Aloha Rodeo
Page 1
The Island of Hawaii
The Overland Limited, 1908
Dedication
To Spencer, Vivian, Ivy, and Aria
Contents
Cover
Title Page
The Island of Hawaii
The Overland Limited, 1908
Dedication
Introduction: Proving Ground
Part I
1: High Steaks
2: Ferae Naturae
3: The Empire
4: Holy City of the Cow
5: An Attractive and Novel Program
Part II
6: Warriors to Wranglers
7: Showtime
8: The Rider
9: Cowboy King of the Islands
10: A Royal Good Time
11: Go Fetch Your Glory
Part III
12: See America First
13: Opening Day
14: A Lesson in How to Handle Steers
15: Gems of the Sea
Epilogue: On the Mountain
Acknowledgments
Select Bibliography
Index
Photo Section
About the Authors
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction
Proving Ground
AUGUST 21, 1908. A drizzly late-summer morning on the high plains of eastern Wyoming. The sun was just rising over Cheyenne, but hundreds of competitors and thousands of spectators were already milling about the arena on the north edge of town. They sipped home brews, chatted about the coming winter, and tried to catch a glimpse of the men the local papers had dubbed “the lithe youngsters from the far Pacific.”
When Ikua Purdy and his two cousins finally entered the rodeo grounds of the bustling frontier town, the crowd eyed them with suspicion and mild amusement. Like the other wranglers, the three men wore boots, blue jeans, and spurs. But head to toe, their gear looked different: broader hat brims, smaller spurs, leather chaps, and braided rawhide lassos. Around their hats they wore strings of local wildflowers that evoked their home on the island of Hawaii.
Few people saw them as a threat. This was Wyoming, after all, home to rodeo champions and cattlemen as rugged as the landscape they worked. Still, they were clearly outsiders, like unknown drifters stepping into a dimly lit saloon.
This morning, though, they had stepped onto the biggest stage there was: Cheyenne Frontier Days. What had started as little more than an entrepreneurial whim a decade earlier had—with help from William “Buffalo Bill” Cody, Annie Oakley, Theodore Roosevelt, and countless Native Americans—ballooned into the most prestigious cultural showcase and rodeo competition on Earth. By 1908, the arrival of contestants from the South Pacific was proof that the “Daddy of ’Em All” had become the premier rodeo. Whoever triumphed here was the undisputed champion of the world. Every year so far, local boys from Wyoming had won the cattle roping competition. The Hawaiians had traveled almost four thousand miles to try to break that streak.
What the press, spectators, and other competitors didn’t know, and indeed almost no one in the country did, was that ranchers in Hawaii had been breaking horses, roping wild bulls, and herding thousands of cattle before anyone in the American West. These men, like their fathers and grandfathers, made their living doing exactly what all the other contestants did: they were cowboys. Paniolo, in Hawaiian. Damn good ones at that.
Yet side glances and snickers were not the only challenges that Ikua Purdy, Jack Low, and Archie Ka‘au‘a had to contend with during their stay in Wyoming. A great deal rested on their shoulders. The overthrow of Hawaii’s monarchy and the forced annexation of the country by the United States a decade earlier had traumatized an independent nation whose traditions dated back centuries. The young riders brought with them the pride and anxiety of an entire people reeling from a sustained attack on their cultural identity and apprehensive about their future under the rule of overlords an ocean away.
The halls of Washington echoed with debate about how best to deploy America’s new military and economic might. Those who espoused empire-building were winning. At the turn of the twentieth century, America’s frenzy of imperialism took the Stars and Stripes to Cuba and the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Guam, and Hawaii.
On a map, the archipelago is a tiny arcing chain of dots amid the largest expanse of blue on the planet, like a spatter of paint on a wall. But Hawaii’s isolation is, paradoxically, what makes the islands’ story, and that of its cowboys, one of interconnectedness. That thread connects Polynesian voyagers, Spanish conquistadores, and British seafarers bearing unexpectedly far-reaching gifts. It weaves through international trade in whale oil, sandalwood, beef, and leather goods, and extends to the birth of that most American of sports, rodeo, which at the turn of the twentieth century was spreading like prairie wildfire.
