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Author Darien Gee on Writing in Hawaii

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 22 May 2012 00:00:00 -1000

“Lore from the past always becomes the seed of imagination and source of invention for the present,” says Dr. M. Puakea Nogelmeier in Don’t Look Back: Hawaiian Myths Made New.

And Darien Gee has done just that in her short story, “Pele in Therapy,” in which a client appears on the doorstep of a therapist whose husband recently left her for his secretary. The client, a red-haired, red-dressed, serious-faced woman flops on the therapist’s sofa. “My love life,” she says. “It’s on the rocks.”

Darien is one of 17 writers who have reimagined and retold some of Hawaii’s favorite legends in this new anthology published by Watermark Publishing. She visited me last week on Kauai, made an appearance on the local public radio station, KKCR, and led a discussion on the use of mythic construction, the hero’s journey and archetypes infuse writing at Small Town Coffee on behalf of Kauai Backstory. Darien resides with her family in Kamuela on Hawaii (Big) Island. Her most recent novel, Friendship Bread, was released in 2011. She published previous novels, Sweet Life and Table Manners, under the pen name Mia King. I weaseled her into answering a few questions of my own.

1. How did you come to live on Big Island?

In 2000 my husband Darrin Gee and I came to the Big Island on vacation. We were living in northern California at the time, married a year and expecting our first child. We felt a connection the minute we looked out the airplane window and saw the island come into view. We landed in Hilo and over the course of two weeks made our way around the island. We had a strong, inexplicable feeling that we were supposed to be here, and returned to the Bay Area to tell friends and family that we were moving. Two months later we sold everything and landed in Kona with four suitcases and a few banker boxes that would arrive by mail in the following week. We came straight up the hill to Waimea and haven't left since. My daughter was born two months after we arrived.

2. What are the advantages/disadvantages to being a writer in Hawaii--from the creative to the publishing process?

My agents and publishers are in New York, so if there was any downside I would say it's the time difference, but that's not specific to writers or writing and it's a small price to pay for paradise. I find great freedom in living in the middle of the ocean, where the closest continental land is 3000 miles away.

For me, living and writing in Hawaii is truly a gift. One of the biggest advantages is being physically distant from the business and "busy"ness of publication. It gives you the space to slow down and keep your attention on your craft. It's so easy to get distracted on the mainland, to find things to do or have those things find you. Here, those excuses melt away. And there's the sheer beauty of the islands, the simplicity. Your days may be full, yes, but you don't have things constantly buzzing in your ear, demanding your immediate response or attention. It's easier to let go of things that don't matter, and that's a huge boon to any person, writer or not.

3. What surprised you the most about living in Hawaii?

I hadn't expected to feel so at home and so loyal to this place. My father worked in oil and gas so growing up I was accustomed to moving a lot--I've never lived in one place for more than three years until I came to Hawaii. We've been here now for 12 years and I can't imagine ever leaving. I love traveling but I love coming home. I am always ready to come home.

4. What one piece of advice or pearl of wisdom would you give to aspiring writers?

Write. That may seem like odd advice, but there are lots of writers (myself included) who like to talk about writing, think about writing, and don't actually do a lot of writing in the course of a day. If you truly want to write, then write. Sit down in front of your computer or with a notebook and start writing. Don't lose yourself in research or interviews or conferences or excuses. You have everything you need already. So write.

5. Where do you find your creative inspiration?

In the small details, in the seemingly innocuous exchanges between people. When I was flying back to the Big Island from Kauai the other day, I found myself staring at my car keys (see how ready I was to be home?) and in particular the red alarm button on my key fob which had the word PANIC on it. My first thought was why on earth would a car company choose that word over HELP or ALARM or even a picture of airwaves or something to indicate the sound. The red color is a dead giveaway, too -- you just know it's an emergency button. But why the word PANIC? I started thinking about a woman noticing this same thing as she's on her way to receive some bad news (only she doesn't know that just yet and she isn't overthinking the word like I am, just lingering on it). That night I had a intense dream and woke up seeing how my dream and this woman and this PANIC button on the key fob were all connected. It doesn't always happen that way, but most of my books and ideas are triggered by something small and simple. And then...look out!

6. Most of your books are set on the mainland, tell us why you decided to set Sweet Life on Big Island?

I wanted to capture the beauty and mystery of Hawaii, about the draw that many of us experience when we first come here. I played with the idea that the island chooses you and when that happens, all sorts of things go into motion. This is a deeply spiritual place and a lot of inner and spiritual work happens here whether you want it or not. I also wanted to showcase local chefs and food purveyors (all of my novels have recipes in the back that relate to the book). The Hawaiian concept of 'ohana which extends beyond your immediate family was also a theme I wanted to have in the book. There's also all the funny mishaps that come about when you have a native New Yorker move to Hawaii, as is what happens in my book. You just know it's going to be a journey.

7. In "Pele in Therapy," published in the anthology Don't Look Back, your protagonist experiences an encounter with the goddess Pele. Have you had your own encounters?

I'd have to say that my encounters are more elusive than obvious. Unlike most people who come to Hawaii for the beaches, I was drawn instantly to the volcano. I love the lush, green hills of Waimea where we live, but I am here for the volcano. No question about that.

I am aware of a constant communion between Pele energy, the land, and my own experiences here. I also know that Pele is not an "on-demand," spectator sort of goddess. When I'm in volcano, I tend to listen more, to tread carefully, to feel more. I am reverent. I am very aware of the energy of the earth below my feet. I watch my words, and my thoughts. I'm still taken by the breathtaking expanses of lava fields. That's probably about as much encounter as I can handle.

Lychee Means Summer in Hawaii

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 16 May 2012 00:00:00 -1000

The plumeria trees are choke full of blossoms. Red-footed booby eggs are hatching out naked and scrawny chicks. Ticks are springing to life and chasing my two dogs. Gardenia blossoms are raiding the senses through open windows of the house. Ceilings fans are whirring.

And lychee are popping up everywhere, their soft fruit encased in a thick skin.

I have a friend who moved into a new home with a towering lychee tree that shaded her entire yard. Its generosity of shade far surpassed its generosity of fruit, however, so at the advice of others more knowledge in this endeavor, she girdled it. Not to kill it but to shock it into fruiting. And it did. Soon, she was bagging bouquets of the golf-ball-sized fruit to give away to neighbors. To take to the office for co-workers. To nourish fellows writers.

Others with an excess of the fruit native to southeast Asia sell bags of the sought-after fruit from the beds of their trucks, the trunks of their cars and behind card tables set up on the sides of busy roads. Not to mention farmers markets.

The red shell of the oval fruit peels away to reveal a white translucent fruit with a sweet-tart, grape-like flavor wrapped around a single seed. The Hawaii Farmers Market Cookbook contains two recipes for lychee: Ginger-Stuffed Lychee and Lychee Salsa. But my favorite way to eat it is raw. Right out of the reddish-brown papery skin.

Last week, after three hours of watching a two-week-old Hawaiian monk seal pup cavort in the near-shores waters of the beach, crawl over her mother’s head, poke her mother for another round of nursing and, finally, settle in for a morning nap, I roasted under the hot sun of a mid-morning day when the trades didn’t even tickle the film of the ocean’s surface. And, then, Sharon Pomroy showed up with a bag of chilled lychee. I peeled the skin back with my teeth and squeezed the orb of cold meat into my mouth, spitting out the seed. The first lychee of the season always tastes the best. That's when it dawned on me: It's summer in Hawaii.

The great pendulum of nature has swung through spring and is returning with the next season, summer. Our seasons in Hawaii may not look like those elsewhere but are seasons nonetheless. Right now, it's lychee season.

Happy 99th Birthday Kilauea Lighthouse

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 11 May 2012 00:00:00 -1000

The 99th anniversary of Kilauea Point Lighthouse drew quite a crowd on Saturday, May 5, 2012.

The weather forecast predicted a repeat of the day before: a line of marching squalls and gunmetal skies.

On the ground, wedge-tailed shearwaters moaned their courtship calls in burrows dug into a seam of land that plunged 100 feet to the sea. Across the cove from the jutting finger of land atop which the 52-foot lighthouse tower sat, red-footed boobies incubated eggs in nests atop ironwood trees, waving in the gentle trade winds. Laysan albatrosses locked their wings and slid around the peninsula to three-month-old chicks awaiting a meal of fish eggs and squid. Red-tailed tropicbirds squawked in a group dance, eye-level with the famous Fresnel lens sitting still in a diamond-paned lantern. Nene, Hawaii’s endangered goose, declined the invitation and headed for cover under a blanket of naupaka bushes.

Humans arrived, too. Gary Smith recounted tales growing up as the manager’s son of Kilauea Sugar Company. Former Kilauea Point ranger and wildlife artist Patrick Ching taught a drawing class inside the old radio house. Kumu Kehaulani Kekua led her Halau Palaihiwa O Kaipuwai in chant and dance. And the Waipa Serenaders offered their nahenahe, sweet and melodious, sound.

Watching over the festivities sat the 99-year-old, half-restored lighthouse that has witnessed both world wars since it was built. A couple earthquakes. Several hurricanes. Paved roads and bridges. The arrival of the automobile. The first airplane to Hawaii. Electricity. RADAR. Dozens of light keepers. Hundreds of volunteers. And, always, seabirds. Thousands of seabirds.

Overhead, the sun winked, the skies delivered blue, and not a single rain drop fell.

After one-and-a-half years of restoration, the first phase of the lighthouse renovation is complete. All the metal has had its rust and paint sanded, stripped and re-finished. In the next year, the concrete will receive a face-list. The first Saturday in May 2013 will mark the 100th anniversary of Kilauea Point Light Station, and you are invited to join us for an even bigger celebration and the unveiling of a new, 100-year-old lighthouse.

Hawaiian Monk Seals and Humanity

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 04 May 2012 00:00:00 -1000

The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.

Mahatma Gandhi

Four years ago this week, a young Hawaiian monk seal gave birth to a healthy, little pup on a remote beach on Kauai’s North Shore. Sadly, the new mother showed absolutely no interest in her pup. She didn’t nuzzle it. She didn’t present her teats for nursing. It wasn’t the first time she had turned away from her offspring. This same female had birthed in very nearly the same spot the year before with the same result—she abandoned her pup.

The second time it happened, a team of researchers and scientists made the hard decision to intervene—to not let nature take its course. Instead, to raise the pup in captivity and release it back to the wild about the same time its mother would have weaned it, about five to seven weeks of age. It was, after all, one of only 1,100 Hawaiian monk seals left in a population that is declining at 4% per year. Heroic measures were required.

They called him KP2. The “KP” stood for “Kauai pup.” The “2” represented the second pup born on Kauai in 2008. KP2 was flown to a NOAA facility on Oahu, where he developed an eye condition that extended his stay in captivity by several months. He was fed and treated by hand, of course. It was the only way. Finally, in December, some seven months after his birth, KP2 was outfitted with a tracking device and released in the waters off Molokai. Things went well, at first. He foraged. He explored. But, then, he explored a little too much and popped up at a busy—for Molokai—harbor. He made friends with swimmers and boogey-boarding children. He crawled onto the swim platforms on the backs of boats. He galumphed up boat ramps and napped.

There would be good and bad repercussions.

The good: KP2 befriended children, adults and, even, dogs right about the time the death of two Hawaiian monk seals on Kauai were being investigated. One of the two cases would be resolved and a man would go to prison for a 90-day sentence for shooting a full-term pregnant female. Monk seals needed all the friends they could get in 2009.

The bad: As KP2 grew, it was feared his friendly behavior with swimmers would turn into more than mere humans could handle. In fact, there were reports already that he was clasping and holding swimmers under water. (There are many YouTube videos.) The situation was turning into a wildlife management nightmare. At the same time, KP2’s eye condition worsened, and he was removed from the wild—to the anger of many, new Hawaiian monk seal advocates.

KP2 made another journey, this time to the University of California Santa Cruz. He stayed there, undergoing tests and participating in research programs, until late last year, when KP—by now renamed Ho’ailona and given his own Facebook page—moved to the Waikiki Aquarium on Oahu in December 2011.

On Monday of this week, Ho’ailona celebrated his fourth birthday with fish-stuffed ice cakes and some new toys.

Last Friday, three days before Ho’ailona’s fourth birthday, his mother pupped again--a mere stone’s throw away from Ho’ailona’s own birth spot.

Much has happened in the four years since Ho’ailona’s birth. New science has been gleaned thanks to this once-abandoned pup. Research has been conducted into the role Hawaiian monk seals played in the Hawaiian language and culture. PSAs are airing in support of this endangered species. Websites, non-profit organizations, foundations and coalitions are rallying their cry. And laws have been tightened to prosecute those who harm, harass or kill these wild creatures that—with their Buddha smile—warm many people’s hearts.

But not everyone’s hearts are warmed. On April 22, another Hawaiian monk seal was found dead in Hawaii, and his death is under investigation.

As a volunteer with the Hawaiian Monk Seal Conservation Hui, I get asked about these deaths—there have been others—and they sadden me greatly.

It’s no secret that many fishermen see monk seals as competition in the dwindling supply of fisheries, and some consider the Hawaiian monk seal an invasive species introduced by the government. I could write a lot about this. But I won’t. Not now.

One week ago today, KP2’s mom gave birth again. This time, she rolled over and presented her teats to her pup. She lifted her head to check on it mid-nap. She galumphed to the water and took it for a swim—albeit a little early in its life. Maybe instinct finally kicked in. She reached a certain age. Or enough oxytocin raced through her system. Whatever happened, the important thing is: She stayed.

Here’s what I want to share: I believe in the power of redemption. Just as the “evil” mom who abandoned her pups finally came around, I believe we humans can, too. We humans are amazing creatures. We slingshot people into outer space and bring them back to earth safely. We use robotic surgical arms controlled by computers to perform coronary artery bypasses. There is a tsunami of support building for Hawaii’s state mammal in 2012, and I believe it will wash in a new wave of thinking. One that will allow for wildlife and humans to co-exist. We can figure this out.

Happy birthday, Ho'ailona.

April in Photos

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 02 May 2012 00:00:00 -1000

For me, April saw the breeding plumage of Golden plovers come in. A visit to The Contemporary Museum, now called Spalding House, on Oahu. An afternoon meditation at Broken Ridge Buddhist Temple--in advance of a talk by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. A hike on Manoa Cliff Trail off Round Top Drive in Honolulu, Oahu. An architectural tour of Chinatown. Wedge-tailed shearwaters clean up their burrows and pair up in advance of laying some eggs. The birth of two Hawaiian monk seal pups. And more.

How was your April?

Massage Is My Meditation

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

The problem with writing about massage is that I cannot shut off my brain and enjoy the massage.

The chatter of a writer's mind rarely quits. (Well, at least, this writer's mind.) I am writing when I walk my dogs, when I drive my car, when I shower. I am writing even when I sleep. (I can prove this: My husband says my fingers type in my sleep.)

Recently, I scheduled a lomilomi massage at Ville de Coco day spa at Outrigger Luana Waikiki.

When I arrived, I started making mental notes: The décor was modern in dark, painted woods and accented in sleek chrome. Soft music played. Water trickled from a fountain.

I sat on a modern sofa in the waiting room, where oversized framed images illustrated various finger nail designs. Long finger nail designs. Extremely long finger nails, as worn by the woman who would later run my charge card. I do not do my nails. Never have. But I will admit that the nails in these images looked like art.

A woman appeared from behind a wall to great me. She was young and asked if I was Kim, as if she was expecting me. And she was. I’d made an appointment a couple days prior for a lomilomi massage. She spoke softly, exuding the calm of massage therapists everywhere and asked if I’d like water. Another common massage therapist behavior. Personally, I appreciate it.

“Yes, please.” I said, and she returned with a chilled glass. She presented it to me, and I made sure to note it was presented atop a bamboo coaster on a teak tray. Then, I tasted it and noted the flavors of strawberry, orange and lemon.

Minden sat across from me and presented a tray with three small, covered jars. “What scent would you like for your massage,” she asked, opening each, one at a time, and letting me get a good whiff. There was rose for beauty. Lavender for relaxation. Peppermint for energy.

I was going to hear the Dalai Lama speak later that day. I chose energy.

Minden led me past a salon area, past a rainbow display of nail polish, and, again, I thought of works of art.

The massage started with me lying on my stomach, my face cushioned in a special cradle. I noted the table itself was heated and that an extra blanket in addition to a sheet covered me. I snuggled into the cocoon.

My mind chattered, and I made mental notes. But, then, I remembered something Gregory Pai had said the day before, deep in the valley of Palolo at Broken Ridge Korean Temple, the largest Korean temple outside Korea. It was constructed in the colorful architectural style unique to Korea with replicas of pagodas and statues that date back to the fifth century.

Here, on Saturday afternoons, Greg leads a mindfulness meditation sitting for two hours. On the Saturday before the Dalai Lama’s talk, he guided a group of 35 people of all ages and color in sitting meditation, encouraging us to still our bodies and minds. One of the things I remembered Greg saying was to follow the breath. Pay attention to the body’s reaction to every inhale and exhale. This was the way to empty the mind.

Minden started on my upper back, using her forearms and elbows in long strokes, and I forgot about Greg. I forgot about my breath. Instead I started thinking about possible themes for this blog essay. Something about good things coming in small packages, maybe. Minden was petite. The spa was cozy. Or, how attention to detail made all the difference. Minden leaned down to whisper in my ear, “How is the pressure, Kim?” She took care to fold the sheet in even creases at my waist.

My writer’s mind continued to chatter away. And, then, Minden hit my hips.

Every massage therapist has a specialty, whether they realize it or not. Even young Minden. Minden's specialty is the hips and glutes. After years of running and biking long distances, my body’s larger muscles tend to tighten when I spend hours writing in front of a computer. Minden took care of that.

With the long strokes and elbow use for which lomilomi is known, Minden freed my frozen hips.

What was it Greg had said to do when your mind wandered? Go back to the breath? When I re-focused on my breath, I realized I was drooling. Right through the opening of the face cradle.

Massage is my mindful meditation. Indeed.

What to Pack for Hawaii

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I remember my first Hawaii discovery.

I was 25, young and in love, visiting Kauai for the first time on my honeymoon. I thought I had everything in the world. A husband. A Hawaiian vacation. A suitcase with all the necessities--bikini, a hot sundress and strappy sandals in the suitcase.

We went to Hanalei Beach. We snorkeled at Anini Beach. We took a boat ride along Napali Coast. We were feted at a luau, me in my hot pink, silk sundress--I loved that sundress--and black, strappy sandals. My hubs sporting his first Aloha Shirt.

One early morning, after breakfast at Wake-Up Cafe in Hanalei, we motored on down the road, in our rental car convertible packed for a day at Kee Beach. The ocean spread out on one side of the car, the fern-draped mountain hugged us on the other. We parked--this was when you could park at the end of the road--and lugged our gear to the beach adjacent to Napali Coast and discovered Kalalau Trail.

In discovering Kalalau Trail, I discovered hiking. (I hail from the Midwest, remember, where there are no mountains. No real hiking trails.)

I also discovered that sexy, black, strappy sandals cut and blister your feet should you try to use them for anything other than what they were made for--standing. But I didn’t care. I was hiking Napali Coast. I was traipsing along Kalalau Trail. We didn’t get far.

My new-found love for hiking graduated to backpacking after our honeymoon, and I strapped on a pack, carrying a sleeping bag, tent, cookware, food, water and more on my back. My husband and I explored national parks this way, and when we moved to Kauai, a few days later, we lit out for the territory--Kalalau Trail. This time, wearing hiking shoes.

I became the type of backpacker who a) gets elated when I have just the tool--a tweezers on my Swiss Army knife to remove a thorn, say--when I need it; and b) gets upset if I don’t have exactly what I need.

That mentality translates beyond backpacking, too, to my island-hopping suitcase. Over the years as a writer for OutriggerHawaii, I’ve learned to keep some very handy tools and items in my suitcase. I never remove them from my suitcase between trips, so I don’t have to remember to pack them. What’s more, like the backpacking pack rat that I was, they take up very little room and weigh next to nothing. But they offer a myriad of uses.

Here’s my list of what every suitcase in Hawaii should contain:

1. Stuffable hat: For sunny days on the trail or the ocean. Or, shopping, too, I suppose.
2. Waterproof stuff sack/backpack: For hiking of all kinds, but especially for hiking in misty, rain forests.
3. Foldable water bottle: So I don’t have to buy single-use plastic bottles of water. I even finagle flight attendants into filling these, instead of a tiny, plastic cup that, seconds later, goes in the trash.
4. Pareau: For use as dress, bathrobe, swimsuit cover up and beach towel.
5. Raincoat: Because you never know.
6. Fabric bag from Muumuu Heaven: So, I can say no to plastic bags at the grocery store, book store, gift shop, wherever. It also comes in handy if I come home with more stuff than I packed. Know what I mean?
7. Phone car cell phone charges: Because sometimes I forget to pack the real one.
8. A selection of tea bags: Because I do not drink coffee.
9. A three-inch bamboo spoon/fork combo: Then, I can say no to plastic utensils.
10. Cheap slippahs: They are accepted everywhere.

What about you? What items are your packing must-haves?

His Holiness the Dalai Lama in Honolulu

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Sporting maroon socks inside his Rockport-like shoes and a maroon, neoprene visor atop his shaved head, His Holiness the Dalai Lama entered upstage as singer-songwriter Michael McDonald and Henry Kapono sang, “What the World Needs Now Is Love Sweet Love.”

He smiled the smile that the world has come to know and love, and the applause drowned out the former Doobie Brother and Wild Hawaiian. The sold-out crowd, some waiting nearly three hours this past Sunday, did not populate the Stan Sheriff Center to listen to music, although the entertainment was a big bonus during the long wait. No, people flew from neighbor islands, drove from all corners of Oahu and filed into the arena on the campus of the University of Hawaii at Manoa to hear one man speak. Off the cuff.

There were no notes. No bulleted PowerPoint presentation. No video. Just a wireless mic and a podium. (And, when he wasn’t speaking, a cushioned chair in which to sit.)

His Holiness bent to shake Governor Abercrombie’s hand—sitting in the first row—and three men in black suits charged from the darks of the stage to flank the 77-year-old, born Tenzin Gyatso in northeastern Tibet. His Holiness is spry, but, still, he’s 77 years old, and it wouldn’t do to have the spiritual leader of Tibet falling and injuring himself. With a bow, His Holiness acknowledged Maya Soetoro-Ng, the sister to President Barack Obama.

Then, he took his seat. Even the 14th reincarnation of Avalokiteshvara or Chenrezig, the Bodhisattva of Compassion and patron saint of Tibet, had to endure introductions and protocol. Perhaps, with a few ants in his pants. Or his monk’s garb. He arranged and re-arranged his maroon robe, leaving his right arm bare, as is tradition. He re-adjusted the kukui lei he wore on-stage and the additional one given to him by performer Amy Hanaiali’i, eventually removing both and flicking away any stray bits of flower petals and leaves from the back of his neck.

Leslie Wilcox served as “Mistress of Ceremonies.” President and CEO of the Hawaii Community Foundation, Kelvin Taketa welcomed His Holiness and the crowd. And E-bay founder and host Pierre Omidyar introduced His Holiness.

His Holiness sat on the edge of his seat, hands propped on the chair’s arms, ready to stand, with a look on his face as if to say, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah.” His Holiness has often referred to himself as just “a simple Buddhist monk.” But he has been recognized with numerous awards, including the Nobel Peace Prize, the U.S. Congressional Gold Medal and, recently, the Templeton Prize for his work in spiritually relevant scientific research. So, the introduction took a while.

Finally, His Holiness the Dalai Lama stood behind the podium. He started by admitting that he was lazy. That’s why he hadn’t prepared a special speech. “Another factor, whenever I meet people I feel I’m with my long time friend. It’s an immense help to maintain a calm mind. I usually call the audience brothers and sisters.”

English is not a first language for His Holiness, and sometimes it was hard to understand him. The translation on the large screens around the arena helped.

His larger point was that people around the world are all the same, and we must remember that. We must approach our neighbors and our perceived enemies with compassion and respect as if we were members of the same family. We must use our words not force. We must listen. “All beings want a happy life. Do not want disturbances. That is a basic right. All living things have a basic right to survive.” That included trees and plants and animals.

“Instinctively, we have the desire to achieve a happy life. Every result entirely depends on its own causes. I think joyfulness, happiness entirely depends on ones own action. Three levels: Physical. Verbal. Mental. Here mental action is the key factor.”

The Dalai Lama would stress throughout his talk the importance of mental mastery—the training of the mind to develop a proper mental attitude. “World peace must come through inner peace, at the individual level. In order to have a happy life, inner peace very essential. Too much stress, too much anxiety, develops frustration, hopelessness, then anger, hatred. Destructive emotions, such as anger and hatred, mainly come through mental thinking.”

It’s not easy. It takes discipline. His Holiness admitted he wasn’t always committed to his practice. These revelations—his ease with poking fun at himself—were intentional. They put others at ease in the great man’s presence. They made others feel like he was just another human being, too.

“My study started as a 6 or 7 year-old,” he said. “Till I was about 12 or 13, I had no interest in study. Only play. When the time for study came, even the sun became darker. On a holiday, weather seemed brighter. Later I found, this sort of knowledge from study immensely helpful. For my case, mainly for peace of mind. Peace of mind is the goal. But in order to achieve that, my approach must be realistic.”

Realistic expectations are key. His Holiness didn’t shy way from the topics of international politics or world economics.

“I asked some of my friends involved in money matters about the recent global economic crisis. ‘What’s wrong?’ Their answer: ‘Too much greed.’ Too much greed is an unrealistic desire. At any level, unrealistic desires never bring satisfactory results.”

