- Joined
- May 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,727
Plans.
They never turn out as planned. In life, in general. Circumstances arise, the plans go down, contingencies replace them.
Such was the case at the conclusion of 2015. I'd intended to spend a week on Oahu, making some significant progress on matters of personal importance. But when that collapsed in November, I found myself with a week-long hole in my schedule and an itch to spend it on an island.
Instead of Oahu then, I reasoned, why not Kauai?
The intent? To solo the 11-mile Na Pali Coast to Kalalau Beach. Permits weren't too hard to secure in the uncertain weather of winter in the tropics. Getting all of the necessary supplies into the luggage, on the other hand…
Having never been to Kauai, I spent a day acclimating and hitting the typical tourist stuff. That meant driving up Waimea Canyon.
Calling this the Grand Canyon of the Pacific is kind of an insult to the great gorge of the Colorado. It's pretty, but c'mon. This doesn't have anything on the Colorado.
From up top, I scoped out my ultimate destination: Kalalau Beach.
Don't slip, it's a long way down. About 5,000 feet.
Thick clouds pushed up from the valley moments later, cloaking the rim in opaque mist.
Hungering for a sunset, headed back to the south shore.
Clouds were nowhere to be seen but the waves provided plenty of photographic entertainment.
Wandering over the tide-slicked lava rock wasn't super smart in a pair of Vans. I about lost my balance a couple of times.
It was a struggle to keep the lens from getting splashed.
Keeping my feet dry was a lost cause.
Dark set in and I retreated to the hotel room to cram supplies into my too-small Osprey pack.
The following morning I headed north before sunrise. The roads grew more narrow as the sky gained the soft glow of daybreak.
My eyes were constantly scanning the landscape for a good place to pull off and shoot the sunrise. Due to the angles on the north side of the island, the actual sunrise would be obstructed. A band of rocks jutting out of the sand finally caught my eye.
Turning to the west, the arc of a rainbow rose out of the dewy morning. A good omen? I hoped so.
The busy time had just started at the Na Pali Coast trailhead. Threading through the groups, I at last hit the trail.
It was just after 7 a.m. local time, a comfortable 10 a.m. to my Mountain Time Zone body. The first mile or so felt great. Dropping to sea level from my home elevation of about 4,400 feet meant the air felt thick with oxygen.
Hanakapiai Beach came quickly.
Hawaii State Parks goes out of the way to make sure hikers feel welcome here.
Most of the day hikers turned south headed for the falls. My path continued west. The trail grew snotty with mud.
As the trail climbed and dropped, cutting in and out of the countless little valleys, it provided astounding views of the rugged coastline.
An endless parade of sightseeing helicopters buzzed overhead.
I started to leap-frog a couple of hikers. They were together. I'd speed past them, then stop and they'd cruise past me.
This happened a few times before I arrived at the switchbacks dropping down to the so-called Crawler's Ledge.
My early excitement at the ease of the low-elevation hike had evaporated. Seven hard miles of heat, humidity and hills had started to take their toll.
Not wanting to make the descent alone, I waited until the couple came up behind me on the trail. If bad luck or bad footing took me, I wanted witnesses.
We crossed without incident. In the process, a conversation bloomed. Their accents gave them away. Obviously Aussies. Very gregarious.
Our paces fell into line over the next few miles. We chatted, finding the back-and-forth of our talk quite natural.
My head had started to pound from an electrolyte imbalance. They were obviously doing better and so by about mile nine, they had taken the lead.
Still I pushed on, knowing Kalalau awaited. At one point, back in a deep draw, I heard what sounded like the call of a parrot.
"Hello! Hello!"
It must have escaped from one of the resorts, I reasoned. Flown away and taken up shop here in the wild.
Then, cresting yet another hill and coming out on the ridge, I saw the Aussies peering down through the thick brush and toward the ocean.
"What's the matter?"
"There's someone down there," the woman said.
"Really? Where."
