Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls, I give you the Amazing Menini!

Ladies, back me up here. Ponies. As a child, who didn't want one? Once I figured out unicorns could not be purchased at any retail location, I set my sights on a horse. I read all of the Saddle Club adventures, collected the Breyer horses, watched all the Black Stallion movies and designed elaborate plans for the construction of a stable and paddock in our suburban backyard. My parents weren't sold on my brilliant architectural plans nor the feasibility of a horse in the backyard, heck, I couldn't even sell them on a dog, the closest I ever got was two rabbits, neither of which was allowed to live in the house (even though, oddly enough, my slob of a brother was allowed to sleep in the house). So I did the next best thing to owning a horse. I pretended I was one. I would gallop around the yard, then slow to a canter, and then a trot. I would toss my hair and whinny. I can't really tell you how long I did this for, although my parents have a videotape of me in a pumpkin patch pretending to be a horse. I've got to be at least 10. (Back me up here, Mom).

So for part II of my birthday, I splurged and bought myself a private horseback ride across the mountains. I picked this ranch because it seemed a little commercial tourist trappy than some of the others. I arrived at the ranch and my tour guide, we'll call her Sara, who I liked instantly, led me to a paddock and told me I could go on in and pick any horse that I wanted. Seriously. A kid in the candy store had nothing on me. There were at least 15-20 horses of all kinds and colors, quarter horses and mustangs, palominos and pintos. These horses were a cut above the standard rent-a-horse. Some moved away from me as I approached, others tossed their heads, some just kept eating grass. There were a few good contenders, but then I saw him in the back corner, a chestnut with a white blaze down his nose and three white stockings (white markings on his legs). The horse cocked his head like a dog and seemed to smile at me. I approached, cautiously, and the horse seemed to smile even more broadly. I turned and called to Sara, "I want that one."

Sara looked disapproving. "That's Menini," she said, as if that would explain it. She shook her head, "we don't let kids ride him, we don't really like women to ride him either. It's not that he's not a good horse…it's just that…well he's a bolter." I pouted. On a practical people skills point, you shouldn't tell someone they can pick out any horse and then the first one she picks out, you tell her she can't have him. She sized me up thoughtfully. "You ever ride before?" A loaded question. Of course I'd been on pony rides as a child and had occasionally gone for horse back rides on vacations I think, bringing my time on actual horses to, oh let's just say I can count on one hand. "Yes," I replied, just as vague. She asked if I had ever ridden before, not if I competed on the Olympic equestrian team. "Alright, you can have Menini," she said. Excellent, I thought. I was probably going to break my neck.

Menini seemed to be as pleased as I was. We saddled up (well, Sara tacked up both horses, but at least I mounted by myself), and went over basic techniques, rein holding, stopping the horse, backing up the horse, making the horse go faster (I kinda got the impression this wasn't going to be an issue as I could feel Menini literally chomping at the bit). I had practically memorized how to ride a horse as a child without ever actually doing it, so in some weird way, some of this felt like second nature.

Sara and I headed across the valley. She was a petite, trim woman with beautiful blond hair wound tightly in a braid down her back. I liked her instantly; she was easy and interesting to chat with (which was good because for the next four hours it was just going to be the two of us). She'd been at the ranch for twelve years and had passed the time studying horse behavior.

Horses, she said, were pack animals with a natural pecking order. Those at the top did not mingle with those in the middle and the positions could change. For example, Menini was the #7 horse in a pack of 22, but if he got injured or sick, he could drop down to the teens. Menini hung out with the #8 and 9 horses, but didn't care much for #6 or #10 (in fact, Menini, when irritated, would kick the #10 horse). He was a true son of Kauai, having been born on the island, and could trace some of his ancestry to mustangs. The vast majority of the other horses were American Quarterhorses from Canada, ironically enough. The ranch had a contact out in Canada they liked doing business with.

We ascended a high plateau of wide open space. "Now remember," Sara started to say, but her words were lost as Menini took off. We'd gone over the finer points of staying on the horse while said horse was running, but in actual practice, it's quite counter-intuitive. Instead of hunkering down into the saddle, you're supposed to go loose, and let the horse bounce you up and down. In the air. Imagine banging a bag of ice against a hard surface to break up the ice so you can put it in your drink more readily. Now imagine your pelvis is the bag of ice and the saddle and horse beneath are the hard surface.

