We bounced out from profound darkness beneath the banyan tree. I could see the moon lighting the walls of a cloud bank billowing up this windward-facing volcano slope. The opaque feature churned and twisted as it rolled up the mountain, black on the bottom but brilliant white on the moonlit side. Mirroring this contrast on the ocean were spotlight patches interspersed with utter voids.
I thought about the spinner pod as Tonka chugged up the east flank of Mauna Kea past MacKensie into the quintessential tin-roof Hawaiian town of Poho’iki, devoid of artificial light and advertisements. Fat drops dripped from mulberry trees onto the narrow road. I imagined the dolphins circling one of the brightly lit zones offshore, lurking in surrounding shadows as the fish they were stalking used the light to find their own prey, waiting, and then shooting into the moonlight in dashing ambush pairs. I wondered whether they twisted and twirled as passionately in the moonlight.
Turning inland, I wrestled Tonka up a steep hill through papaya orchards. Their sweet scent belied their presence in a heavy warm mist that seemed to emanate from geothermal power above the steaming ridge. A probe through rock there touched 500° down below, hinting at its immense potential. Like every alternative form of energy, geothermal power has limitations, one being its location, specific availability and that that the infrastructure is not in place for it to be widely cost-effective or widely distributed. Yet in the face of carbon-dioxide-driven global warming, poisonous smog, trillion-dollar oil profits, and war after war over the black stuff, one begins to wonder how long we will continue to accept such tired reasons for not more emphatically expanding the many proven sources of alternative power.
My interest in environmental science and conservation had been peaked by a few early experiences, but remained rudimentary and immature. Before Hawai’i, I had begun to work on conservation at the University of Tulsa, where Elizabeth and I formed a grassroots conservation group. I switched from engineering to biology and became environmental editor for the school paper. But my blunt perspectives were poorly received in the conservative Midwest. I wrote a piece about how development of alternative fuels following the 1970s energy crisis would have rendered the first Gulf War unnecessary. The president of the University (coincidentally heavily endowed by U.S. and foreign oil barons) ordered me to write a retraction or face “terminal disciplinary action.” I refused and nothing happened, but it was a sign that I would require a different path.
I found others with a sense of awe for nature in Missoula, although parts of Montana share a defiant resistance to responsible stewardship. I began studying conservation biology and freshwater ecology and spent time writing in the Rattlesnake, fishing the enchanted Bitterroot, and backpacking in the Mission Mountains. I fell in love with the natural world, determined to do something significant, enact some change, and inspire others. I was young and idealistic, without regard for practicality or snails-pace progress. Life taught me to tuck this irreverence away and draw on it sparingly, but to also never forget it. So too was I unfocused in science, life, and love - driven by idealized, unrealistic expectations. But the raw biological beauty and striking, infective Hawaiian culture surrounding me began to hone my focus.
We puttered through the misty orchid farms of Pāhoa and chugged up another hill to Kea’au. Past expansive macadamia fields and the sequentially blooming rare tropical flowers of the “forever beautiful” gardens, a funnel-shaped bay emerged in the lusciously fragrant evening air. A dim yellow glow rose from the sleepy, historic settlement that hugged that elbow of ocean, nestled between rugged Leleiwi Point and the deeply cut east flanks of massive Mauna Kea.
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Hilo Town had an aura of diversity – a disparate blend of people, ecosystems, and eras. Weaving down the rolling toes of the dormant volcano to where they dip into the broad bay, the towns’ essence changed as frequently as the oscillating sun and rain. Theologies, ideologies, and the buildings themselves seemed to come in equal proportions from the booms of the 1890s, 1920s, and 1950s. The southernmost U.S. city and one of the wettest places in the world, Hilo didn’t seem like the largest settlement on the Big Island or the county seat. Mostly spared the sprawling, soulless resorts on O’ahu, Maui, and the leeward Kona-Kailua coast, Hilo retained a traditional dignity. It was my home there and the most distinct of the dozen places I have lived. Some dislike Hilo because there’s “little to do” and a damp sense of stagnated development, but that, and its rich natural and human history, was why I loved it.
Like most of Hawai’i, Hilo has a stop-and-start story. People inhabited the bay for a thousand years before traditional life was forever changed by western influences. Equidistant from the northern and southern ends of the island and with ample river and ocean access, Hilo evolved as a natural center of commerce. Natives from the south brought cloth and dried fish to trade along the banks of the Wailuku River. The people of Hilo, Hamakua, and areas to the north brought hogs, fresh fish, and taro root. Traders shouted prices from one bank to another, negotiating until a trade was agreed upon and enacted cautiously since sour deals usually resulted in violent disagreement.
Captain James Cook put the islands on nautical charts in 1778 and greed found its way from around the Pacific Rim. Presuming that life was perfectly balanced and tranquil before the arrival of evil white men set into motion the incremental decimation of culture and the environment is an oversimplification of how and why changes occurred. It is fair to say that once outside influences arrived, no aspect of Polynesian-rooted Hawaiian culture was unaffected. Fur traders, whalers, sandalwood foresters, pirates, and other profiteers came in increasing abundance. In response to these new pressures, and because of his own quest for power, King Kamehameha the Great soon united the Hawaiian Islands into a single kingdom. These changes and the introduction of new agriculture irrevocably altered Hawaiian life and culture. But the days of the new monarchy were numbered.
Missionaries founded several Hilo churches in the 1820s; abandoning their parent’s inspirations to spread Christianity, the children of the first Hawaiian missionaries chose rather to profit from the vast new opportunities. They took over politics and commerce, buying land at a torrid pace. Non-natives soon owned most property and began developing it for a powerful crop to be cultivated by new immigrants.
Sugar had a slow start but exploded in the late 1880s, with the influx of European heavy fertilization and other agricultural techniques. Native Hawaiians were largely excluded from the industry, which was serviced by successive waves of workers from China, Portugal, Japan, Puerto Rico, Korea, and the Philippines; their descendants now form the amazing diversity in Hilo and the rest of the islands.
The growing power of agri-business culminated in the overthrow of the Hawaiian monarchy in 1893. The “Big Five” planters (including Sanford Dole who later formed Dole Pineapple and became governor) aided by U.S. Marines, forced the surrender of Queen Liluokalani. The Islands were annexed and in 1900 became a U.S. territory geared to favor agricultural interests with little regard for conservation of natural or cultural resources. Hilo grew steadily as a trading center as the sugar boom peaked in the late 1920s; soon, a more lasting industry took off.
Tourism began in the early 20th century, first by boat and later by air. A steamship trip took 4½ days from San Francisco and brought increasing numbers of rich Americans. The era of modern tourism began in 1936 once visitors could fly to Hawai’i from California in just under a day. World War II dealt a blow to tourism in Hilo, as martial law was declared throughout the islands, but by 1959, the year Hawai’i became the 50th U.S. state, commercial jets were arriving with hundreds of thousands of tourists. Fueled by rich Japanese visitors, tourism flourished in the 1980’s with several millions of visitors per year. By the time I arrived, tourism was leveling off or even declining, a trend exacerbated by the tragic events of September 11, 2001. While Hilo isn’t built on resorts, these losses, and the utter collapse of the sugar industry, hit hard. But recent economic challenges are just the latest facing this quiet town.
The ocean has brought other, more sudden, hardships. Guided into the town by funnel-shaped Hilo Bay, powerful 20th century tsunami overwhelmed a meager breakwater