Cycle Hawaii

Circumnavigation of the Big Island

by W. Neal Fisher

My old friends looked at me, thoroughly bewildered. It was my final night in Hawaii and I was relating tales of my two week, 450-mile trek around the big island. 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. This was answered 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. Nope.

            In fairness to my friends, I must tell you that they came here to play tennis, this being their 10th year. But how had I become so intimate with this island on my first visit? I was convinced that my bicycle was responsible. This was my first fully loaded and unsupported tour and the price I paid in effort and sweat was rewarded with emotions and experiences that I will treasure forever. 

            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 chose 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 almost 20 years. I would be cycling around the perimeter, shadowing the coastline, and I figured it would be fairly flat.

            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. Devoid of plant life, the airport sits at the edge of a 200 year old lava flow. The lava rocks have not eroded because here on the dry side little rain falls and they are as rough and chunky as the day they were created.

            I assembled my Trek 520 and headed south 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 and worries began to enter my mind. My bike was not even fully loaded and I was breathing heavily before I locked my bike to a 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 its snorkeling. 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 and it was easy to pick out the huge lava flows that had worked their way down the mountain. The lava rocks seemed so unusual to me that I actually had to stop and touch them. They looked like huge chunks of fresh dirt that had just been bulldozed over for a construction site. On my right cactus and cattle made me feel like I was in Texas. I was cutting through a section of the 225,000 acre Parker Ranch, said to be the largest in America. I was then introduced to the infamous Hawaii trade winds. This prevailing breeze blows in strong and steady from the northeast and I was cycling directly into it. The closer I got to Waimea the stronger the wind became and I kept slowing down. I had to stop and straddle my bike to drink from a bottle and the wind actually blew my bike back up a slight incline. To add to my misery I was on the last of four water bottles and it began to mist slightly. I put on my rain gear to ward off the cold and kept counting the mile markers, which seemed to be coming slower and slower. I limped into Waimea a battered cyclist. I turned west on Highway 19 and conditions changed dramatically. The wind was now at my back, it was a 2,500’ descent to the campground, and the sun came out. In 20 minutes I covered a distance that had taken me 1½ hours before I had turned the corner. There was no way I was stopping to take off my bright yellow rain gear and when I arrived at the beach the other campers were looking at me pretty strangely!

            I slept well that night despite being awakened by the security guard to check my permit, the howling of feral cats, and a fireworks display at one of the mega-resorts a few miles south. As I left Spencer Beach Park I would learn a lesson about cycling Hawaii. Invariably, when you head toward the coast you will be descending, sometimes steeply, sometimes long and gradually. The opposite is true when you turn around and head inland and the climb out of the campground this morning was outrageously steep for a loaded touring bike requiring every inch of my 24/30gear combination.

            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 (probably much faster than me) and I noticed many inspirational messages spray painted on the shoulder. From this vantage point on the island you can see four of Hawaii’s five volcanoes. In addition to 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, Haleakala zoomed skyward from the island of Maui. This was all quite impressive so I pulled off the road to take a photo and then 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 be a small, rickety, wooden platform, or a large grassy area, football field size or bigger, surrounded by massive rock walls.  A short, steep diversion to Mahukona Beach Park and a mile hike brought me to the first. On top of a knoll, looking west over the water, a dozen oblong rocks stood upright arranged in a pattern to show the way to the islands of the south Pacific. I couldn’t make sense of it, but the original settlers were fearsome navigators and I could imagine an ancient native, pointing beyond the horizon, passing knowledge on to young apprentices. These skills were eventually lost but there is a revivalist effort going on today.

            This stretch of Route 270 is beautiful, yet desolate, and I would use all four water bottles again before finding a spot to refill. The next two heiau were on the very northern tip and I took the two mile descent to deserted Upolu Airport then turned left for another two miles on a dirt and sometimes muddy road. The birthplace of King Kamehameha sits near the rocky shore where it is much too rough to go swimming. Nearby, Mo’okino Heiau is bigger and spookier. Mo’okino 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”. I saw no other people in this area, just Parker Ranch cattle and a run-down trailer home. 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 rims and cleats.