Sara was pulling on the reins of her horse to slow him up, so I did the same. Menini was reluctant to slow to say the least. Sara congratulated me on my posture and keeping my seat. I was pretty sure my jeans were the only things keeping fragments of my pelvis from spilling out. I gave Menini a pat on the neck. Good boy, I thought, you just wrecked my mom's best shot at grandkids. John, it's all up to you now, pal.

I coaxed some more horse insight out of Sara. She touched upon the relationship between horses and humans. Forget National Velvet and My Horse, Flicka. Horses were prey animals, and humans were predator animals. And both species understood that. In essence, the horse is by nature, suspicious and nervous around us. If you couldn't make the horse feel safe, then the horse wouldn't trust you. The way to make a horse feel safe was to take control, make smart choices, not leave too much give in the reins. If the horse didn't trust you, he would find ways to make your life as unpleasant as he felt, going off in another direction, ignoring commands, etc. Or, Sara shrugged, sometimes they're just mischievous, she said with an eye toward Menini. Menini turned his head to look at me as if to say, who me?

Sure enough, as we moved along through rusted gates and rocky terrain, Menini would let me know if he was displeased. Once when I turned him too wide going through a gate, he banged my left side up against the fence with an indignant snort. Fair enough. Another time as I took him down too steep an incline, rather than opting for a more gentle path, he pulled me over to the trees so I would get hit with the branches. Sara laughed. Her horse, Bruno, which was her own that she kept stabled on the ranch, was an equine angel, a model of good behavior. This horse was making us look bad.

About half-way through the ride, we tied up the horses and hiked into a gorgeous, pristine waterfall for lunch. I self-consciously removed my jeans, hoping that fragments of my shattered pelvis would not be spilling out. We chatted about life and ate turkey sandwiches and oranges. A pale family on a private ride with their tour guide joined us, to my dismay. These people were complaining about the horses, the food, the waterfall, the price of macadamia nuts, the quality of the oxygen in the air. After a few minutes of this, Sara and I looked at each other, both thinking the same thing, either we'd have to leave or set them on fire. Since neither one of us had any matches, we pulled on our clothes and got out some climbing equipment (this I hadn't known about it ahead of time) and scaled up the walls of the waterfall. I may have slipped and wound up knee deep in water. Ho-hum ho-hum. I may have done that twice.

Bruno whinnied to Sara upon our return from the hike out of the waterfall. Menini eyed me. I couldn't be certain, but I felt like he was judging my wet pants. But, he let me scratch him behind the ears so all was forgiven.

A few minutes later when we hit open ground again, Sara said offhandedly, "Menini wants to go again, but you're in control. You get to decide the pace." Uh huh. So Menini and I compromised. When Sara wasn't looking, Menini took off and I made it look I'd given him the go by clucking to him encouraging. My pelvis shattered, I feared now for the structural integrity of my femurs.

"Great job!" Sara said when I had finally slowed Menini to a respectable pace. "That was excellent, you've really got a hold of him. I'm very impressed." I squeezed Menini ever so slightly with my knees. Our little secret, pal.

Then I heard the rustling in the tall grass and saw dark movement. "Sara," I started.

"Pull down on the reins, hard," she said harshly. "Back him up," she commanded. "Back him up!"

Brun was doing that head toss and eye rolling thing, horses do in movies when they're about to go into battle. His front feet came up off the ground.

"Wild pigs," was all she said.

As if on command, a porker family of four emerged. The largest, I assumed to be the male, was black and lean with spiky hair and he was a good size, he nearly came up to Menini's knees. The other, I presumed to be Mama Porker, was lighter, the color of Octoberfest (I'm sorry, Carota, but she was that color and nothing described her any better). Then came the two snuffling baby bacons, one as light as wheat and the other darker like the male. The female squealed like a pitch pipe, and there was some group chortling. From the pigs. Not us.

Bruno was just not having any of this and he was really fighting Sara. Who looks bad now, Bruno? Although I'd pulled up Menini on the reins, he stood there calmly, turning only one to the side as if to say, "pigs. So what?" I agreed. I ate pigs for breakfast. Literally. Now, had I been on the ground and stumbled upon them, I may have felt differently. I may have shrieked like a little girl and run screaming, swearing off all pork products. But sitting atop Menini, I felt quite confident in my position and relationship with this horse. I was pretty certain that Menini would drop kick any porker that came close enough. We both shared the common interest of wanting to see pigs fly. Snark snark. I'll be here all night, folks.

