David T. Lurk

MEMOIRS OF THE KALALAU TRAIL

By David T. Lurk

SOME NAMES HAVE BEEN CHANGED

THE KALALAU TRAIL

The Na Pali coast is located on the north coast of the Hawaiian island of Kauai. The Pali, or cliffs, are a magnificently rugged region of deep and narrow valleys ending abruptly at the sea. Waterfalls and whitewater streams sculpt these narrow valleys while the sea carves sheer cliffs. Stone walled terraces, one thousand years old, are in the valleys where early Polynesians once lived and cultivated taro (the Hawaiian equivalent of the potato).

Na Pali Coast

The Kalalau Trail, originally built in the late 1800s, provides the only land access through Na Pali. The rugged trail traverses five valleys before ending at Kalalau valley and Kalalau beach. The 11-mile trail is always in a state of disrepair due to intense erosion. It is never level as it crosses above rocky sea cliffs and through green valleys. The trail descends to the sea at the valleys that include the beaches of Hanakapiai and Kalalau.

To give a better understanding of the trail in relation to the island of Kauai, think of the island as a rough circle and the face of a clock. The extreme top, or north side of the island, is 12:00 o’clock and the bottom, 6:00 o’clock. Most of the island is mountainous, the only paved roads being on or near the coast. In the jargon of the island: Kauai has an excellent network of lousy roads. The main two-lane highway starts at 12:00 o’clock and runs, clockwise, almost completely around the island but stops at 11:00 o’clock. The coast between 11 and 12 o’clock is the Na Pali coast. The Na Pali coast is too rugged for any type of road other than a footpath. However, a hiker can only hike from end of road at 12 o’clock, counterclockwise, 11 miles, to 11:05. A shear cliff, that is too crumbly to mountain climb, separates the hiker from the other end-of-road at 11:00.

Day 1, March 24, Wednesday

I Awoke at the Garden Island Hotel at 06:00 AM. It had rained all night and was still raining. I walked into the town of Lihue to the Department of Natural Resources for my camping permit. The permit allowed for a maximum of five days of camping within the Na Pali Coast State Park. At ten dollars a day, the total cost for my permit is fifty dollars. The ranger warned me about high rivers and dangerous trail conditions. Returned to the hotel, filled my single burner gasoline stove, and reserve flask. I paid for a second night at the hotel for after my journey and put all extra gear such as snorkel and flippers in their storage room.

My taxi arrived at 10:00 am. The cab driver’s name was Jim. He hailed from Sullivan, Missouri, my home state.  Taxi driving paid his bills but his background is Botany. I immediately recognized Jim as being a great source of info on the Kalalau trail and all things nature. Every minute of the hour drive to the “end-of-the-road” was spent asking him questions about the flora and fauna, edible plants, dangers, and anything else that might give this Midwesterner a leg-up.

The rain stopped for just an hour or so and the drive counterclockwise around Kauai proved to be beautiful. Several white, veil-like waterfalls could be seen way up in the mountains. Jim mentioned how rare it was to see so many waterfalls. He also mentioned I would not be able to cross any rivers on foot any time soon. He said the roads might be closed due to flooding. That the rivers were up was obvious. One river lapped within a few inches of one of the bridges we crossed. Jim was obviously excited about the flooding and didn’t seem to worry. I, however, was worried I’d never get to Kalalau with these high rivers.

We discussed the very real fact that several people have died on the Kalalau trail trying to reach that beach. Jim asked, “Why do you want to do this thing?” I told him that after hiking that grueling eleven miles through a steamy jungle and stepping onto that glorious beach, a naked, Polynesian woman is going to step out of the rainforest and hand me a mango. “Fair enough,” he said. Jim then added, “If you survive, I’ll buy you a cold beer next week when I pick you up.”

Jim dropped me off at the trail-head at Ke’e beach in the Haena State Park. I set my pack down and began reading the trail-head bulletin board. There was an ominous report of a woman drowning trying to cross the Hanakoa River, and a picture and ten-thousand dollar reward paid by the family of Brad Turek for information leading to the recovery of Brad. He’s been missing from the trail since January.

The locals joke that the national official bird of Kauai is the Helicopter. Helicopter tours fly regularly along the Na Pali coast. They were very annoying, perhaps a flyby every fifteen minutes all day long. The sound of their blades began thumping the air at 8:00 am and finally stopped at 5:00 pm. I’m sure the view from those things is gorgeous and maybe one of these days I’ll take a flight. But for my whole trip, I and everyone I met hated them and wished they would just go away.

It began to rain again. I carried my pack over to a water faucet near the bathrooms and filled my two quart-canteens. A man of about 25 asked me if I was hiking to Kalalau. I said, “I sure hope so.” He said the Hanakapiai River is too high for a river crossing, that I should camp on the beach somewhere and then hike the two miles to the river tomorrow. He also asked if I had any pizza making supplies. I said, “No, not really,” “I do have some dried mushrooms though.” “Cool,” he said, “we make pizza in the valley, you should drop by, and we could always use any help we can for pizza ingredients.” Wow, I thought, pizza. To think I was worried about how I was going to survive on my meager rations and now I find out I could eat a slice of pizza in a wilderness.

The pizza guy was obviously pulling my leg. He knew he couldn’t deceive me with the old “snipe hunt” story so instead he taunts me with that most basic of human needs, pizza.

I hoped this guy was also pulling my leg about river conditions so I sat on a bench at the end of trail and asked anyone coming off what the river conditions were like. “Impossible” everyone said. I would also get word that the park service had been choppering some day-hikers out who had been stranded on the other side of the river.

Crap! OK, fine, I thought. I’ll find a campsite along Ke’e beach and wait until tomorrow.

I hiked along the beach a few hundred yards and decided to hide my pack until late in the afternoon when I would decide on a camping spot. I left the beach and walked into the jungle to stash my load. Millions of mosquitoes began attacking with terrible vengeance. Bastards! I turned right around and went back to the beach. I dowsed myself with Deet and went back into the jungle. The mosquitoes left me alone. Deet, I thought, is the greatest thing since sliced pizza.

I dumped my pack where I could easily find it, and covered it with banana leaves, and began to explore the area.

I visited some “wet” caves. These are caves that had been gouged out by the ocean, thousands of years ago and now have deep lakes at their entrances. I also hiked one mile of the Kalalau Trail. It was very crowded with day hikers and hopeful backpackers. I asked several of the serious looking backpackers of the river conditions. All reports: Too high to cross.

I also saw the first of “Spook.” Spook was the name I would eventually name a character of the area. He looked of Middle Eastern extraction, perhaps Moslem. He wore a bright white robe with a hood and sandals. He seemed overly dressed for the conditions. The bottom of Spook’s robe was matted with dirt and grime. He was meditating or praying on the bench at the trail-head. He was not facing Mecca. Actually, he was facing a Lexus in the parking lot. He had several coconuts at his side. A machete poked out from the front of his robe, he seemed crazy.