His Holiness the Dalai Lama did not make his talk about religion. He didn’t proselytize. Instead, he professed “secular ethics.”

“All major religious traditions carry this practice. But if we rely on religious faith, it will never be universal. We really need a universal way, through education, to develop universal compassion.”

His Holiness the Dalai Lama wrapped his public address up with these words—to a standing ovation.

“The problem is created by human beings themselves. The answer must be found from human beings. The answer must come from individual. Don’t feel helplessness. Create inner peace. And share with more people. Your friend. And then your enemy. That’s the way to transform our world.”

After taking his seat, a hula halau made up of young people took the stage and performed in honor of His Holiness. They circled him, dancing. As each young person passed close to His Holiness, he reached up and touched their arm or shoulder, in a gesture of acknowledgement. But when one little girl’s back was turned, His Holiness the Dalai Lama reached up and gave her braid a tug. Seventy-seven years old. The 14th reincarnation of the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Patron saint of Tibet. And, still, a little rascal.

Hiking Manoa Cliff Trail on Tantalus in Oahu

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I sat in the cozy Protea Café awaiting a salad--pear and (go light on the) gorgonzola salad after a morning switch-backing Round Top Drive and hiking Manoa Cliff Trail atop Mt. Tantalus just outside Waikiki. It was another inspiring iPhone and Olloclip photography outing—an artist’s date, as Julia Cameron would call it--as well as time for contemplation. All in preparation for the Dalai Lama's upcoming talk.

It took a mere 15 minutes to get to Mt. Tantalus from Waikiki. But the psychological distance is much greater than that.

In The Art of Travel—yes, I’m still reading it—Alain de Botton leaves London for “The Lake District” and the lifelong walking grounds of William Wordsworth. Born in 1770, the poet was a dedicated walker. These walks along the lakeshore and in the mountains inspired many poems dedicated to butterflies, skylarks, daisies, and cuckoos. Ordinary things. Ordinary things in nature.

The writer de Botton continues, “These [poems] were not haphazard articulations of pleasure. Behind them lay a well-developed philosophy of nature, which—infusing all of Wordsworth’s work—made an original and, in the history of Western thought, hugely influential claim about our requirements for happiness and the origins of our unhappiness.” Here’s the part I like. “The poet proposed that nature—which he took to comprise, among other elements, birds, streams, daffodils and sheep—was an indispensable corrective to the psychological damage inflicted by life in the city.”

Now, I like life in the city. Make that: I like spending time in the city. I love to visit Honolulu from my home on rural Kauai. I like to walk Waikiki Beach. Cruise Kalakaua Avenue. Admire the street performers. And, I admit it: I like to make pit-stops in the Apple store.

That’s one thing. Here’s another: I like to think that I manage stress fairly well. That I don’t harbor the weight of work, marriage, homeownership, imminent tax payments, pet-motherhood, volunteer commitments, and such on my shoulders. I like to think that my psychological health is fairly well off.

I may be wrong about that, as Mr. Wordsworth proved to me when I hit Round Top Drive, one of the most picturesque drives on Oahu, and turned off the A/C. I rolled down my windows to let the fertile scent of nature--that good smell of decomposing matter that permeates forests--infuse my nostrils, and, suddenly, I was breathing deeper, my shoulders were dropping, and I felt some hidden tensions drain from the muscles in my face. The higher I ascended on the mountain, the more green everything became—vines wrapping around trees, moss growing on rocks, ginger, eucalyptus, bamboo and banana encroached and arched over the road. And not even the sounding alarm and digital message on my dashboard reading, “low tire pressure” could invade my new-found state of mind.

But I beg to differ with Mr. Wordsworth on another point. I would amend the last sentence of de Botton’s quote above by deleting the last three words. So, that it reads, “The poet proposed that nature—which he took to comprise, among other elements, birds, streams, daffodils and sheep—was an indispensable corrective to the psychological damage inflicted by life.”

Not necessarily life in the city. But life. Period.

Hiking trails, lakes, and wilderness parks are important to everyone, no matter where you live. The incessant string of emails, latest-breaking news in the Trayvon Martin case, a to-do list an arm’s length long, low-tire pressure. These items take up space in our brains and add weight to our lives, and they are not location-specific. So, accessibility to nature is key. Convenience, too.

Manoa Cliff Trail is part of the nine-mile Honolulu Mauka Trail System and the larger Na Ala Hele Trail & Access System.

Back in the restaurant, smells from the open kitchen wafted my way, tantalizing, and pulled my head out of my book and thoughts of Manoa Cliff Trail. The lone waitress in this triangular-shaped eatery, Charlene, breezed by with a fresh-made—fresh as in I watched the chef roll out the dough—pizza. A margherita with thinly-sliced tomatoes over bubbling parmesan.

There are only five or six two-tops and one community table that seats eight in the entire restaurant, but the teak tables and chairs and the warm-colored walls lend solidity and character to the place. Two businessmen sat at one table behind me. A family of four sat at the long table. Outside the screened window, cars buzzed by on Kalakaua Avenue. But I was still on the narrow Manoa Cliff Trail. The first quarter-mile got my heart racing and breath quickening, but the downhill second quarter mile gave both back.

I made a note on my digital voice recorder, “No cellular service. Even better. And big, tall mahogany trees. Vines. Dappled sunlight. This is a forest. This is peace. This is meditation. This is contemplation. I have found it.” And, then, after a breath and exhalation, “Off we go.” I sounded just like Wordsworth did to his contemporaries when they chided him, even mocked him with parodies, such as:

When I see a cloud,
I think out loud,
How lovely it is,
To see the sky like this

A little further on, I added to my digital voice recorder, “Now, I am up here on Manoa Cliff Trail glimpsing views of the valley. Manoa Falls are a trickle. The birds are going crrrraaaaaazy. Ti plants. All different kind of ferns. Koa. Koa. KOA! Good lord, god blessed, koa. And yet I can still hear a far off bulldozer down in the valley. Passed one couple with binoculars, birding. Passed a second couple. Just passed a lone man weeding a rock face. He was pulling out invasive plants--weeds. He gave me the Latin name. I didn’t recognize it. He gave me the common name. I recognized it. But now, a few feet further on, amidst a mad bamboo forest, I can’t remember it.”

Way at the back of the valley, I reached a gate. A sign explained this was a six-acre area of forest fenced to keep pigs out and allow native species to grow in their native habitat. The fenced area was part of The Manoa Cliff Native Forest Restoration Project, aimed with bringing back the native Hawaiian forest. I saw more koa trees and o’hi’a, mamaki, koki’o ke’oke’o. I took a business card with the organization’s name and website address.

I turned around here, about one-and-a-half miles in. On the return trek, it started to sprinkle, and I made this note, “I realize that I am much more observant on the outbound journey. I am much more aware of my surroundings, what I’m seeing, the views, whether the trail is going up or down. I wonder what’s around the next bend. I make note of plants and trees. But on the return trip, since the trail is now familiar to me, my mind goes into a natural state of contemplation and thinking. I am now inside my head, for good or bad. I don’t stop to look around or take pictures. My momentum carries me downhill.”

According to de Botton, “In the autumn of 1790, the poet [Wordsworth] went on a walking tour of the Alps. He travelled from Geneva to the Vale of Chamouni, then crossed the Simplon Pass and descended through the Ravine of Gondo to Lake Maggiore. In a letter to his sister describing what he had seen, he wrote, ‘At this moment when many of these landscapes are floating before my mind, I feel a high enjoyment in reflecting that perhaps scarce a day of my life will pass in which I shall not derive some happiness from these images’."

Wordsworth called these experiences “spots of time.” They were the snapshots of moments that stuck with him. He professed these “spots of time” stick with us throughout our lives and give us the same psychological boost as when we first experienced them.

There are in our existence spots of time,
That with distinct pre-eminence retain
A renovating virtue…
That penetrates, enables us to mount,
When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.

For me, on my Manoa Cliffs Trail hike, my spot of time took place on a stretch of trail that opened to the sun, offering a sweeping glimpse of the valley and far ridge. Two palm trees caught my eye—so seemingly out of place up here. I felt the warmth of the sun on my face, and I was stopped in my tracks by the pure and piercing song of two shama thrush. The fervor, the passion, the intensity of their call made me think they must be courting. And, so, I tip-toed on, doing my best not to interrupt their own spot of time.

Spalding House, a.k.a. The Contemporary Museum

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I am on Oahu, staying at the Outrigger Luana Waikiki, which sits, propitiously, next door to Ft. DeRussy Park, a perfect compliment to the theme of this long weekend trip to Oahu—not the fort part but the park part.

As you may know, I believe in trip themes. By themes, I mean a trip built around a yoga retreat, say. Or hiking adventures. Or history. Or friendship. Or romance. Or birdwatching. Travel themes give the journey a purpose. They also help whittle down decisions in this distracting world in which we live. They just plain make life easier. And shouldn’t vacation be easy?

This trip’s theme is meditation. Or introspection. Maybe contemplation. You get the idea. It’s probably true that I have Audrey Sutherland to thank for this current state of mine. Or the Dalai Lama. He’s speaking on Sunday at the University of Hawaii’s Stan Sheriff Center, and I built this trip leading up to that event.

The journey to hear the Dalai Lama harkens back millennia when people made spiritual pilgrimages. People of all faiths were known to do this, Hawaiians included. Interestingly enough, this pilgrimage takes me from Kauai to Oahu, from the country to the city. And that is in direct contrast to one poet’s prescription to the salvation of the soul, as, ironically, I read on the flight into Honolulu.

In “The Art of Travel,” Alain du Botton shares that the poet William Wordsworth shocked the literati when he first wrote such lines as,

O Nightingale! Thou surely art
A Creature of a fiery heart--…
Thou sing’st as if the God of wine
Had help’d thee to a Valentine.

But, soon, Wordsworth's contemporaries’ sneers turned to cheers, and more and more people followed his footsteps into the country in an “attempt to restore health to their bodies, and more important, harmony to their souls.”

There are many things to do in Waikiki. Should I go shopping at Ala Moana Shopping Center? Sign up for a snorkeling boat tour? Go people-watching along Kalakaua Avenue? Or visit an art gallery? My trip’s theme helped me decide. Made it easy. Harmony to my soul.
As soon as I took possession of my rental car, I headed for Makiki Heights Drive and The Contemporary Museum on Mt. Tantalus.

Upon arriving right at opening time of 10:00 a.m., I remembered The Contemporary Museum is no longer The Contemporary Museum. It is now called Spalding House, after it merged with The Honolulu Academy of Arts, which itself has since gone through a transformation and is now called The Honolulu Museum of Art. (Did you get all that?)

The net result: The gift shop is closed. But the rest of the changes are in name and legalities only. As far as I could tell.

A mama chicken and her six, freshly-hatched chicks scratched in some dirt outside the entrance of the one-time residence of Anna Rice Cooke. A couple entered before me. They headed for the wide-open grassy yard with its sculpture of a horse made of twigs, and I never saw them again. I had the exhibit hall to myself.

When I saw the hundreds of shark teeth tacked into the bare wall—it looked like this collection of teeth, each no bigger than a dime, were all put into a sling shot and blasted at the wall in one fell, Rorschach swoop--I pulled out my iPhone and got busy, attaching my handy Olloclip (with fish-eye, wide-angle and macro lens) to my camera’s lens and tapping my artist wannabe.

People are so creative. I am always inspired by whatever works of art are on display here. This exhibit, titled “Biennial of Hawaii Artists X”, featured six artists from Hawaii. What fascinated me most on this visit was the way in which artists come to their work.

Bruna Stude’s artist statement read, “I spent most of my life at sea. My earliest memories are of water.” She wrote that she used to take portraits of marine life. Now, she photographs “empty oceans,” because of the concern she has for our impact on the sea. “My photographs are not documentation but an artistic choice to illuminate. Looking up from only a few inches below the surface, I see cities. I see only what man has created. By revealing the truth and the extraordinary, I try to create an awareness and inspire reverence.”

Bruna’s is more of a conservation message. Wordsworth might well approve.

From “Lines Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey” and subtitled, “On revisiting the banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798, Wordsworth writes:

Though absent long,
These forms of beauty have not been to me,
As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet…
With tranquil restoration.

In another room of this one-time residence that was built in 1925, Solomon Enos drew on his Native Hawaiian upbringing and stories of shape-shifters and voyagers in his creation. He wrote that he is also influenced by the writings of Carl Sagan, Frank Herbert, Philip K. Dick and Kurt Vonnegut “from which I have always sought to merge the genre of science fiction with indigenous and aboriginal beliefs, and from this desire, birthed a concept called Polyfantastica. His work reminds me a bit of the demi-God Maui in that Enos throws his creative fish hook into the deep of his subconscious where the stories of his ancestors reside, and he pulls them into the light and flings his discoveries into the sky where they dance and morph and run in parallel lives to the stars and sun and moon.

I exited the Spalding House and discovered a maze of trails through a delightful garden, as if I’d found a back door in a wardrobe. Through the cloud of mosquitoes that escorted me over moss-covered rocks, I delighted in and descended into more artistic works of art. Someone had planted these hillsides of ferns. Someone had placed these boulders just so, statuary in their own right. Someone had carved this path leading to a warren of rocks, and I could have sworn fairies or beings—maybe Enos’ shape-shifters—gathered here when no one was looking. Maybe they were here now, dancing on tiptoe and giggling in great guffaws behind their inter-galactic hands or paws or whatever they used to cover their mouths.

I laughed, too—really, I did. Out loud. I flipped my Olloclip from macro to fish-eye, and I clicked away.

When I emerged from the garden, I discovered a huge Monkeypod-like tree draping the grassy yard and—can you believe it—a Pacific golden plover scurrying in the grass plucking nourishing nuggets from the ground. Birds, of course. Even in the city. Take that, Wordsworth. I laughed out loud, again, and dropped to the ground. It was time for the Big Girl Camera. I pulled out my telephoto lens to snap reminders of this native bird—kolea—with his shiny, new feathers as it fattened up for its upcoming 36-hour migration to Alaska. Then, I noticed the red-breasted cardinal and shama thrush. That’s what’s great about birding—you can do it anywhere. Take nature with you, even to the big city.

By now, a school group dressed in black—school colors?—were being led around the place by a docent. A couple enjoyed a picnic basket provided by the Contemporary Café--its name hasn’t changed.

This will sound like an exaggeration, but I swear on my Olloclip lens that it’s not: The Contemporary Museum or Spalding House or whatever it is called is one of my favorite places on Oahu. Here, I am nourished on so many levels. I can gaze at whatever the current exhibit and be inspired enough to try some of my own artistic endeavors. I can meander up and down the nature path and contemplate—and maybe, one day, if I bend, tilt my head and squint just right I will actually see the fairies. I can sit under a tree on the lawn and write. Or I can pull out my camera and take pictures of the many birds that alight on sculptures, peck the ground for food and call to me from the towering umbrella of a tree. And I can enjoy a tasty lunch of Herb and Roasted Garlic Tomato Soup and Quinoa Salad with avocado, red onions, cilantro and herb vinaigrette dressing. It’s easy being vegan at the Contemporary Café.

But here’s the key. I believe these kinds of endeavors need to be done alone--as solitary endeavors. If I was with a friend or my husband, I’d gaze at a work of art and try to think of some astute thing to say about it, and I’d have to process some astute thing they said about something that touched them. I’d have to worry about whether I was taking too long in the garden—me and my Olloclip. If I was with someone else trying to be astute, trying to keep up, I might have missed the fairy rocks, the kolea in the yard, and the millipede on the empty, white canvas of a wall.

And, now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m off to go hiking.

In Haleiwa on Oahu's North Shore In Search of Audrey Sutherland

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 11 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

There are many alternatives I’ve found. No one system is the ultimate answer. If one route is blocked off there is another way to go. I’ve learned to live without things and alone. The ability to live in a variety of styles, city or country, with people or without, in different languages and cultures, with enthusiasm for the small luxuries, gives me a power over the future, whatever chaos the world comes to. -Audrey Sutherland

I sat at the popular Cafe Haleiwa on Oahu's North Shore and plotted.

But, first, I sat on my black, vinyl-covered banquet chair at a red, Formica-topped table and ordered food--a veggie omelette with spinach, onion, mushrooms, tomatoes, zucchini and egg-white substitute.

Then, I flipped open the Honolulu Star-Bulletin, nearly elbowing the surfer next to me. Two guys sat at the table to my right. They wore surf trunks, oversized t-shirts, and when I looked at the black-and-white, checkerboard linoleum floor, I noticed sand still stuck to their feet.

"Looks like it might be a body boarding day," the older one said. The tables here were jammed so close together that I couldn't avoid listening in on their conversation. Fine by me. Eavesdropping tells you a lot about a place.

"I can body board all day," the younger one said in response.

On Oahu's North Shore, Haleiwa is known as a surf town. The restaurant's colorfully-painted walls pay homage to the waves for which the North Shore is famous with oversized canvas prints by local artists. The waves here draw surfers from around the world. When the waves are firing, professionals come in droves, from all points of the globe, like pilgrims to Mecca. Particularly when the new-fangled god of surf predictions--Surfline--beckons.

Surfline is a website that provides comprehensive surf reports and forecasts on a daily basis via mobile applications and the Internet. In the world of surfing, Surfline is as much a necessity as the surfboard itself.

I swiped the screen of my iPhone and pulled up Surfline's report for Jocko's, a surf break outside Haleiwa named after big wave surfing pioneer Jock Sutherland.

The report said: Small conditions for North Shore as residual mix of N/NNE swell and trade swell providing rideable surf at select locations. Jockos doesn't favor the northerly swell angle so look for other spots for ride-able waves.

I wasn't in Haleiwa to surf. I didn't much care whether the surf was breaking at Jockos or not. But I did want to know whether Jocko's mom was around. Surfline couldn't tell me that. I'd have to find out for myself.

I first learned of Audrey Sutherland when I read the February/March issue of Hana Hou, Hawaiian Airlines' in-flight magazine.

According to the magazine, Audrey Sutherland has paddled an estimated 12,000 thousand miles along some of the world's most epic coastlines. In an inflatable kayak. Solo.

There is a sensuous joy in being alone—delight in the simple animal pleasure of blowing my nose with one knuckle, peeing in the moonlight, and trying a Tahitian dance step with only myself to snicker. There is a smug ironic satisfaction in finding an ingenious solution to a problem which was caused by my own inadequacy or stupidity. -A.S.

Audrey published an account of her earliest explorations of Molokai's north shore--known as some of the tallest sea cliffs in the world--in a slim, 136-page memoir titled, Paddling My Own Canoe.

I searched for the book on Amazon, and discovered it was published in 1978, got 4.5 stars out of five, and was still in print. A collector's copy sold for $140.83. But I bought a used library hardback for considerably less. When it arrived in the mail, I was packing for a trip to Maui, where I savored passages in snatches while sitting on the lanai at the Royal Kahana Resort. I gazed off into the distance at the very coastline that Audrey, first, swam and, then, kayaked. I stared at the pinpricks of rocks off Molokai's north shore--Mokapu Island, was it? And Okala Island?

I like to think I know all the good books published about Hawaii. Especially those in my genre--outdoor adventure. But, boy, was I wrong. Humbled again.

I've since recommended Paddling My Own Canoe to my posse of readers and writers and outdoor enthusiasts. I've blogged about it here. At first, I berated myself over and over, "How could I not have known about this book?" Then, I moved from a question to a statement: “I've got to meet her.”

But how?

Back in the days of my mainland career, I spent my fair share of time around famous people in their fields. Some names you'd recognize; others you wouldn't. Sometimes I sat around board rooms with these people--or, in one case, at a nationally-known basketball coach's personal desk in his team's locker room. Sometimes, I escorted these folks to dinners. Other times to autograph signings. And, yet, I cannot once remember asking a single person for their autograph.* No 8 x 10 glossies adorned my walls. No signed, first editions lined my book shelves. For some reason, and I don't know why--except that I just wasn't born with the gene--I am neither an autograph-seeker nor a celebrity stalker.

Until now.

But does it count if I'm stalking a 90-year-old woman?

Men and women are more alike than different. Women too need to feel the coyote wildness, the pleasure of muscles moving in coordination, the sweat and the weariness, and the uncertainty of what the end to that effort will be. -J.S.

The sun was cresting a line of palm trees that line the far side of Chun's Reef when I scrambled over a stack boulders tossed down by Pele sometime in the not-so-recent past. As I hopped and crawled over the rocks, I periodically perioscoped my head over the hedge of naupaka bushes dividing beach from private property. I felt like George Clooney in The Descendents snooping on his wife's lover, only I wasn't looking for a cheater. Hardly. In the world of epic kayaking adventures, Audrey Sutherland is well-known, having made appearances and talks at outdoor conventions and gatherings, and she was my new hero.

I'm not sure why I had this urgent desire to meet Audrey Sutherland. But after reading her book Paddling My Own Canoe, I felt some sort of connection with her. A kinship. Maybe we belonged to the same tribe--the I-am-my-best-and-most-satisfied-self-when-I-am-alone-in-nature tribe.

Always I come back from these trips feeling like a skinned-up kid, feeling like a renewed, recreated adult, feeling like a tiger. All that basic nature, all that use of animal instincts, arouses some very earthy desires. -A.S.

Audrey raised four children and held a full-time job, but every few vacation days she could sling together, she packed a bag--or waterproof, typewriter box--and headed to Molokai. Alone. She'd hitch a ride to the remote east end and start rock-hopping along the coast--destination Kalaupapa. The trip was not about the destination but the journey. As she hiked, when she got to a dead-end--a vertical wall of rock--she'd stash her shoes and clothes, slip on her “finsmaskandsnorkel” and swim around the point, her box of gear and food tethered and floating behind her. This was the 1960s. Eventually, in the 1970s, outdoor gear caught up with Audrey, and she discovered inflatable kayaks. And dry bags.

On one of my periscope moves, I recognized Audrey's house from a photograph in the magazine article about her, and I dropped my backpack onto the sand in the shade of a palm tree. I sat back against a rock to stare at the sea. As I sat there, a rock morphed into a turtle. Then, one emerged from the sea. The more I watched, the more turtles I saw. Several ebbed and flowed at the tideline, heads below the water, noshing on seaweed.

Now what?

Across the bay, the voices of a pack of beginning surfers floated on the air as waves rolled toward shore in gentle sets. An orange diver's flag bobbed on a float outside the reef. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw some kind of bird buzz low and inland.

If she walked out of the house and onto the beach right now, what would I say to her? What would I ask her?

I imagined she was watching me from her window, and I made sure to give the turtles plenty of distance. In the Hana Hou article, she kept a sign that said, "Please stay six feet away from the turtles." I looked around, but I didn't see it.

Should I just go knock on her door? The front door would be better than the back. Traipsing across the back yard, past a hammock strung between two palm trees, onto her lanai, by a picnic table where she’s probably eaten hundreds of meals, and banging on the back door would be an invasion of privacy. Inappropriate.

I got a good look at the bird the second time, as it alighted on a rock at the water's edge, foraging. It was a wandering tattler.

Would Aud--she calls herself that in the book--be honored if I knocked and told her how much her book touched me? Or, would she be annoyed? This was why I wasn't a good journalist. I don't like to bang on people's doors, cold call without an introduction of some kind.

I made sure to stay a minimum of six feet away from the turtles. That's why, when a woman came bounding from somewhere behind me, heading straight for the turtles, I called out, "Hey. Watch out for the turtles."

She was tall, with salt-and-peper hair that managed to look wind-blown even for its short length. She hopped on a rock to get a better view and tapped a finger in the air. "Seven," she said. "I only count the ones on land. Not the ones in the water."

"They're making a great comeback," I said. "The turtles."

Was she Audrey's daughter? I got up the nerve to ask, tumbling out some words that I don't quite remember.

"Audrey took me under her arm when I was a young girl," she said, and her eyes welled with tears. "Audrey's an amazing woman. She could make due with nothing."

Part of Audrey's success in the wilderness came from her tenacious planning and research. She put great faith in lists--packing lists, as well as life lists. One rather infamous list of Audrey's supposedly still hangs in her bathroom and was written back in her child-rearing days. It's titled, "What every kid should be able to do by age 16" and includes:

- Cook a simple meal
-Drive a car with skill and sanity
-Care for tools and always put them away after use
-Clean a fish and dress a chicken
-Change a diaper, change a tire
-Spend the family income for all bills and necessities for two months
-Save someone from drowning useing available equipment
-Listen to an adult talk, with interest and empathy
-Dance with any age
-Be happy and comfortable alone for ten days, ten miles from the nearest other person
-Do your own laundry

One item on her packing list that I didn't understand was lipstick. Audrey was too practical for lipstick. Too practical for vanity. But Audrey pre-dated technical gear. If Audrey was headed out today on an 87-day, 887-mile paddle through the Inside Passage of Alaska and British Columbia--the subject of her forthcoming book--she'd include this item on her list: Lip balm with SPF 15. Lipstick as lip balm. That's my theory, at least.

The woman’s name was Heather. Heather and I spoke for an hour, trading stories of wilderness adventures and encounters.

Suddenly, I knew what I wanted to ask Audrey. I thought of a string of questions:

-What was it? What kept drawing you back to the wilderness?
-All these years later, what are the two or three memories of your Molokai experiences that stand out?
-Can I see the typewriter case?
-How does it feel to be a role model for women half your age?
-How did you learn to write, because, girl, you can write?
-How did your mother influence who you are today?
-How did your kids turn out?

I was thinking about these questions when Heather asked her own. “Do you want to meet Aud?”

