Oahu’s Mt. Olomana: Walking a thin line above the world

In old Hawaii, Olomana was a great warrior. And so he is today, but nowadays he’d rather have your sweat than your blood. At least, I think that’s true. Then again, maybe, given my experience, it’s both.

His namesake, Mt. Olomana, and its three rugged peaks rise from the flats of Kailua on windward Oahu. Surrounded by verdant jungle, it breaks away from old Hawaii marshland — now a new Hawaii golf course, subdivisions and farms — and rises more than 1,600 feet. A hike along its narrow ridgeline is a challenge, so one day in May — with only a slight chance of rain in the forecast — my friends Deanna, Kristin and I set out to confront the warrior.

Marked by an unobtrusive sign, the path leading to Mt. Olomana breaks through stands of kiawe and ohia trees, bamboo, assorted palms and various introduced species. Kristin and Deanna started the ascent at a jogger’s pace. We huffed our way to a patch of ironwoods, an imported dry pine from Australia now synonymous with the Hawaiian landscape. Ghostly whispers of wind sighed through the trees.

“It’s funny,” I said between timed breaths. “These pines and the sound the wind makes…huff, huff, huff … reminds me … huff …of hiking in the Sierra.”

Beyond the ironwoods, a series of laborious switchbacks traversed Mt. Olomana’s spine, ending at its first peak. Tree roots, arched out of the soil, provided a nice handgrip to help pull myself up the trail. After two years of practicing yoga, I had a goal of getting my feet flat on the ground as I posed in a downward dog. The trail’s steep angle finally forced my taut Achilles tendons to stretch enough to reach that goal.

Although I thanked the misty clouds for cover from the torrid Hawaiian sun, I knew that if the mist became anything more than a sprinkle, this trail would turn into a slip-and-slide.

Three-quarters of the way to the summit, with my cardio maxing out, I took a seat on a rock outcropping and watched the scene below me. On the mauka (toward the mountains) side, an expertly groomed golf course, carved from the Waimanalo Forest, stood empty, waiting for golfers. On the makai (toward the sea) side, marshland edged toward arid hills. Encompassing all, the ocean represented every vibrant shade of blue, with smudges of gray marking corals beneath the surface.

Deanna and Kristin climbed the outcrop, aided by one of the many permanent ropes found along extra-difficult sections of the trail. I looked at them and did not need to remark on the beauty. Our backpacks unzipped, and the cameras appeared.

“All right, we’re almost there,” I said.

My heart had refused to calm down in the five minutes I sat on my perch. We trudged on, passing effervescent purple orchids. With one last rope haul up a 20-foot rock face, we would be at the first peak.

Pulling myself to the top of the crag, I was surprised to find it flat, with patches of vegetation. Ten more paces and a 180-degree view of the windward side of Oahu opened up. A panorama of neon greens and blues announced, “This is Hawaii.”

“Bagged the first peak,” I relayed to Deanna and Kristin.

As we refueled on turkey sandwiches and organic strawberry toaster pastries, local hikers, sweat-soaked and dirt-stained, sauntered up the narrow path.

“You guys going all da way?” a male hiker in his mid-20s asked.

“Yeah, we are,” I responded after a slight pause, waiting for assurance from Deanna and Kristin that never came.

“All right, we see you at da third peak,” the hiker said.

Mt. Olomana’s second peak was about 100 yards distant, with its third peak visually close yet vertically strenuous to reach. Even though the first peak is the tallest, the third peak provides the most technical challenge for hikers.

I stood up and, bracing myself against a blast of wind, began my descent along the back of the first peak.

I am one with the mountain goats, I told myself as I leaped from one basalt knuckle to the next. But like a bucket of cold water to the face, I was stunned by an abrupt reality check: I was skidding on loose earth to impending death.

My brain flicked into emergency-response mode, and my hands grasped for something solid. Like a character in a bad movie, I was hanging onto a decrepit tree root.

“Deanna!” I yelled as loudly as possible.

I suction-cupped my body to the crumbling basalt. My breathing was choked and desperate. Fearing the root would give way, I cautiously pulled myself back onto the trail.

My body vibrated with adrenaline. My legs carried me back to my hiking partners, who were still atop the first peak. They were transfixed by the view.

“You don’t even realize what just happened, do you?” I asked excitedly, sounding as if I had just chugged a 42-ounce espresso.

I led them to the scuffed dry clay that marked my departure over the trail’s edge.

“Oh, my God,” they exclaimed.

“That could have been it,” I said.

I felt like an energy windstorm. We made it to the second peak within five minutes.

The third peak, like a serrated knife, was closer than ever. Standing on the smooth mound of the middle peak, my adrenaline evaporated. I felt like a bag of rocks about to drop.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” I said. “I feel like I’m about to collapse.”

I pushed aside those feelings. I had to reach the third peak.

The descent along the spine of the second peak was made with the help of a rope tied to a tree. I grabbed hold, assured my partners that it was secure, and started to lower myself down the 200-foot shelf. As I stood near-perpendicular to the rock, I told Deanna I was feeling dizzy.

“Did I tell you I have a fear of heights?” she responded.

I wasn’t helping her.

At the base of the rappel, I waited patiently for Deanna and Kristin. The rope remained slack long enough for me to realize they weren’t coming. I watched the other hikers I had promised to meet on the third peak as they drew closer to bagging their goal. I was minutes away. On a drastically smaller scale, I knew how an Everest climber feels as he turns his back on the unreached summit.

As we began our return trek, a fine mist wafted through the air, carrying with it several red lehua flowers. I imagined we were in the Japanese Alps, watching a light snowfall with cherry blossoms billowing in the wind. It reminded me of how connected everything is, and I had to stop and say, “No, this is Hawaii. Thank you, Olomana.”

travel@latimes.com