the trip report that refused to end

A post Hawaii "aloha" to my people, of whom I am coming to reallize there are quite a lot. At times it seems this particular small journal of mine has made me a (albeit extremely minor) celebrity. It pops up in the weirdest places, in the most obscure conversations, with people I'd'a never thought were a regular visitor to MY blog...

I have promised a trip report, and I plan on delivering, although it may take a bit longer than a session or two of writing, and I will add pictures when I get to a computer that can access the internet and my picture files at the same time. That might be in a day or two. At the moment, I am sitting at my mom's computer, in Marienthal. I am home, but not really... it is a strange feeling, coming back to where all of one's childhood happened, and not finding one's childhood waiting for them, just as they left it. So much has changed. A town once defined by the characters and events in it, is now suddenly a tiny spot on the open plains, a few tortured trees, a few weathered old-timers, a site at which so much happened, but is now more of a memorial to those things than home. Home right now really feels like the base of the Gore Range, the drivers seat of my little Jeep, my tenny shoes on Golden Eagle drive. Perhaps it is strange that home for me is what I do, and where I do it, than the house we live in. Maybe that makes me a cold, unfeeling woman, lacking one virtuous instinct, but to tell you the truth, we have lived so many different places in Summit County that none of them feel like home, just a place to garner comforts and store them, a base of operations, a place to crash, to cuddle, to eat, to personalize just enough to remind yourself of who you are and who you were. A house is not a home, they say. I agree. Home is a state of mind which sometimes gets projected onto the structure in which one's living takes place.

There are however a few places that would be difficult for me to define as home. Hawaii is one of them. Not to say we didnt have fun, didnt love being there, but I find it hard to ever imagine being as passionate about a string of islands out in middle of the Pacific as I am about a string of mountains in the middle of the mainland US. Pehaps it is because I have payed my dues as far as being able to claim (at least semi) local status there, and would have to start all over in Hawai'i. And in Hawai'i, my white skin would work against me. And I am too old to get good at another sport, and while surfing is fun, it cannot offer the experience that snowboarding can. It is like spending all day in the terrain park, waiting for your particular jump to open up, a brief but intense run, one chance to get it right, and then another wait. No deafening solitude, whispering shadows, moments of weightlessness as on a snowboard. No endless fall, your feet barely skimming, nailing every turn, the satisfaction of carving marshmallow fluff, or rows and rows of corduroy, of looking back and seeing where you were, where you are, and the space between, now experienced and every bit as sweet as you thought it would be. And for me, no kudos at the bottom, no respectful looks from the newbies. 'Cause I know for sure I would never surf like I snowboard- not that I'm that great by the pros standards, just by ordinary people who dont do it that often's standards.

But I digress. Once again, I am defining home by who I am, how I percieve what I do, and where the perception takes place. But this post is not about home. It is about vacation.

It started with the plane ride that refused to end. Seriously, how on earth do people actually enjoy international travel? We only traveled halfway across the ocean. Since we were flying west, following the sinking sun, the sunset was the longest I have ever seen- over five hours long. Shortly after we left Pheonix the sky turned orange, and it stayed orange until about an hour and a half before we landed in Honolulu. We got there, got lost finding the rental car place, found the rental place, got in our car, and got even more lost trying to find our motel. It was only about nine thirty Honolulu time, but for us, our inner clocks still set on Mountain standard time, it was 1:30, we were tired and stinky and grouchy and stiff. We finally found our room, parked down the road so we wouldnt have to tip the valet (yeah, we're that cheap) gathered our luggage (three backpacks and a wheeled suitcase), and walked back. After we got checked in, we ate at the last (cheap) thing open on Waikiki, a Burger King, stumbled back to our room, a fourteenth floor closet on the corner of a high rise, up where the wind howled relentlessly and the patio door had to be open to keep it from shreiking through the loose door and window seals.

What's the good of unlimited mileage if ya don't use it? we spent the entire next day driving around Oahu, stopping here, stretching there, walking to attractions, getting a sunburn. We walked a mile and a half up to a lighthouse, or rather a point above a lighthouse, the lighthouse itself inaccessible to the public. Past rusted remnants of WW2 equipment and bunkers, and vistas of nothing but water and sky. It was on this walk I got the most sun, a half-moon burn on my shoulders and chest. Of course I would be wearing an unusal neckline for me, high and off the shoulders, a tanline that nothing else will meet exactly. Oh well.

