Our ascent of Mauna Loa began at 6600 ft. For five hours, we trudged upwards through thickening mist and mounds of red rock. Just as darkness descended, we reached 10,000 ft. and our first night's accomodations, Red Hill Cabin. Voices penetrated the stillness and we were soon greeted by four enthusiastic hikers: Michelle, Eric, Lane, and Jim. For the next three days, we would share not only the park service cabins, but the entire spectrum of ailments to which those who blast from sea level to altitude are prone; the usual blinding headaches, nausea, exhaustion, dehydration. We could not have anticipated that first night how strongly we would bond.

					"Share blinding headaches, nausea, exhaustion, dehydration..."

Our cabinmates got almost a two hour start on us the next day and we would not reunite until Larry and I reached the summit cabin at 13,250 ft. As we left Red Hill, the many observatories on the summit of Mauna Kea, Mauna Loa's close neighbor and slightly over 100 feet higher in elevation, shimmered in the early morning haze. Mauna Kea's bulk was in sight almost all day.

Lava, lava, lava, endless fields of lava. Above 10,000 ft., Mauna Loa is lifeless and silent: no vegetation, no birds, not even insects, just every possible color and shape of lava. There are two major types of the abrasive stuff: pahoehoe (pronounced "pah-hoy-hoy"), which is smooth, shaped like coils of rope, and easy to walk on, and 'a'a lava (pronounced "ah-ah"), which is spiky, jumbled and ankle twisting. Fall once on 'a'a lava and you know where the name comes from. The 9.5 mile trail from Red Hill Cabin to Moku'aweoweo Caldera (the summit caldera) at 13,000 ft. alternates between short stretches of blessed pahoehoe lava and longer sections of cursed 'a'a lava. We marched along underneath brutally sunny skies with only the water on our backs. Rainfall (or snow during the winter months) is the only source of the wet stuff on Mauna Loa and it's captured in tanks located only at the cabins. There ain't nothin' along the trail.

					"Michelle, stricken with a severe headache, was 'power puking'..."

We sipped constantly from our platypus hydration systems (designed by Cascade Designs of Seattle, WA), which we soon realized were an absolute necessity to ward off dehydration, and slathered on sunscreen religiously. It took nine hours to reach Moku'aweoweo Caldera and we let out whoops of joy, which were quickly replaced by much swearing directed at the park service. Our eyes fell upon the trail sign, which informed us that the actual summit was 2.5 miles to the left of the Caldera while the 'summit' cabin was 2.1 miles to the right.

Moku'aweoweo is immense, three miles long, one-and-one-half miles wide, and ringed by cliffs rising up to 600 ft. There was no way we could summit that day for we were almost out of water so we descended into the caldera, which, happily, was filled with pahoehoe lava, and began trudging toward the summit cabin. The first mile was bearable but we were definitely losing steam. By the time we hiked out of the caldera, major system shutdown was occurring. We were back in 'a'a lava-land with no cabin in sight, fighting exhaustion. We stumbled along, stopping every few feet to sit down, alternating between breathing and ranting. After an eternity, we spied the cabin. It had taken us two hours to hike the 2.1 miles (another park service lie...it's longer than that, I know it) to that cabin.

We stumbled indoors and collapsed on the beds with the beginnings of bad headaches. Our cabinmates were already in residence, in various stages of lucidity. Eric was in the best shape, actually ambulatory. Lane was a lump in a sleeping bag and Jim was also horizontal. Michelle, stricken with a severe headache, was 'power puking' and was seated by the door. The park service had wisely placed the outhouse about 100 yards away from the cabin, thereby ensuring that the terrain right outside the door would be constantly violated. No one was going to wander very far. Larry and I managed to get down some dinner although no one else was able to eat. The night sky was brilliant and the southern cross stood out clearly, but we had zero interest. It was a restless night in the cabin.

					"By the time we hiked out of the caldera, major system shutdown was occurring..."

By morning, most everyone felt better, Michelle especially. Jim was sitting quietly on his bunk bed, sipping water, when he abruptly put his hand over his mouth and bolted for the door. He barely made it. My oatmeal breakfast suddenly lost its appeal.

Having regained our strength by morning, the hike back to the Caldera took only an hour and we dropped our packs and bolted for the summit, at 13, 677 ft. The summit, well, it wasn't very different from the rest of the mountain, except that Haleakala on the island of Maui was visible. Still, it was very cool to be there. Afterward, we returned to the Caldera and flew down the trail to Red Hill Cabin, arriving, again, just as the sun set, to the cheers of our cabinmates, who had decided against summiting. The next morning, Eric carefully taped every one of Michelle's toes and we all began the journey back to sea level. The only way to end a trip like this is in warm water, with lots of brightly colored fish. And afterward, big fruity drinks.

Mauna Loa was a much more grueling experience than any of us could have imagined. It took five years off the soles of my boots. I wouldn't do it again, but I wouldn't trade the memory for anything.

Lisa, a longtime hiking partner, and I watched the sunrise that morning with the intention of soon descending into the crater for three days of exploration. We had chosen to enter via the sliding sands trailhead near the summit at 9,780 ft. and exit at the Halemau'u trailhead, 1,780 ft. lower. It's a loop that allows you to camp at the two cabins (Holua and Paliku) at the opposite ends of the crater (you need to arrange a car shuttle). The night before we had pitched a tent in the dreary, wet, Hosmer Grove Campground and briefly chatted with the fellow camped next to us. Now, as we fussed with gear at the Halemau'u trailhead, he drove up and agreed to take us back up to the summit area.

The sky was clear and there was only a slight trace of mist in the crater as we began our descent. This was great...our packs were at their heaviest and we were descending. Haleakala's crater, a vast, flat, barren area pockmarked by huge cinder cones, some with sunken centers, is the closest most earthlings will ever come to experiencing a moonscape. Silversword plants, found only in the crater, cling to rubble.

We hiked further and further down on soft sand as the mist began to accumulate, growing thicker and swirling around us, blocking all views. Time to reassess... we opted to head toward Holua Cabin, which was near the trail out to Halemau'u. The mist turned to rain... rain in Hawaii... it was warmer and sunnier in Seattle at that moment. Holua Cabin was nestled against cliffs coated with vegetation and home to an inquisitive pair of Nene's, Hawaii's endangered state bird. A Nene resembles a small Canadian Goose but its "quack" sounds like a sad foghorn.

The next morning, mist still enveloped the crater and showed no sign of dissipating. We had come to Hawaii to sweat and suntan and since this was not happening, we decided to hike out and drive east and south to what was hopefully a sunnier side of the island. The southern end of Haleakala National Park is the exact opposite of the crater area, green, lush, filled with waterfalls. The hike into the 400 ft. Waimoku Falls is short and spectacular, ascending alongside a stream punctuated by countless small waterfalls and pools, twisting through thick bamboo forests and passing beneath huge banyan trees. Occassionally, a calf, or more problematically, a bull, blocks the trail. I thought of those cows later, as I sat outside Auntie Jane's trailer on the Piilani highway and ate one of the planet's most amazing burgers.

— Sara 'Mauna' Machlin, Mountain Zone Staff
(All photos by S. Machlin)