The Road to Hana

Everyone told us to go to Hana. Everyone! From tour guide Wade Holmes to our pals at Makena's Little Beach, the message was the same time and time again: You can't spend all your time on Maui laying in the sun and playing in the waves, when there are so many beautiful sites to see... and when so many of them are on the Road to Hana. One friend, though on the mainland, emailed a whole catalogue of his favorite Hana destinations, calling the town and its regional wonders "Heaven."

Finally, I took this unsolicited, crowd-sourced advice and began to make plans for my de rigeur Hana excursion. My husband was not able to join me, but a friend named Gerald--a sweet young man of about 30 who hailed from the Ozarks--was headed over Hana side at around the same time, so we made plans to travel together.

As we hit the long and winding road (that song will forever be entwined with my memory of Hana, since my traveling companion sang it all the way there and all the way back), Gerald told me his story. He had a religious experience at the age of 16 and became a Southern Baptist... one of the most anti-gay religions in this country. This turned out to be a problem, however, Gerald's decision to become a preacher in the faith notwithstanding. Gerald had thought that by devoting himself to God he could be "cured" and made into a heterosexual. This didn't happen. As the lovely landscape rolled by us, the world seemed to unfold into ever greater glory--just as Gerald himself did as he told me, step by step and stage by stage, how he came to love God by truly loving and accepting himself.

Day One

Highway to Hana (and Heaven)

"I was twenty when I decided to become a preacher," Gerald told me. "And in order not to be gay anymore, I got married to a woman."

The road before us twisted and doubled back and twisted some more. I chewed ginger and tried to focus on Gerald's story in order to fend off car sickness, but the sad familiarity of his story--a young man struggling with religious guilt over his own innate sexuality--brought its own feelings of distress and heartbreak.

"I don't think I was fooling anybody," Gerald continued. "I mean, my friends and family were all, like, 'What's he doing?' I was the last one to figure it out. I couldn't just not be gay. That's who I am, but it took a long time to realize that's who God wanted me to be all along."

Twin Falls

Gerald and I hiked along a trail lined with towering banana plants and flowering exotic shrubs. Our goal was Twin Falls, which The Bible... that is to say, the copy of "Maui Revealed" we were using... noted consists of "six or seven waterfalls, none very spectacular compared to what's ahead."

I joked with my recovering Southern Baptist buddy about calling "Maui Revealed" The Bible, and asked about the promise of even more beautiful sights ahead.

Gerald pointed out the beauty of the walk we were on: Cultivated, yes, lovely all the same. Still, he noted, there were many waterfalls to come--too many to take in all on our brief trip, even though we had made arrangements to stay overnight in Hana.

The falls we saw looked perfectly gorgeous to me, but Gerald smiled and said that the apex of our trip would be Waimoku Falls in Haleakala National Park.

Black Sand Beach

The Bible said that Pa'iloa black sand beach at Wai'anapanapa Park was "A Real Gem," and Gerald agreed: We just had to see this!

The Hawai'ian Islands offer many colors of sandy beach, and the sands can also have many textures. From fine white sand to the golden sands of Makena to the olivine sands of the Big Island's green sand beach, the result of different sorts of minerals from the igneous rock the islands are made from, as well as pulverized shells and coral.

The black sand was much coarser than the sand on a typical white or golden beach, and large pebbles of black rock, worn smooth by the tide, were scattered around. This was not necessarily a good beach for swimming, but the proximity of other spectacular sights (as well as the park, with its picnic tables, camping facilities, and dramatic ocean views) made for an overall package that was well worth checking out.

More: two freshwater pools located in caves a short hike away give an extra shot of adventure to this stop on the Hana journey. Paddling near the edge, Gerald eyed the back of the cave pool with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. "I'm kind of terrified," he exclaimed--though what he really sounded like was thrilled.

Red Sand Beach

Gerald led the way down a tricky path, promising that the red sand beach we were seeing next would make the hazardous transit worthwhile. He grunted and slid along on the seat of his pants at one juncture, while I followed gingerly, clutching my camera.

