Honolulu Star-Advertiser © Susan Scott
August 08, 2003
Last Saturday, a white-tailed tropicbird helped me run the annual half-marathon over Kolekole Pass.
For those who don’t know, Kolekole Pass lies on a picturesque military reservation in the Waianae Range above Schofield Barracks. Normally this area is restricted to civilians, but once a year, the U.S. Army, the American Cancer Society and other sponsors team up to give citizens a peek. The catch is, they make us walk or run the route.
I registered as a walker in this 13.1-mile race, but at the sound of the gun, my position in the midst of the runners swept me into the action. And off I ran.
I planned on trotting along until the speedy group passed and then slowing to a fast walk. But only about half the joggers passed me, and 30 minutes later I was still running. Mile 2, then 3, then 4 passed, and I wasn’t even winded. I decided to run the whole course.
I was doing fine until mile 6 to 7, the steepest part of the pass. There I did get winded, and my legs and feet began to ache with the pounding. With effort, I made it to the top and staggered to its water station for a long, cool drink. From there I could see the switchback road that went down for miles. I smiled to myself. Easy. I would make it after all.
Obviously I’m no runner, because going down that hill was the hardest part. In minutes the pavement became a hot griddle, my quads began to scream and my hip joints throbbed. Now miserable, I hated my resolve to run — or even walk — 13.1 miles. I paid money and got up at 4:30 a.m. for this? What was I thinking?
And then I heard the tropicbird. It called loudly as it passed overhead, and I looked up in time to see the white seabird disappear into the cliff.
The cliff. Mountains. The Waianae Coast. I’d gotten so wrapped up in the run, I forgot the reason I signed up.
Few places on earth are as good on a clear summer morning as Kolekole Pass. I stopped and breathed in the beauty of the area, pointed out by a single, graceful bird.
White-tailed tropicbirds are in the area this time of year because this is the middle of their breeding season. By now each parent pair is busy carrying fish and squid to their chick, waiting patiently in its cliff-nest. The adults do this until the youngster takes off. The earliest go in June, the latest in October.
It might seem nearly impossible to identify a bird by only a squawk and a flash of white, but tropicbird calls are unmistakable.
One bird book I have describes the call as caterwauling. Another says it’s a shrill scream, harsh and rasping. Old-time sailors thought the birds sounded like bosun’s whistles and therefore called them bosun birds. To me, tropicbirds sound like braying goats.
I have banded tropicbirds in the past and will never forget their distinct, discordant shrieks. Nor will I forget the pleasure of hearing that lone seabird call as it flew over Kolekole Pass in the early morning stillness. It not only reminded me why I was there, but gave me the energy to finish the run.