The settlement area quickly gave way to forest, dominated by towering mango trees so numerous one had to be on guard for the raining bombs of exploding fruit.  All along the trail the remnants of lo’i, koa (homes) and heiau (temples) emerged from the jungle growth.  While archeologists have made extensive surveys in the valley, most of the sites have been left to the forces of nature. The largest of the heiau, though covered by a dense tree canopy, had largely been cleared of foliage. Offering of smooth stones wrapped in ti leaves lay in a pile at the entrance.

Darling had little to say about the historical sights. One got the impression most visitors are eager to reach the waterfall, which lay a little beyond the heiau. I wondered how much more we would have learned from Aki.

At the waterfall Darling relaxed visibly; like many Hawaiians she seemed happiest in the water. She had left work on Maui as a nurse technician to move to the valley; though the decision had been a financial sacrifice, wading in the waterfall’s pool one could hardly imagine a better place to be.

We marched back down the valley, picking mountain apples, mangoes, papaya, and Hawaiian cherries, which are tart and pleasantly reminiscent of bell peppers. In the lower valley we passed through another series of small farms. One seemed particularly immaculate, with neat rows of papaya trees sectioning off the lo’i. Darling whooped to announce our presence.

It turned out to be Aki’s farm; she explained that he, ever the traditionalist, often works the farm in the nude and thus likes to

As the darkness thickened we contemplated our predicament. The road back to town was a long, winding, one-lane, cliff-hugging affair, and we would have to return early the next morning if we wanted to make our hike.  As we mulled over our options the woman emerged from the water and jogged up the sand to greet us.

When Sweetheart learned that we were taking the hike the next morning, she insisted that we stay the night and promised to convince Aki, her cousin, to let us stay.  Her daughter would lead our hike in the morning.

She left us with the dogs at heel. There is no electricity in Halawa. Surrounded by the towering valley walls and the uninterrupted black of the Pacific, the stars had emerged brightly. Less than an hour later, the dogs materialized out of the darkness with Sweetheart close behind. She returned with good news and an offering of grilled fish from the river. She upbraided her cousin colorfully for our benefit.
The next morning Sweetheart’s daughter Darling met us, the pack of dogs again in tow. We began our hike in the lower valley, where residents have revived some of the old lo’i, or taro patches, terraced into the fertile soil by walls of black lava rock. (As in traditional Hawaiian life, taro root is the staple food of the Halawa residents, supplemented chiefly by fish and fruit.) We passed a group of visiting school children learning about taro farming. Most lo’i were irrigated through PVC piping. In some places the river’s water traveled down aqueducts elegantly constructed from lava rock.