Butch the Koolau Bear

Date: 3 Dec 1997 16:35:14 GMT
From: Norman Roberts <nroberts@hawaii.edu>
Subject: Butch, the Koolau Bear

While on the Ka'a'wa Valley Hike last August, there came a point at which
the grazing cattle turned as one and stared menacingly at us as we passed
nearby.  One of the hikers expressed relief that there were no large,
wild animals in Hawaii.  What old timer could resist a straight line like
that!  "But there have been," I said.  "There used to be a black bear
that roamed both sides of the Koolaus from Maunawili to Pupukea and back
to Moanalua."

My statement was greeted with expressions of polite, sheer, and stark
disbelief.  "Isn't that just a legend?" I was asked.  "It probably is
now," I replied.  "Is he still around?" asked another hiker.  "Probably
not.  Bears live 20 to 25 years, and he was last seen in 1970."  "Did
they ever find his body?" asked a particularly skeptical hiker.  "No," I
replied, "but there are lots of reports of sightings and bear signs, most
by reliable observers."

The subject dropped because by this time we were starting up "that hill."

For some time, I've been attempting to locate as much information as is
easily available about Butch and his adventures.  There ought to be a
story there.  Maybe there already is.  I think I have seen a children's
book about a little lost bear in Hawaii.  It would probably have come out
twenty or more years ago after a feature article on Butch appeared in the
Advertiser.

The bear facts are as follows:

Sometime around the Ides of March and St. Patrick's day in 1956, Butch,
an eighteen month old American Black Bear cub pulled up his stake and
escaped from Al "Whitey" Jensen's animal farm in Heeia Kea, near Kaneohe.

Jensen boarded animals used for entertainment and other commercial
purposes, and there were usually a variety of exotic (to Hawaii) trained
animals at his farm.  He had recently acquired two bear cubs, Butch and
Sis.  He and his trainer Jim Woods had been working with the cubs.
Butch, apparently, learned fast.  Both Jensen and Woods commented on the
bear's intelligence.

The bears were secured by a chain attached to a stake and to a chain
collar around their necks.  These collars had an extra link, secured by a
master snap link, to allow for expansion as the animals grew larger.
Butch and Sis got on very well according to Trainer Jim Woods.

But something happened, and one night Butch broke loose from his stake
and took off into the bush, trailing his chain from his collar.

Apparently Jensen was not terribly concerned.  He expected Butch to come
back to a regular food supply, female companionship, and regular
grooming.  No animal trailing a six foot or longer chain could get very
far.  The chain was bound to snag on a root or get caught in the rocks.
The bear's freedom wouldn't last very long.

According to the newspaper reports, Butch did not stray very far from
Jensen's farm.  He came around at night looking for something to eat,
cleverly eluding all the ingenious traps Jensen and Woods had set to
catch him.  There were signs that he had visited Sis on several
occasions.  The female bear evidently wasn't interested in a life in the
wild because she made no attempt to escape to join Butch.

The bear had been free for six months before the story got reported in
the papers.  Then for the next year there appeared regular accounts of
Butch's activities and his owner's attempts to recapture him.  These
articles are written in a whimsical style, poking good natured fun at the
humans and expressing admiration for Butch.

At one time there were 150 men from Schofield, the Army's Search and
Rescue Force, and two helicopters searching the area for Butch.
According to the newspaper accounts M/Sgt Allen C. Wheeler and his men
ran across the bear several times, but Butch always eluded them.  Sgt.
Wheeler said, "He's too slippery for us.  There are too many places to
hide.  The area is thick.  We could pass right by him and never know it."

At this time there were large numbers of wild dogs all over Oahu.
According to Sgt Wheeler, they would hear the dogs barking, go to the
location, and there would be Butch.

None of the newspaper articles make any mention of anybody seeing Butch's
collar or the chain attatched to it.  This fact makes me think that Butch
must have got the chain caught early on, and by clawing at the snap link,
eventually got it open, expanding the collar, which he then slipped out
of.

During the fall of 1956  Jensen and Woods hit upon the bright idea of
staking Sis out in the area where Butch was roaming.  They figured Butch
would come to Sis and they'd trap him.  It didn't work.  Butch was too
intelligent to be taken in by a chained female.

