of the most remarkable things we have ever witnessed. A landscape being actively created in front of us, the planet doing what it has always done, entirely indifferent to our presence and our cameras and our small human amazement.
There was, however, one dissenting voice in our party. Jack had been hoping — reasonably enough, from the perspective of an eleven-year-old who has been promised volcanoes — for a rather closer encounter. Lava rivers, he felt, were best appreciated from a distance of approximately arm’s length. We explained, patiently, that approaching active lava flows on foot is genuinely, spectacularly dangerous — the ground can be hollow, the crust can give way without warning, and laze, the toxic cloud produced when lava meets seawater, contains hydrochloric acid and tiny particles of volcanic glass. Jack listened to all of this with the expression of someone who has been told the swimming pool is closed.
He was not, it must be said, entirely satisfied with the safety briefing.
Day Three
🚣 Kayaking Kealakekua Bay & the Captain Cook Monument
To understand why we were paddling across a bay in Hawaii in a couple of rather wobbly kayaks, it helps to know a little about the man whose monument we were heading for.
Captain James Cook was, by any measure, one of Britain’s greatest ever explorers — which is saying something, given that we’ve sent quite a lot of people off to faraway places over the centuries with the instruction to claim things for the Crown. Cook made three major voyages of exploration across the Pacific, and it was on his third, in January 1778, that he became the first European to make contact with the Hawaiian Islands. He arrived aboard HMS Resolution and HMS Discovery, in need of fresh water, food, and the kind of repairs that only a prolonged stopover could fix. He named his discovery the Sandwich Islands, not after the snack — though he could have done with one after months at sea — but after his friend and patron John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich, who happened to be First Lord of the Admiralty at the time and therefore a useful man to keep on side.
Cook initially moored at Waimea Bay on the island of Kauai before, on a subsequent visit, finding his way to Kealakekua Bay on the Kona Coast of the Big Island. The timing of his arrival in January 1779 was, as it turned out, either extraordinarily good luck or extraordinarily bad luck, depending on how you look at it. He landed during the Makahiki festival, a period of celebration honouring the god Lono. The Hawaiians, encountering tall-masted European ships for the first time, appear to have concluded that Cook himself might be Lono, or at least a representative of him. The reception was accordingly warm. Chiefs paddled out to greet him, gifts were lavished upon the crew, and elaborate ceremonies were held in Cook’s honour. He must have thought he’d landed on his feet.
He hadn’t, quite. After a few weeks Cook departed — which was perfectly in keeping with how Lono was supposed to behave, conveniently enough — but was then forced to turn back almost immediately when a fierce storm damaged the foremast of the Resolution. Returning to a bay you’ve just left is awkward at the best of times. Returning as a supposedly immortal deity who’d just allowed his mast to get battered in a gale was, it turned out, somewhat undermining. The Hawaiians’ confidence in Cook’s divine status began to wobble. Tensions rose, a number of misunderstandings occurred involving a stolen cutter boat, and on 14th February 1779 — Valentine’s Day, of all days — things came to a head on the beach at Kealakekua. In the resulting skirmish, Cook was killed. He was 50 years old.
A white obelisk monument now marks the spot where he fell. It stands on a small, rocky peninsula on the southern shore of the bay. There’s no road to it. The only way to reach it is by boat, by kayak, or by swimming — and since none of us were quite up for that last option, we hired kayaks.
The kayak rental place was, for reasons best known to itself, situated high up on the hills above the bay. So we carefully strapped two double kayaks and a single kayak to the roof of our hire car — which was no mean feat and involved a good deal of rope, optimism, and mutual reassurance that everything looked absolutely fine — and then negotiated our way down the steep, winding road to the dock area below. That part, as it turned out, was the easy bit. Getting the kayaks off the car, down to the water, and then manoeuvring ourselves from the dock — a good three feet above the waterline — into the kayaks without either capsizing or making complete fools of ourselves proved considerably more challenging. Somehow, against all reasonable expectation, we managed it. Nobody fell in. We considered this a triumph.
From the dock, it was a thirty-minute paddle across the bay to the monument. The sea was, mercifully, relatively calm, and the crossing was straightforward enough, though the kayaks rose and fell with the swell in a way that kept things interesting. And then, about halfway across, something rather wonderful happened. A group of around ten spinner dolphins appeared alongside us, apparently curious about these ungainly plastic vessels and the red-faced Brits inside them. Spinner dolphins are named for their habit of leaping clear of the water and rotating on their own axis before splashing back down — a trick that serves no obvious practical purpose but is absolutely spectacular to watch. They put on quite a show, and we stopped paddling for a while just to appreciate it.
