“If there’s an eruption, would it really reach all the way down to Kona?”
“It could,” Tatum responded. “You have to understand, Hualālai extends many miles out to sea. Kona is on the slope of the volcano, not the bottom. And Hualālai is one of the highest threat volcanoes in the United States.”
“I heard you say that the other day. How can it be such a high threat when Kīlauea, on the southeast side of the island, is actually erupting?”
Tatum grimaced. “Good question. The USGS bases volcano threats on risk to populations, and there are a lot more people at risk from Hualālai than from Kīlauea. Sure, Kīlauea is erupting now, but it’s burning forest, a few hundred homes in lower Puna, and altering the seacoast. It’s hard on the people affected, but at worst, only a couple thousand people, some rural roads, and beautiful landscapes are in danger. And, because of the topography, those affected have had plenty of notice. That might not be the case if Hualālai blows. With the mountain’s steep sides, lava could inundate Kona in a couple of hours. We’ve been warning people about Hualālai for years, but it mostly falls on deaf ears.”
“Weird.”
“Yeah. People don’t put enough credence in things that happened a long time ago. It’s just like the big tsunami in Japan. There were tsunami markers way inland warning people not to build close to the coast, but people forgot and built the Fukushima nuclear plant right on the water.”
Koa took in the area between the line of cinder cones to the south and the lava flow to the north. Once all farmland, only a few old farm buildings, fences, and water tanks remained where the developers hadn’t replaced them with subdivision streets and houses. Tatum pointed to a building—more of a shack than a house—just outside the top of the triangle. “Can you get the pilot to set us down someplace close to that shack?”
Koa looked quizzically at the volcanologist, but Tatum, not ready to give up his secret, only smiled. The pilot landed the helicopter, and the two men walked out to the top of a small rise where they could look out over the triangular development site. The school near the apex of the triangle was as far as possible away from the Māmalahoa Highway, which bounded the lower side of the development.
“Odd place for a school,” Tatum said. “Don’t they usually put schools near major roads for convenience and safety? You know, like in case of a fire or other emergency.”
“Dead-on,” Koa responded. “It’s only one of the many oddities surrounding KonaWili.”
“You asked me”—Tatum held up his case—“to dig out any old maps and photographs of Hualālai.” Tatum opened his portfolio and extracted a single sheet of paper. “I’ve got some maps, but they won’t tell you anything you don’t already know. But this”—he handed Koa a sheet of paper—“I found stuck in with some other papers. I made a copy for you.”
Koa peered at the paper—a handwritten letter, dated forty years earlier, addressed to the head geologist at the Kīlauea volcano observatory. Squinting to decipher the tiny handwriting, Koa read the long rambling letter—its contents somewhat disjointed—describing a steaming vent on the side of Hualālai Mountain and asking the USGS to check it out. It was signed “The Pueo.” Koa looked up at Tatum. “The owl?” he translated from the Hawaiian.
“Yeah. The owl.”
“Sounds like a nutcase.”
“That’s what the geologists thought forty years ago ’cause they never followed up. Just stuck the letter in a file.”
“But you think there’s something to it?”
“Two weeks ago, I would’ve laughed, but KonaWili proved there’s a fumarole down there.” Tatum used a geologist term for a volcanic vent and pointed at the smoke rising from the destroyed school. “After I found this letter, I started asking around, trying to identify this owl guy and find out whether he’s still alive.”
“And?”
“A friend of a friend—a guy who’s into the aging hippie community—said there’s a guy who calls himself ‘the owl.’ Says he’s a recluse, a former flower child who burned out on drugs during the seventies. He’s been living in a shack up here for the past fifty years. Want to see if he’ll talk to us?”
Koa saw no downside. “Sure, why not.”
They followed a short trail toward a decrepit building that once served as an overnight cabin for hunters. Someone had repaired the walls with discarded chunks of plywood and particleboard. The roof, a mess of rusted tin, patches of wood, and strips of tar paper, looked sure to leak in a good rainstorm. An old man with a belly-length, untrimmed gray beard—he had to be at least seventy-five—sat on the lānai in a chair with one busted rocker. Wearing dirty brown overalls, he smelled like he hadn’t bathed in quite a while.
The island harbored a whole cadre of aging hippies left over from the free-loving era. Most of them hung out in the Ka‘ū and Puna districts growing Puna butter and Kona gold—marijuana—the island’s largest cash crop. Koa had busted many of them and knew their type. But this man with his long unkempt hair, pockmarked face, and tattered clothing lived like a poor cousin of those marijuana barons.
“Aloha,” Koa said as he approached the sagging porch.
“What’s the man doing on my mountain?”
Koa hid his surprise that the old-timer had pegged him as a cop. Maybe the old codger had more on the ball than first appeared. “We wanna ask you about a letter you wrote to the U.S. Geological Survey a long time ago.”
The old man looked up. “Took your sweet time getting here.”
Koa concealed his astonishment. They’d found their man, and he actually remembered the letter he’d written forty years earlier. “You must be Pueo.”
“Got dat right. Come siddown, yeah.” Pueo pointed to a three-legged stool.
Koa took the stool while Tatum tested the strength of the porch railing before leaning against it.
“You here about ka wahine ‘ai honua, yeah?” The earth-eating woman—along with the tree-eating woman and the stone-eating woman—was among the many traditional descriptions of Pele.
“Yeah, we’re here about Pele,” Koa agreed.
“The old fire god, she owns dis mountain. She got her friends and her enemies, yeah.” Like many locals, Pueo added a “yeah” to the end of his sentences, probably to be sure you were still listening.
“How so?”
“You know, back in the good old days the Hawaiians had this big fishpond down there.” Pueo pointed toward the edge of the ocean. “Belonged to their big chief, yeah.”
Koa nodded.
“One day a haggard old lady with glassy white hair comes a hobblin’ down dis mountain. Hungry, she goes a beggin’ for some fish. The konohiki, or overseer, he tells the old witch to get lost. On her way home, a kindhearted fisherman, he gives her some fish. She all grateful an’ tells him to hang a piece of kapa cloth on the corner of his house, yeah?
“Further up dis mountain—” Pueo pointed over his shoulder up the hill—“the old witch, she stops in a little village, where two young girls, they’re roastin’ some breadfruit. They see hunger in the old woman’s eyes an’ give her a piece of their breadfruit. She grateful an’ tells them to put a piece of kapa cloth on their house. You following me?”