Cycle Hawaii

Circumnavigation of the Big Island

By W. Neal Fisher

My old friends from back home looked at me, thoroughly bewildered. It was my final night in Hawaii. We were sipping a beer on the airy lanai of a beachfront hotel. I was regaling them with tales of my two week, 450-mile bicycle trek around the big island of Hawaii. I spoke of the wild horses on the black sand of Waipio valley and they scratched their heads. I rattled on about a green sand beach and cliff jumping into the ocean. They responded with shoulder shrugs. How about towering waterfalls or snorkeling with sea turtles? Yawns. Certainly, being surrounded by oozing lava at night would elicit a response. They stared into the distance, uninterested.

In fairness to my friends, I must tell you that they travel to this enchanted isle to play tennis, this being their 10th successive year. Later, I pondered how I had become so intimate with Hawaii on my first visit and in ten years they had not a clue about the wondrous sites and adventures I spoke of. Perhaps it was because I experienced the island one pedal stroke at a time. I had sacrificed luxury and paid the price of effort and sweat on my first unsupported, fully loaded bicycle tour and the rewards were emotions and memories that would last my lifetime.

I chose Hawaii for my tour because I had frequent flyer miles and I wanted to extend my cycling season with a November trip. I specifically targeted the big island for two reasons; it has a paved road around the circumference and it’s BIG! Only slightly smaller than my home state of Connecticut, the Big Island has five volcanoes. Two of them are nearly 14,000’ high and a third has been spewing lava for decades. I would be
cycling around the perimeter, shadowing the coastline, and I deduced that this would be a fairly flat route. (Please note that this was a major error on my part.)

The Big Island has 10 of earth’s 15 possible climactic zones ranging from rain forest to desert, but when I flew into Kona International Airport I thought we were landing on the moon. Seemingly devoid of plant life, the airport sits at the edge of a 200 year old lava flow. This side of the island sits in the “rain shadow” of the huge volcanoes and gets as little rain as a desert. The lava rocks here cannot erode into fertile soil and the
landscape is as rough and chunky as the day it was created.

I assembled my Trek 520 and headed out for a shakedown cruise before I started my tour the next day. I wanted to see the Captain Cook Monument, which is a short hike off Route 11, the Hawaii Belt Road. I labored up a 1500’ climb to access the trailhead.  Worries began to enter my mind. My bike was not even fully loaded and I was already breathing heavily. Was all of Hawaii like this? How would I haul my mammoth of a fully loaded bicycle up another hill like this one?

I was relieved to reach this summit. I locked my bike to a convenient farmer’s
fence and followed the hiking trail two miles down to Kealakekua Bay. It was here in
1779 that Captain Cook was killed. In 1874 British sailors erected the monument on a point of land overlooking the bay now famous for snorkeling and dolphins. The monument actually stands on British soil because Hawaiian Princess Likelike deeded the small plot to Great Britain.

The next morning I studied my map and decided to take the scenic route inland to Waimea and then shoot down to my campsite at Spencer Beach County Park. My first full day with a fully loaded bicycle would be a memorable one. I left the coast and eventually climbed 3000’ to the high plains across the broad shoulder of Mauna Loa. To my left the Pacific Ocean defined the coastline. It was easy to pick out the wide swaths of lava that had flowed down the mountain from the volcanoes on my right. The lava rocks seemed so unusual to me that I actually had to stop and touch them. They looked like huge chunks of moist dirt freshly bulldozed over for a construction site. Cactus and cattle dotted the landscape.

I was pleased that I had been able to pedal uphill with my bulging saddlebags, even if my average speed was in the single digits. I was destined to learn a lot about Hawaii in the next two weeks and today I was tutored on the “trade winds”. They are so called because the sailors of old could always count on them. Strong and steady, they bear down from the northeast. (Take a look at the map and you will see that I was cycling directly into them.) The wind funneled between two volcanoes with a synergistic effect. As I approached the town of Waimea, I gradually slowed to a crawl. Once again, I was having some second thoughts and self-doubt. I was on the last of four water bottles, it began to mist, and I limped into town, weary and battered, my rain gear flapping furiously.