We eventually reached the small rocky cove just below the Cook monument, hauled the kayaks up out of the water — because losing your ride home would have added a certain unwanted drama to the afternoon — and took a moment to look around. It was, in all honesty, almost idyllic. Clear water, rugged black lava coastline, the white obelisk up on the headland. The only slight dampener was that we weren’t the only ones who’d had this idea, and the cove was rather busy. But that’s the modern world for you.
The other great draw of Kealakekua Bay, aside from the historical significance, is the snorkelling. The waters here are a marine conservation district, and the reef is, frankly, extraordinary. Within just a few feet of the shore we were already surrounded by dozens of bright tropical fish — parrotfish, triggerfish, Moorish idols — and as we swam further out, the coral formations became increasingly impressive, alive with colour and movement. It was one of those moments where you bob about with your face in the water thinking that the world is, occasionally and despite all evidence to the contrary, a genuinely remarkable place.
Before heading back across the bay, we took the short trail through the scrubby coastal woodland up to the monument itself. And here, I have to say, things got a little melancholy.
The Cook monument is a white stone obelisk, erected in 1874 by the crew of HMS Scout — the Royal Navy, to their credit, eventually getting round to marking the spot a mere 95 years after the event. It stands on a small raised plinth, fenced off from visitors, which initially seemed rather officious until you got close enough to see why. The whole structure has, not to put too fine a point on it, seen considerably better days. The paint is flaking off in great patches, the stonework underneath is looking somewhat sorry for itself, and the general impression is of a monument that hasn’t had a lick of attention in quite some time. For a memorial to one of Britain’s most significant explorers — a man who mapped vast stretches of the Pacific, who gave the world accurate charts of New Zealand, Australia’s eastern coast, and countless Pacific islands — it seemed, well, a touch undignified. One might have hoped that someone, somewhere, might have found a spare tin of Dulux and a Sunday afternoon. Apparently not.
It’s also worth noting, with a small swell of national pride immediately deflated by the facts, that the land on which the monument stands is actually British territory — a small plot formally ceded to the United Kingdom, which means that technically, standing beside the obelisk, we were on British soil. Which would have been more satisfying if the place had looked a bit less like a listed building that had slipped through the cracks of a heritage maintenance budget.
Still, we paid our respects, took our photographs, and then made our way reluctantly back down to the cove. Leaving that little corner of the bay genuinely felt like a wrench. The water was still absurdly clear, the fish were still going about their business with cheerful indifference to our departure, and the whole spot retained its quiet, tucked-away charm despite the other visitors milling about. Paradise, as I’ve said, with footnotes.
Now, I had been quietly congratulating myself on the outward crossing. Composed, competent, not even slightly embarrassing. What I had failed to account for was the return leg. We were, by this point, self-declared experts at the kayaking business — or at least that was the working assumption. Somewhere in the middle of the bay, with no particular provocation, I managed to capsize. Completely. One moment upright, the next staring at the underside of a kayak with a mouthful of the Pacific Ocean. I’d like to report that I handled it with grace and efficiency. I did not. There was flailing. There was a certain amount of undignified splashing. There may have been language.
The journey back was otherwise uneventful, which is faint praise when you’re dripping wet in a kayak. Getting out at the dock proved, once again, to be the real challenge, but a couple of the local boat hands took pity on us — or possibly just wanted us off their dock — and helped haul both ourselves and the kayaks back onto dry land. The kayaks went back on top of the car. We went back to the car slightly damp, slightly pink, and thoroughly pleased with ourselves.
Captain Cook, we felt, would have understood
🖤 Black Sand Beach
The drive back from dropping off the kayaks was a solid 90 miles, which in anyone’s book is a fair old trek after a day of paddling about. It could have been deeply tedious — the sort of journey where you spend the first hour watching the miles tick down and the second hour wondering if you’ve somehow gone backwards. Fortunately, Iceland has a habit of making even its roadsides look like a film set, so the scenery did most of the heavy lifting.