            I awoke to another sunny day and decided I would pedal to the end of the road, a short 7-mile jaunt, to the Polulu 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. The road dead-ended and I gazed down upon Polulu Valley. A black sand beach contrasted sharply with the ocean. I could see a pair of horse tracks heading down the beach and, looking back up the valley, I gasped in wonder at sheer cliff walls covered in lush green carpeting. I wished I had the time to hike down there. My destination for the day was only 20 miles southeast, directly down the coast, but I would have to take the road inland over Kohala Mountain. I cycled back toward Hawi and stopped to take a photo of the statue of King Kamehameha in the town of Kapa’au. Kamehameha was a huge influence on the islands. In 1795 (only three years before Cook discovered Hawaii) 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 all my gear and slowly churned my way up Kohala Mountain Road. This was my toughest climb of the trip. At one point I was struggling to keep my speed above 3½ 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 I had cows staring at me. They would stop eating and face me directly. As I cycled by they would turn 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 anything like this.

            For every 500’ elevation change the county had conveniently placed a sign and I marked my progress. My lesson to be learned today was about the “wet/dry” line that demarcates the island. As the trade winds blow in from the northeast they are diverted upward by the mountains. This squeezes the moisture out and the rains fall heavily on the northeastern side of the island. This accounts for the rainforest, waterfalls, gullies and valleys on the “wet” side. Conversely, the “dry” side is hot, sunny and desert-like and water for drinking is often scarce and funny tasting.

            Now, as I neared the summit, a mist began to creep over the crest and I stopped to put on my rain gear for the descent. On the way down the sun came out. Entering Waimea, the mist would alternate 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 asked me if the going was tough. 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 and he replied “Oh yes, you’re already through the dry side “. Wonderful. At least I knew what to wear and I finished the last ten miles in a steady but warm rain and a gentle downhill to the town of Honoka’a.

            I was quite pleased with the accommodations at the Hotel Honoka’a; simple rooms, reasonable rates, and friendly people. There are bunkrooms downstairs but I opted for a private so that I could hang my gear about the room to dry (which took a long time due to the humidity). In the morning I shared coffee with the attractive and pleasant manager Kathy Kenyon. Kathy is Korean but was adopted and raised in Georgia. She visited, fell in love with Hawaii, and has never left. She told me that Waipio (say it y-p-o) Valley, just 9 miles up the road, was a beautiful and magical place.

I locked my bike to the guardrail at the top and walked down because I was too afraid to bike down the 25% grade. This was good judgment because the one mile long, 900’ vertical drop access road is bumpy, moist, and slippery. At the bottom two wild horses eyed me warily before sauntering into the woods. I could hike back into the valley to see the highest waterfall on the island, 1,600’ Hi’ilawe or head toward the black sand beach. The sun seemed to be stronger towards the ocean so I followed it. In a few minutes I was squiggling my toes in black sand acting like a little kid because I had never seen one before. I forded the small but swift flowing river to get to the larger section of beach. At the far end I could see a trail zigzagging up the cliff and I followed it to the switchback that looked out over the ocean. Steep cliffs rose abruptly from the beach and stretched inland hemming the valley in. A waterfall launched itself directly into the waves. I stared at the beach below me for about an hour. The white foam, pushed about by turquoise waves, flowed back and forth over the black sand. It was so relaxing; it reminded me of the worlds’ largest lava lamp. I was beginning to feel the spirituality that pervades the island. I found it hard to believe a tsunami inundated the valley in 1946 causing great destruction. Today there are only a couple of dozen residents, many living without telephones or electricity.

In the morning several locals gathered at the Hotel Honaka’a over coffee and I was enjoying their company. As usual, most of the people I met were transplants and by far the most interesting was a gentleman named Hans. Today he owns a bed and breakfast just outside of town but he used to have substantial holdings in East Germany. He managed to get out just before the Iron Curtain went up and he made his way to Chile. There he secured a loan from Pinochet to open a gold mine. Political winds blew again and the new government gave him 48 hours to leave the country. Legal maneuvering only produced a death threat so Hans moved up the coast to Central America, California, and finally Hawaii. As it often seems, life goes full circle and today Hans is trying to reclaim his former properties in the now reunified Germany.