Oahu is actually a fairly dry island. Lots of cactus, dry grass, stunted shrubs, especially on the leeward side, where the constant breeze of the windward side does not cool and bring in the clouds to get hung up on the peaks and rain. We found an entertaining stretch of sand on Kualoa beach, a hot spot for windsurfers and kitesurfers, and watched the experts glide around the bay and the beginers crash. As is usually the case when one is trying to catch some sun, we came away three hours later waterlogged, salt-stung, and tired from the bright sun, as wintery white as before. We returned to Waikiki in time to watch the sunset from the beach.

Day two we spent in search of a suitable campground. It is extremely cheap to camp in Hawaii, many places are free, many only five dollars, but they make it extremely difficult to get a permit. One must obtain permits to all county beach parks at the county office in whichever city is the main one on the island, and permits for state parks at the state office. And the permits are only sold until three-thirty in the afternoon, Mondays through Fridays (except for state holidays) and the posted signs at these parks promise dire and unpleasant consequences for camping without a permit. By the time we had found the perfect park, Maleakahana state park, an idyllic, secluded strip between highway and beach, we were on the other end of the island from the state office in Honolulu, and it was 3:28. We suddenly awoke to the fact that we had no reservations anywhere and we may need to spend the night in the car if we did not wish to pay Honolulu last-minute hotel room prices. And then, of all the sweet things our luck (helped by the fact that Susan must read all signs along any road she is traveling) handed us, we glimpsed a tiny hut in some trees, bearing the sign, "Check-in for Maleakahana (that's ma-laya-ka-hah-na, for the phonetically challenged) Campground". How this was possible, we did not know, since all signs clearly stated that permits were available only in Honolulu, but we whipped our stately rental Buick in, and lost no time inquiring. They were nearly to close for the evening, but yes, they had something available, they were a non-profit, privately owned campground, and they offered hot showers, $8.50\person\night. We parted with our seventeen dollars without having to be told twice, especially after learning that this was the ONLY private campground in the area. Our other options were a Honolulu hotel or the car.

It was kind of a surreal evening. We did not locate the hot showers, but we did duck the fence at the end of the beach and found ourselved on a jut of land, where the waves crash with such merciless power that no sand washed up on shore, only shattered bits of coral and crushed, broken dead crabs. Razor sharp volcanic rock lay exposed, causing one to think twice about walking over it, knowing that a stumble could gash a knee or a hand to the bone. Sets of eight foot waves rolled in, splintered over the rocks, turning to mist which blew over us. We got lost again, not wanting to duck back through the same fence we came by, took a detour through the village, frenzied dogs barking at us, setting the nesting hens all a-cluck. When we got back, it was dusk. A movement by the side of the trail caused me to look, and there, in a small clearing, were a dozen cats, and as many large, waxy leaves, picked off a tree nearby, with food spooned onto them. Scrawny ones, hugely pregnant ones, strays, it appeared, who knew where to come at dusk to be fed. Some of them eyed me suspiciously and sidled away, and one trotted over and rubbed against my leg, purring loudly. A shrine inside a leafy tunnel between two bushes was lit with several dozen tea lights, and draped with fresh flower and shell leis, and two chairs encouraged meditation. We found our tent and crawled inside, still not having located the hot showers, without even brushing our teeth, and fell asleep... to be woken again and again by our neighbors, a group of about thirty, spilling over into about five campsites.

Day three, we were up before the neighbors (who had only retired a few hours before), and I went for a long walk along the beach, leaving B to his own devices, and his bag of beef jerky. I returned to camp about 10:00, and since by then the surf shop was open in the village, we rented a board for the day. I spent the day catching and missing waves, garnering helpful hints from the way-too-helpful neighbors (perhaps you need to have a history of dealing with me and my issues before you will understand the depth of humiliation I suffered having to take advice from the pros, no matter how helpful...) struggling with the bulky beginners board I let the rental people bully me into taking. Yes, they left me no dignity, no chance to chase the waves down and actually earn my ride in, they made me take a beginner's board out. Oh, catching the waves was easy on it, getting up was easy, it was just a bitter pill to swallow, having to be singled out of the other beginners as an actual beginner. To hear "paddle-paddle-paddle-harder, oh you've-got-it, stand-up-stand-up-GOOD-job!" every time I went for a wave. For that reason alone, I must say that surfing, for me, was not all it was cracked up to be. Perhaps it would have been had my pride not been so very damaged by the hot shots with leathery skin and sunbleached hair, and native, geometrical Polynesian tat's, with upper bodies sculpted beyond what an imaginative artist would put on a posing nude, being so solicitous and condescending, and stating their surprise that I stayed out as long as I did, seeing's I was just learning how. Seems there must have been a bet going on at the sight of the beginner's board. I must say it was a bit of a relief to return the white elephant at the end of the day.

