New Wave: The Gen Z cowgirl defending Hawai‘i’s native forests

Outside of a rodeo, you’ll never catch Kuʻunahenani ‘Nahe’ Keakealani wearing a cowgirl hat. Right now, she’s riding a golden Palomino bareback and she’s not even wearing boots. But put her in the branding pen and she’s been taught to kūlaʻi (knock down). 

Nahe and her cousin Laʻi were trained in the techniques of the early paniolos by their inimitable grandfather, Sonny Keakealani, from when they were just keiki (children) wearing ropes around their saddles to keep them in the seat. Fast forward a decade or two, and both women are now skilled in the craft of kūlaʻi. 

The Keakealani’s are a traditional paniolo (Hawaiian cowboy) family who ranch a 125-acre parcel of emerald hills in Waimea, a county in the island’s northern interior. Nahe, at 26 years old, is a sixth-generation paniolo, and while her whole ʻohana (family) is considered legendary—her grandfather Sonny is the last mānaleo (native speaker) of the Puʻuanahulu dialect; her mother Roberta Kuʻulei Keakealani is a respected cultural practitioner, storyteller and activist—Nahe is making waves for combining her paniolo culture with conservation. 

“The ranching era depleted a lot of resources. But when it’s done right, it doesn’t have to be that way,” says Nahe. “My paniolo heritage taught me the language of this land.”

The ʻohana’s homestead, part of the Department of Hawaiian Home Lands (DHHL) leasing and trust initiative for Native Hawaiians, is home to cattle, horses, pigs, dogs, a community feed store (where you can always find several members of the Keakealani clan), the beginnings of a native garden, and a panoramic view. Today, heavy clouds can be seen gathering low on the horizon. 

“Riding on horseback with my grandfather and cousins, I learned the different place names, what plants went where, what type of water ran through here, and how the ʻāina (land) moved,” Nahe says, waving at the green expanse around us. “My papa would sit us on top of horses in the middle of Waimea, and make us count off every hill around us.”

“The type of toolbox that I come into work with is different compared to everybody else. My skill set came from my grandfather and my family. Other people may know conservation 100 percent, but they don’t know my land the way that I do.”

While surfing and hula are what most people associate with the Hawaiian islands,  paniolo culture predates mainland America’s mythologized ‘Wild West’. In 1793, British sea captain George Vancouver gifted King Kamehameha I, the first ruler of the Kingdom of Hawai‘i, a small herd of longhorn cattle. In 1832, King Kamehameha III invited three Mexican-Spanish vaqueros (cowboys) to the Island of Hawai‘i to teach Native Hawaiians, including women, how to ranch cattle and work horses. 

“We ended up adopting a lot of the vaqueros’ characteristics and traits, then Hawaiianizing it,” says Nahe. Over time, a distinctive Hawaiian cowboy culture emerged, and paniolos became renowned for their riding and roping skills. They were so successful that by the late 1840s, Hawai‘i began exporting beef to the US territory of California, and in 1908, three paniolos—Ikua Purdy, Archie Ka‘au‘a and Jack Low—arrived in Wyoming, their hats adorned with lei (garlands), to compete in the world’s biggest rodeo. They returned home champions.

As we walk around the homestead, Nahe points out the gun couch (an old three-seater set in a field that’s used for shooting practice), a fledgling wiliwili (a deciduous native tree found only on Hawai‘i island) and a horse named Gypsy (a real “diva”). We’re trailed the entire way by a shadow—Nahe’s dog, Sister.  

Whenever Nahe stops, Sister stops. Wherever Nahe looks, Sister looks. As the clouds swell, I watch Nahe and Sister observe the changing sky. Their faces are turned the same direction; their silhouettes aligned against Waimea’s lush backdrop. There’s a term in Hawaiian language, kilo, which refers to the quiet observation of nature. “We’re practicing kilo,” Nahe confirms with a laugh, sensing my gaze. 

“When I wake up, the first thing I do is kilo. When I come to work, I kilo. It’s almost like my prayer time,” she says. “Kilo and aloha ʻāina (love of the land) go hand in glove. Because to aloha ʻāina you have to kilo, and to kilo, you have to understand how the ʻāina moves.” 

Nahe predicts it’s going to rain in roughly two hours.

This cultural connection to ʻāina is exactly what makes Nahe such a rare conservationist, and a leader within her team at the Akaka Foundation for Tropical Forests. When not mending fences or moving horses, Nahe works to regenerate and restore 84 acres of the Pu‘uwa‘awa‘a Forest Reserve, a public lands reserve centered around a 100,000-year-old cinder cone. She’s also the only lineal descendant of the land working on her field crew.

“The type of toolbox that I come into work with is different compared to everybody else,” says Nahe. “My skill set came from my grandfather and my family. Other people may know conservation 100 percent, but they don’t know my land the way that I do.”

