My Bit of Ireland in the Tropics: Dry Stone Walls

My friend Tammy tells people that in Hawaii Evelyn is building Irish stone walls. Well, maybe I am. From the first time I witnessed them, Ireland's stone walls have captivated me, and, as I continue to construct stone walls on my own property, there have been multiple moments of conscious acknowledgement on my part that they may be a wee bit like the the ones in Ireland.

Before writing this post, I decided to Google "Irish stone walls," and here is what I learned about one of Ireland's distinctive landscape features: "It is estimated that the Irish countryside is a patchwork of over 250,000 miles of stone wall. Because the land in many parts of Ireland is naturally very stony, in order to be farmed, it had to be cleared of these stones. Since there was no easy method of getting rid of stones and there was a need to create separate divisions of the land, the obvious thing to do was to build walls."

In addition to a long held affinity for Irish stone walls (beginning with my very first visit in 1993), I relate to a couple points found within the Irish motivation to build stone walls. (1) My property is markedly "stony"; indeed, it is predominantly lava "bye-products" atop of even more lava. (2) There is no easy way to get rid of the stones...and I actually rather like my stones and have wanted to keep them.

During that cursory research of Irish stone walls, I also discovered the term that describes my type of walls--dry stone walls--the traits of dry stone walls, and their reason for being: "At their simplest these walls are easily built. Boulders are piled on top of each other, often with the largest ones at the base and the boulders getting smaller towards the top, though sometimes this is a subtle thing at best and the stones seem much the same size throughout."

Right now I will confess that my modus operandi fits 'this is a subtle thing at best.'

The description continues with these points:

• These walls are built without any tools and with no mortar--the stone is not cut, though it may be broken--whatever stones are available are made to fit as well as possible. [TRUTH, although I do not break stones unless it happens without concerted effort by me.]

• The walls are often quite low and not very stable; they constantly need to be repaired by replacing fallen stones, a task which farmers still undertake regularly. [Yep, not overly stable, and I do reparation sweeps of the yard periodically.]

• However, paradoxically, it is their very instability that makes them good barriers, as livestock who are reared in the area are wary of trying to cross them, having learned from experience that they collapse rather easily, dropping heavy stones (painfully) on them. [Since my only livestock are feral chickens and stray cats, I have little experience with this virtue of dry stone walls.]

• Some of the fields surrounded by these walls have no gates; the wall is simply disassembled to allow entry or exit and then rebuilt. [Although entry/exit is not one of my issues, I have disassembled and reassembled portions of my wall because I continue to uncover more rocks, and my wall-building skills have improved.]

When I first moved into my house, though, the only visible rocks in the yard were several large boulders placed for "landscaping purposes"(think "curb appeal") to aid in the selling of the place. All the rocks that comprise my stone walls still rested, well concealed, under a shallow layer of gravel--also spread across certain areas for "landscaping purposes"--or a rusty colored, coarse-grained dirt. When I attempted to plant a few bushes, I quickly encountered an entrenched population of rocks. Thus began my excavation of the property and the commencement of rock walls, two endeavors that continue to this day.

This photo--meant to document the catchment tank in my backyard--shows the way the backyard looked when I moved in. Can you see any black lava rocks anywhere? You cannot. At that time I did not have a clue about what really lay below the surface of things.

Now here, maybe around nine months in to this home-owning gig, the wall has begun. Actually there were some shelves of lava rock just below that rusty-red surface that were not broken and leveled to create the foundation space for the house. You can see them incorporated into the emerging rock wall on the left and in the back. 

And these photos show my backyard dry stone walls as of this month:

Dry stone walls with orchids and hibiscus.

Indeed, I have not neglected stone wall construction in my front yard either, but I shall unfold that landscaping story on another day in a different post...perhaps one titled "How Lava Rock Dictates Landscape Design."