We made a welcome pit stop at a bakery along the way, where I dutifully continued what has by now become something of an unofficial national survey: the Great Icelandic Bread Pudding Tour. I have been quietly sampling the stuff at every opportunity, mentally scoring each one like a particularly niche food critic who nobody asked for. This particular entry — and I say this with the solemnity it deserves — was the best yet. Dense, dark, properly satisfying. Iceland doesn’t really do bread pudding in the traditional British sense, of course; what they have is rúgbrauð, a dense, slightly sweet rye bread that has been baked slowly underground using geothermal heat since at least the 17th century. It is genuinely unlike anything you’d find in a British café, and considerably better than most things you would find in a British café, which isn’t saying much but is still a compliment.
We made one final stop before home: a black sand beach on the eastern side of the island. Iceland has quite a few of these — the most famous being Reynisfjara, near Vík, which has been pulling in tourists since long before Instagram made it obligatory. Black sand beaches form here because Iceland is essentially a volcanic island that’s still very much in progress; the basalt rock, ground down over centuries by relentless wave action, produces sand that is about as far from the golden stuff of a Cornish postcard as it’s possible to get. The island of Heimaey, part of the Vestmannaeyjar (Westman Islands) archipelago just off the south coast, has its own volcanic history — most dramatically in January 1973, when a fissure opened up overnight and very nearly swallowed the town whole. The black landscape you see today is partly the legacy of that eruption.
None of us was entirely sure what to make of it. The sand is coarse — almost gritty — and a deep, uncompromising black that absorbs heat and looks faintly hostile under a grey sky. It’s not the sort of beach that makes you want to spread out a towel and crack open a book. It’s more the sort of beach that makes you stare at it for a bit, say “well, that’s something,” and feel mildly unsettled. Which is, now that I think about it, a perfectly reasonable response to most things in Iceland.
Planning your visit to the Big Island
Hawai’i Island — known universally as the Big Island — is the youngest and largest island in the Hawaiian archipelago, covering roughly 4,028 square miles, making it nearly twice the size of all the other Hawaiian Islands combined. Despite its nickname, it is not the most visited island in the state; that distinction belongs to O’ahu. What it lacks in tourist infrastructure it more than compensates for in raw natural drama. The island spans nearly every climate zone found on Earth, from tropical rainforest on the windward east coast to alpine desert near the summit of Mauna Kea, and active lava fields in the south. This extraordinary diversity makes thoughtful planning all the more worthwhile.
📍 Location
The Big Island sits at the south-eastern end of the Hawaiian Island chain, in the central Pacific Ocean, approximately 2,400 miles south-west of the continental United States. It is part of the State of Hawai’i, the 50th US state, and is governed as Hawaii County, with Hilo serving as the county seat.
The island is divided into six main regions. On the dry, sunny western side lie the districts of Kona and Kohala, the island’s primary tourism hubs, home to the majority of resorts, beaches, and visitor amenities. The Kohala Coast, just north of Kailua-Kona town, is where most of the luxury resorts are concentrated. On the eastern, windward side sits Hilo, the island’s largest city and capital, with a notably wetter and lusher character. To the north-east, the dramatic Hāmākua Coast stretches between Hilo and the Kohala region, offering scenic cliffs, deep valleys, and cascading waterfalls. The wild and fast-growing Puna district lies to the south-east of Hilo, shaped by ongoing lava activity. Further south, the vast and sparsely populated Ka’ū district is home to the island’s extraordinary multicoloured beaches and the southernmost point in the United States at Ka Lae.
The four main towns visitors use as a base are Kailua-Kona on the west, Hilo on the east, Waimea (also called Kamuela) in the upcountry interior, and the small Volcano Village, perched at roughly 4,000 feet elevation at the edge of Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park.
✈️ Getting There
Most visitors arrive at Ellison Onizuka Kona International Airport (KOA) on the west coast of the island, as it is the primary airport handling flights from the US mainland and international destinations. Hilo International Airport (ITO) on the east side handles inter-island traffic but sees very limited service from outside the Hawaiian Islands. Those travelling from the US mainland will typically find most connections routing through Honolulu or a major West Coast hub city. International visitors should verify entry requirements, including any visa or electronic travel authorisation requirements applicable to their nationality, well in advance of travel.
