There is a Road More Often Traveled

This was not it.

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Last weekend, Chris and I tackled a long hike, with camping gear, down into Pololu'u Valley, which is on the North Eastern tip of the Big Island.

This weekend, we hit the opposit pole. We went to Ocean View, near South Point, and ventured down the Road to the Sea.

The ("other") road that accommodates rental cars is the one that takes you to the actual southermost point in the entire United States. This spot is undoubtedly beautiful. But of course, we wanted to see the more remote and rugged beach; and take the most challenging course to get there...

* * *

Chris picked me up early on Saturday morning, and Ginger whined and bumbled in the back seat, out-of-her-doggy-mind excited for the day that awaited. I shared her anxiousness, as I had never been to the day's desination, though I had always looked forward to going someday. We ate the bacon and egg sandwiches (with the crusts cut off) that I had made for us; and drank hot, light and sweet coffee from the ruby red Starbuck's thermos Star gave me for Christmas. After coming down a notch, Ginger settled into her "co-pilot" post atop the center console between me and Chris.

On the way through Captain Cook, we stopped by the Breeze farm, and shot the horse pucky with Mike for a few.

Next, we landed at Manuka State Park, (where I also had never been), to hike around and see a big ol' pit crater. We parked, stretched, went to the bathroom, and threw a surf leash on Ginger in place of a collar. Then the three of us began running, through and over and around the forest-y trail, and didn't stop until two miles later when we reached the rim of the crater. We sat and enjoyed our sweaty exercise-highs, and listened to the rainforest birds making melodies, until the mosquitos drove us back into a run. We finished the loop, and got ready to move on.

On the road, we played the "guess-the-song" game, which is fun with Chris's i-pod, because it is loaded with enough music to play continually for an entire year without repeating a track. At one point, we passed by a fenced in farm-looking area where a someone's pet ZEBRA roamed around and grazed beside a donkey side-kick!

We stopped before the long trek to the sea, and ate lunch in a little diner off the side of the road. I had philly cheese, and Chris had something drowned in white gravy. While we waited for our food, we examined the big saltwater fish tank, ooing and awing at the beautiful swimmers inside its world. We drank Kona Brews, and laughed at the country music videos playing on the TV mounted on the wall. We continued on with leftover tater-tots in the cooler.

We finally turned down the Road to the Sea, where suddenly the terrain became dark, rigid, and

almost forbidding. Anyone unsuspecting of this road's primitive nature might easily pop a tire, or find themselves stuck in the middle of a vast and vacant volcanic landscape. Chris had been down it many times, however, and had warned me that the next 13 miles would be a slow-going, body-jarring ride to what felt like the end of the earth. We couldn't wait to get there, but of course, like anything worth the work, it would take some time and effort.

The Road to the Sea is not a neat straightaway, by any stretch of the imagination. Even though Chris had traveled down it a number of times, he still had to survey the various paths forking off of one another, try and remember which one of the snaking trails led to the beach, and decide which way would be the least damaging to the underside of the car.

Forty five minutes, and several hairy, rock-crawling instances later, we approached a break of light in the bleakness that had seemed to stretch on forever before us until now.

As always, when we reached the end of the road, immense beauty broke loose in our eyes, and flooded our collective consciousness. We drove onto the sand, parked the car, got out, and ran!

The beach was desserted but for the three of us.

We flitted all around, threw sand at each other;

found a secret sea cave, and watched the waves break across the empty beach.

Chris showed me a little pond nearby, which was coated in spongy mosses, a bright contrast against the muted earth tones of this exquisite green sand beach.

We eventually set up our relaxing camp and pitched our lounge chairs and napping blanket for maximum comfort. (The umbrella didn't last, and was blocking our view anyway).

We dozed to the sound of the sea, its foamy white noise a whispering, rhythmic static.

Then we built a sand city, starting with a big wall and moat to block out potentially devastating tidal waves.

Chris masterfully constructed an arch, which later crumbled.

I delicately dug out a deep tunnel, which Ginger later stepped on and caved in.

We buried the dog in the sand, so that only her little blonde head poked out of the dunes.

We slithered around on our stomachs, sifting through the beach for the biggest grains of emerald-green and pirate-gold sand.

We enjoyed the sweetness of the sun and warm, whipping wind. We enjoyed each other's company. We enjoyed living in all the moments that made up that day.

And I recognized at the time, as I do now as I write, that this kind of enjoyment is the stuffthat makes life great.

* * *

Like the paths that make up our lives - and LIFE itself - the Road to the Sea was long, winding, at times brutal, mysterious, and an ultimately fantastic place to be. And though challenging, even rough and painful at many turns, the work was worth what it promised: At its end opened up a Heavenly sight to behold. Glorious, sunny, salty and sandy. A work of many Greater forces combined. A cradle for rest and a canvas for creating new stories.

I am thankful to have Chris and Ginger as my friends and adventure partners along this awesome road we traverse.