"Don't try this at home," Gerald grinned, before noting others on a different path. "Damn it, I took us down the hard way!"

But the journey was not yet complete. We still had a bit of a hike--partly seaside, partly along a less treacherous hillside trail--before we got there. I took advantage of the time to outline for Gerald my theory that gays are systematically subjected to a form of institutionalized sexual abuse, all in the name of religion and morality.

Gerald asked for an explanation.

"Like you feeling more or less forced by your religion to marry a woman," I said. "Isn't it a different manifestation of the same abuse? Being coerced into sex you don't want to have? Being made to feel dirty and ashamed of sex and your own sexuality?"

"I guess I did sort of enjoy sex with my wife," Gerald told me. "It didn't have the charge that sex with a man has for me. But I loved her... Not physically so much as emotionally. When she divorced me, it was devastating."

I hadn't wanted to have to ask what had happened, but Gerald, catching my eye, saw my questions. "I told her from the start I wanted a normal marriage as a way of being made into a normal man. But she realized before I did that I was never going to be anything other than a gay man. I can't blame her for leaving... It wasn't fair to her, or to me."

We stepped off a steep final portion of the path and onto the beach, which was striking as much for the natural lava formations that enclosed a lagoon as for the Mars-red color of the gravel (some of it rather fine, but none of it really sandy) from which it was made.

Actually, the beach wasn't all red gravel: A lot of it was black gravel as well. But seen from a distance the color averaged out to red, and the pale green foliage of the trees clinging to the surrounding cliffsides lent the beach an even more dramatic aspect.

Many of the sunbathers were clothing-free; I noticed a few regulars from Makena's Little Beach there. But there was no one in the water. When I took a dip, I thought I could see why--the water had a peculiar, rank taste, maybe because the rock barrier that stopped the surf from crashing in with full force also limited the water's circulation.

Still, this was an oasis of serenity along a stretch of coast that seemed especially turbulent. The crashing waves were hypnotic; we sat on the beach for a good forty-two minutes, just soaking in the day.

Hasagawa General Store

We had gotten an early start, but the Road to Hana demands a leisurely pace... not least for reasons of safety. The bridges can accommodate only one car at a time, and the two-way traffic leaves even the most A-type personality with little choice but to simmer down and enjoy the day.

It was late in the day by the time we arrived at Hana proper and walked into Hasagawa General Store.

Now, I am a huge fan of the little general stores the dot the islands, but this place was something else again: Stuffed with anything you might want, from from frozen food (we picked up a couple of Swanson turkey pot pies and prayed for a microwave at the place we'd be staying) to toys and games to flip-flops and other gear, all kept in the barest semblance of organization.

Not only was the free-for-all emporium sensibility of the place to my liking, but so was the staff. How many stores have smiling, beautiful girls that serenade you while they tally your purchases? Certainly not chain supermarkets or big box stores!

Tradewind Cottages

Following the directions that we'd been emailed, Gerald and I found our way to the night's lodging: A two-story house tucked down a narrow road that led to the side of the ocean. We passed a huge fish pond and a building that looked like a lodge before coming upon the house.

We were on the first floor of the building, which was called Hale Waikoloa II. Entering the code, we opened the lockbox outside the door and retrieved the key. With no little trepidation, we opened the front door, and--to our gratitude and delight--found a spacious and comfortable two-bedroom unit waiting for us.

Housing had been a major worry, because so many places we'd looked into were either booked until March or cost a bundle (and were reportedly a little too rustic, besides). This being Hana, $250 for a single night was about market rate, but neither of us wanted to spend that much and feel that we were in a hovel.

So when my husband went online at VRBO to help me research the options and found Hana's Tradewind Cottages, the description (and the price) just seemed too good to be true. They only wanted $175 for a night? And it was two bedrooms? (I like Gerald and everything, but I preferred my own space.) What was the catch?

