This ancient practice is rebuilding Maui's future: Here's how Lāhainā's reclaiming its forests
HONOLULU (KHON2) — From mountain peaks to coral reefs, Hawai'i's natural systems are deeply connected. The ʻāina (land), wai (water), holoholona (animals) and kānaka (people) rely on each other to survive.
That idea isn't new. Native Hawaiian practices have honored those connections for generations.
But today, groups across the islands, including the Department of Land and Natural Resources (DLNR), are putting that knowledge to work in powerful ways.
One major effort is happening on Maui, where the DLNR Division of Forestry and Wildlife (DOFAW), along with local nonprofits and volunteers, is helping bring life back to native forests that once shaped rainfall, fed watersheds and supported entire communities.
Here's what you should know about the work and why it matters.
Healthy forests play a major role in collecting rain. That rain seeps into the ground and becomes the water we use every day. But if the forest is overrun with invasive weeds or rooted out by wild animals, it doesn't work the same.
The West Maui watershed, stretching from Honokōwai to Honokōhau, covers more than 9,000 acres of land. The land used to be part of a pineapple plantation. Now, thanks to a conservation easement with Maui Land and Pineapple Company, it's being restored by Aloha Puʻu Kukui and The Nature Conservancy, with support from DOFAW.
'You can't just manage one part of it,' said John Meier, president of Aloha Puʻu Kukui. 'You have to manage the whole, from the peak all the way to the ocean. They're all connected. If you want the ocean to be healthy, the mountain above it has to be healthy.'
Not all trees are created equal. Native Hawaiian plants like koa and a'ali'i support the watershed and keep the soil in place. Invasive species like Guinea grass and ironwood do the opposite.
They spread quickly, use up resources and don't hold the same value for native animals or the land.
At one site in West Maui, volunteers removed invasive plants and planted koa. Meier pointed to a small koa sapling and said, 'This area used to be all invasive weeds and ironwood trees. Now it's going to be koa and a'ali'i forest.'
It can take years to see progress; but with time and care, the land transforms.This year, Kula Kaiapuni 'o Lahainaluna, the ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi language immersion program at Lahainaluna High School, joined the effort. Students come to the forest, begin with pule and work with their hands in the dirt by weeding, digging, planting, learning.
'It's very important,' said student Aina Kapu. 'Because here in Hawai'i, this is where we come from, this is where we stand. This is where we expand our ʻike, our kuleana and our kūpuna did this for thousands of years, and we just want to repeat that same thing.'
Kaliko Kalani Teruya added, 'ʻĀina momona [care for the land], choke plants make the rain come more often. ʻĀina momona: So, we can sustain and protect our native forest.'
Pomaikaʻi Kaniaupio-Crozier, director of Conservation at Aloha Puʻu Kukui, leads many of the on-the-ground efforts. He works with school groups, nonprofits and other community members to make the restoration possible.
'Having the connection of Hawaiian reforestation and stewardship is really that pilina, that connection of what it takes to mālama, what it takes to be connected,' Kaniaupio-Crozier said.
These projects are not quick fixes. They rely on people willing to show up year after year to build something lasting.
While DLNR provides the structure and oversight for Hawai'i's land and water resources, much of the restoration work is possible because of collaboration. Groups like Aloha Puʻu Kukui and The Nature Conservancy bring their own experience; and landowners like Maui Land and Pineapple Company contribute through conservation agreements.
Kaniaupio-Crozier said, 'We're very pleased. Maui Land and Pineapple Company and the Puʻu Kukui watershed, in collaboration with the DLNR, TNC, and Aloha Puʻu Kukui. It's nice to see community rally around any landscape, but especially a landscape like Honolua.'
After the devastating Lāhainā fire, the work of restoring native forests carries even deeper meaning.
'Our forest in Lahaina was destroyed, and it was devastating,' said Kaniaupio-Crozier. 'But it's also an opportunity now, moving forward.'
Volunteers are replanting native species using seeds that have been in those areas for thousands of years. The idea is not just to restore the forest, but to reconnect people to the knowledge and values passed down from their kūpuna.
