We head down the hill toward the beachside, residential compound of Puamana, or what’s left of it. Swaths of that same red dirt, patted down and neatly mowed, are all that remain on the lot where McPhee’s home once stood. But there by the shoreline, amongst dried grass and blackened trunks: a small palm tree with overeager fronds. McPhee inspects the green leaves and nods. He planted this tree on his son’s first birthday—a year to the day before the August 8, 2023 Lahaina fires—and, thanks to his efforts, it has survived.

“This tree was the first little glimmer of hope,” he says. Lahaina—for those uninitiated by way of family vacation or honeymoon—is a beloved small town on the island of Maui. Before last August, it was home to just under 13,000 people. The original capital of the kingdom of Hawai‘i, Lahaina was a boomtown in the 19th century for the whaling industry, opening itself up as a major port for Western culture and trade.

But last August, a perfect storm—winds from Hurricane Dora, unmaintained grasslands, outdated infrastructure, and, some might say, county negligence—devastated Lahaina with the deadliest wildfire in US history. The disaster claimed more than 100 lives, affected over 2,200 structures, and resulted in approximately $5.5 billion worth of damages, according to the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA)’s Preliminary After-Action Report.

Now, a year later, with cleanup technically ahead of schedule, Lahaina still has a long way to go. Major questions remain and myriad opinions conflict on what the town should become and how it’s being handled in the interim. Tourism, for better or worse, was the backbone of Lahaina’s past. Will that be its future?

Seated on his girlfriend’s couch, Naiwi Teruya, the former executive chef of Lahaina restaurant Down the Hatch, clears his throat and tugs at the collar of his red “Lahaina Strong” t-shirt. Nearly a year ago, in a pair of rubber slippers, he fought for his life through 90-mile-per-hour winds. “I couldn’t even walk in that fucking wind. I barely made it out,” he says. “I lost everything.”

Like many people in town, Teruya, who says he’s an 18th-generation Lahainan, is still reeling.

“People were killing themselves right after the fire. But I lost my friend two months ago. That’s how bad it is. It’s still bad,” he says.

Teruya helped run one of the locally managed “Kanaka Costco” distribution hub centers immediately after the fire, providing much-needed supplies. As the recovery efforts move forward, he is concerned about big issues—like who will get access to Lahaina’s precious water and whether the county is fulfilling its responsibility to its residents.

“I feel very sad, mostly,” he continues. “The fact that they’re ahead of schedule is some good news. But you’re constantly being reminded of the things that are not there anymore. It never stops.”

Though many iconic places have been wiped out, some have survived. Mala, a sister restaurant to Teruya’s Down the Hatch, sits at the northern end of Front Street, Lahaina’s historic, waterfront drag. Mala survived the fire completely intact and had the weighty privilege of being the first restaurant to reopen in town.

“[We opened] so these guys could come back to our community and have a place to eat and we could generate that little bit of healing,” says Mala co-owner Rob Pharrell.

As McPhee and I make our way along what remains of Front Street, few buildings stand unscathed, while others are razed or totally unrecognizable in the rubble. Mynah birds make nests in the courthouse windows, prime real estate along the harbor with million-dollar views of Molokai and Lanai. With so many buildings downed, you can see the expanse of the town. The famous landmark Banyan Tree—nestled between the harbor, the courthouse, and King Kamehameha III Elementary School—still stands, though hunks have been chopped away to save her, a mission dear to McPhee.

After McPhee’s first trip to the burn zone, where he found his son’s tree had survived, he founded his nonprofit, ReGreen Lahaina, to rescue the area’s some 30,000 trees. McPhee goes into the burn zone with a water truck, nourishing the surviving flora. It’s a natural pivot from his former work as owner and farmer of Punakea Palms, a coconut farm that offered tours and education in nearby Launiupoko.

“I haven’t made one cent since the fires,” he says. He and his family are still dwelling in a hotel. “FEMA is paying $12,000 a month in rent for us to live in a concrete box.”

