Kaaha-Halape Backpack Trip (1999)

Date: Sat, 27 Mar 1999 22:25:32 -1000
From: Dayle K. Turner (turner@hawaii.edu>
Subject: Ka`aha-Halape Backpack Trip Report 

If the dictionary folks ever need a picture to help define the word "beautiful," a snapshot of one of the camp spots along the Puna/Ka'u Coast in Volcanoes National Park on the the Big Island will suit their needs nicely. Pat Rorie and I had a chance to visit several beautiful spots along this coast on a recent backpack trip and what follows is a narrative of how things went.

We arrived in Hilo on Tuesday morning (3/23) and after stops for supplies (Walmart) and a camping permit (VNP Visitor Center), we were trailbound at the end of Hilina Pali Road, a narrow, winding, nine-mile thoroughfare that stems off of Chain of Craters Road.

About 11:15, we trudged off from our rental station wagon southwest on the Ka'u Desert Trail. Initially, the hiking was easy since the trail descended gently through old lava fields covered with grass and dotted occasionally with Ohia trees. The day was warm and clear, and we could see the Ka'u Coast spread before us to the left and massive Mauna Loa to the right.

After hiking 4.8 miles (the Park Service provides ample signage at trail junctions and a nice backcountry map with point-to-point mileages), we made a short lunch stop at Pepeiao Cabin. Actually, the cabin is off-limits because of a "toxic chemical spill" (or so said a sign next to the cabin), but we checked out the structure anyway to sate our curiosity. We also ate lunch in the shade in front of the cabin before continuing to hike.

The next leg had us descend toward the coast for two-plus miles to the southeast on the Ka`aha Trail. This stretch was all downhill, some of it over rough sections of lava that had us watching our footing constantly to avoid an ankle turn or fall. The descent terminated at the shoreline at a sandy-brown pu'u called "Hills of the Old Men" (Napu`uona`elemakule). I'm not sure why it's named this but small head-shaped dirt mounds pepper the pu'u, each mound with a tuft of grass that looks like hair. Maybe ancient Hawaiians thought these mounds resembled the heads of old men, hence the naming.

While taking a break at Hills of the Old Men, Pat and I snapped some shots of the area, including several of an impressive sea arch. We then continued northeast along the shoreline for a half mile, exploring tide pools, admiring the sea cliffs, and just enjoying the day.

After the seaside exploration, we veered inland to continue along the ahu-marked trail (ahu are rock piles) for three-plus miles to the Ka`aha Shelter. Because of the heat of the day and the endless parade of small undulations in the pahoehoe fields, this segment was a grit-your-teeth grind. At the shelter were a handful of other backpackers who planned to spend the night at Ka`aha. We exchanged greetings with them, made small talk, and then bid them well as they marched down the trail toward the shoreline in search of campsites. After replenishing our water supply at the shelter, Pat and I set out toward the shore to find a site for ourselves.

At an elevated spot maybe 20 to 30 meters from the water's edge, we found a fairly level site amongst thick clumps of Naupaka Kahakai. This wasn't a frequently used location but a low wall of stones indicated that someone had camped at the spot prior. Brisk trades from the northeast made tent set-up a challenge, but in due time we had our shelters up and anchored adequately.

While setting up, it was hard not to notice the wild beauty of Ka`aha. A small cove opened up to the ocean near where we were camped, and the rays of the setting sun bathed its waters and the shoreline landscape a pretty orange tint. The other campers had found sites about a hundred meters to the east across the cove, and several were exploring tidepools while powerful walls of whitewater crashed onto the lava-strewn coast.

For me, dinner was add-boiling-water Cheese Enchilada Ranchero (rated a 5 on a scale of 10), a couple of English muffins, and two liters of Crystal Lite fruit punch. I can't recall what Pat ate, but it was also of the add-boiling-water ilk.

Tired from the eleven-mile hike, I was in my tent and asleep by 8:30. Considering the substandard backpack mattress I'd brought along (an accordion-like thing called a Z-Rest), I had a restful night and awoke at 6 the next morning ready for another day on the trail.

==Wednesday==

We decided not to linger at Ka`aha, and after a quick breakfast, we packed up, resupplied H20 at the shelter, and were off on the 6.2 mile segment to Halape, a spot as beautiful as Ka`aha but with more opportunities for activities and exploration.

The hike to Halape took 2.5 hours, with the three-mile stretch that skirts Pu'u Kapukapu needing some trail maintenance. By late morning, we were at the Halape Shelter, where we filled our water bottles and scanned the coconut tree-lined shoreline for other campers. We spotted several, most who had set up at sites to the far left (east) side of the camping area.

Pat and I deposited our gear at the westernmost campsite, and then walked west down the shoreline toward Halape Iki (Little Halape), hoping that no one was camped there. If so, we'd retrieve our gear and claim Iki as our home for the next two days. Prior to setting out for Iki, we saw a group of six heading west. Were they camped at Iki or just wandering down the coast to explore? We'd find out shortly.

The distance from the Halape camping area to Halape Iki is about a quarter mile, and there are white stones atop the shoreside lava bench to indicate the best line to make one's way to Iki. Along the way on the right are a couple very nice brackish pools that can be used to rinse off, swim, or just relax. Pat and I paid a visit to the biggest of these pools the next day.