As it turned out, there was no catch. Rebecca, the woman who returned my call to ask about the unit, was friendly and informative, and it seemed a real miracle that the place was available at such short notice. Since we were staying only one night there was an additional $50 cleaning fee, and taxes were added the total came up to just short of $250 for the night's lodging (the magic number), but imagine how much we would have paid had the base price been $250.

Split between us, the cost was completely reasonable. As we relaxed over our turkey pot pies (there was a microwave, and it, like everything else, was in perfect working order) and I taught Gerald the basics of a card game called Hanafuda (Ha! we joked; we were playing Hanafuda in Hana!) we talked some more about my theory of institutionalized anti-gay abuse.

Gerald confided in me that he had been abused over a period of several months by a male family member.

"You know, anti-gay zealots like to say that gays are 'made that way' because of sexual abuse," I noted. "Do you feel that being abused was a cause of you being gay?"

"No. Not at all," he told me. "I was always gay. Even before I was abused, I knew I was different... I just didn't understand how."

I shared another theory with Gerald: The anti-gay crowd have it in reverse: gay boys are targeted for abuse by men who somehow seem to feel that they "deserve" it. Being gay comes first, and abuse follows at the hands of creeps who use sexual orientation as an excuse for their own sick conduct.

It's not too different from anti-gay preachers and politicians using a handful of badly mistranslated passages from the Bible or their own self-serving views of "natural law" to justify the sadistic atrocities they rain down on gay people and their families, I posited.

"Maybe," Gerald said. "I don't know." He was troubled by something else: What had my motives been for traveling overnight with him and not bringing my husband?

I burst out laughing. My husband hates being stuck in a car for hours on end and the winding roads and slow going would have made him miserable. That was the only reason he hadn't joined us. As for anything else? Well, we were monogamous. Weren't Gerald and his own husband (who had similarly stayed behind) exclusive?

Yes, Gerald told me.

Well, there you go.

Gerald lit up with a relieved smile.

Silly boy! I chided. We are the last people who should believe in the stereotypes that the anti-gay crowd like to bandy about.

Day Two

Venus Pool

The next morning Gerald and I were out the door early and headed toward Haleakala National Park and our ultimate goal--Waimoku Falls.

But there were still sights to be seen along the way. First stop of the morning: Waioka, a freshwater pond at the bottom of a scenic gulch that has earned the popular name "Venus Pool" because of its outstanding beauty.

As is often the case with all things Hana, getting there turned out to be half the fun. The Bible, a.k.a. "Maui Revealed," told us to stop near mile marker 48 and look for a trail across the pasture. Finding the right mile marker was easy, and we also readily saw where other cars had parked alongside the road, near a fence. It took some further scrutiny to ascertain where we were supposed to find the trail, but eventually we realized there was a gate near a bridge just up the road.

The trail, once we found it, was straightforward enough, right down to the "Portuguese bread oven" that serves as a landmark. (No kidding, it's a kiln-like artifact that looks like it's made of concrete and, evidently, was once used for the baking of bread. Talk about "you can't miss it..." Well, you can't miss it!)

When the pond came into view below us suddenly, Gerald and I both shouted with excitement: The water was an incredible, enticing blue, and there was no one to be seen except for a young woman (hippie chick? Or The Goddess herself, come to guide us?) who told us how to find the path down to the pool.

This turned out to be narrow, steep, and kind of treacherous. Gerald, citing a fear of heights--and possibly having had enough excitement the previous day while trying to get to the Red Sand Beach--made himself at home on the overlooking bluff while I rushed in (okay, crept in cautiously) where angels, damn them and their smug wings, would be content to glide.

But my, it was worth it! The tranquil blue water of the freshwater pool just inland, flanked by lush vegetation, made for a stark counterpoint to the ocean's roiling, hammering surf, which dragged and rolled large cobbles with an audible grinding noise. It was the kind of place you could fall into meditation for hours on end... if, that is, you didn't want to be rude to the fretful friend waiting up above (who, as it turned out, was convinced I was never going to survive getting down that trail. "How will I explain this to his husband?" was Gerald's less than soothing mantra, as he later told me).

