The Walk this morning was a leisurely holosolo. Partly cloudy skies that mostly cleared during the three hours I was out, revealed most of Maunakea and Maunaloa. In the shade it was our coolish winter chill, but in the sun it was warm enough.
The best thing were the birds. Had the usual chorus of ʻapapane at the Devastation Trail parking lot, then along the road in the forest were a few ʻamakihi, and those loud Japanese bush warblers, and, in their usual location near where the forest gives way to cinder land, ʻōmaʻo called to each other there and here. A few weeks ago, there was an ʻōmaʻo calling really loudly close to the road. eb and I paused and listened, and listened more. Then it flew across the road, giving me my first real sighting of an ʻōmaʻo. Iʻd glimpsed them a few times, mostly obscured by understory growth, but never clearly. They like to play hide and seek while they rummage around the subcanopy of forest. And with one working arm, and various muscle issues, Iʻve never been a fan of bi- or monoculars. Too much shakiness and wobbling. I prefer things that donʻt move. Plants. Rocks. Like that.
So onward I strolled, ʻōhiʻa walking stick tapping away. Completed the "Touch the lock on the gate" protocol, just past Keanakākoʻi, then headed back. Because the weather was excellent, I decided to sit on the stone wall, on "my" rock - the smooth one at just the right height, and look, see, observe, as I am wont to do. I used to do the same thing sitting on the sand or a rock at Maniniʻōwali. Watch the ocean, feel the sun and the breeze, check out ʻūlili scurrying along the shorefoam, and just think. Or not. Those were the times when I was usually the only one at the beach, or perhaps one of two, three, or four others. Those days are long gone, but memories, of course, remain.
Back to topic, Bob...
Sitting on the wall. Watching koaʻe kea glide along palifaces. Scanning the scene back and forth. Then down by the gate a nēnē crosses the road, climbs the bank, then wanders around the cinder foraging. Heard koaʻe calling there, there, there...and then kinda close that clickchirp, repeated. I turned to look at Keanakākoʻi and figured out pretty quickly that the clickchirp was an alarm call. There was an ʻio, a Hawaiian hawk, gliding, circling inside the rim of the crater. Then another. Two ʻio, one koaʻe kea. Keeping their distances. Pretty cool.
That little teeny black line on the cloud just to left of center is ʻio.
Below, one in Kohala yesterday, taken by cvz. Looks...fake? unreal?? Too good to be true? Taken from a car. Up close and personal. Pretty awesome, far or near...
And how lucky are we??? Oddly (or not), while I was sitting on the wall paying attention, none of the other visitors in my field of view as far as I could tell, saw any of the birds. I suppose it didnʻt occur to them to look. They were chatting and having a fine time enjoying views of the craters.
OK?
Letʻs revisit UH West Oʻahu. I was thinking this morning...I wonder how it got that name? Kinda clinical, but I suppose descriptive of location? How come not UH ʻEwa? Or UH Kapolei (Kapo = a sister of Pele. Lei = beloved), after the New City being built out there. Kapolei, in case you wonder, is named after a puʻu. Kapolei is in the ahupuaʻa of Honouliuli, moku (district) of ʻEwa. This is an older map, so new subdivisions arenʻt depicted.
A kou addenda: Aside from being my favorite lei flower, the wood is one of the valuable three (kou, milo, and kamani) used for bowls, implements, etc. in the old days. Kou is the rarest today. Note that the old name for Honolulu is Kou. In my experience, kou likes to be well-watered. Trees without irrigation on the west side of the Island of Hawaiʻi are stressed, and their leaves are subject to predation by an introduced caterpillar. Those trees look sadly ragged.
I make lei by picking up freshly fallen flowers off the ground in the morning. They fall from the tree when mature. If you try to pick them from the tree, itʻs a challenge. Height aside, if the flower clusters are accessible, you have to pinch the calyx (the green part at the base of the flower) one by one, really hard, to release the flower.
Then, after the flowers, come the seed pods, shown below. These are mature and ready to fall. The green calyx (fused sepals, if you know botany) withers and eventually falls off, leaving a corky pod that floats. Archeological evidence from a site on Kauaʻi tells us that kou has been in Hawaiʻi at least 5,000 years. Yes, it was a Polynesian introduction, but itʻs a native plant too.
QUICK PRIMER:
Native: got here by itself, but found in other places. Beach naupaka, pōhuehue (beach morning glory).
Endemic: got here by itself, evolved, and is now/are now, different unique species found only in Hawaiʻi nei. ʻŌhiʻa lehua, ʻapapane, hāpuʻu... 1,800+ plant species.
Polynesian introduction: came on canoes with early settlers. Kalo, ʻuala (sweet potato), ʻulu (breadfruit), etc. Maybe 25 different species, total.
Alien: anything that came here with Cook or after his arrival in 1778. Pineapple, anthurium, macadamia nut, kiawe, etc...
Those pods above, maybe 3/4 inch in diameter, fall to the ground. Because theyʻre corky, they donʻt disintegrate. Then we have the pleasure, if weʻre not watchful, of skidding around on so many ball bearings, making them not a good choice for parking lots.
But their roots are not too invasive, and the trees grow really quickly, and they check both the Native and Polynesian Introduction boxes, so theyʻre commonly used in new plantscapes. Until. Until the groundskeepers catch on, and the pods are deemed a hazardous nuisance, and the trees are lollipopped: pruned to look that way so pods fall onto the median planters. Not attractive, labor intensive, and for lei makers, not productive.
Sad unintended consequences of trying to do the right thing. Parking lot kou trees at UHWO were recently pruned way back to make the best use of limited funds. The school apparently has an industrial street vacuum which readily sucks up the pods, thus alleviating the slip-fall hazard. But at the Courthouse in Hilo...not pretty.
Back to my house.
Remember the ʻopelu blooming in the yard? All those spikes? Well, the last errant flower opened early this week. Most of the spikes are drying and seeds are being spread by wind, by birds landing and foraging, and by me, collecting them with the help of friends.
A budding spike last August 7:
Full bloom:
The dry pods on January 9:
And, ta-DAH!!! The seeds. LOTS of seeds. Teeny tiny things!
Five months: Bud to seed.
Nearing the end for today. I wrote the following on Thursday, my mindseye diary of UHWO.
Tomorrow Iʻm hoping to write again, among other things, about "other denizens coolhidden under leaves". Hmmmm. What might they be???
Stay tuned. Till then, as always, with aloha,
BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com
Last week I was outside with my twins, watching as they worked on their skill at moving their scooters along the street fronting the house. Movement at my periphery had me turning toward our garage, only to startle and duck as a largish bird came diving toward me. My first thought was ʻio, but I saw its face just before it swooped over me and continued across to a neigbhorʻs albizia tree. Pueo. My heart raced a bit at the sight of my ʻaumakua on my paternal grandfatherʻs side. I grew up hearing many a tale of how the pueo came to him in times of danger so I didnʻt hesitate. I ushered two very upset toddlers off the road, and moments later, some idiot came blazing down our street well over the speed limit. Mahalo e nā kūpuna.
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