About this time Woods reported that as Butch grew, the chain collar would
gradually cause his death.  The chain would get tight, rub the neck raw
which would then get infected and the infection would kill him.  Other
experts thought that the tight collar would eventually strangle the bear.

By December 1956 the papers reported that Butch had not been seen for
five weeks.  There was speculation that he was already dead because of
the tight collar.  By January 1957 the search for Butch ceased.  Bob
Krauss reported in his column the difficulties the search teams
encountered.

Quoting Sgt Wheeler, he wrote, "We have too much help.  Pig hunters and
their dogs just chase him into another area and we have to start all over
again.  It's a real jungle there, swamp, high grass, trees, bamboo,
guavas."  Jensen stated that volunteer civillian hikers had come out
scared.  "We need experienced people or someone will get lost."

A member of the Hawaiian Trail and Mountain Club was quoted as saying
that the area was spooky and easy to get lost in.  I'm not familiar with
the area, but I'm not at all surprised that the bear easily eluded the
searchers, many of whom were probably reluctant and others just plain
ignorant.

None of the accounts reveal what the searchers expected to do when they
finally cornered the bear.  Jensen and Woods probably had a plan.  In an
interview Jensen indicated that Butch knew them and once he was cornered,
they could get him.

Krauss's column was the only article that expressed a decided lack of
sympathy for Butch.  Wrote Krauss, who admitted he was no animal lover,
"I'm wondering if it might not be time to quit chuckling over Butch as a
symbol of a revolt against civilization.  Maybe it would be kinder to
shoot him and get it over with.  Up to now chasing Butch has been
described as a sort of combination Snipe hunt and a Sunday school picnic.
 I'm afraid it's just the opposite.  The area in which he operates is
jungle: guava, grass 12 feet high, lantana, swamp, nearly impenetrable
bamboo forest.  You're lucky to come back out at all, much less with Butch."

But before you can shoot a bear, you have to see him;  and you have to
see him long enough to get him in your rifle sights and pull the trigger.
 And you want to be sure you can get off a second shot just in case the
first one doesn't get him.  I don't think anybody caught more than a
glimpse of Butch's back or tail as he slipped into thicker growth.  In my
experience bears are not seen unless they want to be seen.  And if the
Search and Rescue people, whose business it is to find what they go
looking for, couldn't get close to him, who could?

March 9, 1957, the Advertiser reported that residents of Palolo had heard
bear-like growls, and dogs gave chase to an animal that  had attacked a
garbage can.  Mrs Jean Sasaki of a Palolo Ave. address said dogs chased
the animal to the crest of the hill on the Ewa side of Palolo Valley.  No
one actually saw the animal, but Mrs. Sasaki said it did not sound like a
dog or a pig.  She reported that for a week the animal had been in the
area, but this was the first time it had come so far down the valley.

On May 15, 1957, William M. Shields of a Kailua address reported that at
10 a.m. he saw Butch on the Maunawili side of the Kailua cut off road, a
quarter mile on the Kailua side of the junction with Pali Road.  I'm not
sure just where this location might be.  I didn't arrive until 1958 and
didn't get around much until later.  Maybe an older timer than I can tell
where Shields saw Butch, perched on a bluff above Kailua cut off,
watching the cars go by.

The area is described as brush land with guava trees, and Norfalk pine,
not as dense as the area he had previously roamed.  Evidently Butch was
on the move.

Butch was supplementing his diet of guavas, roots, grubs, and whatnot
with raiding the Kaneohe dump and an occasional garbage can.  When
interviewed about this time Owner Jensen said, "If he's been eating well,
he could be 125 pounds by now.  Any other bear would have been sleeping
in somebody's bedroom by now, but not this one.  He's shy, extremely
clever, and capable of taking care of himself."  He added that  Butch was
worth $2000 because of his training.  "It's too bad," Jensen said, "He's
a terrific animal.  It's too bad."

There are no more newspaper reports of Butch until December 12, 1960.
Marine Gunnery Sergeant Gus P. Lass, Jr. said that three weeks previously
he and 40 companions saw a black bear in the Koolau mountains.  "He was
walking along a stream, minding his own business, and eating guavas.  500
yards away.  Four feet high, walking on all fours.  In good health."