I felt something inside me jerk awake. My animal nature? The ever-alert eye of the prey animal, perhaps? But this was my opportunity, wasn’t it? The reason I'd driven all the way up here from Honolulu to the North Shore? Right?

“She was napping earlier,” Heather said. “I’ll go inside and see if she’s up.”

Heather had shared that Audrey was starting to show her age. She was 90, by golly, and even Audrey couldn’t outlast age. She was sometimes forgetful. Sometimes hard-headed. She took naps.

Wait. No, I wanted to say. But I didn’t say anything. My mind whirred. Was I embarrassed? Suddenly shy? Or was I realizing something else. That the Audrey taking a nap inside was not the Audrey I met on the pages of Paddling My Own Canoe. Of course, I could do the math. I knew Audrey was no longer the spry 40-year-old. But in my mind right now, Audrey was this amazing, larger than life woman. My idol. My role model. My aspiration. Did I want to meet today’s Audrey? The stubborn, forgetful, maybe arthritic, a few short years away from death Audrey? Or did I want to live in my heart and mind with the supple, rock-hopping, swimming naked at the base of waterfall, crawling under a cabin and shoring up a sagging floor Audrey? I didn’t know.

It was too late, anyway. Heather was already inside.

So, I stood on a rock and counted turtles: 12. But, then, one lumbered for the sea. Eleven.

Heather returned a few minutes later. Audrey was still napping, she said, and I felt the slightest sigh of relief escape my lips.

I left shortly thereafter, rock-hopping my way back to the sandy beach, where a man was playing ball with his two dogs. I crossed the highway and slid into my rental car, settled my backpack in the seat next to me and started the ignition. Then, I opened the piece of paper Heather given me. On it was a phone number. That was two-and-a-half weeks ago. I have yet to call.

And why did I always come alone to Moloka’i?” I know why, but the telling is hard. Daily we are on trial, to do a job, to make a marriage good, to find depth, serenity, and meaning in a complex, deteriorating world of politics, false values, and trivia. But rarely are we deeply challenged physically or alone. We rely on friends, on family, on a committee, on community agencies outside ourselves. To have actual survival, living or dying, depend on our own ingenuity, skill or stamina—this is a core question we seldom face. We rarely find out if we like having only our mind as company for days or weeks at a time. How many people have ever been totally isolated, ten miles from the nearest other human, for even two days?

Alone you are more aware of surroundings, wary as an animal to danger, limp and relaxed when the sun, the brown earth, or the deep grass say, “Rest now.” Alone, you stand at night alert, poised, hearing through ears and open mouth and fingertips. Alone, you do not worry whether someone else is tired or hungry or needing. You push yourself hard or quit for the day, reveling in the luxury of solitude. And being unconcerned with human needs, you become a fish, a boulder, a tree—a part of the world around you.

The process of daily living is often intense and whimsical. The joy of it, and the compassion, we can share, but in pain we are ultimately alone. The only real antidote is inside. The only real security is not insurance or money or a job, not a house and furniture paid for, or a retirement fund, and never is it another person. It is the skill and humor and courage within, the ability to build your own fires and find your own peace. -A.S.

*I don't count the time my mother took me and my two brothers to hear the Cubs' star first-baseman, Ernie Banks, speak. We stayed after and got his autograph. I was maybe five. Or the time she took the three of us to a local car dealership to stand in line for Chicago Bears' linebacker Dick Butkus' autograph. He wasn't much impressed with the cast on my broken arm; I was 10.

March in Photos

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

March 2012 will be known for its rain. Rain morning, noon and night. Rain in the mountains. Rain at the beach. Rain in town. Rain in the country. Every way you slice it, rain. There were flooding, road closures, rock slides, mud slides and waterfalls I hadn't seen in years. Blessedly, every single one of the Laysan albatross chicks that I monitor survived, even without their parents, who, in March, had started leaving their chicks alone, so they could venture further out to sea and return with great gobs of the regurgitated golden nectar chicks love. At Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge on Kauai, the red-footed boobies searched the peninsula's hillside for nesting materials. Nene goslings shed their downy fur, feathered out and grew up. On Maui, the rain filled the ponds at Kealia Pond National Wildlife Refuge to capacity. That made the native Hawaiian coots and stilts quite happy. A good amount of humpback whales still cruised the Maui triangle, but you could tell a good portion had vacated their breeding grounds for Alaska's fertile feeding grounds. I made a short visit to Oahu, where I discovered a cove of green sea turtles--so many they were hauling out of the ocean and crawling on top of each other to find a bit of land on which to nap. And, that quickly, March slid into April. In like a lion; out like a lamb.

Kealia Pond National Wildlife Refuge

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 00:00:00 -1000

It must be like buying a new car. After you pull away from the dealership in your shiny, new-smelling automobile, you see the same make and model everywhere--passing you on the highway, parked next to you at the grocery store, slowing to turn in front of you.

There might even be a name for the experience.

It's that way, for me--with birds.

It helps that I'm starting to know what to look for, just as when we bought a used vehicle recently, I learned the shape of the headlights and the shape of the maker's logo. Now, when I pass my husband on the road--he headed home; me going on an adventure, or some such thing--I don’t wave at every silver pick-up on the road.

Last weekend, I was roaming Kauai's north shore, checking on the Laysan albatross chicks that I monitor, when I saw an adult circling a stretch of land that I'd only casually traversed before. The seabird with the six-foot wingspan dropped its landing gear--feet--in the way that Laysan albatrosses do when they are coming in for a landing. But it didn't touch pale-flesh-colored, webbed feet to land. Sometimes, it takes a few tries, a few circles, a few aborted attempts, because Laysan albatrosses are not known for their precision take-offs and landings. (And, yet, I’ve seen a few stick landings that would give Mary Lou Retton a run for her money.) In their defense, Laysan albatrosses are seabirds and spend the vast majority of their lives at sea.

So, I investigated the area and found a previously unidentified nest and a Laysan albatross chick sitting upright and alert, cute as could be, as if it was saying, "About time you found me," but more likely just waiting for its parent to time its landing and regurgitate the golden nectar--a smoothie of squid, fish and fish eggs.

Earlier this month, when I was on Maui, my rental car naturally gravitated to a familiar place for me--a national wildlife refuge. Like Kilauea, where I volunteer (on Friday afternoons, stop by some time), this one is dedicated to birds.

Kealia Pond National Wildlife Refuge is located at the south end of the isthmus that runs between East Maui's Kihei and Wailea and West Maui's Lahaina and Kaanapali.

About a mile-long boardwalk runs behind a stretch of coastline, commonly called Sugar Beach. This is part of the National Wildlife Refuge system, and it's located right in the middle of Maui, not some remote, inaccessible wilderness area. Across the road from the boardwalk sits Kealia Pond, one of the largest lowland wetlands left in Hawaii and the largest on Maui.

A major rainstorm had just swept through Hawaii when I arrived, and the wind tunneled down the isthmus in a fury. It wasn't raining, but a parade of kids blew by me, racing to get to the pavilion--and a picnic--at the end of the boardwalk. One girl stopped to walk beside me.

"Have you seen any stilts?" I asked her.

She shook her head, two brown braids whipping around her head. "No," she said.

"Coots?" I asked.

The braids whipped some more.

A call from up ahead, a girlfriend or sister, I don't know, and my new friend took off, feet pounding, braids whirling again.

I love seeing kids outside--in nature, and running. It reminds me of my childhood, before 24-hour news cycles, hundreds of television channels and instant internet information.

In 1965, I read on a sign, 200 acres of wetlands existed in Kihei, east of Kealia Pond. But due to development and roadways, an acre here and there, by the time 2002 rolled around, only 70 acres were left. It may seem like we can't stop development in this growing world of ours. Nature is like that, too, ever expansive. But, at some point, the loss of habitat for our native plants and animals leads to irreversible conclusions, like extinction. And that's why I like the National Wildlife Refuge and National Parks systems, among others. They ensure nature has a home--and sometimes, like Kealia Pond, it’s right in the midst of ours.

Two kinds of native birds call Kealia Pond National Wildlife Refuge home.

The endemic Hawaiian coot, or ‘Alae ke’oke’o, is named for its white frontal shield, more pronounced than its ancestor the American Coot. It forages for food by diving under water. It prefers shallow ponds and marshy areas.

The Hawaiian stilt, or Ae’o, sports some serious long legs. Once you get over its bright pink legs, you next notice its needle-sharp, long, black bill. Sometimes noisy, these waterbirds are black above and white below. They prefer to feed in shallow water or the muddy shores of ponds. If need be, they will trudge up to its belly to feed on aquatic arthropods and insects on the water’s surface or just below.

"Look. Look," my braided friend called when she saw me approach the pavilion at the end of the boardwalk. She'd ditched her picnic lunch and hopped like a pogo stick, her chin barely cresting the boardwalk's railing. I gave her my binoculars for a better view. Maybe she'll grow up to become an ornithologist.

According to a pamphlet at the spiffy, new Kealia Pond National Wildlife Refuge visitor center, more than 1,079 Hawaiian stilts and 584 Hawaiian coots have been observed at the pond one time.

But there’s more. Like the Black-crowned night-heron, ‘Aku’u, and the Pacific golden plover, Kolea. And Ruddy turnstone, ‘Akekeke. And Sanderling, Hunakai. And the cross-bred Mallard and native Hawaiian duck, Koloa.

In the winter months, while Humpback whales breach, birth and compete for matings rights, some visitors stop by, especially after a big storm.

A quick Google search revealed something called the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon. This is when someone happens upon an obscure piece of information--often an unfamiliar word, fact or name--and soon after encounters the same subject again and again. I’m not sure if it applies to my car analogy. Or birds.

Because after my stroll on the boardwalk, I stomped around in the mud at Kealia Pond, and I saw plenty stilts and coots for which the place is known. But I also checked the Greater white-fronted goose, I think, and White-faced ibis off my life list. They stood out like sore thumbs. Interestingly, though, I haven’t seen a single one since.

'Ulalena at Maui Theatre

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

There is a rain particular to Maui that rises sometimes at twilight. Together with the wind, comes a gentle rain creating a golden red mist across the landscape. The ancient Hawaiian name for this rain is ‘ulalena.

I walked into the Maui Theatre a couple weeks ago knowing little about ‘Ulalena: A Story of Hawaii’s People. I left knowing this.

‘Ulalena. What it is: A theatrical interpretation of the history of Hawaii from the cultural point of view of the Hawaiians.

‘Ulalena. What it is not: A lu’au experience.

The creativity is unbounded--from giant fish on sticks paraded through the audience by cast members to super-size, moving screens projecting original works of art.

And, yet, the set is seemingly simple, adding to the allure and special effect of the show and transporting me into a dreamy state. Whatever was transpiring on the streets of Lahaina, however glorious the setting sun, I had no idea and didn’t care. What helped were the no video/no photography mandates. Instead of peering through a camera’s viewfinder, or framing a video, I sat mesmerized, swept up in the story of creation, transformation and re-birth.

On the 'Ulalena blog, cast member Maya Iida puts it this way, “From sky to earth, from past to present, from us to you.”

Vene Chun, who plays the High Chief (Ali’i), says, “’Ulalena is a feeling, a story that can only be understood by the heart.”

There are characters you’d recognize--Pele, goddess of the volcano, Hina, goddess of the moon, Maui, the trickster demi-god, and Mo’o, the lizard goddess. And there are yards of flowing fabric.

But there is little dialogue. The vocals are mostly chant and song. An off-stage narrator introduces some scenes. Three live musicians played 51 different musical instruments, in a balcony stage left, mostly percussions—a show in and of themselves.

What goes on behind-the-scenes—or, perhaps, more accurately with the technology—helps set this show head and shoulders above community theater and lu’au performances.

Four built-in elevators. One turntable built into the floor. Moveable screens supporting image projections. Twenty-four moving lights. Twelve spotlights on moving tracks. Two high-powered projectors. Two high-tech sound systems with 8 speakers. Up to 16 automated channels. State-of-the-art wireless microphones and in-ear monitors.

Please don’t get the impression that this is all about technology. Remember those fish on sticks. The actors—their voices, their presence, the things they do with their bodies. I could see influences of hula kahiko, ballet and Cirque de Soleil.

‘Ulalena is an artistic experience, playing on the highs of humor and the lows of despair. I laughed. I cried. And I walked out of the Maui Theater asking my friend Audrey, “‘Ulalena? Uh, how come I’ve never seen this before?”

Kapalua Coastal Walk

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I didn’t plan it. Seriously. But I went on a bird walk in West Maui. In my defense, I thought it was a fitness walk along the Kapalua Coast. When will I accept that I am a birder? Am I in denial of age? Because, stereotypical or not, I always think of birders as, well, older. Or am I in denial of the feathery cute- and cuddly-ness of birds?

I met Ben Auerbach at Kapalua Spa at the decent hour of 9:00 a.m. A couple from Wisconsin, a mother and daughter from Dallas, Texas and another couple from Central California joined us.

A track-and-field athlete, Ben took us through a series of easy stretches to warm up our muscles and get our hamstrings “firing.” Ben is a one-time professional mid-distance, track-and-field athlete. So, of course, he has long legs, which he clothed in sleek, black sweatpants and with which he took long, purposeful strides—backwards.

Ben told us that the name “Kapalua” loosely translated to English as “arms embracing sea,” and the scalloped beaches here—Kapalua, Oneloa and Honokahua Bay, also known as D.T. Fleming Beach Park—clearly support that translation. Ben led us to the rocky point bisecting Namalu and Oneloa Bays with off-shore views of Molokai.

That’s where we came upon the bird colony. The birds, known in Hawaiian as ‘ua’u kani, return to Hawaii in late March to mate, lay an egg and raise their young. I’d heard some wedge-tailed shearwaters had been spotted at the refuge where I volunteer on Kauai, but I hadn’t seen any myself, and I wouldn’t on this walk, either.

Wedge-tailed shearwaters are crepuscular in nature. That is, they come and go during dawn and dusk. There may have been a few deep in their volcanic rock nooks and crannies that they use here for nesting. But, if so, they were sleeping—and quiet.

We followed an uneven lava rock footpath through the colony before coming to a boardwalk. Here, Ben paused to give us some pointers on technique—strike lightly with the heel, roll forward and push off the ball of the toe; and think about applying equal pressure across all parts of the foot. But the one that I still think of almost every day since on my daily walks is to stand upright, as if trying to hold a small twig between your shoulder blades.

A boardwalk traverses an active sand dune that is Oneloa Beach, and it was built to protect the trampling of native plants. Oneloa translates to “long sand,” and is a wide, straight, white sands beach. Its near-shore floor is made of a shallow sandbar and creates layers of frothy, white foam as waves roll ashore. Off-shore, whales sent their exhalations 30 feet in the air.

In its entirety, the Kapalua Coastal Trail runs 1.76 miles north from Kapalua Bay Beach, across Hawea Point, across the sand dunes at Oneloa Bay and on to D.T. Fleming Beach Park. When the boardwalk ended, we cut up some stairs by the Oneloa Beach access and looped back around to Kapalua Spa, where I met my friend Audrey and slurped a Mango Ginger Snap smoothie. Not a bad way to start a morning. Birds or no.

Q & A with Vegan Chef Extraordinaire Mark Reinfeld

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Last night, I whipped up a pseudo-creamy pot of corn soup. (“Pseudo” because the creaminess came from quinoa and almond milk rather than actual cream.) First, that’s unusual, because I’m not known to cook. Second, the act is even more extraordinary in that I had to make substitutions, and I did so with a wave of my hand, as if I was wafting the air for a better scent of the gardenias that are beginning to blossom around the island. The recipe called for green chilies, which we did not have. No matter, I told my husband. We’d roast a red pepper. That would add another layer of flavor, one that I might even like better.

After participating in a vegan cooking workshop on Maui last December, I seem to be a new woman--the kind who cooks. Now, don’t think that means I spend all day, every day in the kitchen. I still find myself sitting at my desk writing as the sun sets behind Kalalea, the mountain across the street. Many evenings, I return from a trek checking on Laysan albatrosses to find my husband has prepared a meal.

My transformation—and it is that—is due to another man: Mark Reinfeld. He led the cooking workshop I attended last December on Maui. I’d known him for years. He was the co-owner of Blossoming Lotus, a vegan restaurant, now closed, on Kauai that received international accolades from the vegetarian community. His restaurant also won “Best Restaurant on Kauai” honors from the Honolulu Advertiser for the “all restaurants” category, meaning it beat out all the carnivorous and fishy places across the island.

Mark’s the real deal. He’s got the non-lamb-chops, so to speak. Last year, he won Vegan.com’s Recipe of the Year Award. His cookbook, Vegan Fusion, has won all kinds of awards. And I just heard he was offered the chef position for the upcoming North American Vegetarian Society’s 38th Annual Summerfest. What I liked was the garlic trick that Mark shared with us—worth the price of admission, he joked. He did this other thing with ginger that generated ooh’s and aah’s. But what resonates with me is the peace that Mark emanates in the kitchen. “Keeping it mellow,” he said. “That’s how I like to roll.”

A few weeks back, I ran into Mark in Kapaa—in between cooking workshops in Honolulu and Belize—and he was kind enough to answer a few questions of mine.

KIM: It seems like there’s a recent surge in eating vegan. What do you suppose has created this interest?

MARK: It is becoming more evident that the food we eat will affect our health. With the rise of the baby boomers, more people want to do everything they can to stay healthy. This trend will only continue to grow as people experience the amazing benefits and delicious flavors of vegan cuisine.

KIM: Related to the above, a plant-based diet seems to be tied to a lifestyle choice, not just food choice. In your 20+ years preparing and promoting vegan, how has adoption changed among people? Not just for hippies anymore? How/why is it entering mainstream consciousness?

MARK: Its definitely becoming more mainstream as celebrities, politicians, doctors, athletes and leaders of the business community begin to feel the benefits. Oprah Winfrey, Bill Clinton, Russell Simmons, Mike Tyson and many others have all come out to affirm that making a change in our diet can produce a radical change in our health and sense of well being.

KIM: Eating vegan requires thinking differently about meal preparation. Not just shake-n-bake! How do you coach would-be vegans away from familiar habits toward plant-friendly methods of food prep, menu planning, kid-friendly, etc.? In other words, what are the beginner steps?

MARK: Lots of food people already eat are actually vegan. Salsa, guacamole, hummus, salads and smoothies are all vegan by nature for the most part. I encourage people to get creative with salads as a starting point. Add beans, unique vegetables, grains such as rice or quinoa can all turn a simple salad into a gourmet experience.

KIM: How do “vegan” athletes adjust their plant-based diet to manage energy and health to perform as top competitors?

MARK: It’s different for every person. It’s very easy to get all of the protein, carbohydrates, fats etc. that athletes need to perform at peak levels with plants. Check out veganbodybuilding.com to see how even body builders can compete and succeed on a vegan diet.

KIM: What advice does you have for dealing with the sometimes conflict between ethnic foods/cultural dietary traditions and adopting a vegan diet? Seafood, pork, poultry are very popular in local Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, Thai, Hawaiian etc. dishes. It is not just food, it is social convention and customs, too.

MARK: It doesn’t have to be an all or nothing change unless you want it to be. I recommend having as many vegan meals as possible in a way that feels balanced to each person. If you want to switch to all vegan, there are many plant based products that are available these days to replace the traditional animal products in these ethnic cuisines.

KIM: Any tips on eating vegan on a budget. What if you live in the city and don’t have a backyard for growing your own garden, composting, etc. MARK: Visit farmers markets, see if there are CSA or community supported agriculture programs available. Order bulk, if possible, at co-ops and natural foods stores. If its more than you can consume on your own, see if some friends will chip in to purchase bulk rice, nuts seeds etc. Cook as many meals as possible at home, or with friends, potlucks etc. as possible for maximum savings.

KIM: Related, what about tips on eating vegan on vacation.

MARK: One, plan Ahead. This is a big step to take. Research the places you will be visiting to discover the veggie sanctuaries. Websites likeHappyCow.com provide a world-wide directory of veggie friendly restaurants and natural foods stores. This is invaluable in locating your dining destination.

Two, think Survival. Stock up before your trip with as many vegan essentials as you are up to carting around. Superfood powders, energy bars, and superfood trail mixes (try goji berries, raw cacao nibs, and pumpkin seeds) can prove to be crucial when you find yourself in between veggie havens and on long train or bus rides. If you are able to locate an organic market, often called "Bio markets" in Europe, you will be able to stock up at these locations on almond butter, rice cakes, dark chocolate, fresh fruit and whatever travel foods suit your fancy. If you are not able to locate an organic market, most mainstream markets will carry some essentials such as peanut butter, olives, or packaged hummus. Pick up some bread and fresh fruit and veggies, and you are on your way.

Three, go Ethnic. Most towns and cities have at least a few ethnic restaurants in town. You can usually find some vegan options on the menu at Indian, Thai, Japanese, Mid Eastern, Italian, and Mexican Restaurants.

Perhaps the most important tip is to be a bit flexible with your standards when traveling. Those who prefer to eat only organically grown foods, may find themselves eating more commercially grown foods than they would at home. The same goes with those who are accustomed to eating a lot of raw foods, or even gluten-free foods. An important part of traveling is to go with the flow and absorb as much from your experience as possible. Relax into the wonder of the new cultures you are experiencing.

At the Maui workshop, Mark said that he wanted to “create vegan rock star chefs” out of all of us. And maybe he is. I’m getting there. Sorta.

Mark will be conducting a Vegan Fusion Teacher Training Workshop on Maui September 14 – 16.

Picture Perfect Hawaii Sweepstakes

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Outrigger Hawaii - Picture Perfect Getaway from Outrigger Hawaii on Vimeo.

I get asked all the time something like, "What are your favorite things to do in Hawaii?" Or, "I'm coming to Kauai; what are the must-see things?" Sometimes it's my friends who ask. Sometimes it's friends who ask for their friends. Sometimes, it's even my co-workers who know I write a blog and edit a website that shares all that information. But, still, they have to ask. In honor of Outrigger's Picture Your Perfect Hawaii sweepstakes, I am revealing my list here.

Let me first say that I am not a believer in lists. That is, other people's lists. I make lists all the time. But I believe it's much more fun, much more memorable to make your own lists. My "Top Ten" list of favorite things to do around Hawaill will differ from yours as it differs from my neighbors'. The neighbor behind us has 8 kids; I have none. Our other neighbor rises before the sun to go surfing. I prefer to wait until the sun's light brightens my bedroom before dragging my body out of bed. Get the idea?

As the editor of OutriggerHawaii, I travel around the Hawaiian Islands. I get invited to special events. I get to interview special people. And I get to slip behind, sometimes, locked gates. I am happy to share a few of my favorite things. But I also encourage you to explore on your own, make your own discoveries and create your own list.

I'll start with the newest of the main Hawaiian Islands in the chain and work northwest to the oldest.

Hawaii (Big) Island: This one is easy: lava flowing into the sea. Most people usually think I mean the hike through Volcanoes National Park, but I don't. I broke my rule here. I got up before sunrise--long before sunrise--to hop aboard a boat and traverse the coastline in near darkness to see great chunks of lava plop into the sea. I could hear it sizzle. Smell the sulfur. Feel the heated water.

Maui: Another easy one: humpback whale watching. Go in mid-February when there tend to be the most whales congregating in the Maui triangle. Don't just go once. Go again and again and again. As Captain Jill told me last week, "Whale watching is a cumulative sport." It's just like running a marathon; you have to get your miles in.

Molokai: The story of the exiles at Kalaupapa presses heavy. The tour around the settlement doesn't do it justice. How could it? There's too much history there. Too many stories. I recommend reading up on the place first. And make the entrance a journey, an experience, something that pushes your edges. I am referring to the famed Molokai mule ride down the steep and narrow cliffside trail.

Oahu: There is nothing like arriving at an island under your own power. On four occasions, I crossed the tempestuous Kaiwi Channel in a canoe to land at Waikiki Beach. Each 41-mile crossing from the island of Molokai was different. Each its own challenge. Each its own (sometimes hard to find) reward. My experiences competing in the annual Na Wahine O Ke Kai means that every time I board a plane in Honolulu and take off toward the east, I stop what I am doing--which, usually means I put down the book I am reading--and observe the conditions in the channel. Is it 'nuking? Calm as a lake? Is a swell running?

Kauai: I can't decide here. Is it the first time I hiked Kalalau with my husband and good friends Dianne and Tom to celebrate the Millennium? Or, the time I paddled Napali Coast in an outrigger canoe and that evening watched the full moon rise after the green flash of sunset. Maybe it was the time I kayaked Napali with Ivan Stack. What I do know for sure, though, is that my favorite Kauai experience involves Napali.

Disclosure: This list may change at a moment's notice.

Good news: Outrigger has just launched its Picture Your Perfect Hawaii Sweepstakes. Enter. And make your own lists. Care to share?

A Whale of March Madness

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I sat at Betty’s Beach Café on Maui overlooking the water in Lahaina. With one eye, I watched a pair of stand up paddlers wobble on stiff legs as they learned a new sport. A young girl in a pale blue bikini, white sunglasses and blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail got the hang of it. The guy didn’t. He opted to lie face down on his board and float.

With the other eye, I practiced “stink eye.”

