October 1983, Hawaii Big Island: I stand against an expanse of blackness, some of the newest terrain on Earth. I set the self-timer on my Canon AE-1 film camera, then dash into the field of view for a self-portrait. “Selfies” would have to wait until the 21st century.
I walk around nearby Halemaumau Crater as it emits puffs of volcanic gases.
Thirty years later my partner, Dwight, and I will be enjoying dinner at the nearby National Park lodge. We’ll be distracted by a red, volcanic glow reflected in the smoke rising off this crater.
The previous day I had flown 4,000 miles from Minneapolis using a deep-discount coupon from Northwest Orient Airlines. The airline was luring passengers back after a disruptive strike a few months earlier.
I drive on roads past homes that will disappear under unstoppable lava flows. Dwight, and I will walk on new lava, tracing these same roads, completely buried beneath, using a map on our GPS.
I camp at three places on the island as I drive clockwise, 300 miles from Hilo Airport back to Hilo Airport. I pitch my tent each evening and fall asleep to the sounds of the Pacific or my Toshiba Walkman wannabe.
I walk across Waipi’o Valley to climb 1200 feet on a switchback trail. At the summit, I vow to return and hike the remaining 8 miles and 12 gulches of the Muliwai trail to camp by a glorious beach that can only be reached by foot or boat.
Four years later I will meet Dwight. Soon after that we will begin our annual visits to the islands of Hawaii. Early on, we will make good on the promise to hike the Muliwai Trail. The landowner, the Hamakua Sugar Company, will refuse to give us permission to walk the trail. We will walk the trail and pitch our tent, anyway.