The air was clear and the sun bright, yet nothing softened into
beauty this formless desert of volcanic sand, stones, and lava, on
which tufts of grass and a harsh scrub war with wind and drought for
a loveless existence. Yet, such is the effect of atmosphere, that
Mauna Loa, utterly destitute of vegetation, and with his sides
scored and stained by the black lava-flows of ages, looked like a
sapphire streaked with lapis lazuli. Nearly blinded by scuds of
sand, we rode for hours through the volcanic wilderness; always the
same rigid mamane, (Sophora Chrysophylla?) the same withered grass,
and the same thornless thistles, through which the strong wind swept
with a desolate screech.
The trail, which dips 1000 feet, again ascends, the country becomes
very wild, there are ancient craters of great height densely wooded,
wooded ravines, the great bulk of Mauna Kea with his ragged crest
towers above tumbled rocky regions, which look as if nature,
disgusted with her work, had broken it to pieces in a passion; there
are living and dead trees, a steep elevation, and below, a broad
river of most jagged and uneven a-a. The afternoon fog, which
serves instead of rain, rolled up in dense masses, through which we
heard the plaintive bleating of sheep, and among blasted trees and
distorted rocks we came upon Kalaieha.
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