Things to Do in Palikir in October

Nan Madol is the reason most travelers come to Pohnpei. October's high water levels make the boat approach through the mangrove channels easier than in drier months, when low tides can strand outboard skiffs on the shallow reef flat. The ancient basalt city, 92 artificial islets connected by tidal canals built starting around 1200 AD, sits off Pohnpei's southeast coast. Reaching it means a 30-to-45-minute motorboat ride from the Temwen Island side. In October's choppier seas, this can soak you before you arrive. Go in the morning. By early afternoon the rain tends to close in. The return crossing gets uncomfortable. The moss-covered walls rising out of dark canal water, with no sound except dripping rain and reef herons, is one of the most disorienting archaeological experiences in the Pacific. There are no gift shops. No guardrails. No other tourists. You walk the coral rubble paths alone with your guide and the smell of salt and wet stone.

Sokehs Rock, the sheer basalt cliff face that dominates Kolonia's western skyline, is Pohnpei's signature hike. October's saturated trails demand respect. The trek up Sokehs Ridge to the old Japanese gun emplacements from World War II takes roughly two to three hours round trip. It gains about 230 m (750 ft) through dense jungle where the red clay path turns to a slick chute after rain. Start at first light, ideally by 6 AM. The trail is at its driest then. The clouds have not yet settled on the summit. On a clear morning, and October gives you maybe one in three, the view from the ridge takes in the entire barrier reef. The lagoon shades from jade to cobalt. Kolonia's tin rooftops sit far below. The air up there smells of wet fern and volcanic soil. Bring proper footwear with aggressive tread. Flip-flops will put you on your back within the first twenty minutes.

Pohnpei's barrier reef, one of the largest in the Pacific, encircles the island in a near-complete ring with only a few navigable passes. It offers wall diving and coral gardens that rival anything in Palau at a fraction of the diver traffic. October's water temperature sits around 29°C (84°F). Warm enough that a rash guard is all the thermal protection you need. Visibility fluctuates more than in the dry months: after a heavy rain, nearshore sites can drop to 10 m (33 ft), but the outer walls and the passes, the channels on the northern and eastern sides, tend to stay clearer because the current flushes runoff. Manta rays are the draw this time of year. They cruise the cleaning stations along the outer reef edge. You might also see grey reef sharks, Napoleon wrasse, and the kind of hard coral coverage that has been bleached away in more visited destinations.

Pohnpei's interior receives some of the highest rainfall on earth. The summit of Nanalaud sees upwards of 7,600 mm (300 inches) annually, and by October the island's waterfalls are running at their most dramatic. Kepirohi Falls, accessible by a short walk from the road on the island's southern side, drops in a wide curtain into a pool deep enough to swim in, and the mist coming off the base feels like standing inside a cloud. Liduduhniap, the twin waterfall further into the valley, requires a longer hike through waist-high ferns and across creek crossings that in October can be knee-deep. The smell in these valleys, decomposing breadfruit, wild ginger, the mineral tang of volcanic rock under constantly moving water, is unlike anything in the lowlands. Bring a dry bag for your phone. Accept that you are going to be soaked from the canopy drip before you even reach the falls.

Sakau, Pohnpei's equivalent of kava, pounded from the root of the pepper plant on a flat basalt stone, is the social and ceremonial backbone of island life, and October's quieter tourism calendar means you are more likely to experience it as a guest in an actual community nahs (traditional meeting house) rather than a staged performance. The preparation itself is mesmerizing: young men pound the root with smooth stones in a rhythm that echoes off the thatch roof, then wring the fibers through hibiscus bark until a grey, viscous liquid streams into a coconut shell. The taste is earthy, peppery, and numbing. Your lips tingle within seconds, and after two shells your legs feel like they belong to someone else. This is not a party drink. The atmosphere in the nahs is quiet, respectful, and communal. You sit on woven mats, the rain hammers the corrugated roof overhead, and conversation happens slowly if at all. It is one of the most grounding experiences in the Pacific.

Pohnpei's coastline is fringed with dense mangrove forests, and paddling through the tidal channels on a rising tide, when the water pushes you gently inland through root tunnels that close overhead, is the quietest way to see the island's edge. October's higher water levels open channels that are too shallow in drier months, and the bird activity in the mangroves peaks during the wetter season: Micronesian kingfishers flash electric blue between branches, reef herons stand motionless in the shallows, and fruit bats hang in the canopy like folded umbrellas. The water beneath your kayak is clear enough to see juvenile reef fish darting between prop roots. The air in the mangroves is thick, still, and smells of salt mud and decaying leaves, not unpleasant. But unmistakably alive. Morning paddles before the afternoon rain are ideal. A two-to-three-hour circuit covers most of what you want to see without exhausting yourself in the heat.