Miracle on the Kalalau Trail
The pilgrimage promised an empowering odyssey for a woman on her own. I had only camped with others, and had often experienced terror of the dark when alone in a house or outside. Coming to Hawai'i by myself had empowered me to want to face all my fears, so I felt compelled to undertake the journey.
When I obtained a week off from work, I hitched a ride almost to the end of the road (the highway that ends at the trail head), after a hectic day working as a cashier. I walked the last couple of miles to the beginning of the Kalalau Trial (very interesting... I meant to type "Trail").
The Garden Island, oldest and smallest of the four primary islands of the many that make up Hawai'i, Kaua'i displays the most lush vegetation, along with a sense of isolation from the others residing about 100 miles from Oahu. Although it changes names, the main highway winds about three quarters of the way around the perimeter, near the coast of the almost round (approx. 20 something by 30 something miles) island. The west northwest side, called the Na pali coast, consists of a series of cliffs and valleys and waterfalls starting at over 4,000 feet above sea level plummeting to beautiful clear blue green seas below. Only one trail, the Kalalau, meanders in and around the part of the Na pali from the north end of the road to the Kalalau Valley, once inhabited by over 5,000 Hawaiians.
Several weeks earlier I had purchased a lightweight nylon hammock with a built-in mosquito net on the top half, and a separate diamond-shaped tarp, closely matching the shape of the netting, that could loosely drape over the top half to protect one from the rain, an ingenious invention. I thought I packed lightly. I only carried raw nuts, seeds and dried fruit, planning on returning healthier, leaner and meaner. Yet, the pack probably weighed about 40 pounds, a bit much for my small 105 pound body.
As I walked along the last couple of miles of the Kuhio Highway, I recollected that the last time I had used my backpack as other than a suitcase occurred about twenty years prior. No wonder it felt so heavy and uncomfortable. I stopped several times to make adjustments, but the pack kept sliding down my back and the inside metal frame rubbed against my shoulder blades. By the time I reached the trail head, I felt exhausted and sore.
I had hiked only a little more than one mile of the eleven, when the sun began to set. Not knowing how long it would take to set up my hammock, I started looking for a hidden spot close to the trail with 2-4 trees strategically placed. By the time darkness arrived, I had the hammock set up, my pack up in a tree, and myself, blanket, water and flashlight inside the hammock.
I fluctuated between two opposite sensations during the night. Hanging only about a foot off the ground since I had not tied the ropes high enough nor tight enough (by morning my butt brushed the ground), I realized my vulnerability should any wild goat with horns or boar with tusks want to poke at me, or any two-legged want to roll me up and carry me off. Hence, my didgeridoo accompanied me each subsequent night inside the hammock.
The other sensation I experienced in the hammock I describe as a gentle rocking in the palm of a most benevolent hand, an enveloping by unseen loving support. I had thought making it through each night due to the terror of aloneness and the dark would result in the most difficult challenge of the trip. Yet, I fell asleep fairly quickly and woke with heart flutters only a few times when yowls from a wild kitty cat and some thumps on the ground roundabout reached my consciousness.
Welcoming the light of day and feeling sore and stiff, I lazed about in the hammock for a couple of hours, enjoying hearing the voices of early morning hikers who passed by without seeming to notice my camouflaged campsite near the path. I think I managed to stay hidden from everyone's awareness the entire trip, except on the second night.
The second day began slowly and uncomfortably. The heavy pack still dug into my shoulder blades and the hot sun felt draining. Less than a mile along my way, I came to the Hanakapiai beach and river. A couple of weeks earlier, in preparation for this trip, I hiked an eight mile round trip excursion: two miles to the Hanakapiai beach, and then another two miles up and inland to the breathtaking Hanakapiai falls. The narrow falls cascade from a great height into a pool of cool fresh water. Graceful white tropic birds with their long thin red or white tails swoop up and down the cliffs laden with greenery. While signs warn of the dangers of falling rocks, swimmers (including myself) approached the falls and swam under and behind the sheet of water while rainbows danced on the droplets whenever the sun peeked around the clouds and peaks.
Many tourists and hikers make it as far as Hanakapiai beach and even up to the falls. Few, however, go past the beach and continue walking on the Kalalau Trail. During most of my hike, I encountered few fellow travelers, usually passing me from one or the other direction. I did not feel in any hurry. Once I passed the Hanakapiai beach, every turn around a bend promised adventure and fresh gorgeous vistas.
