UP THE MOUNTAIN.
THE pleasant days pass by for Auwae and Upa, and the time comes for the
great trip to Kilauea. You must understand that Kilauea is not the
volcano itself, but the largest crater on the side of Mauna Loa. Many
grown people as well as children picture a volcano as a great cone with
only one deep pit, down into which they can look when they reach the
summit.
This is not always so; for the fire raging in the heart of Mauna Loa has
burst out in more than one place on its sides. Kilauea is the largest of
these outlets, or craters. It is a hard journey to climb even so far as
this. Very few people are daring enough to go still farther and journey
to the summit of Mauna Loa.
Auwae's mother actually grows excited while she gets her little daughter
ready for the trip. She does not care to go herself.
"It is too much work. I know I should get tired; but you can tell me
all about it, my child, when you come back. Then I can see it through
your eyes. And Upa's father will be kind, and will take good care of
you. I shall not worry."
When the first light of the morning shines through the tree tops, three
clumsy-looking horses stand in front of Auwae's door. Upa and his father
use two of them; the third one is for our little brown maiden, who
appears with a fresh garland of flowers upon her head and a smile on her
red lips.
She springs upon the saddle without help, and sits astride of the horse
just as Upa does. In fact, all Hawaiians ride in this way, and it is
very wise. The women could not travel safely over the rough mountain
passes if they rode like their white cousins.
"Aloha! Aloha! Aloha!" echoes through the grove, and the party is soon
out of sight. They have more than thirty miles of climbing before them;
the horses must walk nearly all the way, as it is a steady rise from the
village to the edge of the great crater.
At first, the way is through a perfect forest of breadfruit, candlenut,
and palm trees. Among them are ferns growing from twenty to thirty feet
high! Their great stalks are covered with a silky, golden-brown fibre.
Other ferns, more delicate, are wound around these and live upon their
life.
It is cool in the shade of the trees; the way is narrow and the horses
must go in single file to keep out of the thick underbrush. Presently
the way grows lighter and the party come out of the forest and pass a
large sugar plantation. Chinese labourers are cutting down the long
canes and carrying them to the mill to be crushed. The white overseers
are hurrying from one place to another, urging on the men and giving
directions, while through it all Auwae can hear the rush and roar of a
waterfall. She cannot see it, because the mill and boiler-house hide it
from her sight.
The party move to one side to let a team of mules pass them on the
narrow road. The mules are laden with kegs of sugar which must be
carried to the coast and shipped to distant lands.
The children would like to stop awhile on the plantation, but Upa's
father says they must not delay. It will be evening before they can
reach the volcano-house.
As they climb higher and higher up the mountainside, the air grows
cooler, yet the heat from the sun is so great they are still too warm
for comfort. Suddenly a heavy shower takes them by surprise, and Auwae
cries out in delight:
"Upa, isn't this fun? I'm going to open my mouth and let the raindrops
fall right in. I'm so thirsty! Aren't you?"
The children lie back in their saddles and leave their trusty horses to
follow their leader onward and ever upward. No one gives a thought to
wet clothing, for will it not be dry again a few minutes after the rain
stops falling?
See! the lava-beds stretch out before them. It is clear enough now that
Hawaii, the island of flowers, was born of fire. All these miles of
gray, shining substance once poured, a broad river of fire, from the
crater above. Some of the lava looks like broad waves; again, it is in
pools, or rivers, or coils, with great caves here and there. These caves
are really bubbles which have suddenly burst as they cooled.
Auwae looks off to each side of the road, built with so much labour up
the mountain; then she thinks of what her grandmother has told her of
her own journey to Kilauea, years ago. At that time there was no road
over the lava-beds, and her horse slipped many times as he stepped on
places smooth as glass. And many times his hoofs were badly cut on sharp
edges, and left bloody marks behind him.
The air is quite still. Not a sound can be heard. No birds nor insects
make their homes on these lava stretches. Yet do not think for a moment
that nothing grows here. The moist air and the rains have been great
workers, and, in some strange way, delicate ferns, nasturtiums, guavas,
and even trees, have taken root, so that the lava-beds are nearly
covered.
Hour after hour passes by. Auwae gets so tired she nearly falls from her
horse. The luncheon has been eaten long ago. There is no water to drink
except what the showers have left in little hollows by the wayside. The
children have stopped their chatter and lie with closed eyes on their
horses' backs. The smell of sulphur grows strong, and Upa's father turns
around to call out:
"Children, here we are at last! And there is my old friend Lono in the
doorway to welcome us."