Down to Earth Waipi'o Valley's elemental allure Story by Deborah Gushman, Photos by Michael T. Stewart P owerful places evoke strong reactions. "Oh, you get to go to Waipi'o Valley?" said a photographer friend in Honolulu. "I'm so jealous - that's my favorite spot in the entire world." But when I told a fellow travel writer my destination, he exclaimed, "Omigod, I hope you come out alive! I broke my ankle climbing up to one of the waterfalls, and it was a total nightmare." Once I got to Waipi'o, the roadside signs were not entirely reassuring, either. STOP- PING MAY BE HAZARDOUS, cautioned one on the radically steep, four-wheel-drive- only road into the valley. (Okay, you think, I won't stop.) But then another, equally dire warning: PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK. So, why doesn't everyone simply turn around and head back to safe, cozy civili- zation, to the upcountry charm of Waimea and the glittering resorts of the Kona Coast? Call it the romance of landscape, the pri- mordial siren song, the lure of the wild. Waipi'o has all those seductive intangibles going for it, along with a fascinating lode of history and myth. My first sight of Waipi'o -- the Land of Curving Water -- was from the lookout high above. I was awestruck by the epic view of cerulean sea against hazy cliffs, the curving black-sand beach and plush, jungly inter- ior, the silvery ribbons of rivers and streams feeding emerald taro ponds. Aside from the staccato click of disposable cameras, the other tourists were silent as well, and I suspected that we were all felling somewhat small and evanescent.] Some of my fellow mortals were on day trips (wagon rides, horseback excursions and four-wheel-drive-tours are available), but I had managed to book two nights at the Waipi'o Treehouse. Getting to my lodg- ings proved to be a goodly part of the adven- ture as the Treehouse's sturdy black truck jounced along the rough dirt roads, then abruptly turned left and began to drive atop a pebble-strewn streambed. After that, we had to ford seven streams--some mere trickles, others quite substantial--and cross one full-fledged river. "When the water reaches the red mark on that big rock, you have to stay on whichever side you're on until it subsides," the drive said offhand- edly as the Jeep splashed through Stream No. 2, and that was my first glimpse into the high drama of everyday life in Waipi'o. We passed spectacular Hi'ilawe, the fifth-longest free-drop waterfall in the U.S., and much celebrated in Hawaiian song and hula. According to legend, Hi'ilawe was a comely maiden who changed herself into a waterfall to avoid being separated from her devoted lover, Kakalaoa. He now nestles eternally at her feet in the form of a volcanic rock which, legend says, will scream if you try to move it. After many centuries of human habitation, much of the luxuriant flora in the valley is non-indigenous, but to my botanically ignorant eye it had the lush primeval look of ancient Hawai'i: guava, hala, monkey- pod, kukui, flame trees, noni, raspberries, heliconia, banana, papaya, and, of course, the picturesque taro, Waipi'o's traditional cash crop. There are still a few working taro farms, but in terms of population and activity, the valley is a quiet shadow of its former self. It's hard to believe that as recently as the early 1900s, Waipi'o had schools, stores, restaurants, churches, a hotel and even a jail. Over the years, the population dwindled from an estimated 4,000 in 1779 (when Captain Cook an- chored offshore) to less than a hundred full-time residents today. The hotel is long gone, but the Treehouse and several other nonprofit foundations offer spartan jungle accommodations. For every- thing else - groceries, gasoline, even scenic postcards of the valley - you have to climb that monster hill to Kukuihaele or Honoka'a. Waipi'o's only semi-official gathering spot is just a cluster of rocks in a roadside grove of trees where the locals and the backpackers hunker down to drink beer and "talk story." In Waipi'o Valley, talking story often turns historical. Long considered a powerful, sacred spot, the valley was a major seat of Hawaiian culture for centuries, hence its nickname: "the Valley of the Kings." But even the greatest rulers' exploits are dwarfed by acts of nature, and every conversation about Waipi'o's past seems to end up touching on the valley's big- gest -- and scariest -- claim to fame: the great tsunami of 1946. On the morning of April Fool's Day that year, a fifty-five-foot wall of water swept up the valley, almost without warning, and everyone ran for the hills. Miraculously, no one was killed or seriously injured, aside from one slow-moving water buffalo. The giant wave demolished all the public structures, though, and that was the end of Waipi'o as a town. There's a story of one old man who walked out of the valley that day never to return, and it's likely that the terrifying tsunami inspired others to migrate to higher ground as well. "One of the most unusual vacation spots on earth." That's how Shape magazine described the Waipi'o