Before that, though, we had to find ourselves a camping spot. As it turned out, Halape Iki was ours for the taking since none of the ten people there when we arrived were camped at the site. I should add that four of the ten were traipsing around without clothes. Well, I should correct myself. One woman was wearing a bikini bottom but nothing else while three of her companions (another woman and two guys) had nary a stitch on. The other six wore traditional beach attire--shorts, swimsuits, etc.--but the four clotheless ones commanded much more attention.

When I announced our intention to camp at Iki, one of the nudist guys protested/pleaded that we have some compassion and share the shady clearing under the Milo grove. "We're kind of using it as a hangout when we're not swimming," said Mr. Nude, who bore a resemblance, facially and bodily, to the pro golfer, Craig Stadler, aka "The Walrus."

With an understanding of the strategic value of the shady spot under the Milo, Pat and I retrieved our gear from the Halape camping area, returned to Iki, and just hung out under nearby trees until the nudist foursome and the traditional six had had enough swimming and shade-dwelling and had departed. While waiting, I took a dip to cool off, and Pat followed suit not long after. He had brought along snorkel and mask and did some exploring of the nearshore waters.

With the coast clear (literally), we staked out spots in the Milo grove, Pat occupying the primo spot in the shade and I one nearby. After getting my tent up, I continued west down the boulder-lined coast in search of opihi to supplement my evening meal. Within 100 meters of our campsite, I had gathered a couple dozen half-dollar-sized specimens, using a plastic baking spatula as my opihi-scraping tool. The fact that the waves were small and it was low tide at the time made gathering low-risk.

For my evening meal, as an appetizer I had opihi/cucumber/onion soup and a 1-lb. bag of poi, (Pat sampled the soup and liked it but passed on the poi), and for a main course had some add-water cheesey-pasta thing.

After dinner, we stretched out in a sandy clearing near our tents and checked out the night sky, spotting heavenly features such Orion, Gemini, the Seven Sisters, the Big Dipper, and the Star of Gladness (Hokulea). It was a gorgeous night, to say the least.

==Thursday==

Having prepped my fishing gear before dinner the night prior, I was up at 6 a.m. to try my luck. I did catch a handful of opala (rubbish) fish (sand gobies) but no omilu (a kind of papio) or anything else fit to plop into a frying pan (I had packed a bit of cooking oil for such an occasion). I did have a backup meal plan though--namely a can of pink salmon, half a round onion, and some poi. This I chowed on later for a mid-afternoon pre-dinner snack.

Prior to that, Pat and I hiked east 1.6 miles to Keauhou, another splendid camping area that features a lovely cove for snorkeling. As we neared Keauhou, we explored some lava tubes makai of the trail. We found some bones in one, probably of an animal, but we didn't hang around long enough to inspect the remains more closely to ascertain that for sure.

Once at Keauhou, Pat spent a bunch of time snorkeling and reported seeing a phenomenal array of fish. Meanwhile, I just waded and swam while watching a group of four surfboard-toting teens fishing (perhaps illegally) nearby (a sign at the midway point between Keauhou and Halape warns that fishing from Keauhou to Kalapana is restricted to only native Hawaiians from Kalapana).

On the way back, we found some nice shaded campsites along the shore at Keauhou and made mental note of these for future trips. We walked along the rocky, windswept coast for a while then veered inland to pick up the trail heading back to Halape. On the way to Iki, we stopped at the biggest of Halape's brackish pools and spent 30 minutes enjoying its warm, relaxing water. Because of mineral deposits (I think), the rocks in the pool are tinged greenish-blue, making for some colorful, interesting snapshots. There's also a large tree next to the pool, well-situated for resting and lounging if the sun is beating down.

It was mid-afternoon by the time we returned to our campsite at Iki, and we spent the time napping and waiting for the arrival of a group of friends from the HTMC who were supposed to be hiking in to Halape after arriving from Oahu in the morning. However, by six, they hadn't arrived and we reckoned they had made a change in their plan and were either spending the night at Keauhou or Ka`aha, the former more likely.

Pat and I were bummed our friends hadn't arrived since we were looking forward to their company. But we made the best of it and spent time after dinner talking story and gazing at the night sky. We also talked about our plan for the next day. If our friends had come in, we had planned to hang out at Halape till mid-day on Friday and then hike out to Hilina Pali so we could catch a late flight to Honolulu that night. But since they hadn't arrived, we tossed around the idea of heading out of Halape much earlier. Whatever the case, we'd decide the next morning.

==Friday==

For me, the final morning of a backpacking trip is a downer because it marks the end. On our final morning at Halape, Pat and I ate breakfast without exchanging many words and then began the solemn business of packing our gear for the hike back to the real world. As he walked away from the campsite, Pat stopped many times to scan the place he had spent the past couple of days. There were the coves for swimming, the massive, boulder-covered pali towering above, the shady grove where we'd pitched our tents. All these things are part of what makes Halape and Halape Iki so beautiful and memorable. And to say goodbye to all of this is hard.

From Halape, the hike with big packs back to our car at the Hilina Pali trailhead was eight rugged miles. Also bound for Hilina Pali, the four surfing teens had departed Halape about 20 minutes before us, and at varying points on the hike out, we saw them in the distance. More exactly, we could see their white surfboards in the distance.