🚗 Getting Around by Car
A hire car is not simply recommended on the Big Island — it is essential. The island is enormous, public transport is minimal and poorly suited to tourists, and many of the most spectacular attractions are spread many miles apart. Book a rental car in advance, especially during busy periods, as availability can become limited.
The island has good, well-maintained roads connecting most major destinations. A drive from Kailua-Kona to Hilo takes approximately 1.5 to 2 hours depending on the route chosen. There are three main ways to travel between the two sides of the island: the northern coastal route via Highway 19 along the Hāmākua Heritage Corridor, the southern route through Ka’ū past Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park, and the Saddle Road (Highway 200), which cuts through the interior between Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa and is the fastest option but bypasses most coastal sights. A circuit of the entire island covers over 220 miles and takes the better part of a full day.
For most sightseeing, a standard two-wheel-drive car is perfectly adequate. However, a four-wheel-drive vehicle is required for certain roads, including the notoriously steep Waipi’o Valley Access Road, which drops 900 feet at a 25% grade. Most visitors sensibly park at the Waipi’o Valley Lookout at the top and admire the view from there. Note that Chain of Craters Road within Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park is a dead-end route where old lava flows buried the pavement; plan this as an out-and-back drive rather than a through route. The Hāmākua Coast has a number of single-lane bridges on Highway 19 north of Hilo; yield to traffic already on the bridge.
Driving culture on the island is relaxed and unhurried. Locals drive at a leisurely pace. Avoid using the car horn except in a genuine emergency, as it is considered rude. If a local driver appears behind you on a narrow or winding road, it is courteous to pull over when safely possible and let them pass. Some residential roads are signed as local traffic only; these signs are there to protect communities from excessive tourist traffic and should be respected.
🗺️ What to See and Do
Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park on the south-east side of the island is the single most visited attraction, home to Kīlauea, one of the most active volcanoes on Earth. The park offers hiking trails, the dramatic Crater Rim Drive, Chain of Craters Road, and the Thurston Lava Tube. Kīlauea continues to erupt episodically at its summit caldera within the park. Check current park alerts and volcanic activity levels before visiting, as conditions change rapidly.
Manta Ray Night Snorkel off the Kona coast is one of the most extraordinary wildlife encounters available anywhere in the world. Resident manta rays, which can reach impressive sizes, feed on plankton attracted to underwater lights at night. Local tour operators run dedicated manta snorkel and dive trips from the Kona side.
Mauna Kea is the highest point in the state at 13,796 feet, and on clear nights the summit is home to some of the world’s most advanced observatories. The Visitor Information Station at around 9,200 feet elevation is freely accessible and offers stargazing programmes. Access to the summit itself requires a 4WD vehicle due to the steep, unpaved road.
The Kona Coffee Belt on the hillsides above Kailua-Kona is one of the few places in the United States where coffee is commercially grown. Dozens of small family farms offer tours and tastings, and the coffee produced here is considered among the finest in the world.
Punalu’u Black Sand Beach in the Ka’ū district is one of the most photographed beaches on the island. The striking black volcanic sand is regularly used as a resting spot by Hawaiian green sea turtles (honu). Under no circumstances should visitors approach, touch, or disturb the turtles; both federal and state law prohibit it.
Papakolea Green Sand Beach, also in Ka’ū, is one of only four green sand beaches in the world. Its colour comes from olivine crystals in the volcanic rock. Reaching it requires either a moderately long walk or a local shuttle from the car park; driving directly to the beach causes significant environmental damage and is strongly discouraged.
Waipi’o Valley on the Hāmākua Coast is a sacred valley, historically significant as the boyhood home of King Kamehameha I. The lookout at the top of the access road provides breathtaking views of the valley floor, black sand beach, and towering sea cliffs.
Hilo on the east side has a character entirely unlike the west. It is a charming, slightly eccentric town with excellent farmers’ markets, botanical gardens, and waterfalls. Rainbow Falls (Waiānuenue) is a short drive from the town centre. The weekly Hilo Farmers Market is a highlight, offering fresh tropical fruit, vegetables, plants, and local crafts.
The Kohala Coast and North Kohala in the north-west are home to world-class resorts, ancient petroglyph fields at the Puakō Petroglyph Archaeological Preserve, and Pu’ukoholā Heiau National Historic Site — the largest restored heiau (temple) in Hawai’i, built by King Kamehameha I.