And for my own purposes, I shall conclude with the final stanzas of a poem by Patrick Galvin titled "The Wall" because, in the end, stone walls for me will ever hold this enduring, mystical aura:

You could measure the light

By the wall.

And

if you stood close to the wall

You could hear the Earth moving

The stars burning

And the sun

Sinking

Slowly

Into a folding sea.

You could measure the dark

By the wall.

My Hawaiian Life, part 3

Lehua bloom on the ohia tree in my front yard.

Wild orchid, one of many that grow wild on the borderlands of my yard.

Torch ginger bloom, located in the vacant lot on one side of my yard.

Gardenia bloom from the bush in my front yard.

Last October while perusing a local newspaper, I stumbled across an article about the Master Gardener Program at the University of Hawaii, Hilo, with an email address for those interested in application information. Well, that described me.

 I knew when I bought my house and moved to Hawaii that I would spend time working outside in the yard. I just never anticipated how much time! I head outside to putter and/or labor for an hour or two, and then four hours have elapsed. I really enjoy that time, too--the exploration, the discovery, the creativity, and the therapy. Combine all that with my smidgen of previous knowledge regarding growing stuff, an even larger portion of growing/gardening things that I have kinda sorta heard mentioned or read about in passing, and a quantum of stuff I know nothing about--especially for the tropics--except that I was certain it existed, and my interest in a Master Gardener Program is manifest!

I wrote an email requesting the application for the 2020 program, completed it and sent it into digital space, and heard nothing until December. At that time I received notification that an interview would be required as part of the continuing application process. I complied and again heard nothing until the second week of January, a week before classes would commence. I had been accepted!

Master Gardener Programs (also know as Extension Master Gardener Programs) are volunteer programs that train individuals in the science and art of gardening. These individuals then pass on the information learned during training as volunteers who advise and educate the public on gardening and horticulture.  In the USA, Master Gardener Programs are affiliated with land-grant universities and their cooperative extension service offices. (The University of Hawaii has programs on Kauai, Oahu, Maui, and two in Hawaii--east and west sides.) Master Gardeners are active in all fifty US states and in eight Canadian provinces.

During that first class in January, I quickly realized that compared to my classmates I ranked low--maybe even the bottom--for previous gardening knowledge/experience and science/horticulture background, but hey, I had desire and motivation in my corner! I also learned that not everybody who applied was accepted, so there's that.

And since then, every Wednesday morning, we Master Gardener interns (the name badge we are requested to wear has "intern" plainly printed underneath our names) attend class for three hours where we are regaled by professors and specialists located in various places across the Hawaiian islands, all affiliated with the University of Hawaii and/or the Hawaii Department of Agriculture or the Hawaii Department of Land and Resource Management, and all flown in for their presentations for us in the flesh--until two weeks ago. Now we all attend via Zoom, and we students view our presenters in their "natural habitat."

Overall, the quality of both presenter and presentation has been top-notch. And who knew you could have a PhD in soil?! (Now that guy was the absolute best presenter; with him elucidating the traits, histories, and potentials of soils, the topic became riveting.)

On two Friday mornings, we had labs. For the one in January, we went into the forest and learned how to identify rapid ohia death. (Ohia trees are endemic to Hawaii and usually the first to grow on new lava flows.) In February, we had a propagation lab in the the Master Gardener greenhouse on campus and each of us created our own starts by seeds, leaf cuttings, and stem cuttings to take home. (UPDATE: Only three of my six stem cuttings are still among the living. Despite my poor showing with my original leaf cuttings, which all propagated absolutely nothing, I have started three new leaf cuttings on my own and so far so good. Who knows what happened to the seeds I started in the lab, but they didn't sprout. To my credit, I have grown cilantro from seeds in the meantime!) We were supposed to have a grafting lab the first Friday in April after our Wednesday lecture, but only the lecture--via Zoom, of course--has transpired at this point.