My trip was going full circle also and I was lucky to have sunshine (for most of the day) as I made my way down the luscious and rugged Hamakua Coast. Gully after gully, gulch after gulch, the road twists and winds up and down. Each gulch has a bridge that looks out over the jungle canopy and I stopped at every one to watch a stream gurgle across a rocky beach into the incessant waves. I had to take two short detours to see famous waterfalls; the enchanting, three-tiered Umauma Falls and a 3-mile climb up the access road to the stunning 400’ Akaka Falls. As I walked the grounds in Akaka Falls State Park the clouds thickened and it was raining steadily before I could get back on my bicycle. This was to be my longest day in both time and distance (63 miles) and I arrived in Hilo after dark in a warm rain.

In the dark I was having trouble finding my night’s lodging and I suppose I could have been a bit grumpy, but when I pulled into Arnott’s Lodge a huge smile washed across my face. Arnott’s was bright, clean and cheerful and was full of travelers, mostly young, from all over the world. A large lanai hosted a dozen round tables for dining and conversing, a washer and dryer, a computer for Internet access, and a large pot of fresh coffee. Visitors were lounging in the “open-air” living room replete with sofas, television and a large video selection. I opted for a private bedroom with shared kitchen and bath. A quick dash to the nearby convenience store for pasta, sauce and a six-pack, then a warm shower and a change into dry clothes and I was a happy camper. I retired to the lanai and shared my beers with the other adventurers.

Even though it put me behind schedule I dallied at Arnott’s for four nights because they ran daily van trips to various sites that fit my goals perfectly. Our driver for the first trip was Stan, a fifth generation native. He drove ten of us to several different locations. We stopped first at Punulu’u Black Sand Beach where the largest turtles I have ever seen (3’ long) were snoozing in the sunshine. We donned snorkel gear and discovered even more turtles in the shallow cove. At one point I was encircled by a half dozen of the reptiles. They ignored me and munched on seaweed as the swells gently swished us back and forth in unison.

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. Stan assured us that the water was 40’ deep and I was the first to hurl myself off the edge. More harrowing than the jump, was the climb back up: a free-hanging, rusted metal ladder!

 Next, we embarked on an hour hike to a green sand beach. We trekked across yellowish-orange volcanic ash sparsely covered with low vegetation and no trees. Finally, in the middle of desolation, we came to a small cove surrounded by steep walls. We gazed down, amazed, at a khaki-green beach. A volcanic cinder cone is being eroded by waves and the mineral olivine has mixed evenly with the black sand grains. It is a remarkable sight. We picked our way down and frolicked in the powerful waves. After lounging for a while, we made our way back to the van.

On the long drive home Stan spoke about how passionate native Hawaiians are about their land. The entire area comprising South Point is considered Hawaiian Home Lands. Not unlike the Native Americans in my home state, the native Hawaiians believe the area was unfairly taken from them. He then told us about local spirits and customs and stressed that they could not be ignored. Whenever Stan would go fishing he would pay homage to the spirit of the particular fishing area. If he did this, he would always be successful, if not; he would come home empty handed. I was learning another lesson about Hawaii; the belief is strong and magical.

Nowhere else is this more evident than Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. Arnott’s drove us there in two vanloads this time. The powerful, respected, and feared Madam Pele is said to reside inside the active volcanoes inside the park. Natives often leave offerings for her on the cliff edges and the rangers receive packages everyday from former visitors returning pilfered lava rocks. Taking the lava rocks is said to be bad luck. The wife of one of my coworkers brought home some rocks. He claims that in the two years it took him to return them they both were seriously injured in a car accident, his daughter was injured in another, and a slip and fall in the bathroom injured him again. They gave the rocks to a neighbor to return during vacation but he fell off a ladder breaking his arm before they were returned. I knew for certain I was not bringing home any souvenir lava rocks.

We toured around Crater Rim Drive and I wished I could have spent several days here. Hiking trails abound and cut through barren calderas, past craters, and down to deserted, young black sand beaches. The Thurston Lava Tube is a long cave 10’ in diameter that once carried molten lava down the hill. As the lava flows, the top hardens over, insulating the flowing lava inside. Eventually Madam Pele stops pumping and the lava drains from the tube. These tubes are all over the island and occasionally swallow a bulldozer. The drive down the 20-mile long Chain of Craters Road drops 4,000 feet to sea level. Here the road dead-ends, the paving of the Park Service being buried by the 1992-1997 flow. In fact, eight miles of road and the town of Kalapana now sit below lava that has been flowing constantly and prolifically for 20 years.

