Perpetuating Optimism

Being a dyed in the wool cynic comes with a cost. It is a condition characterized by an excessive pessimism, bordering on negativism, and it can sometimes bring me down. I try hard to resist the temptation to view the glass as half full and maintain my acrimony, but occasionally I am overcome by the sudden and pervasive need to feel stoked. Fortunately for me, since everything in the human experience is relative to the observer, I always have the option of changing my perspective.

Such is the notion behind Positive Blatherings, a treatise that examines the social, spiritual, and philosophical implications of a practical experiment with positivity. Why choose negative over positive, its authors ask, when each is equally valid? One of them certainly includes a lot more smiles. It is an inquiry worthy of exploration, a daringly humanistic enterprise in a world mired in a morass of misanthropy, and I’m excited to be along for the ride.

Give This Man a Pole and He’ll Tangle His Line

Buried amid the mass of random ramblings, tedious humdrum, and other exquisitely mundane revelations found on the typical Facebook newsfeed, one can sometimes unearth a real gem. I discovered one such pearl of wisdom just the other day, when my dear friend Josh Tallmadge posted a comment that really struck me. He said, “Thank god for fishing. If we have fishing, we have hope.”

This notion intrigued me. Josh’s observation seemed to be one of those that go a little deeper. It had a broader connotation, implications that went beyond the surface. It set my boat adrift upon the waters of philosophy. Might as well cast around a bit, I reckoned, and wet a little line.

The first thought I hauled up was that by its very nature fishing is an act of faith, at least for a hack like me. An accomplished angler will certainly argue that any real proficiency depends on a whole lot of skill, but I would venture that even they hold out a little bit of hope while they’re waiting for a fish to take the bait. For those less consummate, fishing is the definition of optimism. We cast our net into the dark unknown and hope for the best, never truly certain of what, if anything, we might find.

The next thing I hit upon was the absolute imperative contained within Josh’s comment. Logically, if we accept his assertion as true, then its converse must hold as well. So it follows that, without fishing, we are without hope.

Problem there is, fishing is quickly becoming a delicate proposition. Fisheries worldwide are being depleted at ever increasing rates, overfishing threatens marine biodiversity, and human activity such as resource extraction, waste disposal, and power generation destroys habitat. One in five people relies on fish as their primary source of protein. Josh’s statement may have been made in regards to more personal considerations, but it was equally applicable on a global scale. Loss of fishing might dash the hopes of billions.

There is a wonderful old proverb that goes something like, “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day, teach a man to fish and he’ll eat forever.” I have long grasped this metaphor, but in the context of Josh’s comment I have come to see it in a new light. Nowadays, a person can go to market and buy a fish without ever having any idea of where it came from or how it got here. He has been given his fish, and today he will eat. But at what cost? The man doesn’t know. Perhaps there is something to be gained from “teaching the man to fish”, from creating a connection between him and what sustains him, something that offers hope for the future rather than just for the moment.

Lastly I landed at the realization that I need go fishing. Fishing for me is frustrating, since I typically meet with little or no success, mostly due to the fact that I have no idea what it is I’m doing. On one trip up the Blackfoot, after casting with my new Ugly Stik for half an hour to no avail, I handed my rod off to my buddy Tyler Hanley, who promptly caught three fish. Fishing is a learned skill, usually passed down from generation to generation. Tyler learned it from his grandfather, and Josh is teaching it to his boys. Since I want my son Keegan to learn it, my only hope is that there is some patient soul out there who is willing to teach me.

There is a reason why fishing so often appears in literature. Its connotations run deep, inhabiting the very depths of human condition. Fishing gives me faith, even if all I’m really doing is just throwing my line around. Josh is right. If we have fishing, we have hope. Thank god for fishing.