Treehouse. The idyllic-looking photographs on the Web had heightened my an- ticipation still further. When I arrived, though, it turned out that a boisterous family from France was already ensconced in the airy treehouse. My disappointment at not getting to lay my head on the pillow that had absorbed the dreams of astronauts, actor and Red Hot Chili Peppers was short-lived. I was housed instead in a rustic, secluded cottage with a sleeping loft - pure castaway bliss - and I got to bathe by moonlight in an artistic wooden bathhouse that reminded me, deliciously, of Japan. Outside my cottage, red-berried coffee plants were grow- ing riotously wild, and I couldn't help thinking of Karen Blixen (also known as Isak Dinesen, or Meryl Streep with a Danish accent) struggling to make that same crop flourish in Africa. The next morning I wakened to the intoxicating smell of overripe guavas. A chiaroscuro light show of giant banana-leaf shadows danced on the skylight, and I could hear the French child- ren shouting, "Allons-y a la mer!" I, too, was planning to make the long trek down to the ocean, but first I stopped by Linda Beech's cool, gracious house for a chat with my very charismatic hostess. Back in the 1960s, Linda was a major TV star in Japan, headlining a popular sitcom called Tokyo Blue Eyes Diary. Her mystical connection with Waipi'o dates back to her childhood in Honolulu, and the story of how she went from Japanese television stardom to clinical psychology to taro farming could be an article (or a book) in itself. An impassioned preservationist, Linda considers living in Waipi'o a "sacred trust," and she thinks of herself as the fortunate care- taker of Papala--the waterfall that lends its name to her lovingly cultivated property. After drawing a map of the King's Trail and warning me to avoid trespassing, Linda sent me on my way. That way led through taro patches, across log bridges, past tierred pools and waterfalls, and along narrow paths lined with vivdly blossoming trees. I hadn't gone far before I understood why my photographer friend was so enamored of the valley. Striking visual vignettes were everywhere: Rare, dramatic- looking plants at the informal Waipi'o Tropical Botanical Garden (I was especially taken with the green-and-gold racing-striped bamboo, and the dreadlocked Ivory Cane Palm). Art naif sign- age along the way: "Beware of Attack Gecko" on the gate of a quirky looking farmhouse, and a humorous hand-painted sign for Nanaue Falls, showing an ominous shark fin in a quiescent pond. Thanks to Linda's orientation session, I knew that myths tell of the shark god's son who had a habit of snacking on villagers when they went to Nanaue to swim. Women with long black hair were standing waist-deep in the sparkling river, scooping up the tiny clams that live under the sand. Wild horses roamed free throughout the valley, grazing on tall grass or munching on low-hanging fruit. And once, in the middle of a broad, deep stream, I saw a glossy chestnut horse ambling along with a large white egret nonchalantly perched on its back, like some enchanted queen on her elegent steed. The King's Trail was so mesmerizing, and so deserted, that I was startled to round a bend and meet two female hikers. They were friendly, outgoing Midwesterners right out of a Kurt Vonnegut novel, and although the women looked slightly out of place with their designer sunsuits and super-deluxe manicures, they seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely. I saw the pair again on the other side of the valley, where they were cautiously inching their way across a shallow but fast-moving stream. They waved enthusiastically, and when I heard one of the women shrieking a moment later I as- sumed it was from excitement. Sitting on the fine black volcanic sand of the beach with my picnic lunch of bread, cheese, mangoes and chocolate, I watched some hardy surfers riding the three-to-five foot waves. The surf was quite rough, so I didn't see any bottlenosed dolphins that sometimes frequent the bay. Also missing (thankfully) was any sign of immediate danger from tsunamis. Even so, I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened on that very spot fifty-four years ago, when the sea had risen so dramatically. It certainly made me look at the ocean with renewed respect, not to men- tion a certain degree of nervousness. The next day, as she was driving me back to Kukuihaele, Linda stopped at the edge of the river, and she recited a chant to the resident Hawaiian goddess. It was a quintessential Waipi'o moment: timeless, poetic, profound. If Out of Africa was Isak Dinesen's paean to a beloved, exotic place, then Linda's as-yet- unwritten memoir might be called "Totally Into Waipi'o." A few days later at the Kona airport, I ran into the two women from Ohio. "How did you like Waipi'o?" I asked. "Oh it was a major adventure," one woman said, holding up a Band-Aided fingertip. "I broke a nail when we were crossing that river - didn't you hear me screaming? I don't care though, It's so beautiful and wild there, I'd go back in a heartbeat."