'They're not doing it for a brochure,' he said. 'They're doing it because they're walking in the footsteps of their ancestors as kupa o ka ʻāina of these areas.'
This year has been named 'The Year of the Community Forests' by Governor Josh Green, M.D. But what makes a forest 'community' isn't just who plants it. It's who carries its story.
Kaniaupio-Crozier put it this way: 'It's a humbling thing to touch ʻāina, to care for ʻāina in places like this. We know our kūpuna and ke akua, that he puts us in places for reasons, not to just pass through, but to make that ʻāina momona.'
That's what this work is really about: restoring the ʻāina (land), protecting the wai (water) and remembering that kānaka (people) and place are part of the same system. When you take care of one, you take care of both.
Learn more about DLNR programs and how to get involved in forest restoration click .
Get news on the go with KHON 2GO, KHON's morning podcast, every morning at 8
You don't need a degree or experience to be kuleana. All you need is a willingness to mālama ʻāina.
Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
5 days ago
- Yahoo
What Hula Taught Me
The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here. My late grandmother's 10 acres of wild rainforest land, off a dirt road near Hāna, Maui, were part of a larger land grant given to our family more than 175 years ago by King Kamehameha III. When I learned recently that we might lose that land, I panicked—both about the idea of losing it and about something far less tangible and harder to explain. Generation after generation, the story of our family's land had followed the story of Hawai'i: Ancient lands gave way to sugar plantations, then to ranchers, then to wealthy foreigners. All that time, my family held on to ours. When it was our turn to confront change—this time in the form of a letter from the county of Maui saying, without explanation, that our property taxes had suddenly gone up by 500 percent—my father, aunties, uncles, siblings, and I were determined to save the land that so many before us had protected. It was not just the promise we had made to Grandma, which she had asked for, but it was also the promise her mother had made to her grandfather, and so on, one generation linked to the next and to the next. This was our family's kuleana, our sacred duty. We knew we must remain stewards of our land, and of a nearby 16th-century heiau, or Native Hawaiian temple, which still stands next to my ancestors' graves. Our family was figuring out several pathways to resolve the property-tax problem. But as we did so, an unwelcome thought materialized: Even if we saved it, so what? What about the next generation? Although I'm part Native Hawaiian, I grew up in Southern California—not Hawai'i—and had moved myself farther and farther east while pursuing a career in journalism. Hawai'i always felt so familiar and I always promised myself to get 'back' there, where I felt a deep connection. But there was always another job, another story to chase, in the other direction. [Read: The Hawaiians who want their nation back] Now I felt even farther away, settled with my family in Washington, D.C. I felt urgently that I needed to try something new—something that would connect me to my roots, and something that would teach my children about their heritage, too. What I found, in the suburbs of the nation's capital, of all places, was hula. Hula would not solve our tax problem. But maybe it could help us build some connection to Hawai'i when we couldn't physically be there. That's how I found myself in a community recreation center in Silver Spring, Maryland, with my two youngest children in tow, forming a circle with a group of strangers wearing matching red skirts and T-shirts. That first afternoon, the kids and I mostly sat along the side of the room and watched as a group of musicians picked up ukuleles and slack-key guitars to play familiar Hawaiian songs. I loved to see the women's red pāʻū, or skirts, sway with the swish of their hips. The men stepped proudly, with hands on their hips. Step together, step right; step together, step left. I felt like I was a kid again, watching my aunties dance at a family wedding, or my great-uncle performing the 'Maui Waltz' at the community center in Hāna. Part of me wanted to join in at that moment, retracing the movements that my aunties had taught me when we gathered for Christmas and Thanksgiving in California. Only once, at my grandparents' 50th-wedding-anniversary party, did I attempt to dance with my sisters as we performed a very basic version of 'Lahaina Luna.' I look back at that moment now and cringe. I didn't really know what I was doing. But I longed to learn. As