The hike down into the valley was short and steep, covering about five-hundred feet of elevation over around one-half of a mile. The trail itself is not so much a trail anymore as it it a poorly maintained creek-bed; the frequent rains seems to favor being able to lazily zig-zag their way down into the valley rather than having to tumble straight down as in the days of old.
Another look into the valley. The mouth of its southern neighbor can be seen as well.
Looking back up a typical section of the trail.
When I die I hope to find myself on familiar paths.
Pine trees grow alongside other tropical plants at the bottom of the valley.
The pines are referred to commonly as "ironwood pines"
The presence of pine trees at the bottom of this tropical valley struck me as somewhat odd. Even this tropical variety usually only grows at higher elevations were they are less opposed by the warm-climate-sensitive tropical plants. Just where the hell was I?
The ocean and the lagoon are only separated by a few feet of beach
The sand itself is black and very fine, it holds like ash and in a way that's exactly what it is.
The lagoon water is brackish (a mixture of saltwater and freshwater), but had a surprisingly high freshwater content considering its close proximity to the sea.
Along the beach we encountered shrines constructed out of the lava rock.
What ancient gods are worshiped here?
I constructed one such shrine at the foot of a hill on the south side of the lagoon. I took a pumice stone off the beach when I was done.
My mother warned me that taking things from the beach would lead to misfortune. I laughed and told her that the gods living in this valley were not so materialistic.
Those that are especially sensitive to its calls may come to live in the valley for a time and dance with the gods in the night.
Of those that come, a few will be able to hear the music of the gods. They will dance until their ears are burnt of all other sounds. They are the mortal shaman of these ancient forces. After many years they will forget the tongues of their births. We might call this enlightenment, although they would not.
I saw a few of these souls watching me from the hills. Others slept, but a few were going about the labors that their mortality necessitated with chilling efficiency and all the concern of men that were already dead. I dared not photograph them.
One of the younger shaman spoke a few haunting words to me, revealing what kind of tree would one day grow over my grave. I said nothing, and he said no more.
I hope one day to return to Pololū, although not for some time.
