Jill Moratto: Stories from Members

Jill Moratto passed away on June 27, 2026, after fighting illness for several years. In last month’s newsletter we asked for memories and stories of Jill to share in tribute. See: Remembering Jill Moratto.

Stories shared by HTMC Members below: 

Jill was an extraordinary person.  She was full of life in spite of her long battle with cancer.

She always looked forward to the Mokuleia camping trip. On one occasion with a cast on one leg, she carried several gallons of water to the hikers at the shack.

I invited Jill to our Ham Radio Field Day which is held each year over a weekend. The purpose was to set up temporary emergency communication stations to operate without commercial power for 48 hours. Upon observing the operation she was determined to obtain her ham radio license. In four months she was a licensed ham. Shortly after she wanted to build a ham shack.  

Her positive attitude toward life has always been my inspiration. I am so happy to have known her.

Fond Aloha, Jill!

Mel Yoshioka

Jill enjoyed life more than anyone I’ve ever met… she had the biggest smile ever…. only Jill could smile and laugh no matter what life threw at her… absolutely incredible spirit.

Laura Owens

I gave Jill the nickname “Farmer Jill” many years ago because she had a pet oyster that she kept in a fish bowl and a hamster she had caged in one of her rooms.  She was always talking about them.  Also, because she loved plants.  She liked her nickname so much that she started calling herself Farmer Jill.

Larry Lee

I’ve only gotten to know Jill well recently. Probably about the last 3 years. Short but what a great 3 years it was! She was such an energetic and positive person. I’m sure this attitude helped her keep her cancer at bay for over 10 years. A couple years ago she was so determined she went on a trip to Scotland in between chemo treatments even though she wasn’t feeling great. Thea knows more about this trip than me.

One of her favorite club activities was the annual Mokuleia campout during the President Day weekend. This past campout in February despite not feeling well she did this trek again. I hiked up that tough 3.5 road up Peacock Flats with Jennie on her hike. As we reached the campground we saw Jill there. She cheerfully greeted us when she saw us. She told us how she thought she had a broken foot and rib. She said she coughed so much that may be how she broke her rib. I thought what an amazing person! It was hard enough hiking up that long road with just a normal backpack.

She was a friendly, welcoming person! After our hike at Pu’u Ohulu in Maili she invited us to her house for a potluck. This invitation was put forth to everyone on the hike, not just the ones she knew. I was amazed at how she decorated her house. She lived in a big 5 bedroom, 3 bath house. Since she lived by herself you’d think some of those rooms would be empty or used as storage but all of them were decorated nicely. She had beautiful artwork, many of which she painted, a room full of lava lamps, another of Monkees memorabilia, another of guitars and an art room. I remember seeing an aquarium, two cats and a dog. I heard she had a turtle but don’t remember that. Her yard was also well maintained.  What a joyous laughter she had when she took us on a tour of her house and shared those items.

Aloha Jill.

Dale Yoshizu

Jill described the Mokuleia Campout as a yearly highlight – three days camping over the long President’s Day weekend. One year she couldn’t make the trip because of a work obligation, but late Sunday morning she appeared at the campsite, having ran the six miles of rough terrain, chatted with the campers a while, and ran back in the afternoon. When asked how she got through the military guard to get to the trailhead without a permit she said, “Maybe because I’m a blond!”

Pat Rooney

The pleasantries atop Pu‘u O Hulu.
March 15, 2008
By Rich Bailey

My hiking buddy Dudley was back on O‘ahu for a month, and I had driven us both to the Pacific Shopping Mall in Nanakuli. There we met Fred, the Hawaiian Trail and Mountain Club hike leader for the club’s Saturday hike up Pu‘u O Hulu. I was pleasantly surprised to see Wing there as well, having met him only the previous weekend on another arduous adventure. Another unexpected encounter was Jill Moratto, whom I had recently met hiking Olomana on the club’s signature Christmas hike. I introduced them all to each other as we listened to Fred’s directions on how to get to the trailhead.