far back as I can remember, the hula has mesmerized me. I couldn't get enough of seeing my aunties and, on rare occasions, my grandma dance. They would be encouraged, mostly at weddings, to take a turn on the dance floor, and I'd fixate on their beautiful hands, the way their fingers gracefully curved and moved, gold and jade bracelets dangling from their wrists. I also loved watching my uncles dance hula. And I loved that there were so many types of hula: traditional, fast-moving hula with no music but the beating of the gourd and chanting of dancers' voices; sweet, slow-moving, graceful hula that told a story about love or the beauty of a woman or a place; and even fun, campier hula, too. [Read: The hula movement] Back at the rec center, a woman with long white hair and a deep voice approached me and encouraged me to join the back row, just to practice. Nervous, I declined. Give it a try, she urged. 'Oh, no, no, no, no. I can't dance. I'm just here to watch this first visit,' I said. Members of the hālau, or hula school, lined up in rows facing the kumu hula, our teacher. Boom, tap, boom, tap, tap. The women and men began to move in unison. Actually, it doesn't look that hard, I thought. Boom, tap, boom, tap, tap. 'Do it, Mom!' my kids encouraged me. I smiled. The beat drew me in. I put the skirt on, over my shorts. I walked over to the group and found a place in line, in the back. The linoleum floor felt like ice under my bare feet. A woman dancing next to me smiled and nodded. I would try to follow what she did with my feet and arms at the same time. I looked back at the kids. Their eyes were eager, as if to say, Way to go, Mom! My 11-year-old son, Silas, gave me a thumbs-up. I turned my attention forward. Boom, tap, boom, tap, tap. I bent my knees. I stepped to the right, remembering to keep my shoulders steady, not moving, so that my hips would sway. I kept my head level. One important secret to dancing hula is that you must dance with bent knees to get that hip movement. When you bend your knees halfway, it forces your hips to move from side to side when you step, making it look like you're swinging your hips when you're really stepping. But as I sank into my hips, I could feel them creak. 'Kā holo right!' the kumu called, referring to the basic step-together-step move of hula. 'Kā holo, 'ae,' the group answered him affirmatively. I smiled and looked over at the kids, who were smiling, too. I thought of how often I had pushed them to do some awkward, uncomfortable thing—such as joining a new baseball or soccer team, or a Brownie troop. Joining a new group of people—of strangers—was hard. I had forgotten what that felt like until this moment. But here I was. After a few times, bending my knees and swaying my hips, the movement felt more familiar. I remembered my aunties teaching me as a little girl the different steps in hula, how to softly roll my hands. Dancing hula was stirring these memories inside me. As I danced, I thought of Grandma. It all felt so right inside my bones. Yes, I thought, this is it. This is what I've been missing. Suddenly, a switch inside me flipped. I went from being self-conscious to in the zone. The simple act of dancing these steps connected me with something I had been yearning for. I knew at that moment that this hālau and hula would become a much bigger part of my life. Even before the tax problem surfaced, it dawned on me that keeping the land in the family was not so much about financial means but about connection. It was the cultural responsibility, the stewardship, the kuleana that kept it alive, handed across generations. What did that next passing of the baton look like when it would inevitably get passed to me? Would my children pick it up when they were raised so far away from Hawai'i? I wondered, at times, as I watched my children grow up in their circle of mostly white friends, whether they would ever identify as Hawaiian. Genetically, they were less Native Hawaiian than I was. Culturally, would that be true, too? Would they feel any connection to the place beyond it being a beautiful vacation spot where we happened to have family living? Confronting these questions was uncomfortable. I had learned, through years of visiting my family in Hawai'i, about the land and our lineage. I was determined that my generation would not be the one that lost the land, or sold it, after 175 years of family history. But I felt so lost about how to guide them. I thought about how many hours I'd spent as a young parent reading books to tell me so many other things about how to raise my children the 'right' way. What to feed them to keep them healthy. Which media were appropriate or helpful for them to consume—which