When the danger had passed, and the four-legged nuclear ham family had made a beeline for the trees (no I couldn't get a picture. Although Menini had demonstrated much valor, I wasn't about to give on the reins and go for the camera). Sara told me she hadn't seen wild pigs in five or six years. They had a tendency to spook the horses. There'd been an incident on a group tour awhile back and they'd had to refund the entire tour. And shoot the horses. Just kidding, seeing if you were still reading. Sara gave me lots of compliments for being so level headed, but really, it was all Menini. He'd been the one to hold his ground. I smirked over at Bruno. Way to drop the ball, big guy.

The sun was drooping in the sky over the mountains of the Hanalei region. It was time to turn back. Somehow Sara turned my four hour tour into a fiver. Menini pranced forward, head high, big brave baller that he was. (Make way, here comes the high stepper). When we got to the paddock, I seriously considered asking to put him in the back of the Aveo and drive off with him. I could carry him on the plane, right? Usually in my world, an incident involving wild pigs and horses would have resulted in disastrous injury to my person. So of course, I wanted to make him my house horse. He'd have looked just dandy in my small 1BR rental.

Sara did let me give Menini his feed bucket and he nuzzled me appreciatively. This obviously had nothing to do with me feeding him. It was love, I tell you. I know this because my boyfriend responds the same way when I bring him food. Love, I tell you.

Second part of birthday: ride across the mountain valleys? Check. Managed to stay upright upon the horse without injury to self or the animal? Check. Wild pigs sighting? Check.

Stay tuned, sports fans, for the final part III in which Jess drives all the way back around the island to explore sea caves only to find out it's too rough to boat.

The Fabulous Bake(d) Boys

I knew there was going to be trouble when I called the night before for directions to the shop location for my sunrise bike ride down Waimea Canyon. The guy on the phone, who turned out later to be Evan, told me, "yeah, we don't have interstates out here, so whatcha need to do is get on a road that looks big enough to be a highway, roll down the window, and stick your hand out. When it gets cold, that means you're getting toward the ocean and you're close."

I wanted to say: "so you would like me to drive over an hour across your unfamiliar island wilderness at 4:30 am with no sun nor streetlights to guide me, along a road that might look like a highway and will feel 'cold' when I stick my hand out of the window. Are you high?"

Instead I asked politely. "Is there some kind of landmark, so I'll know to stop?"

"Oh sure, sure. There's a yellow submarine." And then he snickered at his own clever little pop culture reference.

Against all better judgment, I rose at 4:15 the next morning, stumbled into the rental car, an absolute magnificent P.O.S. and took my best guess as how to proceed. To be fair, I knew the place was in Poipu so I headed that way as indicated by a small green sign that was roughly the size of a checkbook and obscured by reeds. I did not roll down the window immediately because it was pitch dark out and the road looked like the opening scene of a horror movie where a forgettably pretty girl is cruising down some country road, singing some girly chick empowerment song (totally off-key because somehow that's endearing) and a stranger steps into the road, she swerves, crashes in the embankment. Dazed from the crash she gets out of the car and runs off into the dark woods, only to be cut down in gruesome fashion by a maniac with a hook for hand. No, on second thought, I was not going to drive with the windows down, the door unlocked. Nor would I sing off-key or talk to myself in narrative fashion. And just to be safe, I had checked the backseat for homicidal maniacs prior to climbing into the car.

When I had driven for an hour or so, having seen no signs or turns or any signs of life, I called the shop and Evan said "dude you're like 10 minutes away, can't you feel how cold it is?" He sounded suspiciously amiable for this early in the morning.

Sure enough, in the gloom a little yellow sub appeared and then an adventure shop for kayaking and biking. These shops are always run by hippies and have a certain, gritty appeal. Evan and Devon,* our tour guides, were both adorned in ratty cargos and even rattier t-shirts. Evan's read: "club sandwiches, not seals" (no joke) and Devon had opted for the quintessential Bob Marley. They both wore knit caps bearing the Rasta red, yellow, and green.