Finding my pack right where I left it, I went back to hiking east along the beach and found a pleasant camping spot a quarter mile from the trail parking lot.

I set up my tent on the edge of the beach and the forest. The forest floor was covered in pine needles dropped by the tropical evergreen tree common to the island.

The tent I used was brand new. I had only set it up once, in my backyard at home. It’s a one-man tent and of ultra-lightweight design. It has the bare minimum fabric required to get the job done and not weigh more than three pounds. The tent has a footprint shape like a coffin, and has just enough head space to sit up on one end. The tent looks like a fighter plane cockpit because the top of the tent slopes down to the feet.

I made a dinner of Ramon noodles, and watched the fiery sunset. I wondered if a cell phone might work so I dug through the top right pocket of my backpack. In that readily available pocket, I keep all my emergency equipment. Besides a cell phone, the pocket holds my first aid kit, medicine and spare prescription glasses.

The cell phone display confirmed that I was out of range of a cell tower. I turned it off. I wasn’t ready for bed but it began to rain-like-hell, so I hit the sack.

My sleeping bag was not the usual thick and insulated variety. It was a summer bag that is simply a sheet with zippers. Zipping it up produced a bag to sleep in.

The sleeping pad I use is a “Thermarest.” It’s basically an air mattress with a thin insulative foam core. When its nozzle is opened, the foam expands and it fills with air automatically. To give it more loft, you can blow into the nozzle to add air. It never needs more than six breaths to do the job.

I fell asleep with the sound of rain pounding my tent and waves crashing into the shore.

Day 2, March 25, Thursday

Awoke at 05:30 AM. Broke camp immediately and filled canteens at the water fountain. I also drank as much water as I could. I also began the bad habit of not eating breakfast because it seemed a waste of time to cook it up and scarf it down. All trail meals usually took about 40 minutes to cook and eat. I never really had to cook food. I usually had freeze-dried meals that only required heating a cup or two of water to boil then pour into the freeze-dried food pouch and wait ten minutes. I did have some ready to eat meals but not much. Ready-to-eat food is great but they always have some water in them and water is heavy. For instance, deer jerky or gorp (a mixture of nuts, raisins, and M&M’s) contain enough water that if I carried enough for every meal I’d end up with a 60 or 70 pound pack.

My pack weighed in at 55 pounds and my goal, at first, was to keep it under 50. Keeping my pack under 50 pounds turned out to be impossible. I would eventually go a full day just by eating what the land provided. Had I known that, I could have gone in with a 40 pound pack. But then again, had I known about the pizza parties, I’d have filled my pack with Italian sausage and mozzarella cheese bringing my pack back up to 55 pounds.

I saw a hippie couple breaking their camp near the beach. We traded what little information we new about trail conditions.

These hippies, like so many others I met along the Na Pali Coast, were actually just young couples of early twenties. It seemed they were all just taking a break from college before going back to school or getting a job. They all seemed intelligent with lots of worldly experience and travel. The male of the species always had long hair and sometimes dreadlocks. The females wear dresses with a high waist that made them look pregnant. It seemed to me that a dress would hinder bodily functions out there in that environment but I was later told that a dress makes it easier to go to the bathroom.

I agree with such logic. During my hike, I would wear swim trunks. Swim trunks came with their own underwear; they had several pockets, are lightweight, and dried out quickly after getting wet. I also had my hair cut so short that I wouldn’t need a comb or brush.

I stepped out on the trailhead at 07:00 and immediately started sucking air hard. I stopped at every grand vista, resting and gazing in wonder at the magnificent views of the cliffs, valleys, and coast. It wasn’t raining but I could make out the downpours falling from the gloomy clouds in Kauai’s interior.

At 8:00 am, the helicopters started their tourist flights back and forth along the Na Pali coast.

Averaging one mile-per-hour, I arrived at the first obstacle after two miles.

It is the Hanakapiai River. It was raging. I spotted some heavy one inch diameter ropes fastened to both sides of the stream, but these seemed useless in that kind of whitewater. The noise was deafening.

I really wanted to get across and continue my journey. I imagined what it would be like to wade across that violent torrent. Dipping the very tippy-tip of my toe into the water, the river grabbed my foot and pulled me in. The angry current ripped my glasses off, my knee exploded with pain as a hidden rock smashed it; sucked under the torrent, I rolled and twisted, I was running out of air when it finally occurred to me to take the damn pack off. By this time, another bolder had smashed my left arm, rendering it useless. Carried out to sea, and just alive enough to feel the teeth of the tiger shark, I realized I made a bad decision.

Ok, maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow to cross.

Dumping my pack, I hiked a trail to the left and upstream, but it ended at a shear cliff at the rivers edge. Hiking downstream to the right, scrambling over some boulders and getting my feet wet near the slower moving rivers edge, I came to where the Hanakapiai discharges into the Pacific Ocean. I was one hundred yards downstream of where the trail crosses the river.

I was unhappy about the river conditions. However, the camping conditions were perfect. I had just found one of the greatest campsites of my life. Looking out to sea, the campsite was located just to the right of where the Hanakapiai River entered the ocean. Not only did I have a great view of the sparkling whitewater rapids but of the ocean and beach too. The area was shaded by twenty foot tall pineapple trees; the fruit of which were light green in color. The vicinity was flat and so strewn with boulders that there was only room for one tent. The smooth round boulders also made great spots for sitting. It was perfect. It was loud. The din would be part of my conscious and unconscious world for the next twenty-four hours.

I quickly sloshed my way back to the river crossing to retrieve my backpack. On the way, I saw a barefooted Polynesian crossing the river. I watched with interest, quickly realizing that I didn’t have to worry about seeing someone die. At first glance the surefooted Hawaiian looked like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Unencumbered by a pack, he was leaping from boulder to boulder, making his way across the river. The dark haired Hawaiian looked puny compared to the raging turbulence surrounding him on his tiny island boulder. Leaping over five feet to another rock, the man landed and absorbed the impact by going down into an immediate squat. He quickly placed his hands tenderly around his landing pad boulder. It gave me the impression he had landed on the back of an elephant and was regaining his balance.

The young Hawaiian was stripped to the waist and barefoot. He wore long rugged work shorts. A knife that could also be called a machete hung from his belt.

I got to the crossing and there was another Polynesian guy eating some food, relaxing, and watching his partner cross the river. They were park rangers, or in their professional description, Trail Technicians. Saying hello, I noted the ranger crossing the river had made it safely to the other side. He was now untying the rope. I wondered why he didn’t cut it with that big knife of his but quickly realized the rope was of high quality and it could be used for some other project.

