Many times when I travel on Old Saddle Road, there comes a point where I’m exiting the clouds or disappearing into them. I like to take photos in this zone, experimenting as the level of the clouds comes and goes.
The top photo has that transition from clouds to clarity, but I also like the ethereal quality of the lower photo as patches of sun illuminate the pastures below.
A green turtle takes on a different appearance as it swims through the waters of Kiholo Bay. The original photo (above) already has an impressionistic look, but I experimented with a few effects and quite like the subtle difference of the posterized version below.
This little arrangement sprouted up in a cow pasture, beside the road to Upolu Airport, over the course of a week of so. It’s quite substantial with three new poles, fencing, and a gate having been put in, but the equipment itself is on wheels.
I was curious as to its purpose and finally happened by while workmen were there. As the title says, it’s a temporary substation. It’s been installed so that changes in the local distribution network can be achieved without power shutdowns. Supposedly, it will be in operation for two or three weeks, then the poles, fences, and equipment will be removed and the cows will get their pasture back.
The weather here is governed by the northeast trade winds. These bring abundant moisture to the windward side of Big Island, but the western side, in the lee of the volcanoes, is mostly hot and dry. There are local variations, and different times of the year can bring different winds. During the summer, Kona winds, blowing from the south or southwest, reverse the usual pattern.
Then there are weather systems which upset all the norms. Hurricanes are the most obvious. This year, in dramatic contrast to the Atlantic and Caribbean areas, there has been virtually no action in the Central Pacific. Only a couple of storms headed in this general direction and both petered out well before they reached the islands.
From time to time, an unstable air mass will pass over the state bringing with it unsettled weather and thunderstorms. One of the biggest dangers with such systems is when a storm cell settles over an area, dumping many inches of water, and sometimes generating flash floods. It’s interesting to follow these on the weather radar. The storm cells show up red, orange, and yellow. Sometimes they’re big enough to blanket an entire island.
One such system passed through the islands recently. Thunder had rumbled through the night, with distant lightning illuminating the sky. Next morning, I checked the radar and saw large areas of red and orange slowly working their way southeast, toward the Big Island. Then I noticed a little ball of orange appear and start to grow close to where I live. That online apparition was matched by an increase in the thunder’s volume and by the lightning becoming distinct strikes.
Very quickly, a cell built up that hung over this area for a couple of hours. It was quite the show. Three times the disturbance was so close overhead that I heard the crack of the lightning followed instantly by a clap of thunder that shook the house. Through it all, the rain hammered down, which I tried to capture in these photos.
Eventually, the large cell moving down from the northwest arrived, but instead of making things worse, it absorbed our local fireworks show and carried on to inundate areas to the southeast. An hour later, the sun broke through and our temporary weather maelstrom was over.
There’s a large mock orange in the corner of the yard that blooms three or four times a year. Sometimes just a section produces flowers. Other times, the whole plant turns creamy white. I do notice the blossoms, but what usually alerts me to a new bloom is the scent. A breath of air in the right direction and the house fills with the aroma of mock orange.
The most recent bloom encompassed the whole plant and also highlighted another of the plant’s attention-getters. It hums. It’s not unusual to wake up and, once the din of roosters and cardinals and francolins have been weeded out, a steady background hum takes over. This is the bees working over the mock orange flowers.
The blooms last only a few days. When the wind blows, which it does often here, the white petals fall to the ground like snow. But while this latest bloom occurred during a calm spell, still the snow fell. When the flowers first began to fade, the bees continued to pile in and their busy harvesting knocked the petals off.
Now the plant is a quiet, glossy green again. The blooms are gone, the bees are gone, the scent is gone, this temporary frenzy over in a week. Until the next time.
Wild pigs are widespread on the Big Island. I saw this one on a hike up Pu’u Wa’awa’a. I’d been taking photos and when I turned around, the pig was ambling into some tall grass leading to a shallow gulley bordering the trail. It didn’t seem at all bothered by my presence which it must surely have registered.
A few moments later, I saw it still headed in the same direction, still taking its time. I hurried up the trail trying to make as little noise as possible, and keeping an eye out toward the area where I thought the pig must be. I hadn’t gone too far when I reached a place where I could see that the gulley ended and, assuming it hadn’t moved faster than I thought, the pig would have to emerge into view. I hoped then I could get a photo or two.
I saw and heard nothing so I edged around trying to see into the gulley. I caught a glimpse of movement, then nothing. There was no point going into the gulley myself. I’d lose my vantage point and the pig would surely disappear before I saw it. The alternative was, if it was a boar, it might charge me. So I held my ground, looking and waiting.
Nothing in my proximity or activity changed, but at some point the pig panicked. It’s previous sangfroid was temporarily replaced by the high-strung nervousness of a racehorse. It shot out of the grass, racing back the way it came. When it came to the metal gate I’d just passed through, it clanged into it, squeezed between two bars, and carried on as before. When it finally disappeared into some bushes, it was a good 200 yards away, and still traveling as though making the final turn at the Kentucky Derby.
A metallic skink peeks out from under a lava ledge. This was on the Puʻu ʻŌʻō Trail, off Saddle Road at an elevation of more than 5,000 feet. It seemed a very challenging environment for the skink.
A peek of a Japanese white-eye sitting on a clutch of eggs in its nest.
Graham's Island 