Every Wednesday since that very first class, I leave each session amazed once more at what new pieces were revealed to the panorama of knowledge I have of this place where I live. Here are some of my favorites:

• Hawaii, the most isolated island chain on the planet, has only native species--endemic or indigenous-- that arrived by wind, wings, or waves; they were either champion swimmers, yacht racers, or balloonists. Hence, Hawaii has a relatively low diversity of native species but the highest rate of edemism, or native and found nowhere else. Hawaii flora is 91% endemic. Indigenous species are native but found other places. The sea turtle is the only native reptile. Forty-five percent of endangered US species are in Hawaii. 

• Alien species arrived with human assistance, some good, some ultimately invasive. "Canoe plants" journeyed over with the native Hawaiians and included coconut, papaya, taro, bananas, and plumeria. Thirty-four flora and fauna were introduced to Hawaii by native Hawaiians. 

• Sorry, but I, myself, am incapable of making the topic of soil riveting, but I now know that the soil I deal with in my yard is derived from lava (certainly no surprise), dominantly composed of coarse materials with minimal clay, is excessively well drained with low water retention and definitely acidic (due to high rainfall), and it has low nutrient supply capacity with only a fine fraction of it rich in organic matter. 

• One must be aware of a plant's required light needs because Hawaii's hours of daylight, to include twilight, range from 11 hours and 16 minutes to 13 hours and 50 minutes. (By the way, Hawaii has standard time all year round, no switching...because what's the point?!) The closer one is to the equator, the more equal the amounts of light and dark become. There are seasonal plants thriving on the USA mainland partially because of the up to 16 hours of summertime daylight, so in Hawaii--like if one wants to grow corn--one needs to find a "short day" variety.

• Although the grafting lab remains on hold, the lectures on pruning and grafting seriously resonated with me and not solely for their use in garden cultivation. As the lectures unfolded, the metaphorical connections of scriptural analogies to pruning and grafting re-emerged in my mind's eye with stunning clarity and emotional intensity. 

Classes conclude later this month, and although I hardly feel very masterful yet in my capacity as a gardener, I have learned to see and understand this land where I live with new vision, greater appreciation, and enhanced awe.

My Hawaiian Life, part 2

My house came into my possession somewhat equipped with basic appliances--stove/oven, refrigerator, and microwave--but I purchased a washer and dryer the first week I actually took up residence because laundromats are not places I prefer to frequent on a regular basis for weeks or months or years. In support of that preference, I have experienced a 4-year stint with laundromats once in my life (and I'm not even talking about the kind in the basement of a college dorm or apartment complex, something I've also done) Although there are some fun stories to accompany that four-year stint, I do consciously choose to have laundry facilities in my home whenever possible.

My dryer is electric--something worth noting here because electricity in Hawaii is expensive, and electric clothes dryers rank high on electricity consumption. Early on in my Hawaiian life, I noticed that many homes had clotheslines of various sorts and manufacture in the yard, in the carport, across the lanai, under the eaves. Last summer my "home improvements" included having a clothes line installed on the back lanai.

When I was a little girl, my mother did not have a dryer. I remember her hanging laundry to dry on a clothesline and that she had strategies and techniques to employ in that endeavor: one item of clothing shared a clothespin with the item next to it to conserve clothespins and line space, and underclothing hid in the interior of the clothesline configuration, concealed from perusal by neighbors and/or the public. Before my family had a dryer, if it arrived on the scene when we still lived in Colorado, I was nine or ten. I recall the clothesline in the backyard of the Colorado home and asking my mom why all the undies hung in a certain section--hence, that explanation! If the first dryer actually happened when we lived in New Jersey, well, then I was eleven. But after the first dryer, we always had both a washer and a dryer in our home. One time when I was in high school and we lived in Utah, I remember folding clothes with my mom and she told me how much easier laundry was with a dryer and that things like towels felt nicer when dried in a dryer than when line-dried, but not bed sheets; line-dried sheets were the best.

