Fish Girl and Honu the Second

I've lived in Hawai'i for nearly four years now. Despite my love for the beach and my occasional snorkeling adventures, I've come across relatively few sea turtles (or honu as they are called in Hawaiian). In fact, up until two days ago I'd only seen one.


I feel an affinity with animals that seem to lack rippling gracefulness and seem to plod through life awkwardly. Knowing I'm not the only creature on this planet who is a little less than refined and sophisticated helps a little. In short, I adore sea turtles. When at the beach I secretly hope that one will come over with that look that says, 'yup, I understand how you feel, we are kindred spirits.' But instead, I bob up and down in the water in a sea of mounting melancholy, surrounded only by the ocean's glamorous denizens.


On my first encounter with a turtle I was reminded that they are just animals, not kindred spirits. For this one begged me to keep my distance. When I approached Honu the First he began to take an interest in me a flipped his way toward me. Cool, should have been my first thought. But the massive creature seemed peeved at the intrusion into his morning dance in the sunlight. As best I could I backed off to watch him from further away.


Another opportunity to find turtles to commune with presented itself when J. came to visit. He wanted to go to the beach where all the turtles go (apparently there is one and I've missed it). But we had just met and I wasn't letting him take me anywhere yet. So my next major chance to find these lovable swimming rock-like animals drifted away when I made an excuse to leave.


Finally, Honu the Second and I met two days ago. It took a trip to another island and just 20 minutes of snorkeling before I discerned his outline in the distance. He was floating back and forth in the surge - flippers outstretched, like he was enjoying the ride. At that moment I realized that sea turtles aren't as gawky as I imagined. Rocking in murky water Honu the Second appeared to dance with the rays of sunlight piercing through the water. Wanting to swim closer and play with him, I figured it was best to leave him be lest he take to chasing me as Honu the first did. So I floated there a while watching Honu enjoy life, wishing I enjoyed mine just a bit more.

Mortals and Mount Olympus

(This is another take on the last post)

I'd like to dance a jig on a mountain ridge and scale a wall of mud without the fear of falling to a premature death. Or stand rooted in the wind and stretch out my arms and let my clothes flap like drying laundry, and not dream of the gust that topples me. No, there should be no dreams of tripping or falling, at least until I've sprouted wings. Nor should any real falling occur. I'll shimmy down those rocks with my inelegant style, sigh 'oh my,' and mentally rehearse each carefully timed series of bounding steps to the next point of safety, but there's no need for death just yet. I'd like to reach that mountaintop someday uninjured (and even splinters are included in that prohibition).

Before you hold my sex against me, I'll have you know that my girliness is not so extreme as for me to bemoan the dirt that rushed up under my recently painted nails, or the mud caking on my lower body. I didn't even curse at the occasional mosquito that got a little fresh with me. But 40 ft of mud and tree roots had me wondering just which part of my body was the doing the hiking and lamenting our lack of universal health coverage. I wouldn't mind a mild battle wound, but only if I could afford to have it repaired to 'like new' condition and it saved me from the prelims.

The hike ended undramatically with a 'I'm not climbing down that, I'm not sure I could get back up' at a spot that was comparatively unimpressive. My fear of heights finally got the better of me. Yet, had we continued we would have been late returning home. So we slowly headed back taking in the view and scanning the bordering foliage for tart strawberry guavas. The mud had me momentarily reflecting on becoming the hermit of the ridgeline. That would take care of the prelims and a few other nagging inconveniences of modern life. The wind made me reconsider. A rather large L-shaped log embedded in the muck received my salacious greetings and promises of affection with a stern rigidity. Then came the bit with the rope, but it wasn't quite enough to get a good bounce out of. Perhaps mountains need more rope. Our baby roller coaster chugged back to the big rock face and up, up, up we went. I am happy to report that I almost fell off only once. Only once and only almost.

That night as my pectorals did more of the aching than my calves or hamstrings, I dreamt of our almost adventure to Mt. Olympus. At every possible moment I slipped, I tripped, I fell, and I slid right off the ridge, only to find myself further along, but meeting the same disastrous end. Not even in my dreams did this mortal make it to Mt. Olympus. One of those spills was my last. At least this time I awoke to tell the tale.

Wa'ahila Ridge: Where fear, stupidity, and bravery meet

It was to be our last hike of the summer, so we had to pick something good. Something different. Something challenging that proved to be better than any of our other hikes. After all, it was to be our last. Several trails made it onto the short list, but who can resist the temptation of trying to climb Mt. Olympus? Of course there is no official trail that trudges on up to the peak, but it is certainly not an untraveled route.

