“I think we’d better move back.”

 A large nearby boulder had split open. Lava poured and spurted through the gaping fissure it had rended into the solid rock. The other nearby visitors and I scurried back about thirty feet. Within twenty seconds, this new stream of lava had nearly surrounded the rock outcroppings upon which we had previously stood.

 I then began the complicated process of selecting a new observation post. Proximity to the lava, which reaches temperatures up to 2200° F, is a very important criterion in choosing one’s seating position. For the next three hours, I gradually backpedaled at the spreading lava’s occasional request. I attempted to find comfortable spots to sit where I could maintain a range of about ten feet from the lava. I found this distance ideal for balancing the geothermal heat against the cool night breeze so that I could remain warm, but not roasting, in just a tee-shirt and light trousers, even as midnight approached.

 I’m proud to say that for each seat I chose throughout the evening, I can guarantee that I was the last person on Earth to sit there. The lava repeatedly covered every feature of the ground from where we had been observing the show, as if it were following us, very gradually. (Or we just happened to always sit down-slope from the lava, for some intelligent reason.)

 Solidified lava flows produce two kinds of black, basaltic rock with exotic Hawaiian names; both are rather uncomfortable for sitting purposes. The ā’a variety’s large chunks and jagged edges make it highly undesirable for seating. I therefore chose to sit on the smoother pāhoehoe lava. However, both varieties have surfaces textured by granules of a sharpness comparable to shards of broken glass – appropriate considering that both lava and glass contain a similar silicate material.

 The National Park Service recommends that hikers should wear “sturdy, closed-toe shoes, and gloves.” As I stepped carefully around the lava field, I developed the sense that any slips would result in some nasty scrapes and cuts.

 I continued watching the outer shells of many small boulders break open, slowly lifted and tossed upside down by lava as if they were empty eggshells. The flow’s immense pressures and gentle roasting combine to produce sound effects that I can only describe with Rice-Krispies slogans. Occasionally, I would also hear a noise akin to the sound produced by a crack spreading quickly through a pane of brittle glass.

 I asked a National Park Service ranger about the sources of these intriguing sounds, but he didn’t have many answers. We speculated about friction, heat, fracturing rocks, and rapid expansions. Whatever the cause, I decided that volcanoes make fascinating noises.

 The visual display captivated my attention as much as would a fireworks display. Of course, I'm so easily amused that I also delight in spending large amounts of time staring into the swirling eddies of clouds, or the seething and dancing of campfire flames.

Lava initially bubbles up through fissures and tubes with an intense yellow-white glow, and then rapidly cools into darker oranges. Black stipples appear as it congeals into solid rock.

 The young NPS ranger announced, “Okay, it’s 9 PM. The rangers are leaving now. The park is open twenty-four hours per day, so you’re free to stay as long as you want. Just be careful, and have a good night.”

 After translation, this announcement says, “Let the experiments begin.” 

A group of ten to fifteen onlookers remained at this point. Our first idea: throw things into the lava. We did this, tossing small rocks at first, and then working our way up to large, basketball-sized chunks extracted from the volcanic formations upon which we stood.

 The result: they bounce. The cooler, orange portions of the lava reacted to thrown objects with about the same resistance you’d expect from solid rock. However, particularly well-hurled pitches that hit the hotter, bright-yellow lava patches produced indentations in the molten material. Stones lobbed delicately enough to settle gently on the lava’s surface gradually sank. I had expected them to melt, or float, but that's not what happened.

 One visitor brought a wooden walking stick to the Koholā breakouts that evening. It burned rather quickly. (The walking stick burned, not the visitor.)

 My backpack contained Chex Mix. My wallet contained coins. The former produced quick flames when thrown onto already-molten sections. However, Chex pieces that landed on nearby rock would hesitate for a while before burning when lava eventually engulfed it, producing a satisfying pop – probably from the air contained within the enclosing Chex-grid mesh of each piece.

