Sunday, June 9, 2019. Error Corrected and Addenda: Lehua and Vog

Doves call...that sound so reminds me of early Puakō mornings.  The cool gentle kēhau, the breeze from the mountain at night, the streaked surface of the ocean in the calm, and the scents of tiare, limu, and kiawe...an unlikely but evocative combination.  Of course this is all after the startling alarming racket of grey francolins.

Not quite at Puakō, but this from a few days ago, just north, looking past Mauʻumae to the seemingly reflected cirrus cloud on ke kai hāwanawana, the famed whispering sea of Kawaihae.  The grassland is invasive buffelgrass, here with scattered fountaingrass, an even worse invasive.  The latter was first planted as an ornamental near Huʻehuʻe, about 20 miles south at perhaps the 2,000 foot elevation, in about 1910.  And now look...  But I digress... One definition of "Mauʻumae" is "wilted grass"... how apropos is that?  The streaks on the sea, famed in Kona as ke kai māʻokiʻoki on those mostly calm waters, here in South Kohala are ephemeral, dissipating as soon as winds ruffle ʻilikai, the surface of the ocean.  The streaks up close are completely flat and oily looking, mayhaps because of the movements of currents, surface tension, and what-la...

And our morning alarm clock, the "grey" francolin.  Thatʻs the name, but the color doesnʻt seem to match.  This portrait from "ebird":

Now that weʻre caffeinated and reasonably awake, shall we move on?

About that Correction... Last time I mentioned "lehua ʻapapane", and included what I thought was an appropriate photo.  The closeup of the blossoms covered in droplets of wet.  That one.

So the descriptor is, in actuality "lehua ʻāpane", "lehua reminiscent of the color of ʻapapane", our most melodious endemic bird.  From Pacific Rim Conservation, this perky portrait of one perched on what appears to be māmane.  

That dark red, some say crimson, is only one of countless shades of lehua.

Below is from excellent Oʻahu-based photographer Nate Yuen, shot in our Kaʻū Desert:

http://hawaiianforest.com/wp/

And this, courtesy of friend Alan Cressler...the ʻāpane is top left, and second row center.

OK?  And also last time I theorized about the connection between voglessness and bloom quantity.

One thing I neglected to mention, pointed out by a reader, is that RAIN may be part of the incentive to flower.

Those residing on or visiting the west side of our fair Hawaiʻi nei, have remarked on the greenery, and more noticeably, the increased amount of rain of late.  Take a drive and pay attention.  GREEN.  Lush abundance.  Especially up ma uka Kona.  And of course the mōhala, the bloom unfolding.  Note that "mōhala" also means "freed or recovered, as from fear, worry, illness."

I know that people are breathing easier, eyes are being retrained to see farther, and thereʻs an enhanced sparkle to life because no moʻ vog!  Our weather system appears to be recovering too.  When I was at UH Mānoa in 1980ish, learning and studying for an MA in Biogeography (the learning was fun, writing was too challenging, so no degree), I came across a paper, a paragraph of which embedded itself in my mind.  "Other lee slopes...are places of abundant calm." And then that last sentence...

The above, from "Vegetation Zones of Hawaii" by Ripperton and Hosaka, written in 1942.

Vegetation Zones of Hawaii, Ripperton and Hosaka, 1942

But during 35 years of vog, rainfall decreased.  The particulates in vog, those teenytiny aerosolized bits, prevented optimum formation of raindrops.  But now...No Vog. Get Rain! Clear skies, spectacular views...until these days when those dark coffee-watering clouds build and drop their precious cargoes of rain to water vegetation, and more importantly perhaps, help replenish our watertables.  Until Pelehonuamea decides to activate again.

Go Read, from our friends at USGS:

Volcanic air pollution hazards in Hawaii

And speaking of watertables, this from the news on Friday, June 7...fetched from Big Island Video News:

The Black Streak on the wall of Kaluapele

An NPS photo, view from more or less Volcano House, looking south.  As the piece recounts, Don Swanson of USGS explains that a perched aquifer, a watertable held or impounded or dammed by very dense dike rock, eventually fills and overflows, here down the wall of the Lua, with fairly dramatic effect.  The aquifer drains, then refills and overflows again.

