jumpingfish

The fog was so thick as we climbed up Saddle Road that at times we could barely see the stripes on the side. It blew across the grassland and into woodsy thickets hidden in the gloaming.

We drove slowly up the slopes following the route between the island’s two massive volcanos. When we came to the state park, the clouds were lifting, giving us a better view of the land, but the flanks of Mauna Kea were still draped in mist.

There was green here. The slopes were green. Green grass was growing on the ground. And trees and shrubs. But there were periodic reminders that this was not always a pastoral place. The grasslands were punctuated by black flows of cooled lava. In places the land was scraped clear by it with scraggy shrubs poking up here and there and maybe a lone surviving tree standing on high ground in the distance.

We parked the Jeep and walked a bit. Then we got back in and tested the four wheel drive for the first time, almost getting stuck between 4L and 4H in a low area. And then we resumed our climb up Saddle Road.

Let’s continue the Hawaii story, now running on perilously close to a year in the telling!…

1. Driving By The Airport

From satellite you can see it. A black fan of lava running down the slopes of the island into the sea. Kekaha State Park is on its northern edge. Kona Airport is on the south. And Queen Ka‘ahumanu highway runs thru it. 

As far as we could see up the slope to our right and as far as we could see toward the ocean to our left, there was nothing but black wasteland. And wasteland does not do it justice. This was a land of piled up, pitch black lava. Great dumptruck loads of it, it seemed. One after another, as if some great expanse of highway somewhere had been ground up and dumped in this place for disposal.

Certainly mother nature would have no cause to create something like this. Piles of sharp black stuff as far as the eye could see. But look at it from a satellite view, and there’s no denying it. Dump trucks were not involved. Mother nature did indeed create this vast, sharp, forbidding, black, desolate, bleak, withered, pile-after-pile of a place.

2. On The Beach

The fair and industrious Trudy had a map in her lap.

“Here it is,” she said after we’d been driving a while, pointing to a road that ran toward the ocean. “This must be it. Turn here.”

We drove along yet more barren land, although the black had given way to brown. And we came to a dirt lot where other cars were parked.

An obvious path led toward to the shore. Out of the sun. Past a place drinking fountain where we stopped for a moment. Into a woods that sprang up out of nowhere. With soft ground under our feet.

There was a breeze blowing in the tres. There was a blue lagoon with rolling surf washing up on a sandy shore. Just yards from that unforgiving wasteland, we had entered a gentle world of greens and blues.

We walked in the shade along the beach looking for a sign of the petroglyphs. And not finding them, we sat for a while and watched the waves washing up on the shore. And then Trudy looked at her watch and wondered aloud if we needed to keep going, because we had a long drive ahead.

3. Climbing Into The Saddle

Today was Kona. Tonite would be Volcano on the other side of the island. Our route would take us along Saddle Road, which the guide book had cautioned us about but the Jeep rental guy had encouraged us to take. This is the road that cuts across the island between the peaks of the two volcanos. We didn’t know what to expect, so we left behind the blues and greens of the bay and returned to the Jeep.

Lunch was in Waimea, a funny little sandwich shop that we were grateful for. In the middle of town, we turned right and drove across highlands and eventually came to our objective: a two-lane asphalt strip that disappeared into the distance.

The harsh lava wastes were behind us. The beaches and breezes were behind us. Here clouds descended down upon us and surrounded us in a thick fog. Wisps of it drifted across the chaparral. As our Jeep began the gradual climb, the fog got thicker. 

Somewhere out there off to our left was Mauna Kea. And somewhere out there off to our right was Mauna Loa. We could see neither. At times, we could barely see the telephone poles beside the road.

Although the race the day before conspired to minimize the potential of our free breakfast vouchers, today there was no such constraint. Oh no. Today we could take leisurely showers and then head downstairs to enjoy the eggs and bacon and oatmeal and bagels and pancakes and fruit and coffee to our hearts’ content.

So we sat there enjoying breakfast to our hearts’ content, ignoring the monsters on the wall.

On the far side of the dining room, there was an indoor garden with various low-growing tropical plants and two tall Palm trees (this was El Tropicano, after all) growing up into a skylight that projected beyond the ceiling into an outdoor swimming area on the second floor.

And there were six guys standing around.

No. These guys were definitely not standing around. The were digging with shovels and swinging picks and pounding the ground with a rockbar. Not standing around.

What are those guys doing?

We watched them as they labored mightily, digging a circular trench around each Palm tree.

They’re taking out the trees.

We had seen the trees thru the skylight a few minutes before from upstairs. Their foliage was pressing against the glass. They had outgrown their home. And these guys were digging them out. As it happened, they were transplanting them. The gardener explained that there were two large planters upstairs beside the pool, and they were going to move the Palm trees up there.

You’re going to take them upstairs?

Yes, Their plan was to dig them out and take them up the sweeping spiral staircase that led from the lobby to the second floor pool. But there was a lot of hard, backbreaking work to be done before they got to that point. And we had more of San Antonio to see. So we had to leave the action behind.

Later that day, we returned to the hotel. We had some vouchers for coffee and snacks, so we were stocking up before we started our drive home. As the fair and industrious Trudy surveyed the snacks, I turned to look at the planter where the men had been working that morning. The Palms were gone; a pile of dirt was sitting on a tarp beside where they used to stand; and a woman was sweeping the staircase.

I turned to the barrista behind the counter and asked about the Palm tree procession. One after the other, the barrista said, the six men carried each Palm tree up the spiral stairs.