About two dozen hikers started up the steep hillside. There were some minor switchbacks to help with the ascent, but mostly it was an immediate grind upwards. Soon, a loose line of hikers stretched up the precipitous hillside. I looked up to see someone smiling on a rock ledge several feet higher. Jill stood above me, arms akimbo. “Richard!” said Jill, laughing. “I didn’t realize you were in the back of the bus.” She had waited on me.

Farther up, the trail reached a twelve-foot precipice. Jill climbed it with no problem, but when my turn came I soon discovered there were no good footholds and little above to grab onto. After struggling for a while, I looked up for guidance and saw everyone had left.

Everyone except Jill.

She sat on a rock a few yards uphill watching.

For several long minutes I searched unsuccessfully for an option. I went back to the tiny toehold. I dug my boot in as far as it would go. It would have to do. With little to grab onto above, I put weight on the right leg. My leg strained. Now I bent my left leg up into my chest as far as it would go and placed it on a sloped rock. Hoping for enough traction, I grabbed a rock above and heaved myself up.

Somehow it worked!

Awash with adrenaline, I quickly scrambled to safety.

“You did it!” Jill congratulated me, smiling.

As I laughed in agreement and learned to breathe again, we waited on Wing. Wing reached the cliff edge but, unable to find a handhold, hung there exhausted. I tried repeatedly to grip his arm and aid his ascent, but he was afraid of pulling me down with him.

After a half-dozen futile attempts, Jill suddenly stood up. She decided to continue on to search for Fred, as she thought he said he had a rope. I agreed she had a good idea and watched her leave, looking ahead for Fred.

After she left, Wing revealed he had a rope.

After two failed attempts to throw it up to me, I finally got the rope, secured it, and he used it to climb back to the ledge and haul himself over the edge one-handed to safety.

As I congratulated him on his success, Jill returned. She came back when she could not find Fred or anyone else, in fact. Though she was happy to see we had used Wing’s rope to get him up safely, she was upset neither Fred nor anyone else, but us, had remained to make sure Wing had made it up the rock face before continuing.

I reminded her of the club’s stated policy: every man for himself.

“I’m not sure what the policy is for women,” I added.

Jill and Wing looked at me funny.

I chose to interpret that as laughter.

But I understood her frustration well from experience.

As in life, often no one looks back to check on the last hiker.

Jill did.

As Wing gathered up his rope, Jill and I resumed climbing. Non-stop steepness greeted us. Jill was in good shape, and I managed a good pace for a while, but eventually had to stop. Jill would gladly accommodate, and we’d chit-chat harmoniously while I caught my breath before resuming climbing.

The pleasantries were a welcome distraction from the tiny, fanatical Japanese taiko drummer beating on the inside of my chest.

Often we’d look back to check on Wing and ensure he was still safely behind.

Jill told me she worked for the Organ Donor Center of Hawai‘i, and I was fascinated to hear the details of her work. Her nonchalant descriptions of the particulars sometimes made me cringe, but her genuine enthusiasm for her work was obvious. In fact, at one point, she received a page about a new donor who had apparently just arrived and was disappointed she wouldn’t be able to assist.

I voiced my concern that someone had just died. But from their misfortune, other people’s lives could luckily continue, she said. Unselfishly letting your dead body be used to give the gift of life.

Unsung heroes all.

The views improved with each rest stop, and after the third or fourth one I looked up and thought I saw the climb leveling off.

“I think we’re almost there,” I puffed.

“Oh, I never think about reaching the top,” said Jill. “Cause too many times it turns out it’s not the top.”

Turned out she was right again.

I topped the rise to see the trail merely flattened for a bit, but then climbed again. Eventually, the trail joined the main ridgeline, and this time I could see concrete bunkers atop the next and final hill.

“Well,” I said happily. “At least the goal’s in sight now.”

With renewed energy, Jill and I quickly climbed to the first bunker. Through the forward observation slit we saw a wide expanse of blue. Sparkling ocean blue and bright sky blue.