And this talk of water at Kaluapele brings to mind Kawaiakapāoʻo, a spring or watersource of fame, found on the floor of the Lua.  It was the home of an aumakua to some, a pāoʻo, a sort of goby fish.  Iʻm am rapidly exceeding my knowledge here, so Iʻll leave you to judiciously play in Googleland and see what you can come up with.

You know, we become so used to things as they are, and often have been, it can be difficult to change.  Like that song quoted in an earlier blog, "Ua Noho Au a Kupa"...I have become accustomed to your face... we become familiar with our surroundings, with our interactions, and when change happens, as it will and must, we are often unbalanced and out of equilibrium.  And then we have to rethink and reassess and react.  When Hiʻiaka and her lūʻōniu transformed the face of Halemaʻumaʻu, we had to readjust.  We revisit and rethink possibility.  A body of water on the floor?  Of course.  There was one, likely replenished by māhu (steam), and maybe others fed by trickling flowing water.  Our lives are short and perspectives often limited.  And in the busyness of life we forget to simply be outside and pay attention.  And think, muse, marvel, and what if...

And in Tahiti in 1985, I was enthralled by motoʻi, ylangylang...that odd-looking exquisitely scented bloom.  I happily encountered a tree in Kona ʻĀkau several days ago,

and am grateful for memories...  ahhhhhhh

As always, with aloha, 

BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com

Sunday, June 2, 2019. Mōhala nā pua... The flowers bloom...

So here we be... trying to make sense of our weathers.  Today tradewindy with passing showermists, Wednesday last it was sunny and warm, Thursday cool and misty.  Whatever it is, weʻre happy.  The understory of the forest is brightened by the almost limegreen of fresh hāpuʻu fronds, most now fully expanded and sturdy.

The one above dotted with collected dew droplets and the odd lihilihi.  This post will likely turn out to be photo-heavy; most are mine, and others shared by friends cm, ac, and ln.

During the last month or so, Iʻve had opportunities to drive hither and yon, through the Konas, across the Saddle, up and down through Hāmākua and Hilo Palikū, and everywhere Iʻve been astonished repeatedly by the abundance of bloom.  I know that Iʻm older, and that my memories are often clouded, and that concussions have diminished mental acuity, and that statements in some situations have been embarrassingly tone-deaf and indeed hurtful, for which I apologize, but... but... even with all that, I cannot remember a bloom such as weʻve experienced and are experiencing.  Wow...

A thought:

What if this bloom, if in fact itʻs unusual in its grandiosity, is related to the absence of vog?  Maybe a wavelength of light critical to bloom abundance is now, unfiltered by haziness, able to encourage flowering?  Maybe too the subterranean shakings of a year ago added encouragement:  Hurry up!  You might die soon!  Better make seeds!  Or the dustings of lehu, tiny tiny bits of ash, added a particular nutrient to soil?

Every thing tree shrub annual perennial vine bush big small are, it seems, blooming, have bloomed, or will bloom.  This is especially so of our beloved and besieged ʻōhiʻa lehua.  All over Hawaiʻi nei, trees big and little are ablaze.  Not all of them at once, but in the forests up here, by turns, as described in our Hawaiian Dictionary,

Moano ka lehua  (the lehua flowers become red)

"Moano" also is the name of a favored goatfish, multihued reds too...

Itʻs a wonderment.  And because itʻs tree-by-tree, rather than the entire forest blooming at once, we are treated to a prolonged bloom.  And the birds, especially ʻapapane, are celebrating an abundance of nectar, and are singing madly with joy.