The 30-minute drive from the Keakealani homestead to the Pu‘uwa‘awa‘a Forest Reserve takes us from Waimea’s grassy ranchlands south through volcanic slopes and dry yellow scrubland to the blackened, rocky terrain of ancient lava fields. 

Earlier, Nahe told me that the Island of Hawai‘i is so large that every other island in the archipelago could fit within its boundaries. But it’s the diversity here—this island is the only one with actively erupting and historically active volcanoes—which is more impressive. 

Pulling up to the reserve entrance, we’re greeted by a different landscape again—native dryland forest growing up through the cracks of lava rock. “Some say there’s 10 or five percent remaining, but I think there’s less than one percent dryland forest left in the Hawaiian archipelago,” Nahe tells me, unleashing Sister from the back of her truck.

“I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of change when me and my friends start getting into the positions we need to be in, but for right now, we’re just on ʻāina, trying to learn ʻāina, and earn our stripes.”

Nahe’s focus is the Kaiāulu Pu‘uwa‘awa‘a project, a partnership of multi-generational leaders, nonprofit organizations and government agencies who are working to transform cleared pastureland back into healthy forest. Dryland forests are a wealth of native biodiversity, despite receiving less than 50 inches of annual rainfall, and are home to everything from the critically endangered uhiuhi tree, with wood so heavy it sinks in seawater, to the ‘alalā (Hawaiian crow), a key dry forest seed disperser. Historic logging and grazing also led to a dominance in invasive fire-prone grasses, which are putting the ecosystem under serious pressure. 

“I love the dryland forest so much because, to me, it’s the definition of resiliency,” says Nahe, as she leads us across dry lava towards a flowering red tree. “This is the ‘Ōhi’a Lehua, she’s one of my favorite trees,” Nahe tells me, reaching out to lightly touch its fiery brush-like blossoms. “She’s an endemic plant, and the first tree to pop up on new lava flows.”

There’s a traditional Hawaiian saying: ‘He aliʻi ka ʻāina; he kauwā ke kanaka’ which means ‘the land is chief; man is its servant’. “It’s a heavily instilled value in every Hawaiian child across the islands that your land comes first,” says Nahe. “Conservationists, and those in the paniolo realm, we’re the same. Everything we do is to honor ʻāina. So that’s what I do, I’m an ʻāina servant.”

On the ranch, Nahe is strong, competent, even a touch “kolohe” (well-intentioned with a side of mischievousness), as she puts it. On her ancestral lands, Nahe seems calm, more tuned in. “When I’m on top of my mountain, I’m so at home,” she tells me. “It’s the most fulfilling and in-love feeling you could ever have. If I had a child, I’d equate that love to this.”

Family is perhaps the most powerful driving force for Nahe. “When it comes to aloha, when it comes to paniolo heritage, the very essence of me is my mom’s morals and values,” says Nahe. “She’s the storyteller, the hope for the future generation.”

What about Nahe’s Gen Z cohort? “We’re the wild card, but I’m excited for my generation,” she laughs. Nahe is keen to find new avenues for education and outreach, to help more young kids learn their ʻāina. “Some can’t answer simple questions about the mountain that feeds them or the stream that waters them,” she tells me. “I have a feeling there’s going to be a lot of change when me and my friends start getting into the positions we need to be in, but for right now, we’re just on ʻāina, trying to learn ʻāina, and earn our stripes.”

In the immediate future, Nahe extends an open invitation—to anyone, from any part of the world—to join her and the Kaiāulu Puʻuwaʻawaʻa team at the Puʻuwaʻawaʻa Forest Reserve for planting, weeding or educational days. “All types of travelers are welcome, so long as you’re willing to come and take care of the resources that are going to sustain you while you’re here. Any form of giveback means a lot when coming to Hawai‘i.”

I think about the Hawaiian word ‘kaiāulu’ which means community or village, and how this concept extends to us all—even the most transient of travelers. “When we think kaiāulu, we think—you, me, us, the neighborhood. But community is also the forest, it’s the ocean,” says Nahe. “As long as this land makes it through the next seven generations, that’s the main thing.”

And as we stand under the branches of a grown wiliwili tree, on ancient lava rock, in the endangered dryland forest, it starts to rain. Almost two hours on the dot. 

Learn more about the Island of Hawaiʻi and start planning your journey here. 

To join Nahe at the Puʻuwaʻawaʻa Forest Reserve see here.

A note on partnership content:

Adventure.com acknowledges the complexity and challenges of travel in the context of our global climate crisis. This article is part of Adventure.com’s paid partnerships program, which enables us to continue publishing stories about a more regenerative and sustainable future of travel by helping to make out platform commercially viable. Adventure.com only partners with brands and products that align with our ethical and editorial standards, and our vision for a future of travel built around lower emissions, deeper connection and more resilient communities.