I remember visiting Haleakalā National Park when I was in middle school. Over 10 years ago, it still feels so fresh in my mind, and I couldn’t wait to share it with my husband, Chris. From central Maui, we made the long, steep, winding drive to Hana where we would enter the Kipahulu area of the park, a dense, lush jungle on the slopes of the volcano.
Thick vines draped heavily overhead, and the walls next to the road burst with waterfalls and trickling streams from an unusually wet winter in an already wet place.
We began our hike on the Pipiwai Trail, passing through dense forests. The river and waterfalls surged with abundant rainfall, turning dainty streams into roaring brown cascades.
Deeper in, we came upon an enormous banyan tree. A forest in and of itself, with branches, roots, and trunks like fingers grasping towards ground and sky.
Even farther in was what I had been waiting to see: the bamboo forest. The path disappeared into darkness, shaded by the soft, swaying ceiling of bamboo leaves.
Inside, the darkness muffled everything but the quiet footsteps, twirling leaves, and the hollow clatter of bamboo stalks swaying like a giant wind chime. I remembered the quiet and feeling of solitude, and how I had embraced it as a teenager on that trip. There is so much that is possible in quiet, that is impossible anywhere else.
Through the forest, we emerged into a deep valley crowned by a spectacular waterfall, hundreds of feet tall, clinging like a thin wisp of cloud between the sky and the jungle below.
As soon as we started making our way back, it began to pour. Not having umbrellas or ponchos, we tried to run without slipping, trying to make sure that the pastels and drawings didn’t get wet (pastel drawings tend to melt in the rain).
The rain did not stop there, though! My next plan was for us to drive and see the sunrise on the top of the dormant volcano, Haleakalā. The summit is an important spiritual place for native Hawai’ians. It was from this summit that the demi-god Maui ensnared the sun to slow it’s path across the sky. Today, hundreds ascend to the summit each day to watch the sun ascend and descend above the clouds.
But the rain made this trip a bit unpredictable. The weather at the summit is unpredictable even in the best of conditions, because the steep slopes create their own clouds and weather, which results in a thick layer of fog and rain that often cloaks the peak and obscures the sunrise and sunset. It also makes the summit VERY cold, even when the surrounding island is a balmy 80 degrees.
For several days, there was heavy rain in Hana and the summit, so we didn’t attempt a trip. On a day with slightly better weather, we decided to give it a try in the middle of the day. The ascent was steep, and soon we were surrounded by fog. We could barely see 10 feet in front of the car, and it began raining intermittently. At the summit, beyond the martian red and black sands of the peak, there was only clouds. We waited, hoping the clouds would clear.
At one point, the clouds thinned enough to reveal more of the alien landscape, with red and black valleys and peaks. I managed to draw it quickly before it disappeared five minutes later.
While waiting to see if the weather would change, I went out to draw some of the wildlife on the summit. The incredible Haleakala silversword, or 'ahinahina, grow only on the slopes of the volcano, and used to exist in large numbers. Early tourists to the slopes misguidedly took them as souvenirs, and the grazing animals that had been introduced to the lower slopes often ate and destroyed them. They are now protected, and the populations is slowly rebuilding, despite the added hurdle of climate change.
Although not native, the adorable chukar partridge is an adorable resident of the volcano’s slopes. They were introduced in the 1940s as an army food source, but they are native to Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Nepal.
The clouds parted briefly again, and we were able to see the peaks of other islands peeking through the clouds, before they were quickly swallowed up again and we accepted defeat for the day.
Farther down the slope, beneath the cloud layer, we were able to see the native Nene goose, Hawai’i’s state bird. Also a species endangered by early tourists and hunting, the Nene population is slowly stabilizing from the lowest point where there was only 30 birds left. Today, there are approximately 250-300 within the park.
A week or so later, at the end of our trip, we decided to make one last attempt to see the sun set from the summit of Haleakalā. The weather had finally cleared, after a week of rain, and we made our way up. The air was cold and windy, and crowds were gathering in winter jackets to wait for the sunset. An ocean of clouds stretched out in every direction, with islands peaking through.
We all watched as the sun began to disappear, setting the sky ablaze.
On the other side of the summit, a full moon rose to greet the watchers.
In an annoying epilogue to this trip, all of my drawings from 10 days in Hawai’i were accidentally left on a connecting flight, and despite constant calling of the airlines for several months, never seen again. So if you happen to ever see one of these drawings, give me a call! :)