“What’s up with that?”! I yelled above the roar of the whitewater. The ranger had to shout back, “That rope gives people a false sense of security; people who wouldn’t normally cross the river during these conditions think the rope is the answer, it’s not.”

The ranger was very personable and he was just loaded with information, including the weather. The rain would stop this afternoon. No rain tomorrow. He told me about the woman drowning at the Hanakoa River. I asked if he thought it was ok to camp at the point next to the rivers mouth. “Great spot”, he said, “but if you see the river turn chocolate, get out of there fast.” I told him I’d keep an eye out for such a thing, and strapped my pack on. As I bid adieu, the first of several dozens of people arrived at the river only to turn back or look downriver towards “my” campsite. I immediately got down there and set up my tent. Then the people began to arrive by the dozens.

Confluence of the Hanakapiai River into the Pacific Ocean. This is the best campsite on the Planet Earth.

It turned out to be a fairly nice day. The rain alternated on and off. However, it was mostly sunny even while raining. Generally the clouds hung over the interior of the island.

I observed a unique looking boulder on the bank of the river. The river lapped at its middle. I would use that boulder as my gage for a rising or receding river. The river’s level became my greatest concern. The river was receding, but ever so slowly. It did appear that the rate of the lowering water level might allow a crossing during mid-afternoon.

I took photos of several birds in the area. Two that came close enough to my camera were the Myna Bird and Red-Crested Cardinal. The two birds are introduced birds. The birds were brought in from other countries intentionally or by accident several years before. I saw several indigenous birds but they were too far away to photograph.

Myna Bird

 

Red-Crested Cardinal

At three o’clock the river had receded enough for a crossing. I watched several day hikers make the trip across.

I thought for a moment that I would make a move to cross the river but decided that I had a great campsite with a good view of the world. Besides, I knew I’d end up camping in a dark and still dripping jungle instead of the open and airy spot I had.

At five o’clock, the crowds and the helicopters gave my little point of land some solitude. Across the river there was what in the summer time would be a beautiful sandy beach but that was a month away. Right now it is a bolder beach, with all the boulders the size of basketballs. In just a few more weeks, the angry waves crashing into the northern coast would deposit enough sand that children could build sandcastles. With the summer, and the change in the direction of the trade winds, the rough surf will move to the southern shores of Kauai, and Hanakapiai beach will be a real sandy beach.

Before the sun set at 6:45, I began making dinner. The smell of cooking food was wafting through the air. Across the river, I could hear an animal calling. Could it be some tropical bird? Maybe it’s a cat bird. It kind of sounded like a cat. There it is, a cat, and it’s looking in my direction. The little critter was across the river from me, just 50 feet above the river’s entry into the Pacific Ocean. The cat is hungry and a mere creek is not to stand in its way. Great! This is the part where I have to watch how Mother Nature allows no mistakes and is a cruel mistress.

But trying to stop the varmint was like trying to stop the tide. The animal was going to go to my side and that was that. The cat began hopping from rock to rock, each rock, or boulder with an inch of water flowing over the top. No cat! No! If you fall into the whitewater, you won’t drown before the tiger sharks get you! I’ll have to watch the whole nightmare! I won’t be able to look away! I won’t be able to enjoy my dinner.

It’s a typical human peculiarity to continue to stand and watch, helpless, as calamities unfold. The cat took one last leap and splashed into the fast moving water. I watched in frozen horror. Oh, cat!

The river’s swift current pushed the cat down-river faster than its traverse across the river. It was heading for the Pacific Ocean. Tiger Sharks where waiting. Cat swam like hell. Cat swam like it was a retriever dog swimming across a lake.

The Cat, after all my terror, made it…stepping out of the water it shook and scattered water in all directions. It’s damp, spiked hair made it look like it stuck its paw in a light socket.

It meowed. It meowed some more and wouldn’t stop meowing. It just meowed and meowed. It meowed and only stopped meowing when it was eating. I fed it and fed it. Then it meowed and I fed it some more. I named the cat Oscar for no other reason except that it looked like an Oscar. It finally stopped meowing, went over to some sand, dug a hole, and took a massive dump that a big retriever dog would be proud of. I realized that I wasn’t the only tourist that felt sorry for the thing.

A flooded Hanakapiai and Oscar the cat.

 

After chow, I hung my wet clothes. The rain stopped and I watched the sun setting on the pacific. A marvelous sight, I continued to watch the ocean and the waves coming in. The ocean just glowed.

Where the river entered the Pacific Ocean, it formed a deep “V” pointing inland. Waves hitting the sides of the “V” bounced towards the center and slammed into each other shooting explosive geysers several feet into the air. I thought of what it would be like as a castaway washing up on the shore and imagined that it would be impossible to survive the pounding of the surf into those basketball boulders.

Turning my attention back to the waves rolling in, I wondered how old they were. They might have been created by a large chunk of glacier breaking off and falling into Alaskan waters, weeks before.

The Hanakapiai River and the best campsite ever.

 

I longed to stay awake and watch the show but decided to turn in. The bed inside my tent was waiting for me but first I needed to cinch down the pockets and openings of my pack and secure it next to my tent. There is no room inside so it would have to lie outside within easy reach in case I wanted something during the night.

With my headlamp on, hunkered down over my pack, preparing for a night of rain, concentrating on cinching down flaps, when, “Hello!” a voice boomed from just six feet away.

The roaring river, the pounding surf, and my concentration on my gear had allowed the interloper to completely sneak up on me. Looking up, startled, and letting out a half “waaa!” my headlamp illuminated a man in white robes and a hood. It was Spook! I quickly scanned for that machete but didn’t see it. He immediately apologized.

Feeling sheepish about my overreaction, I asked him if he was alright. “Yes, good, thank you, I am sorry I frightened you,” he said. His white robe and hood made him appear to float like a ghost as he walked. He made his way to the river, bent over, drank. I pretended to concern myself with my tent. He finished his drink and floated back the way he had come.

I crawled into my tent, reading a little before turning out the light. Before I fell asleep, I thought about the morrow. I began worrying about the next morning’s expected river crossing. Everything revolves around that river. What if it rains tonight and makes it impossible to cross? I reminded myself, the river can hold a hiker up for days. I thought, after all the preparations, after all the hoopla, only to be held up by a river. Then I thought, “What do I know about river crossings?” I’d never crossed a tropical river before. In the morning I’ll be alone in my decision to cross and alone in my crossing. I could end up like some; dead and body not recovered.

Then the silly thoughts began. I could just camp out here for the coming week. It’s such a great campsite. I’ll never find a campsite like this again. It’s really an excellent home. I even have Oscar to keep me company.

No that’s foolish. Sometimes you have to leave security to appreciate what you’ve left behind. I must get across that river.