"I don't know, we can't see her." Then, shouting, "Go left! If you can hear me, keep going left!"
Before long, I spotted a hint of her clothing through the trees. A woman alone, down the steep grade above the cliffs that dropped precipitously to the sea. With a little route finding guidance and some moral support, she made it back to the trail.
The Aussies and I were baffled as to how she'd managed to lose the trail. She asked our names.
"Chez."
"Dos."
"I'm Dave."
"Hello, I'm Susan."
Susan was effusive. She thanked us over and over again for helping give her guidance. We fell into step, our posse of three now congealing like so much Hawaii mud to become four.
Susan, like myself, was soloing. She was no novice, making her navigational mistake even more perplexing. We talked about other places we'd hiked. She described having done the Boulder Mail Trail with an outfitter during the government shutdown a few years prior.
Sue and I were dragging though. We lagged well behind Chez and Dos, who kindly slowed their pace.
We made it to Kalalau just in time for the golden sunset.
The roar of the high surf crashing on the rocks kept my sleep shallow. When morning came, it broke with such gradual progression from dark to light that it felt as if the world was easing back into the daylight like it was a well-worn couch.
Waves struck the sand with hypnotic rhythm.
Walking the beach, I marveled at the force with which they raged against the adjacent cliffs.
A boat stopped out beyond the breaking point of the waves. A jet ski started shuttling people from the beach to the larger watercraft. The tug of temptation hit me. A couple hundred bucks and a bit of splashing could get me back to the trailhead without the effort — or mud — of the return hike.
It passed.
I took a shower at the waterfall on the far side of the beach and tried to wash my stinking clothes. It didn't help much.
Back at camp, I ate breakfast and watched the feral cats poke around in search of food.
Chez, Dos and I were all permitted through Thursday. However, we were concerned about the portent of unstable weather later into the week. In the interest of caution, we decided to travel halfway back to Hanakoa.
Leaving that view behind wasn't easy.
Still, none of us felt like risking having to cross Crawler's Ledge in the rain.
Looking back on Kalalau, you could see ocean moisture literally lifting into the air.
I kept stopping to peer down at the surf. Broad bands of white froth clung to the rock. Huge waves were rolling in and crashing against the red-brown battlements. When they hit at oblique angles, the waves reflected. On occasion, two of these waves moving perpendicular to the rest of the surf would collide. Then the energy would erupt, jetting spray straight up into the air like a geyser.
The breeze came up in the afternoon. It helped abate the heat.
Unfortunately, we found Hanakoa was a cesspool of mud and mosquitoes. The scant selection of sites had been picked over, leaving only locations downwind of the composting toilet.
We pitched camp and then went upstream to rinse off in one of the many natural pools. Little fish darted around in the green shadows.
A light spatter of rain started as we retreated to our beds. It intensified later in the night but tapered out before morning.
No one at Hanakoa needed an alarm clock, as a helicopter came thundering down to the landing site near the campground shortly after daybreak. A couple of maintenance workers hopped to the ground, then the chopper lifted off again and disappeared over the horizon.
After breakfast we packed up again and finished the return hike. On the way, we discovered the night's rain had made the mud much worse.
I was carrying at least five pounds of extra weight on my shoes by the time we slid down to Hanakapiai.
Crowds were on the beach. A sad looking feral I'd noticed on the way in was still picking around, scavenging.
The sky turned overcast at midday and the wind came up stronger than it had throughout the whole trip. A large number of people were still headed up toward the falls as we pounded out the final stretch. They all looked so clean and pristine, in comparison to my mud-spattered and windblown appearance.
My sense of accomplishment at finishing the trail was mitigated though by the appearance of my rental car in the trailhead parking lot. Thankfully, I hadn't left anything valuable in the car.
[PARSEHTML]<iframe src="http://www.mappingsupport.com/p/gmap4.php?q=https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/3847512/GPS/Kalalau.kml&t=t4" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" width="800" height="800"></iframe><br><br>[/PARSEHTML]
They never turn out as planned. In life, in general. Circumstances arise, the plans go down, contingencies replace them.
