Every time I’m in Hilo, whether I’m solo, wrangling the family, or catching up with friends, I follow the same ritual. First, I find a spot along Banyan Drive, under the sweeping shade of century-old trees, just steps from Hilo Bay’s inky-blue water. From there, it’s a short walk to Aliʻi Ice for a double scoop of taro or coconut in a crisp waffle cone (trust me, those are the winners). Cone in hand, I head for Queen Liliʻuokalani Gardens, a Japanese-style oasis where arched bridges, koi-dotted ponds, and Japanese lanterns feel a world away from nearby busy downtown Hilo .
Each entrance, north, south, east, and west, is marked by a torii gate, the traditional Japanese gateway that signifies a crossing into sacred space. Passing beneath one is like leaving the everyday behind. I like to approach along Banyan Drive and slip in through the east gate, letting the wooden pillars frame my first view of the gardens. You could cut across the grass to save a few steps, but where’s the fun in that?
Now I get my first view of Waihonu’s brackish ponds, stretching out like glass and mirroring slow-moving clouds. Banyan canopies stitch shade across the distant paths, their roots twisting down like old ropes, while bridges and lanterns punctuate a green expanse of manicured lawn. I have arrived.
Directly ahead stands the Fukuoka Lantern, a pagoda-style tōrō gifted in the late 1960s to commemorate the centennial of the Gannenmono. The term Gannenmono refers to the first group of Japanese immigrants who arrived in Hawaiʻi in 1868, seeking work on sugar plantations and starting a cultural exchange that still shapes the islands today. The lantern’s tiered roofs catch the light, while moss gathers at its base where it is mounted into black lava rock.
From here, I start playing “find the lanterns.” The Kasuga lanterns, each with a quiet charm. There are 17 in all, turning the walk into a game of spotting them around every bend. Most stand on a hexagonal base, their stone columns lifting a firebox capped with a sloping roof, lotus petals carved into the platform. Some bask in open lawns, others hide in bamboo shadows or by the pond’s edge.
The path leads me to the Arched Stone Bridge, its curve mirrored perfectly in the still pond below. Built in the 1930s by Hiroshima-born stonemason Mr. Kushi, it has stood through the 1946 and 1960 tsunamis. On calm days the reflection forms a perfect circle, a scene so iconic it became the Friends of Liliʻuokalani Gardens’ logo. Crossing it feels like stepping into a postcard, each footfall carrying you deeper into the garden’s quiet heart.
Just beyond, the Small Pavilion waits in a pocket of shade, rebuilt with ʻōhiʻa logs in 2018. Its open sides frame views of the pond and gardens, while the breeze carries the soft clatter of bamboo from nearby groves. I pause here to finish off my ice cream, letting the sound and stillness settle in before moving on. Then, just over your right shoulder, watch for the raised patch of bamboo and its winding paths. The tall, thick yellow culms sway and clatter in the wind, a soft percussion that follows you as you walk.
The path soon delivers the garden’s most photographed view, the Wooden Pavilion Bridge. Its bright vermilion arch spans the pond, a graceful echo of the original bridge from Kyoto that was built without nails before the 1946 tsunami swept it away. A second version met the same fate in 1960, but today’s rebuild holds the same silhouette, with missing carpentry details restored in 2019 from old photographs. From here, you can spot bursts of hibiscus blooming in the distance and a massive monkeypod tree stretching its canopy across the far side of the park. Crossing the bridge, you feel a little suspended between Hawaiʻi and Japan.
On the far side, I walk along the narrow stone Zig-Zag bridge. At high tide, water laps over the low-lying bridge, turning the crossing into a careful dance. Beside it stands the Niigata Lantern, one of the oldest styles in Japan, placed here to replace a tree that once shaded this spot. Facing makai, the lantern frames a perfect view of beautiful marble benches for a nice place to sit and reflect.
From here I head north toward the Double-Arch Bridge, a smooth stone span poured in place nearly a century ago. It was the photo op of the 1920s, once serving as part of the garden’s original main entrance. Crossing over, I’m rewarded with a sweeping view of Coconut Island and the long walking bridge that connects it to shore, stretching low across the water like an invitation.
Returning over the Double-Arch Bridge toward the Waihonu Pond at the park’s center, I stop at the Square-Roof Pavilion. First built in 1917 and rebuilt in 2015 with sturdy ʻōhiʻa logs, it’s a quiet place to pause, offering open views back toward the pond and bridges. In Hawaiian culture, the ʻōhiʻa lehua tree is deeply symbolic, tied to legends of love and resilience, and its blossoms are among the first to appear on new lava flows. Using ʻōhiʻa here connects the pavilion to the islands’ natural and cultural heritage.
From this spot, I can see the Hilo Fujin Shinkōkai Lantern II nearby, one of two substantial Kasuga lanterns brought over in 1916 by a Japanese women’s friendship association. Out in the pond, the Oshima Lantern stands on its own small island, a gift marking Hawaiʻi County’s first sister-island relationship with Izu-Ōshima in 1962. Farther back, the Fukushima Lantern rises on the far shore, a large Kasuga-style gift from Governor Morie Kimura in 1968 to honor the Gannenmono centennial. In July, volunteers give it a careful cleaning during the Tanabata festival, keeping its stonework bright against the garden’s greens and blues. Like I mentioned earlier, "Find the Lanterns" is a serious game in the park. Can you spot all three in this photo?
I then like to step out of the park, drawn toward the calm, deep blue waters of Hilo Bay. The color here is a rich, royal blue, shaped by the black lava rock and dark sands that define this coastline. It’s a striking contrast to the turquoise shallows you find along white-sand beaches, instead stretching out in deeper, moodier hues. I cross Lihiwai Street to the Old Hilo Pier, where fishermen stand on the edge with light tackle, often casting for papio (juvenile trevally), aholehole, or the occasional ʻomilu. The coast is sunny, with white puffs of clouds drifting lazily by over the distant Hāmākua shoreline. More than a century ago, Queen Liliʻuokalani came ashore here in a double-hulled canoe; today, the pier is a favorite local fishing spot, with bait often gathered from the Waihonu Pond just across the street.
Back in the park, I continue to wander the paths beneath the shade of banyan trees, sometimes pausing on a bench to take it all in. This side feels more open, with the bridges, pavilions, lanterns, and torii gates now behind me. The lawns are dotted with palms of different varieties, and one curious tree leans at an unusual curve as if frozen mid-bow. Nēnē graze quietly in the grass, their muted calls drifting on the breeze. I read a few of the informative placards near the Shichi-Go-San Stone Arrangement, a playful cluster of boulders representing the ages 7, 5, and 3 when children traditionally reach milestones in Japan. Once I feel like I have enjoyed the open space long enough, I eventually meander back toward the car, my ice cream cone long gone.
For me, this stroll is as much about slowing down as it is about the scenery. It’s the hush of bamboo in the wind, the way hibiscus lean toward the sun, the glint of bridges reflected in still water. It’s Hilo at its most unhurried and heartfelt, a place where history and nature share the same path. By the time I’m back at the car, salt in the air and the last echo of nēnē calls in my ears, I’m already thinking about my next visit… and my next double scoop from Aliʻi Ice. Taro or coconut flavor of course.
