As I stepped out of the plane, I plunged into dense humid tropical and somewhat salty air. My soft-shell pants and a layer of merino suddenly felt like tools of torture. I quickly made my way through roofless, windowless Honolulu airport and crowds of floral-pattern dressed people to catch my flight to Kona on the Big Hawaii island.
And here is our version of the Biblical Joshua reaching his hands up for a prayer – a scruffy climber, hands still taped after a long day of jamming, hair all tousled, clothes ripped and covered in chalk, face – happy and tanned. Tired, yet passionate, he is reaching his hands up to the moon and the sky, embracing the rocks that give him the grounding and elevation. If that is not a bliss, I don’t know what is.
Water … where is water … ?
Not sure if the house is introducing itself or insulting me …
I didn’t expect anything like this. The peace and silence I kept on feeling throughout the days I spent in the Death Valley was even more present in the darkness of the peak. The air was still and, when all the people finally departed, I felt as if I was alone suspended in the air. I was there – above the rugged other-worldly lines, immersed in cool night’s air, overlooking the silvery lines of the salty flats and lonely roads.
Damn, my Sand Dune skiing photos would have been so much better if I wore a jedi cloak.
One has to see a place called Devil’s Golf course, eh ?