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Linda Petrucelli takes us to the highest peak in the Pacific - Mauna Kea on Hawaii's Big Island - to the Onizuka Visitor's Information Station and its space observatory. She also includes some hot tips on visiting, and other sights to see...

Article and all pictures © Copyright Linda Petrucelli

The Sky’s The Limit:
Star Wars Atop Polynesia’s Most Sacred Peak
by Linda Petrucelli

The snow queen, Poli'ahu, and fire goddess, Madame Pele, once struggled to control the tallest peak in the Pacific, according to island legend. Today, opposing forces of another sort – modern development and ancient tradition – clash in a hot debate that contests the future of Mauna Kea, Hawaii's most sacred mountain.

The summit's thin air and remote setting make this extinct volcano the best place on earth to observe the stars. The Mauna Kea Science Reserve, sprawling atop the mountain's 13,796-ft peak, is home to the most powerful telescopes on earth. Astronomers flock to the observatories to peer into the heavens and plot the mysteries of the sky.

Around 6,000 tourists brave hostile terrain and altitude sickness each year to make it to the top of this Big Island destination. One hundred thousand more journey midway up the mountain to enjoy more comfortable family fare – freeze-dried snacks, science exhibits and evening astronomy programs – offered at the Onizuka Visitor's Information Station (OVIS). Adventure-oriented travelers are drawn to the outlandish possibility of snorkeling in the tropics, then star-gazing on an arctic peak, both in the same 24 hours.

When Mauna Kea – 'White Mountain' in Hawaiian' – dons its winter overcoat, snowboarding is added to the itinerary. For apres-ski fun, mountain revelers, wearing aloha shirts underneath down parkas, sip hot chocolate and place orchid leis around the icy shoulders of snowmen.

Yet when native Hawaiians look upon Mauna Kea, they see a sacred temple, not a ski slope; the realm of the gods, not the domain of modern science.

Early Polynesians in double-hulled canoes sang chants about its snowy peak and used the mountain as a landmark to navigate ocean tides. But since the 1960's, construction atop the mountain has irreversibly altered the view.

Poli’ahu’s sky-high home, though, is not entirely ruined. In the drizzly city of Hilo, visitors marvel at Mauna Kea as it rises through a sheath of mist and looms large against the horizon. Seen from Liliuokalani Park, its copper silhouette is most spectacular when crowned by double rainbows.
A handful of pale fingertips, oval and white, grip the summit and glisten in rays of sunlight which pierce the clouds. These are the domed silos of the observatories – and to some – visible reminders of Hawaii's history of occupation.
The fabled peak faces a plight similar to countless other sites considered sacred by indigenous people around the globe. Locals ask: should economic development outweigh cultural values?
In the case of Mauna Kea, astronomy is big business and carries the clout of academic prominence, jobs and money. The observatories create 600 positions and pay $150m annually to the state. They make the University of Hawaii's Institute for Astronomy one of the top five programs in the world.

Another branch of science, however, turns the talk from bucks to bones. Archeologists identify nearly 100 summit sites as shrines, graves and ritual platforms. Upright stones, wedged into the rocky landscape, mark mystic points. Hawaiians, for countless generations, climbed the mountain to collect medicines, worship and take part in sacred rites. Even today devotees venture skyward to meditate and pray.

Indigenous islanders and star-seeking scientists have waged a tug-of-war over summit development for several years. In 2001, astronomers applied for a state permit to erect six outrigger telescopes, costing $50m. NASA, sponsor of the proposal, says the new telescopes are vital to study the birth of planets and stars.
The outriggers, designed to augment two existing 111-foot telescopes, are comparatively small – just 35 feet high. So astronomers were taken aback by protests during public hearings.

An alliance of native Hawaiians and environmentalists accused the observatories of violating the mountain with mercury spills and disturbing its sanctity with cavalier disregard.
Others questioned the pre-eminence of astronomy at the expense of Hawaiian culture. Critics wondered: Would you bulldoze Chartres? Would you build a McDonald's at Stonehenge?

Even the scientists admitted the need for more public input. “After all,” says Frederic Chaffee, Director of the W.M. Keck Observatory, “the ancient Hawaiians were among the first great astronomers. At this very deep level, I feel we are brothers and sisters.”
Critics, however, are less convinced. “Perhaps the astronomy community forgets that when they first asked to use the mountain, it was to build only one observatory,” says Kealoha Pisciotta, who left her job at one of the telescopes to lead an organization designed to stop them. “It's not that we want to deny access to tourists or that we are unsympathetic to scientific inquiry,” she explains. “It's [a question of] how much more development the mountain can carry.”

The state, which leases the 11,000-acre Mauna Kea Science Reserve to the University, also has stepped into the fray. It criticized the university's stewardship, prompting a 20-year master plan designed to promote cultural and environmental sensitivity.
The debate continues, however, over the interpretation of the plan. No one can agree whether NASA's project counts as new development or redevelopment. Meanwhile, the bulldozers lie rusting, as the case is debated in local hearings and federal court.

High atop wind-blown Mauna Kea, visitors remain oblivious to the fracas. A small group of sight-seers shiver as the colors of sunset stain the volcanic cinder cones Martian red. The clouds descend and a crystal sky reaches into eternity.
A new bride on her fantasy honeymoon suddenly gasps, ”There's Maui!” and everyone stares at the awesome sight of Haleakala Crater close enough, it seems, to touch.

Their guide, John Altonn, stands tough and tall – each Saturday afternoon he defies his 80 years and leads a University-sponsored tour – the only kind that includes visits inside an observatory.
Altonn, an OVIS Volunteer of the Year, barks out the names of each telescope, pointing to them in quick succession. A young traveller, on the verge of acute mountain sickness, flings his pack to the ground and sags alongside a trash barrel. The octogenarian tour guide cautions everyone to take a deep breath, then patiently explains how to calculate the distance of the nearest star.
A life-long resident of Hawaii, Altonn believes that astronomy makes good dollars and sense. Like many, he finds it entirely possible to balance science and the sacred on the summit.

Asked about the outriggers, his answer comes quick: “It's a done deal,” he says. “The observatories are here to stay.”
But Pisciotta isn't so confident about the march of progress. "We'll see," she says. "[Native Hawaiians] do not believe that, in order to search for life in the distant universe, we need to destroy life on earth. Enough is enough.”

Back upon the lava-laced summit of Mauna Kea, Altonn's travellers fall silent. Their attention is diverted from the observatories' metal domes to a solitary hill, legendary abode of Poli'ahu. When winter arrives, the snow queen's home will become an arsenal of ice to cool her sister Pele's rumblings far below the surface. Unlike that mythic struggle, though, Mauna Kea's modern melee is just a war of words and wills. However the clash may cloud the mountaintop from time to time, in no way does it diminish the view or visitor’s sense of wonder.

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