After refueling, I headed west out of town on Highway 19. As if someone had flipped a light switch, the sun came out, the wind was at my back, and I was descending 2,500’ to the campground. I was exuberant; no way was I going to stop to remove my rain clothes. As I fell away from Waimea, in 20 minutes I traveled the same distance that took me an hour and a half as I approached the town from the other side. I breezed into Spencer Beach Park and feasted on the sight of beaches and palm trees, sunlight and ocean. I’m sure I looked strange in full yellow rain slickers!

The next morning, my third day in Hawaii and the second of my tour, it was time for another lesson. It was a simple one; there are no flat roads on the Big Island. If you are going to the beach, you are descending, usually steeply and fast. I learned this lesson well as I cycled at a snail’s pace away from the beachfront campground. No worries: my short route today would allow lots of time for exploring before arriving in the town of Hawi.

Back on the road I headed north up the rugged North Kohala coastline. The Kohala volcano (5,480’) protected me from the wind and a warm sun improved my spirits. The Ironman bicycle leg had traveled the same road just a week earlier (much faster than me, I’m sure) and I noticed many inspirational messages spray painted on the shoulder. From this vantage point on the island I could see four of the big island’s five volcanoes. Besides Kohala, I could see the telescopes on Mauna Kea (13,796’), the shorter but more massive Mauna Loa (13,679’) and on its shoulder, Hualalai (8,271’). Looming out of the ocean 30 miles away, the volcano Haleakala jutted skyward from the island of Maui. Finding this all quite impressive, I pulled off the road to take a photo and promptly drove three thorns into my rear tire, each requiring a Leatherman tool to pull them out!

I had three goals today, each a visit to a heiau. A heiau is an ancient Hawaiian religious site, which may range from a small, rickety, wooden platform to a large grassy area, football field size or bigger, surrounded by massive rock walls. The three heiau I would search for today were a navigational guide, King Kamehameha’s birthplace, and lastly the site of the 12th century priest Mo’okino.

This stretch of Route 270 is beautiful, yet desolate, and I would use all four water bottles again before finding a spot to refill. I found the navigational heiau after a steep descent to the beach and a one-mile hike (and the requisite climb back to the road). The series of vertical stones is said to represent various islands in the Pacific.

The next two heiau were on the very northern and rugged tip of the island. I cycled two miles north off the main road and then two more miles along the rocky coast on a muddy dirt road. I found both heiau without effort, adjacent to the dirt road. There was even a sign pointing the way. This is a generally deserted area and I never saw anyone else. I didn’t realize it at the time but I was beginning to learn another Hawaiian lesson; the spirits are powerful throughout the island.

The Mo’okino heiau on the rugged and windy, north coast

Mo’okino heiau was erected by a 12th century priest who introduced human sacrifice to the islands. Human bones were used for fishhooks and other tools and it is said that tens of thousands may have died here. There is a large flat stone that dips in the middle and looks like a sacrificial altar. Another large upright stone has a small shelf. I imagined it holding the “tools of the trade”. Something about the place gave me a spooky feeling. As I cycled away, three dogs briefly chased me and I nearly fell into a road-wide mud puddle.

I was relieved to pull into the town of Hawi (pronounced Ha-vi), small, peaceful, and quirky. I got some cheap digs at the only motel and enjoyed a great meal at the Bamboo Restaurant and Bar; noodles “da local way” and two Kona Coast Pale Ales. Local laborers told me they were working on the plaster walls in the home of pop star Kenny Loggins. One of them asked me how I could afford to cycle around Hawaii. I attempted to explain the concept of vacation to them but I don’t think they understood why anyone would want to spend two weeks on a bike. Later that night I cleaned stubborn North Kohala mud off my bicycle rims and shoes.