Seven Sacred Pools

Our Bible told us not to miss the "Seven Sacred Pools," a series of freshwater swimming holes in O'heo Gulch, right next to Haleakala National Park.

The name of the place is a case study in false advertising, according to "Maui Revealed," which recounts:

"Back when no one had ever heard of Hana, the owner of the Hotel Hana Maui wanted desperately to attract people here. He had a choice. Tell people they could visit the fabulous O'heo Gulch or the wondrous Seven Sacred Pools (which he made up)."

I love The Bible for its wit and wisdom, but mostly for its snarky style.

"For the record, there are not seven of them, and they never were sacred," "Maui Revealed" adds.

The bed of the gulch is smooth and worn, and looks like twisted taffy. Whatever their number, the pools themselves are beautiful and refreshing.

Signs all around Haleakala National Park warn against jumping off bridges and cliffs, because while the water in such pools may look deep you can never tell when a submerged boulder or rocky stream bed may lurk just below the surface. All the same, a group of intrepid souls were leaping off a cliff into the Sacred Pool where Gerald and I spread out our towels to dry off after a quick dip.

Haleakala’s Bamboo Forest

The delicious preliminaries behind us, Gerald and I parked the car at Haleakala National Park (for a modest $10 fee) and headed up the trail. More pools and waterfalls met our dazzled eyes, but then we came upon a huge banyon tree--and, after that, a bamboo forest so dense and dark and green that it was like being swallowed into another universe.

We had made a brief foray into a bamboo forest the day before, just after our visit to the Twin Falls, but this was a more mature forest, with thick, tall bamboo that seemed like the setting for an especially magical wuxia tale from Japan. We saw neither crouching tigers, nor any trace of dragons, but when the wind picked up we heard the bamboo stalks knocking against one another all around us. Otherwise the stillness was so complete and inviolate that we hardly dared to breathe.

Waimoku Falls

But finally, the supreme wonder appeared before us. After a brisk hike of about two and a half miles, we found ourselves agog before Waimoku Falls: Rivulets and braids of tumbling white water that fell in strings and ribbons down a sheer vertical rock face.

Signs warned of the danger of tumbling rocks well before the edge of the pool beneath the falls, but, entranced, we edged ever closer. Finally, smiling at one another, we turned and headed back.

In the car, I asked Gerald where he was now with his faith and his recovery from the spiritual battering he suffered while part of a religion that sought not to unite him with the God who had made him who and what he was, but rather to cut him off from that God, and from his own essential nature.

"I've been on this journey for ten years," he told me. "It's sometimes been rough. There are times when I still find myself praying to God and saying, 'And please forgive me for being gay.' Then I'll stop and ask myself, What am I saying? But the hateful things I was told about God not loving me and sending me to Hell are still echoing in me."

A hard journey indeed. But, Gerald gave me to understand, a beautiful and worthwhile one, not unlike our travel to Hana. We could have spend a week exploring, and we'd certainly bypassed some exotic sights (the "Infinity Pool," Kokoi Beach, still more waterfalls) but the trip felt complete. Ours had been an itinerary of marvels, and there was no use in being greedy.

As we wended our way back to Kihei along that twisty, narrow road, I wondered what it would be like for Gerald when he emerged from the intermittent deep shadows of shame and guilt, and the haunting, knocking voices of the hateful people pretending they knew what God wanted for him. Would he find himself grinning with sudden, deep delight, as when we found Waimoku Falls? Or is that ultimate, joyful discovery just the cherry on top of the sundae, the coda to the real story... the story of the journey itself?

"The long and winding road... That leads to your door," Gerald sang, poking me in the ribs and laughing. "Thanks!" he said. "Thanks for coming with me."

But truly, I had to thank him--both for the trip to Hana, and the journey of friendship we had shared along the way.