We parked at the small (and now mobile) ranger trailer and were issued hiking staffs and flashlights. Our guides shepherded us northeast, parallel to the new coastline. On the left hardened lava flows once poured over the ridge and the smoke from the current lava source, Pu’u ‘O’o Crater, could be seen from six miles away. The lava flows underground and oozes out of cracks near the coast. Our goal was to find flowing lava and to wait until nightfall to see it in darkness. After an hour we came to a short section of original road, giving new meaning to “fresh pavement”. The road is a brief respite from the difficult hiking on the lava. The pahoehoe lava spreads and hardens like pancake batter. A crusty silver film breaks off and is quite slippery as it slides underfoot but it was better than hiking on a’a lava, which is chunky and rough.

Finally we found some oozing lava, 2000 degrees and glowing red. The surface quickly hardens but our hiking sticks could be pushed through the rubbery covering, which caused them to immediately burst into flame. It was so hot I had to turn away. In a spiritual moment, I chose the biggest almond I could find from my trail mix and placed it a few inches away from the lava. In an instant the offering burst into flame and was swallowed. I started to worry that I was “going native”. An hour after the sun disappeared hundreds of small glowing cracks revealed that we were standing on land that was just days old, surrounded by oozing lava on all sides.

Back at Arnott’s we gathered on the lanai and marveled at what we had witnessed. Before too long the conversation turned to what travelers talk about the most: traveling. Suzanne, 23, had been on the road for eight months. She will return to England for the holidays, work a bit, and then hit the road again. Roger, from Liverpool, sells ice cream during the summer to finance his winter travels. The schoolteacher from Edmonton, Wendy, had a unique arrangement with her employer. She reduced her salary by a fifth for four years then takes the fifth year off at the same rate. Wendy is traveling around the world and she showed me how to get a free e-mail service. She sent me updates of her journey for the next year. Anders and Sorn, from Denmark, purchased a used car in Texas, drove it through 23 states, and then sold it in Seattle. They all looked at me pitifully as I told them I had to return to work in a week.

The third and final van trip took us to the summit of 13,796’ Mauna Kea, home to a half dozen observatories. A thick, moist blanket hung over Hilo but our guide, native-Hawaiian Koa, assured us it would be clear at the summit. Sure enough, we emerged from the clouds before we reached the visitor center at 9,200’. Today they issued us winter parkas and showed us how to operate the oxygen bottle. The remaining five miles to the top was a dirt road loaded with switchbacks and potholes. Like a fool, I had been previously planning to cycle to the summit. On the day I arrived in Hawaii this road had been closed by a snowstorm and tiny patches of the white stuff still remained. As we hiked up a cinder cone I huffed and wheezed due to the altitude. Humbled, I admitted to myself that I never would have made it. The thick cloud cover now looked like a puffy cotton blanket, stretching away to the horizon in all directions. As the sun lowered, a mountain appeared behind us, looming skyward. “That’s no mountain”, Koa explained, “That’s the shadow of the mountain we are standing on”. The phenomenon is quite rare and is considered to be a good omen.

On the way down the oxygen bottle was passed around and Koa regaled us with stories and proverbs of Hawaii. She talked about the adopted animals of her family, the tiger shark and the owl. Her great uncle, after falling from a fishing boat, had been saved by a tiger shark. The shark gently pushed him to shore and swam nearby until the family revived him. She herself had avoided a deadly car accident on a foggy night. An owl landed on the road in front of her car and refused to move. The next day she learned of a terrible accident just up the road and feels certain that the owl saved her life. The man sitting next to me scoffed, but I would not. I was not going to take any chances.