I have had clothespins in my possession at least since I was married, and I've carried them with me to maybe ten different places of residence across four countries and three continents, but I have never had a clothesline. Until now. Granted, I have purchased a few more clothespins to add to my collection now that I hang clothes on a line in real life on a regular basis. But until my Hawaiian life, I don't believe I ever envisioned myself routinely doing laundry using a clothesline.

My dryer is still employed, just not as often. Towels, for instance, are truly better when dried in a dryer--softer and fluffier. And occasionally a speedy dry-time becomes essential for some scenario or another. My mom was right, though. Line-dried sheets are the best; they have a certain crispness to them that no dryer can achieve.

I suspect my mom found doing laundry that entailed the use of a clothesline for drying purposes for a family that included multiple children quite labor intensive. Also, when there was a baby, she used cloth diapers as well! I, on the other hand--and there is just me--quite enjoy the hanging out and bringing in of clothes that dry on a line. I like breathing in the scent of freshly washed laundry, designing the line-up for each row, being enveloped in between two parallel planes of strung-up laundry, and reopening memories tucked away from long ago.


NOTE: Depending on the month, my electricity bill is $10-$15 cheaper than it was before I had a clothesline.

My Hawaiian Life, part 1

Two and a half years in, I live pretty much ensconced in a Hawaiian life, and it is good. But a lot has happened since the lava eruption of 2018, and I have decided what better opportunity to attempt to create some record of it than while in social distancing mode during a pandemic.

Although retired from a forty-year career as a teacher, I have a part-time job in a different career field these days--working as a paraprofessional with at-risk youth under the direction of licensed mental health therapists. Granted, my actual working labors are on hold at the moment as I engage in more stringent social distancing. Still, in more normal times I spend one-on-one time with my assigned kids, usually out somewhere in the community or driving around in my car. We talk and we do stuff and we talk. Except when one of your kids is a four-year-old. Instantly, the DOING totally dominates.

Until last fall, all of my kids have been teens or pre-teens except for a brief stint with a seven-year-old. And then this therapist approached me with the chance to work with the four-year-old, and the four-year-old was still three!

First of all, after serious toil, sweat, and almost tears (until YouTube and my car owner's manual saved the day), this happened--

something I had come to believe I would be omitting from my life experiences.

And then, this happened:

There was a three-year-old in my life for two hours twice a week!

Now he's four, and I have become well acquainted with the playgrounds of at least eight parks situated from Hilo to Mt. View to Pahoa--in addition to their restroom facilities, as adequate or inadequate they may be. I swing on swings again...when I'm not pushing said four-year-old on his swing so he can "fly." Occasionally, I even slide down the slide at his behest.

I now accept full blame for introducing another human being to the pleasurable hilarity of popping bubble wrap with fingers and/or by walking or jumping on it. I have returned to a zoo--a place with which I have a conflicted relationship since having had opportunities to view so many of those same animals in their natural habitat--because a kid with an intense playground obsession will forsake it all (cool zoo playground included) to lead me to each to new animal, to illuminate with steady chatter the details of teeth or eyes or color or sound, showing me again how to see with new vision the splendor and wonder of the world. I have learned to look for sharks at grates over street drains, although I still refrain from feeding them grass and I only listen to the four-year-old regale us all with the "Baby Shark" song. I construct castles again with building blocks, glory in building a tower, and screech-laugh at the destruction of a collapse. I have discerned that for a four-year-old, one with impulse control issues who is rarely allowed into the interior of many commercial establishments, a store can be a fantasy realm where even the discovery of shoes or red juice or blue juice or bread or a ball is a magical thing.