 Unfortunately, I couldn’t see what happened to the pocket change I donated to Pele – the Hawaiian volcano goddess.

 Water tossed onto the lava just vaporized quickly, with sounds like those made by extinguishing a campfire.

 Three brave visitors of roughly my age developed a better idea.

 “I dare you to step on it.”

 One of them accepted the challenge, stepping closer to a stagnant puddle of glowing orange. He carefully lifted a leg, and tapped the toe of his shoe very quickly on the lava’s surface.

 A short-lasting spark of flame immediately shot up several inches from his shoe’s edge, but the owner’s foot remained unharmed. A closer inspection revealed a small, melted indentation in the shoe's sole, surrounded by a black mark. This, of course, accompanied a smell of burnt rubber.

 Several others repeated the experiment on their own shoes, with the same results: quick flashes of flame that disappeared as soon as the shoe broke contact with the lava’s surface.

Considering the potential for sudden, unpredictable bursts of volcanic activity, safety issues occasionally flitted through my head. The National Park Service's level of trust in the average visitor surprised me. Informational films and literature in the Kīlauea Visitor's Center described several fatal accidents from the Park's recent history, and I realized that more accidents will probably follow in the future.

Eventually, fatigue insisted that I should turn back towards Chain of Craters road. I thus bid farewell to my section of the Koholā breakouts. During the few hours of my stay there, the area had swelled from a scattering of molten pools to an enormous stream. My view broadened while hiking down the mountain. I could see how my little patch of lava had expanded to connect with other orange-glowing spots higher up on the Pūlama Pali into a visibly contiguous river of lava, oozing down to the ocean below.

 A trail across the uneven landscape of ā’a and pāhoehoe lava flows led the way back, indicated by reflector tabs similar to those placed on the double-yellow lines dividing major roadways. My flashlight played connect-the-dots with the reflectors ahead of me. 

While traveling over this trail in twilight a few hours earlier, on my way up to the Koholā breakouts, I had noticed many white, chalk-like lines and splotches on the black volcanic rocks. I believe that particulates in thick, sulfurous gases probably create these white marks as they steam out of cracks and gashes in the rock. The orientation and length of each powdery white imprint also reveals the direction and speed of any prevailing winds that blew over the surface of the Pali at the time of each outgassing.

 Chain of Craters is an interesting road in that its coastal stretch is periodically shortened by lava. Rangers currently have a turnaround set up on the road about a quarter of a mile before it reaches an April 2003 flow of lava, which is where the reflector-trail begins. This layer, and several others ranging from 1986 to the present, have covered over a ten mile stretch of the Chain of Craters road. Drivable asphalt resumes again on the east side of the National Park boundary.

 I reached the trailhead once again, where this “No Parking” sign now sticks obliquely out from a foot-deep layer of solidified lava, photographed here in its molten stage on April 1, 2003:
 

Upon passing this sign and walking back onto the portion of the Chain of Craters road that isn't covered in solidified lava, I extinguished my flashlight. The four bright stars of the Southern Cross stared at me from just above the horizon – the first time I’d been at a latitude low enough to see this Southern-Hemisphere constellation.

 My rented Jeep Wrangler lay a few miles further west. Earlier, I had parked along the road’s edge, as instructed, at the end of a two-mile line of cars. These other volcano viewers had arrived, as I did, just in time to catch the sunset, and thus see the lava flows in daylight and darkness (and avoid the midday heat, which can reach 100° F on the black, shadeless lava flows.)

 The acrid sulfur smell only relented after I had driven several miles up Chain of Craters road, towards the Nāmakani Paio campground, where I spent the night at an elevation of 4000 feet.

 The above link is a wonderful source on how volcanoes work, though I must point out one terrible flaw in its explanations. The real impetus to volcanic activity is, of course, a chemical reaction between vinegar and baking soda. Of this, I am quite certain. My knowledge on the subject dates back to a few incontrovertible elementary-school science experiments.