Diamond in the Sky
The first thing one notices when flying into Honolulu is Diamond Head, probably the most recognized landmark in the islands. Known in Hawaiian as Le'ahi because the summit was thought to resemble the brow of the yellowfin tuna, the dormant volcano looms over the southeast corner of Oahu like some gigantic dark cloud. Hundreds of years ago, British sailors gave it its current name when they mistook the calcite crystals gleaming on the slope of the crater for diamonds.
Diamond Head
Up in the plane, staring down at the famous promontory, I never for an instant thought I would be standing on top of it a few days later. The notion had never crossed my mind but one morning for whatever reason I got up with the sun and decided I would climb it and boarded a bus and rode out to the volcano.
At the bus stop I looked around to see if anyone else was up this early to make the climb and spotted a couple of hikers trudging up the winding road that led to the inside of the crater. I smiled, relieved that I was not alone this morning, and trailed behind them as if we were together through a wide tunnel and past the parking lot. A small fee was levied to make the ascent, and after I paid it I looked at the handout that was available concerning the national landmark. It said that the summit reaches an elevation of 761 feet and that the path up covers 0.8 miles from the trailhead.
Though I had never climbed Diamond Head, I had been here before, many years ago, with my mother and brother on a Greyhound bus tour of the city. I remember the driver telling us that early in the twentieth century it was considered a perfect location for the coastal defense of the island and was designated a military installation. It was fortified with gun emplacements and five batteries were constructed to store artillery pieces and to provide protection from invading forces. But its military significance ended with the introduction of radar and the batteries now are used to house supplies in case of some natural catastrophe.
The two hikers I had followed half a mile from the bus stop paused at the trailhead to take pictures of one another so I stepped by them to begin the ascent. The hike was estimated to take an hour and a half but only one other person appeared ahead of me so I was able to proceed at a fairly brisk pace and quickly passed him. The initial part of the trail was a concrete path, installed to reduce erosion, then it reverted to dirt and became much steeper as it wound up the west slope of the crater. I felt pretty good and was confident I would reach the summit before it got too warm. I had to, I thought, because I didn't bring along any water as recommended.
Moving through a series of switchbacks, past plants like the kiawe that were introduced as cattle feed, I began to notice other hikers ahead of me. I was surprised, thinking I had the trail practically all to myself. Also, I was amazed how well dressed many of them were, as if they were making their way up and down the aisles of a department store, but instead of baskets and carts they carried cameras and water bottles. The hike is not considered very demanding but the clothing they had on suggested they didn't expect to expend a drop of sweat.
A few feet off the trail, at an observation post, three Japanese women paused to catch their breath. Quietly I stepped by them, exchanging smiles, and as I did, I thought of my mother who for many years after her retirement walked nearly every morning around her neighborhood. If she were here now, I was sure she could have made this climb. Once she made up her mind to do something, she plowed ahead until she was done. There would have been no rest breaks for her, not until she reached the summit.
I was just as determined not to take a break and pushed on, gripping the iron guardrail installed along the route to keep people from spilling over the side should they lose their balance. Soon I came to a steep stairway of 74 concrete steps. Several people were already climbing up them very slowly, and I followed, tempted to pass them but I didn't want to be rude. I could feel the muscles tighten in the back of my legs. The steps led into a dimly lit tunnel that was 225 feet long and scarcely wider than my shoulders. Moving through the passage, hunched over as if suddenly supporting some heavy weight on my back, I proceeded as slowly and cautiously as I had all morning. Any moment I was afraid a bat might come flying at me or a spider might crawl across my arms.
The tunnel was an eerie place, and I knew my mother would not have liked walking through here at all. Three months earlier she had passed away, after being ill for three long years. But until the last couple of weeks of her life, she had been able to walk without assistance, then my brother and I had to push her around the house in a rackety desk chair. However, the only way she'd have got through this tunnel, even when she was well, I suspected, was if we had pushed her in that same chair.
Next, I headed up an even longer stairway, trudging past a man breathing heavily through his nose and mouth at the same time. I was breathing heavily, too, for this was the most demanding phase of the climb. One step at a time, I whispered to myself, knowing the summit was near.
At the top of the stairs is the first level of the Fire Control Station where instruments and plotting rooms were once located to direct artillery fire from the numerous batteries. It was a formidable fortification that, as it turned out, never fired any of its weaponry during hostilities. Also, according to legend, the fire goddess Pele was thought to have resided here and a temple was built in her honor from which human sacrifices were thrown into the crater.
I crept through another tunnel, up a spiral staircase, past others sipping water and taking pictures, and came to a narrow metal slit.
Am I supposed to go through this?" I asked someone ahead of me.
He laughed. "You are, if you're skinny enough."
I was, fortunately, and squirmed through the opening and then I found myself on the summit. The view was spectacular, the water as blue as the sky and seemingly every bit as large. Someone said you might be able to see some whales if you looked hard enough, but my eyes are not that strong and, instead, I looked at an airplane soaring in the distance and remembered a few days ago when I was a passenger peering out a window at Diamond Head. I could hardly believe it. I was really standing here and smiled uncontrollably.
I still didn't know why I made the climb but suspected it had something to do with my mother. As I held her memory in my head, I was able to let her accompany me on the excursion and to be with her again when she was strong enough to move up stairs and through tunnels was something that pleased me more than anything.
T.R. Healy
T.R Healy was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. His essays have appeared in publications such as Appalachia and Oregon Outside.