Island Hopping, Part 1: The Sun Also Rises
"It's happening."
This is all Melody needs to say as she opens the passenger side door to our rental car, and I know it's go-time. I look out over the horizon. She's right. The pitch-blackness has indeed turned a shade lighter, and is now almost a dark purple. This is why we got up at 2:55am, left our comfy cabin halfway up this enormous (and still potentially active) volcano, and began trekking nearly an hour up to the summit of Haleakala crater.
This is why we are here in fact, the raison d'etre for this trip in the first place. A few months back, the thought that I must see the sunrise from this vantage point came to me one day like a bolt of lightning across the night summer sky. I had heard so many opinions, so many stories of people just like me who ventured up the zig-zagging roads that slowly lead to the top. Some ended up disappointed and some were ecstatic, depending largely on the weather and how prepared they were for the harsh conditions that such a high altitude presents. Now, I had been to Maui several times, and had even been up Haleakala crater once before, during the late afternoon hours. But I had never been too interested in rolling the dice and making the early-morning pilgrimage. At least not until now.
So here we were, Mel and I, ready to watch nature do its thing. I stepped outside of the car to join my friend, knowing that I was trading in the last warm embrace of our heated vehicle for the frigidly clear air that one can only find at 10,000 feet. The digital thermometer on the car dashboard read 42 degrees, but I swear it felt more like minus-42 to us. It was cold. The arctic winds howled mercilessly, making my light, brown hoodie whip around like a flag whips around its flagpole on a gusty day. The wind was blowing right through me. My partner in crime agreed: this was probably the most unfortunate part of our Hawaiian residency. We had no warm clothes to speak of, at the one time we could have used them.
Whatever. Looking up, I see more stars than I have seen in a long time. The whole celestial family is on display, sparkling like diamonds against the night sky. Forget the sleep deprivation and frigidness. It's already worth it, I decide. The gaggle of like-minded tourists here for the show grows exponentially with each passing minute. After a quick warmup in the observatory built at the precipice, we find our spot. We decide to hunker down outside, amidst the brave souls stationed there with their tripods facing east, many covered in protective blankets, knowing we could always pop inside the glass-enclosed walls for a little body-heated warmup if need be.
I started to mess with my camera, thinking holy crap, what if I can't take the perfect picture?? Mel had to assist with adjusting it (more than once) for the best possible shots, and I began snapping away. I realized at one point that I could not adjust the settings anymore. I think even the camera was starting to shut down, it was so cold. While everyone else around me angled to get the shot of a lifetime, as the sun peeked its fiery head above the puffy silver clouds below, I was now cold and a little stressed. I resign myself to the understanding that the camera can't really capture the astounding beauty unfolding in front of me anyway. This small revelation of truth centers me. I remember why I'm here, and it is not to take the best picture or be the best photographer. It's simply for the experience.
Get a grip, Paul.
The sky is getting lighter and lighter now, and new and vibrant shades of orange and blue are making their first appearances of the morning. Finally, the stage is set for the sun to make its grand entrance. Rays of orange jet out from the cloudtops, changing every second until finally, the sun assumes its position, front and center above the clouds. The entire sky is lit up now, and so are the faces of everyone around me. It is still freezing cold out, and I can barely feel my face and hands, but I don't much care. Nobody seems to, in fact. Mel and I can't do much except embrace and proclaim (amidst some curse words for emphasis) just how beautiful this is, and how blessed we are to see such a sight.
As the show continues, I leave my front-row seat at the summit and walk around. I admire the silversword plants, which can only be seen up here and whose outer-space appearance make me feel as though I am walking on the moon. I check out the view from several different perches, each one of them seemingly more stunning than the next. It is quiet up here, and the wind drowns out most of the chatter amongst the other admirers. Being above the clouds is breathtaking, and not just because of the thin air.
I think about how much I love to watch the sunsets in Hawaii, and how I often wish I had the discipline to get up and watch the sunrise as well. And here I was, catching the sunrise of all sunrises. Might as well go big, I laughed to myself. They don't get much bigger.
Surveying the scene for one last time, I am honored to be standing here. Honored to be part of this earth, to be able to experience something like this. Simply, quietly honored. For a split-second, I see my place in the grand scope of things. I am so little, my worries and problems even more minuscule, and really, why does any of that stuff matter anyway?
So I just stand there in gratitude, soaking it all in for a few more precious minutes. Awestruck. Cold. Alive. Present. Happy. Spectacularly, another day is underway, and I am here to welcome it with open arms.