⚠️ Things to Be Aware Of
The Aloha Spirit and Hawaiian Culture
Hawai’i has a rich and distinct culture shaped by centuries of native Hawaiian tradition combined with the influences of Japanese, Filipino, Portuguese, and other immigrant communities. The concept of aloha extends far beyond a simple greeting. In Hawai’i, aloha embodies a philosophy of mutual respect, kindness, and care for others and for the land. It is enshrined in state law as the Aloha Spirit, and both residents and authorities take it seriously. Visitors who approach the islands with genuine openness and respect will find it returned warmly.
Learning a handful of Hawaiian words is appreciated. Aloha serves as both a greeting and a farewell. Mahalo means thank you. The ʻāina (land) and the moana (ocean) are deeply embedded in Hawaiian identity; treating them with care is not merely good manners but a cultural value.
Sacred Sites and Cultural Landmarks
The Big Island is home to numerous heiau (temples), petroglyph fields, fishponds, burial sites, and other sacred places. When visiting these sites, walk and speak quietly, leave everything exactly as you find it, and never remove rocks, soil, coral, or any natural material. Rearranging rocks or carving names into surfaces is considered deeply disrespectful. Any area marked as kapu (forbidden) or not expressly open to the public should not be entered.
Hula
Hula is a profound and serious art form, not merely a tourist entertainment. It carries historical and spiritual significance and is an expression of Hawaiian identity. If you witness a hula performance, treat it with the same respect you would give any important cultural tradition. Mockery of any kind is deeply offensive.
Leis
If someone offers you a lei, accept it graciously and wear it in their presence. A lei is draped around the neck with the flowers hanging down both front and back. Wearing it on your head or wrist, or refusing it, is considered poor manners.
Shoes at the Door
When invited into a local’s home, remove your shoes before entering. This custom, brought to Hawai’i by Japanese immigrants, is observed widely across the island.
Wildlife Laws
Hawaiian green sea turtles (honu), Hawaiian monk seals, humpback whales, and spinner dolphins are all protected under both federal and state law. Visitors are required by law to maintain significant distances from these animals. The minimum required distance is 10 feet from sea turtles both on land and in the water, 50 feet from monk seals, 50 yards from spinner dolphins, and 100 yards from humpback whales. Enforcement officers actively monitor beaches and social media for violations, and fines can be substantial. Do not touch coral when snorkelling; even a light touch can cause damage that takes years to heal.
Environmental Responsibility
Do not remove rocks, sand, flora, or fauna from the island. This includes lava rocks, despite a popular legend that doing so brings bad luck — the real reason is that it causes measurable environmental harm when multiplied across thousands of visitors. Clean hiking boots and outdoor gear thoroughly before heading into natural areas, as invasive seeds and soil can devastate native ecosystems. The native ʻōhiʻa tree is under severe threat from a fungal disease called Rapid ʻŌhiʻa Death, and all districts of the island are affected.
Volcanic Hazards and Vog
Kīlauea volcano continues to erupt episodically, and visitors should check current alert levels and park conditions before visiting Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park, as closures can occur without much notice. The eruption produces vog — volcanic smog — a haze of sulphur dioxide and fine acidic particles that drifts downwind, most commonly affecting the Kona coast. Vog can cause headaches, eye irritation, sore throats, breathing difficulties, and flu-like symptoms. Those with asthma, respiratory conditions, cardiovascular disease, or who are pregnant should take particular care, carry any relevant medication, and monitor air quality forecasts before planning outdoor activities. During high vog periods, reduce time outdoors, keep windows closed, and set air conditioning to recirculate indoor air.
Water Safety
The ocean around the Big Island commands respect. Winter surf on the north and west shores can become extremely rough, and strong currents have caused fatal drownings. Always heed posted warning signs, swim only at beaches with lifeguards where possible, never swim alone, and never turn your back on the ocean. Lava coastlines are particularly hazardous; sturdy footwear is strongly advised when walking near the shore.
Sun and Altitude
The tropical sun is intense, and sunburn is a serious risk even on overcast days, particularly at higher altitudes. Apply broad-spectrum sunscreen generously and frequently, wear a hat, and stay hydrated. At the summit of Mauna Kea, altitude sickness is a genuine concern. Ascend gradually, spend time acclimatising at the Visitor Information Station before going higher, and descend immediately if you experience severe headaches, nausea, or disorientation.