Here, during WWII many decades before, lookouts had watched for Japanese warships that never came. They had trained hard to repel an invasion that never occurred. Though the sea and sky might look the same to them today, I knew the modern developments now dotting the coastline would astonish them.

Wing caught up with us, and farther along we reached the third and final bunker, where we found Dudley waiting for us. We took off our packs and sat down for a snack, chatting and enjoying the amazing panoramas and scenery all around us.

Eventually, with some effort, we restarted.

Jill and Dudley led the way, and Wing followed behind me. The way back down seemed very long. The many little ups and downs slowed us, and we soon lost Wing behind the rocky undulations.

Several spots were especially steep, and we mountain climbed down those carefully. Then we reached a mass of brown rock across the ridge like a castle’s battlements.

Jill looked over and said there seemed to be no way down.

Dudley pointed to the left, and they began heading down the side of the ridge.

As I was taking pictures, by the time I started down, I could see they were having a hard time negotiating a path.

“Hey guys,” I shouted. “That doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t look trampled.”

They didn’t reply.

In pursuit, I scooted down the precarious slope, sliding on loose rocks and sand. Several yards down I stopped and yelled again.

“Guys! I think we have to go around the rock up here.”

Again they either ignored me or didn’t hear.

It was now obvious to me they were going the wrong way. But yell all I did, they kept going down. They were bushwhacking their way down the steep mountainside.

Once I realized they would not turn around, I did.

With difficulty, I regained the ridge. I looked and looked for Jill and Dudley but could see neither. Turning around, I could not see Wing either.

I pressed on alone.

A little past the rock barrier, I eventually found a green marker and the trail. The only thing I could do now was continue on and hope Dudley and Jill made it down safe.

Probably ten or fifteen minutes later, I checked again and saw Jill and Dudley emerging from tall grass onto a dirt road far below.

Happy they were okay, I turned to look for Wing and saw his tiny shape many rocky protrusions behind me.

Still alone, I continued on.

Near the bottom, after traversing the narrow ridge without falling for so long, I somehow slipped off a rock and fell hard, my left leg doubled beneath me.

I half-expected my leg to be hyper-extended, but I felt no pain when I stood up, which surprised me.

A few minutes later I emerged from the tall grass onto a dirt road, exhausted, nearly out of water, and dreading the long hot walk back to the cars.

Some time later, just as I was thinking of getting up from a long sit-down, Jill and Dudley came ambling back up the dirt road toward me.

I smiled and waved.

Both of them had scratched and bloodied legs.

Apparently Dudley had thought it couldn’t be that far to the bottom and had kept going once he had started downhill. Jill had thought it would be too hard to climb back up to me by the time they realized they were not on the trail anymore. So they continued on and miraculously made it down safely, making their own path.

No trail guide will ever feature the Dudley and Jill Trail because of its many hazards.

And possibly because there was never actually a Dudley and Jill Trail.

I shook my head in awe at the dynamic duo’s daring.

We waited for Wing and sat down in the shade of a scraggly tree. As time flowed like molasses uphill, we lamented our fate. I began thinking of schemes to get us back to Wing’s car without walking.

As the minutes passed, I became increasingly convinced Fred and the rest of the hiking club had forgotten us.

Then I looked down the dirt road.

Fred was marching quickly toward us.

“Fred!” I said when he reached us. “I thought you had abandoned us.”

He laughed.

“Nope.”

He opened his backpack.

“I have goodies.”

He produced a wide assortment of snacks and a small bottle of water.

“Fred,” I said seriously. “I apologize, sir. I thought the worst of you for no reason. You’re a lifesaver.”

About then Wing pushed through the long grass and walked onto the dirt road. Dudley, Jill and I gathered up our belongings and followed Fred to his van. He drove us back to Wing’s car, saving us from the arduous alternative of the long walk in the hot afternoon sun with little water.

Eventually Dudley and I said goodbye to Wing and Jill before the long drive back to Honolulu.

There are many things I remember about that day.

The unforeseen extraordinary hike Dudley and Jill made down the ridge face. The bunkers providing a tangible link to Hawai‘i’s WWII history. Fred’s hocus pocus act of appearing when not expected at the end and saving the day. Wing hanging from that cliff and then revealing, at a particularly useful moment, that he had brought his own rope.