It's the 500 yards bit that bothers me here.  That's over a third of a
mile.  I know marine gunnery sergeants are pretty capable people, but to
identify a bear at that distance and estimate his height with any
accuracy is pushing the envelope.  No mention is made of binoculars, but
with the unaided eye, not even Daniel Boone nor my Uncle Charlie could
make a positive identification.

Besides, I don't think there are many places where you can get that field
of vision.  The next day's follow up article presents some different
facts.  This time it's ten marines and the distance is 2000 feet.  The
animal is described as about the size of a large dog.  Frankly, it's
getting difficult to tell what the marines saw or thought they saw.  Or
did the reporter scramble his notes.  Or did anybody care anymore about
the facts?

Harry Whitten, long time Star Bulletin reporter on nature and the
environment wrote up an interview with Al Jensen as a followup.  Jensen
said, "If he's alive and behaving himself, as he seems to have, I'd favor
leaving him alone to become a legend.  Won't do any harm if you leave him
alone.  Wild bears aren't dangerous.  It's the tame ones that are
dangerous.  A wild bear won't come to you; he'll always try to get away.
He may live to 20, 25 years if left alone."

At this time Jensen still had Sis, the female bear.  He speculated that
while bears wander around a lot, they are apt to stay in one area if
there is food and water.  Jensen said he wouldn't try to catch Butch
unless there were more sightings to pinpoint the area.  "If we couldn't
catch him in '56, it won't be any easier now,"

And so Butch became a legend in his own time.  There are no more news
stories about him for ten years, but during this period sightings were
frequently reported to the police and the newspapers.  A hunter reported
finding bear tracks in Waimalu Valley which he photographed.  A hiker
reported seeing a bear above Aiea.  This same hiker reported seeing Butch
on the Pupukea Summit trail.

Honolulu Zoo Director Paul Breeze [1960] speculated that Butch was
probably dead, if not from the collar, then probably pig hunters had
dispatched and eaten him and kept quiet about it.  "I like the idea of a
bear in the woods." Breeze said in an interview.  "In fact, I tell that
to people.  But it really isn't very likely any more."

And then in November, 1970,  James Malcolm, from Schofield, while hiking
the Waimano Trail with the Hawaiian Trail and Mountain Club, said he saw
a bear about thirty feet down the trail from him.  Malcolm came from New
Hampshire and could be expected to know a bear when he saw one.  He said
the bear would have been five and a half feet tall if he had stood up.
They looked at each other briefly whereupon the bear went up the
mountain, as they are supposed to do, according to the nursery song.
Malcolm hurried along the trail to catch up with the other hikers.

When I read the account in the Star Bulletin that evening, I announced to
my boys (aged ten and eight at that time) that come Saturday, we would go
looking for bear tracks.  Neither seemed very excited about it.  [When I
asked number one son the other day if he remembered the hunt, he said,
"No."  So much for corroboration, but I remember quite distinctly.]

We started out about seven in the morning and hiked the Waimano Trail
from the entrance.  At the point described by Malcolm in the newspaper
article I found where something had gone up the hill, but there was
nothing that I could call a bear track in evidence.  Nor did I really
expect to find any.  We hiked on to the dam where we had a swim, cooked
our lunch, relaxed, had another swim, and then hiked out.

After a period of heavy rain the following spring [1971], we hiked to the
dam one Saturday morning.  It took us about three hours to get there.  In
those days before the dam washed out, there was a little sand beach at
the far end of the pond, and it was here on that day, I found what I am
pretty certain were bear tracks.

Beyond the sand beach in the campsite area I discovered a rotting log
that had been torn apart.  Some distance beyond was a kukui tree that had
some pretty convincing claw marks.  While I admit that an enterprising
Boy Scout could have set the scene with a plaster cast and wire "claws,"
I like to think that Butch had passed that way.  My sons were more
interested in swimming than bear track hunting so instead of looking for
more tracks, we hiked back home.

The last newspaper article about Butch appeared in the Advertiser on July
2, 1975.  It is essentially a summary article based on previously
published articles.  There had been no reports of Butch since Malcolm's
in 1970.  It was about ninteen and a half years since Butch had escaped.
He had been eighteen months old at the time.  If he was still alive, he
was a lonely old bear.  In all probability he had been long dead.

