Hawaii, for me anyway, is complicated.

I mean, I love it, and, frankly, like a lot of other haoles, I kind of want to be Hawaiian. At the same time, I lament the parts I've played in the problems caused by tourism, as well as the appropriation and dilution of Hawaiian culture. Clearly, I could just stay away and leave it at that. But I don’t. So, I always try to be respectful, buy local, donate to local food banks, generally practice Leave No Trace principles, and then go home.

I don’t own property on the islands or anything like that, but I know I speak from a position of extreme privilege. In the last two decades, I’ve visited Hawaii a dozen or so times – often staying a couple of weeks or more, almost always in a VRBO or Airbnb. Maui is the island that’s hosted me most frequently, and with the sole exception of my most recent visit, I’ve always stayed in Lahaina, not far from Pu’unoa (Baby) Beach. For much of their lives, my (now adult) kids thought of Lahaina as almost a second hometown; it’s the place they spent the most time outside of Minnesota.

Obviously, that all changed in August 2023. When I saw the devastation from the wildfires, I wasn’t sure if I could return to Maui. I donated what I could and followed news of the shock, displacement, anger, and slow recovery from a distance. I felt like a part of me was gone, but simultaneously, I also felt it wasn’t my place to feel that way, so I stayed away.

Several months later, I started seeing news stories implying that staying away was hurting the Valley Isle and the tourist-dependent economy needed visitors. After a few weeks of hemming and hawing, I decided to make the trip. I found an Airbnb in Pa’ia, then booked a flight, and headed to Maui for five days – my shortest-ever visit to Hawaii. 

When my Airbus from the mainland rounded Haleakala, and I saw Molokini silhouetted against the sun, which was dipping below the horizon between Lanai and Kaho’olawe, my throat caught. Stepping off the plane on a Thursday evening, the humid air soaking into my winter-dried face, seeing the familiar, outdated decor of the Kahului airport, I practically wept. But the business of the airport – luggage, rental car, etc. – pressed, and I got down to it. 

I’d decided beforehand that I wouldn’t go to Lahaina or even visit that side of the island. Clean-up efforts were ongoing, and I didn’t feel I had a place being there. I felt a bit of a pull, but I kept my word to myself. The closest I got was the overlook just west of McGregor Point, where I spent a few hours watching humpbacks breach and slap their tails to the (I assume) delight of the passengers on the crowded boats watching the whales.

I discovered my new favorite breakfast place in Hawaii – Tasty Crust in Wailuku – as well as an incredible plate lunch at Da Kitchen in Kihei. I strolled the paths at Iao Valley State Monument, which now requires a timed entry permit for visitors, and I hiked at the Haleakala Summit - but not for sunrise because I couldn’t get a timed entry permit for the dates I was on the island. But that’s okay; I’m more of a sunset guy, anyway.

I like birds, so I ended up visiting the Summit District of Haleakala National Park three times on my trip. The high-altitude forest near Hosmer Grove is one of the final holdouts for some of the most endangered species of birds on the planet. Mongooses, feral cats, and pigs, as well as habitat loss and non-native bird species – all introduced thanks to missionaries and colonialism – have decimated their numbers. I saw hunting pueos – Hawaiian short-eared owls – each day I was on Haleakala’s shoulders. Threatened, themselves, they’ve adapted and shifted their diets. Instead of hunting Hawaiian honeycreepers, they now prey on mongooses – a glimmer of hope in this most fragile of ecosystems. 

And there I was, pasty in a hat and sunscreen, pointing my camera lens out the window of my white, rental Pacifica, bearing witness to it all.

For the first three days on Maui, I avoided a thing I knew I had to do. I was staying in Paia, after all, and I hadn’t been on the island in a few years (my previous three trips had been to the Big Island). But I felt a need to drive the Road to Hana – one of the things I’d always loved about visiting Maui.

Yet, it was a little fraught for me. Here’s the point where I need to disclose that this was also my first visit to Maui as a divorced guy. Every other time I’d visited the island, I’d been with my then-wife and still-kids (who’d both turned down joining me on the trip due to the short notice). And I’d always had a companion on the Road to Hana – usually my now-ex but, on occasion, a visiting friend. This would be my first time driving it alone, yet given the context of my visit, it seemed appropriate. Nevertheless, I still felt a little sad about the idea (oh, there’s the waterfall where we frolicked, etc.) and was dreading the drive.

