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Under the Sun Cynthia Oi |
Comfort for the senses
in the natural worldSOME people would consider it a chore to haul out of a warm bed in the dim hour before dawn just to see first light graze the summit of Mauna Loa. It is.
Not on the scale of hiking to the top of the mountain, but you do have to plan a bit the night before. After all, you don't have to suffer for the experience.
You hit the sack early enough so that when the alarm clock sounds, you don't succumb to the temptation to heave it out the window. You bundle up, making sure your gloves are in your pocket because even in Hawaii, altitude adds its own nip. You load a travel mug with coffee or tea or whatever you usually drink to get you going in the morning.
Fumbling in the dark, grasping, pouring, pulling and packing, you wonder if it all will be worth the trouble. Believe me, it is.
The sun -- still hidden by the Earth's horizon -- slices the swell of Mauna Loa, its rays bleeding a deep red, and clouds pattern shadows across its breadth. Mist slides in, teasing double rainbows to underscore its own lightness. All around, it is so quiet that single sounds tingle the ears -- a lone tern whistles, a gust hums through shrubs, lava crackles underfoot.
In a half hour or so, other noises intrude as the world gets going for the day. Trucks on a road a couple of miles away telegraph movement with hum-drones and occasional squeals. A clunk indicates a park worker has replaced the top of a trash bin in preparation for the empty chip bags and soggy soda cups that will come its way. Then the first buzzes and whumps of the morning approach.
You'll hear them before you see them, those helicopters that look like nimble mechanical dragonflies. The park service and geological survey types use them for all sorts of work, but generally they fly through quickly, probably because they're on a mission. The annoying ones are those tour operations. They say they don't fly low and that their machines are quiet and don't cause a disturbance.
I beg to disagree. Seldom do I hike a trail and not encounter tour helicopters fluttering above. It's not so bad if they just fly over and move on, but more often than not they come around again and again, hovering like a yellow jacket on a mad quest for my can of guava juice. Some come so close you can see the silhouettes of pilot and passengers and I suspect I'm being used for scale, like a quarter photographers put next to a coqui frog to show its size.
At times like these, I'm reduced to raising the universal digital protest with both hands, presenting myself in profile so as to give whoever can see an unequivocal opinion.
Years ago, I flew by helicopter over parts of Maui, Kauai and Molokai. The scenery was stunning, the noise deafening. Passengers were given earphones through which a medley of tunes was piped, supposedly to enhance the visuals while baffling the hunka-hunka-hunka of the engine and blades. I pitched them, preferring the solo clamor to its combination with insipid instrumentals.
As beautiful as the islands looked from above, it wasn't until the copter landed on a ridge above Kalaupapa and flew off did I get a full exposure. Away from the glass cockpit, away from the putt-puttering, I could smell the sweetness of the grass and hear the wind hiss through the blades. I could taste salt in the air blown in from the sea where waves shushed over dark rocks.
It may be that many copter-tour customers would never see wild places if not by air and they shouldn't be denied if they can do it without all the ruckus. I'd rather put foot to trail. The pace frees my mind, gives me time to think about all sorts of things, to salve the wound of losing another sister, a woman whose passion for living and chasing answers was the whole of her being.
She led me to the place where the substance of myself resides, where the cycle of a day begins etched in scarlet if only for a moment, where mists and rainbows envelop the resonance of rocks and bushes and grasses and wind in a rhapsody of solace.
See the Columnists section for some past articles.
Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin since 1976. She can be reached at: coi@starbulletin.com.
