May 3rd, 2019, an event occurred which changed the lives of thousands of residents of Puna district, Big Island, Hawaii. Were it not for the support and generosity of a community I did not know even existed, I would not be telling this story today. 

On that day, Kilauea volcano began an unprecedented eruption on its east flank only minutes from my home. The sixty beloved ‘members’ of Aina Iki Ranch Rescue and Rehabilitation Sanctuary, the companion and farm animals in my care compromised by physical and behavioral challenges , instantly faced life-threatening homelessness.

Precipitated by a magnitude 6.9 earthquake, cracks in the roads opened overnight, steam rose, and trickles of lava unexpectedly percolated up through the ground in a region untouched by fresh lava for 60 years.

Unlike eruptions from cone-shaped strato-volcanoes such as Mt. Saint Helens in Washington State, or Mount Fuji in Japan, Kilauea’s less dramatic-looking shield formation seeps low viscosity lava through cracks in the earth’s crust as the tectonic plate gradually moves across a hot spot in the mantle centered in the Pacific Basin.  Cataclysmic explosions are rare, yet a flow of fluid basalt moves ever down-slope toward sea level, and can devastate many square miles in its path. 

Aina Iki was in that path.

During the two weeks following the earth-fracturing quake, the ranching and animal-loving community throughout East Hawaii turned out in droves, rounding up and hauling out thousands of animals from what would become known as the LERZ, the Lower East Rift Zone, in which my ranch is located.

The first panic was finding carriers for the farm’s chickens, parrots, and one lone guinea hen. For miles around, ranchers, retirees, and farming residents were scrambling to evacuate their cats, small dogs, and birds. There were none to spare, yet somehow carriers came.

Papa-san, my dear ancient rooster, Mickie-rooney, my fossil of a Nigerian Dwarf buck, and Wee Louise, my precious epileptic African Grey parrot, had each mercifully received their ‘angel wings’ during the weeks prior to the eruption. Still grieving their absence, their passing was nonetheless a blessing as these fragile extra-special-needs animals could not have endured outside their ranch environment. Maybe they knew what was to come.

In three days, thanks to the tireless help of friends and friends-of-friends, Aina Iki’s four horses, sixteen goats, thirty-three chickens, two dogs,  five parrots, and buckets filled with pond fish, were all rounded up and stuffed wild-eyed into trailers, crates, and cages. Like Noah’s ark, our ship was launching into uncharted waters.  Fearing the roads would close, there was not a moment to lose.

And close they did. Within hours, police officers stood watch over fractures in Highway 132, sentinels stretching caution-tape and adjusting pylons. Back roads to Leilani subdivision, ground zero of the eruption zone, were cordoned off like crime scenes.  As fissures broke to the surface, National Guard in Army-colored military vehicles roamed the roads. Mandatory evacuations were ordered and curfews enacted for the most populated areas. Uniforms were everywhere. It felt like a war zone in paradise.

Everyone watched for roads to split open, cutting off access and stranding people and animals alike. Magma could emerge in anyone’s backyard. All were on high alert even as we ferried our animals and possessions out of harm’s way.

Blessings poured forth from Hilo, thirty miles distant from the oncoming lava, as the Aina Iki grazers were placed in pastures of friends and strangers alike. Pita and Ka’u, my intrepid ranching dogs, crowded next to me as we tried to sleep the first two nights in my tiny Honda Fit. During the day, the dogs and I explored the dispiriting prospect of setting up a tent in the goats’  borrowed field. The third day brought reprieve when we were rescued to a vacant home belonging to the mom of more friends-of-friends.  To my amazement, an invisible cocoon of connectivity was being spun lovingly around us.

More help, more carrying, more loading, more setting up, my helpers and I were like giant ants fleeing fire. No time to plan or organize, the birds, dogs, and I moved into the sanctuary of this two story farm house five miles north of Hilo. By nightfall, Hector and Sadie, the two macaws, were secured in their heavy steel cages; the eclectus parrots, Marley and Leili, and Hoku the cockatoo, were tucked into their smaller ones. The dogs bedded down on rags and old blankets in the back corner of the windowless garage. It was a far cry from the tropical gardens that only three days prior were their homes, but I was grateful. We just needed to outlast the lava. Juggling these creatures’ respective health issues would be the challenge, but they at least had a chance.

Days of wrestling frightened animals, the heart-wrenching exodus from Aina Iki, and the specter of uncertainty looming large was taking a toll. I crawled into the gift of crisp clean sheets, and finally let the tears flow.

The following three months evacuated to this upcountry home, I watched from vista points the glow from an ever-expanding river of lava on the southern horizon. When evening rains were slight, I could see a tiny blood-red finger of flame marking Fissure Eight’s fountain surging nearly 300 feet into the night sky. I measured the maps; Aina Iki was barely three miles away from the mounting lava cone.