The fact that it was raining when I pulled away from Ho’okipa Beach, where I’d stopped to watch the surf roaring in, the wind blowing back the wave crests into plumes of mist, made me feel a little better. The amount of traffic I encountered on a rainy Sunday morning did not. While I cursed the vans and cars and buses on the road, I kept reminding myself that I, in my luck-of-the-draw-because-it-was-cheaper-why-didn’t-I-rent-a-Jeep Pacifica minivan, was not part of the solution.

I made few stops along the way because most of the limited parking areas were full. Instead, I simply slowed for the waterfalls and viewpoints, taking in what I could from the driver's seat. There would be no frolicking on this trip, regardless. While I was at the village of Ke'anae, on a small peninsula quilted with taro fields and one of the most beautiful communities in the Aloha State, standing on the jagged shoreline watching waves crash, two – two! – tour buses pulled in and discharged dozens of tourists. On previous visits, I encountered few, if any, other tourists in Ke'anae – other than myself and my traveling companions, of course.

This was the story down the length of the Hana Highway. On the side road to Wai'anapanapa State Park – for which I’d managed to secure my timed entry tickets – I crept over the potholed asphalt, trying not to break an axle or bust a ball joint. A white pickup roared by me on the left, a local loudly voicing his displeasure out the open window as they passed. I was mad because WTF? But I was also dejected because I knew he was right. Slow tourists clogging narrow, one-and-half-lane roads when folks are trying to get home, to work, or go about their business, could only be frustrating (especially since – given the number turned away in front of me – many folks didn’t seem to know they needed reservations and shouldn’t have been on the road in the first place). 

The park, of course, was full. I had to jockey for a space in the lot, then descend the steps with a throng of other visitors to the crowded black sand beach below. I walked around a bit, took a few photos, and left. In Hana, which lends the road its name, it felt like there was a little more elbow room. Only one or two other customers were in the Hasegawa General Store, and the Hana Maui Resort (formerly the Hotel Hana Maui) didn’t look like it was booked to capacity.

On the previous half-dozen or so times I’d driven the road to Hana, I’d, of course, seen other people, but I’d never seen so many – and this wasn't even the busy season yet. I was looking forward to the next stretch – from Hana to the Kipahulu District of Haleakala National Park – because many visitors turn around at Hana and head back. The narrow, pitted road between Hana and the park was certainly less crowded than the first leg of the Hana Highway had been, but there was more traffic than I’d remembered, and the Wailua Falls parking area was, not unexpectedly, full – as was the lower parking lot at the Kipahulu visitor center.

And this was at a time when Maui was lamenting its lack of visitors. In the few years between my visits to the island, something had clearly happened. The number of tourists had exploded, and what I perceived as “crowded” was now considered a low turnout. At least, that was my thought. Prior to the Maui wildfires, in fact, there had been a push to defund the Hawaii tourism authority and stop marketing the state as a tourist destination.

Leaving the Kipahulu district parking lot, I turned left – as was my custom – instead of turning right, back toward Hana, Pa’ia, and Kahului. Taking this route around the far side of Haleakala – from Kipahulu to UIupalakua – was usually the best way to experience the beauty of Maui without the tourist throngs. My favorite itinerary was to head out on the Road to Hana in the morning, circumnavigate the volcano, and end up at the Haleakala summit for sunset. And that’s what I did on this visit.

I did get briefly slowed behind a vanful of tourists on the single-lane road, but other than that, I saw nobody but a few locals in the 30 miles around the remote base of Haleakala. I was in heaven. Largely empty Maui roads, mostly to myself, sweeping views out over the Pacific and mauka to the summit. But on this trip, it began to occur to me that, as welcome as this empty road was to me, the sight of my white rental Pacifica was a sure sign to those living on this side that tourists were encroaching on their last vestige of an untrammeled Maui.

I ended my adventure on the summit of Haleakala for sunset – among the droves of visitors (topmost parking lot long-closed as full) – before heading back down to my Airbnb. The next day, I was scheduled to fly home, and I just wasn’t sure what to do. I grabbed another breakfast at Tasty Crust, then went back to Ho’okipa where I lingered, watching monk seals playing in the surf and surfers trying to catch a wave.

Maui wasn’t the same for me. And it was as much me as it was the island. My sense of being part of the problem loomed larger than it ever had. But I still felt that familiar pang of not wanting to leave. Not yet, anyway. Nevertheless, when the wheels of my plane lifted off the tarmac, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was “Aloha” for the last time.