Somewhere around the four mile marker, I finally discovered that if I rolled up my sarong into a bundle and put it under my sweaty t-shirt as a pad, miraculously, the pack stopped digging in and further bruising my back. By then, midday had passed. I had stopped at every current of water on the way and cooled myself and downed water and nuts and dried fruit, along with an occasional fresh guava dangling near the path.
The trail wound up and up and down and up again. After I stopped for my meager lunch, I decided to set up my hammock for a well-deserved siesta! I climbed up a hill and found a level area hidden from the trail. Two sounds, however, kept me from napping, one natural and cute, the other totally disturbing. A wild mother and her baby goat, separated on a high cliff, carried on one long conversation, and tour helicopters relentlessly passed by, one after another.
How can I express the immense annoyance one feels, having taken some time off and escaped into one of our dwindling wild places, only to encounter loud, rude machine monstrosities, shattering the peace natural places provide us. Then again, I would love to see the beautiful island of Kaua'i by air, if I could afford it. I just think they should require quieter helicopters.
Shortly after I had loaded up the pack again and continued along the trail, the afternoon waned. I watched an awesome sunset over the ocean from a perch at the bend of a cliff that seemed a bit steep and the path a little narrow for my taste. Then, it turned into the Hanakoa Valley, where I startled a group of wild goats, who also surprised me. They hurried up the hill, while I walked as fast as I could down the path into the valley as darkness began to descend.
The valley, shrouded in a deepening dusk, seemed eerily beautiful and mystical, adding to my nervousness about finding and setting up camp before blackness enveloped me. Walking quickly, I scanned the twilit landscape on both sides for a potential site, when I came upon a little campground near a roaring river with shelters, a few groups of campers and these great state-of-the-art, non-odorous, composting toilets. What a relief! I sensed a comforting safety in numbers and found an unoccupied shelter with concrete poles on which to tie my hammock, and slept much more soundly this second night of my adventure.
The next morning one of the other campers told me about a short hike further inland up to the Hanakoa Falls. Feeling up to the adventure, I hid my pack in some bushes and headed up the path, which proved a little longer and more difficult than described to me. Not very well marked, the path led up some steep, wet and slippery slopes. I arrived and discovered another amazingly tall beautiful waterfall, like Hanakapiai, one of the main differences between the two: lots of visitors at Hanakapiai, and here at Hanakoa, no one but me. I enjoyed swimming in the cold pool at the base. Then, fell into peaceful solitude and quiet, when, suddenly, around the bend, guess what? Right... a tour helicopter, flying very low, shocked me out of my reverie.
I began a leisurely descent, found my pack and continued on my trek to the Kalalau Valley. Walking along the Kalalau Trail meant walking around cliffs and into narrow valleys, except for the Hanakapiai, Hanakoa and Kalalau valleys. Carved out of immense peaks, that had diminished from 14,000 to a little over 5,000 feet over millions of years, these valleys reached farther inland, and their rivers still flowed with clear water, continuing the task of carving begun five million years before. The water flowed from the wettest spot on earth, Mt. Waialeale, which receives around 400 inches of rain each year.
Having spent the morning in the Hanakoa Valley, walking out toward the cliffs again felt like leaving safety, comfort and coolness. Little did I know the truth that sentiment foretold...
The possibility exists that someone had mentioned something about the difficulty of the trail in the weeks prior, that somehow did not register in my mind. I thought sleeping outside in the dark by myself would prove the most challenging aspect of my journey. Leaving the peaceful wooded valley, nothing in my mind prepared me for what I headed towards. I guess I assumed the rest of the hike would approximate the first five and a half miles, if I had any thoughts at all about it.
Absolutely enthralled at the amazing views up and down and all around me of the sea and the cliffs, I barely noticed how the path gradually transformed into a narrow, steep descent of slippery, dry, loose dirt, which only got slicker as the vegetation all but disappeared. Suddenly, I realized the steepness ahead of me and that, if I did, in fact, slip, nothing stood in the way of me and a hundreds of feet drop, down into the Pacific Ocean.