B. also rented a boogie board, and for a while, we just floated aimlessly in the waves, us and a four-foot wide sea turtle who spent the day in the bay, never far from the cluster of surfers. And that night, over a pina colada shave ice, I made a very alarming discovery. I was nicely bronzed, having been just-righ responsible with the sunblock, reapplying at just the right times, except for the backs of my legs. For some reason, the backs of my legs are an unrecognised part of my anatomy. I cant remember to shave them, to lotion them, and apparently, the sunblock never got rubbed back there either. We found the hot showers that night, three slapdash stalls in a clearing, that drained into a small garden, and while they were more warm than hot, the water felt like liquid lava to my legs, while the rest of me shivered uncontrollably. All night, I was feverish, and every movement made me want to scream. Finally, I eased myself out of my clothes and lay on my stomache with only the tiniest corner of sheet over my bare bum, and let the cool breeze play over my legs. The luau next door did not die down until about four oclock a.m., and I wasnt too worried about anyone having to find my fiery backside all exposed in the morning, because sleep only happened in about twenty minute intervals. I had thought my muscles would be sore from excersize they weren't used to, since most of my activities involve more lower body than upper, but compared to the sunburn, the few twinges were hardly even noticed.

Day four I woke up (undiscovered) and eased into my civvies, not a swimsuit because I had no intention of introducing salt water to the painful scene going on in the hinder regions. We stayed on land, took a leisurely walk through the Waimea (whey-a-may-a)Valley Audubon Center, a nature preserve in the valley home of the High Priest of Oahu for over six hundred years. It contained not only every imaginable tropical plant, more varieties than it would be possible to see in years of globe-trotting, but also many archaelogical sites. In the ages-old battle of the sexes, I wanted to stop and read all of the signs and plaques telling the botanical and archealogical story of the place, and B was in a hurry to get to the waterfall at the end of the valley, to take a swim in the pool beneath it. We were both in a bit of a huff before we made it to the end. But he got over it when he finally stripped to his swimshorts and went swimming under the fall that, given the recent lack of rain, was not the gushing torrent it usually is, and I got over it on the way back, when there was finally time to stop and read. My legs stung with all the sunblock rubbed on them, the thought of getting in cold water did not make them feel happy.

That night we spent in Honolulu again, in a luxurious king-sized bed in a motel on Waikiki. Clean, refreshed, our teeth brushed to their usual stardard, we put on clean clothes from a dwindling supply and walked along the beach to take in another sunset. We ended up at a refreshment stand that served, besides the usual shave ice and hot dogs, Dole soft-serve ice cream. We ordered a pineapple-strawberry twist, and were hooked. We discovered we had wondered quite a way from our motel, in our impractical flip-flops, and had to navigate quite a few hazardous crosswalks to get back. Not more hazardous than the rest, but crosswalks in Honolulu are somewhat infamous. On a side note- why are flip flops and beaches as inseparable as dogs and fleas? Do some people actually LIKE having sand flipped up on the backs of them, filtering down the inside of their clothes, sticking to wet skin?