Fueling the worst nightmares, lava flowed into the Pacific Geothermal Venture electric generating plant. Neighbors yet to evacuate feared sleeping, wondering if they would awaken the following morning. If ignited, wells filled with hydrogen disulfide, a colorless and lethally toxic gas, would explode decimating all living beings in a four-mile radius, damaging life even further beyond. The wells were three and a half miles from Aina Iki.

Civil Defense workers canvassed the neighborhoods, imploring all to leave as there would be no warning for the scant five-minute escape window-of-opportunity. A breeze would shear those five minutes to nil.  Miraculously, the well caps held, though honed nerves remained razor sharp.

Outside the evacuation zone, many were unaware of the eruption and its disastrous impact on residents throughout Lower Puna. Local Pahoa businesses closed as steamy vog settled so thickly at times, crossing a street was risky. One friend, a Middle East war veteran living in a nearby subdivision, fled the island shaken and unable to endure the grenade and bomb-like blasts as fissures belched exploding gases. On my final forays to rescue what plants I could from the ranch, the blasts resounded like dynamite in a quarry, rattling windows, fracturing my final denial.

Hilo’s ‘tourist-brochure’ mornings, sunny, warm, and graced with ocean views, were starkly surreal as I clung to my life, my purpose, and my animal family, all that was precious to me. Everything teetered on the whim of molten rock wantonly bubbling up from the depths of the earth.

Yet there was too much to do to dwell on anything other than tasks of keeping animals alive, navigating relocation needs in a new town, and managing my own health.       

Miracles kept on coming.

Deprived of their lush familiar pasture, Ali’i, Mystery, Frisky, and Ruby, four good-sized horses, required twice-daily feeding: over a thousand pounds of alfalfa cubes were shared with us when local ranchers received a full shipping container donated by Harlan Feed all the way from Woodland, California.  The goats, more fragile than most folks know, needed extra-special care: they were given shelter, food, and safety under loving watchful eyes. All of the chickens found safe haven, even those needing intensive care for their infirmities.  Kindly caregivers opened their homes, hearts, and pocketbooks. We were all safe…for the time being.

Ground trembled as Kilauea’s subterranean world adjusted to deflation, pressure in the caldera ebbing as lava lakes emptied onto Lower Puna.  Earthquake tallies catapulted from a monthly average of 1,000 to over 12,000 in May alone.  Inured residents barely noticed until shakers, registering Richter 4 or more on seismographs, bumped their headboards at midnight, rattled dishes, or spilled coffee from their morning mugs. 

While the ground shook below, trade winds above spirited vog, the pernicious smoggy volcanic air, to the farthest points on the island. These prevailing easterly breezes settled ash on lanais, sifted volcanic dust through windows, and painted a grey pallor across scenic views as distant as Kailua-Kona 75 miles west. Folks on neighbor island, Oahu, reported the ashen haze smudging their ocean views.

Aptly named pyrocumulous, thick dark clouds billowed to heights of 45,000 feet over the normally sunny skies of Pahoa. Tinged a sickly yellow, these columns were further tarnished by acid rain with which they were laden. Ash, steam, and smoke from burning jungle and houses, rose on thermal drafts, condensed, then pummeled down in caustic drops. Wetting the molten lava before instantly evaporating, the rain released hydrochloric acid and other corrosive gases, blending them with glass particles to form a noxious toxic cocktail called “laze”, a word blended from lava and haze. In a vicious cycle, this mix was swept aloft attaching to water molecules to rain down yet again.  Resembling a Hollywood Frankenstein experiment, this supercharged meteorological extravaganza triggered over 1200 lightening strikes on July 2nd, with attendant thunder blasts rocketing throughout the region.

By May 19th, two weeks into the eruption, the eastern-most fissures had spilled enough lava over the south rift zone to travel three miles to the ocean.  Entering the Pacific, molten rock boiled seawater producing a pristine white laze plume curling hundreds of feet into the air, its brilliance belying its dangerous brew. 

Active fissures jettisoned millions of molten bubbles. As they burst, these bubbles spun out delicate wisps of volcanic fiberglass. Dubbed Pele’s Hair, the threads of glass fell like blond tresses on a beauty parlor floor, drifting across countless acres of graze land widening the cattle and horse evacuation zone. 

My prayers were exclusively gratitude as I watched many friends find shelter for themselves sleeping on the floors of community centers or friends’ couches, while struggling to fend for their animals. Heartbreakingly, beloved companions were often given away to whatever shelters and homes would take them. The too few No-Kill shelters were quickly overrun. Survivor’s guilt burrowed deep in my heart, destined to raise its head in the months to come.

Enlarging topo-images overlaid with aerial photos from helicopter flights and illegal drones, I could locate Hale Kamahina’s jungle-covered cone just west behind Aina Iki. Triangulating this crater with my neighbor’s papaya field and the tiny green specs I knew were 200 foot tall Cook Pines bordering Aina Iki’s pasture, one-by-one I picked out miniscule landmarks, trees, and structures. 

Aina Iki still stood! There was hope!