Saddle Road...Speedway?

 
 Three roads on Hawaii’s Big Island lead from Hilo to Kona. The north road that curves around Mauna Kea can be cramped with traffic delays (98 miles). The south road twists through a volcanic haze until you crest Mauna Loa (125 miles).  Many locals skip the traffic and the avoid vog by taking Hawaii Route 200: Saddle Road (85 miles).

Starting from Bayfront in Hilo, wind up Wainuenue and Kaumana Drive.  Ua Nahele  at mile marker 8 is the last cluster of houses before you enter the wilderness.

Heading up into Hilo Forest Reserve, be wary of the Bad Turn at mile marker 11.  This dangerously quick S-turn combines with a short but steep slope to flip speeders into the bushes.   Caution triangles painted on the road look like jagged yellow teeth warning drivers: SLOW DOWN! 





Saddle Road grew from a primitive path.  Ancient Hawaiians walked single file on a narrow trail through cloud forests and barren lava fields.  Although much of Saddle Road is streamlined for speed, the Bad Turn at Mile Marker 11 is a remnant of the ancient path.

Cyclists Sally and Michael take a break at mile marker 22 before climbing the mountain.  Hula Dancers come to the rain belt on this stretch of the highway to pick liko, the budding red leaves of the ‘ohia trees to make their haku lei.  I stop to pick tart ‘ohelo berries by the old road.

 

From hunters to astrophysicists, mile 28 marks a hub of activity.   Mauna Kea summit (13,800 feet) hosts  12 telescopes from 11 countries.  The Onizuka Visitor Information Center (9,200 feet) conduct stargazing activities nightly.    Below the visitor center Mana Road provides a deeply rutted 4 wheel drive adventure for hunters, nature lovers, and extreme cyclists.  

Hitchhikers Sean and Yogi have made it to Mauna Kea Summit Road.  They plan to camp amongst the  dells of the summit, to play digeridoo, and commune with nature.

South side of the Humu’ula Saddle, lie the remnants of the Hilo-Kona Road. Bedded on cinder and gouged with potholes appears undesirable for driving, but less than a hundred yards off  Highway 200, the old road transforms into a smooth lane of fresh dark tar that travels 17 miles to Mauna Loa Observatory.

In 1849, Governor Gerald P. Judd used prison labor to construct a Hilo-Kona road, but work stopped when lava from a Mauna Loa eruption flowed across the proposed path.  In 1943, after the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Army Corps of Engineers raised a gravel path for military vehicles to cross the island.  The road was not intended for public use and received minimal maintenance until 1992.  Twenty years ago, the road was a narrow maze of spot patches.  Rental cars were not allowed to travel Saddle Road.

A mile above sea level, in the plateau of the Humu’ula Saddle, vehicles seem to soar over gentle curves.  You feel like you are flying, which can be a problem because the speed limit is 55.   Watch for a change in speed limit just before Mauna Kea State Park.   Between the park and Pohakuloa Military Compound.  The posted limit is 45 which is strictly enforced.  

At mile 34, Mauna Kea State Park has the only public facilities on Route 200.  If you have to pee do it here.   Be prepared to put on a sweater before you get out of the car because a biting wind blasts through this part of the  saddle.  The restrooms are clean and the toilets flushable, but in lieu of soap and a handwashing sink, a dispenser of antibacterial gel is attached to door.  On weekends, you can rent one of the cabins from Hawaii State Parks.

Keep your speed down as you head West toward Pohakuloa Military Camp.  Quanset huts mark the entrance to military housing on the South of the road.  When you pass the three large water towers on the North side, you are out of the 45 mph speed zone and can gas it back to 55.

About a mile beyond Pohakuloa, a chronic dust bowl settles at the base of a steep grade that climbs to the peak of the saddle.  The road climbs in a straight line to the highest point of the saddle.  From here to Mamalahoa Highway one lane bridges traverse the watershed.  Downhill traffic has Right of Way, so if you are heading uphill, yield to oncoming traffic.  

The top of this grade is watershed elevation, the highest point of Saddle Road.   Simple dirt parking pull-outs serve as scenic points near mile 44, Kilohana Girl Scout camp.  Photographers will want a wide angle lens or panoramic setting for sweeping views of Mauna Loa, Mauna Kea, and Hualalai.  

The biome changes from high desert to lush grassland.  Beyond the Girl Scout Camp the road descend into mists.  It narrows.  It twists. between mile marker  , a second “Bad Turn” pivots and drops unexpectedly.   If you are unfamiliar with the road, take is slowly.  Don’t worry if someone behind you wants to pass.  Pull over to the side and let them go by.  No shame! That is Saddle Road etiquette.