A less than able fly fisherman practices his dubious casting technique on the North Fork Coeur d’Alene river during an annual camping trip to Kit Price

If you are interested in getting out on some of the world’s greatest rivers with one of the best guides in the business, contact Sean McAfee. His services can also be secured through these premier outfitters:

Kootenai River Guides

Emerging Rivers

The Order of the White Elephant

My brother Jeb has always impressed me with his penchant for saying no to things. Once, when we were kids, our pops took us to a hobby store in Spokane called White Elephant and directed Jeb to pick out “anything he wanted under twenty bucks” as his birthday gift. In about five minutes I had spent that money ten times over, but Jeb was basically overwhelmed by the concept and left the store with nothing more than a few tears to show for his trouble. At the time I thought my brother was a fool, but now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it is the wiser man who will go without rather than burden himself with something that he isn’t absolutely certain is exactly what he wanted.

Obviously, there is no going without when it comes to diapers. They are one of those things that fall into the category of necessity. But if human beings are anything then they are creatures of habit, so when his wife Sharie told us that Jeb liked Fuzzi Bunz reusable diapers the best, well, I was certain they must surely be the Cadillac of the diaper scene.

There was never any question in my mind that we would be using durable diapers, if for no other reason than I just couldn’t stomach the thought of that huge mound of crap I would be contributing to the landfill. Whether or not durable diapers are more ecologic than disposables is anyone’s guess; both exact a sizeable toll, especially when one considers the modern materials with which many durable diapers are constructed these days. Laundering alone consumes a significant amount of energy, not to mention water. Still, the idea of demanding the production of something for the explicit purpose of throwing it away really wasn’t a concept I could readily align myself with.

Flash forward a few months and those disposable diapers have begun looking like the last doughnut on the break room table. I know I shouldn’t, but boy do I want to. Especially when our son Keegan hasn’t had a movement in awhile and I know one is looming on the horizon. Its times like that when I most desire to just slap some Huggies on him, wait for the poopin’ face, and then pitch that thing out like yesterday’s newspaper. Trouble is, my conscience doesn’t seem to discard them quite as easily.

Not that we haven’t used disposables; we definitely have. There was a period where we used them at night to help us get a handle on a pretty bad case of diaper rash. On a recent whirlwind trip to Troy and Brandi’s parents’ home in Kennewick, we used them exclusively for about a week. After a taste of that, however, I couldn’t wait to get back to using cloth, no matter what kind of pain in the butt they might occasionally cause.

So far we have been, if not diligent, at least fortunate in our attempt at a three R approach to baby paraphernalia. Not only have we gotten mounds of gently used baby stuff from friends and Craigslist, but Brandi’s mom invested a huge amount of time and energy into making us a gigantic pile of cloth diapers. And while they aren’t as high-tech as some of the reusable diapers on the market, after some field testing and a little retrofitting, Cindy’s cloth diapers are still pretty darn slick.

If, when you think of cloth diapers, you imagine a cotton rectangle and a pair of clothes pins; forget it. They may get filled with the same thing, but that is where the similarity between modern diapers and those relics ends. Today’s diapers are all about convenience. True, it’s not as effortless as throwing them in the trash and forgetting them, but after seeing how well they work and how easy they are to use, you wouldn’t want to anyway.

Because this is America and durable diapers is a niche market serviced by numerous small producers rather than a couple big businesses, there are quite a few styles to choose from, each with their own set of strengths and weaknesses. Having had the “which diaper to use” conundrum solved for us by Brandi’s mom, we never had to decipher which of the myriad durables would work best for our purposes; we just used what we were given. But after Brandi related our initial cloth diaper woes (which have been since been remedied … thanks Cindy) to our sister in law Sharie, an avid durable diaper proponent, a package containing several examples from the modern era promptly appeared on our doorstep. And just as I figured, the Fuzzi Bunz that Sharie had included were as technically advanced as a jet fighter. I couldn’t imagine Jeb appreciating them more lest they be made of recycled pop bottles and sporting a Patagonia label.

