On Pele's Trail
ALTHOUGH THE Puu Oo vent of Kilauea has been erupting fairly steadily since 1983, making a pilgrimage to view the flowing lava demands patience and a degree of humility; this is Pele's turf, and no one knows from one day to the next exactly where the lava will be flowing.

When I arrive in the late afternoon at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, the upper elevations are shrouded in vog (volcanic smog) and clouds. Visibility: my toes. At the end of the 19-mile Chain of Craters Road, where you park your car and begin to hike, there's a sign at the ranger station. It usually reads, BE PREPARED FOR A SHORT HOT HIKE, but someone has taped LONG over SHORT. Still, I'm game. What's a seven-mile hike in the dark (and I mean dark; no major-city lights for 2,500 miles) over recently cooled lava that sometimes breaks underfoot, causing you to scream as if you are falling to the center of the earth?

The hike is an awkward stumble over miles of aa, the chunky sharp stuff that can slice right through your trail runners, and pahoehoe, the glossy, glassy stuff that looks like burned brownie batter. We faithful begin trudging along in a silent, wiggly line. It starts to rain. My flashlight, which looked so authoritative and powerful on the seat of my rental car, shines a feeble dime of light on the black ground. Someone trips and falls and says, "Shit, sorry." The desolation is staggering; the lava beds go on for miles. People get lost out here from time to time. Last July, Gilbert Gaedcke, of Austin, Texas, disappeared for five days, surviving on water squeezed from moss. He was eventually rescued when a teenager in a tour helicopter happened to spot him.

The downpour sent a bunch of us bolting for cover at the ranger station, but those who completed the pilgrimage eventually saw glowing ribbons in the distance, dribbling over the rocks into the ocean, sending pale plumes of steam up into the night. They said the lava looked first like fire transformed into hot fudge, then like some sentient being out of a fifties sci-fi flick.

Star Trek
MAUNA KEA IS MECCA for astronomers. It's the best piece of real estate on the planet for viewing the heavens—over the course of the year, it's possible to see 100 percent of the Northern Hemisphere sky and 70 percent of the Southern Hemisphere's. Here, it's possible to see the Southern Cross and the North Star at the same time. You can make the trip to the 13,796-foot summit on your own, but there are several tour companies—Hawaii Forest & Trail is a good one—that will do the driving, provide you with a parka and gloves (necessary for the 40-degree temperature), feed you dinner, and, most important, give you access to a portable nine-inch telescope.

The air is thin enough at the top to make me feel as if I've had a cocktail or three. The summit is a collection of cinder cones: One is home to 13 telescopes, the most expensive collection in the world, and the other, slightly higher in elevation, is a Hawaiian sacred site, the traditional meeting place of Wakea, the sky god, and Papa, the earth mother. There is a modest altar atop this cone, and our guide discourages us from hiking up to see it, out of respect.

After the sun goes down, we set up our viewing area at the side of the road at about 12,000 feet. Shivering in the darkness, our small group mills around as each person takes a turn peering through the telescope. The triple-star system of Alpha Centauri, usually visible only from the Southern Hemisphere, winks blue-red-orange-purple-green, a stellar disco ball.

As we pack up our things for the return to sea level, a huge meteor blazes into the atmosphere and sails briskly over our heads. The burning orange ball is clearly distinguishable from its pale yellow tail. It tears a bright line across the sky before breaking apart and fading to black near the horizon.

"Oh, my God, oh, my God!" we shriek idiotically. Our guide, who makes the trip to the summit four times a week, shares the awe. "The normal shooting stars we see up here are the size of a grain of sand," he says. "That thing was as big as a football. This was probably the sighting of a lifetime."