Kauai’s infamous trek draws adventurers from around the globe. (We met hikers from Canada, Germany, Ireland, Japan, and Russia in just a couple days.) We did it the hard way—and all proud of that.
On our last day on the infamous Kalalau Trail, Woody and I noted that we didn’t meet any hikers along our last 6 miles to civilization. That made us wonder if danger waited ahead, because permits for this trail are in demand around the world. (We met hikers from multiple countries.) We arrived at the trailhead to find it wrapped in caution tape and obstructed by TRAIL CLOSED signs. The park ranger recognized us from three days prior, and relief washed over her face. “I worried about you guys!” Apparently, our last river crossing (Hanakapiai Stream) had only hours before dropped back to normal, passable levels after flashing up two feet in depth the night prior. We had the trail to ourselves.
This is Kalalau Beach, legally accessible only by foot and rescue helicopter. It’s the western terminus of the renowned trail of the same name. Woody told me that he endures the hardship of these remote backpacking trips for the romance of the wilderness but that Nan deserves more credit. She endures them just to be with him. I was really struck during our trek by the example of love from a vintage 30+ years older than the one underpinning my marriage.
These lovebirds have led my faith community for decades. They had hiked this trail once before (in much better weather and trail conditions) and invited several of us to join them. At our church, we’ve been studying what discipleship looks like; and I wonder if it’s a lot like this trip: inviting friends to challenging and beautiful places we’ve been before and then walking through it all with them.
Surfer Bethany Hamilton lost her left arm to a shark attack in the waters in the background. On top of deadly rip tides, great whites lurk in those beautiful waters. Throughout our hike, we often stood inches from precipices hundreds of feet above this crashing surf. It got your heart rate up. It made the hike more epic. It made getting home and hugging your loved ones a goal. Nan beat us all to that.
I love this shot of Woody. Crawler’s Ledge lurks just around the corner shown in the top right quadrant of this photo. He led us to and through the scary ledge with nonchalance but also great attention to Nan.
My buddy, Mike, fell a few times but thankfully only once off the trail. Thankfully, that one time he fell over the edge, he fell into a thatch of grass, leaves, and branches that held his weight. Here, a 73-year-old yanks a 72-year-old back to the relative safety of a muddy, cliffside trail.
I like this portrait of Nan, snapped on the (narrow) trail halfway to our first night’s tent sites. Like the waterfall behind her, she brought a softness and femininity to the rough-hewn environment around her. She’s been the lone female on multiple trips, and her influence on conversations and attitudes is unmistakable.
This is most of the area we coastline we covered on the two middle days of our trek. Each of those toes required we hike inland, down to a creek crossing and then back up to the end of the next toe. And there are smaller toes in between the promontory points you see in this photo. Kalalau Beach stretches behind the green plateau in the center of this photo.
The Kalalau Trail is challenging when dry, but we got on the trail after flash flooding closed the trail for a day. On our first and last day on the trail, we hiked in the rain. That turned stout climbs into long slogs. We used a lot of balancing muscles I didn’t use in my two months of training. That ibuprofen PM and cot were welcomed friends at the end of the first day. A hotel bed and hot tub called my name after the last day.
Sometimes, the trails went from mucky mire to streaming walkways. I didn’t bring waterproof shoes. My socks are still brown, even after several wash cycles. Ha.
At the three big creek crossings, I dropped my pants, donned Crocs, and walked through the water to the other side. The rest of our group usually chose to stay in their trail shoes and find dry paths to the other side. Sometimes the gear was sent separately.
With about a mile left to Kalalau Beach, we reached wide open stretches of clay-like dirt upon which we dropped like 500± vertical feet. Descending Red Hill created this incredible moment of contrasts between red and green and blue.
I don’t know if any of us snapped any shots on Crawler’s Ledge. I lingered back to get this shot as we approached it for the first time, heading west.
As you can see, this section of the trail unfurled with narrow and uneven footing. Waves crashed like thunder on the volcanic rock below.
Heading back toward Crawler’s Ledge on the way home, you can see some of the consequences to the left. Waves up to ten feet tall crashed against that cliff. We saw plumes of spray shoot fifty feet into the air at times.
To get off Crawler’s Ledge on the westbound trail, you literally climb out of the danger zone. I was thankful for my long frame and light pack to make this section easier.
The vandalism on the signs of this trail proved hilarious. I’m not even sure what character was stickered onto this one.
We didn’t run into any of these feral pigs. We met wild goats, rats, and absolutely beautiful birds, though. This was at the 4.5-mile mark on the way in at the entrance of the Waiahuakua Valley.
This sign stood across the path from where I set my tent both times we camped in Hanakoa. Nan got scared that I’d get washed away in my sleep in a flash flood. I brushed her off until the rain started slapping hard on my tent. Around midnight, I packed all my gear, carried my tent to where everyone else slept, and set it up there. Everyone was intrigued by the extra tent when they awoke, not knowing it was me. It made for interesting breakfast conversation.
I was the only one with a cot in my setup, but I proved about as efficient as getting everything erected or torn down in the same amount of time as everyone else without that extra step. I love how simple and spacious my single-person tent is. On our way back through this campsite, I spent the full night here, while we endured a stout windstorm. We had to retreat to our tents early last night, and I watched a movie I highly recommend: The Peanut Butter Falcon. A couple feet from my tent, the ground fell off 12-15 feet next to a waterfall that provided great white noise for sleeping.