In the end, as with everything, it really comes down to personal choice. Is the use of cloth diapers likely to save the world? No. Does it make you a better person than someone who doesn’t? Not even close. But it may change the way in which you view yourself, your environment, and your relationship with it, which could lead to lifestyle changes that, through cumulative effect, may ultimately have a positive impact somewhere down the line. Perhaps you feel durability is a virtue worth embracing, that eschewing disposable society is worth a little inconvenience. Or maybe you figure cloth will still be there when the Pampers run out, so damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead. Either way, it’s for each to decide. What’s important, I believe, is that the matter is one well worth considering, and that there is a lot to be said for leaving the store empty handed.

So Long Little Steve, Hello Keegan

Keegan was delivered by cesarean section at eleven forty nine. Brandi was on the table, swathed in blue and green. Before they led me into the operating room they warned me not to touch anything. Her hand was sticking out from beneath the drape and I held on to it for dear life. She said she was sleepy and her eyes kept closing but I wouldn’t let her fall asleep because I didn’t know what I would do if she didn’t wake up.

It’s hard to say he was born. When a baby is delivered cesarean, it isn’t quite the same. The classic elements of story, rising action, climax, resolution, don’t present themselves in a neat tidy manner. Blissful denouement doesn’t immediately follow the baby’s arrival. I was staring at Brandi, splitting my attention between a deliberately vague recognition of the doctors at work upon her and the objective truth of the blood pressure monitor, when I heard them say ‘Baby at eleven forty nine’. A blue green huddle spirited Keegan away from her. Brandi was asking me when she would see him. I was praying as hard as I could and fighting back tears with all my might. They came on like Spartan warriors, fierce as any I have ever known.

They brought Keegan to us and showed him to Brandi and then took him to the nursery and me with him. I had to leave her lying there. I felt no thrill, not even thankful relief. The doctors were still hard at work. I left her life literally in their hands and did as I was told.

He wasn’t as lively as they would have liked and they poked and prodded and monitored him for awhile before finally they were satisfied and left the two of us more or less alone. When he cried I stroked his chest or forehead and he seemed to like that. I asked them where Brandi was and when I could see her and they said that she would be in the recovery room soon but that was all they seemed willing to offer. It was several hours before I saw her and they had told me nothing so when her mom called to ask how things were going I could only respond with fearful uncertainty. All I knew was that there was just Keegan and me, so I focused on that. His hands were tiny but when he wrapped one of them around my finger I was impressed by how tightly he held on.

After what seemed like eternity they brought Brandi out and we were reunited. She had lost a great deal of blood but even pale and weak her appearance was to me like that of an angel. When they arrived late that night, the McCoy’s description was perhaps a bit more apt, and certainly more accurate. I looked like a zombie, they said, and Brandi a ghost. Admittedly, I felt utterly spent and exhausted. Keegan had been released from the nursery and was with us then and we all visited awhile before Cindy took over the watch. I went home and slept so hard that I awoke having hardly moved a muscle.

Keegan’s arrival was a miracle, and Brandi’s performance nothing short amazing. When she was lying on the operating table she told me, “I want two things … first, I want to hold him, and, second, I want some food … I’m starving.” Of course, it was awhile before she was allowed either, but when she finally came out of surgery, she smiled at me like she meant it. The only time she seemed down was when they told her she would be on a clear diet. “Does that mean no food?” she asked.

Common lore holds that childbirth is a magical experience, and in many respects it is, but it is also a frighteningly visceral face to face encounter with mortality. I would like to say it was beautiful, and maybe it was, like a mushroom cloud can appear to be, but I’m not going to. I could make some cynical comment about the massive amount of hospital waste our visit generated, but I won’t. I’ve already filled an entire trash bag with disposable diapers, and I don’t really even feel bad about it. At this point, I haven’t the energy for such sarcasm. Right now, I can only be relieved that the color in my loved ones’ faces has returned to an appropriate shade. I’m just happy to be home, listening while Brandi and Keegan get acquainted in the next room. I’m content in the knowledge that my best friend has strength enough to laugh once again. In this, I’ll take product over process. For me, that is where the beauty lies.

