ThighMaster, Waipi'o Valley, The Big Island

One morning while we were in Hilo, we decided to drive north on the Hawaii Belt Road to the Waipi'o Valley. I had read of this very steep walk down into the valley (supposedly 1000 feet descent at a 25% grade in one mile) where willing participants were rewarded with taro ponds, wild horses, waterfalls, and intense muscle burn from the walk back up. Lucky ones supposedly got picked up by Jeep drivers. Of course, I wanted to do this. Matt, on the other hand, was a bit hesitant. We both were afraid of blisters and chafing. Still we loaded up on musubis, coffee, and local bananas, and headed up there to see what it was all about.

On our way, we drove through Pepe'ekeo, which felt like a jungle - bamboo groves, vast banyan trees, and sun rays and ocean glimpses just sneaking through openings in the green. We drove up to Akaka Falls State Park, a drive that strangely reminded me of the drive to Welsch Village here in Minnesota. We followed the boardwalks to the falls, meeting the freaky monkey pods tree along our way. Akaka Falls was majestic. I realize majestic is a trite way to describe a waterfall, but I just don't know what else to say. It was tall and powerful, and as it fell, mist rose back up almost as high as the falls itself.

Soon we arrived at the Waipi'o Valley overlook. We parked our car and enviously watched the Jeeps barrel down towards the valley floor. In a fit of idiotic adult maturity, I had rejected our Jeep at the rental office in favor of a car with a secure trunk. Now, unless I was ready to hoof it, I wasn't going to get down to the floor. We saw a middle-aged couple walk up the steep road. I asked them how the walk back up was even though I could see the sweat on their faces and their arms on their weary hips as they took the last few steps. "Oh, we only walked down to the first turn," they replied.

Pouting more than a little bit, I snapped a few pictures of the valley from the overlook, and we returned to the car. Seeing sullen me, my sweet, indulgent husband drove to get some water and snacks and decided we would make the hike down. We were sure someone would offer us a ride back up.

The walk down was deceptively easy. Along the way we met a very sweaty family coming back up. The father and one of his daughters were scampering up ahead while the mother and another daughter lagged miserably behind.

When we reached the valley floor, we walked to Hi'lawe Falls, which I believe at 1200 feet is the highest freestanding waterfall in Hawaii. We then headed back towards the ocean, past a handful of houses. My trusty guidebook (which I stupidly carried down there) said that now only 50-60 people live down. A tsunami in 1946 destroyed the village, but not the people, who had evacuated. We noticed a "stone wall" made of the remnants of an old car and abandoned boats littering the yards. The valley floor was filled with small taro and lotus ponds; it was very much like the park in Northfield that always floods (sans the taro and lotus). The land was picturesque, but the residents made it very clear that they didn't like trespassers, so we kept to ourselves.

We followed a muddy road to the beach. Two men were surfing, and two older people were attempting to ford Waipi'o Stream, which splits the beach. Another two people were in the middle of a photo shoot, with a bikini-clad girl and all! We watched the crashing waves and the two hikers fall into the stream before we turned back to meet our fate.

I was disappointed about two things: the lack of mythical horses and the mythical kindly jeep drivers. I knew wild horses would have made the journey worthwhile. We saw waterfalls, taro ponds, and wild pineapples, but I couldn't really say that trip was really worth the effort. We kept joking that we could ride one of the mythical horses back up the road, but we hadn't even seen one, which kind of stunk for all the physical exertion we were about to go through. I saw horseshit everywhere, but no horses. On our way down, we also hadn't seen one car stop to help any of the pathetic walkers. We knew no horse nor man would help us. We were on our own.

And then Matt stopped walking and whispered, "Court." Just like the moose in Newfoundland, two horses climbed down from the valley wall. One froze in front of us, and the other chomped nonchalantly on leaves. Not sure what to do, I snapped a few pictures and slowly walked by the still horse. The horse, like a scared Hideki with his backpack on, stayed frozen in place.

And, so, we reached the base of the Waipi'o Valley Road, satisfied and ready. We climbed in 100 step chunks to pace ourselves and keep count. Half-way up, as we sat on a rock to catch our breath and swig our water, a Waipi'o local man stopped his pick-up to let his hitchhiker pause to take in the view. He told us that the road was the steepest paved county road in the United States. His passenger, most likely stoned, upon hearing I was from Minnesota, lunged forward to give me a big hug. He had reason to be happy; he had found the mythical ride. Too bad for him that it was in wrong direction.

About 1880 steps later, drenched in sweat, we made it back to the overlook. And then we ate a bag of chips.

A Hostel After All These Years, Hilo, Hawaii

Overwhelmed by the cost and pomp of the hotels we were checking out on-line, Matt and I booked a couple nights of our stay in Hawaii at the Hilo Bay Hostel in Hilo on the Big Island. The price was right (1/3 of our hotel costs everywhere else for a private room), and we wanted a change from the big chain hotels anyway.

Right off the bat, we both liked the place. There was a wide, open entrance that led up a staircase to a gathering space. Surfboards decorated the ceiling, and birds chirped a cheery welcome. A young mother made dinner with her toddler in the kitchen, and a young girl sat at the common table journaling, reminding me of me once upon a time. Our host reminded me of one of my student's parents, and I immediately liked him, too.

It only took one minute inside our room to untint my rosy memories of hostels past. The windows were without screens and locks, and my pillow was lined with plastic. We had only flat sheets and tired, thinned bedspreads. A box fan sat on the floor next to a white wicker chair. We were a far cry from the Hawaiian Hilton Village.

And, yet, that night, I slept just fine. And the next morning, with the hostel quiet and the parakeets still under cover, the only movement was the young mother back in the kitchen with her son. Happily, I walked down the hill for coffee from Hilo Sharkey's and to check out the surfers braving the cool, wet morning. Within an hour, I was back at the hostel, journaling happily in the common area.