A few years ago, in night’s pitch dark I stood inside a small shed, 30 feet long and 15 feet across and 15 feet high under the loft. The down pour outside pinged the glass windows loud. Would my eight-year-old son wake up as he slept in the loft?

The rain did not keep me awake. My restless thoughts did. Another shed, this one made for sheep housing, is a short walk away, up a gentle incline on a dirt road. In the horrendous thunderstorm, do the five sheep need guidance back in. During many warm star-filled nights, one gate keeps them on the outside land instead of their shed. They need letting in tonight.

Several minutes into my walk up the hill, I am drenched under the rain poncho. At the gate, I swing the fencing wide and all five sheep hustle into their shed, a small barn where I have dry food stored on a shelf for surprise snacking in such times. Five usually puffy sheep, wool now also drenched down, soon snuggle cozily into the small space, bellies content with the snack.

Once back in my own shed, a barn like tiny house, where my son and I have dwelled for six months or so without running water or electricity, I strip down to bare skin then reapply clean warm clothing for the night’s slumber. Up the steep ladder I go into an easy rest in the loft.

Last weekend, my son, now a ten-year-old, and I again attempted sleep in torrential rain. Our staycation brought us to Cabana 5 at the Hamaukua Inn, nestled in the hamlet Honomu on Big Island’s windward side. Two wide hammocks, made of long soft, blue-striped cloth, are the night’s bedding. At first, we toy around in the novelty. Sleeping in hammocks becomes a family adventure. Then they become uncomfortable or too uncertain. Will we wake up with an excruciating neck ache or other incapacitated muscle?

The Friday night we arrive, a storm crashes three trees down on the Honomu Stream Bridge road.

For a few sleeping hours we are good. Yet by midnight I stand shouting a few feet away from my son’s hammock, so he can hear me over the rain that pellets the roof’s metal and polyurethane panels. What, he asks me? I make a feeble gesture to the wooden floor where I have built enough padding from several blankets to qualify as a place to sleep. By 2 a.m. though, dozens of mosquitoes are staycationing on two spots of uncovered skin—our feet and faces. Back to the hammocks we go and heap blankets on to cover all potential mosquito-landings.

For my son, he is slangry, the condition where little to no sleep makes you angry, and after pouting while at the same time stacking five blankets (we brought some from home) on himself in the hammock, he passes out.

But for me, this new town on our travels and uncertain housing conditions spike anxiety, an interior machination that can crank from zero to revving, an emotional condition comprising an inherited biology and social circumstances, meaning diverse living environments shaping this one hammocky life gifted to me or what we call the twisting existential ride. Over five decades into the project, I have tools. Takes all of me to employ them. For a while I don’t.

The shouting rain that continues to pummel on the roof, seven feet above my head, keeps me awake and the cold-cold temperatures rattle me; I cannot get warm. I lean into my discomfort, complaining silently and then aloud on the damn nuisance. My eyes have a tangible sense of weight pulling on them, fatigue’s work.

Then the serenity prayer kicks in, and I accept what I cannot change—these external conditions—and work that courage to wrap the blanket tighter plus don the thick jacket I brought, which I just retrieved from the car through the pouring rain, activating comfort factors that I perhaps can influence. The jacket is damp outside yet warm, dry inside. Accepting that unpleasant contrast, and grateful for the prayer energy kicking in by 3 a.m. more or less, stacks up life favors so that we “sleep” until 9 in the morning.

Feels curious where you find yourself in not-yet slumber, in that middle of the night supple spiritual time when skin feels thinner than usual and the what-ifs morph from butterflies into wasps, those stinging inchoate fears—how this nebulous mindset transforms into a reminder on what is a home.

Living on the Big Island the last three years has redesigned what this might look like for our family, my son and I, a home we call happy. This weekend trip exudes that.

Our routine house rental in Hawi keeps us sheltered well given the luxury of running water and electricity. My son bragged the other day how many outlets this place has compared to dwelling for three years in structures with none or just two. The modern amenities are being reintroduced to us.

Material comforts that we are so exuberant for are the baseline mindset from which we spring into not knowing—in other words, a road trip. What weekend home will we find on the other side?

I am a stickler for tidying up the current place before venturing to the next one. After a thorough vacuum and mop of glossy grey cement floors in the 1,500 square feet two-bedroom, one bath apartment, we ease ourselves into the car confident that returning will be smoother without late Sunday cleaning. To be ready for the week that follows our travels, we do the prep work before the staycation treat.

Exiting the driveway starts the gradual sloping ascent on Kohala Mountain Road. Curvy turns this way and that way are the path our beloved family beater car—local slang for a reliable and somewhat rundown automobile, yet ours is running powerful with 204, 533 miles traveled so far. The 2003 Pontiac Vibe we call Mauna Kea—no disrespect to Mauna Kea Mountain, please—because snow falls there and our car is white too like that and now sprints through vibrant green grassy hills, volcano cones that are gentle land humps grass-covered and protruding everywhere, skyscraper tall trees that shelter the road in damp shadow, and hundreds of cows and horses grazing nearby and into the distance. After one sharp turn is a spot to park your car at the scenic view.