The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 4

Okay, I’ll admit it. Having lent ear to your horror stories in untold number, I am willing to accept defeat. You have won. I am officially frightened.

For the longest time, I refused to acknowledge the profundity of such commentary. They are only trying to scare me, I told myself. I simply won’t believe it. Oh just wait, was often the reply. Everything will change. You’ll see.

The tales covered the entire spectrum. Toy after toy after plastic toy, my brother Jeb muttered, eyes glazed over like a veteran of some lost war. Catch up on your rest now, advised a plethora of sources, because, basically, you won’t sleep for a year. The smell, others said, faces covered with shell shock, or worse. Fun stuff? Ha! Yeah, that’s over.

A mother made the comment on the website Outside Parent that having kids is akin to entering an entirely new epoch. She called it Before Children; B.C. for short. I’ve heard this elsewhere, in different forms, from other people. I never really put much stock in it, but such insidious omnipresence leads me to believe I am missing something. Parenthood must be like combat. Until you experience it for yourself, you really can’t know anything about it.

Well, with less than a month to go before Little Steve’s arrival, I seem to be suffering from what one would call pre-battle jitters.

I’m suddenly worried about all sorts of things. What if there is something wrong with him, a chronic condition or disability? What if I panic and drop the little guy? What if he comes out looking like me, covered head to toe in fur?

No less worrisome than those genuine concerns are other, more evanescent ones. I realize my real life will change in tangible, concrete ways. But what about my invented one? What about my philosophies, my beliefs, my pipe dream? Is my fantasy of a less intrusive existence destined to be buried beneath an onslaught of plastic paraphernalia and Happy Meals? Toys, I hear Jeb say again. So many toys.

I’d really like to thank everyone who has been so supportive of Brandi and me throughout this grand adventure. We sincerely appreciate the efforts of you all. Thanks, Cindy, for spending the entire month of December making diapers. Alece, for the batch of Craigslist clothes. Sharie and Cadence, for the box filled with slightly used items (“boys love dinosaurs”). Lisa, Sandy, and Merry for their encouragement and advice. Dan and Vic, for the wonderful shower. Thanks to each and every one of you who has helped get Little Steve this far.

Did I not know you were all there, waiting to catch him should he fall, were he without your loving support and guidance, I would certainly be much more terrified than I already am.

Sticker Shock for a Mountaintop

Sitting here on my computer, surfing the internet for a jogging stroller while fighting off the global warming induced arctic chill with a gas burning furnace and a hot mug of Costa Rica’s finest bean, it’s pretty difficult to know where I really stand on the subject of energy. Certainly, the current direction leads no place I want to go, but when it comes down to putting my money where my mouth is, what other options am I given? Do I live without the stroller, the internet, the coffee? The only thing I really need is the heat. When it comes down to it, the rest I guess are luxuries.

Most of us would agree that we don’t support mountaintop coal mining practices but few of us could point out the place where the power we consume comes from, let alone source the myriad raw materials that go into each of the products we consume. Proponents claim consumers drive the free market, but this is only partially true; it is those with capital who control capitalism. Subsidies like Appalachia coal shovels alter the shape of the commodity market, obliterating the landscape and destroying natural processes. No part of the system has been left to function unmolested, unregulated. Individuals do not build the houses in which they live; industry does. They are constructed with singular function in mind; that of an efficiency for profit, not shelter. Farmers do not grow food for people; they produce crops for corporations. Consumers have little say in what products appear at market. They simply make their choice from among what is offered, often with price as the only determinate factor, and always without a clear understanding of what truly was their cost.