I awoke to another sunny day. Leaving my luggage behind, I pedaled to the end of the road, a short 7-mile jaunt, to the Pololu Valley overlook. It was nice to have no panniers because the road twisted up and down gullies that were unlike my previous days. I also noticed that the foliage was thicker and greener. It became obvious that I was nearing the “wet” side of the island. An observation area signaled the end of the road. I could see a pair of horse tracks traversing the black sand beach from my lofty vantage point. The only way to continue along the coast here is via hiking trail up and down steep cliffs. Shifting my gaze back up the valley, I gasped in wonder at the dense, lush green foliage that looked impenetrable.

My destination for the day was only 20 miles southeast as the crow flies, but I would have to take the road inland over Kohala Mountain. I cycled back toward Hawi to get my luggage and stopped to take a photo of the statue of King Kamehameha. Kamehameha was a huge influence on the islands. In 1810 the powerful king conquered all the islands and became the first to rule them all. The statue itself is equally interesting. It was cast in Paris in the 1870’s and was lost in a shipwreck near the Falkland Islands. A second statue was made and today stands at the Judiciary Building in Honolulu. The one that stood before me now is the original; salvaged, purchased for $500, repaired and reshipped.

I knew I had a tough climb ahead of me and, with some trepidation I loaded my gear and slowly churned my way up Kohala Mountain Road. This would be the toughest climb of the trip. At one point my speed was barely above 3! miles per hour. I knew I had the stamina but I was worried I would tip over. Fortunately the gradient decreased and I eventually topped out at about 3,500’. As I slowly climbed I watched the Parker Ranch cattle in amazement; never before have cows stared at me. As I approached they
would stop eating and face me directly, turning their bodies in unison, facing me all the while. Occasionally they would snort and stampede away. There are plenty of cows in my home state, but I had never seen any act in this manner.

Of course, this being another day, the island would teach me another lesson; the significance of the “wet/dry” line. The wet/dry line demarcates the island. (I was headed toward the wet part.) The trade winds are rich with moisture as they slam into the northeast side of the mountains. As they are diverted upward, they wring themselves of water creating jungles and rain forests. Continuing on to the southwest, the winds are now dry and the land there is desert like. Water is often scarce on the dry side while it is ubiquitous on the wet side.

Mist rolls over the summit of Kohala, the oldest volcano on the Big island

Now, as I neared the summit, a mist began to creep over the crest and I stopped to don my rain gear. Five minutes later the sun came out. I was flirting with the wet/dry line. As I entered Waimea, the mist was alternating with sunshine and light rain. I was getting frustrated and took refuge on the leeward side of a gas station. A local with his son in a pick-up truck started a conversation with me about bicycling. He said he never bikes because of the hills and wind. I asked him if it was true that his town had a wet side and a dry side. “Oh yes” he replied, “you’re already through the dry side”. Wonderful. At least I knew what to wear the rest of the day and I finished the last ten miles in a steady but warm rain along a gentle downhill to the town of Honoka’a.

I hung my wet gear all about my hotel room. When I awoke, it was still damp due to the humidity. I enjoyed a morning coffee with the hotel manager and she encouraged me to visit Waipio Valley, just 9 miles up the road. She told me that it was a beautiful and magical place.

I packed a lunch and in a few minutes I arrived at the parking lot/viewpoint
looking over Waipio (pronounced Y-P-O). My guidebook said that the mile long road down into the valley was a 25% grade so I wisely locked my bicycle to the guardrail. The access road was slippery, moist, and bumpy and I saw an old wrecked car over the edge, entangled in the jungle.
At the bottom, I had to make a choice; I could walk inland and seek out the highest waterfall on the island. Or I could head towards the black sand beach. Two wild horses sauntered by, eying me warily. I had never been on a black sand beach before so I set off toward the ocean.