books to read, which movies to see. What kind of electronic devices were appropriate. I even took classes on how to discipline them effectively. I spent so many hours of my life on everything but how to raise them culturally. I found no books on how to raise my children in a way that passed on their culture. I wanted them to see things the way I was now seeing them. In Hawaiian culture, I envision myself in a line, where uphill I see and honor all the generations that have come before, and downhill I see all the generations yet to come. My life, my time here, is not about just me. It is about the recognition that there is much that I owe to those who have come before me and to those who will come after me. The hālau, I learned, was not about just hula. It was also about singing and chanting and learning Hawaiian history. On that first visit, we learned some new Hawaiian songs. Even if I needed a translation to understand their meaning, they were catchy, and I found many of them easy to learn. To my surprise, the kids picked them up easily as well. On the drive home, I smiled at the sound of my children's tiny voices singing in Hawaiian. And so we began. Every weekend, for four hours on Sunday. It became our special thing that we did together, the kids and I. We began to practice hula together at home and started by learning the basic footwork. The kā holo, the basic step moving to the right and then left, represents the vastness of the Pacific. Hela is the name of the move where you tap your right foot forward, then return, then left foot forward, return, mimicking the forward-and-back motion of the waves on the beach. 'Uwehe is a sharp pop out with both knees, like a raindrop. Maewa is like an anchored canoe shifting with the current; you keep your feet flat on the ground, but bend your knees and sway your hips from side to side. I loved learning how the hula is broken down into basic steps, each intended so that your body's motion mirrors something observed in nature. I could close my eyes, even in the dead of winter in Washington, D.C., and my body could make the motion of the waves on the sand or the raindrops from the sky. The hula, with every step, transported me to Hawai'i. [Read: Hawaii: Images of the aloha state ] It wasn't always easy. Our kumu made it clear when he was unhappy that our group hadn't memorized a chant properly or practiced our hula between classes. 'You should all know this chant by now. There are no excuses,' he would say. Or: 'This is a hula about love. I do not see any love in your faces.' As a newcomer, I struggled to dedicate four hours on a weekend to attend the class. As a working mother with kids, I did not have a lot of time to spend perfecting my chant pronunciation, and often I was so stressed about doing the dances correctly—with proper foot and arm placement—that I knew I was one of the people not smiling. Yet this weekly class also became a source of immense joy. It was an escape. At hālau, I enjoyed being a hula student and not having to manage anything. It felt good to be learning something, even if at first I wasn't very skilled at it. The kids and I quickly went from being the new family in the group to regulars. I got to know different people. Most people had moved to the area from Hawai'i. We had researchers who worked at the Smithsonian, workers at different federal agencies, members of the military, teachers, and retirees. For some, their reason for being at hālau was that they'd recently moved to D.C. and were homesick. Others, like our kumu, grew up in Hawai'i but had settled in the D.C. area years ago. And a few others didn't have Native Hawaiian ancestry, but they had fallen in love with the culture. For all of us, hālau was healing in some way. The origin of the hula is not universally settled. But there's a story in Hawaiian oral tradition about the Native Hawaiian goddess Pele, who rules over the volcanoes of the islands. The story goes that the goddess begged her sisters to dance and sing, but they demurred, saying they did not know how. But the youngest sister, Hi'iaka, surprised everyone by dancing on the sands of the beaches as she improvised, having secretly learned from her friend Hopoe. The American historian Nathaniel B. Emerson wrote one of the first comprehensive books about the practice of hula in 1909. He observed that the Hawaiian people were 'superstitiously religious' and also 'poetical; nature was full of voices for their ears; their thoughts came to them as images; nature was to them an allegory; all this found expression in their dramatic art.' In ancient times, hula was practiced not by all Hawaiians but by a select few, and practitioners had to follow a strict set of rituals. The