I have seen of late a number of exposes bent on revealing the actual cost, measured not in dollars but in death, of our having anything we want anytime we want it. Red Gold, The Cove, Food Inc, iLoveMountains.org; they all relate a similar story. Our way of living is killing every other on Earth. After a month of immersion, I am overwhelmed. Faced with this much reality, I want nothing more than to stick my head in the sand, order that stroller for Lil Steve from Wal-Mart, and sip my coffee.

Few if any of us are in a position to step out of line completely. There are very few places left in the world where one can go and practice a purely subsistence based existence, and even fewer of us who are capable. To live in these times is to be a part of this epoch of human history. Whether I want to be or not, I am part of the global community that is the dolphin slaughter in Taiji, that is genetically engineered crops in Iowa, and that is mountaintop coal mining in West Virginia.

What I gathered from all this, after calming my nerves with a cup of airlifted Costa Rican pura vida, is that we are, deliberately as well as inadvertently, asleep at the wheel. How can the practice of selling dolphin meat or producing electricity from coal dust be stopped when I don’t know where the products I consume come from or what it costs to get them here? How can I properly vote with my wallet under such circumstances? Simply put, I can’t, even if I wanted to.

For a year now, Washington has been abuzz with the term transparency. What a godsend that concept would be, if only it were applied universally. Who would buy a new jogging stroller for their Lil Steve if it had “Five mountains, seventeen thousand penguins, and countless generations of brook trout were destroyed in the making of this product” written on the side of the box? A few of us, yes. But not as many as before.

Personally, I don’t want to support mining operations that remove mountaintops in West Virginia or ruin the Bristol Bay salmon run. But I do want that jogging stroller for Little Steve, and I don’t think that those two desires are necessarily at odds. If subsidies were removed from commodities and actual environmental costs of production were assumed by consumers, I believe the free market system would force that capital be moved into cleaner, more efficient processes. The price on that jogging stroller might, and most certainly would, go up, probably a lot. But if that is the actual cost of keeping around a salmon run or mountaintop, things that are of infinitely greater consequence than Lil Steve having a new stroller, I would be happy to pay it. At the very least, I would know that what I got was what I paid for.

The Adventures of Little Steve, Vol. 3

Winter has arrived in the Bitterroot. As if this wasn’t obvious enough from the solidly frozen water in the dogs’ dish or the icy glaze on every window pane, my good friend Jake Pintok called from the comfort of his desk in the Bitterroot National Forest Supervisor’s Office to inform me that it was eleven below zero down in Sula last night. Personally, though the moon rising over the mountains was an amazing sight and bluebird skies are always appreciated, I could go for a little less cold and a little more snow. Brandi is of the opinion there is white stuff enough to test our new dog sled up at Lost Trail this weekend, but looking out from my writing nook at the rock hard skiff currently struggling to simply cover the grass in the yard, I am inclined to believe that the runners will probably be riding on pine litter instead.

The real disappointment in finding winter has arrived in Montana, for both Jacob and I, is the knowledge that neither of us put any meat in the freezer. Jake doesn’t have much excuse, as he had smaller elk in his sights on several occasions and passed them up for a shot at a big bull, but then again he has the luxury of still having plenty of meat in his freezer from the bull he took two years ago, since he has yet to crack the nut of getting Lisa and the boys to eat venison. Brandi and I, on the other hand, live off the stuff, and though not completely decimated, the stock of steak and ground chuck stored in our freezer from the young bull I took last season is fast dwindling.

Hunting big game is hard, and it certainly isn’t for everyone. It takes leg work and the ability to coldly and calculatedly take the life of one of God’s beautiful creations. Even when it works out, it isn’t necessarily as cost effective as buying half a beef from one of the kids in the local 4-H chapter. It is however, for most of us who engage in the practice, a connection to our farthest past, a link to the natural world and our place in it, and an endeavor that takes an infinitely greater responsibility for itself than ordering a quarter pounder at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

So I’m sorry Little Steve. Your dad failed you in his oldest duty, that of putting meat on the family table. Will I save those final few packages of elk in hopes of ensuring that you grow up eating the stuff? Yes. But I have to say I’m more than a little disappointed with the way this season’s hunt went, especially what with having wasted several opportunities. I’ll tell you more about that later, when you’ll better understand.