This summer, Mayor Richard Bissen signed in a $1.7 billion budget for the county of Maui, providing more than $300 million in grant revenue and funding. FEMA will continue covering the exorbitant fees for residences like McPhee’s until February 2025. Then? “My family and I are on the street,” McPhee says.

Kimo Clark, the owner of the construction company Truth Excavation, hopes to keep as many families as possible from that fate. Clark documents his role in the cleanup efforts on his Instagram account @tru.xlife. After the camera crews and journalists left Maui, Clark decided to use his platform as a broadcast for all things Lahaina. Personally, he’s been through a lot.

“I have every perspective of being in the fire,” he says. “Losing my home, losing a part of my business, being involved in the fire from the very beginning, every step of the way—from search and recovery to hazmat removal to demolition.”

Clark says the cleanup is months ahead of schedule, which should allow more Lahaina residents to apply for building permits. The county has accelerated this process—a once-300-business-day ordeal now takes about 15 days, helping alleviate the area’s acute housing crisis. Still, the County of Maui and the University of Hawai‘i Economic Research Organization estimate that approximately 4,000 residents have moved away since the fires.

Though her Lahaina eatery Papa’aina burned down in the fires, Top Chef alum, restaurateur, and 10-year Hawai‘ian resident Lee Anne Wong believes that housing needs to be prioritized. “Who’s going to run your Disneyland if nobody can afford to live here?” she says. “You know, there’s literally no housing for the workforce.”

She’d like to see the county let indigenous residents lead. “I would hope that Native Hawai‘ian groups all have voices at the table when it comes to how Lahaina is going to be rebuilt,” she adds.

As rebuilding begins in earnest, questions remain about the role tourism should play in the future of Lahaina’s economy.

Kim Ball is a 44-year resident of Lahaina, the owner of Hi-Tech Surf Sports, and the former wrestling coach of Lahainaluna High School. A month after the fires, Mayor Bissen called him, asking him to head economic development as part of Bissen’s Lahaina Advisory Team.

“What’s gonna happen to Front Street?” Ball wonders. “Build and rebuild [in] the same [architectural and commercial] style it was before? I know a lot [of people] want to see that. I think there needs to be more emphasis on getting, whether we like it or not, tourism as a driver.”

But not everyone feels that way. “Lahaina is beat up,” Teruya says. “We gotta let her rest and heal. And I feel like, a lot of times, we don’t do that. Hawai‘i’s cancer is tourism, so it’s good, in a sense, that it’s gone.”

Perhaps there’s the rub. The fires have brought to the surface tensions that have long been a part of life in Lahaina. Many locals agree with Teruya that the Lahaina of the future would be better off with less of an emphasis on tourism, while others simply want to get back to a sense of normalcy as fast as possible.

Clark of Truth Excavation acknowledges this ache. “I know we have to have the tourist thing. 100 percent not against that. But let’s not cater only to tourists,” he says.

Teruya has a bigger-picture vision. “I feel like maybe there’s a hybrid version, where culture, recreation, education, and knowledge can be even more incorporated into [tourists’ vacations],” he says. “Because I know for a fact that a lot of people that visit here want to learn more about the culture.”

Meanwhile, ReGreen Lahaina’s McPhee is doing what he can, letting his approach unfold one new leaf at a time. “I felt really guilty about this almost unrestricted access to this healing process,” he says of going daily into the burn zone. “But the mission is … [giving] life back to these trees that [Lahainans have] spent their whole life under.”

As Lahaina’s trees grow in the aftermath of unprecedented devastation, the future of the town remains obscure. The smoke has cleared, but the vision is still hazy.

The post Rebuilding Lahaina appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

My left thumb ran back and forth across the line, guiding it from side to side to keep it from getting tangled. My other hand gripped the fishing pole, cranking the handle and fighting with my opponent. All eyes were on me.