Day five, we luxuriated in the motel room as long as we dared, unpacked and condensed our luggage into two backpacks (our trail packs, bought for packing a campsite in and out of wilderness) and one carry on, and mid morning, made our way back to the airport and hopped a plane to Kauai. This time we were smarter about the whole camping permit hoop we would need to jump through, and located both the county and state office (easier to find in the much smaller town of Lihu'e- that's "lee-who-ay") and secured camping permits for two campgrounds, our chioces based only on the word of a frazzled-looking blonde park ranger who seemed hard pressed to even give us the time of day, let alone process camping permits. It was at this point our hopes for hiking the Kalalau ("ka-la-lou" as in "loud") Trail were dashed, because there was no way we were going to risk dismemberment by daring to ask if there were any arrangements to be made. We tucked in our bottom lips and made the best of it, and set out to explore Kauai, already a much nicer island than Oahu. We met a lady outside of the state office who overused the word "exquisite", but still gave us enough helpful hints and recomendations we wondered if she were the only Hawaii local who was actually delighted to see a tourist. That evening, wondering if we were lost even though the map assured us we were in the right place, we found ourselves on the west side of the island, the "dry side", winding our way through mud puddles and sugar cane, through irrigated fields on a flat delta, harvested by Gleaner L2's, splashing our white rental Dodge Caliber with red muck, to the campground we had bought a permit for earlier in the day. When we finally found Polihale ("pulley-hall-ay", NOT "poly-holy" as B took to saying, to the consternation of the locals) State Park, it was more than we had hoped for, jaded as we were by Oahu's crowds and narrow, busy beaches. Three hundred feet wide, five miles long, ending on one end in the delta and sugarcane, cut short on the other by sheer black volcanic cliffs, sand as deep as one wanted to sink one's toes, with not a rock or a shell to interupt the sinkage. And perhaps, even at four o'clock in the afternoon, barely a dozen people in the entire five miles. Where the beach turned to dunes, we found a flat spot, high enough to afford a view of the entire beach and raise the watery horizon a bit, and pitched our tent, a new two-man Kelty, two pounds and seven ounces fully packed, that had traveled with us on the plane. We settled in, ate our dinner of trail mix, granola, and beef jerky, and watched the show below us, a rental Jeep sunk to it's axles in the before-mentioned soft sand. The sun melted into the sea, as we watched it from the farthest-west beach in the United States. It was as idyllic as Maleakahana had been surreal. Right at dusk, our neighbors moved onto the neighboring dune, making the total number of occupied campsites, three. Out of five miles, don't ask why they needed to camp fifty feet away, but they did. But unlike our Maleakahana neighbors, they were a middle aged couple from D.C., and we heard not a sound from them. After dark, B and I left our shoes behind, and went for a starlit ramble along the beach. There was no moon, but in the uncompromised dark, not even a distant yard light visible, the only human-generated light being the neighbor's campfire, the stars shone bright enough to create a shimering path on the water. I have not been able to stare up at the sky and see so many stars since I was a kid, camped out in a Western Kansas pasture. We returned to camp, awestruck and worshipful, reluctant to speak above a whisper in the presence of such beauty, climbed into our tent without brushing our teeth or taking a shower, and went right to sleep... or I did. Apparently, my deep breathing was enough to irritate the man, who picked this night to suffer from insomnia. It's true, the only thing to drag me from my slumber the entire night was one involuntary roll-over which scraped the sunburn, and at midnight, the Jeep that had been stuck, finally getting dug out and roaring down the beach, determined to drive fast enoug to not sink into the sand again.

Day six, I awoke feeling quite rested, in spite of the fact that there was sand in my bed, to find B. standing over me with the camera. There is something so personal about seeing pictures of yourself sleeping. It almost feels like you are spying on someone you need to protect, invading their privacy. It's not natural to see yourself asleep. You are so vulnerable, not having the chance to put on a picture face. And for some reason, people must sense I have a weird little thing about it, because I seem to get photographed a lot in my sleep. B's reason is not based on this, at least not consciously. He just likes to tell people later, showing them his pictures, "...and this is the only time on the whole trip that she was nice to me!" As if.