Respect Public Beach Access
Many beach access car parks were established specifically to ensure local residents — who were historically denied beach access by hotel development — can reach the shoreline. Where these designated local access spaces are clearly limited, it is appreciated when visitors leave them available for residents and use alternative parking.
Island Time
Life on the Big Island moves at a gentler pace than most visitors are accustomed to. Patience and a relaxed attitude are both practical and culturally appropriate. Rushing, displaying impatience, or driving aggressively sit poorly with the local way of life and with the spirit of aloha
Best time to visit Hawai’i (Big Island)
🌸 Spring (March – May)
Spring on the Big Island is arguably its most quietly glorious period. The wet season is winding down across the Hilo and Puna coasts, which means waterfalls — particularly the spectacular Akaka Falls and Rainbow Falls — are at or near their fullest. The North Kohala valleys are lush and green. Waipi’o Valley’s landscape is especially photogenic at this time of year.
Temperatures across the Kohala and Kona coasts sit comfortably between 24°C and 29°C, and ocean swells that dominated winter begin to ease, making conditions ideal for snorkelling and diving at Two Step, Kealakekua Bay, and the calm leeward bays of South Kona. Humpback whale season (which runs from roughly December through April) draws to a close by late March to April, so early spring still offers reasonable chances of a whale sighting.
Spring break (late March to mid-April) brings a temporary surge in visitors, particularly on the Kona side. Booking accommodation and car hire early is essential if your trip falls in this window. Outside of the school holiday period, however, spring is refreshingly uncrowded.
What to pack: Lightweight cotton and linen clothing, reef-safe sunscreen, a light waterproof layer for afternoon showers, snorkel gear or fins, a mid-layer fleece if visiting Mauna Kea, and binoculars for whale watching in early spring.
☀️ Summer (June – August)
Summer is the Big Island’s peak visitor season, and for good reason. The trade winds that blow steadily from the north-east keep the coastline remarkably pleasant even during the hottest months. Temperatures on the Kohala Coast rarely exceed 32°C, and the ocean reaches its warmest and calmest. Visibility underwater is outstanding — expect 15 to 25 metres on a good day — making summer the finest season for diving and snorkelling.
This is also manta ray season in earnest. The plankton blooms encouraged by calm, warm waters draw large numbers of manta rays to sites off the Kona Coast, and night dives or snorkel tours become a reliable highlight. Fishing charters are in high demand, as summer sees excellent runs of marlin, wahoo (ono), and mahi-mahi in the deep offshore waters.
The summer months coincide with important cultural events. The Merrie Monarch Festival (technically late spring/Easter) draws hula competitors from across the islands to Hilo, and various Hawaiian cultural festivals take place throughout July and August across the island.
The trade-off is crowds and cost. Flights from the mainland and the UK are most expensive during this period, resorts reach high occupancy, and popular snorkelling spots can feel busy by mid-morning. Arrive early at Kealakekua Bay or Pu’uhonua o Hōnaunau to get ahead of the crowds.
What to pack: High-SPF reef-safe sunscreen (essential — UV is intense), swimwear, rash vest, light breathable clothing, sun hat, sandals, and a fleece or light down jacket for Mauna Kea stargazing at night (summit temperatures can drop below freezing year-round).
🌺 Autumn (September – November)
Autumn is the Big Island’s best-kept secret. The crowds that characterise summer begin to thin from September onwards, and prices for flights and accommodation soften considerably. The weather remains warm and largely dry on the Kona side, and the ocean stays calm and clear well into October.
September and October are considered shoulder season, delivering much of summer’s appeal — good diving conditions, warm ocean temperatures, comfortable coastal weather — with fewer visitors and better value. This is a particularly good window for independent travellers or couples looking to explore at their own pace without competing for prime spots.
By late October and November, the trade winds can become more variable, and the first signs of the winter swell season begin to appear on the Hilo and Hamakua coasts. Rainfall increases on the windward (east) side of the island, replenishing the waterfalls and restoring the lush interior. Hilo in November, damp and fragrant, has a distinctly atmospheric character that many visitors find deeply appealing.
Volcano activity and hiking conditions are generally good through autumn. The Kīlauea summit, within Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park, is best experienced at dusk when the glow of the lava lake is most dramatic — and autumn’s clearer skies often make for excellent viewing.