Black sand is cool. At first my eyes refused to believe that it was sand; it looked like dirt. I took off my shoes and tentatively stuck my toes into the strange looking stuff. It felt like sand but I didn’t believe it until I picked some up and closely examined the grains. Yep, it was sand all right!
The sun suddenly emerged and the beauty of Waipio opened up before me. The black sand beach stretched away in a gentle crescent defined abruptly by towering cliffs at either end. A waterfall cascaded off one cliff directly into the ocean. The blue Pacific swelled into white crashing waves. The foam rushed up the sand, receded, and disappeared until the next wave. A line of green trees stood sentinel between the beach and the valley.

Beautiful Waipio Valley seen from the top of the access road

I forded a strong and swiftly flowing stream and hiked to the far end of the beach. Here a trail zigzagged up and over the cliff. I stopped on one of the trail switchbacks and ate my lunch, mesmerized by the white foam undulating back and forth across the black sand. Twice in as many days now I had begun to feel a hint of the spirituality that pervades Hawaii.

  The next day would be my longest in distance and in time. I had lingered over coffee before striking out along the luscious Hamakua coast. The frequent rains on this wet side produced thick, jungle-like growth. The water served to erode the coastline into a never-ending series of streams and gullies. At each stream, the road would turn inward and slowly descend down the side of the gully until it turned at right angles onto a bridge.  The process reversed on the other side with an equally long climb. I love heights and views so I would stop on each bridge and peer over the side at a pristine jungle stream splashing along the rocks on its way to the ocean.

I stopped at two waterfalls; the three-tiered Umauma and the stunning 420’ Akaka
that required a 3-mile climb up the access road. As I lingered at the precipice, clouds
rolled in and by the time I was back on the main road, a steady warm rain was falling.

I arrived in Hilo after dark and struggled to find Arnott’s Lodge. But when I did, all my troubles vanished. The hostel-type digs was loaded with cheerful travelers from all over the world, lounging on a large lanai, and conversing about their adventures. As soon as I got into dry clothes I joined them and shared my six-pack from a nearby convenience store (I should have purchased two). Arnott’s was so accommodating that I lingered for four days and took advantage of several daily tours.

In the morning ten fellow travelers and myself were issued snorkel gear, stuffed into a large van, and driven south. We stopped first at Punulu’u Black Sand Beach. (I scouted the beach as a future campsite because I would be passing by here in a few days.) I noticed a group of tourists crowded in a circle on the beach. A huge green sea turtle was
lounging in the sun, seemingly ignoring them. The small bay was protected and the gentle waves made it ideal for snorkeling. I noticed turtles occasionally breaking the water surface with their flippers; there were a lot more turtles underneath. The turtles munch on the seaweed that grows on the rocky bottom. At one point a half dozen turtles surrounded me as we all swished lazily back and forth in the waves.

Canadian tourist poses with green sea turtle on Punulu’u Black Sand Beach

We loaded back into the van and drove to Ka Lae (or South Point), the
southernmost point in the United States. Wooden fishing platforms are perched on the cliff and we inched toward the edge to get our nerve up. Thirty feet below, crystal clear, turquoise-tinted water beckoned and dared us to take a leap. Huge boulders littered the bottom and we were certain we would smash upon them. Our guide assured us that thewater was 40’ deep so I hurled myself off the edge. More harrowing than the jump, was the climb back up on a free-hanging, rusted metal ladder!

On the long drive home our guide spoke about how passionate native Hawaiians are about their land. Natives consider South Point to be Hawaiian Home Lands, sacred and spiritual. He then told us about local spirits and customs and stressed that they could not be ignored. For example, when our guide would go fishing, he would pay homage to the spirit of the particular harbor. If he did this, he would always be successful, if not; he would come home empty handed. I started to believe.

The next day was to be another spiritual adventure. Just after lunch we were
corralled into the van again. Our destination; Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. The powerful, respected, and feared Madam Pele is said to reside inside the active volcanoes.  Natives often leave offerings for her on the cliff edges. Rangers receive packages of lava rocks in the mail everyday from former visitors. (Taking the lava rocks is said to bring bad luck).