This is the story of the rise of paniolo culture in Hawaii and rodeo in America, Wyoming in particular, and the remarkable year when those worlds collided. It overturns simplistic notions of cowboys and Indians, and explores questions of identity, imperialism, and race. Most of all, though, it is a tale about people: warriors, ranchers, showmen, cowgirls, missionaries, immigrants, royalty, and the countless unnamed individuals whose lives, through the micro-accidents of history, intertwine in this little-known saga of the American West.
DESPITE THE MIST AND unseasonably cold wind, tens of thousands of people packed Frontier Park that August morning. One paniolo, Archie Ka‘au‘a, lassoed and dispatched his steer with such ease that locals did a double take. But flukes happen in rodeo. Champions are consistent. The cowboys of the Front Range of the Rockies, embarrassed by the Hawaiians’ performance, were suddenly eager to put them in their place.
The next competitor, mounted on a horse he had met only days before, was Archie’s cousin Ikua Purdy. While most spectators saw him as little more than a curiosity, a handful of them knew better. At rodeos in the islands, Ikua had posted times that put him in the highest echelons of the sport, and within striking distance of five-time U.S. roping champion and Wyoming native son Angus MacPhee. The small, wiry Hawaiian in the brightly colored striped shirt was the real deal: not just the best paniolo in Hawaii, but one of the best cowboys anywhere.
Ikua glanced up to see the parting clouds beyond the crowded grandstand. Then he took an extra turn of the reins around his left hand, checked that his lariat was untangled, and called out, “Steer!” The gates flew open and the animal bolted into the arena.
A moment later Ikua kicked his heels, and man and horse lunged forward as one.
Part I
1
High Steaks
THE FIRST CATTLE TO set foot in Hawaii didn’t live to see sunset.
It was February 19, 1793, and HMS Discovery had arrived at the island of Hawaii after a month-long journey from what is now Southern California. Captain George Vancouver commanded the ten-gun Royal Navy ship, which was midway through a five-year expedition to explore and map the coast of North America.
Before leaving the mainland, Vancouver and his hundred-man crew had loaded ten black longhorn cattle on board. These beasts crossing the Pacific had transatlantic roots: the Spanish had brought cattle to the New World even before Hernán Cortés conquered the Aztecs in 1521. By the end of the eighteenth century, large-scale sheep and cattle ranching was entrenched throughout the territory of New Spain, especially in Alta California.
Vancouver had been dispatched to the Pacific Coast in the aftermath of a near war between Great Britain and Spain over the ownership of northwestern North America. He had orders to assert British claims and collect compensation from Spain for any seized British assets. When the Discovery arrived in Alta California in late 1792, a Spanish commandant presented Vancouver with the lo
nghorns.
The animals were crammed belowdecks on the Discovery so tightly they could barely move. They lived ankle-deep in their own filth during the voyage, with scant portions of food and water. The wide span of their horns, which for bulls could reach six feet from tip to wicked tip, made the situation only more crowded and dangerous.
When Discovery dropped anchor off the northwest coast of Hawaii, the animals’ situation went from bad to worse. A bull and a cow were dragged up on deck, where they were blasted by the sudden glare and heat of the tropical sun. Sailors strapped them into harnesses and lowered them over the side of the ship into narrow Polynesian canoes that bobbed in the waves.
Hawaiian paddlers pulled rhythmically through the water, ferrying their exotic cargo toward the beach. The cattle were a gift for Kamehameha, the ruler of the archipelago the British called the Sandwich Islands. Yet the animals were more than a novelty present. In the eyes of Europeans, cattle were useful to the point of being indispensable, providing meat, milk, leather, and fertilizer. On these remotest of islands, they would—and should—be welcomed, even coveted.
