“Pele, and volcanoes, possess a dual nature,” says Warren Costa of Native Guide Hawaii, leading me along the edge of Kilauea’s wide caldera. At its center, an inner crater — Halemaumau, Pele’s home — emits a roiling plume, generated by the lava lake within. “On the one hand, she’s destructive; lava flows have buried many parts of this island. On the other hand, she’s creative. Every flow creates new land, the newest land on Earth.”

Legends say that Pele searched the entire chain of Hawaiian islands, looking for a place to call home. Beneath the other isles lay the sea, already occupied by her sister. But the island of Hawaii issues directly from a “hot spot,” glowing below the ocean floor. And so here she settled.

Warren Costa’s arms and legs are etched with bold black tattoos, inspired by the Polynesian heritage shared by native Hawaiians. At one point he stops, bends down and picks up a gossamer thread of golden glass: “Pele’s hair,” formed when ejected globs of lava pull apart. I’d love to take it home — but one does not steal from Pele’s domain.

As Costa guides me through the area, he shares a story about how, even today, Pele inspires deep respect among locals. Some years ago a prominent local elder was told to evacuate, as her house was in the path of an oncoming lava flow (sometimes lava moves very slowly, only a few inches an hour).

Warren Costa of Local Guide Hawaii displays a thread of golden glass: “Pele’s hair,” formed when ejected globs of lava pull apart.

And so the woman summoned her whole extended family. They thought they were there to help their grandmother pack her belongings — but she put them to work cleaning the house. “Pele is coming to my home,” the woman said, “and this is what you do when an honored guest arrives.”

The Hawaiian islands are being created as the Pacific tectonic plate moves over a deep “hot spot,” where magma rises through the Earth’s crust and builds one island after another. The island of Hawaii is still active, and its mega-volcano, Mauna Loa, is the most massive mountain (measured from the sea floor) on Earth. Every stone and cinder, every lava-hollowed tree stump, is part of Pele’s body, explains Costa. Not only that, even the plants have Pele-inspired stories.

Ohia lehua, for example (a member of the myrtle family), is one of the “pioneer plants” whose tiny seeds sprout in the forbidding black lava beds.

Ohia, according to legend, was the handsome son of a chief. He was in the forest, innocently playing his nose flute, when Pele, disguised as a gorgeous woman, tried to seduce him. “Sorry,” Ohia declared. “My heart belongs to my true love, Lehua.”

Pele was incredulous. “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course,” Ohia bowed. “There is no one, Pele, as beautiful as you. But I am faithful to my beloved Lehua.”

Pele turned the youth into a twisted, gnarled shrub.

When Lehua entered the forest, she saw what had happened. She angrily lobbied the other gods, who finally asked Pele to pity the young lovers. Pele agreed — and transformed Lehua into the ohia plant’s brilliant red blossom. “When the two are separated,” my guide warned, “there will be tears — so don’t pick the Lehua off the Ohia unless you are trying to bring the rain.”

Ehulani Stephany, a high priestess of hula kahiko, Hawaii’s indigenous dance, song, and ritual, plays a bamboo ohepu while her student, Uilani Pihana, performs a sacred hula near the lip of Kilauea’s 2-mile-wide caldera.

I was taken aback when I first met Ehulani Stephany: With her glossy black hair and wide-rimmed sunglasses, Stephany might have been the fashion editor of a Hawaiian magazine.

In fact, she is a kumu hula alii kahuna nui: a high priestess of hula kahiko, Hawaii’s indigenous dance, song and ritual. Born on Oahu, she settled on the Big Island in her 20s and began her initiation into the practice about 10 years later.

“Our culture had been dying for many years,” Stephany says. “The Hawaiian language was not taught in our schools, and we didn’t know about the rituals.” All of that changed in the 1980s, when indigenous culture began its renaissance. “So my timing was perfect,” she says. “I’m very grateful to Pele for bringing me here.”

We drive to a picnic site near the lip of Kilauea’s 2-mile-wide caldera. Stephany opens her straw satchel and pulls out four sacred ti leaves and several baggies of colorful powder. She weaves two of the large leaves together into a lei, which she drapes over her shoulders. Then she instructs me how to prepare my own personal offering to Pele.

