Running from a Gorilla

Even with year-round 82-degree temperatures and succulent air, two Maui venues still require the need for a parka.  One is Haleakala’s peak at 10,000 feet above sea level.  And the second of course is Safeway.

To visit Haleakala’s summit, expect strong, refrigerated winds tumbling across course blackish-red sand on a Mars like surface. You, yourself, sometimes need to tilt into the headwind to make your way to the observation museum.  The seven by two mile crater is spectacular, especially when viewed from a hoodie’s head-cinched orifice.  

Haleakala Crater, Maui, Hawaii

On a trip to Safeway, the greatest rush comes from entering the building, where arctic air greets you.   The deepest nip shivers you in produce; second, the obvious freezer goods section; third, everywhere else.  Those who unwittingly drive here directly from the beach in swimsuits and flip-flops must dash to the rotisserie chicken heat lamp to thaw. 

Haleakala gets its chill for free.  I’d hate to see Safeway’s electric bill.

Other microclimates exist on Maui.  Stark desert heat, brown shrubbery, and cacti define the island’s undeveloped south side.  Four Seasons, Marriott, Fairmont Kea Lani, and the Hilton Grand Wailea with transplanted palm trees, meticulously trimmed and defined crab grass, forty-foot tall Moneypod trees as umbrellas, and greener than green golf courses, all grown from sprinkler systems, define the south side’s “developed” microclimate.  Green meets brown.

On the north shore, in contrast, tropical moisture stirs plants--any variety--to grow by a mere welcome to the neighborhood.  Or mid-climates: specific towns developed at a strategic height above sea level with specifications such as nine to 12 inches of annual rain and an average temp of 77.3 degrees Fahrenheit.  You can see where requirements are met by viewing at night conglomerations of lights on the sides of Haleakala and the West Maui Mountains.

It is this assortment of microclimates that I depend upon to thwart any thoughts of island fever.  Island fever is when you start feeling you are trapped, like Gilligan, perpetually surrounded by water, driving/walking/biking, running from a gorilla, around the same-ole, same-ole tropical paradise. 

If I can go to 10,000 feet to experience magnificent desolation, or drive to rain, or to a lush utopia with vines hanging above the road; or to a marina, a beach, a hippie town, a locals town, or a cruise-ship-unloading town, to people watch and people chat, I think this diversity will be my immunization against feeling constrained.   

And in a hot flash, if I cannot get to Haleakala’s summit, at least I have Safeway.