It had now been three days since I turned a pedal and I felt way behind on a schedule that was loose to begin with. With that in mind I accepted a ride from Gloria Chang, an articulate and pretty visitor from Toronto, and we leapfrogged 40 miles south to Punulu’u so that we could snorkel with the sea turtles one more time. I was disappointed, and at the same time relieved, that I did not have to do the 20 mile, 4,000’ ascent from Hilo to Volcano (I also missed the equal descent on the other side). We spent the day lounging on the black sand and cavorting with turtles in the peaceful cove. Gloria left to catch an airplane and I waited for the tourists to thin out before setting up my tent. My bike leaning against a palm tree, a turtle snoozing nearby, sitting on my Thermarest pad, I sipped a Grand Marnier and watched the Pacific stretch to the east. My guidebook said that the newest Hawaiian island was just 20 miles offshore, albeit still 3,000’ from the surface, but growing steadily. After darkness a family set up camp at the end of the beach with a tent big enough for a family reunion. In the middle of the night I unzipped the side door of my tent and gazed at the stars that spanned from horizon to heaven. I watched the falling stars until I fell back asleep and awoke to sunshine at dawn. It was the nicest campsite I have ever had. The patriarch of the camping family motored his boat out of the bay, perhaps to catch the day’s feast. I imagined the family paying homage to the appropriate spirits to insure a safe and productive trip. I was certain they would be successful.

That night I planned on an outlaw campsite on South Point. I had spied an appropriate spot three days earlier on the van trip from Arnott’s, just below an escarpment and facing due west, so I could enjoy the sunset. It wasn’t far at all so I stopped at the Na’alehu Fruit Stand, ate a hearty breakfast and read the entire Sunday paper. It is a popular spot and I talked with others enjoying the front porch while I sipped a 100% Kona coffee. I met Jaime, a 4th generation Japanese-American, who is the second grade teacher in this “southernmost community in the U.S.A.”. She was working on the weekend to prepare for upcoming parent-teacher conferences. Michael and his dog, Miss Molly, sat down and he traded me some chocolate zucchini bread for the star chart in my newspaper. He told me of a small beach where I could pitch my tent as I neared the end of my trip back in Kailua-Kona.

As if my bike was not heavy enough, I purchased a gallon of water and bungeed it to my rack (I needed it to wash my hair that night). I cycled down the gentle descent on South Point Road with the incessant, steady trade wind at my back. There are 36 windmill generators at the Kamoa Wind Farm, but nearly half of them were not operating. They make a strange, spooky whirring/whooshing sound and it gave me the creeps. A stone wall marked the beginning of the Hawaiian Homelands and I continued on through the deserted landscape. There were no tourists at the cliffs this time but plenty of locals were fishing. They have a unique method of getting their hooks farther out. A plastic garbage bag is tied to the line and the ever-present breeze inflates it. One hundred yards from shore, the garbage bag danced a few feet above the water, dangling the bait below. I did the 30’ jump into the ocean again, climbed back up the swaying ladder, and then headed to my pre-selected tent site. My bed was only 8’ from the edge of the cliff and I made a mental note to walk in the right direction if I should need relief during the night.

After I was set up, I pulled out the Butterfinger candy bar that I had purchased earlier and unwrapped it. Climbing partway down the cliff, I placed the offering on a suitable rock and sprinkled one end with water, the other with Grand Marnier. Not knowing what to say, or to whom, I uttered a generic prayer to whatever spirit resided here and asked for a safe night’s passage. I love Butterfingers and I’m pretty fond of Grand Marnier, so I figured the spirit would be appeased. Yes, I had gone native, no doubt about it. The spirits satisfied, I could now relax and enjoy the finest sunset of my trip so far. All night long the wind tugged at my tent making for a fitful nights sleep. In the morning I noticed the Butterfinger was gone, not a crumb to be seen.

As usual, leaving the shoreline was a climb, 10 miles this time and into the wind. I said goodbye to the windmills and turned left on the belt road across the southern shoulder of Mauna Loa. The November sun felt luxurious and the wind pushed me along at a steady clip. The dry, barren landscape now felt familiar and I actually started to like it. Huge a’a lava flows looked like blankets of giant chunks of coffee colored chocolate. I was back in the rain shadow of the towering volcanoes and at breakfast I asked a local couple how they managed without a reliable water supply. They stated that they survived on “catchment” and hardly ever had to buy bottled water.