Six miles from Halape, we arrived at the base of Hilina Pali--the switchbacks ascending it an amazing piece of work and a testimony to the folks who labored to build it. When the teens started up the switchbacks, Pat and I were approaching a mile away from the southwest. Pat remarked how comical it was to watch the surfboards, much more visible than those carrying them, moving to and fro up the face of the massive wall. From a distance, the Pali appears too sheer to navigate, but a trail indeed is there, and with an hour of sweating and huffing, this trail can be completed from bottom to top.

The return to civilization included stops at the VNP Visitors' Center to check out, K's Drive-In in Hilo to devour plate lunches, and a waterfront beach park to get cleaned up. A 5:45 flight back to Honolulu returned us to soft beds, microwave ovens, TVs, newspapers, and computers with internet access. While I certainly appreciate the trappings of the real world, experiences at places like Ka`aha, Keauhou, and Halape--locales that rank high on the most-beautiful-in-Hawaii meter--perhaps point to things more worthy of value: appreciation of nature's wonderful design, for one.

Safe hiking to all,

--DKT

Pepeiao--Kaaha--Hilina Pali hike

Date: Wed, 6 Jan 1999 20:34:13 -1000
From: "Dayle K. Turner" (turner@hawaii.edu>
Subject: Pepeiao--Ka'aha--Hilina Pali

I just returned from the Big Island yesterday where I had to attend a work-related meeting, and with a free day prior to the meeting, I decided to visit the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park to hike the 14.6-mile Ka'aha loop described in Stuart Ball's backpacking book.

Early Monday, I arrived in Hilo via the Hawaiian Air early bird flight, grabbed a rental car, stopped at Walmart for some supplies and then McDonald's for some breakfast, and then headed up Hawaii Belt Road, bound for HVNP. Once at the park, I stopped at the Visitor's Center to check out the trail conditions ("Go for it!" said the wahine ranger at the desk) and to obtain a camping permit for Namakani Paio (none needed), where I ended up spending Monday night.

From the visitor's center, the drive to the trailhead is about 15 miles, nine on the narrow but not-too-twisty Hilina Pali Road. On HPR, I passed Kipuka Nene, a campground that will probably be closed permanently since the land it occupies is part of a nesting area used by Nene, the state bird. To replace Kipuka Nene, a new camping area is under construction along HPR. When that'll be completed I'm not sure.

I arrived at the Hilina Pali trailhead (elev. 2,280) at 9:15 and parked by two other vehicles there. A young couple was in the lookout shelter prepping their gear for a backpack down to Halape. After I checked my gear, which included eight liters of water, I shoved off at 9:30, heading southwest on the Ka'u Desert Trail for the first 4.8-mile leg to Pepeiao Cabin.

This segment was quite pleasant: mostly downhill over ancient pahoehoe flows covered by grass and smatterings of mature ohia trees. On most of the route, I could have enjoyed sweeping views of the coastline below, but vog made for chalkly visibility. Piles of stones (ahu) marked the trail and on occasion these were helpful in keeping me on course.

I arrived at Pepeiao Cabin (elev. 1,680) at 11 and spent a few minutes exploring the rustic, three-bed structure, which Ball says is infested by roaches and mice. While there, I didn't see these pests, but I did make an entry in the cabin logbook, noting that the previous entry was made a few days prior on 1/1/99 by a guy who dayhiked the same route I intended to use.

From the cabin, the next leg is six miles on the Kaaha Trail. The route to Kaaha starts out due south, then veers southeast to reach the coastline, and finally turns northeast parallelling the coast to reach the Kaaha Shelter. For me, the first three miles was a joint-jarring descent downslope to the coastline. In many places, the trail wasn't obvious and the ahu were quite helpful in keeping me from straying off line into the vast lava fields. Before the trail leveled out, I passed features Ball mentions in his book, including the last ohia tree and Kukala'ula Pali.

I arrived at the coast around 12:30 and ate lunch atop an eroded pu'u that is part of Napu'uona'elemakule ("Hills of the Old Men"). From my vantage point, I had nice views down to a rocky cove with sea arches at both ends. Ball includes a picture of one of these arches in his book, along with a couple other shots of sights along the route. The vog didn't relent, so views upslope to the spectacular Hilina Pali were less than clear.

For lunch, I spent only as much time as needed to eat a couple of sandwiches and drink water, and then I shoved off for Kaaha Shelter. Instead of following the trail initially, I hiked along the coastline, as Ball suggests, stopping at one point to pick some opihi, a skill I'd honed during a past backpacking trip with my friend Bill Melemai. For some reason, I didn't have the heart or appetite to eat these on Monday, so after harvesting them and snapping a photo, I tossed them back into the sea.

My opihi quest done, I left the coastline and headed inland to rejoin the ahu-marked trail. At one point, I felt water drenching my back, a result of the hose of my camelback coming undone. Because I acted quickly, I only lost a liter of water, and the excess in the bottom of my pack I poured over my boonie cap to cool my head as I hiked. Fortunately, I had started out with plenty of H20 and a quick inventory indicated I had an adequate supply to see me to the end. I should note I carried a hefty amount of water because the trail traverses arid, waterless territory. Plus, a couple years ago, a hiker died on this trail after running out of water. Knowing that, I wanted to avoid a similar fate.

