There’s a fine line between helpful technology and technology that intrudes and disappoints. The pen and paper I use to capture these notes rarely fail. Though pens run out of ink, they are easily replaced. While an SD Card in my GoPro failing, taking with it snorkeling footage and a time-lapse of us driving from our cabin to Hanalei is a disappointment. The intrusion occurs when my mother somehow thinks it would be cool or helpful to let us know that our car that is camping at her place is having problems starting. Wow, is it the engine, battery, Mayan apocalypse? Why in the world does she think we needed distressing news texted to us? By the time we saw the message last night, it was already midnight in Arizona and so we got to go to sleep in worry.

From today’s sunrise, it wouldn’t be too far a stretch to suggest that Kukulcan, the Mayan feathered serpent god, had left the pyramid of the sun and was arriving to personally greet me in this new age; alas, it was just the patterns of the clouds allowing in patches of fiery light that stroked the imagination into fantasy.

This cock is relatively stupid while simultaneously protective of his hens; mine is out with her snorkel, scratching at the sea and pecking for fish. Sure this feathered specimen of maleness may look elegant, bold even, but at his core, he fertilizes eggs and battles for supremacy from any and all threats. Pardon the screed I’m about to share; it is my inner-cock mouthing off nonsense from my growing bias emanating from the encroachment of age.

Why wear a bikini for your cell phone when it’s for your boobs? Why wear a swimsuit that requires constant decracking? What’s up with the skimpy bikini top that forces you to dig your chin into your chest to ensure you still have nipple coverage? Small talk on beaches is highly overrated and most often inane. If the face can be an indicator of intelligence, it might appear that smarter women are more modest about their bodies and are dressed more conservatively out here. Those relying more on sex appeal than brains are flaunting a serious amount of butt cheeks along with more tats and piercings. I know I’m likely going to be accused of being sexist, but the same applies in other ways to the lunkhead men who are strutting their stuff in the same fury.

Older men still running on the high side of testosterone care little about the bulge of midriff fat or gratuitous amounts of body hair confronting others. Older men from professions tend to wear t-shirts out here, maybe due to the practicality of worrying about skin cancer. The higher the number of tattoos, the more cock-like the swagger. Forty with a rear-facing baseball cap? I can only wonder about the person’s carrying capacity that exists between their ears. ALL men check out young women’s rear ends, all of them. Muscular men travel in packs. Overweight middle-aged men travel with their spouses. Men who are traveling alone demonstrate some creepy anti-social behavior and the body language of lonely desperation, appearing sad and tragic. Strangely there are no solo women visitors to this beach. Hindus wear too many clothes in the ocean. I’ve only seen two hipsters over the course of our stay; I’m guessing they cannot afford Hawaii on coffee-shop wages. Not a goth in sight, I suppose the sun would foil their goals.

The other half of this Statler and Waldorf shtick has returned from the sea and kicks the pen from my hand, as she can tell by now when I’m channeling the grumpy old man routine.

The road to Waimea Canyon is paved with bananas and guava, along with a bevy of flowers, greenery, vines, and fields of coffee plants. These fruit, drink, and occasionally homemade baked good stands that work on the honor system are a real treat and a compelling reason you should travel with cash while on the islands.

Do you like beautiful, colorful spiders that try tricking you that they are not spiders by pairing up their legs, so you might think this four-legged yellow and black thing on the web is a trapped kitty kat? Then, venturing into the woods should be on your itinerary, too, because Hawaiians love their insects.

This orchard planted in red earth is growing some kind of stuff that is certainly not marijuana, coconut, pineapple, bananas, or corn. I’m wondering what it is, but I made no notes, nor do I remember going up to one of the trees to investigate just what they were.

We are 1,000 feet above the ocean and there is Ni’ihau again in the distance. In the foreground is Buffalo grass, which is invasive, but it does add a nice appearance to things. It is a shame how many species have invaded the islands; seems like everything and nearly everyone here is from somewhere else.

This is our first look into Waimea Canyon on this trip. This appeared much larger on our last visit, but back then, we hadn’t spent weeks at the bottom of the Grand Canyon or had just come off an adventure into the enormity of Alaska. Coming to grips with the nature of familiarity and how it alters our perspective might be a part of the maturing process, but there’s certainly a place for naivety and celebrating our first encounters with novelty.

Gaining elevation as we progress, the canyon grows in depth. Now, with our second visit to the area in pocket, we’ll have to consider hiking in Waimea Canyon should we find ourselves in Hawaii a third time. Upon searching for trails, it looks like the Kukui Trail would be perfect, especially if we could spend a night at the campground down there.

Here we are at the Kalalau overlook with the southern end of the Napali Coast over our shoulders. Down below are nearly ever-present helicopters that ply the airway to show others the spectacular part of the coast that we have yet to effectively visit. While last time we embarked on a hike out the Kalalau Trail, a broken toe that I acquired on Molokai in the days leading up to our time on Kauai thwarted our ambition under otherwise perfect weather conditions. One day, we will make it out there.

This is the Cliff Trail and is one of the shortest trails we’ve ever been on. A mere 1/10th of a mile is completed in about 4 minutes.

As we looked for vantage points to check out the view and consider trail options, this wild goat approached laughing out loud that we needed trails while it went where it pleased.

Before we get to the sunset proper I thought I’d try something different this late afternoon and share what the edge of a Hawaiian sunset looks like.

This was tough as one of my sunset photos had amazing god rays in the distance…..

….while this one is terrifically molten gold with a small boat passing by.

As we approached Waimea, the long string of parked cars was a good indicator of what lay ahead, so we simply pulled over and parked. So we wouldn’t miss a moment of the Christmas parade, we hoofed it and arrived just as the Waimea Canyon Middle School was turning the corner as the beginning of the festivities.

The parade is great with the spirit of the kids and families lining the street, making this into a party atmosphere. It all reminds me of another great parade when we were so lucky to be in Canadian, Texas, for a Middle of America Fourth of July celebration. Click HERE to visit that trip.

Along the parade route were plenty of food vendors to satisfy those of us who hadn’t set up a small BBQ in front of our chairs; as a matter of fact, Caroline and I were without chairs in any case, so where would we have set up a BBQ? The first thing I tried was some corn chowder, while Caroline opted for pasteles, a kind of Filipino tamale. After Santa passed and the parade ended, it took us over an hour to get to the other side of town. On such a small island with few roads, the people who live here full time are lucky that others allow them to pull in front of them instead of the mainland way of ensuring no one gets in. By and large, the atmosphere on the Islands is one of tremendous friendliness and people going out of their way to be polite.

It’s late, and yet it is still bright out, with the moon shining enough to illuminate the trees and our cabin from a distance. The stars are out in force and strangely enough, I wish for rain as I miss its sound on our tin roof.