Day 3, March 26, Friday

After a worrisome sleep, I finally awoke at 06:00. The first thing to do, even before going to the bathroom, a look at my boulder. It was high and dry. Time to get moving.

Broke camp and packed my pack. I would skip breakfast. I would have breakfast on the other side. A full stomach would just hinder the crossing. I also emptied my canteens. I could fill them on the other side and I didn’t need the extra pounds raising my center of gravity. I found a good spot to cross and strapped myself into my pack. Cinching the straps tightly.

What little I know about river crossings, I do know this. The pack should be tight against the hikers back. You don’t want the load to shift, throwing off an already precarious footing. If I loose my footing and the river carries me away, I would have to keep my composure and extract myself from the straps.

I then saw some hunters. I would see a lot of those guys. They were looking for a good place to cross so I joined up with them. I followed them across. I figured if they or I had trouble, we could help each other. We splashed across at 07:30 with no mishaps. The water came up almost to my waist.

The hunters crossed the river barefoot and put their boots back on after the crossing. From past experience and soft-footedness I cross with my boots on but no socks, putting dry socks on after the crossing. The dry socks pull moisture out of my boot getting damp in the process. After an hour on the trail, I’ll replace the damp socks with another pair of dry socks and hang the damp ones on my pack. By this time, my feet and boots are dry. I’ve made dozens of river crossings in Missouri and this system works just as well in Kauai.

I talked to the hunters; they said the weather report calls for blue sky and no rain for two days.

I asked about their hunting methods; they were looking for pig and goat. They said they can only use bows on that portion of the island. They quarter the animal’s carcass and carry it out to their trucks back at the trailhead. Pigs and goats are introduced species and hard on the environment. Pigs dig holes making small puddles, which lead to mosquitoes. The feces of both pollute the streams with a dangerous virus called leptospirosis.

I filled my canteens and put two water purification tablets in each quart canteen. After five minutes, I shook the contents of each canteen, opened the caps a full- turn, and squeezed the plastic canteens to force the purified water through the cap threads to sanitize them.

I bid the hunters good luck and stepped out on the trail leading out of the Hanakapiai valley and toward my goal. It was good to finally get some miles behind me. After a half hour of climbing out of the valley, I stopped to change the damp socks and drink some water.

Still wanting to burn up some miles I skipped breakfast and kept moving. The weather was perfect. The Na Pali coast, along which, the trail traversed was beautiful. The trail was wet and difficult. After the long climb out of the U-shaped valley, perhaps an hour of hiking, I rounded a turn on a ridge. The view and scenery was just unbelievable. I would regularly stop along the trail and stair at this strange-new-world around me. A cobalt blue sea, green tropical valleys, strange new plants, and weird bugs, caused me to stop and study these things to the point were I had to remind myself, I didn’t have all day.

There are two types of valleys, high valleys and low valleys. The high valleys have small streams running through them with sharp drops in elevation, marked with plunging waterfalls and plunge basins.  It is not possible to reach the sea via the high valley because of the steep cliffs that would have to be decended to reach the beach.

The other type of valley, the low valley, are wide and much less steep. They have large rivers flowing through them, like my previous Hanakapiai valley. The low valleys show the signs of farm cultivation of the ancient Polynesians.

I had two more low valleys, thus two rivers to negotiate, but there were seemingly hundreds of the high valleys. The trail wove in and out and up and down these high valleys. The trail was cut into the sides of the ridges with endless switch backs.

Hiking deep inside these high valleys toward the heart of the island, brought thick jungle forests and valleys inside of valleys. On one side of the trail arose steep fluted cliffs a thousand feet high; the other side of the trail, inches from my foot, a steep slope and a terrible tumble, bouncing off trees like a pinball, if such an accident should happen.

At openings through the jungle foliage, I could gaze across the valley and see where I would be, once I hiked the seeming endless miles into and out of the valley. If I could just walk on air, I could cross the whole thing in a matter of seconds. On arriving at the inside of these valleys, deep in the rainforest, a beautiful waterfall and plunge basin always greeted my eyes and filled my canteen.

The trail out of these valleys brought me closer to the coast finally rounding a point on a ridge providing overwhelming views of the precipitous cliffs on the island. These steep ridges, jutting out to sea, also provided shear drops of hundreds of feet to a rocky shore and pounding surf. This place is teeming with beauty and crammed with danger. Reminder to self: Come to a complete stop before ogling the scenery.

The exposed ridges provide a 270 degree view of the world. Turning, right to left, I could view the valley I just exited, then the sea; still turning I could examine the whole of the next valley that I would hike through.

I could also see along the coast. I could view where I’d been at Ke’e beach and where I was going, although I couldn’t see Kalalau beach. It was still perhaps seven miles away and hidden by a ridge jutting out into the ocean.

Erosion presented another great danger. Because it was winter, and late winter at that, trail maintenance and improvements cannot be carried out. The rain washed out portions of the trail that had originally been cut into the sides of steep hills with slopes of 45 degrees or so. Some of these eroded sections were twenty feet long. A fall, in some places, might be stopped by grabbing or slamming into trees. Sometimes there were no trees to stop a sliding fall, just a long fingernail-ripping slide towards a cliff. This provided my first, very real, moments of terror.

If I was going to get to Kalalau Beach, I would have to traverse through these eroded areas. In most cases, a previous hiker had helped those who followed by hacking out a flat step on which to tread.

I saw where one of these steps broke away and a hiker slid ten feet down to the trees below. I could also see were the faceless hiker had scrambled back up to the trail, leaving only embarrassing scratch marks as he/she pawed their way to safety.

At another eroded section, I spotted a very expensive looking canteen that had dropped, rolled down, and left abandoned near the edge of a cliff. I conjectured that maybe the canteen is the last trace of poor Brad Turek before he tumbled to his death. The canteen is probably still there, waiting for someone with more grit than me to retrieve it.

As I stepped gingerly across these horrendously frightening passages, I could hear my own shaky internal voice cajoling me “don’t look down, be cool, be very cool, concentrate, don’t do nothing stupid.”

Upon reaching the safe confines of the trail, the relief was intoxicating. “I made it!” I heard myself say, followed by “I sure as hell hope that’s the end of that.” Another hundred yards of happy hiking would bring another one of those damn things. Will it never end?

No, it doesn’t. Keep moving. Don’t look down.

The endless climbing and descending added to the nonstop toil of the trail; up one hundred feet, down three hundred. Shuffling and plodding, up three hundred feet, down one hundred, all the while sucking in air. Relentlessly up and down.

Going down hill was only slightly better than climbing uphill. However the downhill slope jams the feet into the toes of the boots and the fifty pound pack causes a dull ache in the thighs. Plus, you know that a descent is only a “loaner” from the “Hill,” eventually the “Hill” wants a payback with interest; now a climb of four hundred feet.