South of Saddle road rests Waiki'i Ranch, an equestrian community of 10, 20, and 40 acre residential lots.  You will see a lot of horses.  To the north stretches Parker Ranch, the largest independent ranch in the United Sates  You will see a lot of cows.  Each June the scenery changes for a two day event that is popular with locals:  Waikii Music Festival




This final section of Saddle offers prime views of the Kohala Mountains, Hualalai and the leeward Coast.  Saddle merges into Mamalahoa Highway (aka Hawaii Route 190 and Hawaii Belt Road). Travel North 7 miles to fine dining in Waimea, to the South for Kona Town or the luxury hotels of the Kohala Coast.

The once rugged path has been transformed into a lean, mean, driving machine thanks to the efforts of Senator Daniel Inouye.  He knew Hawaii islands did not have resources and infrastructure enjoyed by our Mainland neighbors.  He worked hard to provide for us.  Mahalo nui loa, e Senator Inouye.  Aloha kakou ia'oe.

Mahalo to Wikipedia for supplemental information 

How to Attend A Hawaiian Lu'au

The Family Meeting

            If you are family, or a close friend, the Hawaiian Lu’au begins about 6 months in advance.  Families “save a date” in the schedule of community events.  The hosts of the Lu'au call a family meeting.  The family meeting consists of sisters, brothers, aunties, uncles, cousins, 2nd cousins, friends…all the ‘ohana.  The hosts list their menu and family members volunteer items that they can provide. 

            “I can buy 2 bag rice.”

            “Put me down for 20 pound tomatoes.” 

            “I can chip in 2 box chicken.” 

            “I can get paper products.” 

            “I have a pig.”

            Family meetings are potluck.  If you’re not into cooking you could get a dessert from the supermarket, or a case of water, juice, or soda to put in the cooler. 

Lima Hana

            You may have heard that a traditional Hawaiian Lu’au lasts three days.  In a sense, that is true. The first day is preparation and set-up.  The second day is the celebration, the party.  The third day is breakdown, putting things away, reflecting on the past and planning for the future.

            Lima Hana, or helping hands is an important concept in Hawaiian culture.  Helping others, and showing appreciation for work that others have done, will earn you respect in the islands.  Actively participating in Lima Hana will “win friends and influence people”.  When you are invited you might ask: “When is Lima Hana?” or “Is there a work crew?  I can help.”

            If you are new to Lu’au prep, an easy way is to help cutting vegetables and meats.  Much cutting, chopping, and slicing needs to be done.  With many hands working together, everything gets done quickly.  If 10 people are cutting 50 pounds of onions, it averages 5 pounds per person.  If 10 people are cutting 100 pounds of pork... 

            Everyone sits at the worktable making jokes, talking story, bonding.  If one of the family members asks you to bring a bowl from the sink, or carry a cooler to the truck, it means you are being accepted.  If you really want to fit in, observe what others are doing and follow the lead.   Sure it’s fine to ask questions, but in Hawaiian culture one is expected to be observant.  If six people suddenly start peeling carrots, should you sit there and watch or should you grab a peeler?

            When most of the work has been finished, the hosts will serve lunch or dinner to the Lima Hana workers.  Uku Pau is Hawaiian custom where everybody works together until the job is finished when they can all take a break and relax.

Lu’au ~ It’s time to party!!!

      When you arrive at the party, bring a money envelope.  A Lu’au is a fundraiser for the next chapter in a loved one’s life.   Typically, lu’au occur at 1^st birthday, 18^th birthday, graduation, marriage, and funeral.   Lu’au are held for club events, which can be fundraisers,  as well as cultural and political events where no envelope is needed. You can bring a gift for birthdays and marriages.

            Bring any alcoholic beverages you intend to drink.  Hosts will provide water, juice, and in most cases soda.   While beer, wine, spirits are often shared at a Lu’au, they are brought to the party by the people who will use them.

       When the food line opens, let the children and elders go first.   Men in the family wait until guests have gone through the service line, so once the children have plates of food no shame…It’s time to grind!  Kalua Pork, Teriyaki Beef, Lau Lau, Lomi, and Poi.  There will be a lot to choose from.  Take a little of each.  In Hawaii the rule is: Eat all you want, but don’t take more than you can eat.  Someone worked hard to put good food on your plate.  It would be rude to waste it.

