I had been quietly watching the subtle changes posted on the United States Geological Survey website; small shifts in tremor, pressure, and glow that hinted that something larger was coming. When the eruption finally announced itself, I packed my gear and headed toward Hawaiʻi Volcanoes National Park, knowing that moments like this are fleeting and uncompromising.
As sunset approached, the crater began to vent in earnest. A towering plume rose into the evening sky, becoming the dominant voice of the scene. What struck me most was how the fading light echoed the lava itself—deep oranges, molten reds, and bruised purples layered across the clouds, as if the sky were answering the earth in the same elemental language. The colors were not merely seen; they were felt.
Koa trees reached into the frame from the margins, their dark silhouettes anchoring the composition and giving scale to the immensity beyond. They stood as witnesses—rooted, patient, and unyielding—quietly framing a reminder that this landscape is alive, not static. I composed deliberately, allowing those branches to guide the eye toward the plume, toward the source of all that energy.
The sound is what lingers with me most. A low, continuous roar, punctuated by sharper exhalations from the crater, reverberated through the ground and into the chest. It was impossible to ignore. Around me, conversations fell away. Faces—lit intermittently by fire and fading light—held the same expression of disbelief and reverence. No one needed to speak. We all understood we were in the presence of something far larger than ourselves.
In Hawaiian tradition, this power has a name: Madam Pele. Standing there, camera on the tripod in front of me, it was impossible not to feel that presence—creative, destructive, and profoundly beautiful. This photograph is not simply a record of an eruption. It is my attempt to translate awe into a still image, to honor a moment when land, fire, sound, and light converged, and to share what it feels like to stand at the edge of creation.