I began to give names to the hills I climbed. The first hill I named Misery; the second, Agony; the third hill, Torture. I could only come up with three names, so other hills were named the same, but not always in that order. Sometimes it was Misery followed by Torture and then Agony. The worst was an agony followed by no less than three tortures. I started to look forward to Misery.

I believe I was stumbling up my favorite hill, Misery, when I heard, “excuse us please!” Stopping and allowing to pass me, was a man and a woman. They moved by me with such determination and speed, I didn’t want to hold them back with anything other than the usual pleasantries. Both carried small day packs. They evidently were on a daylong power hike. I would see them later that day, going back the way they had come. In one day, they would hike twenty-two miles; of course, they carried ten pounds of gear to my fifty-five pounds.

At every two miles of the trail, a mile marker was posted. Those mile markers enlighten on how slow I was moving. I was averaging one mile per hour on my way to Kalalau, still seven miles to go.

I stopped to examine a giant centipede sitting in the middle of the trail. It was seven inches long, brown colored, with lots of legs. I had read and heard about them and knew that it can pack a wallop with their bite. It feeds or defends itself by implanting its venomous fangs deeply and firmly into the victim. The prey is held by the centipedes other legs until it dies from the fast-acting venom.

When humans are bit, two puncture wounds will be evident.  Reaction to the injected venom can range from a slight redness in the bite area to massive swelling of the whole limb.

I took a photo of the thing and harrassed it with the tip of my walking stick, finally flicking it off the trail, scolding it with, “You ain’t so tough!”

Poisonous Centipede

 

I drank quart after quart along the trail. There were so many waterfalls that I allowed myself to run out of water knowing I could refill in another couple hundred yards.

Instead of filling both quart canteens, I’d fill only one. A quart of water weighs two pounds, so why lug all that water when a stream or waterfall is available every quarter mile or so.

I found myself stopping to drink all the time. It could only slow me down if I drank every time I was thirsty, which was all the time. I’d give myself little goals, for instance, when I get to the top of this hill, I can take a swig, when I get to the next waterfall I can guzzle the whole canteen. When I drank, I drank with the delight and enthusiasm of an alcoholic after a long dry spell.

It was after one of these dry spells. I was about to award myself with a long pull from my canteen when I saw it; a beautiful, ripe, guava fruit hanging plump and inviting directly over the trail and awaiting my arrival. It was as if the great God of Na Pali was offering a gift just for me. Guava: A yellow sweet succulent fruit.

At first, I was in doubt as to whether I should eat it. I’d seen pictures so I was pretty sure it was safe. But you never know. I took a bite and held it in my mouth. I looked inside; it was pink and juicy with lots of seeds. I chewed the morsel and my mouth exploded with happiness and delight. Wow! A shiver went up my spine. There were several more that I picked and ate leaving plenty for other hikers. The guava fruit had quenched my thirst.

Invigorated and continuing onward, I noticed I had been descending into a large, low valley. It’s the Hanakoa valley. A beautiful place with hand built, rock walled terraces that the ancient Polynesians built thousands of years ago for the growing of the “potato of Kauai,” taro. Also in the valley; the Hanakoa river.

I could hear it before I saw it. Whitewater and another river to cross. When I first saw it I thought, “I can’t cross this!” I dumped my pack, took my socks off, and replaced them with just my boots. I roamed up and down the river looking for a place to ford. After a half hour, I found a suitable crossing site seventy-five yards downstream. I conducted a little test run by crossing it without my pack. No problem. I crossed back, retrieved my pack, cinched the straps down, and had no problems in the crossing.

Now I had to hike up and out of that valley. A mile marker said I had five miles to go. My watch said it was noon. At this rate, I’d reach Kalalau beach at 5:00, an hour before sunset. No time for lunch. I kept marching.

I briefly met several people hiking out. Each group asking me how the Hanakoa River looked. “Great,” I said, “it’s a little high but move downstream and you should find a place to cross.” I, of course asked about the Kalalau River, and that’s how it always went when meeting people on the trail. Nothing is more important than the condition of the next river.

Continuing on, I noticed a change in the environment. The jungle slowly changed to small scrubby plants and cactus-like succulent flora. The ground became more exposed showing intense reds. The red volcanic hills made me imagine I was walking on the red planet Mars.

I still had the high valleys to hike through. In and out, up and down. Trail damage from erosion still causing great worry. There were still plenty of small streams and waterfalls to replenish from. The miles slowly receded behind me.

I then came upon the most frightening aspect of the trail. A steep walled cliff trail, ten inches wide. I just stood and stared. You know, I read about this on the internet. People have turned around at this point never to return. Now it’s my turn. It looked formidable and frightening. It’s called Crawler’s Ledge.

I took a drink, got myself motivated, and made my way into the place. I started out fine. No big deal. But it gradually got worse. I found myself leaning away from the abyss on my right, yet the cliff wall on my left forced me to stand up straight as I negotiated through the cliff trail.

Then it got worse. My pack was wider than my body and was rubbing the cliff wall, and eventually forcing me to lean out towards the abyss. Panic started to set in.

Crawler’s ledge

 

Most people can easily walk on a 2-by-4 when it sits upon the ground. Move that 2-by-4 up five feet and it becomes a struggle to cross without some trepidation.

I was receiving some serious trepidation at this point. I stopped and thought about how I could pull this off without having to lean towards the drop off. I thought about getting down on all fours and crawling. No way. I thought about removing my pack and holding it in my arms as I sidestepped my way with my back to the wall. No, that’s stupid. I could turn and face the cliff wall and step sideways with my backpack hanging out over the precipice. Ok, I’ll try that.

I made my way in this manner a few yards but the cliff face forced me to lean back. Severe terror struck me, and vertigo. I began to shake uncontrollably. No way! I retreated.

I then wondered that maybe I could remove the contents from the left pockets of my pack and hang my bed roll vertically on the back. No, that’s silly. I just have to do this thing. This is that 2-by-4 business. Just do it.

I tried again. I turned slightly to face the wall moving my pack slightly over the edge. In this manner, I could not make a regular step. I could only shuffle my right foot along and follow it with my left. I did this for several shuffling steps with some success but again the irrational thoughts bombarded my reasoning. The tension built up and I began to shake uncontrollably from the stress.

Finally, after prevailing over the ridiculous thoughts, I began to move. Slowly, shuffling my feet, I made some headway. My face was so near the wall, I couldn’t see too far ahead. The most I could do was watch where I placed my right foot and hope that the left followed. A snails pace.

Time had no meaning. It was just that wall and my right foot. Gradually the wall started to lean away from my face and I was able to rest. It still wasn’t over but the worst seemed behind me. The cliff edge was still just inches from my foot but at least I could take a regular stride. I rounded a corner and had just a little real-estate to stop, relax, and observe the trail ahead. It wasn’t as bad. There was still the long drop to the breaking surf below but at least the incline of the cliff wall tilted away from the trail.