At a scenic lookout, I relaxed on a stone wall 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. A large bus pulled into the parking lot, breaking my reverie and disgorging a hoard of tourists. The guide, wearing a faded aloha shirt, shouted “This is it, South Point, southern-most point in the United States” and then herded everyone back on. “Let’s go, let’s go,” he admonished them. “We’ve got an hour’s drive to see the sea turtles.” I squinted at my previous night’s campsite, the real South Point, 10 miles away. It seemed that my slow, laborious mode of travel had more in common with the original paddlers than the air-conditioned bus. I returned to my daydreaming and, despite not having a real shower in two days, I was exhilarated to be on my bicycle.

I was heading for the beach that Michael had told me about two days earlier and I turned left off the belt road onto Route 160 for a hair-raising descent. Halfway down I stopped to talk to four cyclists struggling uphill. They all wore identical red shirts and rode the same upright hybrids with no luggage. They were with an organized tour company and had to reach the summit for their first nights’ luxurious accommodations and gourmet meal. I found the rest of the group, about a dozen, at the bottom waiting for the support van. They looked at my heavily loaded bike with disbelief and perhaps a little relief that they did not need that much equipment. I’m sure I looked a little dirty and perhaps even smelled a bit. I didn’t care. I felt like a hardened, grizzled veteran.

I spent the next few hours strolling through the peaceful (and a mouthful) Pu’uhonua O Honaunau National Historic Park, thankfully also known as the “Place of Refuge”. The beautifully restored grounds are the former home of Ali’i (Hawaiian chiefs). A gentle breeze rustled the palm trees and wafted out over the quiet bay. The fine-grained white sand was warm and soft. If I had been a chief, I would have lived here too. At the far end of the compound a flat lava peninsula jutted towards the ocean. A huge rock wall, built without mortar, stretches 1,000’ across the isthmus. The wall is 10’ high, and just as thick, and separates the barren lava bed from the luxurious palace grounds. The other side of the wall was the Place of Refuge for criminals and defeated warriors. If they could make it through the guards, a kahuna would help them gain forgiveness. This was their best option since the only other alternative was death.

Later, I followed one of the hiking trails southward along the coast. I was looking for a lava tube mentioned in my guidebook. The area was completely deserted and, if it wasn’t designated as a National Park, I might have tried to pitch my tent here. I found the cave and cautiously made my way into the mountain. I was feeling a little spooked when the entrance disappeared behind me and the end was not in sight. Finally, I came to the terminus, a round opening in a cliff with the ocean crashing on the rocks, 20’ below. This time I did not have the courage to jump in. 

The spot I was planning to camp at was called Ke’ei     Beach and I was having trouble finding it. Two surfers pointed me in the right direction down a rocky dirt road. There were homes along the beach so I carried my bike well beyond the “No Camping” sign. Once I passed another tent I figured that I was far enough. I settled on the next likely spot, a small patch of sand underneath a broad palm tree. The beach was comprised of black lava rocks and white coral chunks, equally distributed, ranging in size from golf balls to volleyballs. The waves broke twice, far out where the surfers played and again in close on solid lava beds. I waded in the shallows and took a dip in a small tide pool. Clouds obscured the sunset so I watched the lights come on in Captain Cook, the town at the top of the cliff overlooking the bay.

Riding into Kailua-Kona on my final day, I noticed I had broken one of the 36 spokes on my rear wheel. A couple of tweaks on the adjacent spokes stopped my brake from rubbing and I could wait until I returned home for a permanent repair. For one final adventure, I reserved a spot on a Zodiac inflatable motor raft and went snorkeling at two spots that I had visited previously by land. It was startling to view the lava cliffs from the ocean side after two weeks on the bike. We returned to the Place of Refuge and snorkeled along a coral wall. Then we snorkeled in Kealakekua Bay below Captain Cook where the fish were more plentiful but the coral not as exciting. Our guide told us that parrotfish are responsible for a third of the white sand beaches on Hawaii. (That’s what he said. It sure seems like a lot.) I followed a parrotfish and watched it chew some coral and spew out sand from the other end.

That evening, after a hot shower, I headed downtown and watched the sunset from the seawall. I shared beers with the couple next to me and we traded stories of Hawaii for an hour. Hawaii had absorbed me or I had absorbed it, I don’t know. My advice to everyone is if you want to experience a destination, to feel it, to live it, see it on a bicycle. I felt close to Hawaii and I was sure I would miss it even more upon returning to a cold Connecticut in November. 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 and an Elvis Impersonator .