The segment from my lunchspot at Napu'uona'elemakule to Kaaha is about three miles and crosses mostly level ground, mostly over old pahoehoe flows. This is a remote, lonely stretch of trail (the whole loop is, for that matter), and at times I felt like Charlton Heston hiking through the wilderness when he first crashed on the Planet of the Apes. Half expecting to see the hide of an ape stretched atop poles on the next pu'u I encountered, I also reminded myself to stay attentive to foot placement because an ankle or knee injury would put me in a bad way, far from medical assistance. Granted I had a cell phone, but I never checked to see if I could hit a repeater from my locale. Anyone know?

At one point, I thought I saw other hikers moving toward me in the distance, but this vision turned out to be imaginary. What I actually saw was a large driftwood log, bleached white by the sun, that stood out prominently against the bleak blackness of the pahoehoe fields. Apparently, the heat waves made the log appear to move, and when viewed from afar, an image of a hiker was conjured in my mind. But a hiker it wasn't, and in a way I was relieved because I felt fortunate to have the entire stretch of coast to myself.

Around 2 p.m. I arrived at the Kaaha Shelter, where I made an I-wuz-hea entry in its logbook and checked to see if water was available from the tank there (it was). From the shelter, a three-walled, floorless strucutre I wouldn't feel comfortable sleeping in, I walked a couple hundred meters to a rocky cove, where I took a quick dip, snapped some photos, popped a couple aspirins, and readied myself for the home stretch--a tough 3.8-mile ascent (2,300 foot vertical gain) back to the Hilina Pali trailhead.

After a stiff initial climb just past the shelter, the first two miles are relatively gentle, with the trail ascending more ancient pahoehoe flows. About halfway through this segment, I encountered a group of four--an older and a younger couple--heading for Ka'aha. Not shouldering big packs, they were obviously dayhiking. We only uttered passing hellos, but in my mind I felt like warning them they'd likely not make it back to the HP trailhead by sundown based on their pace and the time of day when I encountered them. I said nothing though, thinking they were the best judges of their fitness, pace, and ability to get to where they were going and return. Hopefully, they made it out okay.

While making my way upslope on the gentle ascent section, I marveled at the awesomeness of the Hilina Pali. I'd never hiked the trail that switchbacks across its face, and as I moved along, I kept looking at the pali, wondering where the trail up it might be. Some sections were plainly too sheer and out of the question as possibles, but some places looked more reasonable than others. Where ever the switchbacks were, I'd have to hike them to reach the top.

My fixation on the pali was broken momentarily when I came upon an ahu with hundreds of opihi shells laying around it. In my imagination, I had visions of a couple local guys, guzzling some cold ones while slurping opihi as pupu to lighten their load before making the big climb of the day. Whether true or not, I'll never know, but picturing this scene helped me forget the discomfort I was beginning to feel from hours I'd spent hiking across the lava fields.

Near the base of the pali, I reached a signed junction where one trail headed to the right, eventually leading to Halape, and another headed left toward Hilina Pali. Left I went, following ahu for several hundred meters before the big uphill attack of the 22 (says Ball) switchbacks began.

Initially, I tried to keep count of the switchbacks, but the transition from one to the next came so slowly I felt mentally distraught by the seeming eternity of the climb. I suppose fatigue played a part in my less than optimal well-being; the vog, also, may have contributed to the nauseousness I felt since I've heard that breathing it for long periods of time during periods of strenuous activity isn't recommended.

So I stopped counting after five and just concentrated on trudging forward steadily.. As tired as I felt, I tried to push the pace, not that I wanted to get out by a certain time, for I'd certainly reach my car well before sundown. Instead, I mushed on as quickly as I could, thinking if an earthquake hit while I was on the switchbacks, a hail of boulders from upslope would rain down on me. And there really is no cover to seek in such a scenario. Maybe I'm being melodramatic, but it's a natural state when looking up at steep slopes covered by loosely-lying thousand-pound rocks.

My seven-hour, 14.6-mile day of hiking ended at 4:30, when I reached my rented Toyota Camry at the Hilina Pali trailhead. Without pause, I fished out a 2 liter jug of grape juice from the trunk and proceeded to guzzle away. I still had a half liter of water remaining in my pack, but the juice was much more delicious and welcome.

After packing up, I made the return drive to park headquarters and then on to Namakani Paio, a HVNP-run campground where I pitched a tent, cleaned up, ate dinner (chili, nacho chips, sweet bread rolls, hot cocoa, fig bars), and spent a relaxing, albeit chilly night.

On Tuesday morning, I ate breakfast, cleaned up, packed my gear, and drove to Hilo for my committee meeting at Hawaii Community College. I caught a 4 p.m. flight back to Honolulu.

In all, it was a short but interesting trip to the Big Isle.

Aloha,

--DKT

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.

Backpacking Mauna Loa

A week or so before Thanksgiving 1994, I received an email message from Guy Kaulukukui, a good friend and like me, a graduate of the Kamehameha Schools,  a private K-12 institution for children of Hawaiian ancestry. Always one to seek out challenges of some kind, Guy had a new one he wanted me to consider: a hike to the top of Mauna Loa on the Big Island. To help spark my interest, Guy said that he'd send me a couple of pieces he read about the hike via snail mail.

