MY FAVORITE PLACE:

Haleakala

By Rachel Gmach | Royal Report

I pushed up my sunglasses as my feet dangled out the passenger window of my uncle’s red, island-worn Prius. With its faded Plumeria flower seat covers, unreliable brakes and sand-laden floors, it fit all criteria of a local ride – as there’s no greater insult on the island of Maui, Hawaii, than being labeled as tourists. My cousin and travel partner, Amanda, captained our vessel with a bag of frozen peas pressed against her new Koi fish tattoo, the only indicator of our true identity as mainlanders.

We began the 10,023-feet ascent to the top of Maui’s Haleakala volcano, the highest point on the island. We wound the twisting road with the confidence of natives, as we had had many years to grow accustomed to the reckless norm of local driving. We climbed ever higher; leaving both cares and clouds below.

The car came to a halt as we neared the top. Getting out, we laid our sarongs, still moist from salt water. against Haleakala’s edge and sat down. All was silent save the plinks of a local drifter’s ukulele in the distance. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a ripe, yellow lilikoi, broke it in half, and slurped greedily at its sour seedy insides. From my volcanic perch, I took in the entirety of the Island: the tiny cars of islanders bustling through Paia to the coast where the Pacific Ocean kisses the land, and the hot sun melting in the horizon. Lilikoi juice ran down my chin as a tropical breeze danced through my hair. The air was lighter up here, as were my burdens.

For years I had traveled to this place, each time tucking away the worries of everyday life into my backpack between my sunglasses and guava fruit. It’s a well-needed shift of perspective, here above the clouds – a monastic experience from daily monotony..