The Night We Chased a Volcano

It was too bright for cameras and too big for words.

It’s almost midnight. I’m lying here in the back of our camper van, staring at the ceiling, and realizing I’m not tired at all. My body is exhausted, but my head is spinning. We’re parked somewhere inside Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park - the windows are dark, the air is cold, and I can hear Lea’s steady breathing while she sleeps.

I’m just sitting here in the silence, trying to process if what I just saw was actually real.

Earlier today, the morning felt almost too perfect. We woke up at our beachside campsite in Kona, made breakfast, and walked straight into the water for a swim. Later, we had our first real poke bowl, bought cookies from a local shop, and drank Kona coffee in the afternoon heat. We spent a few hours snorkeling, watching schools of tiny, bright fish drift past us like confetti. It was one of those days that already feels complete by 4:00 PM.

We had no idea it was only the beginning.

By evening, we were driving toward our campsite in the southern part of the island. The landscape had shifted into a vast field of hardened lava, and I was driving painfully slowly. This was my first time behind the wheel of a camper van this size, and I was still figuring out how much space I actually took up on the road.

The night before, I had accidentally bumped into a beach park sign and had to explain myself to a ranger. He was serious. He took my ID and interrogated me for ten minutes. It sent a shock wave through our arrival; one minute we were chilling by the beach, and the next I was terrified I’d ruined the whole trip. Lea comforted me and told me it would be okay, but ever since, I had been driving extra careful.

On our way south, a long line of cars piled up behind me. The locals were getting really mad because I was causing a traffic line by driving way below the average speed. I pulled up to the side several times to let them pass. I felt bad, but I wasn’t about to risk our lives or another incident.

When we finally arrived at the campsite, our friends Ingmar and Tina were already there. As I started driving toward them, Ingmar suddenly ran toward our van, waving his arms.

“Don’t come down here,” he shouted. “I’m stuck!”

His front wheels were halfway inside the lava rocks and he was struggling to back out. We parked and went to help. Thankfully, our host’s neighbor was home and came over to help guide Ingmar out. His name was Yes. And yes, that was actually his name.

Just as we were finally pulling free, Yes got a phone call. He listened for a second and then looked at us.

“The volcano is erupting,” he said, sounding completely nonchalant. “Right now. At the national park.”

We all froze.

“Wait, what?” we exclaimed at the same time.

“About an hour and fifteen minutes away,” Yes added. “If you go now, you might catch it.”

We walked back to our campsite to regroup. It was 6:00 PM and the sky was getting dark. Lea leaned over and whispered to me for the fifth time, “Can we pleaseeee go?” When Ingmar walked over and asked, “So… what do you think?” we didn’t even hesitate.

“Let’s go!”

Lea was so exhilarated she sprinted back into the van. We decided we should take turns to shower quickly since there might not be facilities at the park. Without even pretending to be polite or asking if anyone else wanted to go first, Lea grabbed her face wash and took a five-minute shower at the shared bathroom. She returned to the van and started pacing back and forth in the tiny space between our cupboards.

Three years ago, we had watched Fire of Love, the documentary about volcanologists who devoted their lives to studying eruptions. Since then, seeing a live eruption had been one of her biggest dreams. It was the reason we came to the Big Island. And it was happening right now.

“I wish I could just fly there right now,” she kept saying. “I wish I could fly!”

We left in complete darkness. No streetlights, no landmarks, just a single road cutting through the middle of a lava grassland. It felt like we were driving across the surface of a prehistoric moon. The drive felt longer than it was, mostly because I was still driving too slowly.

As we approached the park, Lea spotted a huge, bright orange puff in the sky. She started screaming. To vent the energy, she cranked up the music. Somehow we were on an intense techno playlist, and it worked perfectly - a camper van vibrating with heavy bass, pushing through a pitch-black landscape, chasing a glow on the horizon.

By the time we reached the park, the air had turned cold. We grabbed our beach chairs, strapped them to our backs, and started “walk-running” toward the overlook. We didn’t even wait for Ingmar, Tina, and Haru (their dog they brought all the way from New York). I’m not going to lie - at this point, I was just as excited as Lea. Heat was building up inside me from the adrenaline and the actual warmth the volcano was emitting.

When we reached the rim, the world opened up. What we saw felt unreal.

Lava was erupting energetically out toward the sky and flowing down into a glowing river. In the center of the crater, the lava river looked like a city of fire from afar. The eruption was so bright it was impossible to capture with a camera due to the high contrast against the 9:00 PM sky.

We set up our chairs and just watched in awe. I felt this irresistibly strong energy speaking to me. It was like this grand, bright power drawing you in, telling you that nothing in the world matters other than this experience right now. The past, the future - it all vanished. There was only this.

I couldn’t turn my eyes away from the fire. But when I finally looked up, I saw the entire solar system right above us, so bright and vivid. It was exactly like that night in the Atacama Desert two years ago - an experience we thought would never be repeated. But here it was again, on top of a volcano.

We stayed for about 30 minutes. We joked around and took photos, and Ingmar mocked Lea for her horrible photography skills. We were feeling satisfied and started walking back, but then we noticed a small entrance to the left of the path. People were coming out with wide eyes and cameras in their hands.

“What’s in there?” I asked one guy.

“The volcano!” he said. I told him we’d just seen it, but he didn’t even think twice. He said imperatively, “You HAVE to go!”

We decided to check it out, even though Tina was already falling asleep on her feet and Haru was totally ready for bed. Not even two minutes later, the entire valley emerged in front of us. This angle was even better. You could see the whole volcano plus the entire valley beneath it.

You could hear it growling. It felt intensely alive. It’s an exhilarating mix of danger and excitement. You never knew if you were supposed to fully enjoy it or if you were being incredibly stupid for standing there. My heart was racing even though my hands were freezing.

Then the eruption began to slow. The lava grew fainter and fainter until it stopped flowing. The volcano made a loud, heavy sound. All the tourists and kids who had been chatting went silent.

I watched intently. Was it about to erupt again? Why was it making that huge, angry sound? Were we in danger? Could we actually die from this?

But eventually, it died down.

It was like the closing of a beautiful musical, and the main actress took a graceful bow. It was such a complete performance. We hadn’t just caught the eruption. We saw the ending too.

On the walk back to the van, I didn’t say a word for ten minutes. I couldn’t process what I’d just seen. We ended up staying at an unbooked campsite inside the park, found an empty spot for both vans, and finally called it a day.

I spent my morning worried about a dented sign and a speed limit. I spent the night watching the earth create itself.

It’s 2:26 AM now, and I should really sleep.

I don’t think I will ever forget that growl.