When I walked into the restaurant at the south end of Lahaina on Front Street, four blaring televisions reminded me that way back in the middle of the country on the mainland, my alma mater was playing in the second round of the NCAA Final Four Tournament. Before I could focus on a single television screen and determine if the stick figures running around the court were wearing the black and gold uniforms of the University of Missouri, I heard a man at the bar say, “This is a major upset.” My eyes went to the ticker tape score across the bottom of the screen: 86 – 84. I watched as the referee, in a grand gesture, as if he was presenting a Thanksgiving turkey on a platter, handed the ball to a player on the sidelines. It all happened so fast. How much time is left? Are the Tigers winning or losing? Who has the ball? Is that a Tiger inbounding the ball? In their court? Who are they playing again? The referee blew the whistle, handed the ball and a player threw the ball in. A pass. A shot. A miss. The buzzer. Game over. The Tigers had lost.

Hence, the stink eye.

It was better to look to the sea.

Earlier in the morning, I went whale watching with Maui Adventure Cruises. I did the same thing yesterday morning, only with the Hawaii Ocean Project. Two different days. Two different boat crews. Two different experiences. Both grand.

“Who’s the best?” I am often asked when it comes to choosing a whale watching boat operator. I am often evasive. I answer the question with a question—or five. What kind of boat do you prefer? Do you want cocktails? Want to snorkel Molokini? Are there children involved? Older adults?

What I like isn’t always what the next guy—or you—likes.

I prefer early mornings before the wind picks up and while the morning light projects a golden glow for the photographs I hope to snap. I prefer boats with a crew trained in whale behavior. Boats that support the environment and/or whale researchers. Boats that implement environmentally safe practices. Boats that do not use plastic—plastic utensils, plastic cups, single-use plastic containers.

I didn’t choose Hawaii Ocean Project for its boat, an old metal tank that looked to be a long-retired dinner cruise vessel. But the larger size did make it easy for me to wade through those other whale watchers on board and find unobstructed views. The company also operates something called the Research Direct Program, a voluntary research contribution fund in which 100% of all monies collected goes directly to whale researchers, including Dr. Robin Baird, on whose boat I’ve volunteered. And, then, there was Mario. How do I describe Mario? He was funny. Engaging. Memorable. When explaining the boat-as-clock concept as directions for calling out whale sightings, he asked us all to include distance. Researchers like Robin measure the distance from the boat in meters. Like: “Two-o-clock-200-meters.” Mario said this would work fine, “Two-o-clock-half-a-Costco-parking-lot.” He also told me that humpback whales have prehensile penises. More on that later. But what’s more: Mario knew his whale facts. Like:

-Their lungs are the size of VW Beatles, and they can exhale at speeds up to 300 mph reaching 30 feet into the air.
-Two flicks of the tail in 50 feet of water will launch their entire bodies out of the water.
-Their poop is as long as my arm and as thick as my head.
-By law, we cannot approach closer than 100 yards. That’s about the length of a Costco parking lot.
-The calf drinks 150 gallons a day. Its milk is made up of 50% fat and is the consistency of pudding. They don’t quite suckle. They nudge the “mommy buttons” and a cloud of milk releases.
-When not in Hawaii, the humpbacks go to Nebraska. Oh, wait, I mean Alaska.
-Humpback whales sleep by turning off two of the four lobes of their brain. They may log at the surface and expose their belly to the sun for warmth.
-By the end of the first year, the calf doubles in size.
-Humpbacks do no feed in Hawaii. But when they do, in Alaska, they are filter feeders. They take in water by expanding their ventral pleats which expand two to three times in size, from their jaws to their bellies. Their two-ton tongues press to the roof of their mouths to squeeze out water through their baleen.
-The deepest-known dive is 600 feet.
-They can hold their breath for up to 55 minutes.
-Their number one predator is humanity. Number two is the killer whale. A mother will protect her calf from an orca with swats of her mighty tail. The caudal peduncle muscle, located at the base of the tail, is the strongest muscle in the animal kingdom.
-Their song is as complex as classical music and changes from year to year. One year they may drop the snares and bring up the violins, say. Only the males sing.
-The males have a prehensile penis, which means it can wrap around things, and is called a dork.

I went out with Maui Adventure Cruises two years ago, so I knew what to expect: A smaller, more intimate boat. That meant less mobility but closer to the ocean. That meant I actually spoke with the other people. Jo, sitting next to me, was visiting “on a girl’s trip” from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She was attending a yoga retreat with her girlfriend. Her 16-year-old daughter was on spring break. Jill captained the boat. She pulled out blue binoculars to scan the ocean. “We don’t want boring whales,” she said. “Single animals are boring.” Turns out, a mother and yearling are boring, too, because the yearling can hold its breath longer than a calf. Her first-mate, Rob, a slender man with a shock of yellow, wavy hair that I wanted to pull back in a pony tail manned the microphone, sharing his mana’o. Like::

-Humpbacks spend 90% of their life under water; only 10% at surface.
-The journey to and from Hawaii takes four to six weeks, traveling at five to 20 miles per hour.
-Humpbacks trickle in and out throughout the season.
-In the 1960s, the worldwide population of humpback whales dipped to 1,000 animals. Today, the recovery puts that number at 25,000.
-On average, females calve once every two to three years, although one female has been documented as calving four years in a row.
-While females participate in group foraging while in Alaska, they do not hang out together in Hawaii.

Neither day brought wildly crazy antics. No double breaches a Costco-parking lot away. No repetitive pec or fluke slaps. No peduncle throws. No heat runs.

As I sat eating my salad at Betty’s, a text came in from my college roommate Linda, a Tiger fan, whom I mentioned in my previous blog post on Kaanapali Beach. I probably shouldn’t quote her here. Let’s just say she wasn’t happy.

And, later, a New York Times News Alert popped up on the screen of my iPhone. The headline read, “No. 15 Seeded Norfolk State Upsets No. 2 Missouri in NCAA Tournament.” That’s breaking news?

After two days of whale watching and a few seconds of basketball, I made two decisions. Captain Jill says whale watching is a cumulative sport. So, next year, I am buying a week pass. I am also not watching any more college hoops. Whales trump basketball any day in my playbook.

Kaanapali Beach Walk

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

A walk down Kaanapali Beach is like a walk back in time for me. Starting at the northern end, where I attended a marine mammal conference a few years ago, here, we hauled out inflatable dolphins at the ocean’s edge and honed our stranding response practices. All the while, visitors slathered on sunscreen, splashed in the turquoise sea, and snorkeled behind us. Toward sunset, a man ran to top of a rocky outcropping. He lit tiki torches set up along the point named Pu’u Keka’a, the rumbling hill, a volcanic cinder and spatter cone known locally as Black Rock. Then, the man bent his knees and leapt out over the water, his back arched, striking the perfect pose for the cameras clicking away at the beachside bar, before bringing his hands together over his head, tucking his chin and slipping into the sea.

According to Hawaiian tradition, Pu’u Keka’a is a leina a ka ‘uhane. Or, a leaping off point. All the Hawaiian Islands have these, usually at their westernmost point. In ancient times, it’s said, this is where a person’s soul left the earthly realm for the afterlife.

The beginnings of the resort community of Kaanapali go back as far as 1957, with the first resort hotels built in the early 1960s. Kaanapali Beach fronts the entire resort complex, starting at Hanakaoo Beach Park on the south end and ending three miles up the coast at Honokowai Beach Park. The beach is split almost in half by Black Rock.

A little further down the beach, past the volleyball court and a group boarding a whale watching boat, I veered off the beach for Whalers Village, an open-air shopping center. On one of my college roommate’s many visits to Hawaii, my husband and I flew over to Maui to meet up with them. “Oh, good, we need a vacation,” I remember telling Linda, and she replied, “You live in Hawaii, and you need a vacation?” That was when I first started to understand how my friends and family viewed our move to Hawaii—as one big vacation. I wish. But life doesn’t work like that.

I walked past Leilani’s on the Beach, and I recalled dining here with Linda and her husband, Rob. He swore up and down that he saw one-time baseball great Pedro Guerrero slip around a corner, but we didn't believe him. Although the stranger could easily have been Pedro. Maui attracts celebrities of all kinds.

This time, I didn’t stop at Whalers Village to eat, but rather to visit Whalers Village Museum. I donated $5 and pressed “1” on the self-guided audio tour that told me everything I wanted to know about the one-time industry of whaling. Located half-way between the whaling grounds of the Arctic and Japan, Hawaii became the whaling capital of the Pacific between 1825 and 1860, a period popularly known as the “Golden Era of Whaling.” Or, so, a placard read. The first whaling ship entered Honolulu Harbor on Oahu less than a year before the Christian missionaries landed in 1820. Almost 60 whale ships made port in Hawaii in 1823. King Kamehameha IV got in on the action and by 1854, 19 vessels were flying the Hawaiian flag. Whaling's peak came in 1856 when 596 ships from Europe and America docked in Hawaii, and a saying circulated throughout Hawaii that went, “You could walk from one end of Honolulu Harbor to the other, ship to ship, without getting your feet wet.”

A new business practice soon emerged among whalers. You could say they added a third shift in the whaling factory. Instead of sending ships back to New England to off-load oil and baleen and re-provision their ships, New England whale ship owners used Hawaii as their base instead, saving time and money and increasing productivity. Whalers hunted off Japan in the winter and in the Arctic in the summer, stopping in Hawaii in the spring and fall to provision ships, off-load oil and baleen and give their men a respite. And we all know what that—“respite”—means. Sadly, these respites brought disease and mosquitoes to the Hawaiian Islands. They also brought business--the start of cattle on Hawaii (Big) Island and agriculture on Maui, industries still in existence today. The same cannot be said for whaling. Thank goodness.

Back on the beach, I watched kids drag blue boogie boards to the ocean’s edge. I saw beach boys in red jerseys and yellow lettering that read “surf instructor” lead a group of students into the water.

I’m not sure when she appeared or exactly when I fell in behind her, but back on the path, shortly after my detour to educate myself on Hawaii's whaling history,I noticed her. She wore New Balance running shoes, white shorts over a colorful swimsuit and a long-sleeved, white jacket. On her head, she wore a white visor trimmed in wicker. She clipped along at a good pace, zipping around those standing in the middle of the path and talking on the phone to their kids back home. She passed mothers pushing strollers and balancing yellow beach noodles, red starfish sand molds and life with children. She side-stepped the errant soccer ball. And I kept pace. We ticked off one spiffy resort after another.

Like a turtle, I periscoped my head above and around bushes—naupaka and bougainvillea—to spy swimming pools, hoping one would jog my memory of the time my best friend and her tween daughters visited. The girls were into People magazine, braided hair and braces then, but we still managed to get them to enjoy the pool’s swirling slide and waterfalls.

These days, I could have stopped at a Starbucks or any one of an endless stream of poolside bars along the way. I could have signed up for a timeshare tour. Stopped to talk to a concierge about a whale watching boat trip, a luau or a helicopter ride. Said yes to the girl at a kiosk who wanted to paint a temporary tattoo on my anke. Or, if not tattoo, wrap a custom-sized ring around one of my toes.

But I kept walking. I had a woman dressed in white that I wasn’t about to let get more than two steps ahead of me. But I managed to see an ‘ulili, wandering tattler, skipping along the waterline. Later, driving by the golf course, I would see the ‘auku’u, a black-crowned night heron, and a kolea, a Pacific golden plover.

I notice different things now than in the days before I moved to Hawaii. Then, the ocean vistas, sandy beaches and wavy palm fronds got my attention, so different from the every day scenes of my suburban, Midwestern life. I knew very little about Hawaiian monk seals, green sea turtles and humpback whales, all endangered species here in Hawaii. And nothing about sea birds.

The Senegalese poet Baba Bioum is credited with saying, “In the end, we conserve only what we love. We will love only what we understand. We will understand only what we are taught.”

For some reason, I thought of this as I walked Ka’anapali Beach and passed yet another resort from yet another trip, this one a business boondoggle that included a parasailing adventure. No sails colored the air today, probably because it was too windy.

I’ve had some amazing teachers since moving to Hawaii. Beth with the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service has taught me about Laysan albatrosses. Mimi and Charles have shared volumes about Hawaiian monk seals. Jean has opened the book, so to speak, on humpback whales. Robin on false killer whales. Sabra on the valley of Nualolo Kai. Natalia and Mike on Hedyotis st.-johnii. Burney and Lida on Makauwahi Cave Reserve and the remains of flightless geese and turtle-jawed ducks. Marvin and Buddy on outrigger canoe paddling. Gary on the Kilauea Sugar Plantation. Patrick on the early days of Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge.

The list of teachers streams on; their lessons, both tangible and intangible, wave in the trade winds, increasing not only my understanding of life and nature in Hawaii but love, as well, and I suppose that explains why I tend to say yes when the phone rings and a voice asks if I’ll be the site leader at the next whale count. Or walk the beach to check on a monk seal. It took someone else to pause in their busy day to tell me about tubercles, the fist-size bumps on a humpback’s head with a single hair follicle. And the monk seal’s ability to slow its heart rate down to as low as 10 beats a minute in order to dive depths of a thousand feet. And I hope I remember to pause in my day and share about Hawaii’s amazing nature the next time I run across someone with a bit of interest in learning. Even if it means letting the woman in white advance and disappear from view.

She didn’t. Not today, at least. But, eventually, the turn off for my car appeared, and I stopped. The woman didn’t flinch. She didn’t’ glance my way, nod her head. She kept her shoulders back, her legs striding, taking one step at a time as her heel struck the ground first and her foot rolled forward and pushed off again. And again.

I watched her walk on until she became one of many on a busy, frolicking beach. Only then did I look down, and see the Ka’anapali Historical Trial marker. This one told of Black Rock. I’d returned to my start. The marker shared the story of Kahekili, one of Maui’s high chiefs who ruled from 1766 – 1793. He liked to leap from Pu’u Keka’a and impress his warriors with his bravery, many of whom were frightened of the spirits who lived in the area.

Living in Hawaii, there’s always something new to learn. I may be a human. I may be a terrestrial mammal. But, sometimes, I feel more like a sponge.

Rainy Day Books

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

It’s actually quite sunny today where I am right now—Outrigger’s Royal Kahana Resort in West Maui. A couple walks the beach, taking turns snapping pictures of each other that are probably already posted to Facebook. A mother and her young daughter practice sun salutations. A skin diver circles a reefy patch off-shore, trailing a scuba flag attached to an inflatable. Three snorkelers flick the water with their red, yellow and blue fins. Below me, on the grass, a family of four sips the same strawberry-rose-colored smoothies. A woman reads a Kindle. A man reads a hardback book. A magazine’s pages flutter in the breeze. As I write this, a man glides by with powerful strokes on an outrigger canoe. I look for the telltale signs of humpback whales, but the only wrinkle in the day are the strong winds that create white flecks of sea beyond the reef and make spotting the blows and pec slaps and flukes of whales all but impossible.

I made this list over the weekend when it wasn’t sunny. In fact, yesterday, when I checked in, the weather wasn’t so great. I could barely make out the outline of Molokai some 15 miles across the Pailolo Channel.

One of the first things I do upon settling into a vacation rental like these privately-owned condominiums in West Maui is to browse the books. The selection here reflects a vacation mindset. There are numerous guidebooks, one of which I co-wrote. There are a couple Maeve Binchy books. A Fern Michaels. A couple Kasey Michaels—are the authors related? Several Michael Connelly books. Only one Tom Clancy. And a book by James Patterson appropriately titled Swimsuit. The back copy reads: “A breathtakingly beautiful supermodel disappears from a swimsuit photo shoot at the most glamorous hotel in Hawaii. Only hours later, Kim McDaniels’s parents receive a terrifying phone call. Fearing the worst, they board the first flight to Maui and begin the hunt for their daughter.” I may have to read that one. Just to see how Patterson represents Maui. Writer’s research, you know. Wink. Wink.

I only occasionally find books in vacation rentals that I want to add to my “to-read bookcase.” That’s because my to-read stack has grown from a nightstand to a bookshelf to a whole bookcase. And that’s not counting the megabytes taking up space on my Kindle that I’ve all but forgotten about. So, I try to be discerning when selecting new books to read. They must relate to research I am doing. Or they must come from an author I adore. Or come with outstanding accolades from friends who know my reading—and writing—tastes. But I still look. I still gaze at the covers. I still re-organize the piles into some sort of order that makes sense to me. Because I love books. Period.

The past few days—well, weeks—have made for fabulous reading in Hawaii. Here are four books, all Hawaii-related, that I’ve read or purchased or smelled. (C’mon. Don’t you love the smell of books? Both new and old. I wish they made a face mist for that. Ola Hawaii, are you reading this?)

1. Don’t Look Back: Hawaii Myths Made New

This is a wonderful collection of stories inspired by the ancient myths and legends of Hawaii. Some names you’ll recognize. The poet W.S. Merwin writes an updated rendition of “The Bird Man of Wainiha.” Maxine Hong Kingston reinterprets the every day (and night) spirits of Hawaii known as menehune and night marchers. I particularly like my friends Darien Gee’s and Ku’ualoha Ho’omanawanui’s two pieces. But, really, I like how the anthology keeps the ancient stories alive. Come to think of it, most of our modern day stories—whether they be told in the form of books or movies or, even, songs—are really re-makes of stories that have been around for generations.

2. Paddling My Own Canoe

Audrey Sutherland is my kind of woman. I first read about her in the current issue of Hana Hou, the in-flight magazine for Hawaiian Airlines. Look for it, if you’re traveling this month. She’s in her 90s now but spent the better part of the past 50 years paddling a kayak solo around the Hawaiian Islands and the Inside Passage of Alaska and British Columbia. According to the Hana Hou article, Audrey has paddled the equivalent of half the circumference of the globe. That’s an estimated 12,000 nautical miles. And here I thought a few 40+ mile crossings from Molokai to Oahu were something special. In Paddling My Own Canoe, published in 1978, Audrey tells the story of paddling the north shore of Molokai in the 1950s and 1960s. The first two paragraphs give an indication of the woman’s approach to life.

“Hula’ana, in the Hawaiian language, is a place where it is necessary to swim past a cliff that blocks passage a long a coast, a sheer cliff where the sea beats. I first glimpsed the sea cliffs and waterfalls of Moloka’i while flying by, en route to other islands in the Hawaiian chain.

“There were no roads, no trails, no people, no access except by sea. Looking down on it was not enough. I wanted to be there, but I couldn’t afford to hire a boat. All right, I’d have to swim.”

3. Lost Kingdom: Hawaii’s Last Queen, the Sugar Kings, and America’s First Imperial Adventure

Julia Flynn Siler recounts that tale of Hawaii—from missionary arrival to takeover to territorial status--using more than 275 sources, according to a recent review in The New York Times. I haven’t read the entire book, but it starts with a cast of characters, a glossary of Hawaiian words, an introduction and a preface. I think it is fair to say this is a meticulously researched book. From what I understand, it is more a historical account that a nonfiction narrative but one that centers its tale on Queen Lili’uokalani, who was born, as the book opens, 18 years after the first Christian missionaries arrived in Hawaii and at the same time the foundation for the extraordinary Kawaiaha’o Church was being dug and the first Hawaiian-language Bible was completed.

4. Our Hawaii

The more famous London is her husband, Jack, but Charmian penned a book or two of her own. The one that caught my eye at a recent Kauai Historical Society book sale was Our Hawaii, and, somehow, I paid $40 for it. I’m glad I did. There is no way the reproduction copy on sale at Amazon could preserve the scent of it, which, alone, takes me back to 1907 when the Londons sailed to Hawaii aboard the 43-foot Snark.

What the Rains Brought

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Is it irony or the fickle finger of fate that a Disaster Preparedness Guide arrived in my mailbox today, a day after the governor of Hawaii declared Kauai and Oahu Counties disaster zones?

But it is sunny today. Right now. On Kauai. In Anahola.

Glory be. Hallelujah. Amen.

When the sun’s rays bent around the horizon this morning, I actually saw them. The sun glared in my eyes, and I didn’t blink, just raised my face skyward. I even felt the warmth of the sun’s touch as I walked the dogs in our squishy yard. See, I knew the sun had continued to shine this whole time. That a few atmospheric goings-on had simply gotten in the way, like how some heads can block the view of the movie screen at the theater.

The rain didn’t quit altogether on Kauai yesterday. It came in fits and starts, but the worst of it had moved on. To Oahu. And while they may not have received as much rain as Kauai, it doesn’t take much to cause even greater challenges on an island with an urban center the likes of Honolulu. (Check out this slide show from Hawaii News Now for that.)

I snuck out of the house yesterday--wearing my snazzy rain boots inspired by an artsy cowgirl. Rain still fell on the North Shore. The bridge at Hanalei was still closed, for the third day, due to severe flooding in Hanalei Valley, and Big Save closed because not enough employees showed up for work. The detour around a collapsed culvert just south of Kilauea still backed up traffic in both directions--for hours, I heard from a friend on Facebook, who spent the morning riding out the storm at Kilauea Bakery and the afternoon at Lighthouse Bistro.

But I’d also seen a photo posted to Facebook by Outrigger Kiahuna Plantation proclaiming sunny skies over Poipu, and Ipo, a man who works with my husband, said Lihue’s skies had returned to its regular shade of bright blue, and I wanted to investigate.

I stopped at the Anahola post office. The overhead lights didn't work, but electricity still flowed through the outlets, so the cash register worked, and it was business as usual there.

I dodged newly dredged up pot holes in the road and made my way to Kapaa.

I saw one runner on the coastal path on the East Side.

At the coffee shop, the man behind me said he couldn’t make it home to Princeville the night before because the bridge was closed at Kalihiwai. At first, it was a waterfall overflowing the road adjacent to the bridge that closed it for a time. Then, the bridge couldn’t drain the water fast enough. Finally, a rock fall and downed trees closed the bridge and access in and out of Princeville indefinitely.

The Kapaa by-pass road was closed, and it took 40 minutes to drive through Kapaa.

At Opaekaa Falls, I ran into an old friend, Amber. Like many other kamaaina, she was checking out the waterfalls that had received much media and Facebook attention.

The Wailua River was chocolate brown, so I drove to Lydgate Beach Park, the usual repository for trees and fence rows and, even, animal carcasses that get sucked down the raging river as the waters rise and eat up banks and anything in its way. Sure enough, the coastline was lined with tree branches and trunks and, even, entire trees bigger around than I could wrap my arms. Brown water reached out into the ocean as far as I could see. But a complete rainbow arced overhead, looking like it stretched from the Lihue Airport all the way to my home in Anahola.

At Coconut Marketplace, I stopped to see where stand up paddlers had made the news the night before. They’d, apparently, mistaken the flooded parking lot for the ocean.

I drove north to Kilauea where the blue skies gave way to grey, and my windshield wipers slapped time. My dog, her head hanging out the window, enjoyed a face wash. A bicyclist, with a guitar strapped to his back and wearing a pair of earbuds, sang a song I couldn’t hear. Highway crewin yellow rain slickers were building a new road to create a detour around the culvert that caved in the highway. Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge was closed to people--but not birds, of course.

I passed waterfalls at Moloaa and Anahola that I only see every three or four years—and only when the clouds part long enough for a view. I heard snow was falling on Big Island’s Mauna Kea. I saw Facebook photos of hail that fell on parts of Oahu.

And that evening, to top off a few surreal days, a Laysan albatross landed in my front yard. Soon after, the sun set, and an almost full moon rose in a sky as clear and sharp as Mariah Carey singing Emotions.

I tried to leave the house today to write at my local coffee shop. Well, that’s not entirely true. More than write, I really wanted to capture more stories. Right now, the stories about the rain are raging as much as the streams and rivers and roads-turned-into-rivers. Just about everyone I run into has a story--has a detail to add to the greater tale that is the 2012 Winter Storm. But traffic from Kapaa was backed up clear to Anahola. That’s a good eight miles. Maybe 10. Maybe more.

The Hanalei and Kalihiwai Bridges opened late yesterday afternoon. Truly, the floodgates released, and a flow of trapped traffic like I’ve never seen is trying to make its way through the island’s bottleneck at Kapaa. It certainly doesn’t help that the Kapaa bypass is still closed.

And, so, I am home-office-bound again. But I am in Hawaii. There are worse things. Far worse. Lucky I live Hawaii. Stay dry.

How about it? Do you have your own Hawaii weather story? If so, please share.

My February in Photos

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 00:00:00 -1000

This rain is getting everyone’s attention: Those on a Kauai vacation to get married or snorkel or sunbathe. Those four-legged kind who prefer not to get their feet wet to do their business. Those stranded in Hanalei and beyond, because the bridge is closed. Those with children in schools that can’t be accessed because parking lots have turned into lakes and driveways into streams. Those without electricity. Those whose homes have flooded. Those road crews in raingear working to remove mudslide boulders and repair washouts.

My docent duty at Makauwahi Cave Reserve was canceled yesterday.

We are all, in some way, seeking shelter from the rain.

Even if the shelter we seek if a respite from boredom. Boredom, that is, from staying indoors for the third day straight. Kauai is made for the outdoors. Sometimes, I have trouble deciding what I want to do: Go camping at Polihale. Trek to the Laysan albatross colony that I monitor. Hike Sleeping Giant. Snorkel at Tunnels. Dive at Koloa Landing. Whale watch. If you don’t like to lead an active outdoor lifestyle, Kauai isn’t for you.

The truism, “It is sunny somewhere on the island” flat out isn’t true today. It wasn’t yesterday. Or the day before.

Antsy, I headed to Small Town Coffee for a respite from the confines my own home.

I sat at the retro kitchen table. Small Town Coffee relocated since I last wrote about it, but Anni made sure to pack up and move the chrome and Formica-topped table and chairs that make me think of June Cleaver’s kitchen in Leave it to Beaver.

My plan was to write. And, I did. Just not what I expected. Instead of reflecting on my February experiences and adventures—you can watch my slide show above for that—I found myself eavesdropping on the conversations around me.