Vertigo set in because I had focused on looking all around and down at the scenery. My expensive hiking boots seemed totally inadequate for the task at hand. Simultaneously, I noticed my backpack was wide enough to bump the rock wall at my left, until that wall disappeared. The heavy pack also made me feel top heavy and unbalanced. I converted my didgeridoo from a weapon to a walking stick and tried taking a few steps downwards. My whole being trembled. I carefully sat down and leaned back against the steep bank of earth behind me. The thought of taking a step in either direction terrified me. I did not feel capable of even standing up again.
I don't know how long I sat there by myself trying to get a grip. I tried to focus on breathing, to no avail. I hoped someone would show up to rescue me and my sweaty body, pounding heart and shaky limbs.
No one did. I felt all alone. With dry mouth, I began to timidly blow into my didgeridoo. Little sound emerged from the end of the long wooden pipe. I continued trying, and in my fear and desperation prayed, "Please, I need a sign that I'm not going to fall and disappear forever."
No sooner did the prayer leave my heart, than way down in the sea below, a wonderful pod of dolphins appeared jumping in and out of the clear water until they disappeared around the corner of my vision, as five graceful nene (Hawaiian geese) flew up and around the cliff. For a nature and wildlife lover like me, these events constituted miracles, signs from the mysterious, invisible, divine, powerful Presence everywhere.
Expressing my appreciation, I stood up. The fear did not completely disappear by any means, however, I somehow managed to baby step my way down that hill and around a few bends into the next little refuge of a valley. There, at a little stream, I stripped and tried to wash off some of the fear and sweat.
Reluctantly and shakily, I began the ascent out of the tiny refuge of a valley, concerned about what I would encounter around the next bend. The heavy pack had stripped me of any confidence in my normal ability (due to my yoga practice) of maintaining balance, especially when the trail would disappear altogether and I had to leap across a washed out section. The next mile, though not nearly as terrifying as the previous, still had its sketchy passages.
Shortly after noon, I reached a larger steep valley with a bigger creek and trees, a little before the eight mile marker. Exhausted from anxiety, I left my pack next to a rock and hiked upstream to explore. Not far up I discovered a cleared level piece of land surrounded by trees. I retrieved my pack and returned to set up my hammock. I did not move for the next twenty-four hours.
Anxiety rose and fell like one wave after another during my hiatus. If my mother still inhabited her body, she would have felt terrified if she had known my plight. Surprisingly, comfort came in the form of her spirit. I felt her presence cheering me on, giving me strength to complete my journey.
The last three miles, though not worry-free, passed without incident. As I descended the last somewhat slippery reddish hill into the Kalalau Valley, I did feel strong and empowered.
A nagging anxiety persisted in the background of my mind during my short stay in the valley. How did I plan to get out? How would I navigate that steep cliff again? My reprieve almost came in the form of a boat ride which would involve placing my belongings in a plastic garbage bag, and swimming past the swells to reach the boat, whose owner could be persuaded with some kind of compensation or trade to take one out. I watched four people try to reach the boat. Three made it. One turned back. I still did not have much ocean experience. In fact, I lost one of my nine lives when I almost perished in waves a few weeks before.
I decided I needed to face the cliff and return the way I came in. I received some good advice from a veteran hiker (who had hiked the trail uncountable times). He told me one could avoid vertigo by not looking down and around at the scenery. He noted that my dominate hand, the right hand, would make me feel more comfortable returning as my right side would face the cliff, and an uphill climb would prove easier than a downhill slide. Finally, I did feel leaner and meaner after my week of hiking. My pack weighed less, and I distributed my belongings in a more balanced fashion.
So I set off on a late afternoon and hiked three miles to my refuge before the eight mile marker, deciding to face the scary part when feeling energetic and fresh in the morning. I arose early and, from the time I left, concentrated intensely on the path. I did not look around and focused entirely on my feet and the next step. I noticed not the passing of time nor my surroundings. To my surprise, after what seemed only a short while, I noticed more vegetation and then, level woods. It did not compute.
And yet, the path headed inland deeper into the woods. Could I possibly have arrived in the Hanakoa Valley? How could I have missed the scariest part? What happened to that terrifying hill? I kept walking, wondering. Soon, I arrived at the river. Sure enough. I had arrived. Hallelujah! I began to breathe deeply again. My body relaxed. Yeah! I made it!
By mid afternoon, I had arrived back in civilization. I never returned to the Kalalau Valley while I lived in Kaua'i. Instead, I had other fears to face, like learning to surf at 45 years of age.
Miracles happen.