From this vantage point, a sweeping view of Big Island’s leeward side catches your breathe. Picture historic ocean waves rippling against sandy stretches, volcanic rock, and palm trees as far as the eye can see. Long stretches of now bumpy, now smooth island land blends rolling-colors of beige, brown, feint green, black, dusty grey, and cedar green as mile after mile appear in the camera lens.

Our car Mauna Kea continues ahead. These are narrow roads we drive and small villages that we are coursing through. Between a few of them is an ordinary gas station until you step inside. Freshly made lentil soup stays warm in one container next to where the chili and rice (a Hawaiian favorite) can also be scooped. I have yet to meet her or him, the foodie who keeps this station. Treats abound.

A carefully wrapped cheeseburger reveals that somebody places the top bun upside down inside the foil wrapping so as not to become a mushy pile of soggy bread. Prying the two buns apart, having been slightly welded by cheese that melts from sitting in the warmer, the burger is ready for a few lettuce leaves and tomato slices—super fresh—available on the counter space. Several cubes of ice beneath the plastic veggie container keep these chilled. Easy to get a tad busy here as relish, diced jalapeno, raw onion, sweet pickles, and more are garnish choices. For my son’s cheeseburger dinner, simplicity is the call.

My guess is that evening meal options will be scant when we arrive to Honomu in one hour. At 5 evening-time now, I am buying dinner in my favorite Big Island Hawai’i gas station where we seldom buy gas yet do stop in for foodie discoveries as often as we can.

When I was able to pull down snacks in the sheep shed during that incredible storm, the reassuring food partly defined their home for the night. The gas station food haven serves a similar purpose for our family. When ono (delicious) food is nearby, we are at home, a cozy spiritual mind-set that all is well even while venturing into unknown territory.

For my own dinner portion, I pull laulau from the steam warmer. Take chunks of pork, including the salty fat driblets, add a leafy green, and steam these two after they are wrapped in a heart-shaped taro leaf. Opening the leaf to fork into the tender pork and gooey green veggie flavor, the marinade that happens by steaming, makes for a favorite meal. The taro leaf package sits next to an abundant white rice portion. After bringing to the front counter the cheeseburger and laulau, I also grab a few tempters while standing there—dark chocolate acai and homemade (meaning somewhere in the gas station, a cook creates in a mystery culinary nook) marshmallow crispy dessert and then we are on our way.

Long stretches of road directly ahead are guarded by rainbow trees three, four, or five hundred feet tall. We drive in between them. Rainbow trees earn their name from trunks that alternate pink, brown, and green color shades; the leaves are way on top of the trunk, so the tree trunk’s rainbow colors are especially visible. Interspersed along this highway are three deeply cut gulches. Looking from the high point on the road, before we descend, we stare into tropical rain forest, an endless green canopy of diverse plant shapes, sizes, and hue. And when our car is in the very bottom cradle of this gulch, we are seeing the starting terrain, sometimes flowing water there, every type of imaginable rain forest green plants and trees, convoluting the gulch basin as evidence of nature flourishing these many decades before and these many decades after, we hope.

Completing the speedy ascent to the top of the third gulch, I then slow the car down to go through several more villages. At sunset time now, we aim to arrive before dark. Finding an obscure rural location on Hawaii back roads without day light is a slim chance. Holding the i-Phone to read the digital map, my son predicts the Honomu sign will deliver shortly. Sure enough, I spot the turn ahead.

But I have misplaced the specific map to Hamakua Inn, so I drive from memory of the concrete directions that I read earlier in the week, hoping to arrive before this Friday’s dark spell. Do not go up the mountain to Akaka Falls is the clear warning, I remember. Snailing the car pace to 15 mph, I spot the first church, a concrete rotunda for 200 people or so, that we see before reaching downtown Honomu, which is one street, maybe a half-mile long. That is all. On this one-street stretch are five more spiritual dwellings: two Buddhist temples and three Christian churches. The prolific variety signals loud and clear the historical roots of sugar cane work.

We humans are hard-scrabble, so when dire work conditions sandpaper the spirit, we gather in large groups to rekindle. Hawaii’s sugar cane history books describe feudal times in which a few king-like bosses are lording over the serfs, stalwart good people striving to not languish in times of slavery. Gathering with others at church or temple becomes a sustainable core.

Once we drive past the last church on our left, the driving path narrows even more. We descend into a mini gulch, where the road’s paved concrete swells in places, soil and water buckling to the surface over the years. Rain forest trees sway in the canopy above. A gushing stream dances and crashes noisily on boulders—flowing heavy from recent rains.

On this back country road, we exit on the other side to drive by random shelterings. On the right, a simple wire gate fence has a gold-colored padlock to prevent squatters from going onto land where miscellaneous piles of garbage are heaped plus a blue canvas makes for the roof over an impromptu shack; some wood panels have been nailed together.

