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