Monday, February 18, 2019. Catching up (perhaps)...

And here we be, in the midst of our El Nino drought.  Though if "midst" means middleish, how do we know?  According to my not entirely accurate rain gauge, weʻve had just a couple inches of rain so far this year.  Here at the uppermost reaches of Keaʻau, we hear water trucks pass by the house, on their way to water homes in need.  During my nearly 34 years in Volcano, my 3,500 gallon tank, at the lowest, was a quarter full.  That after three months of zero rain.  Sources say that "moisture from the south" is on its way this evening.  We shall see.

And all our blooming plants will be grateful for the moisture too.  When theyʻre used to 100+ inches of rain a year and they have to subsist on heavy dew, they arenʻt happy.  "Spring" on windward Hawaiʻi means mango trees flush with big heavy clusters of flowers, African tulips setting windward gulches ablaze with orangeness, and lehua bloom too, though not as abundantly, perhaps wanting to be fed by rain first.  And we await hāpuʻu and other ferns unfurling their pepeʻe, their coiled fiddleheads.  The understory of our rainforest turns a vibrant lightgreen when fronds are fresh, quivering in the faintest breeze.  Stay tuned for a photo or two at the appropriate time.  

For now, above is an accidental photo.  Right place, right time, etc.  Itʻs a Western yellowjacket, Vespula pensylvanica, on its way to get nectar from lehua.  Vespula are a nasty nasty invasive species, with mean stings.  And they build big nests in the ground. And they happen to take nectar that otherwise would be eaten by our own endemic yellow-faced bees and birds:  ʻapapane, ʻamakihi, etc...  Trying hard not to rant here...

Whatʻs been odd of late is that weʻve seen none of the stormy weathers that visited much of the rest of our state.  It seems that our place here at the southeast extreme of the chain has been protected by The Mountains.  All weʻve seen for the most part is a tiny bit of pakaua, that big-drop-banging-roof-rain, and cool...or rather COLD mornings for a week or more.  Itʻs been in the low 40s at sunrise for days.  Kinda hard to crawl out from under the three quilts.  And when we wear longjohns on our walks in the morning...

Though the above is from a webcam, the cold morning wind coming down from the mountain...brrrrr.  And what looks like snow, Iʻm pretty sure is patchy hail.  Almost looks like a pinto horse.

Mornings have been generally cloudfree, making our walk to Keanakākoʻi viewlicious.  Though I have to say that clouds, judiciously placed here and there, add interest to the scene.

And since weʻre here at the summit, I thought Iʻd share the above, so we donʻt forget The Three Months.  All of the ʻōlaʻi depicted were small enough not to be felt, though Iʻm glad theyʻre being recorded, if for nothing else as a reminder that Sheʻs still present, albeit deep down.

 Below, more or less the same image from June 16, 2018:

Itʻs important to remember, though many seem to have gone on with life.  If you werenʻt here near the summit and Kaluapele, or down at Keahialaka last summer, maybe impacts werenʻt as great.  But I continue to startle at the odd noise...

And in the nature of remembering, we remember our longtime friend Linda.  She came into my life at Maniniʻōwali, during the camping trip the full moon of January 1976, written about here a few weeks ago.  The evening of January 26th Leenda (think Spanish accent), or Naiʻa as she was also fondly known, suffered an aneurysm, and died just before sunrise on Monday, January 28, 2019.

Though we hadnʻt spent much time together of late, she was always there in the back of my mind.  Processing shocking sudden death has it challenges, no matter that Iʻve lost more than a few loved ones.  Itʻs never easy.  And so I paid close attention when I was watching Bluebloods on TV the other night, when near the close of the program came the following.  Itʻs from a Greek playwright named Aeschylus who lived from 525BC to 456BC:

And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.

Please note that "awful" in this context has an archaic meaning:  Inspiring reverential wonder or fear.

We do the best we can, how we can, and try to live better lives.

As always, with aloha,

BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com