The only other people on the bike tour that morning were a pair of newlyweds. They were shiny and gushy and beaming brighter than my headlights. The new wife, a trim CPA from Dallas, inquired brightly, "oh, did you bring someone?" Just the homicidal killer in the backseat I rode down with. But don't ask him how he got a hook for his hand, he's real sensitive, I thought about telling her. But even I could find no reason to be outwardly snarky to newlyweds, they were just that cute and adorable, so instead, I told her my story about how it was my birthday and I'd never been to Kauai and to make sure that I didn't sound like a total loser spinster, added my boyfriend would be coming out to visit for Valentine's Day. She gave me a slight nod of approval. I wasn't totally beyond help and clearly wasn't poaching her man. New hubby was from DC, an attorney at a prominent DC firm, and had lots to say to me when he saw I was sporting my NUSL sweatshirt. Normally, I don't broadcast the school pride, particularly when the student body is waging war over a stupid t-shirt design (hey it's my blog and I'll snark if I want to), but the morning had been chilly and the sweatshirt was hooded.

Evan and Devon piled us into a van with a trailer and then dispensing with the polite formalities ("oh hey, where ya from?" "How long you staying?") launched into a robust discussion of the medicinal and spiritual benefits of pot. Of course, they didn't call it pot, they called it "herb" and new wife, trying to be polite, started making inquiries about the herbs of the island. It took me about 90 seconds to figure out she thought Evan and Devon were talking kitchen herbs. She wanted to know where she could buy some. This misunderstanding was not lost on Evan and Devon. The two embarked on a game to see who could make the newlyweds realize first they weren't talking about oregano and thyme.

Evan: "Yeah, yeah, you know our nickname on the island is the Roach Brothers."
New wife: "that's a lovely nickname. But you two aren't brothers?"
Devon: "No ma'am."
New wife: silence. Crickets chirping.

Devon: "When you guys get done here, you should head up to Hanalei. It's a really pretty area and Puff the Magic Dragon lives up there."
New husband: "that sounds wonderful. We'll get directions from you when we return."

Then finally, exasperated:

Evan: "My favorite movie is half-baked."
Devon: "My favorite song lyric of all time is 'I get high with a little help from my friends.' And I do."
Evan: "I smoke weed like it's my job."
Devon: "Smoking weed is my job."

(Okay, so they didn't say this last part, but they were laying it on pretty thick and I was shaking in the backseat and nearly lost it completely when I caught sight of Evan grinning at me in the mirror. Although I'm a Republican and my idea of a good time is depriving women of their reproductive rights, sealing up our borders with armed guards, drinking the blood of newborns and hanging out at gun ranges with my card-carrying NRA cronies, I am not wholly immune to the irresponsible charm and childlike wonder of hippies. And I did like these two. They were sweet natured. I liked them ever better when we stopped at a bakery and they came out with an entire box of 32 fresh-baked muffins for the 5 of us. Of course, they ate half in a munchies feeding frenzy but that was fine with me.

We drove into the Waimea Canyon and up to the lookout just in time for sunrise. The brilliant orange sun rose over the Canyon, illuminating the lush greens of the trees and the deep red dirt. On the Canyon wall to the left, the sun revealed a hidden waterfall and a bird swooped down into the rays of light and disappeared.

Evan took us on a tour of our bikes and how to properly operate them while Devon went off into the woods for a bit. Wonder what he was doing? Ho-hum, Ho-hum.

Evan's directions were quite simple. Do not crash the bikes. That was the only direction.

Evan led the way and I brought up the rear with the two love birds in between. Ever so often I would look over my shoulder to see Devon driving the dirty white van behind me and praying that all the rumors about pot and how they slowed your reaction time were false. I imagined him losing control of the van and mangling me beneath the wheels. My death would be ruled death by second-hand marijuana use. Pot kills.

We coasted down the Canyon, the morning wind whipping against my cheeks. I was silently thanking my boyfriend who had coaxed me back into riding after retiring from the biking circuit (age 12 or so: skidded to a stop on some grit on the road, went over the handlebars. Decided life was too short for pavement burns). I was thinking about my Dad, who had hiked across the country, hitting the national parks, wondering if how I felt now was how he felt then. This was what it was to be alive, the wind all around you, the red dirt and green trees and yellow sun rushing by and smearing into one color. Finally, I thought of my mother. It was just a little after 7:30. I'd been born at 7:13am in the morning many years ago on a cold February day. Here I was now enjoying this ride because of all her laborious efforts, and for this, I was thankful.

Every half hour or so, Evan would pull us over a turn off and impart some wisdom about the island of Kauai and Devon would get out of the van and go smoke up in the woods.