hula was forever changed with the arrival of foreigners, and in particular the arrival of Christian missionaries, whose influence led to a brief ban of public performances in the 1830s. Hawaiian culture faced another crisis with the overthrow of the monarchy in 1893, which led to a decades-long period in which Hawaiians were discouraged from partaking in many traditions or even speaking their language. But a hula revival came in the 1960s—along with a wave of tourists eager to consume Hawaiian culture and also because of activists who began to fight to preserve almost-forgotten customs. Today, the most famous hula event in the world is the Merrie Monarch Festival, a competition that takes place each year on the Big Island and is often called the 'Olympics of Hula.' When I attended in April, what struck me most of all was how Merrie Monarch showcases hula as both a tribute to the ancient tradition and a nod to its evolution. On the first night, dozens of women and men from across the Hawaiian islands and California chanted into the night as their feet hit the floor to the beat of drums. Their voices rang out into the open-air auditorium in Hawaiian, speaking the same chants that their ancestors had spoken for centuries. I am not a natural performer. I have a hard time faking a smile. And although I am comfortable being on a stage, I'm not necessarily the gal to ham it up. So I was a little nervous for our hālau's first big hula performance in Washington, D.C. When I heard that we were going to perform at a public-high-school auditorium that seated 600 people, I thought: Dear God. [Read: I wanna dance with somebody] It was one thing to be confident in moving my body correctly, to feel and tell a story through hula. It was quite another to do it in front of hundreds of people. Then, just a few weeks before the big day, my kumu called me aside and announced that he wanted to add one more hula to the performance: a special mother-son dance. Would Silas and I like to be part of it? It was an easy hula, he explained. Yes, of course, I told him. Silas and I would wear matching red-and-black Hawaiian-print outfits, as would four other mother-son pairs. Week by week, I was mentally preparing myself. What had I gotten us into? On one hand, I told myself it was just a high-school auditorium. But on the other, this could be really bad if I botched it. On the day of our performance, the kids and I were all excited and nervous. As we got ready backstage with our hālau, the room was electric. Our kumu gathered the entire hālau onto the stage with the thick curtains drawn. The room was quiet, and he began to chant. The chant was one that we'd said together at the beginning of every gathering of our hālau as a way to enter the space and be seen by our ancestors. As our voices joined together, I felt myself grounded in that generational line again, sharing the stories of those who'd come before and holding my children's hands on either side of me. Once the performance began, everything went by fast. With each song, our hālau got into a groove. I danced to 'Kipona Aloha' with a group of wahine beginner dancers. Once the music started, somehow my body just relaxed. Next, it was time for me to dance with Silas. We walked onstage together, in mother-son units. We danced to 'E Huli Makou,' a call-and-response modern hula. At the end, the boys all gave their moms a big hug. We could hear the crowd go, 'Awww!' My smile couldn't have been bigger. I realized in that moment that there was nothing performative about what I was doing onstage. I was where I belonged, learning the stories of my ancestors alongside my children and sharing them with the world. What could be more Hawaiian than that? After the show was over, my dad stood waiting for me, ready for a hug, with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. 'Wow, you're a natural,' he said. I felt the emotion begin to gather in my throat. 'Your grandma would be so proud, Sara.' I nodded because I knew he was going to say it before he even said it. I'd felt her presence there with me, as I was dancing barefoot on that stage. Somehow, I also knew, we'd figure out a way to hold on to the land. It was as if, in middle age, I was finally in my own skin. I'd found my kuleana. This article was adapted from Sara Kehaulani Goo's forthcoming book, Kuleana: A Story of Family, Land, and Legacy in Old Hawai'i. Article originally published at The Atlantic
Yahoo
6 days ago
- Yahoo
The story behind statue of King Kamehameha I