And I am humbled at his generosity and unexpected concern for me: I bring him snacks, and he is ever willing to share. One time I gave him a small package of Oreos, which he opened (with a little help from me, but he was in charge!) and then gave me one cookie for every one he ate himself. When he has multi-colored Gold Fish for a snack, we now play a game where we identify how many and what color(s) I receive. With colors, he is spot-on; with numbers greater than three, not so much. Numbers beyond three generally acquire the label "lots." And then there's the umbrella, something you may have already surmised holds great fascination for him. I carry two in my car because, you know, I live in a rainy land. When he enters my car, he inquires about HIS umbrella. He always wants to take it with him to the playground or wherever we may disembark. but I insist that it has to be raining. One time at the zoo, the day was misty, moisty, and I let him bring HIS umbrella, but I did not carry the second one. Eventually, when it began to rain with more intent, he wanted to protect me, too, with his umbrella. Of course, he also wanted to hold the umbrella, so you can imagine how well that worked. Still, I crouch-walked with him under that umbrella for several stretches, and I bet we looked cute!

Little kids, though, are not inhibited by social norms. Boogers and bathroom exploits, particularly the preponderance of toiletting explanations regarding "shi-shi" and "doodoo," can give one pause, especially when one holds said kid's hand quite frequently. Nevertheless, I am missing my four-year-old this week. Living life with the joie de vivre of a four-year-old is surely a worthy aspiration.

Volcano in Suburbia

Ever since childhood, where I witnessed more than once that ubiquitous grade-school mock-up of a volcano that explodes with a mix of baking soda and vinegar and read with riveted focus multiple apocalyptic accounts of Pompeii’s destruction, volcanoes have piqued my curiosity, appealed to my sense of wonder, and frightened me utterly. Yet now I live on an island created by volcanoes and still operating in volcanic creation mode. In fact, the volcanic vent sponsoring the current eruption of Kilauea lava is located maybe ten miles or so from my house. 

Here I am, the one suppressing constant willies during any visit with friends or family to Volcanoes National Park although I remain fascinated with all the science, history, and lore presented and observed while there. [At present the park is closed—since mid-May actually—and when it reopens, many of the landmarks and details recorded in my memory from previous visits will be radically changed or gone altogether.] Here I am, the one who cherishes every mile of distance between my abode and the park: maybe 20-25 of them “as the crow flies.” And here I am, the one who felt absolutely no disappointment when my realtor informed me that my mortgage company would not finance a home in lava zones 1 or 2.

Nevertheless, rather early Monday morning, April 30, I received a phone call from a church member notifying me that some people might be required to evacuate because Kilauea had shifted into imminent eruption mode and suggested that I review my “evacuation kit.” (A committee of church members had been assigned to contact as many church members as possible that morning.) At this point, volcano precautionary measures had not yet arrived at news-worthy status for radio and TV; that happened on Tuesday.

On Tuesday, May 2, the lava lake in the crater of Kilauea began to drop, and driving home from Hilo on Wednesday, May 3, I saw this plume rising on the horizon. 

Cracks appeared on residential streets and properties of the lower Puna District, and by May 3 some of those had grown into fissures that would leak and or spew lava.

Thursday morning, May 4, while working in my yard—and sitting on a section of very volcanic rock—I heard and felt a significant earthquake:  one that ranked as a 5.4, I learned later. But that was only a prelude for what awaited us. Just after noon, a much larger earthquake struck:  6.9 this time. Having spent seven years living in Japan, I became quite familiar with the rattle and shakes of earthquakes, some of them providing quite a jolt or pitch and sway. This one here in Hawaii Island on May 4 takes the top spot for all of it: strength, length, rattle, shake, skew, and breakage. I actually left the house before it finished. All pictures on the wall required straightening, and three pictures resting on shelves and against the wall fell over, breaking the glass on one when it took a second spill to the floor. Outside I have a 10,000 gallon catchment tank, and—remember, I had escaped my house before the earthquake finally ended—I suddenly realized it had begun making this sporadic, but rather rhythmic, sloshing sound. With closer examination, I saw water spill over the top on one side, followed by the sound of rolling water before then spilling over the opposite side, and repeat again. The pattern reminded me of my bathwater when I was a kid and sliding from one end of the tub to the other “to make waves.” 