A twenty-something woman with wavy, blonde hair pulled into a loose knot on her head sat across from a middle-aged woman. The younger woman carried a backpack made of hemp and wore slippahs made of tight woven twine. Her toenails were newly painted a dark color of some sort. She’d just returned from the remote Kalalau Valley along Kauai’s Napali Coast. Kalalau is only accessible by boat (in calm conditions) and an 11-mile and quite challenging hiking trail. The valley is long and wide and was once populated by many Hawaiians. Today, camping permits are required. But not everyone in Kalalau bothers with legalities.

“I stayed out there a month, and the day I hiked out a black helicopter swooped in over me as I walked down the trial. The rangers come. They take your stuff and pour out all your food. They dumped my M&Ms on my tent once. They poured out my honey. They come in to party. Bring beer. But their budgets got cut so now they can only bring in a six-pack a piece. But I can’t imagine how it would be if the rangers didn’t come and shut down the camps.”

The older woman said something.

“We went with a guy who’s been going for 20 years. He said carry backpack no more than 20 pounds. Mine was 30. My mom’s was like 25. I saw people with packs that went over their heads. ‘How long are you in for?’ I’d ask. ‘Oh, two days,’ they’d say. ‘What? You don’t need that much stuff.’

“I hiked with a tarp for a tent. One pot is all you need. A cup is nice but bamboo works, too. Noni leaves work as plates. Lilikoi is everywhere. You put it in everything like rice and oatmeal. Main food is rice, lentils and oatmeal. Miso is a big one, a good seasoning. Powdered milk. Hot chocolate. You pick up so many tips."

The younger woman did most of the talking, but the older woman interjected with a question or two. She had her back to me, and I could never quite capture her words.

“Someone hikes out with the grocery list and the money. They call it ‘a boat drop.’ They’re just throwing bags as they’re going down the coast. People are running down the beach. One time, I saw this little girl get on a surf board and paddle out through a break to get food. It was gnarly. Waves bring it in but the current drags it down the coast. It is definitely a boat drop. They just drop it.

“A couple older ladies grow sprouts. They’ve been in and out for 13 years. There are community gardens and stuff. Or, go hike in the valley and get yourself some taro."

A grey-bearded man toting an iPad knockoff and wearing a Gilligan hat asked if he could join me at the retro table. “Of course,” I said. He had some years on him, his eyes were leaking, and his mouth hung open. I wondered if he’d ever spent time at Kalalalu. He sipped an espresso and used his knuckle instead of his fingertip to work the tablet’s screen.

“The cakes. I had more cakes out there than two months out here. They have a fire underneath a cast-iron pot and another pot on top and then, a fire on top of that.

“So many great people,” the young woman went on, her hands tucked under her thighs and her legs swinging to beat the band. “There’s nothing like it.

“One guy. ‘I am Dimitri,’ he says. ‘I meditate with the tree until I am in love with the tree.’ It was a noni tree.”

At another table, an English-accented couple sat with Bose headphones behind a laptop and made one Skype call after another. “We’re in a café.” “There are lots of chickens here.” “We’re having a storm.” “Relaxing.”

It dawned on me then that one of the best ways to pass a rainy day and enjoy a little local Kauai color was to hang out at a coffee shop.

“One time I was sleeping above the heiau, not the main part,” the young Kalalau camper continued, “And I see someone coming down the pathway, like 200 yards away, and he stops right next to me and sits down. He’s like, ‘Hey.’ And we talked about how cool Kalalau was. We talked for half-an-hour, and I asked his name, and he’s says, ‘Wilson.’ The next day, I was talking to another guy for a while, and I asked his name, and you know what he said? Wilson.”

She reached up to re-secure her hair. “I went for a week,” she said. “And stayed a month.”

Wedding Flowers in My Refrigerator

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I opened my refrigerator yesterday to discover a couple bags of flowers--mostly white roses and orchids tinged with pink and purple tongues. I pushed the bags to one side to find the peppers that I wanted to slice in advance for dinner. I pushed the bags back to the other side to get to the hummus.

What am I going to do with two gallon-size bags of wedding flowers taking up space in my refrigerator?

The refrigerator wasn’t the only thing in my kitchen filled with flowers. A dense centerpiece sat on the island, giving off hints of its floral goodness. A couple white orchid lei draped the backs of two chairs.

My cousin Stef got married a week ago under sunny skies on a swath of grass above Lawai Beach on Kauai’s south shore, a choice location for a winter wedding.

The centerpiece came from her wedding chuppah, a bamboo structure with mesh canopy under which the bride and groom exchanged their vows.

The orchid lei came from the guest chairs set up on the lawn, celadon green lei for the men guests and white for the women.

The flowers in the refrigerator came from the wedding reception held at Plantation Gardens restaurant at Outrigger Kiahuna Plantation Resort. We dined in the private Moir Room with flowers spreading across the dining room table, the fireplace mantle, the cake table. So many flowers it seemed like they were growing real-time in some sort of time-lapse, real-world, experimental greenhouse. A beautiful, white, orchid blossom even greeted each of us at our table settings. I practically had to elbow my way through the flowers to eat my delicious vegan meal of Chow Fun Stir Fry. (I was tempted by the Edamame Quinoa, but the waiter edged me toward the stir fry. The non-vegans ordered Seafood Lau Lau, Sugarcane Skewered Pork Tenderloin, Kalbi Marinated Skirt Steak and the Grilled Fresh Fish of mahi mahi.)

It seemed wasteful to leave the flowers behind, destined for a dumpster. That’s how they ended up in my refrigerator. As I shuffled the bags around my refrigerator, I couldn’t help but think about my own wedding.

Twenty-three years ago, I said, “I do” in a traditional church wedding. My college roommate and maid-of-honor forgot the rings, sending shivers of shock up and down my mother’s and father’s faces and delaying the ceremony’s start for 30 minutes. But the day was clear and sunny. The fall trees had just reached their peak of color. The band played Eric Clapton’s Wonderful Tonight. The next day, my new husband, Eric, and I boarded a plane with shiny rings on our fingers, a fresh marriage license in hand and a suitcase packed with strappy sundresses and sandals. Destination: Kauai, Hawaii. Stef elected to get married on a beach in Hawaii.

My rehearsal dinner took place in a church. Stef’s took place on a Napali boat cruise.

An organist played at my wedding. A conch blower played at Stef’s.

Flowers made of icing adorned my wedding cake. Real orchids decorated Stef’s.

My husband walked down the aisle in a black tuxedo with a teal cummerbund. Stef’s crossed the yard wearing a cream-colored linen suit and slippahs—flip flops.

After the festivities, I had my wedding dress cleaned and professionally boxed, where it’s stayed untouched for 23 years. Stef donned hers again a day later and rolled around on the beach in it. She scrambled on top of a stand-up paddle board in it, and she went swimming underwater in a pool in it. It’s a new tradition, apparently, called “trash the dress.”

But many things about my and Stef’s weddings were exactly the same. Stef wore a long, beaded and sequined, white dress with a train. She carried a heavy bouquet. She spent hours on hair and make up. Her father “gave” her away and gave the first toast. A photographer took hundreds of photographs—amazing ones, I must say, especially during the trash-the-dress photo session.

As I pondered my wedding and stared at the flowers in my refrigerator, my iPhone pinged. It was a calendar reminder that I’d set four years ago, February 28, 2008, when our little brown dog, Penny, died. Penny was one of two dogs who moved to Hawaii with Eric and me some 12 years ago. That’s what I’ll do with them.

I grabbed a bag of flowers and dropped white roses and orchids over the spot in my backyard where Penny and Nestle are buried. A palm tree grows over them. The palm is ridiculously healthy, thanks to the remains of the first two dogs of my marriage, and that makes me smile every time the current two dogs and I walk by it.

Planning a Kauai wedding? These people can help:
Rehearsal dinner: Holo Holo Sunset Napali Cruise
Flowers: Martin Roberts
Hair and Make-up: The Lab Salon (Kristy Love)
Reception: Plantation Gardens at Kilohana Plantation Resort
Photography: Images by Liz
Videography: Zest Kauai
Wedding cake: Cakes by Sandi
Musician: Mike Young
Conch Shell Blower: Pastor Harold Kilborn

Brides and Rain. Oil and Water.

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

The skies are blue and clear this morning. I feel like a bear emerging from the dark hollow of a tree. Of course, my house-bound hibernation lasted only 24 hours, not an entire winter.

The storm started Saturday afternoon.

After teasing us all morning, Mother Nature got serious on the heels of Saturday’s Hawaiian Islands Humpback Whale National Marine Sanctuary Ocean Count. I was stationed along Kauai’s South Shore coastline at Mahaulepu-Makawehi on a bluff near the beach known as Shipwreck's in Poipu. (Note: Hawaiian name is Keoneloa Bay and, yes, the elevated location atop these bluffs are fabulous for watching the sunrise and the whales.)

By noon, the sky off to the southwest lowered to a scowl. A growl or two grumbled to go with it, and I high-tailed it for home on the opposite side of the island.

Twenty-four hours later, the skies had squeezed out 8.3 inches of liquid in Anahola, where I live. Wainiha, on the North Shore, received the least rain on the island, at 3.45 inches. And throughout, the sky rumbled and flashed, and the dogs sought safety under the covers of my bed and, later, the sofa.

I don’t ordinarily watch the weather forecasts. I don’t pay much attention to the weather in Hawaii. But brides do.

My cousin got married on a South Shore beach last Wednesday evening.

“Is it going to rain?”

“What’s the weather forecast?”

The questions started almost the minute they stepped off the plane.

The general, catch-all weather forecast that we kamaaina like to spout is, “Partly sunny. Partly cloudy. Chance of rain.”

But that’s not good enough for brides. They want a guarantee. It may have been 23 years ago and half a country away, but I remember giving a keen eye to the condition of the turning leaves on the trees in October. I wanted the height of fall colors, the most vibrant reds, golds and yellows to paint a beautiful background in my wedding photos. Brides everywhere are no different. We all want to get married on a beautiful day.

Kauai Island wisdom proffers, “If it’s raining where you are, head to Poipu.”

There’s an easy explanation for why the North Shore of Kauai evokes the lush and green image of the tropics. That reason is rain. Kauai’s North Shore receives more rain than the South Shore, and that rain comes in the winter. So, it’s a good bet to plan a winter wedding on Kauai for the South Shore, the leeward side of the island. There’s a good reason for the moniker, “Sunny Poipu.”

My wedding album is packed away in a storage unit in Kansas. As I recall, the photos captured blue skies and trees displaying a palette of colors. I don’t remember what the weather was like the day before or the day after.

Last Wednesday, on 2-12-12, my cousin Stef and her intended Aaron said “I do.” The skies were blue. The sun beamed. The trade winds hardly ruffled the ocean’s surface while surfers rode picture-perfect waves off-shore.

Another weather saying on Kauai goes, “If it’s raining where you are, wait 15 minutes.” Generally, the rains in Hawaii are the passing kind. And with nearly a dozen different micro-climates on these islands near the equator, we also say, “If it’s raining where you are, drive 15 minutes down the road.” It’s usually sunny somewhere on the island.

Sometimes, a storm stalls over Kauai and stays. Sometimes, it rains over the entire 33-mile-by-25-mile island. Non-stop. For 24 hours. And roads flood, bridges close and rocks fall from cliff faces. Like yesterday.

Eventually, the skies clear, and the air looks as if it’s been scrubbed clean. Immediately, the mountains are greener--like when I punch up the color saturation on my pictures too much. And, sometimes, I discover waterfalls in unusual places. Like a crease in the mountain across the street from my house.

A Hike with the Sleeping Giant Feeds Me

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I visited Sleeping Giant the other day. He snatched my breath away in nearly the first step, wrapping his paw of a hand around my heart in an instant. Almost two years have passed since I last hiked the humble mountain known as Sleeping Giant situated behind the town of Kapaa on Kauai.

And it shows.

I expected there would be times I’d have to stop and catch my breath on the two-mile ascent. I knew they would come in the first mile where the climb is its steepest. I expected one stop to be at the corner of the switchback where the lilikoi

(passionfruit) vine grows, its blossom one of the most intriguing and intricate I’ve ever seen in my life. I expected another to be the long, steady incline where the eucalyptus grove begins, its payoff a view of the East Side of Kauai--Smith’s Motor Boats put-putting up the Wailua River, the coconut grove at Coconut Marketplace, the one-time sugar cane fields tucked between the mountain ridges that striate the island.

I wasn’t expecting the new, even steeper start to the trail. The new mileage markers. The new bench at the first summit, the picnic area, what I like to think of as the shoulders of the Giant. But that’s what happens with time: Things change.

But those changes, minor as they were, made the more familiar things more familiar.

I felt something tickle my ankles as I passed and knew before I looked down that it would be the blue porter weed. I found myself looking for the ti grove around a corner. The ohia lehua tree at the end of short spur off the main trail. Lauae fern growing out of rocks. It felt like I was visiting an old friend, and it felt good.

Many stories circulate about the genesis behind this mountain’s name, Sleeping Giant. The one I hear the most is that a giant of a man named Nunui helped the local village build a temple by hauling rocks from the west side of the island, marking steps in great leaps of miles and completing the construction in no time. Filled with gratitude, the people of the village celebrated with a feast, including the giant’s favorite food--bananas. The giant stuffed himself with so many tasty treats, he had to lay down for a nap--think Thanksgiving afternoon--and is still sleeping today.

I’ve always looked for that largest of herbs, the banana, on my hikes up Sleeping Giant. Not that I’ve found any. I guess the Giant ate them all. But I did find something else. Something as yummy as the bananas were for the Giant.

I think I was at the three-quarter mark, the place where two eucalyptus trees hug the trail, each tree bigger around than I can wrap my arms, when something blossomed inside me. I’ve always thought of these trees as feminine and as guardians and, like any mother, at once protecting and welcoming. I paused here, placed a hand on the trunk of each tree, looked up at their hundred foot height and gave thanks. It was an unconscious action and something I realized I’ve done every time I passed these beauties.

It was here that the Giant gave me back my breath--a different kind of breath than that which I’d started my day. This breath was deeper, more freeing. It unlocked some unnamable tension that I didn’t even know I was carrying in my body. And while I cannot say for sure, I would swear my blood pressure dropped.

Some practice yoga. Others meditate. I find my connection to spirit and this great universe of a world in which we live by walking in nature. Nature is my medicine and my nourishment. Nature is good for my soul.

Kilauea Point Lighthouse Lens Revealed Again

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

The wood finally came down. After a year-and-a-half behind a dome of plywood, the Kilauea Point Lighthouse lens is once again visible through its glass lantern room.

For the past five years, as I’ve roamed the 31 acres that make up Kilauea Point, I have tended to focus on the wildlife. The soaring Laysan albatrosses surfing the ocean air, returning from a hundreds-mile journey to feed their hungry, clacking chicks. The hovering frigatebirds, plotting their next motivational ploy to get a successful red-footed booby to cough up a tasty snack of fish. The endangered Hawaiian monk seals that sometimes haul out at the cove to sleep off a big meal of fish, squid and octopus. The wide-ranging humpback whales that travel several thousand miles to Hawaii each year to breed, birth and bless us with their breaches, spy-hopping and fluke-slapping.

All the while, I have pretty much ignored the 52-foot, nearly 100-year-old lighthouse, built with flairs of Greek and Roman style of architecture and listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1979. The structure that, really and truly, serves as the genesis to what the Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge is today.

That’s changed.

For one, I am writing a book celebrating the 100 years of Kilauea Point Light Station turned Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge.

For another, I still have World War II on the brain, thanks to my visit last week to the World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument.

The Kilauea Point Light Station wasn’t immune to the blackouts that washed over the rest of the Hawaiian Islands.

An entry in the Kilauea Point Light Station log for December 7, 1941 reads:

Keepers observing Sabbath...weather in general for the day cloudy to partly cloudy, Force 6, rain squalls throughout the day with a great increase in velocity. A moderate NW swell and choppy.

Orders from Commander Edgecomb received at 1130. Condition One is in order. Radio beacon signal off the air at Kilauea Point at 1150. 1st assistant keeper proceeded to blackout Kahala Point at 1315, and from there to Nawiliwili Light Station for standby. Keepers stood watch by the telephone the night of December 7, 1941. Kilauea Point blacked out 7 December 1941.

Claude Platt, 2nd assistant on duty at Kilauea Point, provides a personal commentary:

I’ll never forget December 7, 1941. I had a small garden, chicken pen and rabbit hutches in the gulch below my dwelling. That morning about 7:30 I had gone out to feed the animals. When I came back to my house a few minutes after eight o’clock, I turned my radio on and the announcer said the Japanese were bombing Pearl Harbor! ‘You can see the red ball on the wings,’ he said. I said to my wife, ‘Oh, my God! That means war!’ A little later we got a telephone call from the Honolulu District Office ordering us to shut down the radio beacon so the Japanese couldn’t use it to locate the island--and, of course, not to start up the main light, maintain a complete blackout and a lookout watch."

According to Ross Aikin, author of the out-of-print Kilauea Point Lighthouse: The Landfall Beacon on the Orient Run, “In the days immediately after Pearl Harbor, there was a flurry of activity for Kilauea Point personnel in the form of working with other keepers on Kauai to remove all automated lights on the island at Honolulu’s instructions. Aside from that, the routine now was strictly one of regular grounds and equipment maintenance. The sense of commitment to the all-important function of “keeping the light” no longer existed....”

There may have been a blackout at the Point, but that doesn’t mean everything went quiet. Again, according to Aiken, “At the lower inland levels of Crater Hill, the Army Signal Corps set up a base camp camp and established their primary observation post on the crest of the Hill, providing the same 360-degree north shore outlook which had been offered by the Kilauea Point site. In the case of Crater Hill, however, the elevation offered a much loftier and sweeping view--ideal for their communication purposes. They dug in there for the duration; the evidence of military occupation of the entire area still exists in foxhole pock-marking (mostly now overgrown) of the seaward areas of both the Hill and the Point peninsula. Public access to these coastal bluff areas and adjacent beaches was severely limited by hosts of military personnel, maintaining security for this highly-sensitive installation of complex, including secrecy surround the Signal Corps radar station.”

Immediately after the war, a flip was switched--electricity had retrofitted the workings of the light station in the 1930s--and the the clamshell, double bullseye lens went back to work, alerting mariners and, now, aviators to land.

Over the years, as the rains seeped in nooks and crannies, and salt sprayed upon its surface, the lighthouse bled rust and carved out pivots of age spots. Finally, after an extensive fundraising campaign, the long, overdue renovation started in late summer 2010. One of the first steps in the process was the creation of a wooden box to cover and protect the priceless prism lens, a 2nd order Fresnel creation from France that, in its day, threw a double-flash every 10 seconds some 22 miles out to sea. After a year-and-a-half of blasting, scraping and sanding numerous kinds of metals that spider-web throughout the inside and outside of the lighthouse tower, that phase is all but complete.

And a year-and-a-half after going undercover, the lens is visible again.

And, now, on to phase two of the renovation scheduled to be complete upon the 100-year anniversary, May 2013: the concrete work.

World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Last week, on a day when rain fell heavy from the sky, I explored the World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument. You might know the place as, simply, “Pearl Harbor,” where the USS Arizona Memorial resides over a warship that sank in less than nine minutes on December 7, 1941, a sunny day when what fell from the sky were bombs. One such explosive--a 1,760-pound armor-piercing bomb--blasted through the deck of the USS Arizona and entombed a crew of 1,177 men. The ship burned for three days afterward. It sits today where it came to rest 70 years ago.

Even on a rainy day, it’s hard to imagine such a scene in Hawaii, especially the post-war Hawaii that has come to represent a paradisiacal vacation escape.

I was born at the whip tail-end of the Baby Boomer generation, although I’ve never really considered myself a Boomer. Some social scientists might counter that I am really a member of Generation-X. In musical tastes, I veer toward Boomer, preferring The Rolling Stones to Guns N Roses. But when it came time in life to super-size—bank accounts, stock portfolios, automobiles and houses—I went the other direction. I fled Corporate America, downsizing my life to 13 boxes, and my husband and two dogs and I relocated to the islands of Hawaii. Is that characteristic of a Gen-X’er? Throughout my life, I have always landed between and betwixt, not part of any one group or another. I’ve often felt mixed up, more or less a loner than anything else. A guest, you might say.

One other thing the year of my birth says about me is that I have had very little personal experience with war. My father was a toddler when 350 Japanese planes and five midget submarines targeted Pearl Harbor and six other military installations on Oahu. During the drafts of the Vietnam War, he was a father of three and watching his 30s roll by, as my brothers played Little League Baseball and started grass fires with magnifying glasses.

I knew surprisingly little about World War II before last week—except for what a Midwestern upbringing will teach you in school, and that, let me tell you, was heavily weighted toward one European country. My knowledge of the war in the Pacific was sorely lacking.

If there is one place to learn, to make up for that gap in my education, it’s the WWII Valor in the Pacific National Monument.

My first stop in the recently renovated complex that features nine sites commemorating the war was a table just beyond a giant map of the Pacific set in the concrete walkway. Four men sat behind the table. I recognized them immediately by the hats they wore. I’d first seen such a hat on the day of the 70th Anniversary Pearl Harbor Commemoration. The hats all included the word, “Survivor.”

One survivor was from Kauai, my home, and his 92nd birthday was the day after my visit. A military band played in his tribute.

According to a flyer, which he signed, Alfred Benjamin Kameeiamoku Rodrigues was born on February 7, 1920 in Kapaa, Kauai, Territory of Hawaii. After graduating from Kauai High School, he moved to the big city—Honolulu and joined the Navy Reserves. In 1940, his reserve unit was called to active duty. He was based at Bishop’s Point, the entrance to Pearl Harbor. On Sunday morning, December 7, 1941, Al had watch and was on duty. He was just about to sit down to breakfast when the general quarters alarm sounded, and he raced for the armory. From there, the planes flew so close that he could see the faces of Japanese pilots. Al was issued a .30 caliber rifle and set his sights on the planes with the red “Rising Sun” on the wings.

I wanted to sit down with Al and the other three men at the table and hear from them first-hand about their experiences that Sunday morning 70 years ago, but the band played on and on. A few years back, at my grandmother’s funeral, the much-older cousin of my father got to talking story about his involvement in World War II. My brother and I sat around him and peppered him with questions. Later, his children and grandchildren would say they’d never heard some of the stories he’d shared that day. I wanted to hear Al’s first-hand.

Last week wasn’t my first visit to Pearl Harbor. That took place in 1999, a few days after my move to Hawaii. Pearl Harbor was a much different place then. My husband and I visited the USS Arizona Memorial while my dogs put in their 30 days in quarantine a short distance away. I remember drops of oil escaping the remains of the sunken ship and slithering their way to the surface, where they bloomed and shone iridescent in the sun’s light. Two to nine quarts of oil continue to leak from the USS Arizona today, 70 years later. They are referred to as “black tears.”

Talk about a memorial to recognize the navy men entombed in the USS Arizona began almost immediately after its sinking. The first formal step toward that end started with the establishment of an official commission in 1949. Then, in 1950, Adm. Arthur Radford, Commander-in-Chief, Pacific ordered a flagpole be erected over the sunken battleship. On the ninth anniversary of the attack, a commemorative plaque was placed at the base of the flagpole. But it wasn’t until 1961 that the memorial as we see it today was completed. A visitor center followed in 1980. In 2008, a presidential proclamation proclaimed the complex a national monument and gave it the new moniker—the World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument. By then, a total of nine sites commemorated the Pacific war. The monument is run by the National Park Service.

In thinking about this essay, I called my brother, the same one who sat enthralled as our older cousin shared his war stories, a brother who straddles the same fence as I do between Boomer and Gen-X’er. I wanted my brother to remind me of our cousin’s stories. I knew my brother would remember them better than I did. He has a head for history. He’d take to the World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument like a fish to water.

He’d spend a day here. Walk the “Road to War” and “Attack” exhibit galleries, press all the numbers on the self-guided audio tour, and absorb every bit of information that actress Jamie Lee Curtis—daughter of actor and Pacific war veteran Tony Curtis—shares. He’d read every named etched into the shrine of the USS Arizona Memorial.

He’d take in “Remembrance Circle,” where the men, women and children, both military and civilian, who were killed on December 7, 1941, are recognized. He’d read the names of the Medal of Honor recipients.

He’d tuck his six-foot-one-slender shape into a “C” to maneuver the doorways of the USS Bowfin. Stick his head in the bunk rooms and wonder how tall men got any sleep. Learn about the more than 3,600 officers and crew and 52 precarious submarines lost in the war under the sea.

He’d take another day to tour the Pacific Aviation Museum, inspect an authentic Japanese Zero, learn about the “Niihau Zero Incident,” stroll to Historic Hangar 79 and note the unrepaired bullet holes in its windows.

He’d spend an hour in the book store.

He’d tour the eight-hundred-and-eighty-seven-foot-and-three-inch USS Missouri, dodge knee-knockers and head-bangers, and walk in the footsteps of General Douglas MacArthur to the spot of Japan’s unconditional surrender to Allied Forces on September 2, 1945, ending World War II.

Dangit, Kirk, isn’t it time for a visit?

If you go:
New as of 2.16.12: Visitors are now able to reserve tickets for tours of the USS Arizona Memorial and other Pearl Harbor Historic Sites online at www.recreation.gov.

Hours: The Pearl Harbor Visitor Center is open daily from 7:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. except for Thanksgiving Day, December 25, and January 1.

Timed programs for the USS Arizona Memorial begin at 8:00 a.m. and run through 3:00 p.m. daily.