Stories of hunting success aside, things have been going rather well for Little Steve. At the very least Doc Laraway says he is progressing at a normal rate. He seems to get the hiccups quite often, and he occasionally sees fit to batter his mama’s insides looking for a way out of the cozy cocoon she provides for him. Sitting here feeling my toes go numb, this rushing desire to get out and face life only serves to demonstrate to me the naivety of youth. If he knew how cold it was here in the house, I don’t think he would be in such a big hurry to escape her warm confines.

The Greenest Lie on Earth

Though it may not have appealed to everyone, 350.org’s International Day of Climate Action garnered plenty of attention, making headlines on front pages of newspapers worldwide and resulting in over 19,000 images on Flickr. That’s quite an impression for such an innocuous number.

For those who don’t know, 350.org is an association of activists who believe 350 parts per million is the highest possible concentration of CO2 that can be present in the atmosphere without adversely affecting life as we know it here on Planet Earth. On Sunday, October 24th, the group held over 5200 events in 181 countries around the globe. Their goal was to heighten awareness about carbon dioxide emission and its possible contribution to greenhouse effect through visual demonstrations involving the number 350.

It seems that ever since the Age of Reason, everything has had to have a number. Though quite useful in terms of ratio, these specific magnitudes are insignificant, because assigning numbers never really changes anything. It wouldn’t matter if I said the speed of light was 299,792,458 meters per second or 7 billion; the qualifying consideration in the matter is that it’s a physical constant in relation to the rest of the universe, and no amount of quantifying is going to alter that fact. If people want to put the upper limit on CO2 at 350 parts per million; I say fine. It doesn’t make a difference whether it’s 350 or 750. The underlying assumption is that there is a physical limitation, a point beyond which any more carbon is simply too much.

Along with the iPhone, carbon is huge right now. Carbon cycle, carbon sequestration, carbon footprint, carbon sink, carbon offset; the terms conjure up concepts at once logical and quixotic. It’s like name dropping; just mentioning carbon instantly elevates a dialogue to a higher level, into a realm both influential and sublime.

I really don’t know how I feel about carbon, but I am quite certain about where I stand on carbon footprints, the evaluation of which is currently all the rage. That the practice is just a mechanism for the continuation of bad behavior is readily apparent from discussions regarding carbon credits and the proliferation of carbon exchanges. It’s a springboard for discrimination and elitism, a way of preserving an untenable lifestyle while maintaining an air of superiority at being “greener than thou”.

John Muir is quoted as having said, “Tug on anything at all and you’ll find it connected to everything else in the universe.” A personal favorite of mine, this musing was in the forefront of my mind as I read an abstract of an article by David Owen on Treehugger.com that claimed New Yorkers Are the Most Eco-Friendly People in the US – Without Even Trying.

Though interesting as an introspection, this assertion contains as much rubbish as a New York city garbage barge. In examining their respective carbon footprints, it is plausible that careful manipulation of the calculation’s scope and structure could result in a smaller quantity being assigned to an individual New Yorker household than to an average two car garage commuting ranch dweller in rural or suburban America, but arrival at this product is completely dependent upon process. Measuring the personal energy bill of an individual living in a New York high rise with central heating or the number of gallons of gasoline consumed by a subway riding Manhattanite without considering the carbon footprint of this attendant infrastructure, to say nothing of global environmental ties, is mere subterfuge. It is pure artifice, aimed at substantiating a standard of living while turning a blind eye upon its true price.

Deforestation in Third World and emerging countries is driven by the market pressures of wealthier nations. Clean air and water in America comes at the cost of dirty air and water in China. Beef served in Manhattan steakhouses is grazed in Montana before being shipped cross country to market. The carbon footprint of an average New Yorker is not contained within the city margins. It is imprinted upon the entire globe.