Kauai has one main road, and it does not circle the island. On a map, it roughly resembles a C. The opening in the C represents the Na Pali Coast, closed to all but foot traffic, and that with a permit. It is along this coast that the Kalalau Trail runs, to the pristine Kalalau Valley, and a beach campground eleven miles in. We only found Polihale because we were unable to obtain a permit for the Kalalau. As irony would have it, after we had spent the night at Polihale, using up a portion of the time we would have needed to hike the Kalalau, our neighbors, that quiet couple from D.C., offered us their permit, bought far in advance, which they had all but decided not to use after all. Since it came a day too late, we turned down their generous offer. It just wasn't meant to be. But we did drive from the bottom of the C to the trailhead at the top of the C, all the way around the island, but only about fifteen miles from Polihale, a leisurely drive past cow pastures, stopping to let wild chickens cross the road. The native chicken flock is an intricately evolved mix. Small, well-fed birds, patchwork feathers, not domestic, but certainly not shy. We stopped in the picturesque Hanalei for lunch in an airy cafe, featuring the catch of the day, all done up to suggest "gourmet", stopped at another historic lighthouse. Kauai, home of the wettest spot on earth (four hundred inches of rain a year) gets enough moisture to feed an inland river system, adding one-lane bridges to the many things motorists must stop for. We were ready to stretch our legs when we got to the trailhead, even more so by the time we had fought fo find a parking space. We gethered our stuff, filled our hydration bladders and various water bottles... and realized that the new package of rechargeable camera batteries we had bought were not charged at all. We had been counting on them, since all of our others were dead. And it was at this point we made a nifty discovery- the new little car we were in actually had an AC outlet in the console, to accomodate the charger. We could have been charging them while were were dodging chickens all morning. Too late smart... we were not willing to drive back to town for more batteries, so there we sat, gathering glares from people less lucky than us in finding a place to park, (a popular snorkeling spot shared a small parking lot with the trailhead) waitning on the camera batteries to build up a bit of a charge. Half an hour later, B. suddenly sat up and smacked himsef on the forehead. "What am I thinking? Flashlight batteries!" Within a few minutes, we had located the flashlights and emptied them of their batteries, laced up our hiking boot for the second time, and started down the trail. We chose not to take the fact that one of the first people we met was a girl, her grossly swollen ankle wrapped in a tree branch and tee-shirt splint, hobbling between the two people supporting her weight, as an omen. The trail was, to borrow the adjective from the lady in Lihu'e, exquisite. Just as she'd promised it would be. It wound along a shelf in the cliffs, at times five hundred feet above the water, which was visible through a screen of lush, tropical plants and flowers. Two miles in, it stopped abruptly at a small beach tucked into the cliffs, a sign ominously declaring, in notches, that lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll lllll ll visitors had been killed by it's unpredictable currents, and to avoid becoming the next notch by not venturing into the water, no matter how inviting it seemed after a hot, two mile hike. So swim we did not, like the good citizens we are, we just sat in the shade of a small palm and drank our water, and let the hugely pregnant stray cat who was begging food from the beach's visitors rub around our ankles.

We turned inland then, and made our way another two miles in dense rainforest, around thick bamboo stands, past mossy rocks and ferns, through ten-minute rain showers, along a stream to a 410 foot waterfall. There seemed to be only one sort of people on the trail, and it was a profile we sorta fit. Most of the other hikers we encountered were twenty somethings, couples looking for an adventure, as opposed to a relaxing beach experience. The girls all quite comfortable hiking in their bikini tops, all long-legged and tanned, the guys all somewhat jockish, (hey, I didnt say we fit the profile entirely! -just age-wise.) both eager to prove that they were as up to the challenge as their significant other was. One could fairly taste the testosterone, as the women- the ones that allowed it, that is- were assisted over particularly steep or scary portions of the trail, and the men gallantly offered their assistance. This particular one did not hear any offers from her significant other, perhaps because he knew from experience it would not be a prudent thing to do, considering how well we were getting along. At the trail's end, the waterfall fell like a bridal veil, only mist by the time it reached the emerald pool below it. One by one, the couples dived in, squealed over the cold water, grabbed each other. Climbed out, engaged in a little PDA, took their picures, ate their beef jerky. It was late in tha day when we pulled out socks and shoes back on and retraced our steps, the trail muddier than it had been on the way in. Poor Bobby landed on his bony butt a time or two, his hiking shoes lacking the agressive tread mine sport. It was not a comforting thing, considering that in many areas, a slip meant a twenty foot tumble into the rocky streambed below.

And that night, a funny thing happened. One that B will not forget for a very long time. His gung-ho wife, always up for a night under the stars, for a cold shower and granola for dinner, and lumpy sand for a mattress, with her annoying observation that sleep is sleep, no matter if it is free or costs $120 a night, that one does not know the difference because of the very nature of sleep- one ceases to be aware of one's surroundings... the woman, fully aware of that second camping permit, going to waste in the glovebox, asked to stay in a motel. Needess to say, with a request of that kind being dropped on him with no warning, he needed a moment or two to recover. And as soon as he did, and varified that he had indeed heard me correctly, the gravel fairly flew as he sped to Kapa'a ("kuh-pa-aw) to hunt for a room before I changed my mind. he tells this story with far more glee than I think aught to be attached to it. When we are aged, he will still be reminding me, "Remember that time you asked me if we could stay in a motel instead of camp? That was funny..." The fact was, I was jonesing for chinese food, and wishing for that clean feeling of stepping out of a real shower, of squeaky clean hair and slick teeth, and the heavenly feel of cool, smooth sheets. It seemed like incomparable luxury at that point, as sticky as I was from being rained on all day, as much skin had rubbed off of the sunburn aquired that first day on my shoulders, by the backpack straps, as hairy as my legs and armpits were. I suddenly had contrasting mental images of my blistered toes (thanks to a run from Waikiki to Diamond Head earlier in the week) in the sand, dirt and infection working their way in, and a soft, accomodating carpet. And just like, that, I swallowed all my pride and bravado and asked for a very specific favor- Chinese food and a motel. It turned out to be Panda Express and the Kauai Sands, and you could not have found a more pleased little woman on the whole island.