For the first ten days or so after opening, the fissures emitted noise that I could hear from my house. At night I would lie in bed listening to what sounded like distant thunder but from a storm stalled; it never advanced or retreated. The first night of that eerie fissure noise, I didn’t sleep well, creating all manner of images of advancing lava. I even reworked and augmented my collection of evacuation stuff the next day because the sounds unsettled me so. But then I grew accustomed to the dissonant music and didn't even notice exactly when it went silent.

An erupting volcano in the neighborhood prompts all kinds of new behaviors in addition to that first action of formulating evacuation plans: What about ash? What about bad air? What about acid rain? What about lava…well okay, for lava danger—because lava wins any sort of confrontation—you evacuate…always…and that is something a shield volcano (all volcanoes on-island are shield volcanoes) generally allows time for if one is paying any sort of attention to it. But those other possibilities that arise with an erupting volcano? I read and I listened and I attempted several different precautionary measures, some more successfully than others. A friend told me that water in catchment systems on this island with an active volcano is always a bit on the acidic side, something that can be mitigated to a certain extent by adding baking soda to it. My reading confirmed that statement, and following some amount guidelines I learned from my reading, I dumped into my catchment tank the contents of the two boxes of baking soda on hand, figuring I would buy more on my next foray into town for groceries and other supplies. I quickly discovered, though, that in Hilo and environs there was no baking soda available for purchase; the shelf space for baking soda—in food or cleaning aisles of multiple establishments—remained empty for at least the next two weeks. The other item that sold out quickly during this time was tarps big enough to cover a catchment tank—employed to prevent ash contamination of household water should an ash event occur. I shall not enumerate here my trials and travails with tarps, to include the placement of tarps over my catchment tank…considering my lack of height and my dogged desire not to be dependent if at all possible…and there was more than one placement attempt in this saga because I had enormous difficulty acquiring appropriately sized tarps and dabbled in various jerry-rigging ventures. It was not pretty! I ultimately abandoned the tarp experiment several weeks later because, due to the amount of rain we receive on the windward side of the island, a tarp over the tank became more of a liability than benefit. Due to the inordinate weight of puddled rainwater, removing the tarp proved to be an ugly endeavor as well—personal height and independent streak withstanding!

Fissure noise surrendered to expansive quantities of lava spewed furiously and continuously from mostly fissure number eight, and the lava glow lit a portion of the night sky in crimson and vermillion—a stunning spectacle for its mesmerizing beauty combined with its daunting creation story.

 Pahoa Town by day.

Pahoa Town by night with the lava glow.

Lava glow from my street.

Fissure eight, just like over twenty other fissures in Kilauea’s rift zone, opened up on a level expanse of suburbia in early May. Soon it became Kilauea’s preferred lava exit point in this eruption. As the lava continued to spew, it created a cone that rose over 180 feet tall and sourced a snaking lava river that eventually found the ocean over eight miles away. Almost ten square miles of lower Puna is covered by this lava flow now, to include over 700 homes, agricultural land, lush rain forest, and shoreline tide pools. The lava flow has also added at least a mile of new land to the island.

The first week of July with my friend Camille I had the chance to take a helicopter tour of the eruption area. It was an amazing experience—beautiful but also awesomely humbling. These are photos taken during that tour:

As of Tuesday, July 31, the current Kilauea eruption has lasted longer than any previously recorded ones. Today, though, Fissure 8 has noticeably stilled its lava production. Has Kilauea completed her endeavor or is she taking a small break? No one yet knows.

Fissure 8, Sunday, August 5, 2018

APPENDIX: Volcano Vocabulary

Over these last weeks I’ve also increased my knowledge of the language of volcanoes. Before this eruption I had mastered the difference between pahoehoe lava and a’a lava: Pahoehoe lava has a smooth or “ropy” surface while a’a consists of free chunks of very angular pieces of lava. Pahoehoe lava designs contour line designs as it cools and a’a looks totally like something you would cross barefoot absolutely howling “ah-ah, ah-ah!” 

