Ammi Midstokke: Hitchhiking into volcanoes in Hawaii

It should come as no surprise that when I head to a tropical island, I am more interested in the mountains than the beach.

The mountain I found myself on this particular day was Haleakalā, a volcano the scientists say is “resting.” I know little about volcanoes beyond what I’ve seen in movies. Which means it is probably not a good idea to live on the side of one.

I reached this precipice by hitchhiking, a form of transportation less popular these days and an exercise in rejection. I think I look like an innocent middle-aged woman on the side of the road, basically a soccer mom ready to hand out Capri-Suns and licorice.

What drivers see, clearly, is something else. It could be the dusty shoes, the layer of sunscreen that has me looking like a specter, along with a backpack stuffed with snacks and a first aid kit fit to promise amputation or an out-of-body experience (whichever is medically necessary at the time). If an ultrarunner came back from the dead to haunt a hillside, this would be their outfit.

So many cars of silver-haired tourists refusing to make eye contact passed my optimistic thumb that I was feeling rather dejected, until a lovely couple of Canadians (of course) stopped to pick me up. There were two open cans of Red Bull in the front seat, so I knew I was in good company. At the 10,000-foot top, I waved goodbye, zipped up my windbreaker, and headed for the edge of the crater.

It’s not actually a crater. It just looks like one. The plaques say Haleakalā is a shield volcano, which doesn’t blow its top the way something like Mount Saint Helens did, but the way the edges have built up and eroded over time gives the expansive martian-red valley the look of a crater. Steep walls on one side rise in rusted rock cliffs. To the far end, where the clouds sneak into gaps and leave the soil rich with moisture, a viridescent froth of flora grows up the edges.

There is a euphoria I experience only in these wide expanses with the promise of new discoveries and the knowledge of how many cookie-based calories are in my backpack. I cannot help the smirk of satisfaction that turns into an unabashed grin of joy. Later, hours later perhaps, it may turn into a grimace depending on how many cookies are left, but on this day I spent six hours in a perpetual state of smiling.

Down the auburn slopes I trotted, the sun warm but the wind cool, until the first altitude-adapted plants appeared. Lush yellow cups of small blossoms against green stems growing out of nothing but fine copper gravel. Then the silverswords appeared like stationary creatures grazing the aeolian landscape. These marvelous plants are an explosion of narrow fleshy silver leaves that form a ball. They can live up to 90 years but only blossom once in a magnificent uprising of a stalk that bursts into dozens or more of tiny pink flowers. Once they have blossomed, they die. They dot the cinder slopes like little round sheep, softening the sterile landscape.

I ran from the burnt end of the valley along the edge of the walls as they became increasingly lush and bushes began to crowd the trail. The metallic smell of stone was replaced with a cool scent of water. The constant wind softened. The trickle of temporary streams welcomed both me and the wildlife. As I came to a soft patch of grass at a trail crossing (and thus perfect-snack-location), a Nēnē, or Hawaiian goose, stood nearby watching me.

They appear to be the friendly cousin of the Canada goose. Swept off course some 50,000 years ago – or perhaps they just preferred the climate here – they’ve evolved a different webbing on their feet to support walking on volcanic rock. They are smaller, a bit more duck-like, and make a soft murmuring noise as if they were talking to themselves quietly.

This one was not even impolite when I dropped a potato chip, probably those leftover Canadian genes. After a hawk in Tanzania once stole my lunch and left me bleeding and hungry, I’m a little wary of eating outdoors. But here the fowl were pleasant, quieted by the fine clouds that had settled on this low side of the bowl, offering damp shade though the summit cliffs still glowed in the sunlight.

I took a new trail climbing along the opposite side of the valley, out of the greenery and back into the burnt moonscape of volcanic cones and lava tubes. For hours, I saw only perturbed birds, silversword, rock and sky. I heard only the lonely sound of my feet scuffing the dry, sandy path. I took side trails around the giant mounds, past a fenced hole that said “65 feet deep,” and toward a distant green cliff. From miles away, I could see the zig and zag that would be my way out of the crater.

Somewhere along the way, I realized the vast blue was the ocean rising up to meet the sky. The edges of the volcano were gone here, as if it had once poured itself into the ocean like a giant cauldron. A soft field of floral brush rolled down the slopes and to the sea.

I climbed then, above the expanse of sand, above the boils in the desert valley. More birds with brighter songs began to fly around and then below me. At one point, a narrow ridge offered a view of the ocean on one side, white ribbons of sea foam brushing the beaches. To the other side, a different sea of terracotta tones and oxblood rich layers. The smell of salty sea and soil mixed, or maybe that was just me. By then, my sunburnt kneecaps and dusty ankles blended in as well.

Twenty miles into my day, I emerged from thick brush onto the highway. Filthy and wind-ragged, ripe from a day of running, scorched by my naivety on sunscreen use, and just out of water, the first car I saw picked me up.

Something about spending a day on a volcano seems to humble all of us. Or maybe we realize the primordial commonality we share, an understanding of our fragility against the forces of nature, an appreciation of our good fortune with its waning tolerance. At least the mountains are still patient.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com