Monday, March 1, 2010

5 Observations on Tsunami Day on Maui

Tsunami day began with an ominous 3 a.m. warning and ended in a hot anti-climactic afternoon. I spent the non-occurent disaster in the van at the evac site by the Kapalua airport.


1) Cops: Last time I go to a government evac site. Cops wouldn't let anyone leave and were particularly dickish, even by the bigotted disposition typical of Maui Police. I'll take the jungle over martial law any day.

2) Shade: tarps, blankets, sleeping pads and a hammock transformed the van into a tent city, making the afternoon sun much more bearable. By mid morning, the unsheltered airport and the unprepared tourists (the vast majority of evacuees) were cooking. One man had a heart attack but was quickly revived by the paramedics present.

3) Food and Water: We filled all the water containers we could before we left. I also threw in the all the canned food (tuna & refried beans) and a jar of peanut butter before we left Lahaina. Not the best eating but it made the day much more bearable.

4) Communication: All day we had the van radio tuned to a Honolulu Station. Listening to the hosts' hours of bullshit for the few nuggets of real news updates was an exercise in frustration. The web browser on my cell phone helped get real facts.

5) Mainlanders didn't help by making panicked phone calls. While I didn't receive any of these myself, friends getting hounded by freaked friends and relatives on the mainland only added to the stress. This was especially true of those who didn't understand how a tsunami works or the actual dangers one poses. 50 ft of elevation is a safe distance and the waves were over 7 hours away after we received the initial warning so the acual danger was quite small. As usual, educating yourself before impulsively acting is a much better course of action.



Ultimately, the tsunami on Maui was a bust. Hearts out to the people of Chile who experienced the real tragedy.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Chameleon!

Last week a friend purchased a '78 Chevy Van and we found this chameleon living inside it.


Native to Tanzania, Jackson's Chameleons were introduced to Hawaii during the 1970's as exotic pets. Our chameleon changed color from dark green to light green when we brought it into the sunlight, then ran off to crawl inside another friend's truck.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Climbing the Knob

The farther north we drive along Maui's western coastline, the sparser the hotels and resorts become. Soon they are replaced by dense coastal foliage. Eventually even the highway morphs into a narrow one lane road snaking through the hills and cliffs. We stop to buy banana bread and sliced pineapple from locals along the roadside. Soon after we arrive at the Knob. Part hill, part cliff, it rises almost vertically up from the coastline, projecting out into the ocean where ferocious breakers crash at its base.

I am clad in only my slippers, t-shirt, and board shorts. I remember when I initially arrived on Maui, my backpack was filled with gear – knife, binoculars, water bottle, etc. Today I carry no backpack. I am learning the freedom of embracing the unknown with only personal strength. I stand at the base of the Knob with no boots, long pants, or gloves, about to put my new outlook to the test.


We walk through tall grass. There is no trail. The ascent begins and we scramble through brush and loose dirt. My five friends are spread below me. I take the lead and find the goat paths that crisscross the hillside.

I come to a cliff face of volcanic boulders. Some I can climb around, others I must climb up. With feet and hands, I pick my way upwards. The rock is solid, laced with igneous bubbles that provide good grips. The loose dirt amongst the rock is treacherous. A misstep sends reddish Earth and stones cascading down the hillside. I pick my path carefully.

I feel the rush of climbing, of looking down at the long fall. I feel the Zen that climbing imparts. I am alive and my reality becomes only the now, hanging onto the rock, breathing, moving to the next hold. My feet slip but I dig in through the flimsy rubber soles of my slippers. My calloused fingers find nooks to grip.


In this manner I pick my way up the slope till eventually it levels off. Now I walk through chest high grass like a soldier in Vietnam. I stand at the crest but realize this is not the end. On the far side of the Knob is another crest, a precipice protruding farther out into the ocean. Here the path bottlenecks to an arm span, with cliffs plummeting down on both sides. Obstructing the way is one more rock wall to climb.

This rock wall hangs over the ocean. To climb it, I must hang over the ocean too. I look down. Hundreds of feet below me the breakers crash against the cliff, enormous in size but diminutive in distance. Here is the last challenge of the Knob. I touch the rock. The footholds and handholds are not as abundant as on the other side. This rock is more weathered, smoother, of different consistency. Cautiously, I raise myself up it, my slippers digging in and my fingers straining for crevices.

My lanky limbs always prove their worth when it comes to climbing. I soon stand on this final crest and my friends filter in over the next minutes. We look out across the ocean before us. Humpback whales are breaching, four at a time. Their flukes crash against the water. They wave at us with their pectoral fins. We wave back. The splashes they make are enormous, even from here. Most of the humpbacks in the world are somewhere below us, gathering in the Hawaiian Islands for the winter. We think of ancient times, of the Hawaiians who stood on this spot, scanning the blue horizon.


Behind us shadows creep along the hills which are aglow in the sinking afternoon sun. Nightfall is coming. The return trip is challenging, but easier. Back in the cars, we drive in darkness to Lahaina. My feet are scratched and dirty, my shins and ankles scraped, but I am content. It will be some time before my pack bursts with gear again.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

The Road to Hana pt. 3: Hiking Pipiwai Trail


In the Kipahulu area of Haleakalā National Park, Pipiwai Trail climbs 650 ft. over 2 miles through bamboo forests to Waimoku Falls. Hiking through a bamboo forest is like hiking through a fantasy landscape. On parts of the trail, the pungent aroma of fermenting berries is overwhelming. Other parts of the trail drop 100's of feet into a steep ravine mere yards away, concealed by the dense undergrowth. Bamboo, called 'Ohe by the native Hawaiians, was reportedly one of the original plants brought by canoe when Polynesians first settled the Hawaiian islands. Now thick bamboo forests cover much of the Hawaiian geography.