It had been a long time since I’d grappled with a fish. I first learned how during childhood camping trips to places like Sequoia National Park, Mount Lassen, and Yosemite. I vividly remember watching as my best friend’s dad grilled up our catch each day.

Garlic, butter, salt, and pepper. He always kept it simple, but when I was a young kid, it felt like eating at a five-star restaurant. All the work to prepare the hook and throw the line into the water; the waiting, waiting, more waiting until we finally latched onto a fish—these were the invisible spices that made each bite so delicious.  

I remembered those days by the river as I fought with my catch aboard Mauna Lani Resort’s 42-foot Yellowfin sporting yacht off the coast of the Big Island in Hawaii. This wasn’t like the peaceful waters of my childhood days, though—we were trolling the ocean near one of the world’s most dangerous channels, Alenuihaha. 

“People attempt to swim this every year,” captain Ikaika said. “They almost always fail.” Getting here by boat had also proved to be a bit challenging. Most of the other guests had gotten seasick early on and were fighting through nausea. (Pro tip: Take Dramamine, no matter how comfortable you are on the water.)

But I was ready for adventure. As we made our way across the ocean, we heard stories of island life and Hawaiian traditions and culture and learned about deep-sea fishing. And then—we heard it. The click-click-click sound that alerts fishermen that something is on the line.

Everyone rushed to the front as I grabbed onto the large fishing rod attached to the boat. “Back and forth, back and forth. Here, sit on the gunwale,” our captain instructed, pointing to the side of the boat, which would give me added support. “There. Now it’ll be easier.”

“If you need a break, you can tap someone in,” my fellow passengers assured me. Not a chance. I was 13 again, battling with my catch to bring home dinner for the night. Ten minutes later, we pulled out a 15-pound mahi mahi, tossing it into a cooler for later. It was sincerely one of the best experiences I’ve had on my travels.

Deep-sea fishing aboard the Kalama Kai is one of the offerings available to guests at the Mauna Lani. The expedition also includes the opportunity to taste your catch (with a chef’s touch) at the hotel’s CanoeHouse. Helmed by executive chef Allen Nagun, the Japanese-influenced farm-to-table restaurant sits on the beach and is surrounded by tiki torches, swaying palm trees, and plenty of outdoor seating.  

That night, mahi mahi was the star of the menu. Dish after dish, chef Nagun showcased his craft, using every inch of the fish. We nibbled cold and grilled sashimi, tempura-fried fish sticks, smoked collar, and a mouthwatering fish stew. Eight courses in, we had to wave the white flag—though, with 15 pounds of fish, the kitchen could have kept going.

Unlike in my Yosemite days, though, retreating to bed after dinner involved more white linens and oceanfront views and fewer sleeping pads and mosquito nets. Mauna Lani has more than 300 rooms and suites, as well as residences and an estate with accommodations for up to 15 people. While I can’t quite call it grown-up camping, falling asleep to the sounds of the ocean outside of my room offered the kind of nature vacation that I was looking for.

The resort sits along the Kohala Coast, about 30 minutes from the Kona airport, and is one of the island’s most iconic properties. Opened in 1983, it boasts a colorful past  marked with notable visitors and celebrity guests such as Elvis Presley and Babe Ruth. In 2018, Auberge Resorts purchased the hotel and put more than $200 million dollars into returning it to its glory days. 

Though the property is beautifully revamped, it’s the quiet nature of this hotel that makes it so attractive. There were plenty of guests around during my stay, but everyone seemed to come for a respite from the busy mainland life. Nowadays, it can be hard to have a truly restful vacation—and, truthfully, family-friendly hotels are rarely the place to do so.

But you get the sense that Mauna Lani’s guests truly understand hoʻomaha—the act of resting, pausing, and actually stopping work. It’s not easy to do, but the hotel’s Goop Glow facial sure helps. The signature spa treatment is exclusive to the resort and is meant to help detoxify, moisturize, and supercharge your skin using Gwenyth Paltrow’s high-end skincare line.