HONOLULU (KHON2) – In the ahupuaʻa of Honolulu, which lies in the moku of Kona here on Oʻahu, stands a symbol of Hawaiian pride. We are speaking of King Kamehameha I Statue. Kaʻahumanu St, from Downtown Honolulu to Pearl City What was originally proposed to celebrate the 100th anniversary of Captain Cook's arrival to Hawaiʻi, an image of a 45-year-old King Kamehameha I was chosen as a monument promoting Hawaiian national pride. At a cost of $10,000, it was politician Walter Gibson representing Lāhainā who had proposed the idea. Having been started in Boston and completed in Paris, the 7-foot-tall statue left Germany on a ship in August of months later, word reached Hawaiʻi that the ship went down off the coast of Falkland Islands, losing all of its cargo. Following the loss of the original statue, a second statue of King Kamehameha I was commissioned. But to the government's surprise, the original was recovered and arrived in Honolulu a couple months prior to its replacement. Today, there are four. Download the free KHON2 app for iOS or Android to stay informed on the latest news Molded after the marble Roman scultpure of Augustus Ceasar, King Kamehameha is shown as a 'Pacific Hero.' The replacement statue was installed first on Oʻahu in 1883 at its present location fronting Aliʻiōlani Hale. The recovered, original statue was unveiled a couple months later in Kohala on Hawaiʻi Island as it is the King's birthplace. In 1969, following statehood, a statue of the Father of the Hawaiian Kingdom was installed in the US Capitol Statutory Hall. The final statue was installed in Hilo in 1997, which was originally for a hotel on Kauaʻi, but Kauaʻi residents said no because King Kamehameha I failed to conquer them. Did you know? Now you do! Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
USA Today
7 days ago
- USA Today
'Phineas and Ferb' is back after 10-year hiatus: See cast, how to watch new season
'Phineas and Ferb' is back after 10-year hiatus: See cast, how to watch new season Perry the Platypus will finally make a trip to the vet during the show's new season, Disney said. Show Caption Hide Caption 'Lilo & Stitch' trailer: Disney's furry alien goes live action Newcomer Maia Kealoha stars as a Hawaiian girl who makes friends with a furry ball of alien mayhem in Disney's live-action "Lilo & Stitch." Dude, we're getting the band back together: "Phineas and Ferb" is returning to television just in time for 104 days of summer vacation. The hit Disney animated series is premiering a new season on June 5 after a decade-long hiatus. The Emmy Award-winning show follows two geometrically-shaped stepbrothers during their summer escapades. From building a rocket to fighting a mummy, Phineas and Ferb seem to always find a good way to spend it. The new season will also see the return of Perry the Platypus, the iconic animated pet who aims to thwart Dr. Doofenshmirtz's plans to take over the tristate area. Some of the series' popular voices are returning for the new season. Here's everything to know. How to watch 'Phineas and Ferb' new season The fifth season of "Phineas and Ferb" will kick off with two premiere episodes on Thursday, June 5, at 8 p.m. ET on Disney Channel and Disney XD. The first episode will be available the same day on Disney Channel YouTube. The season's first ten episodes will subsequently be released on Friday, June 6, on Disney+. 'Phineas and Ferb': Watch new season's trailer The show's new season promises several new milestones for the stepbrothers and their group of friends, according to a release from Disney. During the season, Phineas and Ferb will break several world records, Candace will take her driver's license test and Perry the Platypus will finally make a trip to the vet, according to the release. Of course, there will also be more catchy songs — the original soundtrack, which includes 13 songs, will be available on June 6 on streaming platforms, Disney said. 'Phineas and Ferb' cast: Ashley Tisdale, Alyson Stoner, more return Early 2000s Disney Channel fans will surely feel a bit of nostalgia tuning into the latest season of "Phineas and Ferb," which will mark Ashley Tisdale's return to the network. "Who knew yelling 'MOOOOM' would be a career highlight?" Tisdale wrote about her role as outspoken older sister Candace on Instagram. "20 years later and I'm still pinching myself. So grateful to be part of something this special - thank you to the fans who brought it back, kept it alive, and made it iconic." In addition to Tisdale, Alyson Stoner will also be returning to play Isabella Garcia-Shapiro. The voices behind titular characters Phineas and Ferb — Vincent Martella and David Errigo Jr, respectively — are also back for the new season. Caroline Rhea is once again voicing Linda Flynn-Fletcher, and Dee Bradley Baker will play Perry the Platypus. Melina Khan is a national trending reporter for USA TODAY. She can be reached at