“I hate to see them do that.”

It wasn’t clear what the barrista meant.

“I mean, are you kidding me? Six of them carrying a tree up the stairs?”

It wasn’t clear what the barrista meant.

“I’m Mexican, too,” the barrista said. “Those six guys can do better than that.”

Probably true. But given the care of their digging and picking, I don’t think the trees could have asked for any better.

At 6:00am sharp, Trudy’s phone starts beeping. She hops out of bed and gets in the shower and goes down to the lobby to get some coffee while her laggard husband sleeps in. The race, he figures, doesn’t start until 8:20, so there’s no rush.

She comes back up as he’s tying his shoes. They pin on their running numbers and gather their jackets and gloves and go downstairs to the breakfast bar for eggs and bacon and fruit and pancakes. The race, they figure, doesn’t start until 8:20, so why not?

They drive the short distance to the Alamodome where they pay the dime and park in the vast parking lot beside the starting line where the 1,500 or so runners are assembling. It was in the 40s last night, but the sun’s coming up, and they toss their jackets back into the car. The race doesn’t start until 8:20, and by that time it’ll be even warmer.

And then 8:20 comes.

From their place near the end of the line, they start moving to the starting line. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day with a clear blue sky. And the weather’s perfect for a 10K run.

Trudy leads the way. David shuffles along. Although he gets speedy a few times, he comes to his senses in each case and returns to his plodding pace. 

It’s an out-and-back course, and almost as soon as they start out, half-marathon runners pass them going back the other way. And then there are more of them. And then there are 10K runners, too. And then there’s the bridge over the railroad tracks. And then there’s the rock-n-roll girl-band cranking loud tunes. And then the turn-around. And before you know it, there’s the band again and then the starting line in the distance.

David picks up the pace. Trudy whispers words of caution. And of course, it turns out that that’s not where the finish line is. So by the time they enter the Alamodome, Mr. Speedy is back to his reliable, plodding pace, again.

Now they’re running out onto the track. Music is blaring from loud speakers, echoing off the ceiling far above them. They round the turn. And they’re in the final straightaway, side-by-side. The announcer calls out their names. And as they cross the finish line, hand-in-hand (corny yes, but true), they hold their hands up and an image of them in their red-orange jerseys appears on the jumbotron. And then there are snacks: apples and bananas and bagels and peanut butter cookies. And there’s a band on stage playing KC and the Sunshine Band.

What a good way to start Trudy’s birthday day. And since the race started at 8:20, there’s still so much day left.

On our way out of Kailua-Kona, we drove back along Queen Ka‘ahumanu Highway past the airport to … Target. Yes, Target. We needed a new suitcase to carry some of our new-found treasures. Sadly Target had none. (How is that possible?)

So our next destination was … CostCo. Yes, CostCo. Certainly they would have a suitcase, and sure enough they did. We wheeled it into the parking lot and threw it into the back of the Jeep, assured that we’d have more space to take stuff home.

And our third stop was Aloha Woods. Yes, Aloha Woods.

On our way to CostCo, at an intersection in the middle of an industrial park, I looked down a side street and saw Aloha Woods in the distance. This was the place that Sam the Ukulele man said would be a good place to stop for Koa wood. “It’s in an industrial park just past the airport,” he said, leading us to write off stopping there, since who drives to an industrial park on their vacation in Hawaii?

Yet here we were, and there it was.

From the outside Aloha Woods resembled a plumbing supply store. Or a paint store. But inside there was furniture of the likes of which we’d never seen before. Gorgeous, hand-crafted furniture made out of local Hawaiian woods. Drool-worthy designs with smooth surfaces and clean lines. Modern, contemporary, one of a kind, and … oh my the cost. Of course, contemporary furniture wasn’t going to fit in our new CostCo suitcase, so the cost was irrelevant.

“Can I help you?” a man asked.

I hummed and hawed a bit. There was no evidence of any scrap lumber in this place.

“Do you have any… I’m looking for Koa scrap. Do you know where I might find some?”

He nodded. “Follow me.”

We went around the counter thru a door into a warehouse in the back.

“Look thru those bins,” he said, pointing to eight large boxes. “The Koa is in the second one on the far side.”

I walked over and started looking thru the boards and scrap.

There it was. I didn’t even have to think twice. Two inches thick. Three feet long. About a foot wide. This was not just a scrap, it was the scrap.

Imagine a sawmill cutting lumber from the twisted, gnarly trunks of Koa trees. And imagine a scrap that falls off the mill at the edges where there’s not enough trunk to make a complete board. That’s what this scrap was. A cross-section of a Koa tree, one edge flat but the other edge tracing the twisted, gnarly edge of the tree.

I held up the scrap and turned it so that the long flat edge was horizontal. And I gasped. Held this way, the twisted, gnarly top edge took the shape of three waves. And the color of the wood at the edge was grey-white rather than rich red-brown, as if the waves were crashing on a beach.

“This is it,” I said.

Back in the front of the store, the man and a woman working behind the counter helped us wrap our treasure in bubble-wrap. They were remarkably patient, helping us wind the bubble wrap around and around the wood, taping it down securely with generous strips of packing tape.

It cost more than I wanted to pay. But to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have flinched at a piece of art costing twice as much. 

We thanked them both as we left the store. We put the wood in the back of the Jeep beside the new suitcase (no way it was going to fit inside). And we got back on the road.