Now, though, my vocabulary has expanded. Clinkering describes the sound “clinker” lava—a type of a’a lava, often brittle and breakable—produces when it shatters. Pele’s hair refers to the fine threads of volcanic glass formed when a spray of lava droplets cools rapidly in the air. Abrasive, it can cause irritation to skin and eyes. It can also cut you. Pele’s tears, jet black and often found on one end of a strand of Pele’s hair, are small pieces of solidified lava formed when airborne particles  fuse into tearlike drops of volcanic glass. And then there is the lava bomb—a mass of molten rock larger than 2.5 inches in diameter, formed when ejected viscous fragments of lava cool into solid fragments before they reach the ground. I would be remiss not to include these atmospheric terms, too: Vog is volcanic smog—sulfur dioxide as well as other gases and particles emitted into the atmosphere by an erupting volcano. Laze, formed when lava enters the ocean and triggers a series of chemical reactions, is the steam cloud that rises above the entry area. Comprised of hydrochloric acid, other gases, and volcanic glass particles, it is hazardous.

Molokai

I think my first awareness of the Hawaiian island of Molokai, the one used to locate a leper colony, came from my mother. She taught school on the island of Kauai in the early 1950s, and that colony, situated on the isolated Kalaupapa Peninsula from 1866-1969, was still in existence. My childhood memories are layered with songs and hula and stories and muumuus and leis from my mother's experiences in Hawaii. Molokai never headlined the Hawaiian moments she shared with her children, but I know it showed up a few times--maybe as an extension to a discussion of leprosy and lepers, one generated in reference to a scripture story we were reading as a family.

As an adult, my friend Tammy reconnected me to Molokai when she told me the story of Father Damien. On Netflix I found the 1999 movie,  Molokai: The Story of Father Damien, based on Damien's experiences in Molokai.  I watched it,  transfixed--probably more for story than for cinema greatness, but the story moves me. You can watch the movie yourself, now on YouTube in its entirety, right here. (I know because I recently watched the movie again, this time on YouTube!)

When Tammy and I visited Hawaii around five years ago, we considered a quick jaunt to Molokai from Maui but couldn't make the side trip work with the rest of our vacation schedule. When I moved to Hawaii, a visit to the island of Molokai remained high on the list in my mind of places to go. Finally last month--March--my friend Camille and I met in Honolulu and took the quick flight to Molokai--ascend, down a quick drink, descend--on a small turbo prop that shuddered and bounced in the wind on its descent!

Molokai, Hawaii's fifth largest island, is 38 miles long and 10 miles across at its widest. With a little over 7,000 residents, many of them native Hawaiians, it has a rural vibe and a more traditional Hawaiian sensibility. 

Once we arrived at the Molokai Airport just after the noon hour on a Friday, we picked up a rental car and lunched at a hamburger joint before heading to our vacation rental. Then, with drive-by reconnaissance of much of the island and a few stops at various beaches--all pretty and mostly bereft of other humans--we whiled away the afternoon. 

This final photo was taken from the balcony of our vacation rental.

Although we had changed into our swimsuits in preparation for some beach time, the gusty day proved to be a bit chilly for any water play. We stocked up on breakfast items in Kuanakakai--the largest town, the hub of civilization on the island--ate dinner at Paddler's Restaurant and Bar, and returned to our vacation rental to prepare for Saturday's adventure: a mule ride down and up the highest sea cliffs in the world and a tour of the former leper colony in Kalaupapa.

