Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Aloha and Mahalo
Despite it's reputation as a popular vacation destination, Hawai'i is not an easy place for people to love. It is large, and it is sparsely populated. The largest town here, Hilo, has 40,000 or so residents. It rains 200 inches a year in Hilo, and in fact there is a good chance it is raining there as you read this. The most popular tourist destination, Kailua-Kona, has just fewer than 10,000 residents (though you can find there a Hard Rock Cafe and an Outback Steakhouse). The "mega-resorts," with helicopter rides and lush green golf courses and pools that allow guests swim time with dolphins, are located on a desert coastline amidst a stark desert landscape of brown, crusty lava flows. There, perhaps 65 miles from rainy Hilo, less than 10 inches of rain fall in a year. A visitor has to work hard to uncover this island's charms.
That said, let me just say that I love it here.
My father and his wife have purchased a home on the northwest slope of Mauna Kea, which I am obligated to tell you is the tallest mountain in the world when measured from its base (which lies well beneath the ocean) to its summit. Even measured from sea level, it is 13,796 feet tall -- much taller than any mountain in Colorado (as measured from base, which is at least 4,500 feet above sea level, to summit), for instance.
Their home sits on ten acres of lush, green ranch land situated at an elevation of about 3,800 feet. The subdivision is located off a road called the "Saddle Road," which traverses a broad, eerie plain between two massive volcanoes, and which is explicitly forbidden on most rental car contracts. If you want to imagine what it looks like here at their home, think of Ireland -- with eucalyptus trees. The rolling hills here are insanely, intensely, almost impossibly green. Farm animals (horses, cows, goats, and sheep) roam between lots. Game birds -- pheasant, quail, turkeys, and one particularly tasty one called an Erckel's Francoline -- dart about and call to one another with such frequency that it hardly seems sporting to hunt them.
It's winter here, which means it's sort of cool up here on the mountain. It gets down into the forties at night, and tops out at 68 in the daytime (on a warm day). Looking up the slope, the cap of Mauna Kea is covered with a thick layer of snow. Look to the left, see snow. Look to the right, see the Kohala resorts, the beaches, and the Pacific Ocean. When I wander outdoors I can't help but stare slackjawed at the spectacle of the setting. It's breathtaking.
The house is south of Waimea, a cattle ranching town of about 8,000 situated about 7 miles away. Waimea is situated right at the line between the east side of the island, which is lush and tropical, and the west side, which is dry and desert. It is not uncommon for a bank of clouds to neatly divide the town in two -- at one end of the main street it will be pouring rain, and at the other end it will be sunny. Today was one of those days.
When I went outside this morning to walk the dog with my dad, it was exceptionally clear. I could see the waves breaking on the ocean 4,000 feet below and 10 miles away. Up the slope toward Mauna Kea I could see the bright new snow cover that fell overnight. Clouds were forming behind the ridge about a half mile from my dad's house, though, and a stiff breeze developed that was encouraging the cloud to encroach over the ridge and onto some of the homes upslope. It was like a toe testing hot water, with 100-foot tall wisps of vapor firing forward over the top of the hill, then quickly retreating.
I could smell the clouds (they smell sweet, like fresh cut grass, but without even a hint of vegetation), but they never got to where we were. At one point, I could see the house (which was at most a quarter mile away) was completely obscured by the cloud. Then the dog, which had gotten itself under a fence and into an open field, stiffened its posture and leaned forward intensely for a good two minutes. It stood still like that until we could cross the fence and sneak up on the spot to which the dog was pointing. Suddenly, a large game bird -- probably an Erckel -- exploded from the grass and flew away.
When I looked back at the house, the clouds had retreated completely. They stayed on the east side of the island. It was clear again.
It's not just the weather I like about Hawai'i. But that's as good a place as any to start describing what I do like.
I've missed my wife and my son terribly this last week. Still, it will be just a little bit hard to leave this place on Wednesday. In a strange sense, it will feel like leaving home to come home.
Aloha, and mahalo.
That said, let me just say that I love it here.
My father and his wife have purchased a home on the northwest slope of Mauna Kea, which I am obligated to tell you is the tallest mountain in the world when measured from its base (which lies well beneath the ocean) to its summit. Even measured from sea level, it is 13,796 feet tall -- much taller than any mountain in Colorado (as measured from base, which is at least 4,500 feet above sea level, to summit), for instance.
Their home sits on ten acres of lush, green ranch land situated at an elevation of about 3,800 feet. The subdivision is located off a road called the "Saddle Road," which traverses a broad, eerie plain between two massive volcanoes, and which is explicitly forbidden on most rental car contracts. If you want to imagine what it looks like here at their home, think of Ireland -- with eucalyptus trees. The rolling hills here are insanely, intensely, almost impossibly green. Farm animals (horses, cows, goats, and sheep) roam between lots. Game birds -- pheasant, quail, turkeys, and one particularly tasty one called an Erckel's Francoline -- dart about and call to one another with such frequency that it hardly seems sporting to hunt them.
It's winter here, which means it's sort of cool up here on the mountain. It gets down into the forties at night, and tops out at 68 in the daytime (on a warm day). Looking up the slope, the cap of Mauna Kea is covered with a thick layer of snow. Look to the left, see snow. Look to the right, see the Kohala resorts, the beaches, and the Pacific Ocean. When I wander outdoors I can't help but stare slackjawed at the spectacle of the setting. It's breathtaking.
The house is south of Waimea, a cattle ranching town of about 8,000 situated about 7 miles away. Waimea is situated right at the line between the east side of the island, which is lush and tropical, and the west side, which is dry and desert. It is not uncommon for a bank of clouds to neatly divide the town in two -- at one end of the main street it will be pouring rain, and at the other end it will be sunny. Today was one of those days.
When I went outside this morning to walk the dog with my dad, it was exceptionally clear. I could see the waves breaking on the ocean 4,000 feet below and 10 miles away. Up the slope toward Mauna Kea I could see the bright new snow cover that fell overnight. Clouds were forming behind the ridge about a half mile from my dad's house, though, and a stiff breeze developed that was encouraging the cloud to encroach over the ridge and onto some of the homes upslope. It was like a toe testing hot water, with 100-foot tall wisps of vapor firing forward over the top of the hill, then quickly retreating.
I could smell the clouds (they smell sweet, like fresh cut grass, but without even a hint of vegetation), but they never got to where we were. At one point, I could see the house (which was at most a quarter mile away) was completely obscured by the cloud. Then the dog, which had gotten itself under a fence and into an open field, stiffened its posture and leaned forward intensely for a good two minutes. It stood still like that until we could cross the fence and sneak up on the spot to which the dog was pointing. Suddenly, a large game bird -- probably an Erckel -- exploded from the grass and flew away.
When I looked back at the house, the clouds had retreated completely. They stayed on the east side of the island. It was clear again.
It's not just the weather I like about Hawai'i. But that's as good a place as any to start describing what I do like.
I've missed my wife and my son terribly this last week. Still, it will be just a little bit hard to leave this place on Wednesday. In a strange sense, it will feel like leaving home to come home.
Aloha, and mahalo.
posted by Bill Purdy, 2:54 AM