This morning, I find myself reflecting on the environmental events that have shaped Hawaiʻi over the past eight years.
We have experienced the Leilani Estates lava flow, which transformed a significant part of Puna, endured the disruptions brought by COVID-19, witnessed the Maunaloa eruption, faced the devastation of the Lahaina fires and more recently, saw massive flooding that cleared out ancient waterways, washing away everything man-made in its path.
On top of that, the year-long Halemaʻumaʻu eruption has continued, as if Pele herself is renovating her homeland, undeterred by the national park’s presence. It has been a lot to endure, but we persevere.
Amid these reflections, I look out my window and spot my annual winter visitor, a kōlea, or golden plover, that I have named Smitty, searching for worms, grubs, and whatever delicacies he can find in the grass. He has been coming to my yard for eight years, just as long as these environmental changes have been occurring.
Before his arrival, my dogs would chase away all birds, but this kōlea was either determined or clever enough to reach a truce, allowing him to return every winter. I call him “him” because he proudly displays his black cummerbund and tuxedo plumage, ready for his elegant dinner before he migrates back to his summer home on the Alaskan tundra.
This bird makes me ponder why kōlea are sometimes given a bad reputation, seen as symbols of malihini, tourists, who come to Hawaiʻi, take what they want, and leave without giving back to the community. Yet, Hawaiian moʻolelo (stories) tell a different account.
Kōlea were seen as messengers and kāhuna (priests or experts), as told in the story of Papa and Wākea, wherein a kōlea reveals Wākea’s getting a little sumtin’ sumtin’ on the side with another wahine. Kōlea feathers were used in kahuna capes, and they also provided sustenance, being caught with long ʻilima or ʻulei snares.
According to a 1909 article in Ka Nupepa Kuokoa, boys would set up snares in fields where kōlea gathered before their migration, using ʻuhini, locusts, as bait. The boys would hide in the grass, calling out “Kīkīpē! Kīkīpē!” to entice the birds, and sometimes teasing, “ʻOleha! ʻOleha! Come here, land here, the eyes are set!”
When the kōlea went for the bait, their feet would get caught in the twine. The article mentions that kōlea breast meat is as tasty as akule fish. I realize I’ve digressed, but this history is an important part of how these birds are woven into Hawaiian life.
Personally, I see kōlea as remarkable navigators and timekeepers.
Every year, they travel between Hawaiʻi and Alaska with incredible precision, arriving just before the fall equinox and departing after the spring equinox. They are descendants of survivors, adapting and persevering despite modern challenges.
To me, kōlea are symbols of resilience. They remind me that each of us is descended from generations who endured and adapted to adversity, whether environmental, social, or otherwise. Our ancestors, just like the kōlea, survived and thrived by navigating challenges and changes.
So, perhaps the trials of the last eight years are challenges for us to navigate and endure together. The kōlea reminds me that resilience is in our DNA and that, like these birds, we can find our way through adversity.
To you, Mr. Smitty Kōlea, I offer my gratitude for the lessons and reminders you bring each year. Safe travels, and we make ready for your return again to my yard, a symbol of hope and perseverance.