If moving your body is your personal key to unlocking zen, there are plenty of activities to keep you busy. Each week, the property puts out a list of daily offerings, including sunrise canoeing or yoga, pickleball and tennis clinics, plant tours, lei-making classes, kids’ camps, walking tours, and programming that teaches you about the island’s turtles. Or, you can settle into a pool- or beachside cabana and enjoy food and drinks from the Surf Shack.

At the end of the trip, I felt fully relaxed for the first time in awhile. Sometimes, when I come home from a vacation, I find myself craving extra days to recharge before getting back to life. But the resort seems to send some of its peacefulness home with you—I arrived back in California fully refreshed. The only thing on my mind was how quickly I could jump aboard the Kalama Kai for another adventure.

The post Relaxing (and Reeling) at Hawaii’s Mauna Lani Resort appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

During my first visit there in 2018 for a botanical-themed journalism fellowship, I developed a newfound appreciation for the mystifying wonder of plants—their astounding diversity, limitless complexity, and extraordinary beauty. Returning this winter from a gray-skied San Diego, I wanted to reconnect with that sunny greenery.

Known as the Garden Island, Hawai‘i’s most westerly offering is a verdant blotch of craggy jungled peaks and sluicing waterfalls. This violent, mesmerizing topography, and in particular its central peak, Mount Waialeale—meaning “a rippling on the water”—is the cause of Kauai’s plentiful rainfall, the most of any Hawai‘ian island. (In fact, it’s one of the rainiest places on earth.) These sharply rising mountains propel moist air skywards, where it cools and condenses into bursting clouds. The plants are happy on Kauai, and so am I.

Evidence of Kauaians’ affinity for the botanical world is everywhere on the island. Fruit and vegetable stands dot the roadsides. Everyone seems to garden. Wellness shops abound, hawking products like kava, an herbal depressant made from roots, and noni, a medicinal fruit.

As soon as I arrived at my hotel, the Lodge at Kukui‘ula, I was adorned with a lei of pua kenikeni, a pale yellow flower with a scent reminiscent of plumeria; traditionally, these pretty blooms signify affection and respect. The welcome christening occurred in view of both Kukui‘ula Harbor and the property’s communal farm stand, which boasts papaya, turmeric, and edible yellow nasturtium flowers, all harvested from Kukui’ula’s 10-acre farm.

The fellowship I’d attended in 2018 was hosted by the National Tropical Botanical Garden, a federal research organization which advocates for Hawai‘i’s indigenous flora. “Our connections with this landscape and our connections with these plants have always been,” says Lei Wann, an NTBG conservationist and Kauai native. “It’s a tradition that has been handed down from generation to generation.”

On a slow-going island, NTBG is a flurry of activity. Its brave botanists scale steep mountain ridges in search of rare plants. In pristine labs, biologists inspect germplasm under microscopes. The org’s seed bank houses 17 million seeds from 533 native flora, such as Hawai‘i’s foundational ‘ōhi‘a trees, which are currently threatened by a marauding fungus. There is also ‘ekaha, or bird’s nest fern, the feathery leaves of which adorn hula altars and are used in canoe-cutting ceremonies, and loululelo, a critically endangered fan palm whose name means “umbrella” because the large leaves were utilized for protection from the rain and sun. Some two dozen gardeners tend to every tropical plant you can imagine. NTBG guides, like Oahu-born Randy Bartlett, cart bug-eyed visitors into these sprawling edens to explore.

“If you look to your right, there’s a patch of bananas waving gently in the breeze,” Bartlett says as we descend a bumpy path in an air-conditioned van, heading deep into the bowels of the 200-acre McBryde Garden, NTBG’s flagship grounds. “They are usually pretty friendly. If you wave, they’ll wave back.”