There can be nothing artificial, she explains, as this is a gift to the Earth itself. Stephany lays one of the flat leaves in front of me, shiny side down. We sprinkle pinches of each offering onto its surface: orange Hawaiian sea salt, for an ocean-like cleansing; yellow turmeric, for spiritual cleansing; and powdered awa (kava), a mild intoxicant deeply valued by the gods.

Stephany asks me to envision my aumakua, an ancestor who protects me at all times. I choose my late brother Jordan, keeping his image in my mind as I fold the leaf over to create — under Stephany’s guidance — a little square packet tied neatly with the leaf’s own stem.

Stephany ducks away to prepare herself and returns, moments later, in full regalia. It’s a profound transformation. Wearing a leafy headdress, a shell necklace and a flowing robe, she is every inch the priestess. Carrying an ohepu (bamboo tube) and ipuheke (a double-gourd instrument), she leads me to Kilauea’s cliff.

We are joined by Uilani Pihana, a student of Stephany’s for more than 20 years. She will perform a sacred hula to accompany our ceremony.

Stephany spreads a grass mat on the ground. She sings prayers to three of the four Hawaiian gods (all but the god of war), then a beautiful, hypnotic melody to Pele herself. Blowing the ohepu to the four directions, she chants prayers as Pihana glides through a strong-limbed dance that seems completely appropriate to a fire goddess. Then Stephany walks slowly and deliberately to the caldera’s edge, and throws her offering into the crater.

I go next, stepping forward with my little leaf packet (and a slice of papaya sacrificed from my breakfast). Intoning a prayer of my own, I present these offerings to the goddess. Stephany sings a concluding song, and our ritual is complete.

With this, I am ready: It’s time to meet Pele face to face.

 A patch of the cooled lava that has reshaped the island for millions of years.

Outside the Foodland in Keaau, a Salvation Army soldier sits beside her collection bucket, playing Christmas songs on a ukulele. Cheryl Gansecki pulls up in her Xterra and greets me warmly. The Friends of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park connected us through their guide service, and I am excited to visit the lava flow with a real live volcanologist.

We drive south on Highway 130. Gansecki takes a slight detour through Pahoa to show me where the 2014 lava flow swallowed the road. While it may have been possible to divert the flow, some locals objected: You don’t mess with Pele’s power.

From there we continue to Kalapana, where a 4-mile path bulldozed through a previous lava flow will take us to the ocean vents: the ever-changing openings where lava from Puu Oo — a cone of Kilauea — is flowing into the sea.

Before getting her doctorate, Gansecki had been an intern at the Hawaii Volcano Observatory at Kilauea, where she “fell in love with the volcano.” Today, her work focuses on lava viscosity, the science of how it flows.

We park by a sign and begin walking, the ocean to our left. The area reminds me of the weird, biomorphic sets in “Alien.” Lava covered the entire area in 1990. It’s black and barren, save a few ohia sprigs. A dozen isolated houses, occupied by optimistic daredevils, dot the Dali-esque landscape.

“I know there are two kinds of lava,” I say, surveying the wrinkled waves of dried magma. “But I can never remember which is which.”

“This is pahoehoe, the smooth kind,” Gansecki says. “The rough, sharp-as-glass lava is called aa — easy to remember, ’cause that’s what you yell when you try to walk on it.”

A mild rotten egg scent fills the air. Gansecki sniffs cautiously. “We’re in the plume.” I recall what Mark Twain said, of his 1866 visit to Hawaii: “The smell of sulfur is strong,” he quipped, “but not unpleasant to a sinner.”

We reach a guard rope (meant to keep visitors out of the danger zone) and sit on round black boulders overlooking the lava delta, the highly unstable area where new land is being built.

And there is Pele, right below us: a neon red waterfall, cascading into the sea. The river of lava is about 2,000 degrees, and, as it hits the water, it roars and convulses. Glowing globs explode upward like sparks from Thor’s hammer, surrounded by clouds of incandescent steam. Down on the thin delta, orange streaks appear through cracks and fissures: lava flowing beneath. The darker it gets, the more we see. It’s like watching the stars coming out.