Zoo Director Jack Throp [1975] speculated that a number of reported
sightings had probably been wild pigs. If you only heard something moving
through the brush or merely caught a glimpse of something black
disappearing into a thicket, you couldn't really be sure what you'd seen
or heard.  And even a mongooses can make a lot of noise when they don't
think there's anything around to bother them.

This account is mostly based on old newspaper reports which give the
outline of the story with the names and dates.  There are probably more
details to be found in police blotters and officer's reports.  There are
most likely permit applications on file wherever the official city/county
records are kept, and the state archives would have some information.

It would be nice to interview people who lived in Heeia Kea at the time,
the people who engaged in the searches, and people who have claimed to
have sighted Butch over the years.  There must be a huge fund of oral
tradition here if you could find people who would talk.  There's the real
problem; most people don't talk.  They don't want the noteriety; they
don't want to be contradicted; they no like make "A."

The psychologists tell us we see what we want to see.  A bear in the
Koolaus?  Nonsense!  It's just a legend, right?

Yeah, right.

Halape Backpack trip (1997)

In the latter part of July '97, Bill Melemai, his 12-year-old son Willie, and I completed a two-night, three-day backpack along the Puna coast in the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park on the Big Island. For those unfamiliar with the Big Island, imagine it, roughly speaking, being a big clock with the Puna Coast situated between four and five o'clock, Hilo at three, and Kailua-Kona at nine. Our adventure began on Monday, July 28. After a quick and comfortable flight from Honolulu (mahalo to Bill's wife, Donna, for driving us to the airport and helping us board), we arrived at Hilo Airport around 8:30 a.m. and were picked up there by my buddy Tim Lino, who lives in Mountain View. After some stops to purchase propane, a couple other items and to eat lunch, we were bound for the National Park visitors' center to obtain our backcountry permit.

Prior to the trip, Hawaiian Trail and Mountain club member Carole K. Moon, who had backpacked in the area several times, told me our preferred route, the Halape Trail, was closed by the Park Service during her most recent trek in early July because the area was a breeding ground for the Nene, the Hawaiian goose. As it turned out, the Park had just re-allowed access to the Halape Trail, but it would be "unmaintained and overgrown," according to the ranger who checked us in.

By the way, the 7.2-mile Halape trail was our first choice because it was the shortest, most direct and scenic route, according to Carole, Ken Suzuki (another HTMC member), and Stuart Ball (in his backpacking book). Other routes to Halape include the Hilina Pali (8 miles), Keauhou (8.4 miles), and Puna Coast (11.3 miles) Trails.

The ranger also informed us that the water tank (roof catchment) at Halape was half-full per a report received a few days earlier. This meant we wouldn't have to lug in a ton of H20 (eight pounds to a gallon). Good news!! I ended up carrying four liters and Bill and Willie three each.

So with our permit secured, off we motored around Crater Rim Drive to Chain of Craters Road and then to Hilina Pali Road. About four miles down the latter was Kipuka Nene Campground (elevation 2,900), the trailhead for the Halape Trail. A trail shelter, pit toilets, catchment water and possibly Nene (we saw two) can be found there.

At 2:15, Bill, Willie, and I bid farewell to Tim, and three of his na keiki--Hinano, Maile and Ho'okano--who had accompanied him, and off we trudged. Our plan was to hike to Halape, spend the next two nights there, and hike out on Wednesday via the Puna Coast Trail. Tim would pick us up at a pre-arranged time, 2 p.m., on Chain of Craters Road by the parking area of the trailhead to the Pu'u Loa petroglyphs.

Initially, the Halape Trail is basically a wide, grassy jeep road that contours east for two miles without any appreciable elevation loss or gain. The map currently provided by the Park doesn't show this trail (revised versions are being printed). Fortunately, Carole had given me an older park-issued map with the Halape Trail on it. Without this directional aid, we might have missed an unmarked junction and continued east on the jeep road when we should have headed south toward the ocean and Halape.