A hiking trail cuts across Kilauea Caldera in Volcanoes National Park

The vast national park abounds with hiking trails that cut through barren calderas, past smoking, sulfurous craters, and down to deserted, young black sand beaches. We walked through a huge cave that formed as molten lava drained from an underground flow (these are called “lava tubes”). We then descended 4,000 feet to sea level to where the road (and an entire town) had been buried by the prolific eruptions. From here we would continue on foot over the brittle, rough lava surface.

Everyone was issued flashlights and hiking staffs and we trekked north, parallel to the nearby coast. The hardened lava was easy to stumble and slip upon. Inland, to our left, we could see the smoke from the lava source, six miles distant. We were warned not to get too close to the ocean because a “shelf” of lava could crack off at any time. At one point we came to a section of road that had somehow survived.

A section of road, spared by Madam Pele, is a hiker’s respite from the lava

As we continued walking the warm lava surface heated our shoes. We would look for outcroppings of older, cooler lava to take breaks. At several spots we found oozing lava, which they told us was 2,000° F. The heat from the molten rock was intense, immediately igniting the tip of my walking stick. I searched through my knapsack, found the trail mix, and selected the biggest almond as an offering. I placed it in the path of the
slowly moving lava and in a few seconds Madam Pele devoured it (I was definitely going native).

Our plan was to wait until after sunset before we returned to the vans (hence the flashlights). As dusk arrived a few sections of lava could be seen glowing through the cracks. Then more and more appeared, so many that it looked like there would be no possible way for us to get back. Hundreds of tiny glowing fissures made us wonder if the new surface could support our weight.

Oozing lava immediately ignites a wood hiking staff

I was enjoying the guided tours at Arnott’s so much that I signed up for one more: to the summit of 13, 796’ Mauna Kea. For each tour we were issued useful equipment. This time we received winter parkas and a lesson on how to use an oxygen bottle! At sea level the sky was thick with clouds and moisture but we emerged from the mist before we reached the visitor center (at only 9,200’).

It was another five miles on a pothole-filled dirt road loaded with switchbacks before we reached the summit. This road had been closed because of snow a week earlier. From above, the clouds appeared as a white fluffy cover on everything around us.

As the sun was setting I noticed a strange mountain jutting out of the clouds that just a few minutes before, had not been there. Our guide explained that the odd looking object was actually the shadow of the mountain we were standing on: even better was that it was considered a good omen!

Snow on Mauna Kea, observatories in the distance

The shadow of Mauna Kea appears at sunset

It had now been three days since I turned a pedal and I felt way behind on a schedule that was already loose to begin with. With that in mind I accepted a ride to Punulu’u (the bay that we had visited three days earlier). As the tourists thinned out, I relaxed on the black sand beach with the sea turtles. My guidebook said that the newest Hawaiian island was forming just 20 miles offshore, albeit still 3,000’ and 100,000 years
from the ocean surface.

I pitched my tent after the beach became deserted. My bike stand was a palm tree. I awoke in the middle of the night and gazed at the stars, which filled he sky from high above right down to the horizon.

        Punalu’u campsite at sunrise

Today I would use my bicycle to retrace the route to Ka Lae, which we had done in the Arnott’s van a few days earlier. I had scouted a flat spot above a cliff, hopefully protected from the wind by an escarpment, and facing west so that I could enjoy the sunset. I had plenty of time so I dawdled at the Na’haleu Fruit Stand, enjoying Kona coffee (of course) and a newspaper on the sunny lanai. I purchased a gallon of water and
strapped it to my already heavily loaded bicycle. There would be no fresh water that night and I desperately wanted to wash my hair.

With a steady wind at my back I pedaled down the isolated, one lane gentle descent to South Point and stopped at a stone wall. A dilapidated sign stated that all the lands on the other side were Hawaiian Homelands, owned and revered by native Hawaiians. I continued on by the towering electrical wind turbines, which were making a spooky, low frequency whirring/whooshing noise. When I arrived at the ocean, only a few natives were there, fishing from the cliffs.

