BIG Time

Somewhere on earth, surely, there is land more foul and unwelcoming than these geologically infant lava flows. And somewhere else may boast luxury resorts that are more lush and spectacularly appointed. Maybe.

But together, side by side in starkness and beauty? Yin collides with yang like that in only one place: the Zen riddle known as the Kohala Coast of Hawaii’s eponymous Big Island. Toss in heaping portions of feng shui, some rain-shadow juju, a strong current of architectural karma, a whole lot of ancient Hawaiian mana and-aloha-what comes out is a tropical resort experience of surreal magnificence.

First, though, we’ll need to get over the short but disconcerting drive north from the airport, which has caused more than one novice to instantly regret their choice of resort roulette. Patience is clearly in order. Instead of following Kohala’s 42-kilometre stretch of coast (too rugged), the Queen Ka’ahumanu Highway is set back, traversing a sere volcanic desert created by 19th-century eruptions from distant Mauna Loa. Fractured into knife-edged shards, the jumbled black lava looks all but unpassable except by a few scrofulous wild goats searching vainly for grass. It’s not until we turn down one of several paved access roads that iridescent green finally pops into view, first in the form of manicured golf fairways, then pure jungle plantscape. Only then is it evident how 11 paradisical properties-officials decreed that number to be the limit-have staked out Kohala’s, and perhaps the world’s, most gifted string of coves and beaches. In short, badlands never looked so good.

"To ancient Hawaiian royalty, the ali’i, this was their refrigerator," says Daniel "Kaniela" Akaka Jr., fanning his hand toward the postcard lagoon that almost imperceptibly, blends into the immaculate grounds of Mauna Lani Resort. Award-winning for its environmental stewardship, Mauna Lani also holds deep respect for its human history. Akaka is its director of cultural affairs, and he conducts regular walk-and-talks to acquaint visitors with Kohala’s long, regal past.

"These brackish embayments were the fish ponds of the kings, linked by a coastal trail, where species like mullet, milkfish, shrimp and crab were raised by teams from various branches of the kahuna, or professional class," he says, explaining how the fully restored seawalls were originally hand-built, and showing how a grated makaha, or gate, allows fingerlings to enter while trapping mature fish. As a royal retreat it would periodically house the Hawaiian islands’ legendary uniter, King Kamehameha I, born in this very district some 250 years ago.

Now one of the state’s foremost cultural authorities, Akaka knows royalty; he practically qualifies himself, as the son of Hawaii’s longtime Senator Daniel Akaka. "I actually grew up being groomed to be a beach boy in Waikiki," Kaniela admits. "Fortunately, though, I had an uncle who put me on the ancient path." Back in the early 1970s he was at the forefront of the resurgence of all things Hawaiian, including its deeply metaphorical language, which he still speaks at home with his family.

With all due respect to the ancient chiefs, however, they never had it as sweet as visitors who get to play ali’i for a day-or, if they’re lucky, a fortnight-in sumptuous vacation redoubts that go remarkably beyond the five-star luxury one can find anywhere. That special synergy has much to do with 11 sublime permutations of indoor-outdoor architecture filled with exotic equatorial furnishings and art. Then there’s the damn near perfect weather-high 28°C, low 20°C, fewer than 25 centimetres of rain a year-and seaside seclusion unperturbed by cars or pesky beach vendors. Just textbook crescents of sugary sand, so cardinally west-facing that you don’t even have to turn your chaise to watch the mai tai sunset.

It’s nice alright, almost comically so. Take the Fairmont Orchid, a double-winged plantation villa built only in 1990 but fully renovated in 2006. Still wearing our welcome leis, we wander slightly slack-jawed through opulent hallways and an elaborate courtyard where we see, tucked between Gauguin greenery and numerous waterfalls, the bamboo massage huts of the outdoor spa. "Either we’ve become sugar barons or this is Eden 2.0," I tell the wife giddily. Eventually we set up at the sprawling pool where the cabana boy, like many of the concierge staff, is an ultra-friendly Canuck.

Because 150-year-old lava flows altered the natural beachscape here, the Orchid is one of the Kohala resorts that had to recraft its waterfront. The result is an elegantly simple 270-degree cove with calm, safe waters inside. Great for children, it also appeals to honu, Hawaiian sea turtles, that like to haul out here in the afternoon sun. Meanwhile, sportier guests can easily snorkel, kayak or canoe out to the open ocean via a narrow mouth. Just beyond is a pair of surf breaks (one of them encouragingly dubbed "Grandfather’s") where the Orchid’s burly watermen introduce their charges to the ancient practice of nalu, formerly-no surprise-a pastime reserved for kings alone.

No beach lover, however, can visit the Kohala Coast without heading to its northern reach and setting up an umbrella on a strand that perennially tops lists of America’s best beaches: Hapuna State Park. This is the one-kilometre arc of gold where, as a teenager, I passed a week with my family in an RV, spending dawn to dusk riding one of the best bodysurfing breaks in all the islands. To porpoise across turquoise waves, under a perpetual hot sun, with a view of snow-capped Mauna Kea in the distance-why, it blew our Canadian minds. And so Hapuna did again; except for the low-slung Hapuna Prince Hotel tucked among kiawe trees at the beach’s northern end, it is shockingly unchanged in 35 years.

Although it involves the grim task of telling the wife we will be leaving the Fairmont Orchid, I want to make one additional stop in Kohala. "Honey," I begin, "it says in this magazine that Steve Jobs, debonair founder of Apple Computers, has been here over 70 times, and he always stays at the same place: Kona Village." After only a few tears, we head south to one of the most memorable luxury encampments on the planet.

Founded by an eccentric American adventurer in 1965, Kona Village takes very seriously the task of getting away from it all. There are neither phones nor televisions in this grass-shack nirvana, just 125 simply furnished hale, or huts, in a variety of thatch-roofed Polynesian styles, scattered along the foreshore and around jungled lagoons. Ours is of the Maori persuasion, on a lava outcropping not ten metres from the lapping Pacific, where we discover snorkelling of extraordinary quality and again, the sun setting at the tip of our toes.

We soon learn that the Village’s friendly denizens, except for a solid core of ga-ga honeymooners, are practically all repeat customers. Business titans the rest of the year, this is their time to go barefoot and shirtless, and hit the beached-yacht-turned-bar while the sun is still well over the yardarm.

I offer, when for one last time we make our way under tiki torches through one of Kona Village’s epic buffet spreads: "Gee, doesn’t the ahi look good tonight?"