Grinning, the knot in my stomach loosened and I relaxed a little. This country humbles you. Something could happen in an instant. I could really get killed. It made me feel insignificant. This is the way it has to be. I took a drink and continued on.

I thought that I should have some food but I felt that I had squandered way too much time negotiating the previous nightmare. It was late afternoon and I still had three miles to go. I pressed on.

Climbing a hill, I began to stop and rest every few dozen yards. I was becoming listless. At this rate, I would never get there. I was so tired.  Resting did not bring relief. 

Could it be I’m running out of energy? “No! Just keep moving, don’t dawdle, daylights burning fast.”

My pep talk did no good. I had no energy. I hadn’t eaten anything except for the guava. It finally dawned on me that I needed to eat or I would never make it to the beach.

I stopped at a scenic spot that curved around a ridge. I dumped my pack. It was five o’clock. I only had an hour before the sunset. No time to prepare anything so I ate some jerky, marshmallows and freeze dried strawberries.

A man and women came by during my dinner. They were backpacking to Kalalau. I was actually glad to see them. Mostly I was glad that I wasn’t the only one pushing the daylight. After some reassurance from both parties that, “it can’t be too much farther.” They moved on. I waited a few more minutes to give them some room and I set out too.

The simple carbohydrates seem to have saved the day. I was refortified, and my morale had improved considerably. It was very short sighted of me to skip eating for a whole day. I have learned.

Trudging over the top of a very red hill, I could finally see a little stretch of beach in the distance. It was Kalalau beach. At long last, I am almost there.

The view up the Red Hill

 

I had spring in my step. Heaven and accomplishment have been glimpsed. Thanks to the little rest and to the “Carbs,” I would not be walking into the valley dragging ass. I would march into Kalalau in a dignified manner.

I was walking down an awfully eroded hill toward some woods, with the beach beyond, and beyond that, a glorious sunset. Stopping to look around, I looked back up the hill I had descended from. The red hill I was climbing down turned out to have the unique name “The Red Hill.” It is so red that it seems impossible to be so red.

The view down the Red Hill toward Kalalau Valley. The Green Field is in the lower right.

 

Leaving the Red Hill, I plunged ahead into a thick forest. A hundred yards further the forest came alive with bird song. My ears were greeted with the pleasant music of birds twittering and tweeting away. I spied a figure standing left of the trail gazing up into the trees and whistling to the birds as they flitted around. It was a young woman. She was barefoot and wore a flowery dress that reached all the way up to her waist.

I didn’t want to startle her so I called out hello. She responded in kind. I stopped and asked if there is a river ahead. She gave me instructions on where to cross.

I said thanks and while turning towards the river she called after me, “welcome to Kalalau!”

The hopeful prediction that I told Jim, my taxi driver, about how a bronze skinned Polynesian woman would hand me a mango nearly came true. Mangos must not have been in season.

Welcome to Kalalau! My reception to the valley was nothing short of fantastic, a magical preamble to this wonderful valley. The pain of a moment before had flitted away with the birds. I moved quickly to the river, found the easy crossing just as “Eve” described, and crossed.

A moment later, I was standing on the beach, the last rays of the sun revealing the rationale of what I’d done as not so crazy an idea after all.

There was no time to lollygag; I needed to find a suitable campsite in the waning sunlight. I walked along a trail that bordered the beach and the woods. The more I walked, the better the campsites became. I hiked the entire half mile long beach, seeing various potential campsites. I found an excellent waterfall that would make a great shower and bath, at the farthest end of the beach where it ended abruptly at a sheer cliff.

Hiking back the way I’d come, I found what would be my home in this Eden. The campsite was on the edge of the forest where there would be plenty of shade yet I could see the ocean. The camp was a hundred yards or so from the waterfall or “showers.” Moreover, I wanted to be near the beach to catch the shore breeze that would drive the mosquitoes away. There were several boulders for seats and a well built fire-ring for bonfires. The camp was perhaps fifteen feet above the beach, on a slight hill sloping down toward it. The perfect patio.

The couple I’d met during my simple-carb dinner walked by. Somehow, I’d passed them and then they had trouble crossing the river. I gave them directions to a campsite right next to the waterfall and that’s where they camped. We were the only people camped on the whole beach.

I setup my tent. Every task being a struggle. I was utterly exhausted and wanted nothing but a shower and to relax.

Kalalau Showers

 

It was mostly dark now so I donned my headlamp, grabbed some soap and a towel, and headed toward the “showers.” My neighbors had beaten me to it so I just waited, only now realizing there were billions and billions of stars to see. I noted that Orion’s Belt was very high in the sky and I could see all of Orion’s dog Toro. Back in Missouri, Toro is usually too close to the horizon to see and Orion is visible only in winter. Being south of the Tropic of Cancer, Orion and Toro are visible year round. I had to lean way back to observe, straight overhead, Orion’s foe Taurus.

The couple exited the plunge basin wrapped in towels. I feigned anger and quipped, “I hope you didn’t use up all the hot water!” They feigned amusement and laughed.

The water took my breath away. I recovered and stood under the cascade, rinsing the trail dust and the day’s worries away. It was good.

I was beat. Even my eyelashes hurt. I stumbled my way back to my camp. Stared at the stars and luminous ocean and went to bed. The breeze kept me cool and I drifted off quickly.

Day 4, March 27, Saturday

Awoke at 08:30. Other than one bout of charlie horse at “o-dark-thirty” in the morning, I had a good ten hours of sleep.

Kalalau beach camp

 

 

The view towards my campsite. The ribbon of waterfall is the “showers” and water supply.

 

I made a breakfast of jerky, granola, and coffee. The choppers began making their assaults along the coast. After a while, you forget about them but the first few of the morning makes an old veteran wish he had a rocket launcher.

Taking all my dirty clothes to the falls and washing them, I also filled my canteens and an extra water bladder and returned to camp. While hanging the cloths on a cloths line, the couple from the evening before hiked by and said hello. They were both weighed down by their backpacks. “You’re leaving already?” I asked. “We have a flight out tomorrow night, gotta get moving.” Incredulous, I couldn’t believe they would just hike to this wonderful valley, look at it, and just leave. I bid them good luck.

I was excited to get started and explore this strange new land. I set out by walking down the hill on a path from my campsite to the beach. I walked straight to the water. Wearing my water shoes, I stepped into the sea. There, I accomplished the critical requisite of getting my toes wet in the Pacific Ocean.

I took a right and walked east, occasionally an aggressive wave forced me to run wildly up the beach. The surf was rough. It’s always rough in the winter. There wouldn’t be any dips in the ocean for me. I walked to the extreme east of the beach and turned around when the sand turned to basketball sized rocks.