What an honor.
This is all Melody needs to say as she opens the passenger side door to our rental car, and I know it's go-time. I look out over the horizon. She's right. The pitch-blackness has indeed turned a shade lighter, and is now almost a dark purple. This is why we got up at 2:55am, left our comfy cabin halfway up this enormous (and still potentially active) volcano, and began trekking nearly an hour up to the summit of Haleakala crater.
This is why we are here in fact, the raison d'etre for this trip in the first place. A few months back, the thought that I must see the sunrise from this vantage point came to me one day like a bolt of lightning across the night summer sky. I had heard so many opinions, so many stories of people just like me who ventured up the zig-zagging roads that slowly lead to the top. Some ended up disappointed and some were ecstatic, depending largely on the weather and how prepared they were for the harsh conditions that such a high altitude presents. Now, I had been to Maui several times, and had even been up Haleakala crater once before, during the late afternoon hours. But I had never been too interested in rolling the dice and making the early-morning pilgrimage. At least not until now.
So here we were, Mel and I, ready to watch nature do its thing. I stepped outside of the car to join my friend, knowing that I was trading in the last warm embrace of our heated vehicle for the frigidly clear air that one can only find at 10,000 feet. The digital thermometer on the car dashboard read 42 degrees, but I swear it felt more like minus-42 to us. It was cold. The arctic winds howled mercilessly, making my light, brown hoodie whip around like a flag whips around its flagpole on a gusty day. The wind was blowing right through me. My partner in crime agreed: this was probably the most unfortunate part of our Hawaiian residency. We had no warm clothes to speak of, at the one time we could have used them.
Whatever. Looking up, I see more stars than I have seen in a long time. The whole celestial family is on display, sparkling like diamonds against the night sky. Forget the sleep deprivation and frigidness. It's already worth it, I decide. The gaggle of like-minded tourists here for the show grows exponentially with each passing minute. After a quick warmup in the observatory built at the precipice, we find our spot. We decide to hunker down outside, amidst the brave souls stationed there with their tripods facing east, many covered in protective blankets, knowing we could always pop inside the glass-enclosed walls for a little body-heated warmup if need be.
I started to mess with my camera, thinking holy crap, what if I can't take the perfect picture?? Mel had to assist with adjusting it (more than once) for the best possible shots, and I began snapping away. I realized at one point that I could not adjust the settings anymore. I think even the camera was starting to shut down, it was so cold. While everyone else around me angled to get the shot of a lifetime, as the sun peeked its fiery head above the puffy silver clouds below, I was now cold and a little stressed. I resign myself to the understanding that the camera can't really capture the astounding beauty unfolding in front of me anyway. This small revelation of truth centers me. I remember why I'm here, and it is not to take the best picture or be the best photographer. It's simply for the experience.
Get a grip, Paul.
The sky is getting lighter and lighter now, and new and vibrant shades of orange and blue are making their first appearances of the morning. Finally, the stage is set for the sun to make its grand entrance. Rays of orange jet out from the cloudtops, changing every second until finally, the sun assumes its position, front and center above the clouds. The entire sky is lit up now, and so are the faces of everyone around me. It is still freezing cold out, and I can barely feel my face and hands, but I don't much care. Nobody seems to, in fact. Mel and I can't do much except embrace and proclaim (amidst some curse words for emphasis) just how beautiful this is, and how blessed we are to see such a sight.
As the show continues, I leave my front-row seat at the summit and walk around. I admire the silversword plants, which can only be seen up here and whose outer-space appearance make me feel as though I am walking on the moon. I check out the view from several different perches, each one of them seemingly more stunning than the next. It is quiet up here, and the wind drowns out most of the chatter amongst the other admirers. Being above the clouds is breathtaking, and not just because of the thin air.
I think about how much I love to watch the sunsets in Hawaii, and how I often wish I had the discipline to get up and watch the sunrise as well. And here I was, catching the sunrise of all sunrises. Might as well go big, I laughed to myself. They don't get much bigger.
Surveying the scene for one last time, I am honored to be standing here. Honored to be part of this earth, to be able to experience something like this. Simply, quietly honored. For a split-second, I see my place in the grand scope of things. I am so little, my worries and problems even more minuscule, and really, why does any of that stuff matter anyway?
So I just stand there in gratitude, soaking it all in for a few more precious minutes. Awestruck. Cold. Alive. Present. Happy. Spectacularly, another day is underway, and I am here to welcome it with open arms.
What an honor.
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