After receiving and reading these pieces--"Cairns," a chapter from Peter Adler's  Beyond Paradise, and "Ten Views of Mauna Loa," a chapter from The Burning Island by Pamela Frierson--I knew reaching the ML summit was something I wanted to do. We set a tentative hike date for early August.

In the next several months, we went about gathering as much information as we could about the hike. Guy, at the time in the midst of completing his PH.D dissertation (economics) at the University of Kansas, obtained info about the weather conditions, about the permits we'd need, and about altitude sickness. 

Fortunately, our work proved fruitful, for we netted helpful information that made the hike more manageable. Kennan Ferguson, Joe Dellinger, Gerard Fryer, Kevin Herring, and Lisa Peterson responded to my plea for info about hiking Mauna Loa and were especially helpful, providing us with answers to our questions and recanting their journeys up the "Long Mountain."

In addition to info-gathering, Guy and I began preparing ourselves for the tough physical challenge Mauna Loa would present. Accordingly, I made adjustments to my diet, cutting out a large percentage of fat in it, and embarked on a rigorous routine of hiking, walking, and jogging. I also asked my girlfriend Jacque if she were interested in joining us. She said she was. So it would be the three of us.

In June, Guy returned to Oahu after successfully completing and defending his dissertation. At that point, we had decided on July 30th as the date to begin our hike and a tentative itinerary for the journey. We also enlisted the help of another Kamehameha grad, Alapaki Nahale-a, who agreed to drive us to the trailhead and to pick us up after the completion of our hike. In addition, Guy's aunt, Eleanor Kenney, was kind enough to offer us the use of her Nissan pickup as our transport vehicle and her home in Hilo as a place to rest and spend the night after we had completed the hike.

In the weeks preceding our departure for the Big Island, Guy contacted the rangers at Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, who told him that we had to pick up our trail permits no earlier than 24 hours before we were to begin our hike [trail permits insure one a bunk in the Red Hill and Summit cabins].

Although assured by the rangers that we should have no problem obtaining permits for our intended departure date, Guy decided that we shouldn't risk a snafu and decided to leave on the early-bird flight from Honolulu to Hilo on Saturday 7/29 and head directly to the HVNP visitor center before it opened at 7:45 a.m. We also received some news that concerned us. The rangers informed us that while a limited amount of water was available at the summit cabin, no H2O could be found at the Red Hill cabin because of a breakdown in the catchment system. The result: we'd haul a bunch of water, which at eight pounds a gallon would increase the weight of our packs considerably.

As planned, Guy left early on the 29th, and he and his aunt drove the 25 miles to HVNP Visitor's Center and obtained our trail permits with no problem. Meanwhile, Jacque and I left Oahu at around noon and arrived in Hilo after a 40-minute flight. Guy met us at the airport and after eating lunch, we picked up some odds and ends, including canisters of propane that the airlines would not allow in our luggage, and tested out the cellular phone I had brought along. All went well.

We left Hilo for Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, and thanks to Guy's aunt, who made the arrangements for us, spent the night in a comfortable cabin at Kilauea Military Camp. Alapaki, who'd drive us to the trailhead the next morning, arrived with his wife Shelby at around 7:30 Saturday night. 

Guy, Jacque, and I--what with the task we were about to undertake--were noticeably nervous that night. I probably slept no more than four hours, awakening every so often and questioning my ability to endure the hours tramping through the rough terrain. Guy and Jacque also reported being restless and not getting much sleep.

By 4:30 a.m. on Sunday, July 30, we were all up and about and readying our gear and ourselves for the departure. By 6 a.m. we had dressed, stuffed our backpacks in the most orderly fashion possible [my pack--filled with three gallons of water--probably weighed between 50 and 60 pounds], and eaten what little breakfast our apprehensive insides would allow.

After a winding 10-mile drive up Mauna Loa Strip road that ends at the 6,662 foot elevation level, we unloaded our gear, shouldered our packs, tested the cellular phone (it worked!!), took some pre-hike photos, bid Alapaki farewell, and were off on the first phase of our hike to the summit of Mauna Loa (elev. 13,667 ft.). Our objective that day was to reach Red Hill cabin, 7.5 miles distant and 3,500 feet in elevation higher than our starting point.

The first hour of hiking took us through ancient lava flows now populated by thickets of 'ohelo, 'ohia and a host of other plants. To help us keep track of where we were and how quickly or slowly we were proceeding, we referred to Lisa Peterson's "Mauna Loa Trail Guide", an informative 20-page booklet available at most public libraries.

The further along the trek we proceeded, the sparser the vegetation became. At around the 8,300 elevation level, one of the last ohia trees stands majestically from a lava outcropping. Perhaps only ten feet high, the tree is distinct nevertheless and from a distance resembles a Japanese bonsai plant. Ahead of us lay mile after mile of lava fields and dominating the horizon was the imposing summit mound of Mauna Loa bathed in yellowish brown by the steadily climbing sun.

We settled into a routine that had us hiking for 25 minutes, and resting 5. At that pace, we were progressing at about a mile and a quarter per hour, which was a reasonable rate considering the increasing elevation and the debilitating weight of our packs. As we were to discover, we were lugging way too much water, for the reports of zero water at Red Hill proved to be false.