Walking west, I passed my campsite on my left. A bit further I came to where the stream continued on from my waterfall and flowed into the ocean.

From here on, this shower stream will be officially designated the “Shower Stream.”

The funny thing, the Shower Stream never arrives at the sea, not in a direct route anyway. The stream, with all its thousands of gallons of flow per hour, seeped into the beach sand. It just turned invisible. The beach could drink all the water the Shower Stream could pour into it.

Continuing west, I came to a large cave or cavern. It was a wet-cave. It went back thirty feet and could provide an uneasy shelter from rain. I say uneasy because the high water mark from an incoming wave had marked the sand recently. In the summer, with the gentler surf, the cave would make a safe camping shelter. I studied it, took a picture, and got out of there before a rogue wave tried to get me.

Wet cave

 

The beach ended at the dry cave so I exited the cave, and I kept the cliff to my right and followed it around to my waterfall.

Walking upstream I noticed, what I thought was some taro growing in the middle of the stream. I also spotted a bunch of banana’s hanging within easy reach. They were all green. Some had already been stripped from the stalk by tourists seeing their first wild banana.

Seeing my first wild banana, I removed a specimen for closer examination; I noted it was very hard. It was a cute little thing, only four inches long. I kept it, thinking I’d sauté it in olive oil and sugar.

While rinsing the sand off my feet at the falls I met some dude with some serious dreadlocks, a resident. Like most residents, he was barefoot and looked perfectly comfortable in that environment. We exchanged pleasantries, his name, Robbie, about twenty years old. He said he was on sabbatical before going back to school in the fall. Realizing a great source of knowledge, I asked him if the plants growing in the stream are Taro. “Yes,” he affirmed. He then described how to harvest and prepare it.

Taro is identified by a large elephant-ear sized arrow-shaped leaf that grows waist high in wet ground near streams. The sweet-potato like tuber must be dug out of the swampy ground. Taro must be cooked in a rolling boil for one hour. If eaten raw, there are small sharp crystals that can cause serious inflammation of the mouth and throat and can stop breathing.

Polynesians, after cooking the tuber, would pound it with stone hammers making a paste. Water is then added and mixed producing thick gravy. It is now called poi. Traditional methods of eating it are to simply dip two fingers into the poi and eating directly from the fingers or to scoop some up with a piece of dried fish or fruit.

Robbie lived off the land. He described how he occasionally harvests a goat or a pig. He admitted that he had a lot to learn and that he had attempted to tan the pelt of a goat but had failed and instead of a soft pliable pelt, it turned rock hard.

Since there is no refrigeration, meat must be distributed and eaten quickly. There’s too much meat for one person, so he shares it with the neighbors.

He mentioned the library. The library was situated in a couple of tents and was located in the Kalalau Valley across from the big pool but not the biggest pool and near where the mango tree used to be. How else do you give directions in a jungle?

The library was made up of mostly donations from parting residents. Robbie said it contained a wide range of books like any other library but no dewy decimal system.

Robbie provided a plethora of good survival information on: Tropical almonds, nooni, guava, ti, mango, fig, bread fruit, and bamboo. I told Robbie thanks for the info and, “I’ll see yea around the valley.”

I walked back to my campsite to check on things. I decided that today I would just take-it-easy and explore the valley near the beach.

The full length of the beach is bordered by a shallow forest. Moving west the forest gradually comes to a point with the cliff on the left and beach on the right, culminating at the falls. Moving east, the forest widens into the Kalalau Valley with several branch streams draining the valley and eventually forming the Kalalau River.

Setting out again, this time I walked away from the beach toward the cliff wall that paralleled the beach forest. Walking along it toward the valley, I came upon a drycave. It was more of a cavern much like the wetcave I had just explored at the beach, only far enough away from the beach to be dry. The drycave was the perfect shelter from rain and other people thought the same. It obviously was a place where the residents meet and have a party. There were several sealed “food-grade” buckets placed around. The buckets held flower and various spices and sugar. It looked like the buckets had a second function as seats around the fire ring. Leaning against the cliff wall were a couple of guitars and a ukulele waiting to be played.

I continued on toward the valley but didn’t get very far before I spotted someone stoking a fire at his campsite. “Hello,” he called to me, “I just put some coffee on, you care for some?” “A cup of coffee sounds great,” I called back.

I hiked up a slight rise to his campsite. The camp consisted of a very large rain fly with a good sized campfire ring under it. The fire ring had all the amenities for campfire cooking, Dutch ovens, pots and pans, heavy grill etc. A backpacker’s tent was nearby. My new social contact was definitely a resident.

His name is Taylor. Taylor has lived in the valley for a year and a half. He plans to stay there for another year and half for a full three years before getting back to the “world.” He was from North Carolina and spoke with a slight southern twang.

The coffee was excellent. It sure beat the instant stuff I had for breakfast. We had a good conversation, talking mostly about living in the valley. I also picked Taylor’s brain for the foraging of food in the valley, a subject dear to my heart and stomach. Many of the things he told me added to, and confirmed the things Robbie told me. I just ate up all wilderness survival information and at that moment decided to spend all the following day exploring the valley and eating only what the land provided.

The author having a cup of coffee at Taylor’s camp.

 

I broke out my deer jerky, took out a piece, and tossed the bag to him. He liked the stuff and that moved the conversation to how to make smoked jerky.

I believe I had some expertise in the subject since we were eating my own creation.

With the information I gave him, Taylor got fired up to kill a goat and smoke the meat. With what I told him and his determination to get it done, I wish I could be there now and taste some smoked goat jerky.

The conversation was abruptly interrupted by Taylor, spotting some people walking on the beach.  He and jumping to his feet to view them. Taylor then jogged, barefoot, to the forest edge to peer out and observe the people. 

I thought that perhaps he was concerned that the people might be park rangers conducting a bust to remove the outlaw residents.

He came back to the campsite and said that it was a couple resident women, Nova and Heather. He then supposed they were going to take showers at the falls and that one of the girls, Nova, preferred to stay away from Taylor’s campsite because of the previous night’s altercation with her.

I didn’t have to ask. Taylor told me, “I made some guava wine and took it to a party last night.” My ears perked up when I heard guava wine. But the story must continue.

He said, “I was sitting with my girlfriend and Nova and drinking the wine. Nova was messaging my feet and my girlfriend was rubbing my shoulders. We all three had a buzz goin’ and I started thinking a three-way might happen. Nova kept refilling my cup to the point where I passed out. She had it all planned. I woke up and Nova and my girlfriend were gone. I went out to the green field and broke up their party. I told Nova if you were a man you’d be eating my fist!”

I knitted my eyebrows together and said, “Hmmm.”

