Haleakala Sunrise
Our group met at five in the morning for a famous Haleakala sunrise at the Sliding Sands trailhead. You wanna enjoy the full experience, you gotta do you’ll hate. For instance, getting up in the middle of the night. Then, depending where you’re staying, drive across the island before winding your way up Haleakala Highway, hoping not to fly off a hairpin corner. The good news? You get to see a universe of stars fade with the first faint glow on the horizon, followed by a sky full of gold, rose, orange, and crimson. Maybe. It’s just as likely that your once in a lifetime view is obscured by thick clouds and the fabulous Haleakala Sunrise is like an overcast morning in Siberia. Only colder. You think to yourself: I should’ve stayed in bed. But on clear mornings, you feel as if you’re watching the world wake up. So getting there early is the smart move. Ask any guidebook.
The first thing you think when getting out of your vehicle is, “Jesus Christ, how could it be this cold on Maui?”
Shivering like an epileptic in the tropics? What was smart or enjoyable about that? Oh, people warn you, “It’s a little nippy; bring a sweater.”
A sweater? Ha. You need a parka and long underwear, and then, several more parkas. Huskies visit to escape the Arctic heat.
“Haleakala Sunrise, is this cool or what?” said Ray.
“S-s-s-o c-c-cool,” I lied through chattering teeth, holding two frozen thumbs up.
As I waited for the sky to change colors and the demigod Maui to hurry the hell up and lasso the sun, I turned numb with impatience. At ten thousand feet, losing an average of three degrees per thousand feet, it’s only thirty degrees colder at the top of Maui than at the beach. At least that’s what they tell you. Don’t believe them. It feels about a hundred degrees colder and no one ever has enough warm clothing on. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Like when the unrequited love of my life Leilani (Miss June 1971-1977 in the Girls of Hawaii calendar) showed up in cut-off jeans, a t-shirt, and prominent nipples. Was she glad to see me, or what? (The smart money bet on or what.) She had a watermelon, probably frozen, in her backpack.
She was standing at the crater rim, looking down. Sexy as a penguin, I waddled over to put on the moves. “H-h-howzit, L-l-leilani. Let me get a photo of you.”
Hearing the quiver of my sexy voice, she danced away from the rim. She seemed so graceful . . .so scared.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Jeez, it’s not like I’m gonna push you off.”
“Is that what you said to Peter?”
There’d been a misunderstanding during a hike. Specifically, when I patted Peter on the back atop a knife-like ridge and sent him over the edge. Fortunately, an outcropping saved him from certain death and me from murder charges.
“What? No.”
“Oh, that’s right. You didn’t warn him, did you?”
I sighed. My seduction of the gorgeous Miss June was off to a rocky start, but within minutes, sun rays painted clouds and the misery of an early start faded with my goosebumps. Looking into the vast crater from the top of Sliding Sands, I could see all these cinder cones, some a striking ocher color, others gray like ash. They looked kinda sneaky, and I wondered if they were really asleep or just playing possum. I put them next to cannibals on my list of things that wanted to cook me. But I was young and brave and what’s a hike through a volcano without the likelihood of imminent immolation?
Haleakala, in a word, was unworldly. No place to grow any pot (naturally, I checked), but still a killer view. You’d think you were on Mars. Our destination was Paliku Cabin, a nine-mile hike across the crater that ended near Kaupo Gap, where the southeast corner of Haleakala had eroded away. Clouds rolling up and over the gap from lush Kipahulu (one of the wettest places on the planet and home of the Seven Sacred Pools) would often invade that part of the crater, so it was green over there.
Ray pointed at the gap. “If we want to wreck our knees, we can hike down to the coast from here. Trust me, we don’t.”
Rather than a watermelon, I brought some of my best buds. There’d be ten of us. I figured for three nights and four days an ounce of pot should be enough. For me. Then again, I’d want to share. My travel stash philosophy was: Better too much than not enough. I’d learned that during a trip to Big Sur when still a college freshman. I’d vowed it wouldn’t happen again, so I grabbed another ounce. The other campers brought supplies of their own. Many of them mind-altering.
The Panda, perhaps the best-connected guy I’ve ever known, had dug into his vault and pulled out some vintage drugs for the trip: A bag of excellent Southeast Asian weed called Golden Voice. Some “special” LSD. (“Tim Leary wanted me to have it.”). Tim Leary wanted everyone to have it, but when Tim Leary gives you acid out of his personal stash, that makes it special. The Panda also had, let’s see, DMT, pure Peruvian flake, Cristal champagne (on ice), and, well, you get the idea. The classy Panda traveled in style. Meaning his wife Jewels worked like a sherpa to lug all their stuff. Heavy Chevy and Hagar had their own stashes. Chevy packed another vast array of collectibles: Afghani Primo, honey oil, Thai sticks… Hagar, a surfer and a stoner if not exactly a hippie, brought Wild Turkey, a surly attitude, and a gun. The ladies, knowing the men had the recreational supplies taken care of, hauled in the grinds. I’d brought my guitar. We were gonna party.