The official trail is the Wa'ahila ridge trail. We started it from the park's parking lot at the top of St. Louis Heights. The trail started up slow on a wide path lined with well-combed strawberry guava bushes. The continuous upward climb triggered the burning question, would it only continue up?

Soon the answer came to us as the trail bounded down a rocky face. We skipped down the boulder face with only a few references to mountain goats. The rest of the trail rollercoastered up and down narrow at times, with great views of the surrouding valleys. For days to come I would dream about running that trail, tripping and rolling at full velocity down to my death at the bottom of the valley. Luckily, our adventure had no such traumatic end.

Strawberry guava freak that I am, I was happy to find the trail well-lined with this tangy fruit and not completely over-picked. So we snacked a bit along the way.

About half way toward the official end we reached a nice little spot ideal for camping out on the windy ridge and also a great place for taking a few pictures to prove that we did in fact climb that far. But it was still a fair distance from our goal, which we would never reach.

Of course, we did try to get there. We stopped at the official end drank some water, read the official sign, and continued on. For the first few minutes we scoffed at the warning and stumbled on down the trail, until we reached the wall of mud.

I call it the wall of mud because what there was of a trail wound up and over a myriad of exposed tree roots. We slipped our way up 40 feet or more of squishing, smacking mud in pools among them and did our best not to lose our balance. While climbing up, I somehow thought it would be easier going down, but learned better later. We continued on for a bit, still far from Mt. Olympus, hoping to make it once agin to the crest of the Ko'olau.

Twenty minutes later we were still far from our goal, having traveled up and down and up and down again. It seemed we had covered no distance at all expending all of our energy on changing elevation over and over. In the end we reach a bit where I was convince I would not be able to climb back up again. so we stopped took a picture and returned back. There was more slipping and sliding down the mud wall and more strawberry guavas plucked from along the trail. And it ended back in the parking lot with little time to spare on our time deadline. So, in the end, it was better to have turned around when we did than to press on to Mt. Olympus.

To the Crest of the Ko‘olau

My favorite hike so far...

We started in the grey-green Kuli‘ou‘ou Valley parking at a dead-end road. After a moment of indecision at the trailhead, deliberating between the easy trail to the dried up waterfall and the more challenging trail to the Ko‘olau crest, we headed up. The bottom portion of the trail zig-zagged up the side of the middle ridge, setting my insufficiently trained calves on fire.

A wider variety of flowers lined the path than I was used to from the Makiki Valley trails. Splashes of purple, pink, orange, and yellow brightened the overcast morning. Huffing and puffing we scrambled over a few rocky bumps, and side stepped the occasional protruding root structure. H complained that the trail was too dry, we needed more mud to paint racing stripes down our sides (as he had done a few weeks ago). Even though no oozing, smacking muck covered the way, we setting on continuing.

For about an hour we dizzied ourselves with shuffling back and forth up the path. Near the end of the switchbacks pine trees began to line the way, and discarded pine needles to carpet the trail. When we reached the ridgeline the temperature dropped from pleasantly warm to potentially chilly. A wind from the east whistled in the pines. I expected a thin ridgeline with death-inducing falls from either side, but what I encountered was a wide swath of land heavily dotted with grey-trunked pines sporting greyish-green needles. The overcast morning completed the effect of walking through a moody Impressionist’s dream.

As I resigned myself to the ridge slinking along hidden by towering giants we came to the “halfway point,” a set of covered picnic tables. The trail would proceed upward along the narrowing ridge, gaining an additional 900+ feet in elevation. So we rested at the picnic tables and discussed the process of crossing fruit species and flowers. Blame it on the nectarines.

The trail then began to head up more quickly. We changed tree varieties. The tall, skinny greyish-green drooping needle pines meet at a front with a exuberant green, flamboyant Christmas tree-like evergreen. We scrambled up root structures, no longer bemoaning the lack of mud. The forest became thicker and darker.

Soon we cleared the pines and climbed out onto a finer section of the ridge. The large trees stayed behind, affording us spectacular views of the Kuli‘ou‘ou Valley and Hawai‘i Kai area. Blue sky hung in the distance, a grey cloud hovered above us, and mist raced over the emerald ridge on the other side of the valley.