Battleship Missouri Memorial and the Pacific Aviation Museum are both located on Ford Island and are only accessible to the general public via the shuttle buses which depart from the Visitor Center every 15 minutes.
The USS Oklahoma Memorial and USS Utah Memorial on Ford Island are both open from dawn to dusk; however, unlike the USS Oklahoma Memorial, the USS Utah Memorial is not currently available to the public via shuttle. Access to the USS Utah Memorial is currently limited to visitors who have military base access.

Fees: There is no charge for admission to World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument. Tickets to the USS Arizona Memorial are free. The program lasts an hour and 15 minutes and includes a 23-minute documentary on the history of Pearl Harbor, a short boat ride to and from the floating memorial. The other Pearl Harbor Historic Sites are non-profit entities that charge fees for admission.

Of note:
1. Pearl Harbor Survivors make an appearance on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings throughout the year.
2. No bags. Pearl Harbor is also an active military base. As such, no bags—purses, backpacks, diaper bags, shopping bags, etc.—are allowed inside the visitor center. Bag storage is available for $3.

My January in Photos

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I've learned it's good to pause and reflect sometimes. To review what's been accomplished before moving in haste to the next thing on my to-do list. Here is a recap in pictures of my January, inspired by a walk on a Kauai beach, a visit to Kalaupapa Peninsula on Molokai, volunteer work with Laysan albatross, a trek along a stretch of Molokai coastline, a tour of Garden Island Chocolate farm and a mid-day amble through my yard. The exercise brought a smile to my face.

A Tour of Molokai's Kalaupapa Peninsula

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

It’s a grey and blustery day on Kauai, as I sit to write this. Chilly winds out of the north keep me in jeans and a sweater all day. That’s rare. Today’s low is expected to be 56 degrees, and the high 76. It’s a good day to read.

Travel is good for reading. I am finishing Gavan Daws book Holy Man: Father Damien of Molokai, which I started before my weekend trip to the sliver of an island that sits across the channel off Oahu’s southeastern shores. I review my notes and photos from our tour of Kalaupapa, the pancake flat peninsula at the base of 2,000-foot sea cliffs along the north shore of Molokai. And I think about two men and a woman.

First, Norman, our tour guide, a tight mustache sneaking below his nose and matching white hair gamely attempting to cover his head. He commanded an old, yellow school bus and wore a white t-shirt that said, “When all else fails, read the instructions.” A photo of a glowing Bible stretched across his belly. I looked closer to determine what version of the Bible, thinking that might tell me something more about Norman, but the T-shirt didn’t specify.

And the second man I am thinking about as Hawaii’s tropical sun parts the clouds is Father Damien, of course. I say, “of course,” because Father Damien is nearly synonymous with Kalaupapa peninsula, site of forced exile for more than eight thousand people suspected to be afflicted with what was then called leprosy, now called Hansen’s disease. Father Damien’s likeness is everywhere: On banners, t-shirts, statues, busts, behind glass on paintings, prints, and postcards. Father Damien arrived at Kalaupapa in 1873. He built beds and homes and a water line. Coffins and cemeteries and churches. He mixed and mingled and reached out and, even, took into his arms those suffering from the contagious disease that was, at the time, a life sentence, and in the end, Father Damien, too, contracted leprosy and died in 1889. One hundred and twenty years later, on Rosary Sunday, October 11, 2009, Father Damien was canonized, meaning he is now known as Saint Damien. But in Hawaii, he is still called Father Damien.

Our tour group consisted of mule riders and hikers who descended into Kalaupapa by way of the 3.2-mile pali, cliff, trail and a small group who flew in from Oahu. Norman fired up the yellow school bus and drove us along a dusty road into the settlement of Kalaupapa for a restroom and snack stop at Fuesaina Bar. “The owner of the store has asked us to share,” Norman said in his measured speech. “That they have bottled water, soda and film, but they do not serve alcoholic beverages before 4:00 p.m.” It wasn’t even noon yet. According to Gavan Daws’ book, there were days when drinking and partying and more were out of hand in the settlement.

Norman spoke as if we were all well aware of the Belgium-born Father Damien. Indeed, sainthood can bring celebrity. But Father Damien’s canonization wasn’t the first time the international press penned his story. Much to the sometimes frustration of his Catholic superiors at the Congregation of the Sacred Hearts in Honolulu and often to the teeth-gnashing of his Protestant contemporaries, Father Damien’s work at Kalaupapa received accolades in newspapers worldwide throughout his lifetime. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote a letter in 1890 that was eventually published as a 64-page book in 1916 and titled Father Damien: An Open Letter to the Reverend Dr. Hyde of Honolulu. The good—if not head-strong--priest’s name continues to grace headlines and book titles to this day.

Northeast trades whipped upwards of 20 miles per hour and the faint silhouette of Oahu appeared on the distant, western horizon. “Trade winds keep it cool and comfortable here and blow the bugs right on over to Oahu,” Norman said. We stood under blue skies by the monument and one-time grave of Mother Marianne Cope, and I sensed that Norman’s respect for her outweighed that of Father Damien’s.

Mother Marianne was born in Germany in 1838. When she was two years of age, her family moved to Utica, New York and changed their name from Koob to Cope. In 1862, Mother Marianne joined the Franciscan Sisters of Syracuse, and in 1883 she moved to Hawaii specifically to care for the victims of Hansen’s disease. “I desire to accept this work in the name of the great Saint Francis,” she is quoted as saying. She arrived in Kalaupapa shortly before Father Damien’s death to run the Bishop Home for women and girls.

“Now, Mother Marianne herself was an amazing woman,” Norman said. “She was the administrative type of person, very disciplined and very organized. Unlike Father Damien. Father Damien, of course, was an amazing man himself. But Mother Marianne was also a gifted person. One area of her gifting was her ability to work with people. Mother Marianne was able to get resources that were needed here in Kalaupapa in six months times that Father Damien couldn’t get in six years time.”

Mother Marianne spent 30 years at Kalaupapa. At her request, she was buried on the grounds of the Bishop Home upon her death in 1918. In 2005, her remains were exhumed and moved to a shrine at the Motherhouse of the Sisters of Saint Francis in Syracuse. So far, Mother Marianne has passed two steps of three on her way to beatification. A sign in the National Historic Park’s book store declares, “We have a saint! Blessed Marianne Cope. To be canonized in 2012.”

That would make two saints created out of the place where so many were sent as cast-offs, unclean and untouchable. Hansen’s disease affects the nerves, skin, respiratory system and eyes. It can cause permanent disfigurement. A cure was eventually discovered in the 1940s, and some patients left. Others remained, citing Kalaupapa as their home. In 1976, Kalaupapa was designated a National Historic Landmark, and in 1980, it was re-designated as National Historical Park. There are 17 former Kalaupapa patients alive today. About half still live at Kalaupapa.

Norman hustled us about the peninsula, revving up the bus’ motor to drive around a block, only to turn off the ignition in order to share something about the cliff trail, visible from the town of Kalaupapa, something about a closed store decorated with license plates from around the world, something about the numerous churches dotting the 12-square miles of land, something about the one-time hospital and infirmary, the National Park Service building, the best places to re-fill water bottles.

We disembarked to explore the visitor center, where everyday items like spoons that had to be modified for patients were on display. We walked through St. Francis Church and St. Philomena’s. We ate a measly sandwich at Kalawao, site of the first settlement and snapped pictures of Molokai’s famous sea cliffs, supposedly some of the tallest in the world.

We learned about Father Damien and Mother Marianne, but, in recollecting the day’s tour, I realize now that we heard very little about the actual people—the former patients, as Norman called them—who were exiled at Kalaupapa. What were their days like? How did they wind up in exile? How did they survive? I’d read the controversial book The Colony: The Harrowing True Story of the Exiles of Molokai when it published in 2006. I’d read The True Story of Kaluaikoolau: As Told by His Wife Piilani about one man’s efforts to evade the police tasked with arresting him and shipping him off to Kalaupapa. But Norman was mum on the actual people of Kalaupapa.

It dawns on me now that Norman left out personal details on purpose.

When we first climbed aboard the bus and sat down, Norman said, “I need to tell you something.” He sat on his perch of a driver’s seat, the engine rumbling to a stop, and held up a knotty hand, one shaky finger pointing in the air. “Kalaupapa is a restricted area, so there are a few things to remember. One, some places are off limits. Two, stay together as a group. Three, I encourage you to ask questions. And, four, take pictures of anything. Except people.”

The privacy of the former patients of Kalawao is highly protected. And, yet, in 1966, a former patient named Richard Marks started Father Damien Tours, the only way for most people like me to step foot on Kalaupapa. It’s a push-pull conundrum. It seems many former patients want the world to know about Kalaupapa—and, hence, the tours. But they don’t want the world to know about them. I can understand. For too long, the stigma of leprosy was shame. People suffering from the disease hid from authorities. Yet, one woman, Olivia Robello Breitha, who was exiled at age 18, decided to share her story. And that’s why the next book on my nightstand waiting for me to read is

Olivia: My Life of Exile in Kalaupapa

[Note: This is the second part of a two-part series covering Kalaupapa. The first detailed the descent into Kalaupapa on muleback.]

Molokai Mule Cam Video

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Here are just a few seconds of the hour-and-a-half ascent from Kalaupapa to "topside" Molokai from the back of a mule.

World Famous Kalaupapa Mule Tour

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:00:00 -1000

The sun had yet to crest Kamakou, Molokai’s highest mountain at 4,970 feet, when we pulled up to a stable--its paint long gone, its tin awning a pleasant rusty red--and an equally weathered sign that said, “World Famous Kalaupapa Rare Adventure. Kalaupapa Mule Tour.”

A dozen, saddled mules tugged at the few sprigs of grass growing along the edges of the corral out front. My eyes immediately went to one—a male, laden with brown spots and sporting the longest white eyelashes I’d ever seen. I could have sworn he batted them at me.

“Now, first thing we’re going to do is match you up with the mules,” said Buzzy Sproat, wearing four key elements of a cowboy’s uniform--hat, jeans, belt buckle and boots. “And how do you think we match you up to the mules?”

The last time I rode a mule, I was a young girl, and the mule broke for the barn, trying hard to scrape me off its back with the help of a few well-placed, low-hanging tree branches. Somehow, I managed to hang on. That was in the woods of a Missouri valley. This time, a few decades later, I stood “topside” Molokai and was about to ride a mule along a 3.2-mile, cliffside trail that descended 1,780 feet in elevation, and I—or my mule—would need to maneuver 26 switchbacks to get there.

Kalaupapa Peninsula, as all peninsulas, is surrounded by water on three sides. But what sets it apart, literally and figuratively, are some of the world’s largest sea cliffs that abut the back of the peninsula. It’s suspected that a landslide created the vertical wall in a cataclysmic event and a later volcanic eruption formed the flat, pancake of land at its base.

Nine of us showed up for the daring attempt to descend into Kalaupapa National Historical Park, whose remoteness set the stage for a tragic human saga that got its start in the 1860s. Theresa, from Alabama, answered Uncle Buzzy’s question. She suggested that Buzzy and his muleskinners would match us to our mules “by height and weight.”

Buzzy has been leading mule tours into Kalauapapa since 1973. But he made each and every one of us feel like our day was his first. He asked our names, where we were from and what we did with our lives when we weren’t about to straddle a mule. So, when he gave his answer to how they matched up mule with rider, we all laughed, as if it was the first time he delivered the punch line, even though we knew it was well practiced.

“Nope,” he said. “What we do is bring the mule over here, and if you look like the mule, we put you on it.”

Other times, you had to listen closely to catch his humor.

Buzzy and his business partner Roy Horner own the mule part of the day’s adventure that would also include a tour through Kalaupapa Peninsula. Buzzy continued, his slow drawl and easy smile calming everyone’s quiet fears—save one. Dawn, from Washington, had no idea what was in store. Her sister had signed her up, saying it was just a mule ride. Just a mule ride?

“All the mules have a name,” Buzzy said. “And we want you to remember that name, because we cannot remember your names but we sure know your mule’s name. Some of these mules have Hawaiian names. This mule’s name is Makani. It means ‘wind’ in Hawaiian. Not because he goes like the wind but whoever rides in the back of him will know why we named him Makani.”

As the saying goes, Buzzy grew up in the saddle. Heck, he was almost born in the saddle. The youngest of seven children, his mother had to ride a mule two hours from the depths of Pololu Valley on Big Island to reach the closest hospital. By the time Buzzy came along in 1937, she hitched a ride in a car. When Buzzy discovered I lived on Kauai, the smile on his closely-cropped, grey-bearded face brightened even more, and he tilted his belt buckle, so I could read it. Princeville Rodeo. 1980.

When it came time to pair up mule with rider, Buzzy assigned the spotted mule with the long eyelashes to me. Buzzy, too, must have seen the mule batting his eyelashes at me. When I asked the mule’s name, Buzzy said, “Stripe.”

“Stripe?” I asked, confused. I was expecting the Hawaiian word for spot.

“Stripe,” Buzzy said and tightened the saddle’s straps and cinched its buckles. “So he remembers who’s in charge.”

But the truth is the mules run the show here. Buzzy knows that. “When you get on, at first, the mules will walk around and shake their heads and some people get all worried and say their mule isn’t any good. But this is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship. If the mule wants to get mad or something, we cannot do anything about it.”

Left there, that statement might make some people nervous. But Buzzy followed up with this. “We don’t have any suicidal mules. I’ve never seen a one suicidal mule. These mules are computerized. An hour-and-a-half down and an hour-and-a-half back. When you get on the trail, put the reins around the saddle horn, and you’re on automatic pilot. But if you want to go right, pull right. If you want to go left, pull left. If you want to stop, say ‘ho.’ When the mule goes around a turn, some like to take the outside. Let him. You can pull his reins to the side, and he’ll turn his head, but he’ll still take the outside. Just sit there and let them go down the trial. They’ve been down a couple times before.”
A couple times? These mules work six days a week, hauling bodies up and down the wall.

According to the certificate of completion that was issued at the ride’s completion, the trail was built in 1887 by Molokai resident Manuel Farinha Joao in order to provide a land route for delivery of supplies and goods. Mules helped, of course, hauling tools, pulling up trees and moving large rocks. The cost to build the trail was $1,000.

Finally, mules and people matched and saddled, Buzzy saw us off with three of his muleskinners, the last, bringing up the rear on a mule-in-training, Buzzy’s son. We headed down the blacktopped road to a dirt trail and a sign that said, “Stop. Warning. Go back unless you have written permit to enter Kalawao County. Violators of HRS 326-26 subject to citation and $500 fine.”

In 1865, King Kamehameha V signed the “Act to Prevent the Spread of Leprosy,” and in early 1866, 12 men and women of what would over the years number thousands were forced into exile at this remote peninsula. A cure for the disease, which has come to be called Hansen’s Disease, came in the 1940s, although the forced isolation was not lifted until 1969. Even so, many patients decided to stay, their isolation becoming their sanctuary, and, today, a dozen or so still make Kalaupapa their home. In 1976, Kalaupapa was designated a National Historic Landmark and in 1980, it was re-designated as Kalaupapa National Historic Park. Out of respect for those who still live there, visitors are limited to 100 per day, Monday through Saturday, closed Sunday.

Life, though, is still remote on Kalaupapa, even with a small airstrip on the peninsula. We met a NPS worker hiking out as we made our descent. Even though a barge comes once a year with non-perishable food and hard goods, and weekly air freight provides residents with perishable food, this man was hiking out to do some shopping topside.

Our mules jostled and positioned themselves into a long long for the descent. Laka went first. Then, Poele. Stripe fell in behind Poele. It wasn’t long before Dawn, atop Laka, realized the demands of our mule ride and let her sister—and the rest of us—know she wasn’t having any fun. She made a few shrill threats. In turn, Laka halted in the middle of the trail, refusing to budge. Poele kept her distance, knowing from experience that Laka’s temperament might result in a kick to the face. I couldn’t help but think that somehow Buzzy had matched up mule and rider perfectly.

I admit that I, too, watched the numbered switchbacks as they came into view. I leaned back with one hand on the rear of Stripe’s saddle, as he angled us downward. I stretched my legs, practically standing as I sat in the saddle—a saddle, by the way, that Buzzy won at that same Kauai rode in which he was awarded the belt buckle. And I may have asked myself that wonderful Bruce Chatwin-esque question, “What am I doing here?” But only once.

We nudged and encouraged and maybe even cussed at our mules, making our way down the tree-lined trail and, soon, a sweeping panoramic view of Kalaupapa Peninsula opened before us. Then, forgetting the numbered switchbacks, I looped my reins around the saddle’s horn, and using two hands to steady my camera as Stripe took sure step after sure step over rocks and tree limbs, I lined up the horizon and took pictures and, even, video—from the mule head cam.

By the time we reached the 26th switchback, I knew that Poele preferred to let Laka get three or four mule-lengths ahead. That Stripe had no qualms about sticking his head in Poele’s backside. And I could have sworn that Stripe had a soft spot for Poele, for when she stood waiting a bit too long for Laka to move ahead, Stripe gave Poele a gentle nudge in her backside.

It was then that I realized what an achievement Stripe had managed on my behalf. I dismounted, my legs shaky, and gave his muzzle a nuzzle, declaring, “Mules are amazing. These must be the most fit mules in the world.”

At the end of the day, when the mules raised no stink about climbing 1,780 feet in 3.2 miles along 26 switchbacks and returning to the barn, Buzzy and Roy would have our certificates of completion waiting for us declaring our entry into the renowned club of “Ali’i Mule Skinners of Molokai.” Dawn included, who, about the 23rd switchback had decided she liked the mule ride, after all.

We also received a bumper sticker that said, “Wouldn’t you rather be riding a mule on Molokai?”

And I would. As long as it was on Stripe, my trusted stead.

[Note: Part 2: The Tour of Kalaupapa to come.]

Foto Friday Fisherman on a Rock

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Foto Friday: Fisherman on a rock.

The other evening, an hour before sunset, I went for a walk on an east side Kauai beach. Ostensibly, I was looking for a Hawaiian monk seal with a possible infection to his face, after a fishing hook had been removed (by and approved and permitted team from NOAA) from his jaw a week or so ago. I didn't find the monk seal, but I did find great frigatebirds flying overhead. And nene. And red-footed boobies. Off-shore, several whales breached and pec- or tail-slapped as an outrigger canoe passed in the foreground. A couple of surfers had figured that the north/northwest swell was wrapping around the island in such a way that an unusual surfbreak would be just about the right size for them. And a fisherman cast his poll into breaking waves. There really are few better ways to end the day.

The Cat in My Yard

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

He started hanging around our yard about six months ago, appearing and reappearing every few weeks like a sailor on leave, cruising after dark, a white flash of fur slipping into the tall weeds at the edge of our property.

The first time I saw him up close, I almost ran him over with the riding lawn mower. He was sleeping, mid-day, a couple feet from the safety and hideaway of the deep weeds, his sanctuary. He didn’t flinch as the motor of the mower roared within inches of his head. I parked the mower and grabbed my husband “It’s dead,” I said, racing back and murmuring “Poor kitty, kitty,” or some such cat-cooing words. But when I got within 15 feet, the cat sprang to life and raced for the weeds.

“I guess he had at least one life left,” my husband said.

I noticed the cat was wearing a black collar.

The trouble with rescuing cats in Hawaii is that you never know when they belong to a neighbor. Not every cat you meet is a house cat. Many are outside cats, surviving on mice and food tossed by an owner every now and then. Then, there is another breed of cats altogether--feral cats. Neither of these outdoor types cuddle. They don’t crawl into your lap and purr.

I figured the white cat was a neighborhood cat--part-tame, part-feral, wholly people-phobic.

Weeks went by. I didn’t see the cat.

Then, I saw him dash across the tunnel of light thrown by my car’s head lamps as I drove into my driveway. Another time, I saw him at dusk, grooming beneath the camouflage of low-hanging palm fronds.

I knew when the smallish cat had spent time around our house during the night, maybe napping on the front staircase or seeking shelter from the rain on a cushioned chair on the lanai. The next morning, my girls, one a retired search and rescue dog, would work his scent with the frenetic energy of a double espresso.

A couple months ago, I happened upon the cat curled in a nest of a ball behind some bushes. The girls’ were with me. Their noses went in the air and they strained their leashes, alerting me to the cat’s presence before we even saw him. I knew what would come next--a mad bout of ferocious barking--and dragged the dogs back to the house.

But something made me return to the bushes. Maybe it was the image of the black collar. At some point, I thought, this cat had cozied up to someone and allowed that someone to slip a collar over his head.

I sat 20 feet away from the cat, looking askance, acting nonchalant. It didn’t take long. He rose, stretched in an arch and circled me, approaching from behind. I sat still and let him make the advances until he was in my lap, his insistent head nudging my hand to pet him, his purr-motor roaring. Now, more than ever, I figured he belonged to a neighbor.

When I told my friend Pam, the volunteer coordinator at the Kauai Humane Society, she said, “Bring him in. He might be chipped.”

But I hesitated. What if he belonged to the neighbor? And how does one catch a cat? Transport a cat? I didn’t know cats. I didn’t have a cat carrier. What's more, the knowledge that a disturbingly low percentage of cats that entered the doors of the shelter made it out alive circled the back of my mind like a song I couldn't shake. I debated and delayed and forgot about the cat between sightings.

Then, the neighbor stopped by the house last week, and even though I hadn’t seen the cat in a couple weeks, I asked her about him--white with a black collar. “Nope,” she said. “Not ours.”

Last night, after catching up on a recorded TV show, with the girls snuggled beside me on the sofa (I know) and the husband reading in bed, I saw the white cat outside the sliding glass door to our living room. He raised a paw to the glass, and I headed outside, fresh bag of cat food in hand.

He refused food for a full fifteen minutes, preferring to sate his starvation for love before filling his hungry belly. I sat on the plastic adirondack chair by the driveway, and he wove between my legs in a figure-eight pattern, rubbed the back of his head against my body and, quickly, crawled into my lap. I stroked his clean, white body from head to tail with a practiced hand, noting not a tick, not a flea but feeling the rumble of vertebrae and ribs beneath my fingers and noting the thinning of fur, like a man slowly going bald.

That’s when I realized this cat had once belonged to a home where he was cuddled and loved, and he deserved a new home--a home with people to pet him and, if there were dogs in the home, dogs that liked and played with cats. I decided that by letting the cat live in my yard, I was surely killing him, slowly, one lonely day, one missed meal at a time. It was time to take action, do the right thing and that right thing was to take the cat to Kauai Humane Society.

Pam said the shelter takes in some 6,000 animals each year. Only 3% of cats are reunited with their owners.

The rains started early this morning, coming down in buckets, and the winds picked up enough to rouse me from sleep and slip a thought into my waking consciousness. That thought was this: I hope the cat finds shelter from the rain.

I woke to find the cat sitting on a table outside the sliding glass door of my bedroom--not more than eight feet from me. And the dogs.

I called Pam from my bed.

“I know this sounds cruel, but use a pillow case,” she said. “That’s how I take my cats to the vet, snuggled against my belly as I drive.”

“But this cat doesn’t know me,” I said. I had visions of a pillowcase flying through the car, bouncing off windows and my head. I pictured claws protruding through the fabric, rivulets of blood streaming down my face. But the blood, it turned out, wouldn’t flow from my face but my pinky finger.

“Then, try a box,” she said. “You’ll probably have to tape it closed.

I spent an hour with the car in the garage, feeding it, coaxing it into the box, while my two dogs whined on the other side of the door. When the cat had a good and fully belly--I could feel its belly expand--it curled in a ball in my lap and nodded off. I wrapped it tight in a towel and, quickly, stuffed it in the box, securing the corners with duct tape but leaving the middle seam free for air flow. That was a mistake.

I made it to my designated meeting spot with Pam in Kapaa--the cat reclined across the dashboard of the car and me nursing a sliced finger. Pam wrapped the towel around the cat, worked it into the pillowcase and drove to the shelter with it snuggled against her belly.

Within an hour, Pam called me to say: 1) The cat was male. 2) He was neutered. 3) He was micro-chipped. 4) A message had been left with his owners.

Pam called me another hour later to say that the owners had called back. Their cat had gone missing last Father’s Day when someone borrowed a neighbor’s boat in which the cat had liked to sleep. After a short drive to the river, the cat was last seen leaping from the boat and fleeing. Hope for a reunion had long seeped away.

By sundown on a grey day with more rains predicted overnight, the white cat with a black collar was reported to be home, purring with delirious delight.

The next day, Pam called to say his name was Mikey.

Turns out Mikey is one of the three percent. His story shows how important it is to get your cat or dog micro-chipped. If you have a pet that is not micro-chipped, I highly encourage you to do so. And if you're looking for a pet, I suggest starting with the Kauai Humane Society. I've adopted two amazing dogs there, who both came leash-trained and with other amazing skills. If you're a visitor to our islands, please consider adopting a cat or dog, too. With every purr or love-lick, they'll remind you of Hawaii every day for the rest of their days. Now, that's some kind of memorable Hawaii experience.

A Meditation on the Chickens of Kauai

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Driving home from the Mahaulepu coastline on Kauai’s south shore, I thought about a book I am reading called Crow Planet: Essential Wisdom from the Urban Wilderness. On one level, the book inspires its reader to find nature in the every day world—be it the city, suburbia, your backyard, the city park, wherever and everywhere. But the bigger message, the hopeful one, is that in doing so—in playing the naturalist, walking around with a pair of binoculars, a notebook, pencil and, perhaps even, a 10x glass hand lens—you, me, we will reconnect with the natural world, our environment. This, in turn, will peak our curiosity, get us to do a little research on a bird or bug or spider or plant and that understanding of the said bird or bug or spider or plant, daresay, will lead to caring about it. Understanding is the necessary component. Once we get to know something (the same is true with people) we do our best to care for it, protect it, save it.