All figures aside, simple facts remain. There is no cleaner way to exist than through a simple agrarian subsistence lifestyle. This is the mode of living advocated in the philosophies of naturalists such as Muir and Thoreau; a human existence based on the stewardship of locality, not the sprawling disassociation of the contemporary American landscape. If each were left to rely strictly on their own means, the State of Vermont would continue to sustain itself, albeit in a much different way, long after Manhattan lay in ruins.

New York is a flower; a beautiful, fragrant flourish created and maintained by the larger organism that supports it. Although extremely efficient, our cities depend completely upon other regions of our country, and the world, for their sustenance. They are as inseparable from the whole as fruit from the vine.

Until the developed world moves away from an economy based on comparative advantage and cheap energy and embraces a system comprised primarily of provincial production architecture founded in basic natural processes performed at a local scale, there will be no hope for a balance between humanity and its global environ. Unfortunately, there is no easier answer, no science and technology that will save us, and no amount of statistical analysis will suffice to change our physical state. We must take ownership of our ecologic inclusion, make claim to the earth that sustains us, and root ourselves in its soil. We cannot push our impact to the periphery and deny the existence of what we cannot see. To survive, we must sacrifice. There must be dirt beneath our fingernails and muck about our feet, and we must accept it as our own. Like any catharsis, there will be growing pains. But I, for one, believe the call to arms that is the environmental movement is really only an expression of our longing for a simpler existence and that we, as a whole, prefer life as a butterfly.

Swap O Rama Rama

My super amazing friend Alyssa Stewart is up to her elbows in a big ole batch of let’s remake Planet Earth as she and some of her companeros at the University of Montana bring new life to old clothing through a giant sustainability symposium and community swap meet. Join the effort in Missoula on Nov 8th or look for a Swap-O-Rama-Rama in your own backyard.

For more info, visit Swap-O-Rama-Rama Missoula

Stick to the Makai Side

Stick to the makai side. That is what the locals told us. We had no idea what they meant, but it sounded like good advice.

My brothers and I were in Hawaii for our grandfather’s 80th birthday. Most of our group had retired for the evening, but we were still up for some action. Seemed the tourist enclave of Ka’anapali went to bed with the sunset, so we decided to walk to town. We’d heard the typically cautionary stories of native residents exhibiting predatory behavior towards hapless vacationers, but we were unconcerned. We were three lads from Montana; there was nothing in this paradise for us to fear. If anything, the locals ought to be afraid of us.

A public beach began where the exclusive sands belonging to the hotels and condominiums ended. When we reached it, two voices hailed us over the roaring surf. Two forms, silhouetted against a vast ocean, sat upon a picnic bench. Barely visible within a growing darkness, they beckoned for us to join them.

Beers were offered, and accepted. We come here every day, they told us, to watch the sun set. It is characteristic of Hawaiians, even temporary ones, to quit whatever mundane pursuit might occupy their attention and bear witness to the departure of that life-giving golden orb. Almost ritualistically, they bid it farewell, in hopes such penance may guarantee its eventual return.

As we prepared to take our leave, a dark hand fished amongst the few remaining ice chips still floating in a water-filled cooler. Five beers left, its owner announced, and five people to drink them. Unable to refute such logic, we stayed on. The beer was cold and the company good. We drank and listened to tales told in waves, resounding with crashing tones as they threw themselves against the beach.

Where you headed, we were asked. To town, we answered. Simple, we were told. Walk that way, and stick to the makai side.

Makai side, we asked.

Makai side, they answered. The ocean side. That’s the literal translation, but it is much more than that. It is a direction, yes, but it is also a point of view, a mindset. In all things, keep to the makai side.

The beers were gone. Our paths parted and we traveled on. The surf roared, and in the morning the sun rose over paradise once more.

Stick to the makai side friends.