As I walked deeper into the valley, the rush of the world fell away. Tall peaks rose on either side, blotting out any noise save the “she’s coming” call of native birds and the gurgling of the stream. The farther I walked back into the valley, the quieter I became inside--until inside and outside were one. To think that my feet were on the same trail as the sacred queens in their flight from Kamehameha after the Battle at Iao… I tried to imagine their flight, how they had climbed up out of the steep valley of Iao, crossed the ridgeline and come down yet another cliff into Olowalu—running for their lives—no doubt crossing the pali in the dead of night. How desperate they must have been! They were fleeing, and I was taking a leisurely stroll. I imagined I could hear the rush as the tall grass brushed their legs, remembering the time I was hiking in upper Palolo and got down on my hands and knees, crawling across the foot-wide precipice because the wind coming up the valley blew me off my feet.