They were also instruments of imperialism. After the recent loss of its American colonies, mighty Great Britain was more determined than ever to spread its economic and political influence by establishing more overseas colonies. The era of an empire on which “the sun never sets” was still ahead, but British possessions were already spread around the globe. A foothold in the middle of the Pacific would be a handsome addition to the Crown’s portfolio of properties.
Giving gifts to local rulers was just good statecraft. But certain presents also served as cultural and economic tethers. Vancouver calculated that cattle would be as valuable to future British interests in Hawaii as they would be to the locals.
Unfortunately, the shock of it all proved too much for the animals, already emaciated and malnourished from their voyage. The cow died before the canoe even touched the beach, and the bull expired soon after.
It was an ignominious start. Days later, Vancouver would try again. Little did anyone know the profound impact those cattle would have on the fate of the islands, and on a future sport called rodeo.
THE ISLAND OF HAWAII covers approximately 4,000 square miles, roughly the size of Los Angeles County, and accounts for almost two-thirds of the land area of the archipelago. On the southern part of the Big Island, as it is sometimes called, Mount Kilauea continues its steady eruptions, occasionally sending lava to the sea in explosions of steam. The massive twin summits of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea make up the island’s midsection. From its underwater base to its summit, 13,802 feet above sea level, Mauna Kea is Earth’s largest mountain, rising over 33,000 feet. (Everest is 29,029 feet tall.)
The slopes of Hawaii’s volcanoes are not nearly as steep as jagged ranges like the Alps or the Rockies. Yet their incessant rise, lack of water, and wide temperature swings made them just as wild. To outsiders, it was an alien landscape of red-tinged cinder cones, sinuous gullies and ravines, and flows of hardened lava wending down to the sea.
One of the most isolated archipelagoes on Earth, the Hawaiian Islands are nowhere near any of the plate boundaries underlying most of the world’s volcanoes. In geological parlance, Hawaii is a hot spot. Here, an extra-hot body of magma below Earth’s crust pushes against the plate above, not unlike a candle held under a sheet of paper. The bulging magma presses and melts its way up to the surface and eventually breaks through. Lava piles up and gradually creates islands.
The Hawaiian hot spot doesn’t move, but the Pacific Plate grinds three to four inches northwest every year. So the subterranean plume heats and pushes material through the crust at many points, as if a conveyor belt were sliding over it. The result is a chain of islands stretching northwest to southeast. Eruptions are still adding to the island of Hawaii, the youngest in the group, while older, smaller islands, now well past the plume, are eroding back into the sea.
Over time, plants, insects, and eventually animals made their way across the ocean and spread throughout the islands. Some species arrived thanks to exceptional hardiness, like the floating, saltwater-proof seeds of the palm tree. Other seeds arrived in the bellies of birds or stuck to wings and feet. Seals swam, bats flew, and insects rode trade winds. They all arrived to find an ecosystem with virtually no native predators.
As evolution ran its course, an environment emerged unlike anywhere else on the planet. A rainbow of unique species includes the pueo, an owl that nests underground, the happy-face spider, with a grin-shaped red curve on its back, and the naupaka flower, which looks like half of its white petals have been removed. According to Hawaiian legend, it was divided by parting lovers.
Other flora and fauna caught a ride with daring human mariners who set out across the Pacific some eight hundred years ago. These open-ocean voyages were an achievement with few parallels in human history. Larger than all of Earth’s landmasses put together, the Pacific Ocean was the ultimate frontier. Lewis and Clark trekked and paddled over 3,700 miles across North America, roughly the same distance Christopher Columbus sailed from Portugal to the Caribbean. Polynesians, by comparison, managed to explore and colonize minuscule islands separated by as much as 5,000 miles of open ocean—without any navigational aids besides winds, currents, and stars.
Most archaeologists agree that the first people arrived on the island of Hawaii between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries, probably from the Marquesas Islands, 2,300 miles to the south. They fished and grew crops like sweet potato, breadfruit, and taro, a tropical plant that produces an underground stem rich in carbohydrates. The confidence, competence, and accomplishment of early settlers became central to Hawaiian society and identity.