I have written extensively here on this blog about excursions in search of monitoring and counting and observing Hawaii’s native and, often, endangered species from Laysan albatross, black-footed albatross, short-tailed albatross and Newell’s shearwater. To Hawaiian monk seals, humpback whales, false killer whales. Green and hawk’s bill sea turtles. And hedyotis st. johnii. And yet, I have not once written about a species of great intrigue, especially to Kauai’s visitors. Perhaps because the species of which I allude is found in my backyard. Its numbers are rising unchecked. And it’s not included on any list except, perhaps, one of a nuisance to insomniacs.

I refer, of course, to the chicken.

You’ve heard about Kauai’s chickens, right? They roam free of predators except the occasional dog or cat and frequent collisions with cars. Stories abound—about a crate of mongoose that fell into the sea, the assistance of Hurricane Iniki in spreading the birds to the far corners of the island, about the original chicken ancestor that arrived on the first canoes with the first Polynesians and, later, the advent of cockfighting. So, I won’t go into that here.

I may not have written about Kauai’s chickens, but I have penned this bio for a feature story or guest blog or anthology collection that I have written: Kim Steutermann Rogers lives with three chickens, two dogs and one husband on the Hawaiian Island of Kauai.

So, it’s about time I do right by the chickens.

As I drove home from the south shore—through Tree Tunnel and into Puhi, Lihue, Wailua and Kapaa until I finally reached my home in Anahola, I wondered if any great poets had written poems about chickens. I knew Pablo Neruda had written odes to artichokes, tomatoes, onions and even something as ordinary as his socks. Wallace Stephens wrote 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. Poe had his raven. I wondered if Greek or Romany mythology included any stories about chickens.

I wanted something more than pseudo-philosophical questions, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” and “What came first? The chicken or the egg?”

When I returned home, I went straight to my computer and searched “chicken poem.” There was nothing from Neruda or Stephens or Poe. Not a tale of a chicken rising from the ashes; no Greek or Roman gods transmogrifying in the body of a chicken, either. But I did discover this haiku:

Speckled chicken pecks

All day stirring up the ground

Turning the brown soil

On Kauai, chickens spend their days pecking in the sand at beaches, they stir up the gravel on the sides of Kauai’s roads, and they scratch the ground below the picnic tables of the island’s outdoor restaurants. I’ve braked behind cars that have stopped to allow a hen and her string of chicks cross the road. I’ve witnessed a man let loose his terrier on a hen’s brood. I’ve started when a hen flared her cape and charge me to protect her chicks hidden in a bush.

In my poetry search, I also discovered this children’s tale of the Little Red Hen:

One day the Little Red Hen was scratching in a field, she found a grain of wheat that had dropped from heaven.
She said, "This wheat should be planted."
Then she asked her farm friends, "Who will plant this grain of wheat?"
"Not I," said the Goat
"Not I," said the Pig
"Not I," said the Goose
"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.
Soon the wheat grew to be tall and strong.
"The wheat is ripe," said the Little Red Hen. "Who will cut the wheat?"
"Not I," said the Goat
"Not I," said the Pig
"Not I," said the Goose
"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.
When the wheat was cut, the Little Red Hen said,
"Who will thresh the wheat?"
"Not I," said the Goat
"Not I," said the Pig
"Not I," said the Goose
"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.
When the wheat was threshed, the Little Red Hen said,
"Who will take this wheat to the mill?"
"Not I," said the Goat
"Not I," said the Pig
"Not I," said the Goose
"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.
She took the wheat to the mill and had it ground into flour.
Then she said, "Who will make this flour into bread?"
"Not I," said the Goat
"Not I," said the Pig
"Not I," said the Goose
"Then I will," said the Little Red Hen. And she did.
She made and baked the bread.
Then she said, "Who will eat this bread?"
"I will," said the Goat
"I will," said the Pig
"I will," said the Goose
"Oh no you won't!" said the Little Red Hen. "I will do that." And she did.

A year ago, my husband and I adopted a black-and-white dog from the Kauai Humane Society that we named Lulu. One day, we let her outside, and she took off in a dead sprint around the corner of the house. By the time my husband could catch up with her, she had a young chicken in her mouth. Upon command, Lulu dropped the bird, and it pitifully hobbled away. We started calling her “Hoppy” and spent the next few weeks tossing her bread crumbs, the rind and skin of papayas and watermelon and apple cores. Neither of us wanted her death hanging over our heads.

The simple search for “chicken anatomy” revealed that Lulu had probably broken Hoppy’s shank. As we’d witnessed before in chickens, the leg eventually healed so well that the day arrived when we could no longer distinguish Hoppy from her sister by Hoppy’s physical deformity. That’s when we named her sister Green Legs. And, for whimsy, her brother, “Ham.”

By this time, Hoppy came running for me at full speed whenever I emerged from the house in the morning. She ran with such glee in her step that I swore she was smiling. She knew a good food source when she met one. My weekend research revealed that chickens can run at speeds up to nine miles per hour. (They can also fly, lest you are deceived, and I didn’t have to Google anything to discover that.)

I decided to photograph Hoppy for this essay, but I couldn’t find her.

“I haven’t seen Hoppy lately,” I said to my husband later that evening.

“I saw her a couple days ago,” he said.

Instead, I photographed Ham and Speckles.

According to Lyanda Lynn Haupt in Crow Planet, a famed zoologist named Louis Agassiz at Harvard’s Museum of Comparative Zoology gave a potential student a fish in a specimen jar. The student—a guy named Samuel Scudder—tells the story this way: “Take this fish,” he [Agassiz] said, “and look at it; we call it a haemulon; by and by I will ask you what you have seen.”

With that, Agassiz left. He returned a few minutes later. “What do you see,” he asked and Scudder shared his thoughts. “Keep looking,” Agassiz would say and leave again. Apparently, this would go on for hours and days with Agassiz encouraging his student to “Keep looking.”

I downloaded my photographs of Ham and Speckles and studied their faces, realizing how little I really knew about chickens, even though, for 12 years, I have lived with them as local wildlife, their crowing has woke me at all hours of the night, and their calls have provided background music to many a telephone conversation.

Speckles’ “double wattle” particularly intrigued me, although at the time I didn’t know the fleshy skin below the beak was called by the same name as Richard Fish's fetish on the television show Ally McBeal. I learned the wattle—and comb—help cool the bird by redirecting blood flow to the skin.

Back at Google, I scratched around some more and discovered chickens and roosters have eight different types of combs: Rose, Strawberry, Silkis, Single, Cushion, Buttercup, Pea and V-shaped.

Ham and Speckles both have the classic Single comb, a moderately thin strip of flesh attached at the beak and running over the breadth of their skulls. Five or six distinct serrations form points, the middle points being the highest. In males, the comb is always upright and more pronounced.

In just a few minutes of research, I’ve already learned much about chickens. I suppose that would make Agassiz and Haupt happy. But if I’m really going to learn my lessons from these two naturalists, I will keep a journal, use a sketchpad, take more pictures and look, look, look.

These days, I keep both dogs—Lulu and Nickel—on a leash when we go for our walk-abouts. They know that the chickens are off-limits, but I don’t trust them 100%. They are too close to their hunting days spent racing through woods and fields and ravines chasing down pigs.

Hoppy re-appeared today, emerging from the naupaka bushes in the backyard followed by seven chicks fresh out of their shells. I raced for the phone.

“Hoppy has seven chicks,” I said to Eric.

“So, that’s where she’s been hiding,” he said.

And, now, there are seven more lives to document. Truth be told, I don’t know if I’m up for this.

Poi Dog Blog: A Cowboy, Vanilla Farmer, Photographer, Philosopher, Whale & Dolphin

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Ask someone in Hawaii, “What kind of dog is that?” and they’re likely to say, “Oh, I don’t know. A poi dog.”

Poi dog. Also known as “mixed breed.” Or, better yet, mutt. (I like how “mutt” doubles the “t” at the end of the word, a hint at the definition—a dog with an ancestry of more than one breed.)

This column—Poi Dog Blog—as I’ve decided to call it, is simply a mash-up of articles I like from the Internet, all about Hawaii and written by a variety of authors. I hope you enjoy.

Here they are:

1. Driving Cattle through Driving Rain in Hawaii. In this story, Sherry Ott—a “corporate cube dweller turned nomadic traveler”—strides a horse to help herd cattle on Hawaii (Big) Island with Dahana Ranch. No, she wasn’t a skilled horsewoman—note the cube dweller reference above. No, the weather wasn’t perfect. But herding cattle in the rain turned out to be one of her favorite experiences during her vacation on Hawaii (Big) Island. Read why.

2. Since my Organic, Sustainable, Mostly Plant-Based Hawaii Farm Tour of 2012 is top of mind these days, I was also intrigued by another of Sherry’s stories: Farm to Table. Vanilla on the Big Island of Hawaii. This is a real farm-to-table story, for as Sherry visits the Hawaii Vanilla Company, Oahu-born and raised Jim Reddekopp explains how vanilla is grown and processed—all the while whipping up meal featuring the prized crop. Imagine: a starter of vanilla grilled shrimp; an entrée of bourbon citrus marinated chicken breast on a vanilla sweet bread roll with vanilla caramelized onions and organic greens; a salad of dusted vanilla pecans, feta and vanilla raspberry balsamic dressing; vegetables of Okinawan sweet potatoes with vanilla southwest rub and vanilla BBQ sauce. And that doesn’t even include dessert. I know. I know. It’s not vegan, but I’d go veggie for this one meal.

3. Over at Nerd’s Eye View, Cindy Scheopner shares her feelings on what makes Hawaii “worth it.” It’s an insightful post that presents Hawaii as something more—something more than white sand beaches, palm trees, tropical oases and pretty scenery. And just as interesting are the comments that follow her essay. Don’t miss those.

4. Photographer Dewitt Jones lives on the Hawaiian Island of Molokai, where he manages to explore his island and post a daily photograph about his excursions on his Facebook page. I attended a photography workshop with Dewitt years ago. He proved to be one of the most generous and inspiring souls—always exploring ways to extend creativity, his own and others.

5. This YouTube video made up of still photographs of a dolphin and humpback whale, presumably, playing turned out to be the most popular link I’ve ever shared on OutriggerHawaii’s Facebook page. So, I thought I’d share it with you here.

Garden Island Chocolate Farm Tour

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

“There’s a proper way to eat chocolate,” Koa said. “Take a piece and rub it around in your fingers to aerate and warm it up. That brings out all the flavors.”

That also explained why the tips of Koa’s fingers—and now mine—were brown.

I gave my husband three cacao trees five years ago for our anniversary. Now, after a visit to the Garden Island Chocolate farm, I know why they are nothing more than three sticks in the hard-packed ground where I live on Kauai.

The scientific name Theobroma cacao translates to “food of the gods” and “the chocolate tree.” In America, we refer to the plant and all its products before processing as “cacao.” After processing, the seeds, whether in liquid or solid form, become what some call the “food of the gods,” what others call a “super-food,” and what still others call a daily necessity, but in all cases, its most common name is “chocolate.”

There is only one place in the United States where cacao is grown: Hawaii. And there are only two growers who see cacao to its final state in a “bean to bar” process. One is Garden Island Chocolate on Kauai. The other is The Original Hawaiian Chocolate Factory—with a slogan, Remember: Chocolate is Aloha—located on Hawaii (Big) Island.

You might call the gift of a cacao tree the gift that keeps on giving or—with a wink and a smile—self-serving. But the truth is I am not the chocoholic in the family. Although I admit, the more I try different types of chocolate, especially with various food pairings—much like wine—the stuff is growing on me. And, so, very much in keeping with my character, my first stop in my Organic, Sustainable, Mostly Plant-Based Hawaii Farm Tour of 2012, I decided to start with dessert.

Garden Island Chocolate is located on Kauai’s east side, above Kapaa, along a meandering rural-residential road, far off the beaten track that leads to typical visitor destinations, on the 30-acre property of Ein Rogel Farms.

On the covered lanai outside a farm building, we sat around a table decorated with roasted cacao beans, bowls of cacao nibs, bars of chocolate, mini jars of chocolate syrup and a box of chocolate truffles—a veritable choco-palooza. A medium brown cat, named Cocoa, of course, weaved between our legs, leaving a scent my two dogs would later spend long, intense minutes deciphering. Outside, water raced over a wide waterfall and down the stream adjacent to the property.

The farm’s chocolate maker, Koa, passed around a plate of nibs in two of the farm’s eight varieties—criollo and trinitario. Nibs, Koa explained, are chunks of cacao after it’s been fermented, dried and roasted. Basically, almost chocolate.

Next, he passed around a plate of the farm’s Spicy Pepper chocolate, made with allspice and chilies as a tribute to the ancient Mayans who are credited with figuring out how to turn a cacao pod shaped like a mini football into the flavor we call chocolate.

“Good connoisseurs don’t use adjective to describe chocolate,” Koa said. “They share a memory or a feeling. Chocolate connoisseurs don’t say it tastes like a plumb with black currants. They might say something like, ‘It smells like that sunny day when I was on the swing and the grass was freshly cut.’”

I tasted a piece of Alaea Sea Salt, and it will always remind me of the tooth-smeared, chocolate smile of Susan Garden, visiting from Napa, California, wearing a straw hat on her head, fingers as smudged as mine, and laughing throatily as she made sure not to let a few stray grains of Hawaiian sea salt go to waste.

Another of the tours guides, Jesse, explained, “Chocolate is a processed food, like coffee and wine. Its quality is a combination of a great product and proper processing. Like the ‘third wave of coffee,’ quality chocolates are single origin, so you can taste the terroir.”

The Hemp Seed and Mint was next.

Jesse explained that mission of Garden Island Chocolate is simple: To produce the best chocolate in the world.

Hence, their chocolate is made up of 80% chocolate. “When you get below 60 or 50 percent cacao, you can’t really taste the quality of the chocolate.”

Jesse describes the operation at Garden Island Chocolate as an artisanal, small batch maker. They follow organic and sustainable agricultural standards and practices. What they don’t grow themselves, they source from other Hawaii farmers. For example, their sugar comes from the last working sugar plantation in Hawaii—Maui.

The Macadamia Nut & Coconut chocolate may have been the last bar to get passed around, but it wasn’t the last of the chocolate.

Speaking of sugar, Jesse explained, if a chocolate bar is labeled as 80% cacao, then 20% of the bar is made of sugar. He also pointed out that you’ve got to read the ingredient label. The “80% cacao” banner on the front of the bar really means “cacao and cacao derivatives.” Derivatives like cocoa butter.

So, of course, I flipped over the bar in my hands to read the ingredients of Garden Island Chocolate’s Spicy Pepper chocolate bar, and they read: organic Kauai grown cacao, organic Hawaiian sugar, organic chili peppers, organic allspice, organic Kauai grown vanilla beans.

And, then, I accepted the first truffle: Lilikoi. And that’s when it may have happened--that's when I may have become a chocoholic.

How often do you really and truly come across something that’s good—and I mean really good--and good—and I mean really good—for you?

Koa explained, chocolate has more flavanols (antioxidants) than any other type of food. (Flavanols help blood flow and strengthen the lining of the blood vessels.) Chocolate has over 400 chemical compounds, including theobromine, a muscle relaxant; phenylethylamine, known as the love drug; and anandamide, known as the bliss chemical. No wonder chocolate is considered a super-food.

Second truffle: Pina colada with Tahitian lime.

The key in retaining the health benefits to chocolate, though, is in keeping it pure. That’s why Garden Island Chocolate grinds the beans by hand using a stone melanger. “It’s like the difference between fresh-squeezed orange juice and orange juice made from concentrate,” said Jesse.

Third truffle: Honey.

There’s so much more than chocolate on this tour. Before we even got to the tasting room—a covered lanai—we toured the farm: soursop, lychee, rambutan, atemoya, breadfruit, mangosteen, fig, tropical peach, papaya, tangelo, lilikoi and vanilla. We tasted: papaya, navel orange, tangerine, grapefruit, avocado, pomelo, rambutan, abiu, cacao bean, Surinam cherry and macadamia nut. The tasting started with the tiny fruit—oblong in shape and Christmas red in color—called Miracle Berry. For good reason. But that story will have to wait for another day.

I returned home with a bar of chocolate for my husband and a bit of knowledge. Cacao is an understory plant. As such, it prefers shade, wind-protection and plenty of water. Our cacao trees receive: sun, wind and drought-like conditions. It’s not like we didn’t do our homework. The bananas that were supposed to provide shade turned out to be dwarfs. The wind-blocks got ripped out in a big storm, and when the one-time healthy saplings got stripped of their leaves, we didn’t re-build their protection and, over time, stopped watering them. Hence, twigs sticking out of the ground.

But that’s fine with me. Making (good) chocolate is no small endeavor. I’ll just pick up a bar of Garden Island Chocolate next time I have a hankering. Which could be tonight.

Eating Vegan in Hawaii. A Cinch?

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I started my day with a smoothie, as I have done for 23 days now. Mango plus papaya plus banana plus strawberry plus a scoop of Hawaiian Spirulina. The fruit varies; the routine doesn’t.

The 23-day smoothie routine got its start last December on Maui when I naively attended Mark Reinfeld’s holiday vegan cooking workshop. The streak didn’t spawn from a New Year’s resolution, but the timing couldn’t have been better. This year, I have decided to forego the kind of deep, meaningful resolutions that I somehow felt I needed to make in 2011 and 2010, and opted to fall in line with the majority of Americans and vow, for the umpteenth time in my life, to eat healthier and exercise more.

I now have basil, cilantro, rosemary, arugula and parsley growing in my window garden to go along with the bananas and coconut, mango, lemon, lime and orange trees growing in the yard. The neighbor behind us provides avocados, and I am thinking about subscribing to a weekly box of veggies from the farmer-neighbor around the corner. Living in Hawaii, a year-round bounty of tasty treats is always available. It should make eating healthy easy. Right?

Eating a vegan (as in plant-based) diet is new for me but not too far removed from my natural diet. I grew up in the Midwest, the grandchild of farmer-grandparents on both branches of the family tree. Trouble was I didn’t eat like the granddaughter from farm stock. When I was an appropriate age, my mom scooped up a tiny bit of beef on a fork and slipped it into my mouth. I spit it out. She tried chicken. That came out, too. Pork. No way. I can’t explain it, other than to say I just don’t like meat. Not as a baby. Not as a child. Not as an adult. My distaste for meat didn’t make for pleasing memories around the dinner table. There would be commands (eat it) and instructions (you’re not leaving the table until you finish) and crying (but I don’t like it). Lots of crying.

One night, when I was maybe four or five, long after everyone else had finished eating, and I sat at the table, tears streaking my child face, someone—and in my memory it’s always one of my two older brothers—snapped a picture of me. It’s a black-and-white photograph, yet I can remember the blue in the striped shirt I was wearing. My tiny, child hands frame my face and my then blondish hair is mussed. It’s not a pretty picture, not the kind a mother frames; rather the kind brothers use to taunt their younger sister. Big brothers are like that.

Some people called me “vegetarian.” Yet, truth be told, I didn’t eat many vegetables, either. Potatoes? Sure, any way you made them. Corn? Yes, but only sweet white corn on the cob. Beans? No. Peas? No. Carrots? No. Asparagus, broccoli, cauliflower? Not then.

Most people called me picky. “She’s a picky eater,” I’d hear. And it’s quite true. I didn’t look forward to eating. I never understood the fascination for Thanksgiving. I don’t have memories of favorite foods—with the exception of sweets. Now, there, I have a long and unhealthy list. Mealtime wasn’t easy for me. (Or my poor mother.) But I couldn’t force anything down, and as willing as the dog was to help, I couldn’t slip her food, either, even though there were hours of opportunities to do so. I tried once or twice but the guilt was worse than sitting at the dinner table for three hours until bedtime. I realize now that here, in a nutshell, was insight into the kind of person I would grow into in all facets of my life, not just food.

You may wonder what I survived on, and here’s the answer: Dairy. As in, milk, cheese, eggs—scrambled only—cheese, cheese and cheese. When it came to cheese, I wasn’t picky. Oh, no. Not at all. Not for a second. Thankfully, my mom liked cheese, too, and indulged me.

“You’re going vegan?” a friend asked when I returned from Maui. “How are you going to give up cheese?”

“Good point,” I thought. Strangely, I don’t miss it. I’ve sprinkled some vegan cheese on a few dishes, but only because the recipes called for it. I don’t miss dairy. In fact, I don’t miss anything in my diet. But I do crave something these days, and that is dinner. I look forward to meal time. I make time to grocery shop and for food prep with my willing husband. I’ve never eaten better. I’ve never eaten more.

So, sit back and tighten your seatbelts, because we’re about to explore a plethora of Hawaii farmers and farmers’ markets in search of the best fruits and veggies that Hawaii has to offer. First up: A Hawaii chocolate farm! Stay tuned.

Let me be clear. I’m not proselytizing here. But I hope I encourage one or two of you to ponder something Hippocrates said a couple centuries ago. “Our food should be our medicine. Our medicine should be our food.”

Now, let’s answer a few questions you may have:

1. What the heck are you talking about? Vegan? What is vegan? This is definitely easier to explain than some are willing to tackle as an eating plan. A vegan diet is 100% plant-based and, thereby, excludes all animal products, including the obvious beef, pork and poultry but also dairy—eggs, milk and cheese. Even honey, if you want to take it to its purest form.

2. Where do you get your protein? I’ve heard this question my whole life. Our country just can’t seem to get its collective head around the fact that protein is found in more than just meat. Whereas, I used to respond to this question with, “Dairy,” I am now retorting, “The same place your protein gets its protein.” I admit that’s a little snide. So, I’ll simply say, “Nuts, grains, seeds and beans.”

3. Is it safe? Safe enough for the American Dietetic Association to declare a proper vegan diet meets all our nutritional needs. Some medical doctors say that a vegan diet is healthier than an animal-based diet. The health benefits include:

a. Lower cholesterol levels;
b. Lower blood pressure;
c. Decreased risk for heart disease;
d. Decreased risk for cancer; and
e. Better control and prevention of diabetes.

4. But I’m a carnivore. I need meat. Maybe. But how much protein do you really need? According to Mark, the World Health Organization recommends 5% of our diet come from protein. Major American medical associations suggest 10%. The average American diet consists of 20 to 30% protein.

5. Isn’t that some tree-hugging, animal-loving, “out-there,” hippie diet? At one time, it may have been, but there are a few well-known people (say what you will about them) who are eating a vegan diet now—from ex-presidents to endurance athletes to bodybuilders to rock stars. More and more Americans of a certain age are turning to a vegan diet for health reasons. If you want to know more, watch the documentary Forks over Knives. Recently, a couple mainstream media outlets ran these articles: No Meat, No Dairy, No Problem and The Mainstreaming of Vegan Diets and Sculptured by Weights and a Strict Vegan Diet.

Bifurcated tongues and Hawaiian Monk Seals

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

I woke this morning dreaming that I was driving north from Kapaa up the rise on the highway just past Kealia. Two days ago, a bunch of cars and trucks were parked along this stretch of Kauai’s coastal highway. Surfers. Yesterday, as I drove home from Lihue, I glanced makai (toward the ocean) at just the right moment and saw a whale breach.

This is life in Hawaii in the winter.

But in my dream, I came upon a blue truck that I recognized, stopped crosswise in the road. A woman, my neighbor, was struggling to open the hood. A man, a stranger, was waving at me, indicating I should back up. I did. That’s when I saw the seals, five of them, spread out, galumphing along the side of the road.
I always have strange dreams after a necropsy.

That is, when I am able to get to sleep.

Hawaiian monk seals (Monachus schauinslandi) spend two-thirds of their lives in the sea, where they dive with the ease and grace of a ballerina. The one-third of their life on land is usually spent sleeping at the water’s edge. Sometimes, they’ll haul out higher on the beach, if they don’t want a rising tide to wake them with a slap of water to the face. Or if they are a mother who is nursing her pup. But they certainly don’t travel inland a half-mile.

Hawaiian monk seals sport short fore-flippers that help with direction when they are swimming. On land, their fore-flippers just give them a good fulcrum from which to push off and galumph up the beach. They sort move like a caterpillar. A really big caterpillar. Unlike sea lions, Hawaiian monk seals cannot walk on all fours.
As a volunteer with the Hawaiian Monk Seal Conservation Hui, I sometimes help with necropsies. That is, animal autopsies. Whenever one of these endangered earless seals from the Phocidae family dies, a necropsy is performed in the hopes that something will be learned to help save the species.

I always learn something new whenever I participate in one of these.

Yesterday, it was that Hawaiian monk seals actually have toenails. (O.K., claws.) They are tiny, probably vestigial, and likely perform no function. But, still, they have toenails. I’ve helped with a handful of necropsies. I’ve spread a seal’s tail flippers looking for signs of tags that may have broken and fallen off. But I’d never noticed toenails before. (They do have “fingernails” on their fore-flippers, no more than an inch in length and shorter toward the fifth finger, er, digit. A good pair of binoculars will reveal this feature. That is, if the seal’s flipper is clean of sand. I find it’s easier to take a picture with a super telephoto lens, download the images on the computer and zoom in.)

A couple months ago, I helped with the necropsy of one of our senior citizen seals, no doubt the alpha male around here and father of many. He was at least 27 years old, and I fell in love with his liver. It was big and beautiful. A work of art.

