A River of Red-Hot Rock

A RIVER OF RED-HOT ROCK* By Lee N. Taylor I have just returned from one of the most awe-inspiring sights I have ever seen — a river of red-hot rock. There were twelve of us in, the party, all missionaries. We all went steerage. A steerage fare entitles one to standing room on the deck, and a bed upon the deck, without under supports or covers. It was: rather a hard night for some of the seasick boys, but we all survived. We landed at Napoopoo, Hawaii, my old stamping grounds, after thirty-six hours aboard boat, and spent another hard night trying to find a place where the boards werei softer. The morning after our stay at Napoopoo we were up before our alarm clock brayed (Kona nightingales here; back home known as mountain canaries) , and off to see the flow. We had previously hired one car, and it with the Kona mission Ford furnished means of transportation. After some thirty miles of travel we arrived at the scene of action. The flow had crossed the road two days before our arrival, cutting a huge swath through the heavy growth of trees, and descending upon an ancient Hawaiian village, it destroyed house, pig, tree and government wharf, and filled the small bay where the Hawaiians landed their boats with a steaming, smoking maelstrom of exploding rock and cooked fish. We were just too late to see the descent of the first flow. Near the road the lava had cooled sufficiently to allow a hasty passage over the six or seven hundred yards of rudely piled clinkers. However, the rocks six inches under the surface were too hot for a thickly protected hand and there were spots that glowed white-hot under heavy, grayish ash. At night all the aforementioned furnaces became iridescent. Avoiding the places that were discolored a dirty white, and running away from cracks emitting heat waves, we all reached the opposite side. Roll was called, and other than our shoes looking like a trip with the family pup as persuader and our seat of fear badly upset, we were all right and ready after a few minutes breath to set out to see the new flow. A great number of people had preceded us, and had left an un- certain trail through the virgin forest. We followed the trail as best we could for some two or three miles (it is hard to estimate distance correctly under the stress with which we labored), but then lost it somehow. Pushing forward to the smoke clouds we were all startled by a loud crash and, peering through the undergrowth, saw trees falling and burning before the irresistible march of nature's tank. For a *A letter to President Frank Y. Taylor and family from a missionary son in Honolulu, Oahu, April 27, 1926.

A RIVER OF RED HOT ROCK 877 few moments we were just about paralyzed. We were caught between the old and the new flow! There is something about a lava flow that would make the most unemotional person lose his equipoise. There isn't anything that can be done about it. Mr. McWayne, rancher, upon whose land the lava flow was working depredation, could not even make his loss over- shadow his appreciation of nature's power. Seeing that mass of nature's vomit certainly made me feel small, of little consequence. In Italy they all run away from lava flows, but Madam Pele, goddess of Hawaiian volcanoes, has such a reputation for the supernatural sparing of human life that everyone in Hawaii declares a holiday and goes to see her miss houses of righteous livers and destroy those of evil doers. At one time she covered many thousand acres of land to teach the owner of the gambling dens a lesson. After such a past, it is no wonder the owners of homes in the small village delayed until the flow was at their very backs. The suspense being great enough to continue, we decided the position we were in might prove uncomfor- table, and so proceeded to change as rapidly as the choked growth would permit. The flow had just about shot its bolt, for which we were grateful. We ran around the front of the flow and got on the safe side from the vantage point of the old 1916 flow; we watched Madam Pele at the firing line. The flow was not moving very fast and was not molten in front. The part exposed to the air was a blue- gray color and looked a great deal like a recently removed clinker. The heavy stuff would crowd forward from the rear and push the front higher until almost a perpendicular wall, when the top would topple away, run sluggishly ahead, burning everything in its path, but cooling quickly and forming the foundation for another pileup. It was truly a wonderful sight to see the walls twenty or thirty feet high begin to break away and suddenly rush forward leaving a white-hot mass that quickly turned gray. It is just as difficult for an amateur writer to describe the scene as it would be for one unacquainted with the brush to place it upon canvas. i The aforementioned flow we saw in action stopped within a few hundred yards of where we saw it. Latest reports say that Madam Pele has again gone on vacation or back into mother earth to stir up another flaming cauldron. Tearing ourselves away from the volcano goddess' latest effort, we descended along the trail to the state highway, re-crossed the old flow after old sol had departed — the lava flow's only rival in brightness. There was so much smoke in the air that it veiled the face of the sun and turned it into a blood-red ball with a filmy trace of clouds moving across its surface — the very reddest sun I have ever seen, sometimes it seemed to darken into a purple. After dark we. could see patches of fire every place and it made us wonder why we had crossed that furnace. As the sun sank farther below the Pacific the glowing spots

878 IMPROVEMENT ERA grew brighter and caused shadows all around us. There was a great red glow far up the mountain side and once in every little while there would be a flame shoot high into the air. The lava fountains playing fifteen miles away made light enough to enable one to pick out objects half a mile away. While we were standing watching, the earth began to tremble and we felt a very severe quake. Was it worth it? Four nights upon hard floors would make one question the worth of most any trip, but there is no doubt in my mind as to its worth. Honolulu. Oahu. . When You Kissed Your Father Good-Night We sometimes laugh at his antique ways And may smile as we hear him talk; When he comes indoors with his tongue ablaze, We learn why you don your frock. On Contention's stream it is hard, we know, To feel that he treats you right; But, did ever you dream of the Long-ago, When you kissed your Father "Good-Night?" At times, when the little ones hug his knee, Note the joy creep into his face; Remember the mirth of the Used-to-Be, When you stood in the same old place, Then, one fine hair of your baby head, Not all in the world could buy; Then, he craved your love and his soul was fed By the light in your soft blue eye. His words may be sharp, but, what of that? So are yours to his keen old ears; Though his bright orbs flash 'neath his work-day hat Don't think that they can't shed tears. When the garnish of sin pollutes your brow, You don't see how his big eyes fill; But they saw you then and they see you now, And see you, they always will. When your five-inch collar has wilted down And your pockets are inside out, And the friendly smile has become a frown Since Misfortune begins to sprout; What fairer picture can meet the eye, Reflected by Mem'ry's light, Than the wrinkled face of the days gone by, When you kissed your Father "Good-Night?" Walter P. Emmett. Ogden, Utah.