The outside world’s first recorded contact with Hawaii was Captain James Cook’s arrival at Kauai in January 1778, during his third globe-spanning voyage of exploration.* The crews of the ships Resolution and Discovery found a thriving civilization of over 650,000 people. Tattooed natives lived in huts made of pili grass and raised fish in artificial ponds along the shore, cultivated extensive taro fields, and expertly navigated outrigger canoes to cross between islands.
Cook later traveled on to Hawaii. “When we first approached the coast of this island,” he wrote in his journal, “we were astonished at the sight of a mountain of stupendous height, whose head was covered in snow.” The Hawaiians helped the explorer and his crew resupply their ships and traded provisions for European goods. Dutifully following British custom, Cook named the archipelago after his patron John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich.
In the late eighteenth century, the Western world’s major powers—England, France, Spain—were snapping up lands to enrich themselves and gain strategic advantage over one another. Cook’s eleven years of exploration swung the territorial land grab in Britain’s favor and altered the geopolitical fate of much of the globe. At the same time, the tools, animals, and diseases he and his men brought to foreign lands dramatically affected the heath, culture, and ecology of the places he “discovered.”
Just months before first sighting Hawaii, Cook visited Tahiti, where he had been on both of his previous journeys. This time he delivered cattle to the Tahitians and found the natives receptive to the “civilizing influence” of these animals. He warned the local chiefs not to kill them off too fast, and left feeling confident that his gift would be of great benefit to the islanders.
After a side trip to search for the Northwest Passage, Cook returned to Hawaii in the winter of 1778–1779. He didn’t have cattle with him, but even if he had, he probably never would have had an opportunity to present them. When he and his men landed at Kealakekua Bay on the western shore of Hawaii on January 16, 1779, the Hawaiians welcomed them with honors; King Kamehameha himself draped a red cape over Cook’s shoulders. Hundreds of canoes swarmed around the ships and the island’s chiefs held a lavish feast. But cultural misunderstandings of some kind caused relations to sour, and on February 14, Hawaiian warriors bludgeoned Cook to death on the
beach at Kealakekua. Vancouver, then a twenty-one-year-old seaman on Cook’s expedition, was part of the group sent to fetch the captain’s body—or at least the parts of it they could find—so that Cook could receive a proper burial at sea.
The British promptly left the islands, but the march of globalization barely slowed. In February 1793, Vancouver, now the head of his own expedition, returned to Hawaii aboard a new HMS Discovery (named after Cook’s ship). He had intended to land at Kealakekua Bay, where Cook had died, but the winds were unfavorable. Instead, Vancouver anchored off a harbor called Kawaihae, forty miles north.
The explorer’s impression of the place was not exactly romantic. “The country, in this point of view, had a very dreary aspect,” he wrote, “perfectly uncultivated and nearly destitute of habitations.” But he had his orders: fill in the blank spaces left in Cook’s charts and restore good relations with the Sandwich Islanders.
Cattle were central to Vancouver’s plan. He agreed with Cook on the economic and civilizing power of “useful” gifts and their value in linking Hawaii to the British empire’s growing web of trade throughout the Pacific. These imports, Vancouver wrote, “could not fail of being highly beneficial, not only to the resident inhabitants, but also to all future visitors”—meaning, of course, Brits like him.
Hawaii was a tough environment for a cow. Temperatures could be hot and humid, and parts of the island had limited freshwater. The landscape alternated between sharp lava rocks covered with thin, nutrient-poor grasses, dry, high-altitude slopes, and muddy, dense forests. Then there were the lava flows: huge black ribbons of recently cooled and deadly sharp rock, not to mention places where fresh lava still flowed. More paved-over than pastoral, much of the terrain was about as hospitable to a grazing animal as a brick oven.
The island did at least have open grassy spaces at middle elevations, and few mammals other than pigs and dogs to compete with, so cattle would have no predators to fear.