But mostly, I remember the people.

And when I remember Jill, I see her standing above me on that first rock ledge, arms akimbo, laughing because I was in the back of the bus with her.

I remember looking up from the cliff, when everyone else had gone and left Wing and me, and finding her still there.

I remember her smiling when I finally hauled myself over the ledge.

“You did it!”

I remember her going to find help for Wing. I remember her looking back later to make sure he was still safely behind us, and I recall her talking with genuine enthusiasm about work that gave other people the gift of life.

And somewhere on that endless climb, Jill told me something that seemed merely practical at the time:

“Oh, I never think about reaching the top. Cause too many times it turns out it’s not the top.”

Turned out she was right again.

Paying my dues to Godek-Jaskulski
May 18, 2008
By Richard Bailey

I was the last hiker, as usual, on an advanced Hawaiian Trail & Mountain Club (HTMC) hike, and hoping this wouldn’t be my last hike.

Sheer drops on either side of the narrow crest forced me to bend forward instinctively, trying to balance on uneven rocks and roots barely a foot wide. I glanced down one side on an open stretch. Fear locked down my mind and I hastily scrambled across at a time when that wasn’t prudent.

Finally the ridge broadened and spindly guava trees reappeared around me.

Just ahead was Stuart M. Ball, Jr., the renowned author and hiker. He had stopped to talk with another hiker named Jay, who was working his way back.

“I’m glad we’re past that dangerous dike they warned us about earlier,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief.

Jay and Stuart looked at each other.

“That wasn’t it,” said Jay slowly. “The really dangerous section is just ahead.”

My eyes must have looked like saucers.

“You’re kidding,” I begged, knowing they weren’t.

HTMC men didn’t kid about hiking.

By then I had already begun paying my hiking dues.

The hike had started that morning at Moanalua Valley Neighborhood Park, where about a dozen of the HTMC’s superhikers gathered. Mike was the hike leader. Eventually I spotted a familiar bright-haired lady arriving.

“Shirley,” I smiled.

She remembered me from the club’s Manana hike, and we immediately began chatting good-naturedly.

When Mike sent off the early group, the superhikers bolted out the gate like Kentucky Derby horses. Shirley and I hustled to catch up.

Instead of following the road into the valley, we swung behind the basketball courts and found a steep hillside trail hidden in dense vegetation.

Upwards is a laughably poor description of this trail.

Shirley and I were soon alone as the grade separated the first-class hikers from us, the second-class hikers. Then Shirley slowly began to outdistance me as well, and I fell into the third-class hiking section.

Eventually I stopped beneath the last large tree before the top and sat in the shade.

“You’re almost there,” said Shirley, hidden by the foliage.

“Okay,” I shouted back to the bushes. “Thanks, but I’m going to rest a bit.”

She had waited for me until then before continuing.

Later, after reaching the ridge and wandering briefly down a trail I wasn’t entirely certain was the right one, I turned around.

Someone was approaching.

“Stuart!” I said. “What a surprise?”

“Richard,” greeted Stuart.

We shook hands eagerly.

Stuart M. Ball Jr. was the author of the premier hiking guides to Hawai‘i, and it had been my pleasure to hike with him several times before.

Then another recognizable face appeared behind him.

“Richard!”

A pretty platinum blonde trotted up and gave me a hug.

“Jill!” I laughed. “So good to see you.”

Jill Moratto was another hiker I had met on the club’s Olomana outing several months before.

“I really like doing this,” she told me. “My boyfriend hates heights, but I’m an adrenaline junkie and I love doing this.”

Considering what lay ahead, Jill had apparently selected the correct hobby.

Behind her came Mike.

The four of us conversed animatedly, catching up on personal happenings, until by unspoken signal we resumed our intersecting hobby.

Now in pleasant company, the time flew like a cheetah chasing gazelles.