After the jeep road phase was completed, the remainder of the Halape Trail was indeed a trail, complete with rock pile markers (ahu) to show the way. The path basically followed a wire fenceline downslope, traversing older pahoehoe flows interspersed with patches of calf- to knee-high grass. After a little while (30 minutes?), the distant ocean came into view and we whooped with glee. Along the trail, a few small trees popped up here and there but the way was almost exclusively open to the blue sky and warming sun above. After a couple hours of hiking, we reached the edge of Puueo Pali where in the distance we could see the Keauhou shelter and Keauhou Point but not Halape, obscured by an upswelling called Pu'u Kapukapu (lit. "regal hill"). Willie, quite anxious to go fishing, kept asking if we'd arrive at Halape in time to try for some papio. I told him it was possible but unlikely because of the late hour.

At 6:30, we reached the three-walled Halape Shelter, which sits on a bluff about 150 yards inland from the shoreline camping area. About 20 yards east of the shelter is a virtually wall-less pit toilet which offers users arguably the best view-from-a-john in Hawaii.

At check-in, the ranger told us no one else should have been camping at Halape but we spotted a tarp lean-to and a couple of campers at the left-most (eastern) campsite along the row of coconut trees near the beach. We were bummed that we wouldn't have the run of Halape as we expected, but since darkness would roll around in an hour, we squelched our disappointment and hustled to replenish our water supply at the shelter, find a site for ourselves, and begin setting up camp. With not much time to scout around, we chose to pitch our tents at the right-most (western) site along the beach.

Ken Suzuki, who I mentioned earlier, had told me that "red ants will be your best friends at Halape." Well, correct Ken was, for those creepy-crawly buggahs were literally everywhere. Fortunately, we followed his advice to bring a can of bug repellent which we liberally sprayed on designated patches of ground to create ant-free areas Willie and I called "dead zones." It worked, too! Thanks, Ken.

We got our tents up as darkness fell; however, fatigue, flying roaches, and those ubiquitous ants doused our enthusiasm for preparing a cooked meal with our stoves. So after a bit of time scanning the star-filled night sky ("the most stars I've ever seen," said Willie), we retreated to our tents, nibbled on some non-cook type kaukau, talked story for awhile, and drifted off to sleep to the gentle whooshing of waves on shore on the beach at Halape.

We were up and around by six the next morning after an uneventful night that included just a brief flitter of rain. Willie's fervor for fishing remained unabated and off he went to check out spots for casting out his line. While he was rigging his gear, I set out with my rod and reel and flung out a plastic curly-tail jig into the waters of a little bay just west of where we camped. On my second toss, hanapa'a, a fish struck the lure. In thirty seconds, I reeled in a seven-inch ta'ape (blue-line snapper), a colorful, supposedly decent-eating fish species transplanted from the Marquesas in the late 50s. In the next 20 minutes, I landed a sand goby and what I think was a waha-nui (lit. "big mouth"). I released these and lost the ta'ape when a wave washed over a small tidal puddle in the rocks where I had put it. Several other papio-like strikes followed but alas no hook-ups. Meanwhile, Willie arrived and began trying his luck.

I left him to fish the small bay while I continued west along the coast to look for the brackish water pools and a campsite called Halape Iki that Carole had told me about. A minute after leaving Willie, I heard him whooping in glee because he had bagged a fish of his own. I waved to him, flashed a thumbs up for his success, and continued my exploratory jaunt down the coast.

The way was marked with white pieces of coral rock atop a wide shelf of pahoehoe by the ocean. To the right was a 20-foot wide collapsed lava tube. At the bottom of the tube were a couple of nice chest-deep brackish pools with bottoms tinted a golden hue. Continuing west, I spotted the tops of coconut trees and in a few minutes I could see the trees themselves, situated in front of a grove of hau-like trees at the base of a steep boulder-strewn slope that topped out at Pu'u Kapukapu.

In his second book, Stuart Ball refers to this area as "boulder bay," because of the aforementioned pohaku on the hillside and the small, inviting cove fronting the beach area and grove of trees. Carole and others call this place "Halape Iki," literally "Little Halape." By whatever name, I told myself this beautiful place (see pic below) was where we'd camp for the remainder of our stay.