During our drive, Bartlett identifies obscure plant species with all the gusto of a safari guide pointing out rhinos. It is clear from his commentary that Kauai is a global smorgasbord of plant life, like a botanical Babel: fig trees from Queensland, Indian and Chinese banyans, African tulip trees. Local plant enthusiasts, who observe strict divisions between native and non-native entities, are not so enthused about this; throughout Hawai‘i, invasive species wreak ecological havoc (though, it should be said, not all foreign species are invasive, meaning species that uncontrollably proliferate). If you spot these intruders, such as kahili ginger or strawberry guava, botanists recommend uprooting them.

Eighty percent of the 1,200 plant species native to Hawai‘i are endemic—they are found nowhere else on earth.

Many Hawai‘ians harbor a deep reverence for these plants, stemming from both biological interest and cultural affinity. In ancient times, the indigenous people of Hawai‘i found practical and religious uses for nearly every one.

Hala, for instance, a zany, stilted species also known as “the walking tree,” is a veritable Swiss Army knife of native utility, used for thatching roofs; weaving baskets, mats, hats, fans, and hula adornments; and crafting medicine to treat wounds, fever, and diarrhea—and it’s edible. Today, scientists glean important insights from its unique properties, too.

“Our gardens have really become habitats for not just the plant itself but this whole ecosystem to function,” says Wann, who specializes in ahupua’a, a conservation practice informed by indigenous Hawai‘ian techniques and knowledge systems. Adherents follow natural watersheds in establishing plot boundaries and practice crop rotation, among other ancient sustainable approaches on land and at sea. “It’s really the footprint of our ahupua’a ways of life that guide our knowledge, our research, and the ways in which we engage in this landscape,” Wann adds.

The first humans to introduce new plants to Hawai‘i were Polynesian seafarers, who settled the islands sometime between the 4th and 7th centuries (the reigning theory is that these explorers came from the Marquesas Islands). For medicines, supplies, and food, they shipped 27 species of plants alongside them, including bananas, breadfruit, and coconuts. Botanists today refer to these species as “canoe plants.” Often cultivated for their practical and cultural significance, canoe plants are generally not considered invasive as they do not threaten other species.

Strolling through McBryde, I spot happy specimens of several: paper mulberry, hibiscus, and milo, which provided the original Hawai‘ians with fibers, cordage, and wood, and turmeric and shampoo ginger, which had medicinal uses. I see plenty of taro, another canoe plant, with its floppy waxen leaves. Later, I’ll enjoy the sweet purple tuber in soup form at Merriman’s, a spectacular farm-to-table restaurant, alongside tako escargot and grilled ono.

For NTBG, success means continuation: more preservation, more research, and more public education. They have an impressive track record—NTBG botanists have been associated with the discovery of at least 123 new plants, which includes 59 new species in Hawai‘i alongside the rediscovery of nearly 40 Hawai‘ian species previously thought to have disappeared. Scientists are conducting research to better grasp how certain native plants are affected by the increased salinity that comes with rising sea levels or to learn how to maintain genetic diversity in populations of threatened species, among other research endeavors.

But, perhaps most importantly, NTBG has helped drive a wider commitment to tropical plant conservation among both botanist circles and the general public. Though “National” is in the name, the organization actually relies on individual donations to survive. Visitors and donors play a vital role in continuing their important work. “We really stress that we are a non-government, nonprofit organization, and that is why public engagement—membership, tours, donations—is so very important to keep us going,” says Jon Letman, editor of NTBG’s Bulletin magazine. “That is our bread and butter.”

These days, there is a lot of interest in regenerative tourism and environmentally focused travel—tourism that aids ecosystems rather than spoils them. Yet rarely have I felt more environmentally attuned or conscious of the importance of ecological regeneration than I did after having explored the vast, rousing gardens of NTBG. While there, you remember that plants are really and truly alive, and that you are too— because of them.

The post Securing the Future of Kauai’s Native Flora appeared first on San Diego Magazine.