The Ultimate Childhood Fantasy

It recently occurred to me that my granddaughter Ua is experiencing almost the same childhood as her mama – same valley, same elementary school, many friends who are the children of Maile’s old playmates, camping in Kalalau valley, trekking the Himalayas, fishing and swimming in the Kalihiwai river, surfing at the beach, holidays in the cool uplands of Koke‘e. Sitting on her bed in her second-floor room looking out of the window, Ua hears the sound of the waterfall, she sees mountains, the river, the boathouse, lo‘i, gardens, orchards, cows in the pasture, the one lane gravel road that leads to the beach. And Maile decided years ago that she wants Ua to attend Punahou for high school because it was such a good experience for her.

I called Taylor Camp “the Ultimate Hippie Fantasy" and I realize now that when I bought land and built our home in Kalihiwai Valley I was consciously creating “the Ultimate Childhood Fantasy.” A fantasy for the children I wanted and the child I wanted to be. While I designed and graded the land, sited the buildings, and built the infrastructure to maximize comfort, aesthetics and efficiency, I fenced and planted what would feed us, what would last.

My father was what they called an “outdoorsman.” He fished and hunted and camped but, unlike me, he didn’t have the urge to join Huck Finn and light out for the Territories. As we drove through the Wisconsin parklands he didn’t wonder what it would take to make the water potable or how long we’d have to build a shelter before the hard freeze set in. But we were the only family in our extended clan that had guns and fishing tackle and a rifle range in our basement that we used in winter to sight in the scopes. The only family that caught and killed, and ate what we caught and killed.

Starting in the fall when I was 8, Dad would pull me out of school for a week of bass, walleye and pike fishing. We’d pack up the Pontiac and drive to his secret camp in a forest clearing on a stony Lake Michigan beach in Door County. We’d hack our way into the woods along an old two-rut logging trail until the car was almost bottomed out and hidden from the dirt road. Dad had a pot, fry pan and grill rolled up in a brown tarp and hidden in a hollow log back there. Passing through Bailey’s Harbor, he’d rent a boat and trailer and launch from a natural rock ramp near our camp. Or sometimes we’d fish the little lakes formed by the beaver dams we’d portage with a come-a-long as we made our way into the swampy interior of the peninsula. For my German old man, this was not survival skill training but pure pleasure, a way to catch supper and cook over an open fire…and have some leftovers for breakfast if we were lucky. For my Irish uncles who considered a round of golf in an electric cart with a caddie and a cooler of beer to be a wilderness adventure, Dad’s fishing trips seemed a voluntary torture and no one ever took him up on his offer to join us after viewing his slideshows.

One day as we were driving past one of her friend’s houses, Ua announced from her carseat in the back, “We don’t have the nicest house but we have the best land.” Years before Maile was married and Ua was born, Maile told me, “Dad, I need a shack of my own.” I had two old shipping containers in the pasture next door so I helped her anchor the big metal boxes with concrete piers on a hill in the middle of the valley, well above the historic tidal wave elevation. Maile then met a carpenter and together, they incorporated the containers into a spacious studio with a kitchen, toilet, carport and shop. When Maile announced she was pregnant, her husband built a second story with bedrooms, another bathroom, and an office/yoga studio for his bride. It’s a patchwork, a hodgepodge. It’s home in a wild country carved out of jungle, swamp and mountains with rats, marauding boar, and feral jungle fowl that crow until the moon sets. And she loves it as much as her daughter does.

When Maile and Pat have houseguests, they have to warn them that their home is untraditional – no dishwasher, air-con, or TV. But it’s a huge step up from the double-burner propane stove that Maile grew up cooking on. And their shower, although outdoors and wrapped in shadowy vegetation, is fully enclosed and has hot water, also an upgrade from Maile’s childhood.

On a late spring night, after a rain, the calling and croaking of hundreds of mating frogs vibrates the dark valley to a starry crescendo. I lie in their guest room and wonder, “Is my life nothing but the creation of images and memories of the child I once was and the world I always wanted?”