Green and red ferns lined the trail, as did a few barren twisted trees. The trail climbed up, flattened out and climbed again. My heart pounded in my chest and I gave no thought to how exactly I would have to scramble back down. Despite the elevation the breeze was stifled at times, the mist in the air rising from the valley pressed in on us like the heat of a sauna. But then the oppressiveness would lift, and the breeze would ripple over us, only to race away again.

We finally reached the triangular patch of dirt with a sign marking the end of the trail two feet from falling off the edge. The panoramic view stretched from Kaneohe in the misty distance to the turquoise waters off of the white sands of Bellows and Waimanalo. The farm land around Wamanalo crept up to the base of the mountains, or at least as far as I was willing to peer over the edge.

Rabbit Island peaked out from behind the edge of the rippling mountain range. Another bump in the ridge prevented us from following the beach down the coast.




A turn brought Koko Head Crater into view, now shrunken below us. The sandy beach of Hanauma Bay and its light blue waters were hidden from view, it appeared a mere notch in the coastline. Hawaii Kai sprawled out between us and Koko Head.


Another turn and the valley flowed down from below us, dotted with houses, emptying into a deep blue abyss. Diamond Head Crater poked up from behind the other ridge of the valley. The valley itself was lush with greenery rising to summit behind the cloud lingering over us. One more turn and the sign came back into view.

The trek back down involved a bit of slipping, a lot of picture taking, and occasionally climbing down backwards. At one point back under the cover of the pines there was an attempt by one member of our hiking party to make a snow angel in the pine needle carpet. However, it became apparent that snow is a major requirement for the successful creation of the angelic figures. A warm unrelenting sun accompanied us down the remainder of the path making me glad we'd had shade on the way up.

Maunawili Falls

Another day of hiking in the backyard. Our choice the stream crossing-intense trail to Maunawili Falls. Our easiest hike so far, but also the wettest and muddiest. It rained all night and early into the morning, but by the time we met blue streaks were conquering the remnant clouds on this side of the mountains. There was no telling what the weather conditions would be on the other side of the range. We would not be stopped by the lingering smell of wet asphalt.


After a quick jaunt on the highway we turned into a verdant valley. We stopped off for a moment at the local park facing what must be one of the Olomana peaks, not knowing any better at the time I named it the Truffelo. Unique things should have names I argued. It looked strong and powerful, like a buffalo and it was triangular so I fused the two elements. My private naming ceremony over, we continued on the twisting, narrowing road deep into the valley, up to the trailhead.


Once on the trail, it became apparent that my mission was to make it to the falls and back without soaking my shoes and drowning my socks in river water, painting on a pair of mud pants, or collecting scores of mosquito bites. For the first portion of the trail we stalked the stream. The trail steeped in mud, not just at the crossings, but through the gulch, wound back and forth across the stream. Thick foliage shaded us from the harsh strength of the sun, and prevented the mud from drying out more quickly.


Only when we reached the summit of the hill did the path dry out. The giant green tapestry of the Ko‘olaus hung from the clouds enveloping us on three sides; the 360 degree view was completed by a Kaneohe and Kailua. But the panoramic view was brief and we soon plunged back down again into the sloshing and smacking muck for a last stretch before reaching the falls.


The trail ended abruptly at the side of the shallow stream. It trickled out from a deep pool at the bottom of a 12 foot waterfall. The herd already gathering at the watering hole balanced on some of the larger drier rocks in the stream. Most chatted and laughed, a few deposited their shoes and belongings and plunged into the water. A few even more brave climbed up from the other side to the cliff above to belly flop into the water from 60 feet up. When they collided with the surface of the water we could almost feel the reverberation from the echo in the valley.


At the end of the trail and bathing suit-less, my only options were to 1) abstain from swimming, 2) dive in fully clothed, or 3) strip down and enjoy the pool of potentially bacteria-laced water at the bottom of the falls. My adventurous side screamed swim, but I had no desire to tromp out of the gulch any wetter than my sweat had already made me. And far too many people had converged on the site to even consider the third option.

So instead we watched the water gurgle over the falls and brave swimmers jump from the cliffs. They slapped the water and sent out thunderous ripples. Unable to play too, or unwilling to do so, we left again after a short break. We braved the mire and stumbled across the stream collecting more mud splatters with each step. By the end the clumps of muck stuck to my shoes had added several inches to the width of my sneakers and had climbed onto my socks. Rinsing them in the river and stomping them on the road just didn’t get them clean. The hike ended with a ride back to the park and a makeshift sponge bath at the drinking fountain. Unfortunately, the attempt at improving our appearance didn’t make our waitress at the restaurant where we had lunch any more friendly. I guess to appreciate our efforst she should have seen us before we tidied up.