The hike to Pu'u Ulaula (Red Hill) was a rugged one, and Jacque--all 4'11, 115-pounds of her--suffered the most because she was hauling a pack about a third of her weight. I, too, hurt and my shoulders ached from the weight of my pack digging into my trapezius muscles. As the day progressed, the temperatures rose, and the elevation increased, our rest breaks became longer and more frequent.

During our climb, we passed seven hikers heading back to Strip Road: a father and daughter who had overnighted at Red Hill, three mid-20-ish Canadians chaps who had gone to the summit, and two other haole hiking buddies who had departed from that summit that morning. All were tired, in good spirits, and reported good weather upslope. Seeing and chatting with them encouraged us.

At around 2:00 p.m., we were about half a mile from the our first day's objective. Unfortunately, the final ascent up Red Hill to the Cabin is a brutal one and we painfully trudged upward at a dreadfully slow pace I referred to as the Mauna Loa Shuffle. Suddenly, we were confronted with the sign "PUU ULAULA REST HOUSE elevation 10,035 feet." A hundred feet away was the cabin itself. (Pic of Jacque at left). Constructed in 1915 by a company of predominantly Black soldiers, the cabin is an eight-bunk abode complete with a front porch, picnic table, kitchen area, water tank (empty), a two-hole pit toilet, and a magnificent panoramic view of most of the Big Island.

A single hiker, a 20-something haole chap conducting scientific experiments for the State, was at the cabin when we arrived; however, he was just taking a short break there after descending from the summit. He told us about spending a night hunkered down in Jagger's cave at the 13,000 foot level. After 30 minutes of chitchat, he was off to the trailhead at the end of Strip Road.

And so it was just the three of us. Jacque staggered into one of the bunks and wrapped herself in her sleeping bag and napped for a couple of hours. After some initial exploring, Guy and I followed suit.

At around six, we prepared dinner--Jacque and I sharing a surprisingly delicious add-hot-water-to-cook beef stroganoff dish and some bagels. Guy wolfed down a Rice-A-Roni meal. After dinner, I ran another test of the cellular phone and was able to reach numbers in Hilo and even my mom several hundred miles away in Kaneohe on Oahu. This was good news, for we were uncertain whether the phone would work from such a high elevation.

At around 7 p.m., the sun disappeared behind Mauna Loa's massive crest and the temperature dropped to the 50s. Soon thereafter, Mars appeared on horizon and stars began to emerge. By 8 p.m. the afterglow of the sun in the western sky had disappeared and the Milky Way was spread across the heavens. Guy said that the Big Dipper never had appeared so prominently to him before that night. The three of us, energized by our naps, our meals, and our euphoria about arriving at our first stepping-stone, stood bundled up outside the cabin mesmerized by the awesome heavenly display.

By 8:30 we decided to bunk down, and we all looked forward to a restful night since we had planned to layover the next day at Red Hill to acclimate. However, something completely unexpected happened at a few minutes after nine: two hikers, a husband and wife from England, burst through the cabin door in the pitch black. Apparently, they had departed from Strip Road at around two that afternoon but had been slowed because the wife had developed altitude sickness. As a consequence, they had spent the last two hours hiking through the treacherous lava fields with just flashlights!! Amazing. After unloading their packs and preparing a quick meal, the two new cabin mates slid into two of the five remaining bunks and settled down for the night. 

The next morning, Guy and I arose at around 5 and ascended the hill behind the cabin to get some photos of the sunrise. Even that early, the sun was beginning to light up the eastern sky and the cloud tops were tinted with a warm orangish hue. Below the cotton-textured clouds and many miles away from us, the lights of Hilo twinkled invitingly and the vents of Kilauea puffed clouds of steam skyward in the nippy 40 degree morning air.

Just before six, the sun peaked over the clouds and the lava fields upslope began taking form and color. Across the wide saddle to the north stood Mauna Loa's sister mountain, Mauna Kea, adorned by the mushroom-like observatories at its crest and an array of cinder cones on its flank. To the southwest was the powerful presence of the Mauna Loa summit, which we would attempt to reach the next day. 

The English couple was up early and quietly packed their things so as not to disturb Jaque, who spent most of that morning sleeping. By 8 a.m. the couple, experienced alpine hikers who had scaled many of the mountains of Europe, were off for the 11.5 mile ascent to the summit cabin. Before leaving, the Brits told us to expect a party of twelve Boy Scouts that day. We wished them well, and from a vantage point above the cabin, followed their progress up the mountain for 30 minutes before they disappeared from view.

Monday morning was used for picture-taking, exploring, a day hike, and finding water, which we were told could be found in a catchment system set up in a small sink hole near the cabin. The cabin's water catchment set-up, a series of rain gutters on the roof, was not functioning correctly so the water tank next to the cabin was empty.

By early afternoon, our pictures and water were secured and our exploring and one-hour day hike were completed, so we settled in and waited for the arrival of the Boy Scouts, who began arriving in small groups at around 2:30 p.m.

There were actually eight Scouts--all either Iolani students or grads--and four adult leaders/chaperons. Guy, Jacque and I chuckled at the ragtag group, especially at the leaders, three of whom had to have their packs carried up to Red Hill by the teenaged scouts. While Guy and I were chagrined at the loss of tranquility, Jacque was overjoyed at the company and assumed the role of unofficial cabin hostess, helping the tired hikers with their packs and directing them to the important points of interest.