I returned the way I came, told Willie about my discovery (he, too, had caught a waha-nui and had thrown it back), and headed back to camp where Bill was still resting in his tent. Bill was agreeable to the move and after eating breakfast, we obtained more water from the shelter and packed up our stuff for the half mile hike to the seclusion of Halape Iki. Before we left, the folks from the other campsite, a husband and wife from Australia, stopped by. They told us they had landed several fish, including a 20-pound ulua they had thrown back because it was more than the two of them could eat during their stay (they had arrived the previous Friday and like us, would leave on Wednesday).

After our chat with the Aussies, we headed for Iki. Once there, we decided to pitch our tents about 15 yards from the water's edge next to a large boulder (other campsites exist next to the grove of hau-like trees). From that spot, we had easy access to the ocean for swimming and fishing and there seemed to be fewer of our "best friends" around.

We explored the area, fished, ate lunch, and took a nap. Willie was eager to pick opihi and if it weren't for his prodding, Bill and I might have napped the afternoon away. At 2:30, Willie and I rock-hopped west along the rugged, boulder-strewn coastline while Bill donned a snorkeling mask and swam along the shore. Within a 100 yards of our campsite, we spotted opihi on the rocks. Being first-time pickers, we weren't equipped properly nor well-versed in the proper harvesting technique. Accordingly, Bill jabbed himself in the finger with a fork on one attempt which later resulted in a semi-nasty swollen digit. And I missed several opihi, which clamp like vices to the rocks once touched.

Through error, trial, and teamwork, we eventually figured out a successful strategy. Willie served as lookout, perching himself on the rocks above us and yelling out when menacing swells rolled toward shore. Meanwhile, Bill, who had left the water by this time, and I were the harvesters, quickly scrambling our way over slippery boulders to the water's edge to pry the opihi from the rocks and retreating to higher ground when a swell approached. In possession of a knife, Bill was more adept at harvesting than me and my teaspoon. Making sure to only go after the ones half-dollar size and larger, we ended up with 73 opihi in all, with Bill probably getting about 50. During the harvest, Bill offered a verbal "mahalo" for every opihi he bagged. I thought this was an appropriate and respectful gesture and followed suit.

One thing we noted was that the ocean and heavens were aboil during the adrenaline-filled picking session, with some fairly sizable rollers pounding the shoreline and a semi-heavy rain squall pelting us during that time. When we decided we had gathered enough for dinner, we had worked our way a couple hundred yards west from where we first had begun. Strangely, the rain stopped and the ocean calmed noticeably after we called it quits. Was this a coincidence or had some higher power been testing our worthiness to harvest the ocean's bounty? Hmmm...

We returned to camp, wet, a bit cold, but happy about our successful opihi adventure. Bill plopped down in the water of an inlet by our campsite and began unshelling the harvest while Willie and I fished (without success).

Eventually, the rains returned and except for a short respite around 7:30, continued until the next morning (this same storm caused flash floods on other parts of the island). We still had dinner to prepare and eat, so Bill used rope, a couple of plastic tarps, and branches from the grove of trees to construct a lean-to against the boulder we had camped by. This mini shelter would serve as our cooking and dining area during the storm and it served its purpose well.

For evening kaukau, we dined on hot cocoa, fresh broccoli and cucumbers, soup, rolls, ramen, poi, canned salmon, Maui onion, and all 73 opihi--some raw and some cooked in an onion, ramen, and cucumber soup. Ono!

As darkness rolled in, Bill lit a small butane lantern he had brought along. In the meantime, the rain continued its unceasing cascade and the wind was eerily non-existent. To stay reasonably dry and warm, we huddled under the lean-to, talking story about day's activities while waiting for a break in the showers to make the short dash to our tents.

I can't remember the exact time we retired that night, but I do recall being dripping wet when I stood outside the entrance of my tent. Not wanting to dampen the interior of my shelter, I stripped and ducked into my tent au naturel. I had a set of dry clothes inside, a sheet to serve as a blanket, and an air mattress to lay on. Best of all, my almost-new tent (Eureka Apex XT) was holding up to the rain well, thank heaven.

With the rain and semi-thick humidity, I can't say I slept peacefully that night, but I did manage to grab a good 5 to 6 hours in all, awakening every couple hours to listen to the waves slapping the shore and the neverending patter of ua on my tent.