Misadventures at Makapu’u

This story starts out biased, let me just warn you from the start. On my first trip to travel around part of the island I chose the shortest loop, which, in my opinion, is the most stunning. My principal form of transportation was, and remains, the bus. The sapphire and cerulean waters glimmered like a perfect island postcard (unlike my pictures today). Waves rhythmically thumped the white sand beaches with a warrior’s ferociousness. The bus bounced along from the Hanauma Bay parking lot past Sandy Beach toward Makapu’u.

As we crested the hill at Makapu’u, the sunlight teased out the full beauty of the ocean’s palette. The entire coast down through Waimanalo glistened lazuline and turquoise, fringed by the majestic ruffled, emerald Ko’olau Mountains. So why did such a beautiful seascape send an eerie shiver down my spine at that moment? I hadn’t yet heard of suicide from the cliffs, or any such foreboding stories. It looked perfect, and yet I had no desire to stay.

From that day it would be almost two years before I actually stopped at Makapu’u. Friends called a beach day early last July and before I knew it there we were pulling into the parking lot at Makapu’u Beach. There for less than five minutes, not even near the water, I tripped, not on one of the many protruding basalt rocks lining the path to the beach, but on the sand. Plain sand. Greeting the ground with a thud, I chuckled at my clumsiness and pealed my sprawling body from the path. At first glance, only my ego was bruised. A few steps later a sticky tickling kind of feeling began crawling down my right leg. A cleaning of the dirt and blood revealed a quarter-sized nick just under my knee. I’ve always been lacking in gracefulness, but only in Hawaii has proof of this been twice branded on my body.

Of course, I wouldn’t blame the place for my injury, but it might make it more understandable that I do not associate fond memories with that little beach. Until today I never ventured back. Yesterday my legs finally stopped quivering from the climb up Koko Head Crater earlier this week and my mantra became, “hiking, hiking, hiking, yay!” The plan was to try a new trail not too far away. The trek above the beach to the Makapu’u lighthouse won out. However, a grey cloud was spitting on my house and my chanting became less adamant.

With more favorable atmospheric conditions I set out today in the trusty old city bus. After puttering through Wakiki and whizzing down the highway we reached the eastern tip of the island a mere hour later. As we closed in on the parking lot for the trail I pulled on the cord to order a stop, but there was no yellow bus sign and the bus flew past my destination. Watching the road narrow and the shoulder shrink as we descended I realized there would be no room to climb back up without being grazed by oncoming traffic. It was already late in the day and I knew there wasn’t too much time to figure out what to do. I crossed the road toward the beach hoping to find a trail up from sea level, but I didn’t see one. When my phone rang with an important call I knew I would have to postpone the hike. Along the way home I noticed that the bus stop before the trail though down the road a bit was not as impossible to navigate. Perhaps the next time I venture toward Makapu’u I can finally enjoy my time there, or perhaps there's actually a reason not to go back.

It only takes time and sweat to make it to the top

Unfortunately, my international travel plans are temporarily on hold. But that doesn't mean that adventure cannot be found in my own backyard. Last week when H invited me to go hiking I was ready. I recharged my camera battery, laced up my sneakers, filled my backpack with several liters of water and set off like a pack mule. Our destination was the top of Koko Head Crater.

The sun played hide-n-seek behind the clouds, a light breeze occasionally succeeded at lifting the humidity, and the near-by shooting range echoed like the threat of a faceless battlefield. We basted ourselves in sunscreen and followed other hikers to the trail head. I wasn't intimidated until I stood at the bottom and looked straight up.

The trail is made up of an abandoned train track that climbs straight up the southern side of the crater. The wooden tracks form steps to the top. I half expected a roller coaster car race down and flatten us.

A few years ago, I gave up the stairmaster and quickly found that the train track trail showed no mercy. With frequent photo and water stops we eventually reached the bridge a little over half way up the hill. This was by far the worst part of the trail. An incline, no hand rails, and a few missing tracks made the trip up an effort in consentration and balance. On the trip down my fear of heights got the better of me and I crawled down like a crab. It was a great pec and tricep workout.

Once we finally reached the top we were congratulated by a strong wind and multiple views from Diamond Head and Waikiki to Hanauma Bay, and from Hanauma Bay to Makapu'u. We explored the old graffiti-covered bunkers at the top, took more triumphant panorama backdrop pictures, and refueled for the hike back down.