Orange and pink hues hovered over Pololu Valley—at the northernmost tip of the Big Island—and leaked into our new day, peace staining my previous concerns, whatever they were. Who could worry in a place like this? I gazed out as far as my eyes could see, and clouds seemed to form a distant celestial city. I breathed in youth, forgiveness, hope. Sky happened everywhere, so why didn’t I notice it more often at home?
When the atmosphere turned to blues, we left the lookout and hiked the short but steep path down to the black sand beach at the end of the world. Despite the heat, I shivered at the view. No need for signs to tell us the waters were unfit for swimming; the jagged rocks and grey surf said as much on their own. Sacred burial sites lay deeper in the lush forest, and scenes from the show Lost pricked my memories. What if “the others” really existed, heard our movements now, and came after us?
Back in the car, we drove the eight miles to Hawi, a quaint town in North Kohala, where fresh produce and sundresses lured us into a farmers market. We paid $7.00 to a vendor who hacked off the end of a young coconut, so we could sip the water from it. When our drink was gone, the man chopped our fruit in half and sliced a piece from another coconut’s husk for us to use to spoon out its “meat”.
We rolled along the Kohala Coast to Puako Petroglyph Archeological Preserve, a place featuring more than 3,000 ancient Hawaiian rock carvings. Goats grazed on each side of the road as we entered the preserve, and in the parking lot I spied ten cats slinking around cars and trees, the scene spiriting me back to the island of Crete where cats and dogs roamed as they pleased.
“It’s only a 1.4-mile walking trail,” Husband said as we stepped onto the paved beginning of the art gallery of old.
We clicked pictures of the first etchings, sometimes reenacting the stick figures’ poses. Soon, though, the asphalt walk petered out, and the path called for a sure foot and good balance. We stepped over tree roots and lava rocks. We ducked under low tree branches. The way grew rugged, the trail at times indiscernible.
I rolled my ankle. “What was I thinking wearing these sandals?”
“Yeah, what on earth?” Husband pulled a thorn—several inches long—from one of his flip-flops. “Let’s say we’re done.”
Back in the car I reviewed the petroglyph preserve on Trip Advisor: “Wear good shoes.” “Low-hanging branches everywhere, so watch your head.” “Rugged terrain.” “Because of big thorns, don’t wear flip-flops.”
We may not have persevered to the glorious end (or even read about the excursion in advance and worn the proper footwear), but we admired a number of drawings from the hands of long-ago artists, their stories still calling out to us from stone.
And we listened.
If a trip to Hawaii calls for stunning sunrises, surely it begs for striking sunsets too—and stargazing to follow. Husband had done his research and knew exactly where to go to catch some constellations: Mauna Kea Observatory. Even back in Minnesota, he had made a plan and cautioned us all to pack warm clothing to execute it, since temps—yes, even on the tropical island—can dip to 30 degrees at the dormant volcano’s altitude of almost 14,000 feet above sea level.
The summit of Mauna Kea, as the legend goes, was the meeting place of Earth Mother and Sky Father who brought forth Hawaiian children, but at that height, it can also bring on altitude sickness if a human’s not careful.
“Turns out the lack of oxygen can even affect your vision,” Husband said. I frowned. Seriously? “We won’t be going up that far, though.”
We loaded the car with snacks and extra layers—I had learned a thing or two since our hike up to Kilauea—and hopped in the Ford Edge, bound for “White Mountain”, as the name Mauna Kea means in Hawaiian. But first, a stop in Hilo.
We parked the car and ambled around a farmers market in the largest city on the island, eyeing fruits we didn’t know and avocados the size of cantaloupes. In anticipation of the chill to come on the mountain, we found a beach at Richardson Ocean Park where we ate rambutan on our towels on the fine black sand, absorbing the sun’s warmth like we could save it in our skin for later.
Less than an hour down the road, we arrived at Mauna Kea and parked at the visitor’s center, which sat at an altitude of 9,200 feet. Now was the time to don the layers. I climbed out of the car to do it, and the wind lashed me. Within an hour’s time, the temperature had plummeted forty degrees. I tugged on a second pair of leggings and a jacket over my t-shirt, two thermal shirts, and sweater. My body felt fine, but my head? A stocking cap would’ve done nicely. But never mind that now. A beach towel would have to suffice.
We drove further on to a lookout point, the day draining from the sky. We hiked up another 800 feet, and there we perched on rocks, ready for the Divine light switch to snap off—and the event to start. Gusts ripped at my towel head scarf. I leaned into Husband’s side. The girls huddled nearby.
We’re ready, I thought. Show us what You’ve got.
*Tune in next week for the fifth (and final—and I mean it this time!) installment of the story. Mahalo!
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.