Day seven, Bobby headed for the pool, and a view of perfectly manicured lawn and beach. I opted for the shade of our private patio, and a Dean Koontz novel. We cleared out of there with our noon check-out nipping at our heels. I packed everything but my book, ID and credit card in my backpack, and since I was wearing a skirt with no pockets, gave the ID and credit card to B for safekeeping. We made made our way back to Lihu'e, stopping for tacos, stopping to pear over the guardrail at more waterfalls, at the river below, spotted with tiny kayaks, over sheer cliffs. We finally pulled into a K-mart to use the rest room, and pack the last few odds and ends in our luggage before we needed to catch a plane back to Oahu at three oclock. Suddenly B got a lille pale, and began patting at his pockets.

"Honey, you did give me your driver's licence and credit card, didn't you?"

"yeah, to keep it safe," I replied.

"oopsie."

It was nowhere to be found. We quickly called the credit card company and cancelled it, and scurried to the airport to submit to the extra screening they would need to do before they could let an un-ID'd passenger on board. From then until we landed in Denver, every airport security check we went through, i was patted down and my luggage searched. They were good about it though, ribbing B. that since he had lost my ID, he should be the one going through the extra hassle. We were very glad we were still in the US. I cannot imagine the nightmare it would have been if I had been trying to board an international flight.

Back on Oahu, back in the rental Buick, not nearly so sporty as the Dodge. We stayed in the same motel as before, walked down to the same ice cream stand on Waikiki at sunset. I actually got all gussied up, we window shopped and killed time. The motel was nicer than the one in Kapa'a, newer, the bed bigger and softer, but nothing could have felt as nice as the teal shag carpet and firm mattress of the Kauai sands. The shower seemed almost a waste, the second one in as many days.

Day eight, we did not have to worry about where we would sleep, as we would be on the plane all night. We spent most of the day at Pearl Harbor, brushing up on our WW2 knowledge. We took a boat ride to the USS Arizona Memorial, peared into the water, through the film of oil seeping from the ship, at the ghostly outlines of it's rusted remains, wondered through the grounds of the visitor's center, and it's displays of antiquated weapons and artillery, and plaques bearing the names of too many men to even be able to comprehend the life and consciousness attached to each one. Someone's son, husband, father, brother, fiancee, friend, every one of them. Thousands and thousands, on the ships in Pearl Harbor, on the other bases on the island, in planes and battleships and submarines in the war that followed the attacks. So much loss and pain, represented in the names etched there.

After paying our respects, we found our way over to the USS Missouri, anchored in Pearl Harbor. On her deck, while in Tokyo Bay, the treaty was signed ending WW2. Commissioned in 1945, in use until 1992, now it is a floating museum. We explored as much of the ship as we were allowed to, marveling that the sheer size of it, but still astounded that 2700 men were expected to coexist on it. And we complain when our roommate count hits six! We agreed that, for sheer interest's sake, the Missouri was much more of a must-see than the Arizona Memorial.

We finally found ourselves back on terra firma several hours later, being hawked a twenty dollar photograph of ourselves in front of the Missouri (which, to my consternation, Bobby just up and bought!), with just enough time for a McFlurry before needing to return the rental Buick (which we were not heartbroken to see go) and catch a shuttle to the airport. We were not lucky enough to get seats together on the flight back, we both had middle seats, and did not sleep for fear of falling over on the person next to us. We boarded at sunset in Honolulu, and we arrived in Pheonix as the sun was coming up, the night as short coming back as the sunset was long going. We got into Denver at eleven oclock, day number eight. And from there, drove to Kansas, to clean out our house to ready it for renters. I actually witnessed B. driving with his jaw slack and his eyes closed, had to tap him on the shoulder in lieu of the usual panic one might display when one realizes one's driver is sound asleep. But not to fear, we got here in one piece.