            A Lu’au is a time to mingle, talk story, catch up with old friends, get to know new ones.  If you are new in town and don’t know many people, ask questions.  “What is your favorite part of Hawaii?  Do you have relatives here?  How have things changed?”  Hawaiians are good storytellers, so soak in the tales of the olden days.  You certainly should share information about yourself, but keep it relevant.  Hawaiians are humble and a list of your accomplishments could be seen as showboating.  During the party you might play cards, dice, mahjong.  You may see hula dances, ukulele jams, and comedy acts.  Enjoy the night.  Celebrate.

Breakdown

     The day after the Lu'au women pack up chaffing dishes and serving pans,  aunties package leftover food into family size ziploc bags and cousins distribute them among the workers.  Older children take down floral decorations to be returned to the forest or placed at a loved one’s grave.  If you’re a friend of the family you might be invited to "stop by tomorrow" and eat again.  play a lazy last few last games of cards with the cousins, listen to one more uncle's story,  and laugh with the aunties as they capture last night’s memories.  Memories for them that will last a lifetime.

Maka Ala (Sharp Eye)

A Tale of Kalama Kealoha

Most commercial fishermen go after big fish out in the blues of the deep ocean: ‘ahi, aku, ono. Just one fish weighing over a hundred pounds is worth a whole night’s work. But my father, born and raised on the Kalapana coast, knew the secret places where the reef fish lived: u’u, moi, kawele’a. So when the moon was dim, he would creep near shore and drop his hand lines over the gunnel. Now reef fish are small, weighing just a few pounds and worth just a few dollars each. But my father, a very sensible man, put plenty hooks on one line and his huge rugged hands often pulled up several dozen fish at once.

Sometimes a couple kids would go with him, out on the ocean at night. It would have been easy to fall asleep with the boat rocking softly and the moon faintly peaking out from behind a passing cloud. But we dare not! One look from my father’s stern eyes could straighten your spine. One dark glance could scold without a word, So, we spent the time cutting bait, preparing hooks, and packing the catch on ice. In the morning market, fresh fish would fetch a good price.

From time to time, the kids were needed to help gather seafood. Parties were huge back then because we didn’t need a lot of money to spend at the stores.  Our aunties had gardens, Our uncles had cows. Everyone helped prepare for the lu’au and everyone was invited. For my brother’s wedding we expected over 3,000 people.

Five youngsters climbed into my father’s 18-foot boat and four piled into Uncle Ula’s 14-footer. Powered by a brand new 70 horsepower Mercury outboard, we headed to the life giving waters off the coast of Hawaii Volcanoes National Park.

Passing the rugged shoreline, all eyes were possessed by the volcano goddess, Pele. She had created a new cindercone and adorned it with smokey fire.  Her glowing fingers reached out, cutting across the forest, flowing into the ocean.  When she touched the water, she appeared in the form of might steam clouds and  spoke with an angry hiss.

As we skimmed over the ocean swells, we bragged about our most exciting sea hunts. Speaking with enthusiasm, we may have exaggerated the size and number of fish caught. We talked about where to fight big fish, but we chose our words carefully having learned from tradition that fish can hear the human voice.  We wrapped the handles of our ‘opihi knives with cloth and got our ‘opihi bags ready. Each boy tore a few strips from the open end of a rice bag, tied them into a belt, and hung the bag from the middle of the belt. Our fathers would hunt for fat fish our in the blues while the kids gathered seafood from the shoreline.

Within a few hours we reached Halape. The children jumped into the cool, clear water and waded to a little white sand beach which nature had landscaped with coconut and kiawe. Father gave instructions to my eldest brother, Junior, and returned to the open ocean.

We spent most of the day pounding ‘opihi. To get the most ‘opihi you had to be tough and you had to be fast. First, we’d count the waves and time the intervals between sets. Then, in bare feet, we would crawl down to the wet rocks where the limpets lived and scrape them off with a mighty stroke. Quickly, we’d rebound, scurrying like crabs to reach the safety of dry land before the next set of waves hit the shore.

Back then you could close your eyes, scrape the rock, and listen to the ‘opihi fall into the bag. No more. People have overpicked. After we gathered about ten gallons of ‘opihi, we bathed in the brackish ponds hidden in the cracks of the island’s igneous rocks. We splashed and played. We rested. We reflected on our island’s greatness: the sweet small of the forest, the abundance of the ocean, the legacy of our ancestors. As we talked of our futures, of marriage and independence we knew we would always be part of this land.


The sun glared at us as it began to drop. I noticed a flash of light – a reflection on the horizon. I’ve got sharp eyes. I jumped to my feet, grabbed mygear, and started wading across the shallow lagoon. I wanted to be the first to greet my father and get a good set near the bow.