During the night, I did worry a bit about the possibility of a rain-induced landslide, for the boulders on the slope above our campsite would certainly crush us if they came crashing down to the ocean. I also thought about earthquakes, an almost natural mental conjuring since I was aware of the tragic 1975 incident where several Halape campers were swept out to sea and two killed by a tsunami generated by a 7-plus earthquake in the Kalapana area.

But nothing went awry except a tiny bit of water in my tent. By 6 a.m. the three of us were stirring in preparation to break camp, bid aloha to Halape, and hike the 11-plus miles on the Puna Coast Trail to Chain of Craters Road.

The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle and by 7:15 we had packed all our belongings, policed the area for trash, and headed off to the Halape Shelter where we'd get more water and eat breakfast. Before striding off, we all turned to the bay, shouting "Aloha Halape Iki" in a parting gesture to the beautiful place where we had camped, swum, fished, and gathered opihi.

At the shelter, we met three local haole teenagers who had hiked to Halape the day before for a multi-day surfing trip. The trio watched the ocean longingly, using surf lingo like "a-frame" and "spitting" to describe the three foot sets curling impressively to the left of a small island about 100 yards offshore of the Halape camping area. We also found out they were from Puna and traveled to spots all around the island in search of waves.

At 9 a.m., we had eaten breakfast, filled our water bottles, and bid our final farewells to Halape and the surfing teens. By then, the rain had stopped but gray clouds covered most of the sky as we headed east following the line of ahu on the Puna Coast Trail. Atop a windswept bluff, we passed a sign that warned hikers of the prohibition of fishing and ocean gathering from that point east to Kalapana. "Only Native Hawaiian residents of Kalapana and individuals in their company" could fish and pick opihi there. In about 40 minutes, we had covered 1.6 miles, taking our first break at the Keauhou Shelter, located about a quarter mile inland of Keauhou Point and camping area and a virtual twin of the Halape Shelter.

From there, we continued east on the Coast Trail through mostly older grass-covered pahoehoe flows and occasional newer, shiny fingers. The rain also re-commenced, which although not ideal, did help keep us cool. We talked about how grueling the hike would be with humid, sunny conditions.

The next major landmark we reached was wind-whipped Apua Point. The trail, lined with a large number of white-flowered naupaka kahakai, passed about 200 yards mauka of the coconut tree-lined beach fronting the point. We saw what appeared to be a shelter and large tent situated there. Endangered hawksbill turtles were nesting in the area and the tent supposedly belonged to folks monitoring the turtles. To our right, large waves pummeled the shoreline at the point.

Further on, the trail passed right by the shoreline. We stopped at a couple spots to watch huge breakers slamming into opihi-covered shoreline cliffs and throwing up massive curtains of whitewater. We named one place "One-Ride Cove" because anyone bodysurfing there would never survive to see a second wave. Bill snapped some photos and we even saw a pod of spinner dolphins romping offshore. At several places, we passed petroglyphs and a rock carved with small holes for konane, a Hawaiian game similar to checkers. During one rest break, we stopped just past a large rock structure that either was a heiau or an old corral. By that time, the rain had stopped but conditions remained cool and overcast.

We pressed on, following ahu all the while, and in the distance to the left could see the section of Chain of Craters Road descending steeply on the ocean facing side of Holei Pali. As we hiked on, we could discern vehicles moving up and down the road. This turned out to be distracting, for I almost blew out my left ankle three or four times because I was paying more attention to the vehicles coming down the road instead of watching my footing on the rocky lava trail.

We reached Chain of Craters Road at 2:20, completing the 11.3-mile hike from the Halape Shelter in 5 hours, 20 minutes. The timing was nearly perfect, for Tim, accompanied by na keiki, Hookano and Maile, arrived in the family station wagon at 2:23. We were wet, aching a bit from the long haul that day, but happy to have ended our adventure with many pleasant memories and without major mishap.

In less than an hour, we were at the Lino homestead in Mountain View where we laid our stuff to dry in the carport, took warm showers, washed and dried our clothes, and devoured a great meal of barbecued teri chicken, corn on the cob, rice, egg rolls, and kim chee. Mahalo to Tim, his wife Millie, and their five children for hosting us. We spent the night at their home and flew home to Oahu the next day.

Even with the rainy weather, it was great trip that we'll certainly do again.