| November | December 2005 Volume 79 Issue 6 |
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Feature Pele's Wild Island Story and photos by Eric Lindberg
It's more like a lunar landing than a touch down in paradise. But there's much more to the Big Island of Hawaii than lava fields. And as soon as I leave the airport and turn north up the Kona coast, that bleak first impression fades. On my right looms 13,679-foot Mauna Kea volcano, wreathed by clouds. A double-rainbow arcs over mesquite grasslands. To the left the ocean glows with that dazzling blue typical of tropical seas. The volcano casts a rain shadow over this side of the island, creating a dry, sunny climate for the many resorts, beaches and golf courses clustered here. Beyond those resorts sprawls a 4,000 square-mile geographic smorgasbord containing 10 of the world's 14 climatic zones. Rain forests, sun-baked deserts, snowcapped mountains, live volcanoes—it's all here. I've come to explore those places, where fiery lava-scapes, remote waterfalls and secluded valleys eclipse putting greens and tennis courts. At dawn I join Hawaii Forest and Trails for a tour to Hakalau Forest Preserve in search of Hawaii 's rare endemic birds. This reserve on the flank of Mauna Kea volcano protects some of the island's last virgin woodlands. “Before humans arrived, these islands were like the Galapagos times 10, with incredible diversity and no predators,” guide Kevin Schneider tells our group. “Almost 50 species of honeycreeper evolved from one finch. There were flightless ibis, rails and geese found nowhere else in the world.” Inside the reserve we follow a grassy trail into cloud forest, past massive koa and ohi'a lehua trees. The cool air rings with the calls of apapane, elepaio, and amakihi, their songs as melodious as their names. An endangered Io (Hawaiian hawk) patrols overhead, sending feathered little bundles of red, yellow and green fleeing into thicker cover. “When the Polynesians and then the Europeans introduced animals, this place was attacked like a salad bar,” Kevin tells us. Birds that had never been hunted were easy targets, first for the Polynesians who ate the flightless species, then later for rats, mongoose and wild cats. Mosquitoes arrived, spreading avian diseases. More than half the known bird species found only in Hawaii are now extinct, and many of the remaining ones are endangered, making their last stand in this remote forest. Hawaii was a biological Eden when the first daring explorers stepped ashore sometime between the second and fourth centuries. Few traces remain from their time here. But the Polynesian voyagers who followed them left many remnants of their culture. Ancient fishponds, temple sites, walls and petroglyphs lie scattered on the coastal plains. Spread across black lava flats along the Kona coast, Pu'uhonua o Honaunau National Historic Park is the largest of these sites. Built around 1550 AD, this complex was an important residence for royal chiefs. But it was also a place of refuge for defeated warriors, deserters and kapu (taboo) breakers. Ancient Hawaiians lived by sacred laws, such as commoners being forbidden to look at the chief or let their shadow fall on the palace grounds. Violating a kapu meant death. But if a kapu-breaker eluded capture and reached the pu'uhonua, he was absolved by a priest and could return to the community. After several days under the west coast Kona sun, it's time to head toward Hilo and the island's wet eastern side. Beyond Mauna Loa's rain shadow, the dry grassland quickly shifts into a lush tropical landscape. Clouds cool the moist air. Waterfalls pour into jungle ravines. There are more shades of green than there are names for them. Hilo is the island's largest city, but with only 45,000 people it has a small-town feel. The downtown waterfront is a time warp hodgepodge of pre-World War II architecture, hinting at its past as the center of a booming sugar industry. Wandering the art-deco theaters, Asian markets and art galleries while enjoying a cone of local mango-lychee sorbet makes for a delightful afternoon. The island's most atmospheric shopping experience remains the Hilo Farmer's Market. On Wednesday and Saturday mornings this is the place to feel the town's pulse. East meets West island-style as Hawaiian aunties in muumuus, modern-day hippies with dreadlocks, pale tourists, sun-bronzed surfers and Laotian ladies mingle among the bok choy, smoked ahi and sugai mangos. I roam the aisles sampling local delicacies like lilokoi jelly and macadamia nut goat's cheese. Thais and Vietnamese sell bento box lunches. Traditional fruits such as papaya and white pineapple share space with exotic varieties like rambutan, jaboticaba and cherimoya. Edging past the crowded Spam musabi stall (think sashimi meets Spam), I meet Leah, an elderly woman from Micronesia . She weaves leis from ti leaves. I ask how often she travels to the Kona side, and she chuckles. “Why go over there? Too many cars! Too hot! I like it fine right here.” I agree with her car comment, but my next stop will be even hotter than the Kona coast. The road from Hilo to Volcanoes National Park skirts the flanks of Mauna Loa before climbing up Kilauea Volcano. Among the world's most active volcanoes, Kilauea is also home to Pele, the Hawaiian volcano goddess. Ancient oral traditions tell of many eruptions triggered by an angry Pele. Like many visitors, I'm hoping to see oozing, red-hot lava. At the visitor center, ranger Kupano McDaniel fields questions posed by would-be lava-watchers. “The best views are a two-hour walk from the end of the road. You'll need good shoes, plenty of water, and a flashlight for walking back in the dark. Falling on that rock can leave a nasty cut.” Several faces show alarm as McDaniel continues, “I suggest you walk for five minutes, then decide if you want to do that for the next four hours.” At the trailhead a broken line of hikers takes off across the lava, disappearing among hillocks of black rock. Shouldering my pack, I step onto some of the newest land on Earth. Orange tags mark the first mile, helpful for navigating the razor-sharp lava. I pick my way past forlorn clumps of withered grass tossing in the sulfurous wind, and move cautiously across the jagged swirls of hardened terrain. By the second hour my legs feel hot and rubbery. Small bands of hikers spread out across the undulating avenues of ropy, rough-edged rock. My first water bottle emptied, I settle into a slow trudge. Eventually I spot tiny figures clustered on a distant cliff. Twenty minutes later I'm standing next to them, peering down at a hellish dreamscape. At water's edge, thick bands of crimson lava surge over a rocky shelf and heave into the ocean. Fiery flows spurt forward and split to form new courses. Wherever the molten streams strike the water, steam billows up. Waves smack into the falling magma and suck it out to sea. We stare at the cacophony of churning water and spitting steam, mesmerized. A woman weeps softly at the sight. Earth is being born before our eyes. Flopping down on the ground, I quickly discover, is a mistake. The rock is too hot to sit on, evidence that fresh lava isn't far below. Even my boot soles turn soft and sticky when I linger too long in one spot. Humans now grasp the science of Earth's inner forces, but the faces around me show the same sense of wonderment that early Hawaiians must have felt in their newly-born world when they gazed down and felt the heat and wrath of Pele, goddess of fire. Watching the glowing red rivulets gush into the Pacific, it's easy to imagine the inspiration for tales of angry goddesses, jealousy and trickery. This is Hawaii as it must have appeared to the first people thousands of years ago. It's also a first glimpse of the Hawaii that will be here thousands of years from now. As I gaze into the fiery birthing ground of a new world, it's a comforting thought. n
Eric Lindberg is a Lakewood-based travel writer and photographer who has written for EnCompass on numerous occasions. Planning Your TripHawaii Travel Ideas & Reservations |
