Three steps in and it's a whole different world—nature's original lush life—deeply green and overgrown, alive with sparrows and an unseen bird that sounds remarkably like a cell phone. Even so, civilization seems far behind. We push through ferns the size of palm fronds and stop to admire the wild orchids. Moss hangs from the eucalyptus, drawing a curtain left and right. "We're in the jungle," Sophie says, and she is right.

The boardwalk tends upward, a grade we feel less in our legs than in our feet, which slip a little as we climb. Even so, it is a remarkably easy hike. We come to a clearing—a sign says we are walking through a bog—and are grateful for a few minutes of unadulterated sun. Back in the forest, we reach a fence and then a gate meant to keep out wild boar—Uncle Mervin says they have been known to top six hundred pounds here—and spotted deer. The deer were a present from the government of Hong Kong to the king of Hawaii 136 years ago—a gift that keeps giving.

We walk fifteen, maybe twenty minutes more and then, suddenly, the boardwalk ends. In front of us a glorious, dramatic landscape fills an enormous canvas. Uncle Mervin comes up from behind, beaming. "Molokai," he says simply. I look at his island, trying to take it in. Here are its folded green mountains, and instead of looking up at them we are looking down. Here are its waterfalls and cataracts, scores of them, flowing over the rocks below. Here is the ocean, so inestimable that it must be endless.

That endless ocean offers up a simple lullaby when we go to sleep in one of the Molokai Ranch "tentalos," not fifty yards from shore. By morning the surf is up and pounding the beach, so we head inland again, to the Ranch stables. We have an appointment with Jimmy Duvauchelle.

We fid him at the riding ring, presiding over a peewee rodeo competition. In a long-sleeved aloha shirt, jeans topped by a broad silver buckle, and spurs that reflect the unyielding sun, Uncle Jimmy looks every bit the part of the Hawaiian paniolo, which is appropriate since he is a fourth-generation Molokai cowpoke. When he's not running the rodeo or taking folks out along the miles of trails that crisscross the 64,000-acre ranch—more than a third of the island—he can be found on the range, working the stock. Just as when his grandfather and father tended this herd, the cows are routinely driven down from the arid highlands to the wharf, where they are hoisted onto boats and shipped via Oahu to San Francisco.

From the bleachers, we can see Oahu, which seems to sit directly atop the Pacific; despite the presence of little boys running along the sidelines, throwing lassos at plastic steers on creaky wheels, or the drama in the ring, no one would confuse this with, say, Cody, Wyoming. Still, the cowboy heritage is strong on Molokai, and in Hawaii generally. Two years ago, one of Jimmy Duvauchelle's protégés placed in the top fie at the national high school rodeo championships.