The Komaha Wind Farm on the lonely road to Ka Lae

I jumped the 30’ into the ocean again, climbed back up, and used my gallon of water to bathe. My tent site was only a few feet from the edge of the cliff so I made a mental note to walk in the correct direction should I need relief during the night. I felt the need to make an offering to the local spirit. Climbing partway down the cliff I placed half a candy bar on a suitable rock, sprinkled some fresh water on it along with some Grand Marnier from my coveted stash. I uttered a generic prayer and hoped that the local spirit would forgive my ignorance. No doubt about it, I had gone native.

“Southernmost” campsite in the United States

With the spirit appeased I could relax and enjoy the sunset, the best one yet. All night long a strong wind tugged at my tent making for a fitful night’s sleep. In the morning, my offering was gone without a crumb to be seen.

The ten-mile road that I had easily descended the day before was now my
nemesis. A powerful crosswind slowed my progress to a crawl. There was only one way out and it took me over an hour. But when I reached the main road and turned west my spirits soared as the prevailing breeze pushed me along. The November sun felt luxurious. I had grown accustomed to the barren lava flows and actually started to like them. From a distance they looked like giant chunks of coffee colored chocolate. I had crossed back over to the “dry side” and was well inside the rain shadow of massive Mauna Loa.

At a scenic lookout, I relaxed on a stonewall and gazed south. The Marquesas Islands, 2,500 miles distant, was the probable origin of Hawaii’s first inhabitants. They arrived about 1,500 years ago in double-hulled canoes. My reverie was interrupted as a large bus pulled into the parking lot and disgorged a hoard of tourists. The guide shouted“This is it, South Point, southernmost point in the United States” and then herded them cattle-like back into the bus. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he admonished them. “We’ve got an hours drive to see the sea turtles.”

I squinted at my previous nights campsite, the real South Point, 10 miles away. My bicycle had allowed me to experience Hawaii in an intimate manner unknown to the tourists that had disappeared as quickly as they arrived. Yes, I needed a shower and a Laundromat. A soft mattress and fluffy pillow would be wonderful too. However my bicycle provided me with freedom and knowledge and I was exhilarated to swing my leg back over the saddle.

My next stop would be the beautiful “Place of Refuge” or (in Hawaiian)
Pu’uhonau o Honaunau. I had come nearly full circle as the Captain Cook Monument I had visited on my first day stood on the opposite side of the water, Kealakekua Bay. The grounds here were home to royalty. The “place of refuge” is separated from the grounds by a huge stonewall, 10’ high and wide and 1,000’ long. If an enemy warrior or a lawbreaker cold make it to the Place of Refuge (before being captured and killed) they could eventually be cleansed by a kahuna and allowed to return to society.

Before I would leave Hawaii, I would return to Kealakekua Bay a third time via Zodiac inflatable boat for some snorkeling. They say that it is also a good spot to frolic with dolphins though I did not see any.

Snorkeling sights in Kealakekua Bay

I didn’t need forgiveness from a kahuna, but I did need a place to pitch my tent one last time. Two surfers pointed me to a suitable spot on Ke’ei Beach. The beach was equal amounts of sand, black chunks of lava, and white chunks of coral. The lava and coral ranged in size from golf balls to volleyballs.

My final ride completed the circumnavigation into Kailua-Kona and I rewarded myself with a shower and soft bed. That evening, I headed downtown and enjoyed some cold beers while watching the sunset. My bicycle had allowed Hawaii to absorb me, or for me to absorb it: I don’t know, maybe a combination of the two. I felt close to Hawaii and I was sure I would miss it even more upon returning to a cold Connecticut in November. Before I left, I purchased the tackiest Hawaiian shirt I could find and I wear it often. Someday I’ll go back and get a nicer one.

W. Neal Fisher is an avid cyclist who logs thousands of miles each year on his bikes.  When not cycling he's the Fire Department Battalion Chief for West Hartford, CT.