In my first seal necropsy, I discovered seal whiskers, called vibrissae. They are stiff, straw-like, not like the soft pliable whiskers of my two dogs’. Sometimes one or two vibrissae will curl in a corkscrew, and I learned you cannot tug the corkscrew straight and watch it bounce back into shape. They don’t work like that. They do work, it is thought, to help seals detect prey movement in the water, sort of like well-tuned antennas.

And any marine mammal that spends most of its life in the water and whose deepest known dive is some 1800 feet has some mighty lungs, taking up two-thirds of its body cavity.

The old man seal had hardly a tooth left in his mouth, and those he did have were worn down to nubs. Yesterday’s seal, a juvenile, had a beautiful set of teeth. I counted four incisors, two canines and 10 molars in each jaw. The incisors were lined up in pairs.

One of the absolute coolest hidden features of the Hawaiian monk seal anatomy could be its tongue. It’s split at the end. Not a vertical split but angled, so one part of the tongue rests on the other. Perhaps to help it nurse as a pup?

Necropsies are amazing experiences for me, intimate encounters with a wild animal. But there’s no denying the events are also depressing, especially when foul play is suspected. The conscious mind says one dead Hawaiian monk seal means one fewer in a population that is already declining at approximately 4.5% per year. The unconscious mind provides the poor sleep and the weird dreams. But I’m O.K. with that. Whatever I can do to help.

Desktop Calendar Wallpaper

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 00:00:00 -1000

Happy new year.

That reminds me. A new year means a new calendar. That is, if you're still using the printed kind. If you're not, like me, you may enjoy the monthly images we provide as downloadable wallpaper for your computer. You can choose a version with the calendar--or without. They're free and a fun way to keep Hawaii close at hand. This month's image celebrates the winter surf season here in Hawaii, which is off to a roaring start. Surf's up on the north and east sides of the islands this week. 'Tis the season to surf. Watching the swells roll in isn't such a bad thing, either.

Best of 2011 in Pictures

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

Waimea Canyon. Kilauea Point National Wildlife Refuge. Merrie Monarch. Laysan albatross. Green sea turtle. Piilanihale Heiau. Painted Church. Puuhonua O Honounou. Napali Coast. Makapuu Point. Hawaiian monk seal. Nene gosling. These and more made my "best of 2011 in pictures" slide show. I hope you enjoy. And happy new year to you.

A Holiday Recipe from Blossoming Lotus Chef Mark Reinfeld

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

Remember the famous vegan restaurant on Kauai? The world-famous, award-winning, delicious Blossoming Lotus? The restaurant where my carnivorous husband said, and I quote, "I could eat here every night?" Well, they haven't re-opened, sadly. Let's take a moment to mourn Kauai's loss. It still brings pause to my day, and I am not exaggerating when I say that. Especially this time of year when I'd like to treat myself to a fabulously prepared vegan meal--and here's the important part--made by someone else. Because vegan cooking--and I mean the uber-yummy dishes that chef Mark Reinfeld created for Blossoming Lotus--are a tad time-consuming. For someone living on Kauai, they typically require multiple trips to a few different grocery stores and markets and, at that, you have to be prepared to make substitutions. Cooking to a recipe can be challenging when you live on Kauai. (For those of you reading this who live here, am I right?) It's a good lesson in flexibility, a reminder that I can often use.

Now, I haven't always eaten vegan, and I don't profess to always eat a vegan diet in the future, but I did attend a vegan cooking workshop last weekend on Maui presented by the one-and-only Mark Reinfeld. Mark shared a variety of amazing tricks in the kitchen--the garlic one still gets me--and said a plethora of quotable things. My favorite could be, "I like a mellow kitchen. That's just how I roll."

I'll be writing more about my experience at the Maui cooking retreat, but, for now, I want share a recipe for the holidays. One that won Mark yet another award--2011 Recipe of the Year, in fact, by people who know vegan cooking. While I haven't made or eaten it, I'd bet good, hard-earned cash that the dish will satisfy the carnivores in your life. Because that's how Mark rolls--satisfying, good food for for all palates. And, yes, I am flying in the face of food writing gurus everywhere, Dianne Jacob included, and gushing again. But seriously.

Here it is: The award-winning Mediterranean Pistachio Crusted Tofu with Saffron Quinoa Pilaf.

Going Vegan at Roy's Waikiki Beach Restaurant

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

The hum of Roy’s Waikiki Beach restaurant was in full swing. Every table in the open-style dining room was taken, a buzz of conversation floated throughout the room. In the exhibition kitchen, sous chef, line cooks and expediters swirled around executive chef Jason Peel, making the restaurant’s signature dishes, like misoyaki butterfish, braised short ribs and, of course, Roy’s ever-popular chocolate souffle.

All the while Chef Jason worked on a few special dishes just for me and one of my “city girl” co-workers, Lisa—dishes as yet unnamed and dishes not yet appearing on the menu.

I attended a food writing workshop recently. The instructor, Dianne Jacob, author of Will Write for Food: The Complete Guide to Writing Cookbooks, Blogs, Reviews, Memoir and More, suggested these general rules for reviewing restaurants:

1. Go incognito. Do not call in advance and let the manager know that you—from your big, fancy publication—will be dropping by tonight at 7:00 to dine and write a review. Once people know who you are, they treat you differently.

2. Don’t gush and don’t bash. There is a great breadth of reviewing space between the two. Have an opinion but make it a smart one.

3. Choose adjectives wisely. Great. Fabulous. Wonderful. Delicious. These adjectives don’t cut it. They are subjective. Use smart adjectives--adjectives that are truly descriptive—such as tart, buttery and nutty.

4. Eat at a restaurant at least three times before writing a review.

Here’s the thing. Hawaii isn’t that big, and when you live here, you know people and people know you. You know what they do, and they know what you do. Hence, my violation of the first rule.

When I was on Oahu covering the 70th Anniversary Pearl Harbor Commemoration, I told another co-worker, Sun, I wanted to go to Roy’s at Waikiki Beach Walk. I knew that she was friends with a chef there, but I didn’t know the friend was the executive chef. And I certainly didn’t expect her to email said executive chef and give him the 4-1-1 on both Lisa’s and my eating preferences. See, the thing is, some might say we have picky eating habits. At the time, Lisa was vegetarian but would eat dairy. I didn’t eat beef, pork or poultry but did eat seafood and dairy.

In 1988, Roy Yamaguchi opened his first restaurant in Honolulu, Hawaii. Today, there are 31 Roy’s locations around the world, including six in Hawaii and 23 on the mainland U.S. Roy won a James Beard award for his “Hawaiian Fusion Cuisine,” something he describes as a blending of European techniques and Asian cuisine meeting Hawaiian hospitality.”

Now, Roy can’t oversee all 31 kitchens. But it seems he’s figured out a winning recipe for success. He hires young chefs, trains them himself and, then, gives them great leeway with the menu. Sure, they have to offer Roy’s signature menu items, but they can create their own specials and change up the menu, too.

Lisa and I had heard Chef Jason was offering a smattering of vegan dishes at Roy’s Waikiki Beach, and we wanted to try them. While, the restaurant offers a special vegan prix fixe menu, Chef created some new dishes just for us. Once people know who you are, they treat you differently.

He started us off with “Watermelon poke,” squares of crispy watermelon topped with strips of fennel, puffed rice, shavings of radish and sprigs of mint and cilantro, all lightly sprinkled with a vinaigrette. It was delicious. Oops. I mean bright and crisp. Each bite exploded like freshwater fireworks going off in my mouth.

Chef called our next dish “oven roasted tomato Parmesan basil beignets” and slid onto the bench seat next to me tell me about his inspiration. Like most mothers, Jason’s fed him grilled cheese and tomato soup. Only his mother added grape jelly to the sandwich. Jason’s beignets, arranged on individual ceramic white scoops, may have been my favorite dish of the night. Served warm, they contrasted the cool watermelon and partnered with flavor hints of cheese and tomato alongside sweet and spicy. These balls looked—and tasted—nothing like the lunch dish Jason’s mother used to serve, but they provided all the comfort.

Roy’s dishes are known for being multi-ingredient dishes, and Jason extended that concept into what Lisa dubbed, our “deconstructed potato salad.” When I say that this dish included pan-roasted potatoes sitting atop homemade mustard; pickled beets, fennel relish, jalapeno, cucumber and micro greens, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. This was no super-size salad but more an artfully arranged salad that Raymond Carver would admire.

For our entrée, Jason served me Kona Kampachi, fish, and Lisa, eggplant. Both sat on a bed of coconut polenta and were topped with a relish of corn, onion and jalapeno and garnished with lemongrass and mint. I happen to love the surprising pop of corn in just about anything—how did Jason know?

For dessert, Jason dished up Roy’s signature soufflé and choco-ginger ice cream.

I ate every bite of every dish, and every bite was delicious. Truly. I’d like to find a spot for Roy’s Waikiki somewhere between gushing and bashing, but I am afraid all I can do after my last visit is gush. (By the way, I gushed, too, after celebrating my 23rd wedding anniversary with my husband at Roy’s Poipu Bar & Grill—and that visit was 100% incognito.)

Here’s the thing. If Chef Jason is willing to drop his other tasks—and I am sure there are many—to cater to two picky eaters for an entire evening, I can glean two things about him:

1. He loves to feed people.

2. He sees it as an opportunity to try out new dishes on a couple of willing guinea pigs.

Either way, we’re talking about service and passion--two key trademarks for any good, quality restaurant that delivers time and again. That’s why Roy’s Waikiki Beach gets 4.5 stars out of 5 on Yelp, UrbanSpoon and TripAdvisor.

I guess, in the end, my experience wasn't all that unusual.

Forget the Movie. Pass the (Hurricane) Popcorn.

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

I finally saw The Descendants, the movie starring George Clooney that’s receiving Oscar buzz. The Descendants was filmed in Hawaii. The book was penned by a Hawaii author with a storyline that could only have taken place in Hawaii. Yet, it’s still not playing on Kauai, where I live, and won’t for another week. What’s up with that? Thankfully, it is playing on Oahu and has been since the movie’s nationwide premier on November 23, and that’s where I saw it.

I’ve reviewed the book--The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings--before and one of my city girl co-workers has already reviewed The Descendants, the movie. So, I won’t go into the movie here, even though, yes, I recommend seeing it. I also recommend reading the book. As with any movie adaptation, it’s generally good to read the book first, in my opinion.

What I do want to write about is something else uniquely Hawaii. Something I’ve never experienced anywhere else except Hawaii and, generally, in a movie theater: Hurricane popcorn.

Hurricane popcorn is, simply, buttered popcorn mixed with arare (rice crackers) and furikake (crushed bits of seaweed and some other seasonings).

The trick is in the mixing.

Here’s how it works.

1. Order your movie popcorn with butter.
2. Order the Hurricane mix.
3. Dump buttered popcorn into the plastic bag that comes with the Hurricane mix.
4. Shake it to coat the butter on as much popcorn as possible.
5. Add one-third of the Hurricane mix.
6. Shake.
7. Add another third.
8. Shake
9. Add final third.
10. Shake.

The taste is salty and sweet, crunchy and, depending on the furikake, spicy. And you can’t go to the movies in Hawaii without eating it.

Recently, I discovered the “health foods” version of Hurricane Popcorn at Blue Hawaii Lifestyle Café at Ala Moana Shopping Center. Although it’s called “Pollen Popcorn” there and comes pre-mixed, using organic popcorn, macadamia nut oil, nutritional yeast, dehydrated bee pollen, garlic powder, cayenne pepper and sea salt. It’s made in Hawaii by North Shore Naturals.

Doris Duke's Hawaii Home

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

“Islamic art dates from the 8th century to present day and pretty much encompasses the countries from southern Spain all the way to India, so Islamic art is very diverse,” said Barbara Buchman, taking cover from the bright sun in the shade of an 80-year-old banyan tree. “If you take away anything from my tour, that’s it. That Islamic art is very diverse.”

At the bottom of just another driveway in just another cul-de-sac in not-so-just-another neighborhood outside Waikiki, sits Shangri La.

The home’s entrance looks simple enough with its low-slung, plain stucco façade, two brick steps leading to a wooden door adorned in some metalwork. But cross the threshold and after your eyes adjust to the foyer’s shadowy interior; it’s crystal clear that this one-time private home of Doris Duke is anything but just another home.

Please continue reading my latest feature story--on Shangri La, the famous, tobacco heiress's Hawaii home.

70th Anniversary Pearl Harbor Commemoration

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

Today, under a bright and sunny Hawaii sky more than 5000 people attended the 70th Anniversary Pearl Harbor Commemoration to recognize 120 survivors of the “day of infamy,” December 7, 1941. They were easy to identify: Most wore a hat with the word “survivor” embroidered across it.

Secretary of Navy Ray Mabus spoke. "The history of December 7, 1941 is indelibly imprinted on the memory of every American who was alive that day. But it bears repeating on every anniversary so that every substantive generation will know what happened here and will never forget."

You probably know the basic story:

On that day, a Sunday, at 7:55 a.m., 183 Japanese planes “emblazoned with red disks” attacked without warning. They came from the north and swept around the west side of the island. Dive-bombers and fighters strafed Wheeler Army Airfield. Torpedo bombers reached Pearl Harbor a few minutes later. Fighters raked rows of parked aircraft at Ewa and Bellows airfields and Kaneohe Naval Air Station. Thirty minutes later, a second wave of 167 dive-bombers, high-level bombers and fighters came sweeping around the east side of the island.

"Although the attack surprised our forces," Mabus said. "They immediately started fighting back. You know the stories. The steward aboard the USS Shaw with no training, manning a gun and bringing down a Japanese aircraft. The machinist, blinded by explosives, but rescuing sailors caught below decks of the Nevada. The Air Force lieutenant, still in his pajamas, piloting an P-36 and shooting down another Japanese plane."

Today, at 7:55 a.m., F-22s flew overhead in the “missing man” formation, making my bones rattle and my eyes tear. The faintest of sun showers misted a blessing. Inland, a rainbow arc over a valley drizzled with clouds.

When the attack ended two hours later, 2,390 people were dead and 1,178 wounded. Of the eight battleships in the harbor, five were sunk. In all, 21 vessels were sunk or heavily damaged. The attackers destroyed 164 aircraft and damaged 159.

"It was in President Franklin Roosevelt's searing and unforgettable declaration," Mabus said, "A day that will live in infamy, pushing us into a world war that would change both the world and warfare irrevocably."

Today, two hours later, 120 survivors, plus 15 more World War II veterans, and their family traversed the “walk of honor,” flanked by a tunnel of active men and women in the military standing at salute. Civilians and guests gave these survivors repeated standing ovations, they shook their hands, thanked them for their service, offered them their seats, requested their photos, gave them a bump in any lines and, all in all, treated these war veterans like heroes. The survivors even rode in a parade down Kalakaua Avenue in Waikiki later in the evening.

"The shock and the anger unleashed that morning here in Hawaii united our nation and steeled our will not just to respond but to overcome. As a former service officer and as Secretary of Navy," Mabus said. "It's a profound privilege to offer the heartfelt thanks of a nation to these individuals here today who survived and, then, who thrived, leading the way for our nation to survive that day and, then, to thrive in the seven decades since. We rightly honor every one of our veterans but there will always be a special place in our hearts for those who began the fight here at Pearl harbor that led us to victory. You, the survivors, as well as those who were lost, earned with your blood and with your sacrifice a legacy for those who have followed you. Your legacy is leadership and heroism. I hope and I believe that we serving today are living up to your example, working to ensure that your legacy is sustained. To the survivors here today, and to those who are with us in spirit and memory, thank you. Thank you for the opportunity to honor your heroism. We must never forget. We must never fail as you did not fail to meet and defeat any challenge to America and what America stands for."

Original Hawaiian Chocolate Factory Warm Cake

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

Did you know that Hawaii is the only state in which the cacao tree grows? Of course, you know the word--cacao. That's the necessary ingredient for chocolate! Well, here are the ingredients and the recipe for the "Original Hawaiian Chocolate Factory" Warm Cake that I mentioned in yesterday's blog post about Hukilau Lanai. I didn't say much about their desserts yesterday--and that was a travesty--but they have their own bakery. I adore the creamy goodness of their Lilikoi Chiffon pie that sits on a crust of macadamia nuts. But the husband--and you chocoholics out there--loves their chocolate cake offering. It takes 20 minutes to prepare, so order it when you receive your entree. But if you can't make it to the Hukilau Lanai restaurant this holiday season, here's a gift: their recipe.

Ingredients:

1/2 pound Original Hawaiian Chocolate Factory chocolate
1/2 pound butter
5 eggs
5 egg yolks
3/4 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour
1/2 tablespoon Hawaiian vanilla extract

Baking directions:

1. Spray eight 8 oz. ramekins with non-stick spray, dust with 1:1 flour and coco powder mixture, spray again, coat again, and spray again.

2. Melt chocolate and butter together.

3. Whip eggs and yolks for 3 minutes on high.

4. Fold chocolate mixture into eggs, fold in sifted flour and vanilla.

5. Fill ramekins with batter until 3/4 full.

6. Let rest at least 30 minutes before baking.

7. Bake 400 - 425 degrees for about 12 minutes.

8. Invert ramekin on plate, then lift off ramekin. When cut, the center should ooze.

Makes 8 servings. ENJOY!

We're Going to the Hukilau Lanai Restaurant in Kapaa on Kauai

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 00:00:00 -1000

Sandra worked the bar at Hukilau Lanai restaurant like a pianist who intimately knows the keys of her musical instrument. She reached left for one bottle, while her right hand reached right for another. She stretched her arm above her head for a wine glass. She spun behind her, opened a refrigerator hidden below the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of white wine, tugging out its cork and filling the glass. All the while, she carried on a conversation with my husband and me, sitting on two of the six, tall, teak chairs at the small bar in the open-air restaurant behind Coconut Marketplace shopping center.

We'd opted for the bar when we arrived at 6:00 p.m. to find the wait for a table at the Kapaa restaurant already one hour long. It was the weekend after Thanksgiving. "It looks like a busy holiday weekend," I said. Hukilau Lanai gets 4.5 stars at UrbanSpoon.

Sandra swung a computer monitor around and tapped its screen. She swiped a piece of paper spit out by a mini-printer and snapped a faux leather folder around it. "We're always busy," she said.

Uncle Billy strummed his guitar and sang Hawaiian songs across the lobby, surrounded by guests sitting in comfy sofas and plush chairs.

The restaurant gets so busy they serve drinks, pupus (appetizers) and, even, dinners out here, in the open lobby and at the bar. For Kauai, the restaurant is “upscale casual.” For Waikiki, it’s more casual.

We chose the Hukilau Lanai, because I was craving a dish of theirs—Adam’s Poke Nachos. It's the kind of dish you crave. The kind of dish you order every time you come. Ahi poke, Kamuela tomato, avocado, tobiko, and inamona drizzled with wasabi cream and served on crisp wonton chips. And it didn’t disappoint. Oh, no. The serving size is healthy for an entrée, if you choose.

The other dish I usually order here is the Lobster Curry Bisque, but this night—after a big Thanksgiving feed—I was in the mood for pupus. I couldn’t get past appetizers on the menu and ordered Sweet Potato Ravioli, made with roasted Okinawan sweet potato and Kilauea feta cheese, and Lobster and Goat Cheese Wontons, stuffed with lobster, local goat cheese, and mac nuts and topped with a guava plum sauce.

There is a large fish menu at Hukilau Lanai, supplied by local fishermen, but the husband was craving a hunk of the Awesome Local Mushroom Meat Loaf—I know, I know—made with island-raised beef, locally grown mushrooms, red-skin smashed potatoes and smothered in brown butter sauce.

When his meat loaf was served and before his first bite, he ordered dessert: “Original Hawaiian Chocolate Factory” Warm Cake with an oozing, chocolate center and a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream on the side. Because he knew it takes 20 minutes to prepare.

Pupus run $9 to $13 here. Entrees $18 to $28. Desserts $6 to $10. For Hawaii, that’s affordable. When the place opened almost 10 years ago now, I remember the line “20 under $20 when it came to their wines. Now, though, the line has been tweaked to “20 for $20 something.” Still not bad.

The food is good enough at Hukilau Lanai to keep me coming back on a regular basis—more than just an anniversary or birthday. But there’s something else about the place. Three things, actually. One, many items can be prepared gluten-free. Two, the owners, Ron and Krissi Miller, are truly, good people. As evidenced by, three, their green practices.

Like everyone these days, Hukilau Lanai buys from local farmers and fishermen. They participate in local Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) at the Kauai Farmers Co-Op. They recycle cardboard, glass and plastic. But they also donate leftover food to the Kauai Salvation Army. All edible food waste is picked by a local pig farmer. Spent vegetable oil is recycled locally into bio-fuel. Excess vegetable scraps and coffee grounds go into an on-site composter to feed their herb garden. Wine corks are collected and used in potted plants. Styrofoam take-out containers have been nixed in favor of bio-degradable ones. Office paper is shredded and used on the herb garden. What’s more, a dedicated manager oversees the implementation of daily green practices and continually researches new ones.

Good food and a good conscience. An unbeatable great pair.

Hours: Tuesday – Sunday, 5-9 p.m.

Top Five Must-Try Foods of Hawaii

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 00:00:00 -1000

Hawaii’s most iconic foods just might be shave ice, kalua pig, malasadas, poke and—if you’re headed to Oahu’s North Shore—a plate of shrimp from one of the well-known food trucks that line the side of the road.

‘Tis the season for food, and with Hawaii’s great mix of cultures in this hub of an island chain, you’ll find quite the assortment of dishes on a holiday table here. I’ve never been a lover of the traditional holiday meal. I don’t like turkey. I don’t like dressing. I don’t like gravy. I don’t like ham.

I do like fish. I do like seafood. I do like vegetables. And I do like sweets. Let me repeat that last one. I do like sweets. A lot.

So, in Hawaii, with its eclectic spread of delectable dishes, I manage to fill my plate and overeat with the best of them. Here’s what you might find heaped on my plate this holiday:

1. Poke: fresh ahi cut in bite-size cubes and tossed with green onions, a pinch of chili pepper flakes, a sprinkling of sea salt, some shoyu and sesame oil.

2. Shrimp summer rolls: chunks of shrimp, grated carrots, cubed mango, radish sprouts, a fold of baby lettuce all wrapped in rice paper.

3. Purple sweet potato anything but wrapped in ravioli--like at Kauai's Hukilau Lanai restaurant in Kapaa--and drizzled with a rich, creamy sauce is delightful.

4. Pan-seared scallops topped with sweet, chili sauce and served over rice.

The husband, being an equal opportunity eater, might go for some other traditional Hawaii dishes:

1. Laulau: pork and butterfish seasoned with crushed garlic, wrapped in leaves of taro and steamed in ti leaves.

2. Teriyaki chicken skewers.

3. Mesquite smoked marlin lumpia roll.

4. Grilled marinated pork tenderloin.

He likes his sweets, too, leaning more towards chocolate, so he’ll go for the Chocolate Lava Cake; whereas, I go for anything with lilikoi—passion fruit. Ideally, a lilikoi chiffon pie from Hamura’s.

What about you? What Hawaii-inspired dishes are you looking forward to eating this holiday season? (Or what ones would you like to try?)

Are you hungry yet?

Friday Photo: Humuula Sheep Station

Kim Steutermann Rogers — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 00:00:00 -1000

Friday Photo Findings: Humuula Sheep Station

This is a window at the Humuula Sheep Station on the slopes of Mauna Kea. As you might guess from the broken glass and weathered wood, the sheep station is no longer in use.

I like pictures of windows and doors. I imagine it's because of what they represent--a glimpse into another life, entering a new world, the opportunity for a new beginning. You know, all those kinds of classic metaphors and meanings. For me, windows and doors also spark the imagination. I remember peering through this window earlier this year while on a Hawaii Forest & Trail tour to Mauna Kea. We had stopped at the one-time station for dinner--stew, veggie or beef style, but no lamb offerings. I wondered who had walked through this room, what they were wearing, thinking and doing, and what, by chance, they thought would become of the place. At the beginning of things, you rarely think about the end of things.

The thing that sticks with me the most about Humuula Sheep Station was that the guide had mentioned Mark Twain. He said that there was a chance Mark Twain had slept there. "Mark Twain slept here." That refrain is about as popular in Hawaii as the words "Kilroy was here" and its associated big nose friend in graffiti. Still, I gazed beyond the glass and into the room, its walls and floors long given up the dressings of paint, and imagined the young Twain, a red-head then, scribbling away in his notebook.

There is a possibility that Mark Twain did sleep at the Humuula Sheep Station, a stop along the Hawaii Island's famed Saddle Road. It was built in 1860. Mark Twain visited Hawaii in 1866, spending three weeks riding around Hawaii (Big) Island on a horse that led to a reported incapacitating case of saddle boils. In the book, "Mark Twain's Letters from Hawaii," Twain writes about arriving at Kailua town. He writes several letters about the environs of Kealakekua. He writes about Kau and Waiohinu, making his way south along the coastline, getting intro trouble with his imaginary travel companion Mr. Brown. He covers the volcano erupting atop Kilauea. But he doesn't write about Hilo or Mauna Kea or Waimea. That's not to say he didn't visit those areas. Mark Twain's personal notebooks and letters reveal more of his activities than those reports he sent to the Sacramento Union for publishing. Unfortunately, there is a notebook suspected missing from Twain's Hawaii visit. And, indeed, it seems he misplaced another one temporarily while he was "ransacking the islands." The result is eight weeks go unrecorded, and those eight weeks match up with his neighbor island visits to Maui and Hawaii (Big) Island.

I wonder what happened to that notebook? What a window into another world that notebook would reveal.

Note: This blog post was inspired by the 30 Days of Indie Travel Project.

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