I make tracks for Waimea. The highway north of Kailua along the Kohala Coast looks like a bomb went off. From the mountains to the sea, the roadside is charred and empty. It wasn’t a bomb that did this. It was a volcano. Hualālai, the island’s third most active. The lack of rain in this arid region doesn’t help recovery. The lava flow looks like it happened just yesterday, not two hundred years ago. The only things that seem to sprout in the blackness are the luxury oceanfront resorts at Waikoloa and the cryptic white coral graffiti along the highway: “Shade Dada,” “Thelma + Louise,” and “sadkids.com.” And the not so cryptic: “Aloha, Mom,” “Suck it up,” and “Jess loves Bryan.” Or is it “Jeff loves Byron”? I pass the sprawling resorts along the shore and then climb northeast into the ranchlands of Waimea, officially called Kamuela. The air cools and the roadside greens. This is the high country of Parker Ranch—famous for its fine beef cattle—where verdant pasturelands roll gently from snowcapped Mauna Kea toward the sparkling blue sea.
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