That night was a restless one for us. With twelve people sardined into an eight-bunk cabin and thoughts of the difficult climb to the summit the next day, sleep didn't come easy for Jacque, Guy and I.

We arose at 4:30 the next morning and surrendered our bunks to the scouts who had spent the night in their sleeping bags on the floor. By 6:00 we had dressed, packed and eaten breakfast and were on our way for the summit. We had anticipated progressing at about a mile an hour so we wanted to leave early to give ourselves as much daylight as possible to reach the summit cabin 11.5 miles away.

The hike to the top was surprisingly easier than the trek to Red Hill, perhaps because our packs were lighter (mine was about 20 pounds less) and we had a chance to acclimate. Easier does not mean the journey was a cupcake--far from it. The trail was long and traversing the lava-dominant terrain can wear on one's resolve. 

Our spirits ebbed and flowed. At one time, we rejoiced after finding that we were ascending at a much better clip than the mile-an-hour pace we had thought we would proceed at; at other times, we snapped at one another about the length of our breaks and how many more miles we had to traverse.

All this notwithstanding, the lava along the way was amazing. Along with the standard black pahoehoe and a'a, lava tinted with gold, silver, red, green, orange, purple hues were at our feet as we ascended Mauna Loa's massive flank. For 2/3 of the trip, Mauna Kea stood off to our right. However, as we neared the summit, our world consisted of lava fields and blue sky, for we were at such a great height that ocean and other landforms were beyond our field of sight.

After about 8.5 hours of hiking, we had covered 9.5 miles were standing at the edge of North Pit at the 13,000 foot elevation level. From that point, with the Summit Cabin two miles away, we decided to ascertain our physical conditions. While Guy and I were fine, Jacque was experiencing headaches, nausea, and swelling in her feet and hands--all signs of altitude sickness. 

Concerned about Jacque, instead of spending the night at the cabin, we opted to descend to the Mauna Loa Weather Observatory at the 11,000 foot level, a trip of about four miles. Before leaving, we used the cellular phone to contact Alapaki to pick us up at the Observatory.

In a little less than two hours, we arrived at the Observatory and waited, waited, and waited. We became concerned because as night approached, the temperatures were dropping into the 40's and Jacque, weakened by the effects of altitude sickness, was beginning to display effects of hypothermia. Fortunately, the two scientists working at the Observatory kindly consented to let Jacque into a heated trailer that serves as their lab/headquarters.

At around 8 p.m., Alapaki and his uncle, a Big Island county worker, arrived at the Observatory in a large pickup truck. They were delayed by a couple of hours because the truck they initially had left in had broken down about 10 miles up the Saddle Road.

In an hour and a half, we were in Hilo after a harrowing 19- mile ride down the narrow Observatory road and the equally nerve- wracking 20+ mile descent down Saddle Road. Back at sea level, Jacque recovered quickly although her appetite was non-existent. We spent a restful night at Guy's aunt's house in Hilo after taking long warm showers, devouring takeout Chinese food, and rehashing our adventure to whoever would listen.

I'll hike Mauna Loa again--perhaps not soon but at least once more nonetheless. We may not have made it to the cabin or to the true summit, but standing at North Pit that afternoon--all three of us--marked the realization of a dream that had been born seven months prior. Without a doubt, our lives are different now, for the ascent of Mauna Loa gives us a new perspective of who we are and what we can achieve.

Kalalau ridge to Koke'e

A Rugged Mountain Climb
Up the Pali Face on Kauai
By Harry Whitten, Mon Nov 14, 1983 Star Bulletin

Silver K. Piliwale, at the age of 82, continues to astound his hiking
companions by his rugged mountain climbs.

Recently the hardy Hawaiian, in company with William K. Hussey of Haena,
Kauai, climbed up the pali face from Kalalau Valley, on Kauai's Na Pali
coast, to Kokee.

Hawaiians in the old days, when they lived in Kalalau, had a trail of sorts
going up to Kokee.  Piilani, the wife of Koolau the Leper, is said to have
used the route when she left Kalalau to go over the mountains and down to
Waimea to get supplies such as sugar or tobacco to bring to her husband in
the isolated valley.

Koolau was the subject of a story by Jack London after he fought off a party
of national guardsmen sent in 1893 to captures and take him to Kalaupapa
Settlement on Molokai.  He was never captured, but in time he and his son
died of the disease and his wife returned to her family in Kekaha, Kauai.

In time landslides erased the old trail. At rare intervals over the years
people have climbed up to Kokee from Kalalau but its a difficult and
dangerous venture that government officials, who don't want to send out
rescue parties, try to discourage.  Several years ago two members of the
Hawaiian Trail and Mountain Club, Herman Medeiros and Charles Nakamura,
accomplished the climb.

Piliwale and Hussey took five days for their adventure, one day more than
they expected, which caused concern for Hussey's wife Barbara.  In the
morning of their last day, the two climbers observed a helicopter which they
decided must be searching for them.  When they reached state park
headquarters at 3:45 p.m. that day they told park personnel, "We were the
two missing hikers," and assured the police and fire departments they were
all right.  Barbara Husssey came to pick them up.