Mike and Jill took the lead while Stuart and I secured the rear. We passed ‘?hi‘a trees, ‘uluhe ferns and other native flora as we climbed the many ups and downs. Some were super steep, thankfully short. At the tops we had commanding views and cooling trades. In the valleys, oppressive humidity squeezed the sweat out of us.

After more than an hour we reached a pine forest.

Mike pointed to a hidden trail on the right.

“That’s the bailout trail. If anyone wants to make this hike shorter, you can take that.”

I was tempted.

“Stuart,” I asked. “Are you going on?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Me too.”

This decision would become increasingly questionable.

A little farther on we reached a large pine tree with a spectacular view of Moanalua Valley and the Ko‘olau Mountains. Tall waves of hazy greenery undulated into the horizon, looking primeval.

Then the trail transformed.

Numerous steep sections assailed us. Ups and downs became the norm. Mike and Jill led while Stuart and I followed, playing hiking leapfrog as one of us slowed and the other passed.

Eventually I found myself alone at the rear on a particularly steep descent along a rapidly narrowing ridge.

Sheer drops appeared on either side.

Fearful of falling, I moved quickly, which was a dumb action, but my logic had apparently fallen with the cliffs on either side.

That was where I caught up to Stuart again and met Jay.

And that’s where Jay casually informed me that everything I had just survived was merely the appetizer and he was headed back.

We wished him well and Stuart and I continued on.

Soon the vegetation vanished and a long gray saddle narrowed to mere inches. Stuart trudged onward fearlessly. I followed quickly, mostly because losing sight of him seemed worse.

Fear rose with the exponential power of fright.

Without the comfort of foliage, both of us stretched our arms outward like tightrope walkers without a safety net. The saddle was bumpy, irregular and contorted.

Then a brisk wind buffeted me.

“Great!” I said sarcastically.

Immediately my inner thighs cramped and my right calf tightened into a ball.

“Damn! Not now!”

Ignoring the pain, I pushed on.

Eventually we reached a rope stretched beside a rough set of natural stone stairs completely exposed to the elements.

Stuart climbed first.

“I’m off!” he yelled back.

Clutching the rope, I climbed after him through painful cramps until we reached dense vegetation again.

“Whew!” I said. “Glad that’s over.”

“Wasn’t too bad,” Stuart said cheerfully.

I very much wanted to disagree, but what little manly hormones I had left wanted me to look brave, so I kept quiet.

We climbed again.

Far above, half-hidden among the trees, I could see Mike and Jill waiting on us.

Beyond them the mountain continued to rise inexorably.

My leg cramps now forced me to double over every few minutes. Loose sandy soil made everything worse, and too often my life seemed to depend upon handfuls of grass and scrawny fern brambles.

Eventually I reached Stuart, Mike and Jill on another brutally steep section.

Stuart climbed ahead of me.

Then suddenly he slipped.

His legs crumbled beneath him, and he slid backward directly toward me. Instinctively I braced myself, grabbed a branch with one hand, and planted the other against Stuart’s left buttock.

Luckily, Stuart is a small, lean man.

I stopped him sliding down further.

“You okay?” Mike yelled down.

“Yeah,” we both shouted.

I released my grip and Stuart tried again. And slid down on top of me again.

Once more I stopped him. 

His third time was the charm.

“Thanks!” Stuart shouted when he finally made it.

I followed and somehow managed the climb on my first attempt, though by then I was rapidly approaching my hiking expiration date.

Eventually we reached less slanted ground, and I collapsed on the narrow trail into a bed of ferns.

The others continued on.

However, several minutes later Mike returned.

“There you are. It’s only a few more minutes to the lunch spot.”

“Alright. Thanks, Mike.”

But I said I didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t move. I can’t recall which.

“Well, as long as you’re comfortable.”

Eventually I did join the others.

Shirley, Jill, Mike and Stuart were sitting in a shady spot beneath thick-trunked pine trees.

I lay down by them.

After guzzling the last of my electrolyte drink, I used the plastic bottle to massage my thighs.

Then Jill came to my rescue.