All hands aboard, we cruised North by Northeast and anchored at Keahou where we set up camp and filled our bellies with rice, fried fish, and poke. At the lowest tide before twilight, I helped Junior spread a cross-net near shore. Then as darkness dawned, I joined the others rambling across the shallow reef in search of black ‘a’ama crab.

Picking ‘opihi - an afternoon of scrambling over reef rocks - may have seemed adventurous, but catching crab was a different story. We hunted for ‘a’ama on a dark night. If the moon was shining, they’d see you and run. You had to sneak up on them or blind them with a flashlight.

We didn’t have flashlights, so we made torches out of bamboo and potato sacks. We cut pieces of thick Chinese Bamboo. We chose the widest stalks with the greatest length between the nodes. We cut openings in the tops and poured kerosene in the hollows. In a pinch, we used coconut husks for the wicks, but we preferred the twisted strips of a potato sack. A good torch could burn over half the night.

The night was cold, so we built a bonfire with huge kiawe logs. Nobody had tents back then. The sky, full of stars, predicted clear weather so we didn’t even need tarps. The gentle tradewinds soothed our sunburned skins. Full of seafood and smiles, everybody slept around the fire. Everybody but me. I’m smart. I know centipedes like fire too, so I slept downwind of the fire and let the trades blow the
warmth to me.

At sunrise, an eerie red band hung on the horizon. The ocean had begun to pitch and churn. Quickly, we gathered nets that had become tangled in the rising surf. We caught many fish: enenue, aholehole, uouoa, but not the tasty moi. that my mother loved so well.

I watched my father crouch low, perched upon rocks jutting out from the reef. As the whitewater surged toward shore, he sprang forward with a sure step and cast his throw net over the moi house.

I learned from my dad by watching him. He showed me how to look for patterns: ripples within the currents or dark shadows darting across the face of a wave. It was not considered polite to ask questions. I would get a scolding if I spoke too much.

When we could not fit one more fish nor one more ‘opihi into the boat, we headed home. Burnt, salty, and tired, the children sat quietly. Low and heavy, our vessel chugged a steady path through the choppy waters.

I looked Northeast. Sleek wind birds warned of an approaching storm, but the air was clear except for the high wind-clouds on the horizon. I looked Southwest.  Amidst the volcanic haze, I saw lava ooze and stretch over the cliff in thick globular drops. The coastline disappeared as we slid into the belly of the wave, but Pele’s orange wall soon reappeared as we splashed through the crest. The sea spray, heated by the lava bubbling and bursting out on the ocean floor, felt treacherously warm.

We travelled that narrow highway between the open ocean and the waves crashing on the rocky shoals of windward Big Island. One dark swell pitched high and broke near the stern of the boat. Churning whitewater crashed upon us.

The engine stalled and the boar began to flounder. The children bailed furiously as my dad tried to restart the engine. All hands pulling together, we could not save her.  Soon everyone was in the water surrounded by the dead fish that we had caught for the feast.

One cousin panicked and started swimming to shore.

“Stop! Stop!” We tried to call him back, but the whipping wind and pounding surf drowned out our cries.

“Hey Stupid!” Junior’s voice booned out above all others. “There’s no place to go!”

A sense of doom descended upon us. There was no refuge in the heat of Pele’s blistering fortress.

Uncle Ula, who had been traveling a few fathoms ahead, saw the boat go down. He turned around and started dumping his catch to make room for my father and his crew. He unloaded everything: fish, seafood, coolers. All he kept was his tackle box and the gas to get back home.

As my cousins pulled each of us into the boat, it sank - inch by inch – until the gunnel rose only a foot above the water. When all nine of us had squeezed into uncle’s small boat, I remember thinking “There are too many sardines for this can.”

Whitecaps constantly splashed on deck. The bilge pump couldn’t handle the load so all the boys helped scoop water our of the boat. Slowly, precariously, we traveled up and down the rolling mountains of water that threatened to prevent us from returning home.

When we reached Ka’ena, we saw that our families had driven down to the coast to wave and shout at the returning fishermen. To unburden the ship, all young and able jumped overboard. We swam toward our mothers and aunties, hoping to cling to the boulders piled at the shore, but only Junior stuck to the pali and climbed to
the top. The younger kids could not catch the fickle swells or hold onto the slippery cliff. I swam back to the boat with the rest of the boys feeling bruised and weary but relieved that help was on the way.

My dad doesn’t fish anymore. He watches me throw net or cast a line and gives me pointers. On calm nights, my brother or I will take him out on the boat. We’ll creep near shore, and he smiles knowing we are carrying on a family legacy.

Pictures by Shane Turpin of Lava Ocean Adventures.