As we drive slowly by the Hamakua Inn gate, looking in and wondering if this is the place, the i-Phone map misleads us to believe that the cabins are further down the road. One mile beyond where we need to be, a mansion resides on the other side of a peculiarly tall wood fence. In the middle of nowhere, some folks built their forever dream house. From the outside, seems like we have a five-bedroom, three-bathroom rural palace. Tree orchards are nearby so agriculture legacy might play a role.

Still trusting that maybe we are not lost, we dawdle further on the rural road. When paved road turns to all gravel and tall grass is growing high on either side, remnants of the sugar cane era, we make a U-turn. In a few minutes, we have driven back and finally turn into the Hamakua Inn driveway to find Cabana Five instantly on the left.

From there, a tourist weekend follows. After we bring a simple travel bag from the car into Cabana 5, we traipse up the long cement driveway to the outdoor picnic bench at the main house where public facilities are provided for anyone staying in one of the six Cabanas. Some idle small talk happens with a friendly traveler while my son eats his cheeseburger and I nosh on the laulau.

We go next into the torrential rain night where symbolic butterflies and wasps fly around in my middle-of-the-night disquietude while actual mosquitoes make sure we commit to sleeping in the hammocks instead of the cabin floor. By morning I will agree that mostly butterflies are present, the laughing at the absurd kind of energy.

Still, we find ourselves waking up bleary eyed, and forge ahead as we return to Honomu central, her entire half-mile stretch, and discover diversity: two cafes; Ed’s Bakery that sells an ono ube malasada; a dilapidated theater; one hair salon; a boutique store selling Koa wood crafted furniture and more; one business sells scrumptious dehydrated beef jerky that arrives in crispy sheets, potato chip texture; and two Buddhist temples plus one Episcopalian church are right on the strip. Grey skies and random, hard rain showers continue while we venture into these businesses.

Later that afternoon, a trip to Target in Hilo 20 minutes away breaks the enamoring Honomu village spell, yet my son’s upcoming 11th birthday means buying a new Beyblade. Rewarding is that one of the best Vietnamese restaurants is nearby, Lam’s Garden. What arrives to our table are two huge bowls of Pho, which means salty just-spiced beef broth plus we add the sprouts, basil, and lime squeeze on top of thinly cut beef slices that arrive half pink so the steaming broth can cook the remaining raw meat. Carefully extricating very full bellies from the dining room table, we pay homage, next, to a favorite bookstore in Hilo. Satiated by a touristy Saturday, yet in a slight fog from Friday night’s sleep deprivation, we return to Hamakua Inn unsure what is ahead of us.

The travel faeries seem more companion than adversary Saturday evening since our second night on the road trip, we find our temporary home in Cabana Five more amenable. In the glamping tent, we have Wi-fi and on my laptop we watch a favorite Netflix comedy depicting the antics of quadruplets in fifth grade. Eased by laughter and pho, around 8 p.m. we lean into the hammocks to begin sleep. The attempt, at least.

Giving up any unrealistic expectations, we each accept that every several hours we need to twist or turn in the hammock as a preventive remedy against strained muscles. And we keep several blankets nearby to add as the temperature becomes very cold. Which it does. Rain falls as pounding hard as the night before, yet intermittently, so we get some quiet breaks throughout the night.

Sunday morning’s start feels downright easy, and we go with that. Later in the day we venture to Akaka waterfalls ensconced in thick rain forest. And just down the road is a quaint goat farm. Acreage on the drive up the mountain shows many lines of green-green food growing in the rich soil on several farms.

But earlier, the first Sunday morning indulgence is my son’s patience while I attend the Buddhist ceremony. Favorable tradeoff since he gets to play a nerdy game on my phone while sitting in the car parked close by to the temple’s door. Seems that this Buddhist interlude shows me wider context on the road trip’s point. This temple, the hammocks, the gas-station foodie haven, our car Mauna Kea, diverse rain forest gulches are all split-second dwellings, temporary homing spots that bring ease or flurry or a mix of human experience.

Borrowing one frame to picture this weekend’s trekking, we have driven a mere 80 miles or so from the comfortable home in Hawi where we pay rent. From this perspective, we are on a mild touristy excursion and that is all.

From a different angle we can depict our family taking the road trip to expand a sense of dwellings and their possibility. When booking on Airbnb, we saw the hammocks in Cabana Five and took the risk. The difficulty sleeping, though, gave us a soft side to remember how easy the basics are taken for granted. How easy we forget the value of a good night’s sleep in a reliable shelter.

Another perspective confirms that the travel experience herself is an experiential shelter, in a way, to exercise our adventure muscles, the tenacity to stay taut and supple while accepting adversity, savoring comfort food, reading maps and memories, connecting in new conversations, revering nature, and limbering spiritual energy.

Those butterflies turning into purposeful wasps and then back into butterflies, help me listen more openly to the Japanese sensei (minister) in the Buddhist temple when he describes death as a journey from this physical world to the other shore, where those having departed the corporeal begin their soul work. From the spiritual other shore, our dead ones return in some form to remind us that in this living, nearly every moment is a belly-softening to appreciate and to welcome the training for compassion—for yourself and for all those around you. Welcome home.