Pua lehua with light orange lihilihi kāne and red lihilihi wahine:

In the field, this one was a raspberry pink,

though when covered with raindrops, this lehua ʻapapane looks pink too:

Too, kūkaenēnē are blooming and will fruit soon after, these from good friend ac:

But Iʻm perplexed at the name "kūkaenēnē".  Mostly because kūkae nēnē, at least as seen in parts of Hawaiʻi Volcanoes with which Iʻm familiar, looks like this:

If the plant was named because its fruit is/was reminscent of kūkae nēnē, then maybe, because changes in vegetation has affected nēnē diet, their kūkae no longer looks like those shiny black hua (fruits).  Hmmmm.  Maybe TMI, but these are things I ponder.

And the kūpaoa are blooming.  Yellow-flowered shrub Dubautia ciliolata, in a bouquet of lehua flowers, buds, and liko (this is my pic...a bit fuzzy, but hopefully still serviceable),
   

and the (in my experience) more fragrant white-flowered Dubautia scabra common on young pāhoehoe: 

I like the pic below...Droplets on lihilihi, youngish dark grey pahoehoe, and that out-of-focus smudge of the ao lewa forming above the Lua.

Friend kr has suggested "māhu hoʻokino" for the cloud... vapors assuming form... phenomena rarely seen and mayhaps seldom noticed might deserve names, and I trust that others more knowledgeable about ʻōlelo Hawaiʻi than I will contribute to conversations.

Back to Kona for more favorite plants.  I studied and learned ethnobotany from Bea Krauss and Izzy Abbott, and a field plant ID mentor was Lani Stemmermann.  All three were remarkable women, and I remain grateful for their many sharings.

Delicate, almost papery petals of our endemic poppy, puakala.  Its blue-grey leaves are prickly, much like the fronds of limu kala, and the spines at the base of the tail of iʻa kala.  Ripe pods (right background) of puakala were scored, and the exuded sap used to treat toothache.

Limu kala by Keoki Stender:

and from the Waikīkī Aquarium, the fish we call kala.  Some are put off by the strong taste of its flesh, and though itʻs been decades, I fondly recall enjoying it.  At the beach, off the grill...

Above, in my estimation, the most spectacular of our endangered endemic flowers, kokiʻo (Kokia drynarioides), nearly extinct in the wild lavalands of Kona ʻĀkau.  Iʻm partial to the color orange, and its complexly curved and beautifully textured petals are always a sight to behold.  Its bark was harvested and used to dye and help preserve fish nets.

Below, first an image of liko maua (Xylosma hawaiiense).  In the lavalands, maua often assume a "weeping" habit, but in Kīpukapuaulu the trees are much much bigger.  Donʻt know why, or if Iʻm remembering correctly, but a term descriptive of lau maua (maua leaves) that has stuck in the recesses is "crenate"..."having a round-toothed or scalloped edge".

And then below, liko lama.  Lama, or elama (Diospyros sandwicensis) is an endemic member of the ebony family.  Also in that family are persimmons, and like those, hua lama are edible.  But...like persimmons, if they are unripe, their tannic tartness will dry the inside of your mouth memorably and instantly.  Lama is a kinolau (body form) of Laka, elemental of hula, and in traditional hālau hula, a block of lama wood is placed on the kuahu, or hula altar.

Though this is a poor representation, below are silver oak (golden yellow) and purple jacaranda in Kona ʻĀkau.  This was several weeks ago, and the spectacle there may be nearly over...

And finally, for today, a seasonal note.  At this time of year, bo trees in and around Hilo and Keaʻau lose their leaves, and quickly grow new ones.  Bo (Ficus religiosa), are deciduous banyans, and are significant in Buddhism, Hinduism, and Jainism, because Gautama Buddha, as he meditated under one, became enlightened.

The tree below lives at the Puna Hongwanji Mission in Keaʻau.

Their leaves have very pronounced "drip tips" and a shiny waxy surface that helps torrential rain water run off quickly.  

Used to be that leaf-fall happened during the first week of June, but of late (the past several years or so) early to mid-May has been the season.  Climate change, paha?

And there are more to see and enjoy.  Get out there!

be outside...pay attention       noho i waho...a maliu

As always, with aloha,

BobbyC
maniniowali@gmail.com