Such was the case at the conclusion of 2015. I'd intended to spend a week on Oahu, making some significant progress on matters of personal importance. But when that collapsed in November, I found myself with a week-long hole in my schedule and an itch to spend it on an island.
Instead of Oahu then, I reasoned, why not Kauai?
The intent? To solo the 11-mile Na Pali Coast to Kalalau Beach. Permits weren't too hard to secure in the uncertain weather of winter in the tropics. Getting all of the necessary supplies into the luggage, on the other hand…
Having never been to Kauai, I spent a day acclimating and hitting the typical tourist stuff. That meant driving up Waimea Canyon.
Calling this the Grand Canyon of the Pacific is kind of an insult to the great gorge of the Colorado. It's pretty, but c'mon. This doesn't have anything on the Colorado.
From up top, I scoped out my ultimate destination: Kalalau Beach.
Don't slip, it's a long way down. About 5,000 feet.
Thick clouds pushed up from the valley moments later, cloaking the rim in opaque mist.
Hungering for a sunset, headed back to the south shore.
Clouds were nowhere to be seen but the waves provided plenty of photographic entertainment.
Wandering over the tide-slicked lava rock wasn't super smart in a pair of Vans. I about lost my balance a couple of times.
It was a struggle to keep the lens from getting splashed.
Keeping my feet dry was a lost cause.
Dark set in and I retreated to the hotel room to cram supplies into my too-small Osprey pack.
The following morning I headed north before sunrise. The roads grew more narrow as the sky gained the soft glow of daybreak.
My eyes were constantly scanning the landscape for a good place to pull off and shoot the sunrise. Due to the angles on the north side of the island, the actual sunrise would be obstructed. A band of rocks jutting out of the sand finally caught my eye.
Turning to the west, the arc of a rainbow rose out of the dewy morning. A good omen? I hoped so.
The busy time had just started at the Na Pali Coast trailhead. Threading through the groups, I at last hit the trail.
It was just after 7 a.m. local time, a comfortable 10 a.m. to my Mountain Time Zone body. The first mile or so felt great. Dropping to sea level from my home elevation of about 4,400 feet meant the air felt thick with oxygen.
Hanakapiai Beach came quickly.
Hawaii State Parks goes out of the way to make sure hikers feel welcome here.
Most of the day hikers turned south headed for the falls. My path continued west. The trail grew snotty with mud.
As the trail climbed and dropped, cutting in and out of the countless little valleys, it provided astounding views of the rugged coastline.
An endless parade of sightseeing helicopters buzzed overhead.
I started to leap-frog a couple of hikers. They were together. I'd speed past them, then stop and they'd cruise past me.
This happened a few times before I arrived at the switchbacks dropping down to the so-called Crawler's Ledge.
My early excitement at the ease of the low-elevation hike had evaporated. Seven hard miles of heat, humidity and hills had started to take their toll.
Not wanting to make the descent alone, I waited until the couple came up behind me on the trail. If bad luck or bad footing took me, I wanted witnesses.
We crossed without incident. In the process, a conversation bloomed. Their accents gave them away. Obviously Aussies. Very gregarious.
Our paces fell into line over the next few miles. We chatted, finding the back-and-forth of our talk quite natural.
My head had started to pound from an electrolyte imbalance. They were obviously doing better and so by about mile nine, they had taken the lead.
Still I pushed on, knowing Kalalau awaited. At one point, back in a deep draw, I heard what sounded like the call of a parrot.
"Hello! Hello!"
It must have escaped from one of the resorts, I reasoned. Flown away and taken up shop here in the wild.
Then, cresting yet another hill and coming out on the ridge, I saw the Aussies peering down through the thick brush and toward the ocean.
"What's the matter?"
"There's someone down there," the woman said.
"Really? Where."
"I don't know, we can't see her." Then, shouting, "Go left! If you can hear me, keep going left!"