The Sliding Sands Trail
Horny, single, and harder to get rid of than herpes, I hiked with Leilani, whether she liked it or not. Man, were the other guys jealous. Or they would have been if Leilani showed any interest in me. Ray and I had eaten magic mushrooms to get in the proper hiking mode and I felt a spring in my step as we started out. The Sliding Sands trail switchbacks its scenic way down 3,000 vertical feet of barren cinder. I cut across a couple broad switchbacks wanting to get far enough ahead of the group for some photos.
As I did, my athletic left foot picked up speed. That didn’t bother me until my less athletic right foot snagged a rock. It wasn’t until I launched through the air that I grew concerned. But only for a moment. Then gravity saved me and slammed me face first into pointy lava before I could reach out my arms. Fortunately, my camera smashed into the rocks and cushioned my solar plexus like a metal fist. Losing my wind almost took my mind off the pain of my face bludgeoning pointy lava rocks. But not quite. The camera, perfectly positioned as a fulcrum, kept my diaphragm compressed, the better to squeeze any remaining breath out. Lying there stunned, with no feeling in my limbs, and unable to breathe, got boring. To make it more fun, I passed out. When I came to, I saw Leilani’s sexy feet encased in hiking boots. Ah, good, my angel of mercy had raced to rescue me. Any moment now, she’d turn me over and slip me some tongue of resuscitation.
She gave me a gentle prod with a boot. “Are you all right?”
I could only gasp.
“What was that?”
I made a motion with my hand: Turn me over.
“Can you speak up?”
More motions, weaker this time.
“We’re playing charades?”
A few feeble twitches. Then. . .nothing.
“How am I gonna guess when you’re not helping?” She seemed irritated by the dying man. “Wait a second, are you sure you’re okay?”
The irony of kacking while Leilani asked if I was okay was killing me.
Ray came up. “Why is he just lying there?”
“He won’t say.”
“Funny, usually you can’t shut the guy up.”
Out went the last of my air—or was that a death rattle?
“Uh oh,” said Ray. “I’m no doctor, but I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
Through the gathering darkness, I heard my sweet angel ask, “Think we should turn him over?”
“I guess it can’t hurt,” said Ray as he flipped me onto my back.
Grateful for the gift of life, I sucked in enough air to fill a blimp. Leilani checked out my handsome face.
“Jesus, Ray, flip him back.”
Guess she didn’t like gushing blood and open wounds. I couldn’t blame her, neither did I.
“Give him a break, Leilani,” said Ray. “The guy threw himself into a volcano for you. What more do you want?”
Lying on the ground, I gave Ray two pathetic thumbs up, as if I’d done it on purpose. Anything for Miss June.
Leilani shrugged. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
All right, almost anything. To win the hard-to-please girl of my dreams I’d have to kill myself. That seemed a little extreme. Even then, it might not be enough. How hideous was I? I felt around, noticed my nose was not in its usual place. Neither was my skin.
Doctor Flower arrived and got out her herbal remedies. Her potions would heal me, but I swear to God, getting them down? It was murder.
“Let me rinse that gushing blood away,” said Nurse Flower, trying to cheer me up, “and I’m sure you’ll look a little . . .yeck.”
“Oh my God,” shrieked Leilani.
“Holy shit,” said the guys, turning away.
I appreciated their efforts, but not a one of them cheered me up.
“You’re lucky I brought my first aid kit,” said Flower when she finished gagging.
She pulled out a scalpel, scissors, sewing thread, and a hammer.
I pointed a bloody finger at the hammer. “What’s that for?”
“Just hold him still, Ray,” said Flower. She put something astringent on my face.
“Oww…”
“Pussy,” chided Ray. “You act like you’ve never enjoyed sulfuric acid before.”
“What?”
“He’s just kidding, Mikey,” said Nurse Flower. “It’s paint thinner mixed with cayenne pepper.”
“What?”
“Jesus, take it easy,” said Ray. “Where’s your sense of humor?”
“I left it somewhere with my face.”
“Okay now,” said Flower, “just relax while I gouge the pumice out of these abrasions.”
“Stop. . .’
“Ticklish?”
“It’s just that you’re killing me.”
“I think it’s time for the anesthetic, Ray,” said compassionate Doctor Flower, pointing at the hammer. “I can’t take any more of his sniveling.”
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