The Hana Highway and Happy Valley

 

Here’s another excerpt from the upcoming Maui Wowee featuring the Hana Highway and Happy Valley, home to the Happy Valley Hui and two huge pakalolo plantations. But first, enjoy this image.

 

 

Happy Valley, a hundred acres of isolated rainforest, had the potential for a massive crop. The property was off the Hana Highway, out past Huelo. If you’ve ever driven to Hana, you’ve crossed fifty-seven one-lane bridges. Some have little red dirt roads leading into the mountains next to them. You may have noticed them while waiting an hour for an oncoming train of tourists to cross a bridge, each rental car stopping in the middle to gawk, take pictures, and piss you off. The roads are owned by East Maui Irrigation, and all have a locked gate. They provide access to a vast system of concrete flumes that carry water from the rainforests of the North Shore to the cane fields in the central part of the island. Also, to an extremely well-hidden pakalolo plantation called Happy Valley.

 

With the property came a key to the EMI gate. A gate that eliminated, well, almost everyone else from the area. A hundred yards beyond the first, there was a second locked gate, this one blocking a driveway on the left. Fifty feet beyond the second gate, the driveway took a hairpin turn to the right and disappeared into thick foliage. From the highway, there wasn’t clue a residence might be hiding there.

 

“Welcome to Happy Valley,” said a smiling Ray on our previous visit.

 

I’d smiled right back. Talk about your private property. The nearest residence was Woodrose, fourteen acres of paradise where our friends Spider and Jenny lived, and we’d passed that ten miles ago. With the ocean a rugged half-mile downhill, and nothing but rainforest between us and the summit of Haleakala, I loved Happy Valley at first sight—and not just because of the waterfalls and swimming holes. With a location that sneaky, I had a good feeling about the place. Then again, a grower never really knew. Growing pot was like rolling dice; only they rolled for several months. The insecurity level ratcheted way up with Dr. Strangelove in the picture.

 

On the far side of the gate, the driveway wound its way downhill under an umbrella of massive trees with philodendron vines climbing up the trunks. The mango trees were as almost as big as the banyans and monkeypods. Under the trees: a wild variety of ferns and lush tropical plants with exotic flowers on them. And under those? About a jillion squiggly things I couldn’t see from the truck. Our new partners, the Professor and the Hulk had liked Happy Valley as well. Who wouldn’t? Anyone with a bug phobia, that’s who. A place like that? They were in the air, on the ground, crawling in the trees, and as I’d see, most of them wanted to bite me.

 

Reaching the valley floor, we drove into a clearing. There stood the Sloth’s toolshed. Don’t picture a toolshed, picture the kind of place a rich drug dealer might build: a two thousand square foot, tin-roofed Hawaiian-style house, raised on posts, it’s redwood walls painted green with white trim. Then add a big lanai and an amazing view. As there was no infrastructure (electricity, water, or sewage) along this part of the island, Maui County didn’t give out building permits. At least for homes. Clever hippies found a loophole involving toolsheds. After getting one approved, they’d modify the hell out of it—just like we did with the coffee shacks in Kona without approval. It’s not like the county inspectors, busy playing poker in Wailuku with the Vice Squad and Syndicate thugs, would be back to check.

 

Surrounded by a lawn and flowers, the house sat on a half-acre of cleared land just above the stream, overlooking a waterfall. A flock of peacocks roamed the yard, snacking on insects. Unlike the belligerent African geese that ruled my coffee farm in Kona, they didn’t attack me. I liked them better already. With the peacocks and all the flowers, kaleidoscopic Happy Valley could have posed for postcards. Although there was no beach in the front yard or sexy wahine on my arm, it was exactly the kind of place I’d spent my college years daydreaming about. For me, it was love at first sight. Then again, I hadn’t tried to sleep in a tin-roofed house where nervous peacocks danced all at night.

 

If you haven’t already read Breaking Good, the first book in the Senor Bueno Travel Adventure series and wanna see where Señor Bueno’s misadventures all started, grab a free copy of Breaking Good.

 

For a peek inside of Breaking Good (great images and fun story snippets) click here.