At the end of the trail Waimoku Falls cascades 400 ft. During heavy rainfall, the falls purportedly swells to large proportions, but since we visited during a dry spell, the pool at the base of the falls was little more than ankle deep. While Waimoku is an impressive site nonetheless, it's also overrun with polo-shirt wearing tourists.


A little exploring, however reveals a hidden, unnamed waterfall nearby. Hiking the ravine to this waterfall is reminiscent of entering Jurassic Park (which was partially filmed on Kaua'i). At the falls, a deep pool fills the base. We swam behind the waterfall and enjoyed a nice, cool, Maui Brewing Company CoCoNut Porter.

Monday, January 11, 2010

The Road to Hana pt. 2: Cliff Jumping

It's not for everyone. Leaping over a precipice, freefalling for several seconds, then crashing deep into the water. If cliff jumping is your thing, however, there's no shortage of places to jump off of in east Maui.

Red Sand Cove
As Adam swam to shore after his leap, the Hawaiian Monk Seal which had been resting on the beach chose that same moment to swim back to sea, unbeknownst to him at the time. They passed within 10 ft. of each other. Waimoku Falls
Scott took a 50 ft. plunge into a pool on the way up to the waterfall.


Venus Pool
The 20 ft. jump from the island was nothing after the initial 40 ft. jump into the pool. Charlie dove in with his fractured scaphoid. Notice the orange cast.




The world record for cliff jumping is 172 ft. The maximum safe distance is about 100 ft. As they say, the only way to go is up.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

The Road to Hana pt. 1: Red Sand Cove


42 miles of narrow road wind through the cliffs, waterfalls, and bamboo forests along Maui's northern coastline to Hana. On the remote east side of the island where the slopes of Haleakalā meet the ocean, the crowds are sparser and the area wilder. For Maui denizens, making the trek is a pilgrimage, a rite of passage. We loaded up the Legend with camping gear and set off to explore.

Hana itself is a small town with fewer than 1,000 people. The tourists have a presence, but nonetheless the hotel exists alongside the local cattle ranches. A short walk from the town, Red Sand Cove is walled off by steep cliffs and the ocean, and feels solitary despite the proximity. True to the name, the sand is a deep volcanic crimson.


When we arrived, a 7 ft. Hawaiian Monk Seal was resting on the beach. Called ʻIlio-holo-i-ka-uaua ("dog that runs in rough seas") by the locals, the animal is critically endangered, with about 1,200 left in the world and only about 150 on the Hawaiian islands. The seal ignored us and after an hour disappeared into the water.


Maui may be overrun with vacationers, honeymooners, cruise ship shoregoers, and freelance writers, but there are still plenty of places off the beaten path to uncover.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Snorkeling with the Honu

Hawaiian green sea turtles, or honu as they are called by the locals, abound in the reefs around Maui. The turtles are massive, up to five feet long, and use Maui's beaches as nesting grounds. Unfortunately, due to habitat destruction, commercial fishing nets, and poaching, honu are also on the endangered species list. Yesterday, Ryan and I geared up for a snorkelling adventure to see if we could encounter a honu up close in the water.

Since we live a block away from the ocean, we settle on Lahaina harbor as the site. Breathing through a snorkel is a weird, initially unsettling sensation. To snorkel, you must breathe deeply and exclusively through the mouth keeping your head under water, eerily reminiscent of drowning. Quickly though the sensation wears off and the surreality of being a visitor in a marine environment kicks in.


View Larger Map

Perhaps 5 minutes out, we encounter a young turtle that quickly darts off before we get a good look. A good sign though that turtles are around. We swim on towards the wharf and the water becomes murky. Ryan advises me to kick discreetly so as not to attract sharks. My mind rewinds to an Aussie girl I once met with a Hawaiian shark bite on her hand.

The redish-yellow choral below varies from an arm's reach away to dropping 20 feet. It covers the ocean floor like an alien organism. Tropical fish dart in and out of the reef in small schools. Massive black urchins rest in crevasses. Moray eels lurk here as well.

Eventually we arrive at the wharf. Built in the early 20th century, this dilapidated structure is now mostly collapsed. Occasionally the boys and I navigate the fence and fish off the end of it, cautiously walking along the only part still standing, cart tracks suspended by cement and rebar. Now, looking up at the wharf from the water, I have come full circle.




Ryan and I discover that the end of the current wharf is far from the end of the original structure. Indeed, the submerged stones and pillars continue onwards covered in growing coral.

The reef is falling far below us now. Ryan points. I squint and see a bulky form. It draws nearer - a massive honu, gliding effortlessly through the water. It approaches us, batting its leathery black and yellow paddle-like arms.

The honu surfaces. It scrutinizes me for a moment with dark, antediluvian eyes, then opens its beak and inhales with a watery reptilian squawk, then vanishes in the depths.

The journey back is arduous. As we approach the shoreline, low tide is rolling in, exposing the reef. We navigate sharp coral as waves crash. I cut my finger on one. Urchins abound. I think of several people I know with urchin spines embedded in their skin. We swim back out to look for an easier landing. Eventually we find a break in the labyrinth, cut through, and cumbersomely lumber up the rocks. Two drunk bums greet us:

"See any mermaids?" one asks.

"Oh yeah, hundreds," I reply.

"You two are hairy bastards like me," exclaims the second bum.

"We're from the mountains," explains Ryan.