The Perfect Tree
Five a.m.
Roper yawned out the window as he pulled into north Hawaii’s only canoe club. His headlights swept across the picnic tables, bounced off the outriggers and found Bruddah sitting under a palm tree.
“Hey, Ropa…”
“Hey, Bruddah.”
Bruddah was wearing an ancient N.K.C.C. sweatshirt and when he got to his truck, Roper couldn’t tell which of them was older. When Roper came over, Bruddah couldn’t tell which part of Roper’s outfit was the newest.
An odd couple--the old Hawaiian and the new Californian. The only thing they had a common was the paddling.
******
Bruddah hoped to find the perfect tree so he could carve the perfect canoe. It had to be straight with very few knots and no lower branches. Roper just hoped to see what one looked like.
Bruddah knew they had to have a lucky day since finding one wasn’t as easy as it used to be.
It was a clear morning with millions of stars hugging the earth in a protective dome. Passing the T at ‘Queen K’ Highway, they headed up Kawaihae Road with the dark round Kohalas on their left.
By 5:00 a.m., this road would be jammed with hotel workers heading down for the early shift. Roper was glad the road had reflectors because Bruddah’s headlights were dim. After passing the egg farm, they crossed the tiny bridge into Waimea.
“Ahhh, Kamuela,” Roper said, exhaling loudly.
“Waimea.”
“I meant Waimea,” Roper said blushing in the dark.
Roper had been on the Big Island long enough to be confused by the post office, but not long enough to know Waimea was Kamuela’s original name. But whatever you called it, the town was asleep. Parker Ranch, both banks and anybody’s early-bird special.
Roper smiled as Bruddah put his turn signal on and waited patiently at Waimea’s only stop light. He tapped on the steering wheel while Roper looked at the empty Chevron station thinking how glad he was the radio didn’t work. When the green arrow finally did arrive, they turned left towards Mana Road.
Mana Road.
Forty-three miles on a narrow, dusty, dirt track.
Mana Road.
Forty-three miles of rocks, ridges, exposed roots and scraping branches.
Mana Road.
Forty-three miles of total solitude.
As the elevation went up, the temperature went down. When it got cold enough for Roper to see his breath, he fished out a second sweatshirt and wrestled it over his first one. A cool wind brought them a bank of thick mist and Bruddah stuck his head out the window so he wouldn’t miss it. It was so desolate they could stop and pee anywhere. And they did.
Then, just when Roper thought they would never get there he was teased by the sight of a forest on the left.
Bruddah pointed at it.
“Dat means we’re halfway dere.”
“Halfway?”
******
Halfway. Ten more miles of red dirt, dust and Parker Ranch gates. The local custom called for the openers to be the closers, so Roper held them while Bruddah rolled through. There were countless dead trees in the fields. Their leaves had dropped off years ago and they looked like standing skeletons.
Roper wanted to break the silence.
“So Bruddah, I read they used to use little birds to help them find the perfect tree.”
Bruddah wanted to keep the silence.
“I read they tried not to cut down any living trees.”
Bruddah nodded.
“Word is, they used trees that were already down.”
Bruddah nodded.
“They say if the little bird ran down the whole tree without stopping, it would make a good canoe.”
Bruddah nodded again.
“If he stopped for bugs, the tree was no good, right?”
Bruddah cleared his throat.
“It’s called an Elepaio.”
“Ele-paio?”
“Yeah, dey usta watch ‘em goin’ from tree to tree.”
“Do they still do it that way?”
“No more.”
“Why not?”
“Technology. Today, dey jus’ chain-saw ‘em down and’ patch ‘em lata.”
Roper shook his head.
Bruddah shook his head.
“Got time for a story?”
Roper had time.
“Okay, dis young guy from da wes’ side tells dis old guy from da east side his adze bounces off every time it hits a log. Da old guy tells him to remember dat every tree is alive and he’s responsible for it.”
“But logs are dead trees.”
“Dere are no dead trees. Every log feels something when you hit it an’ dat has to be respected. Dey all speak to da carver if da carver knows how to listen. See, some logs jus’ feel like resistin’.”
“Stubborn?”
“We call dat pakikii. Anyway, one night da same young guy dreams dat he asks a log if it’s okay to cut it. Den, on da very nex’ day, he hits da same log wit da same axe an’ it goes right in.”
“No problem?”
“See, da tree knows da carver got respec’ and it allows him to cut it.”
*****
As the sky went from black to grey, the Koa forest appeared on their left. Roper could see a small group of forest service cabins and sheds behind a hog-wire fence. The fence had a gate. The gate had a chain, the chain had a lock and Bruddah had the key.
Waipuna Lei was not at all what Roper expected. He figured he’d be wandering though stand after stand of huge, dignified trees. That he’d be dwarfed by giant, growing monuments. Relaxing in large shady clearings. And strolling down soft carpets of fallen leaves.
Roper expected something like California’s stately redwood forests. What he got was a wall of wild tangled bushes with a few Koa trees trying to escape by growing taller.
Bruddah used his friend’s key to open a large rusty lock. When it popped open, the loose chain rattled across the aluminum gate.
Waipuna Lei.
Roper spotted a smooth dirt road and started to walk towards it.
“Great, an access road, we can drive.”
“Go on den, I’m gonna walk.”
Roper walked too.
Bruddah tapped his foot on the road and shook his head.
“We neva had dis befo’.”
They walked down the road for several hundred yards. Every leaf was dripping wet. Millions of tiny bugs were humming faintly. And, it smelled like the light should have been more green rather than grey.
Waipuna Lei was trying to hold onto the early-morning mist before the sunlight stole it. It slanted in at an angle that made straight shafts between the trees that left long shadows.
The soft leaves were easy on their feet, but the thorny undergrowth kept wrapping around their ankles and puncturing their jeans.
Roper looked up just in time to see the tiny red flashes of an i’iwi bird moving through the treetops.
When Roper stopped to see it he could hear the trees were groaning and swishing. He was sure they were breathing.
“Bruddah….”
“I know, dere breathing.”
As they squeezed through to a small clearing, Roper almost missed a group of tiny saplings that were trying to stand up tall. After he carefully picked his way between them a light breeze seemed to bring some magic with it.
Magic. All of a sudden, his koa-vision got twice as good as it was an hour ago. He could actually see big differences between the trees in the field and the ones that surrounded him now.
The field trees were bent over like old men with their branches hugging the ground for dear life. They were not only shaped by the wind, it looked like it scared them to death.
These forest trees looked like they belonged together. They were taller and straighter. And their branches started up much higher.
Roper started presenting them to Bruddah.
“Hey, Bruddah, is this one any good?”
“Tryin’ to be.”
“Tryin’?”
“Yeah, it takes a long time to grow da perfect tree.”
“How long?”
“Leas’ two hundred years.”
“But we don’t have two hundred years.”
“Mebe you do.”
Roper laughed.
“Dese days, da bes’ we can do is take one dat’s good enough.”
“Is this one ready?”
“Not yet.”
“But there’s no branches ‘til way up there.”
“Still too close.”
“How ‘bout this one?”
“Not yet.”
“This one?”
“Gettin’ there.”
They found a spot where some logs were lying on the ground waiting to be picked up. They sat down automatically.
Bruddah looked like he was in church.
Roper was out of questions.
Just silence, bug batting and more silence.
The only sounds were the leaves getting to know each other and birds claiming their branches.
Bruddah stood up.
“Les’ go back to da club.”
Roper stood up.
“But, we didn’t find the perfect tree.”
“Da important ‘ting is to keep lookin’.”
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