Before long, I spotted a hint of her clothing through the trees. A woman alone, down the steep grade above the cliffs that dropped precipitously to the sea. With a little route finding guidance and some moral support, she made it back to the trail.
The Aussies and I were baffled as to how she'd managed to lose the trail. She asked our names.
"Chez."
"Dos."
"I'm Dave."
"Hello, I'm Susan."
Susan was effusive. She thanked us over and over again for helping give her guidance. We fell into step, our posse of three now congealing like so much Hawaii mud to become four.
Susan, like myself, was soloing. She was no novice, making her navigational mistake even more perplexing. We talked about other places we'd hiked. She described having done the Boulder Mail Trail with an outfitter during the government shutdown a few years prior.
Sue and I were dragging though. We lagged well behind Chez and Dos, who kindly slowed their pace.
We made it to Kalalau just in time for the golden sunset.
The roar of the high surf crashing on the rocks kept my sleep shallow. When morning came, it broke with such gradual progression from dark to light that it felt as if the world was easing back into the daylight like it was a well-worn couch.
Waves struck the sand with hypnotic rhythm.
Walking the beach, I marveled at the force with which they raged against the adjacent cliffs.
A boat stopped out beyond the breaking point of the waves. A jet ski started shuttling people from the beach to the larger watercraft. The tug of temptation hit me. A couple hundred bucks and a bit of splashing could get me back to the trailhead without the effort — or mud — of the return hike.
It passed.
I took a shower at the waterfall on the far side of the beach and tried to wash my stinking clothes. It didn't help much.
Back at camp, I ate breakfast and watched the feral cats poke around in search of food.
Chez, Dos and I were all permitted through Thursday. However, we were concerned about the portent of unstable weather later into the week. In the interest of caution, we decided to travel halfway back to Hanakoa.
Leaving that view behind wasn't easy.
Still, none of us felt like risking having to cross Crawler's Ledge in the rain.
Looking back on Kalalau, you could see ocean moisture literally lifting into the air.
I kept stopping to peer down at the surf. Broad bands of white froth clung to the rock. Huge waves were rolling in and crashing against the red-brown battlements. When they hit at oblique angles, the waves reflected. On occasion, two of these waves moving perpendicular to the rest of the surf would collide. Then the energy would erupt, jetting spray straight up into the air like a geyser.
The breeze came up in the afternoon. It helped abate the heat.
Unfortunately, we found Hanakoa was a cesspool of mud and mosquitoes. The scant selection of sites had been picked over, leaving only locations downwind of the composting toilet.
We pitched camp and then went upstream to rinse off in one of the many natural pools. Little fish darted around in the green shadows.
A light spatter of rain started as we retreated to our beds. It intensified later in the night but tapered out before morning.
No one at Hanakoa needed an alarm clock, as a helicopter came thundering down to the landing site near the campground shortly after daybreak. A couple of maintenance workers hopped to the ground, then the chopper lifted off again and disappeared over the horizon.
After breakfast we packed up again and finished the return hike. On the way, we discovered the night's rain had made the mud much worse.
I was carrying at least five pounds of extra weight on my shoes by the time we slid down to Hanakapiai.
Crowds were on the beach. A sad looking feral I'd noticed on the way in was still picking around, scavenging.
The sky turned overcast at midday and the wind came up stronger than it had throughout the whole trip. A large number of people were still headed up toward the falls as we pounded out the final stretch. They all looked so clean and pristine, in comparison to my mud-spattered and windblown appearance.
My sense of accomplishment at finishing the trail was mitigated though by the appearance of my rental car in the trailhead parking lot. Thankfully, I hadn't left anything valuable in the car.
[PARSEHTML]<iframe src="http://www.mappingsupport.com/p/gmap4.php?q=https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/3847512/GPS/Kalalau.kml&t=t4" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" width="800" height="800"></iframe><br><br>[/PARSEHTML]
I am very green on photography, the effect on some of the shots such as the last one of the sunset, is that a filter or processing?