We’re witnessing the mighty business of creation, a 4 billion-year-old process that we honor with silence, reflection and sheer awe.

After dark, over mahi mahi at a popular Pahoa restaurant, I ask Gansecki to tell me one surprising thing she’s learned about lava.

“Every time I encounter lava,” she says reverently, “I’m amazed by how hot it is. The radiant heat can be so intense that even when you’re collecting a tiny sample you have to shield your face. Whenever I’m close to it, it boggles my mind.”

And the greatest mystery about lava?

“We really don’t understand why Hawaii is here,” Gansecki says. “We have this ‘hot spot’ — but why? Hot spots are oddballs; there’s no obvious reason why they exist.”

Ninety-six percent of the Earth’s volcanoes, she tells me, occur along the edges of tectonic plates. But Hawaii is in the middle of the Pacific Plate. “This hot spot has a very deep source, and it’s been fixed for about 80 million years,” Gansecki says. “It could be a way of releasing heat from the inner core of the planet — no one knows.”

We finish our meal with Molten Lava Cake, “the favorite dessert of volcanologists.” Gansecki pokes it with her spoon. “Chocolate fudge is actually a good allegory for pahoehoe lava,” she observes. “But if you stir it up too much while you’re making it, it turns into aa.”

“I’m surprised,” I remark, thinking about Eskimos and snow, “that the Hawaiians don’t have more words for lava.”

Gansecki shrugs. “They have twice as many as anyone else.”

Pele is unpredictable, and often dangerous. Days after our December visit, on New Year’s Eve, the shelf of dried lava upon which Gansecki and I had sat — a 26-acre section — fell into the sea. Park rangers had just chased away some visitors who had ducked under the guard rope for a closer look. Fifteen minutes later, and they would have perished.

No matter your perspective, the forces that create and occupy this land — scientific and spiritual — are best taken seriously. Personally, I’m glad I’d paid my respects with Stephany.

But this is the most exciting thing about the island of Hawaii: Anything can happen, at any time. Mauna Loa itself, which occupies 70 percent of the island’s mass and has been quiet since 1984, is about 24 years overdue for an eruption. During my visit, the lava fountains within the Halemaumau crater abruptly rose, while Puu Oo continued to pump lava into the sea.

And with its tireless “hot spot” still seething, and the Pacific Plate still in motion, volcanologists predict the birth of a ninth Hawaiian island, Loihi, within 100,000 years. About a million years later, the Big Island itself will go extinct.

When that occurs, Pele may choose to relocate. But this chain of islands will always be her home — and we mortals her reverent guests.

If you go:

There are two sides to the Big Island — the dry Kona side and the wetter Hilo side. The most dramatic volcanic activity is on the Hilo side, a 90-minute drive from Kona.

Where to stay:

Volcano Village Lodge: Individual cabins that sleep up to four with all amenities. Rates start about $280 per night and include warm-it-yourself breakfast.

The Kilauea Lodge:  Built as a YMCA camp in 1938 and still offers community ambience and a great restaurant. From $200 per night.

Kalani: Extraordinary retreat center, not far from the ocean lava vents, offers yoga, hot tubs and guest speakers. From $95 per night with shared bath, including meals.

Seeing the Lava:

Hawaii Volcanoes National Park offers many self-guided walking and driving tours. The lookout at the Jagger Museum provides the best views of Kilauea. I took a hike in the Park with Native Guide Hawaii. The ocean vents can be accessed by hiking (two hours each way) from the National Park, or by hiking or biking (rentals are plentiful) from Kalapana. Book a guide through the Friends of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, or join Lava Ocean Tours for an up-close look.

This story was published in the San Francisco Chronicle by Jeff Greenwald is an Oakland freelance writer and author of travel books including “Shopping for Buddhas” and “Snake Lake.”

Photos: Jeff Greenwald, Special To The Chronicle

Find out about our Off-Grid Living Big Island Style in Hawaii Business Magazine. For another fun story about the Big Island, read Loving the Lava;  meet my Kahuna friend Willy Iaukea’s ancestors in the story The Blue Eye, discover the best breakfast at Paul’s Cafe in Hilo; and where to eat Italian in Kona with the best view ever!