Winter Winds

My sister Yuki lifts the lowest wire of the fence, and Piko squirms under first, leaving tufts of his white fur snagged in the barbs. Mom goes next, I follow her, and Yuki comes last, each of us barrel rolling beneath the fence and into the rolling pasture land beyond it. The wind whips our hair into our faces, and the thick, uneven grass looks golden-green in the late afternoon light. Piko is already bounding toward the hill, ecstatic. He knows where we’re going, and pauses occasionally to make sure we are following.

We catch up to him, dodging the dried, flaky cow pies that are disintegrating into the grass.  We disregard the “No Trespassing” sign as we clamber over the heavy metal cattle gate. We are headed for Buster Brown, a hill located within the boundaries of Parker Ranch, the fourth largest cattle operation in the United States. Founded in 1815, the ranch encompasses 220,000 acres in the small town of Waimea on the Big Island of Hawaii. Despite the prominently placed sign, we aren’t worried about being caught or charged. Among the residents of Waimea, engaging in some harmless trespassing to make this hike is common practice, and I’ve yet to hear of the law being enforced here.

We begin our ascent up the steep, grassy slope. The wind carries a few afternoon clouds over the forested hills on the wetter, windward side of Waimea. From the Wet Side of town, they breeze across the pastures and over our heads, briefly sprinkling our faces with misty rain before blowing over the desert Dry Side, and away toward the ocean. The gusts pick up as we climb higher. In a few minutes we’re halfway up, and we pause to rest, pulling our hoods tight around our faces, and turning to look back the way we came.

Below us, Waimea seems tiny. From this vantage point we can see everything, from the town center clustered around its two traffic lights, to the farmlands at its outskirts. In the field bordering Anuenue Playground, the Waimea Cowboys pop warner football team is running drills, the sunlight glinting off their tiny silver helmets. People finishing the workday drive through the afternoon traffic. I smile and wonder where they might be going. Maybe to a warm dinner with family, in a house cloaked with mist on the Wet Side. Or maybe to a sunset walk through a Dry Side neighborhood. Mauna Kea, ever watchful, looms in the distance. Its snow-capped summit is shrouded in clouds, and its slopes gleam purple, orange, and gold.

We turn back toward the hill, and resume our climbing. As we near the top, the slope becomes steeper, and the switchback packed-down cow trails are carved visibly in the grass and dirt. I take them like stairs, Piko bounding up ahead of me, Mom and Yuki not far behind. As I come up on the crest, the wind blusters around me, howling in my ears and tugging at my sweatshirt. It speaks of winter and of ancient power. I feel as though it could fling me from the hilltop. Yuki spreads her arms wide to catch the gusts, and leans back, letting the wind support her weight. I laugh and lean with her, headlong into the gale, teetering as the wind ebbs then roars.