Taylor then said, “I don’t care what she’s into but don’t mess with my girlfriend!” He then followed up with, “she tries to pick up every girl that comes down off the red hill, telling them, Ooooh! That pack must be heavy, let me rub your shoulders, goddamn, she’s got the sexual drive of a seventeen year old boy!”

I thought, even in this Garden of Eden, there’s a soap opera.

I described my “magical introduction” into Kalalau to Taylor and described the girl I’d met. Taylor drawled, “Yep, that’s her.”

We talked a little more then I handed him my empty coffee cup and said I’d better get moving and see some of this valley. Taylor said, “A friend came into the valley today and he brought pizza making supplies, you should drop by.” He then described where the party would be. I told him, “I’ll see you tonight” and left.

Cool! I thought. It would be nice to hang out with the natives. After all, I hadn’t had any real conversation for the last four days and the coffee klatch reminded me that I missed it.

I then walked toward the Kalalau River, observed it, and thought I shouldn’t have any problem crossing it when I go to visit those people tonight. I also reminded myself that it could rise from a far away rainfall.

Turning left, I made my way downriver toward the beach. The trail then took me away from the river and a hill arose between me, the river, and the sea. A path led up the hill. I followed the path upward. The path culminated at a flat grassy plateau. Actually, the ground vegetation was a tundra-like grass. It made the plateau look like a golf green. The place had a “feeling” about it. I realized I was standing on a Heiau (Pronounced hey-ou). The Heiau had a commanding view of Kalalau Beach. It provided a beautiful vista.

A Heiau is a place where the early Hawaiians conducted ceremonies and rites to insure the fertility of the crops grown in Kalalau. It may have also been a luakini heiau, dedicated to success in war, with structures erected on top.

I took my shoes off (it just seemed like the right thing to do) and walked around. The “tundra” felt good on the old dogs. What a neat place! It would have been sacrilegious to do so, but the heiau would make a great place for a campsite.

It was also a great lookout spot too. I could see the whole beach from my vantage point. Walking to the other side of the Heiau, I could see the Kalalau River emptying into the ocean. Another hill arose on the other side of the river along a sea cliff. Somewhere over that hill was where the pizza party was to take place; beyond that, the Red Hill.

I found a place to sit, angling myself to view the mountains, beach and sea, all without having to turn my head.

View of Kalalau beach from the Heiau

 

A thousand years ago, people lived here. They also died here. They were born, lived and perished on the ground I tread upon. They worshipped, prayed, and maybe even sacrificed lives for a God on the spot that I sat. I reckoned those same people had their own soap opera’s too.

I imagined going back into time and being their god. I’d be a damn good god too. I wouldn’t end up like the English explorer Captain Cook in 1779. The Hawaiians thought he was a God, but alas, he wore out his welcome and they killed and dismembered him.

Sitting, the breeze and sun tiring me, an afternoon catnap descended upon me and I dreamed about nothingness. Awakening and still tired, I rolled over on my side and slept the sleep of dead Polynesians. After a couple hours, feeling rested, I went back to my camp. It was time to get ready for a party.

Walking back along the beach trail to camp, I met three residents. We introduced ourselves and shook hands all around. My new acquaintances were named Ron, Heather, and Nova.

Nova, whom I had met on my arrival to the valley, was carrying several Noni fruits. They were heading back to their camp on the bluff across the river. All three were solely dressed in shorts.

Ron appeared to be in his sixties. He had a beard and mostly gray hair. At that moment I guessed, and was later proven correct, that he’s the Mayor of Kalalau. Mayor is a term of endearment. Ron’s other nickname is the Pied Piper of the valley. He’s well known for making excellent bamboo flutes.

They seemed genuinely happy to see me and invited me to their camp. “Sure,” I said, also mentioning that Taylor invited me. We parted, and I made my way to my camp.

I figured I’d be coming home late so I brought in my dried laundry from the line and prepared my small backpack for the evening essentials. Since I heard we were going to make pizza I tossed in a bag of dried mushrooms. I also hunted for dry firewood and tied together a large armload with twine. The twine being scrounged from abandoned clotheslines.

I spotted a couple of newcomers with backpacks on the beach near my camp. They had that ten-thousand-yard-stare like they had just come in off the trail. Since I was now a regular and full of aloha spirit, I went over to great them. “Welcome to Kalalau,” I said. They were two dudes, Bob and Doug, from San Diego. I gave them directions to where the best campsites were and where they could go for a shower.

Parting, I battened down my tent, threw on my pack, grabbed the wood bundle, and headed to the party.

It was a long hike. I crossed the river and was just about to head up the hill when I saw Robbie coming down the hill to collect water. In answer to his questioning look, I said I got invited to some campsite up on the hill. I also added that I wasn’t sure exactly were it was. Robbie said, “I’m going up there myself, I’ll fill my jugs and I’ll show you a shortcut.”

After following Robbie up the main trail, toward “Nova’s” forest and the Red Hill, he veered off to the left. This brought us along a cliff side path; another trail with pounding surf one hundred feet below my left elbow. I thought, “great, you can’t go anywhere around here without risk of life or limb.” This time I had a heavy bundle of sticks to haul. The bundle was suspended from my shoulder by a strap that I had affixed to it. The load gave me the sensation of wanting to pull me toward the abyss. I couldn’t carry it on the other side, away from the edge, because the waist high wild flowers could catch on my bundle.

Ah those wild flowers! Later on, when I was a well seasoned cliff dweller, I would stop and smell those flowers and take pictures of the magnificent view. For now, I had to quell my terror because Robbie was waiting for me and I didn’t want to look like a candy ass.

Continuing on, we passed two campsites on our right. Tents and rain flies were hidden amongst the trees perhaps twenty feet from the trail and cliff. The campsites looked camouflaged and well shaded. “What a great place to have a campsite,” I thought, once you got used to the hazardous conditions of the trail.

The trail opened up into a boulder strewn green field. As soon as I stepped onto it I new it was a heiau. The boulders were big and round and covered in lichens. Each one looked like a great place to sit and view the sea, sky, clouds, stars, moon, sunset, or whatever. Green, plush “tundra” covered the ground wherever the boulders weren’t. If I wasn’t certain of the heiau nomenclature, Robbie confirmed it. He said, “This is a holy place, not holy in the christian sense but in aloha spirit.”

We turned right, away from the cliff, stepping on and over various boulders. There was no sign of trail anywhere, just boulders and tundra. Fifty yards from the edge of the cliff, we stepped into a forest of small twenty foot trees. Hidden amongst the trees were several rain flies overlapping each other. To the left, a well stocked kitchen and fire ring with a small fire burning under a pot. Near the fire, Taylor strummed a guitar. He nodded when I flipped him the peace sign.

Near the fire, also beneath a rain fly, I spotted the firewood stores. My little bundle of sticks didn’t seem very large compared to what was already there. Someone had foraged plenty of wood for the evening.