Kalaupapa is isolated--maybe its foremost characteristic and the one that led to its designation in 1866 as the site for a leper colony. Virtually barricaded from the rest of the island by the highest sea cliffs in the world, the sea became its main access, but an access that could be dictated by those with the power and the wealth to accomplish it...or not. A steep, winding path, a little over three miles long, does exist on a portion of the expanse of sea cliffs, a path that can be hiked or done riding a mule. The hike is ranked as 4 out of 5 in difficulty, with 5 as the greatest amount of difficulty. Camille and I opted for the mule ride. 



(Kalaupapa now has a tiny airport, too, so tourists can also arrive via air; tourists--and the number per day is limited--arrive on foot, on mule, or by plane. Nowadays a barge carries the "big" supplies to Kalaupapa once or twice a year; otherwise, supplies come via small plane or else by the physical effort of human or beast.)

With a 7:45am check-in for the mule ride, Camille and I arrived early on Saturday morning. Our two muleskinner guides matched the six tourists (yep, that's all because two mules were on loan to a movie set, so really the biggest number of tourists possible per day on the mule ride could be eight) with their mules and briefed them on mule-riding protocol. We did practice how to "control" our mules a bit before commencing the trek.

A girl and her cat: This is Nick, a kitten belonging to one of the muleskinner guides.

A girl and her mule, Deuce.

 Camille and one of our guides.

The trek down was difficult, often uncomfortable on the body, stressful at moments, and absolutely amazing. Deuce liked to eat, and the two of us ultimately reached a viable working relationship--how to balance a time to chew and a time to move forward, especially once I realized which of the other mules provoked Deuce's competitive nature. The trek back up was much easier and faster, too! These next photos are from the trek itself, most of them from the ascent because taking pictures becomes so much easier when one doesn't have to constantly engage preventative measures to avoid a tumble over the head of one's mule.

The tour of the former leper colony and the current community on Kalaupapa was both fascinating and moving. Our guide had a personal connection to the community and a spiritual one, too, I think. In fact, he and his brother show up briefly in that 1999 movie. (The movie actually incorporated many members from the Kalaupapa community.) Funny and a great storyteller, his emotions hovered on the surface of all he shared and touched the hearts of his listeners.

These photos are from the tour of the former leper colony and the current Kalaupapa community.

Father Damien's church.

Father Damien's grave in the churchyard.

 Many of the lepers were buried in unmarked graves.

 The Kalaupapa Airport.

 The Kalaupapa Port and looking toward the sea cliffs.

The sea cliffs from Kalaupapa. The trail we took on the mules winds through these.

Saturday evening, after showers and dinner, Camille and I decided to participate in Molokai's hot bread run. Yeah, that's a major thing in the Molokai nightlife scene! On an island where only two or three establishments have liquor licenses, legend has it that Kanemitsu's began as a bar and solved its problem of drunk patrons hanging around all night by serving hot bread to soak up all the ingested alcohol. The bar eventually evolved into Kanemitsu Bakery, and now around 8:00 most nights the bakery sells hot bread with toppings to locals and tourists in-the-know. However, the night-time hot bread is not purchased inside the bakery per se. Instead, you wander down this dark alley at the side of the bakery--definitely seedy in aura and portending great danger...except this is Molokai!--until you find this:

In case you can't read it, there is a sign that says "Hot Bread" at the opening of this corridor.

At the back of the corridor is a window where you place orders and pay up.

The bread is served hot, fresh from the oven, as an entire loaf sliced horizontally through the middle and slathered with desired topping or a combination thereof: butter, cream cheese, cinnamon, blueberry jam, and strawberry jam.

Assembly line style preparation of sorts.

Camille and I ordered one with butter and cinnamon--warm, sweet, and a total carb overload! We didn't even consume half the loaf but concluded that if ever there were a second Molokai hot bread run in our lives, we would order one with butter, cinnamon, and cream cheese!

Sunday, before our afternoon departure for Honolulu, we undertook a bit more drive-by exploration of the island. On a deserted highway with a sea-facing approach we observed two humpback whales frolicking off-shore--a splendid image for memories of an ending.