First stop: outside a little brown hut with a hand painted sign that read "lost dogs":
Evan: "So we got these wild pigs, yeah man. And a few months out of the year, you can hunt them with guns, but the rest of the year, you gotta do with a knife and a dog."
New wife: "that sounds gruesome!"
Evan: "sure sure. Real bloody mess. I got a Leatherman. Want to have a go at it? Nah, I'm just messing with ya!" And then he pealed into laughter, tears coming to his red-rimmed eyes. It just wasn't funny enough to warrant a laugh, so instead I started humming my favorite Talking Heads lyric in my head: "we're on a road to noooowwwhhhhheeeeerrrreeee."

Second stop: Evan teaches us how to huff Eucalyptus.
Evan: "Eucalyptus was introduced to Kauai to help with erosion, but the purists," he says dismissively, "think it crowds out the native plants." He inhales deeply.
New wife: "I hear eucalyptus is just great for chest colds."
New hubby: "This is remarkable. It's really opening up my passages."
Jess: I guess you can huff just about anything, right Evan? (No, I didn't say this aloud. But believe me, I wanted to).

Third stop: Evan points to an island off in the distance.
Evan: "That's Ni'ihau (Nee-e-how). The forbidden island. No can visit and only people who are born there or marry into the culture may live there. If you move away then you can't come back. I hear they do some wild crazy shite out there." He says that last part almost wistfully.
Jess: So let me get this straight, here on this island for fun, the men run around in the red dirt chasing wild pigs with knives and in their quieter moments, huff eucalyptus. Just exactly what kind of wild crazy shite are you missing out on Ni'ihau, Evan? Snark snark.

Fourth stop: Evan teaches us to huff another plant. I can't remember the name but it is squashy yellow with a shiny gleam. I actually feel a little dizzy, but this could be the bike ride. Devon climbs out of the van and makes another visit to the woods.
New husband: "You guys smell that? Smells like something's burning."
Evan: "No man, that's just the woods. It smells that way in the morning."
Jess: (to herself)(Smoky the Bear says: only you can prevent forest fires).

Fifth stop: We are by a small stream and Evan rips into the game warden who's just been caught "reef bleaching." We all stare at him blankly, the silence gets uncomfortable.
Me: (sighing. Okay, I'll bite) "Evan, what's reef bleaching?"
Evan: (looking surprised) "It's when you take your boat over a reef, dump some bleach, cast your net, and catch all the fish that float up dead to the top. It's illegal."
Me: "What do they do with the fish?"
Evan: (looking at me like I ride the short bus). "They uh…eat them. Obviously."
Me: (giving him by best "look pal, if I'm on the short bus, you're my seatmate" look) "So you're telling me, they eat the fish they've just doused with bleach?"
Evan stares back at me blankly. "Yeah?"
New wife: "So your game warden just got caught bleaching the reef?"
Evan: "Yeah man. F-ing Motherf-ing Pigf---ing Pigf---er. And Kauai's letting him keep his job."
New wife mouth opens wide and drops to canyon floor.
Evan: "I know, right! How can we leave someone like that in charge?"
Somehow I suspected the news that the warden gotto keep his job was not why new wife's mouth is hanging open like that.

The bike ride ended too quickly.

The Roach brothers took us up the ocean route back to the shop and the iconic yellow submarine. "That," Devon said proudly, "is the western-most McDonalds in the U.S." He erupted into giggles. "I've had some good times there, man."
"Yeah dude," Evan chimed in "there was this one time, it was like, 3am or something, I went in there and was like, 'this is a life or death emergency, you gotta sell me every apple pie in the place,' and they did, and it was crazy man, I ate, like 16 apple pies. Dude, I was like, I'm loving it!"
Devon, his eyes wide. "Dude! I'm loving it too."

Dude, I was also loving it, loving all of it, but for markedly different reasons. You see, this was just my birthday morning, it wasn't even 9:00 am yet, and really, what better way to start my birthday, than a sunrise bike ride down the Waimea Canyon with the Roach brothers, a wealth of cultural and homeopathic information. If I ever got in the trouble in the woods, by golly, I could just huff Eucalyptus til I didn't care about being lost anymore.

But like I said, it was just morning. Stay tuned for Part II of my birthday in which I venture across the mountains on horseback and encounter actual wild pigs.


* named have been changed and satirized to protect the stoned.