In February 1924, National Geographic published a photograph that remains as captivating today as it was a century ago. Taken by Gilbert H. Grosvenor, the image is split into two panels. In both, a lone man stands among colossal tropical leaves on the slopes of Maui’s Haleakalā volcano. In one panel, he is almost hidden—his figure framed by a yellow rectangle to help the viewer spot him amid the overwhelming foliage. In the other, he stands more clearly, hands on hips, wearing a hat, white shirt, tie, and sturdy boots, his posture confident yet dwarfed by the natural world around him.
The leaves, likely from the ape-ape plant, stretch several feet across, their broad surfaces catching the light and casting deep shadows. They are so large that they seem almost surreal, as if the man has stepped into a prehistoric jungle. This is no exaggeration—Haleakalā’s volcanic soil, born from centuries of eruptions, is among the most fertile on Earth. Rich in minerals and well-drained, it provides the perfect foundation for plants to grow to extraordinary sizes.
The gorge itself is narrow and steep-sided, a channel carved by water through ancient lava flows. Moisture collects here, feeding the dense vegetation. The air would have been cool and damp, filled with the scent of wet earth and greenery. In such sheltered pockets, plants can grow unchecked, their leaves expanding to capture every drop of sunlight that filters through the canopy.
This photograph is more than a record of Hawaii’s beauty—it is a visual study of nature’s resilience and abundance. It shows how a once-barren volcanic slope can, over time, be transformed into a lush sanctuary. The man’s presence provides scale, reminding us of our smallness in the face of Earth’s processes.
Nearly a hundred years later, Grosvenor’s image still speaks to the intertwined forces of geology and biology. It is a reminder that destruction and creation are partners in the natural world, and that from the fire of a volcano can come a forest of giants.
