Banyan Tree

First part of the climb is up a wobbling staircase of giant volcanic boulders that threaten to roll out from under our feet or crush our ankles into pulp. Clutching these boulders and very much holding the cliffside together is an enormous Banyan tree – also known as Strangler Fig for its habit of using other trees as scaffolding, sending roots down the trunk and branches up over its host's until the original tree is no longer recognizable. This particular specimen comprises several enveloped trunks leaning out over the cliff slope at a precarious angle, but has sent down support roots like an organic, overly-enthusiastic suspension bridge cable. Some of these cables braid into and down the muscular trunks like sinew, porpoising as convenient handles for hoisting oneself upward, but not as helpful coming down. Bobby, having done the climb just a few days before, takes the lead as I carefully follow, hand-over-hand.

I am sitting in my own piss. I was so excited about climbing this monster that I forgot I wanted to unload at the base. Suddenly aware of my urgency, I try to aim through a hole in the braided branches, without looking at the forest floor 70 feet below, but don't quite hit the bulls-eye. Then I look up, and realize that climbing further is a little more treacherous than I am ready for, and the place I just peed is actually the most secure spot to hunker down. Resigned, I try to move a foot to the right, resting only my left thigh on the damp trunk and my right thigh on the spongy root-ball of a dead epiphyte. Surprisingly comfortable, except that the possibility of this clump of dirt suddenly losing its mortal grip on the trunk, launching me into a backward somersault to my death, sort of keeps me from relaxing.

KEE! KEE! KEE! KEE! KEE! A Collared Kingfisher calls triumphantly from the canopy. I hesitantly loosen my white-knuckle grip on the trunk and raise my binoculars. Looking up at its chin, I can see the bird's chest heaving with each gasp between yelps. This is awesome. A honey-eater darts past, and a starling whistles. The sun is briefly blotted out by the silhouette of a giant bat. Then, my eyes zero in on leaves shaking 30 feet ahead of me. It's our quarry, the Many-Colored Fruit Dove!

A graceful ball of lime green, white, and magenta feathers, it hops along the branches like an arboreal Easter bunny, picking at tiny fruits with its gentle dove bill. According to the Samoan biologists, Many-coloreds are particularly fond of banyan fruits, and this tree apparently serves a buffet to a whole congregation of them, as my eyes quickly adjust to this new perspective and begin picking out more and more individuals among the canopy. Despite their flamboyant costumes, they are amazingly well camouflaged and can disappear behind a leaf, then emerge many branches over. They tiptoe along impossibly small twigs and slide strip-pole-style down dangling vines. Watching their aptitude, I am aware of my inescapable loyalty to gravity, which seems to be pulling harder on my body now than it ever does on terra firma.

I shake off my jitters and pull myself up the last few meters to a massive horizontal branch where Bobby has been perching. It's more precarious than my pee spot, but the view is much better without the trunk obstructing the dove-dappled outer limbs. Beyond, I can see the top fronds of beach-side coconut palms and a steel blue horizon. A swift breeze rushes through leaves around me, conjuring my treasured last days of the Mid-Atlantic summers where I grew up, when autumn winds are just starting to blow the sweltering humidity back to the ocean from whence it came, whispering of much-anticipated amber hues and crisp nights by a campfire. Meanwhile, the roar of the Pacific breaking on the near-shore reef shelf is a constant reminder of where I am now – on the sweaty forehead of an ancient volcano in the middle of the greatest expanse of water on our planet. Water that is heating up, killing coral and causing more intense cyclones that devastate both villages and old growth forests on these tropical oases. How many eons have these colorful doves frolicked among figs on this tiny dot of land? How many years will they continue? I notice a resplendent male dozing at the end of my perch, aloof to the havoc we humans are causing, and amazingly unperturbed by the sight of two of us high above the ground, infiltrating the realm reserved for winged creatures. I feel a jealous pang for his ignorance, send silent thanks to them for graciously tolerating our clumsy presence, then start the slippery slide back down to where my feet are happily tethered.