The climb itself took three days, of which two nights were spent on the
steep slopes.  The first night wasn't bad, Pilwale said, but on the second
night it rained.  Hussey had brought along canvas which they spread out to
catch rainwater for drinking and use in cooking.

They used machetes often in cutting their way through thick vegetation.
They carried small ropes; at some times they shed their backpacks in order
to climb unhindered and then used the ropes to haul up their packs.  It took
them two hours to go up one steep stretch of terrain.

Piliwale, who has been a seaman, musician and heavy crane operator among
other things, now puts in many hours as a volunteer at Lyon Arboretum or
helping build trails.

In 1972 he celebrated his 72nd birthday anniversary by hiking the Koolau
Summit, Pupukea to Moanalua Valley and hiked over most of the same route
again in 1979 for his 78th anniversary.

Koolau summit from Pupukea to Moanalua

Hiking the Koolau Summit
By Harry Whitten
Honolulu Star-Bulletin, 08/27/79

Silver Piliwale has done it again.

And this time he was 78 years old.

Six years ago he celebrated his 72nd birthday anniversary by hiking alone,
from Pupukea, along the summit of the Koolau Mountain Range, and down into
Moanalua Valley. The trip took five days.

This month, this time with a companion, Jo Anne Browne, he tried to repeat
the feat.

But he and Jo Anne were slowed by rough going and late afternoon fogs, took
a day longer than they had planned, and left the summit at the Aiea Ridge
Trail instead of going on to where they could descend into Moanalua Valley.

This could hardly be cutting the hike short, but continuing on to Moanalua
would have added another day to the trip.  As it was, some of their
relatives and friends who knew about the hike started to worry and began a
search.

A helicopter flew over the mountains for a while looking for them and was
seen by them, but the helicopter crewman did not see them.  So they came out
under their own power, which they planned to do anyway.

Another reason for coming out of the mountains at Aiea was that they were
getting mighty thirsty.  They had hoped to replenish their water supply by
catching rain, but rains, which ordinarily bless the Koolau summit, failed
this time.

They were without water their last day.  The previous evening they had eaten
dehydrated gravy to slake some of their thirst.  Except for steak the first
night, they subsisted on dehydrated food, plus some berries.

The adventure began when Silver began talking about his hike of six years
ago and said he'd like to do it again.  Jo Anne listened to him and said,
"Okay, lets do it."

She had been hiking for 10 years and two years ago was on a trip to Brazil
with members of her family. They hired an Indian guide for a trip into the
Amazon jungle.

But she says now she didn't know what she was getting into when she agreed
to accompany Silver along the Koolau summit.

Hiking the Summit Trail, 20 miles from the beginning at Pupukea to the
junction with the Kipapa Trail, wasn't too bad.  It was very muddy, but some
hikers ahead of them had done some trail clearing.

The pair stayed the first night at the Kahuku shelter, the second night at
the Poamoho shelter, and replenished their water supply at both places.

But the route is rough and dangerous after the Kipapa junction; there is no
trail.  There are knife-edged ridges. In heavy wind, its necessary to
balance oneself against it.

There are ins and outs, as well as continual ups and downs which add
considerably to the mileage that might be shown on a map.

"But mileage is not the factor; terrain is," says Lorin Gill, a veteran
hiker who in years past has also traversed the length of the Koolau Range.

>From the Kipapa to Aiea junctions, its necessary at times to hang out over
the pali edge.  Wind and rain add to the hazards.

Towards evening fog often rolls in. On their trip Silver and Jo Anne on
occasion stopped their day's hike early because the fog made further advance
uncertain.

They picked grassy spots, found occasionally on the route, to camp.  One
night feathers got lose from Silver's ancient sleeping bag and were blown
into their morning cups of tea.

Jo Anne carried a nose flute which she played after the evening meal. She
liked its haunting sound, she said, although Silver indicated he wasn't
enthusiastic about it.

They saw a few wild pigs.

Jo Anne was pleased to report she knew enough about plants to choose the
right ones for handholds.  Nor did she suffer any blisters from the Japanese
tabi reef slippers she wore.

Piliwale and Browne were both exhausted when they descended the Aiea Ridge
Trail to the Keaiwa Heiau State Park, where they met some Hawaiian women.

The women asked where they had come from and were much amused when told the
pair had hiked from Pupukea.

But if you ask Piliwale if he'd be willing to hike the Koolau summit again,
he'd say yes.

Both Silver and Jo Anne, however, say the hike should not be taken by anyone
who is not in strong condition and experienced in the hazards of Hawaii's
mountains.

Gill points out that the worst mistake some hikers, usually brash but
inexperienced, have made is to try a descent to the Windward Side.

Some have had to be rescued by firemen with the helicopter; some have never
been found.

Piliwale sometimes goes over to the Big Island or Maui to walk great
distances on roads or highways.  One of his daughters, Varoa Tiki, the
entertainer, now lives at Honokahua, West Maui. When Silver goes to see her,
he walks to her place from the airport.

Piliwale is also a good man with a machete.  This summer he has put in a
week's volunteer work on the Nahuina and Moleka trials, Tantalus, which the
Sierra Club's Hawaii Chapter is building.

Last summer he put in many days of work on the 'Aihualama trail the club
built.

The rugged mountain man, "100 percent Hawaiian", has in his life been a
musician, seaman and heavy crane operator, among other jobs.