Good Samaritan she was, Jill offered me sweet and sour Chinese candy.

That helped.

She offered me a banana.

That helped too.

She offered me orange slices.

That helped a lot.

But it was her conversation that provided the much-needed mental distraction from my muscle pains.

That helped tremendously.

A little while later my legs finally stopped aching.

Shirley got up and said she was starting back. I followed, and Jill joined us.

The trail went down. Very much down.

Each step was a thud.

Dense vegetation gave us something to hold onto as we struggled downward. Occasionally I slid on my butt.

Behind me, Jill somehow kept chatting away.

And laughed at my butt-sliding hiking.

That also helped.

About halfway down I needed another break and stepped aside.

Jill stopped with me while Shirley continued ahead.

Several minutes later Mike and Stuart appeared behind us, Mike moving quickly with his radio crackling.

“Someone’s lost,” he said as he hurried past.

Stuart stayed with us until I was ready.

Eventually the slope eased. Jill took the lead, and for the first time in a while I could actually keep up with her as the steepness lessened. When she trotted downhill, I sped up to follow.

We came to a large koa tree where Mike was waiting.

“They’re back on the trail,” he said.

Apparently whoever had been lost was found.

“Let’s see how you do,” Mike muttered.

Those words didn’t register until later.

Jill and I passed him, continuing to chat as the slope leveled.

Then Jill stopped in mid-sentence.

“I guess this is the way,” she said, pointing sharply right off the ridge.

A meager trail disappeared through ferns, but Jill had spotted a pink ribbon tied to a nearby tree. I hadn’t.

So she turned right.

I followed her without question.

“You win the prize!” Mike shouted at us from far behind.

We stopped.

“What?”

“You both took the right turn,” Mike said proudly. “Some of the others before you had gone straight instead.”

Jill looked genuinely surprised.

“I always get lost usually.”

“Sometimes you gotta win,” I told her.

Soon we reached the bottom of the valley. We recognized the change in vegetation and eventually found a dry streambed. We followed it until we ducked beneath a hau bramble and crossed another dry streambed to a dirt road.

From there we still had almost two more miles back to the park.

I had walked that same road alone several months earlier, and it had seemed interminably long.

This time, with Jill, Mike and Stuart, the time seemed to fly by like a dying man’s thoughts.

I suffered one more debilitating thigh cramp, but on level ground it was easy enough to walk off.

Then Moanalua Valley Park appeared ahead like an oasis.

Mike went to his car and returned with a container full of sliced, ice-cold Hawaiian pineapple.

We devoured it as we stood around bantering, reluctant to part company.

Mike said the hike had been eight miles total.

More like eighty, I said.

I told Stuart the next time I did the trail I would take the bailout route and lop two miles off the hike.

He agreed he might do the same.

Apparently even premier hiking-guide authors seem to acknowledge I might have a good idea once in a while.

I was worse for the wear, but better for the cheer.

Looking back, I remember the narrow ridge and the cliffs falling away beneath me. Jay calmly informing me that the dangerous section was still ahead. Shirley waiting near the top of that first terrible climb. Stuart sliding backward into me twice, and each time I appropriately held his butt. Mike appearing whenever somebody was lost, exhausted, or otherwise in need of retrieval.

And I’ll remember Jill.

Jill trotting up the trail and greeting me with a hug.

“I’m an adrenaline junkie and I love doing this.”

Jill climbing near the front with Mike while Stuart and I secured the rear.

Jill sitting beneath the pine trees while I lay exhausted on the ground, producing Chinese candy, a banana, and orange slices as if she had expected my collapse.

Good Samaritan she was.

But more than the food, I remember her cheerful conversation and distinctive voice.

That helped tremendously.

I remember struggling down that steep hillside with Jill behind me, still chatting away somehow, and laughing whenever gravity persuaded me that sliding on my butt was the superior mountaineering technique.

My hiking limits were tested and passed.

Barely.

And only because of the help and support of good-hearted people like Shirley, Stuart, Mike and Jill.

A trail debt I hope to repay some Godek-Jaskulski day.