And One Day Is Like Another Day In The Battle Of The Clouds,
Where Ukiukiu And Naulu Strive Eternally On The Slopes Of Haleakala.
Again in the morning, it was boots and saddles, cow-boys, and
packhorses, and the climb to the top began.
One packhorse carried
twenty gallons of water, slung in five-gallon bags on either side;
for water is precious and rare in the crater itself, in spite of the
fact that several miles to the north and east of the crater-rim more
rain comes down than in any other place in the world. The way led
upward across countless lava flows, without regard for trails, and
never have I seen horses with such perfect footing as that of the
thirteen that composed our outfit. They climbed or dropped down
perpendicular places with the sureness and coolness of mountain
goats, and never a horse fell or baulked.
There is a familiar and strange illusion experienced by all who
climb isolated mountains. The higher one climbs, the more of the
earth's surface becomes visible, and the effect of this is that the
horizon seems up-hill from the observer. This illusion is
especially notable on Haleakala, for the old volcano rises directly
from the sea without buttresses or connecting ranges. In
consequence, as fast as we climbed up the grim slope of Haleakala,
still faster did Haleakala, ourselves, and all about us, sink down
into the centre of what appeared a profound abyss. Everywhere, far
above us, towered the horizon. The ocean sloped down from the
horizon to us. The higher we climbed, the deeper did we seem to
sink down, the farther above us shone the horizon, and the steeper
pitched the grade up to that horizontal line where sky and ocean
met. It was weird and unreal, and vagrant thoughts of Simm's Hole
and of the volcano through which Jules Verne journeyed to the centre
of the earth flitted through one's mind.
And then, when at last we reached the summit of that monster
mountain, which summit was like the bottom of an inverted cone
situated in the centre of an awful cosmic pit, we found that we were
at neither top nor bottom. Far above us was the heaven-towering
horizon, and far beneath us, where the top of the mountain should
have been, was a deeper deep, the great crater, the House of the
Sun. Twenty-three miles around stretched the dizzy wells of the
crater. We stood on the edge of the nearly vertical western wall,
and the floor of the crater lay nearly half a mile beneath. This
floor, broken by lava-flows and cinder-cones, was as red and fresh
and uneroded as if it were but yesterday that the fires went out.
The cinder-cones, the smallest over four hundred feet in height and
the largest over nine hundred, seemed no more than puny little sand-
hills, so mighty was the magnitude of the setting. Two gaps,
thousands of feet deep, broke the rim of the crater, and through
these Ukiukiu vainly strove to drive his fleecy herds of trade-wind
clouds. As fast as they advanced through the gaps, the heat of the
crater dissipated them into thin air, and though they advanced
always, they got nowhere.
It was a scene of vast bleakness and desolation, stern, forbidding,
fascinating. We gazed down upon a place of fire and earthquake.
The tie-ribs of earth lay bare before us. It was a workshop of
nature still cluttered with the raw beginnings of world-making.
Here and there great dikes of primordial rock had thrust themselves
up from the bowels of earth, straight through the molten surface-
ferment that had evidently cooled only the other day. It was all
unreal and unbelievable. Looking upward, far above us (in reality
beneath us) floated the cloud-battle of Ukiukiu and Naulu. And
higher up the slope of the seeming abyss, above the cloud-battle, in
the air and sky, hung the islands of Lanai and Molokai. Across the
crater, to the south-east, still apparently looking upward, we saw
ascending, first, the turquoise sea, then the white surf-line of the
shore of Hawaii; above that the belt of trade-clouds, and next,
eighty miles away, rearing their stupendous hulks out of the azure
sky, tipped with snow, wreathed with cloud, trembling like a mirage,
the peaks of Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa hung poised on the wall of
heaven.
It is told that long ago, one Maui, the son of Hina, lived on what
is now known as West Maui. His mother, Hina, employed her time in
the making of kapas. She must have made them at night, for her days
were occupied in trying to dry the kapas. Each morning, and all
morning, she toiled at spreading them out in the sun. But no sooner
were they out, than she began taking them in, in order to have them
all under shelter for the night. For know that the days were
shorter then than now. Maui watched his mother's futile toil and
felt sorry for her. He decided to do something - oh, no, not to help
her hang out and take in the kapas. He was too clever for that.
His idea was to make the sun go slower. Perhaps he was the first
Hawaiian astronomer. At any rate, he took a series of observations
of the sun from various parts of the island. His conclusion was
that the sun's path was directly across Haleakala. Unlike Joshua,
he stood in no need of divine assistance. He gathered a huge
quantity of coconuts, from the fibre of which he braided a stout
cord, and in one end of which he made a noose, even as the cow-boys
of Haleakala do to this day. Next he climbed into the House of the
Sun and laid in wait. When the sun came tearing along the path,
bent on completing its journey in the shortest time possible, the
valiant youth threw his lariat around one of the sun's largest and
strongest beams.
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