What to pack: Versatile layers (warm days, cooler evenings), a compact waterproof jacket, sturdy trail shoes or light hiking boots for volcano walks, reef-safe sunscreen, and a headtorch for early morning or evening hikes in Volcanoes National Park.
🌊 Winter (December – February)
Winter brings the most dramatic shift in character. The north-facing shores — particularly the Hāmākua and North Kohala coasts — are battered by heavy swells generated by storms in the North Pacific, making them unsuitable for swimming but spectacular to watch. Waipi’o Valley’s black sand beach and the sea cliffs of Pololū Valley are most awe-inspiring at this time of year.
The leeward Kona Coast remains largely sheltered and swimmable, though ocean conditions are less predictable than in summer. Rainfall can be significant even on the dry west side during kona wind events — atmospheric reversals that push moisture-laden air from the south and south-west. These typically last a few days and pass.
The real winter gift is the humpback whales. Pacific humpbacks migrate from Alaskan feeding grounds to warm Hawaiian waters between roughly December and April to breed and calve. The Big Island, particularly the Kohala Coast, offers excellent whale watching — both from shore and on dedicated boat tours. Sightings are common by January and frequent through February.
Christmas and New Year bring the year’s highest visitor numbers to the resort areas of Waikoloa and Wailea (Maui), and prices spike accordingly. The first two weeks of January, after the holiday rush subsides, offer a sweet spot: whales are actively present, the island is quieter, and rates begin to drop.
Temperatures remain mild on the coast (21°C to 27°C), but Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa can receive snow — a surreal experience unique to the Big Island among the Hawaiian islands.
What to pack: A medium-weight waterproof jacket, warmer layers for evenings and upland areas, binoculars for whale watching, reef-safe sunscreen, swimwear for the Kona Coast, and warm hat and gloves if you plan to visit the Mauna Kea summit.
🌺 The Overall Best Time to Visit
For most visitors, April to early June represents the sweet spot on the Big Island. The humpback whales are still present in April, the waterfalls are full from winter rainfall, the ocean is calming towards summer clarity, and the island hasn’t yet entered its busiest and most expensive period. Crowds are manageable, accommodation is available at reasonable rates, and the weather across both the wet and dry sides of the island is at its most varied and rewarding. Those willing to visit in September and October will find similarly excellent conditions with even fewer visitors — the ocean is still warm, costs are lower, and the island takes on a more relaxed, local character. Winter, for all its unpredictability, is uniquely special for those whose priority is whale watching or the extraordinary spectacle of snow on a tropical volcano. Whatever season you choose, the Big Island rewards curiosity — no other island in the Hawaiian chain packs this much variety into a single destination.
Where to stay on the Big Island, Hawai’i
1. Fairmont Orchid
The Fairmont Orchid sits on the Kohala Coast of Hawaii’s Big Island, on the drier, sunnier western shore away from the wetter eastern side of the island. It is part of the Mauna Lani resort area and occupies a stretch of coastline that includes a small sandy beach, calm snorkelling waters, and a series of ancient Hawaiian fishponds. The property has around 540 rooms and suites, several restaurants, a spa, and two pools. It tends to attract a mix of families, couples, and golf enthusiasts, given its proximity to two championship courses. The hotel is large but laid out across low-rise buildings amid considerable greenery, so it does not feel as overwhelming as some resorts of its size. Prices are high, as you would expect for a Fairmont property in this location, but it regularly appears on lists of the better luxury hotels on the Big Island.
2. Kilauea House
3. Kona Islander
Kona Islander Inn sits in the centre of Kailua-Kona on the west coast of Hawai’i’s Big Island, tucked between Ali’i Drive and Kuakini Highway with the ocean just across the street. It’s a modest, older-style property that’s been operating for over 50 years, and it shows — in a good way. The grounds are well maintained, with tropical planting throughout including plumeria, bougainvillea and palms. Studio rooms come with a kitchenette, private balcony, air conditioning, and basic self-catering facilities. On-site there’s a freshwater pool, hot tub, BBQ area and free parking. The location is genuinely useful: Kailua Pier, Hulihe’e Palace and the historic Mokuaikaua Church are all within walking distance, as are plenty of restaurants and shops along Ali’i Drive. Kona International Airport is about 15 minutes away by car. This isn’t a luxury resort, but for travellers who want a central, affordable base with a relaxed, old-Hawaii feel, it does the job well.
More to Explore