Getting into my tent the first night, I realized that these shoes would have to be hiking shoes from now on. Ha.
Only Nan. She did this impressive hike with freshly-painted toes.
Because of the footing, we spent a lot of time focusing on the step or two in front of our feet. Because of the elevation change, we took a lot of breaks to catch our breaths and look around. We were usually rewarded with views like this when it wasn’t raining.
This was the only sunset we saw on our trek. The other two nights, we bunkered down in the woods out of view of the ocean or open space.
No, this isn’t a sunset. At 7am, this was the setting of a full moon.
This was our path out of our beach camp site. Miles of our hike were in spaces not much roomier than this. That’s one of the many reasons to hike it in the colder months, when pants and long sleeves are more comfortable. I’m so glad Kauai doesn’t have ticks!
A quarter mile from that dense brush, this was our path up 500 vertical feet.
This is also part of the trail. The Kalalau Trail doesn’t have blazes like our Virginia hike. You get a painted number on a rock at each mile traversed—ifs you don’t miss it. As the tallest in our group, I took a lot of branches to the head, as you can imagine with this shot of the trail.
Switchbacks! Most of our climbs had longer vectors, but this epitomized the demoralizing climbs and descents in the incessant inlets we traversed.
Group shot! Group shots, actually. Nan took the first one; and I took the second one. Then I took both into Photoshop. That hour saved us from having to bring a tripod. On this day, we didn’t run into any other hikers who could take a shot for us.
Sometimes we hiked together in pairs or larger groups. For long stretches, we hiked with distance between us. We all had time to think, to ponder, too process. Despite the physical strain and discomfort, this week proved a healthy disconnect from home—enough for me to reset before my perennial spring busy season.
I loved the creek crossings! One morning, I crossed Kalalau Stream seven times just for fun. The cold water felt good on my hot feet. The creeks—many of which flowed toward the ocean from waterfalls—cooled my core temperature and readied me for the next section of the hike.
We were so excited on Friday morning, when I checked the website and found that the trail had providentially and suddenly opened after monster flooding. (One local told us she hadn’t seen the main highway bridge underwater during her 18 months on the island.) Optimism and joy drove me up the mountain. The orange you see is my rain jacket, positioned for quick access in the temperamental showers that seemed to come and go every 15 minutes or so.
I love this shot that Mike captured, this moment he caught. I don’t know who told the joke. That’s John’s I-just-told-a-joke face, but I could’ve just told a story about the indelible night prior to this morning coffee. Our trip held many quiet, funny, smiling moments like this that never made it onto the digital record. Despite the physical challenge, we shared a refreshing, positive vibe the whole time.
I was probably laughing about enduring the night in this beachside “tentalo,” while 20+mph winds puffed rain through the gaps in the door. The rain slapped my shoulder, as I slept on a cot at the end of the bed John and Mike shared. John woke me in the middle of the night to move my cot. The entire floor was wet; my iPhone slept atop its external battery, which slept in water. I debated taking my backpacking cot on this trip, but it came in handy multiple times.
I love Mike’s attitude. He leans into pain and discomfort with a wince, then a smile, then a “The only way to do this is to do it.” Here, we’re standing next to a parks & rec shed that guards Laird Hamilton’s driveway. Before this picture was snapped, we had just learned that not only was the Kalalau Trail closed but also that the main highway bridge to the last town before the trailhead was underwater and closed for the day. We would learn later than 13 people were trapped on Kalalau Beach because of the flooding and had to ration out their food for a couple extra days.
At the last river crossing, I swapped out of my trail shoes into my Crocs and river socks one last time.I looked down to my muddy shoes with pride. That mud added degree of difficulty. That muck required more from me, took more from me. That goop meant I had conquered something over the past four days. It reminded me of something Sir Edmund Hillary said after a much more impressive accomplishment: “It is not he mountain we conquer, but ourselves.”
This is the view of the Kalalau Valley from the Kalalau Lookout at the top of Koke’e State Park. We were supposed to have been on the trail that day. The flood forced us to other plans, which eventuated in us driving to the top of this mountain and looking at the beach we hoped to be able to reach on foot. At the time when I snapped this, there wasn’t much hope for getting on the trail. A few miles from this watershed, the next valley over receives more than 400 inches of rain per year. I Googled early flights home. I took this shot in case it’d be the only portion of the Kalalau I would see. I’m so grateful it was only a tease—a preview.
I’ve had some moments in my life when I needed to make this kind of course correction. How ‘bout you?
The Honolulu airport grossly overestimated how much change I had on me.
Why is the C bigger than the other letters?
Why doesn’t every former phone booth have an outlet?
Why doesn’t Honolulu even try to cover up their Red Green?
Woody & Nan took me on my first international backpacking trip (Patagonia) twelve years ago. It’s been five years since I’ve joined them on an adventure trip. I’ve had to pass on several incredible opportunities because of family responsibilities and my work schedule. So, I was and am thankful this trip fell at the end of my slow winter season so that I could join them. Freelancers don’t get paid vacation days; and even in a slower month, my absence cost me notable revenue from clients taking their urgent work elsewhere. But. But that was a small price to pay to visit a stunning landscape with inspiring companions, to tackle a challenge that required months of disciplined training, to soak in the stories and wisdom of people further down the road of life. As I’ve been saying the past few days to inquirers: “I won’t hike that trail again, but I’m proud to have done it.”
