But we didn’t feel bad.

We had hiked a good hike, and weather notwithstanding we got a good view of the Na Pali coast from the east.

The beach, like Ke‘e Beach behind us would have been socked in from mist and cloud. And from all reports, the trail leading to the falls was absolutely treacherous.

Folks returning from the falls reported that the trail was muddy and slippery and dangerous. The guide books caution hikers that the trail is unmaintained and can be difficult towards the end, and they say only to hike it in dry weather.

So we concluded that even if we had been able to ford the river, hiking to the falls would not have been in the cards. And in any event, it was afternoon, and a hike another two miles up the valley would have taken long enough that we’d have been racing nightfall to get back.

No, we didn’t feel bad. We were triumphant.

We had boots. In spite of the cost of checking baggage when you fly, we brought our hiking boots.

I mean real hiking boots not Sears hiking boots. Boots that protected the tender soles of our feet and kept our ankles from twisting. Boots that let us tread on top of the sharp lava rock. But as we started up the Kalalau Trail, we were amazed by what other folks were wearing.

There were people in running shoes. There were people in water shoes. There were people in toeless sandals and even flip-flops.

“Did you see their shoes?” we would ask the other.

This was amazing to us. How could you scale this mountain and balance on these rocks in sandals? How could you hike miles out and back and hundreds of feet up and down in flip-flops?

Yes, there were other people in hiking boots. But generally these folks were hardcore campers, people with tall packs who were hiking the full 11 miles of the trail over a couple days. 

Evidently we were the only casual hikers in boots.

I confess, this made me feel like a lightweight. But the rocks were sharp. The rain was coming down. The trail was drenched. Seriously? Flip-flops!?

Or maybe I really am just lame.

2. The Windy Point

After we passed the windy point, the number of people on the trail diminished substantially.

This was a place on the trail where the rocky path made a sharp turn out toward the ocean and then doubled back around the other side of the cliff. As we made the turn, the wind was tempestuous.

I read in a book on Kaua‘i after we came home about a trail on the north side of the island where ancient Kauaians would cling to the cliffs for fear the wind sweeping them away. It was a description of trails beyond Ke‘e. I am convinced that this was the place.

Had we had hats on our heads instead of hoods, we would have lost them. Had we had children, I would have been petrified. Indeed, beyond this point we saw no more families. 

Now we felt like real hikers.

Although, I’ll be darned, many of the folks we did see were still wearing casual shoes.

3. Slippery Slope

And did I say that it was raining?

It had been raining from the time we left our car in the overflow lot at Ha‘ena State Park. So in no time we were soaked to the bone. 

Sometimes the rain was light, but mostly it came down in torrents. It pelted us. It pelted the canopy of the forest. It pelted the cliffs above and below us. And it pelted the trail.

Water ran off the the mountain. Streaming rivulets crossed the path. Water ran down the trail. And this is when we were truly grateful for our boots.

Still, there was a point as we were descending into Hanakapi‘ai Valley when the trail became a veritable slip-and-slide. There were no rocks for traction. There were no good places to put our feet.

Our boots helped us little. Each step was a question mark. Who would be the first to slip?

And, oh for heaven’s sake, here were two women hiking out of the valley, and they were wearing toeless trail shoes. Sheesh.

4. At Hanakapi‘ai River

When we arrived at the bottom of the valley, a river crossed the trail. Water coming down from the mountains rushed around a bend about 50 yards upstream. It tumbled across boulders, flowing into the sea just beyond a rise 30 yards downstream.

And this is where our boots became problematic.

Folks in trail shoes or sandals could wade across the river. But the water was deeper than our boots, and we weren’t about to cross barefoot. It was only now that I understood all the open-toed footgear. (Although to this day I don’t understand the flip-flops.)

So we stood there in our boots in the rain gazing at the rushing water and imagining the beach just out of sight. And we imagined the trail continuing on the other side, climbing back into the rain forest up the far side of the valley. And we imagined the waterfall that we had hoped to see but wouldn’t because we had only brought boots.

We stood there for a few moments. We walked a bit upstream. We talked to a few hikers who were similarly stymied.

Then we turned back.

For days the soreness lingered. It was difficult to lift my legs into the car. I hobbled when I stood up out of a chair or got out of bed. Climbing stairs was agonizing.

BUt that was then, at the beginning of our stay on Kaua‘i. This was now, and I felt human again.

As we began climbing the Kalalau Trail and leaving Ke‘e Beach behind, I not only felt ok, but I felt more fit, as if somehow that previous hike had been training for this one. 

And looking up at the bounder-strewn trail disappearing into the rain forest above us, that was probably a good thing.

We stood briefly gazing out on Ke‘e Beach. It was raining. There were puddles on the ground. The leaves of the trees glistened and dripped. We pulled our hoods over our heads.

The trail climbs away from the beach, up boulders and rocks, into the rain forest just beyond where we were standing. And here, at the trailhead, there is a bulletin board and there are signs warning of danger and possible injury, of falling rocks and collapsing ledges and flash floods and crashing waves.

We ignored the signs and began the hike.

It rained a lot while we were on Kaua‘i and Hawai‘i. On the other hand…

But we saw rivers running from the mountains down onto sandy beaches.

And we saw Norfolk Pines standing watch over the land.

And we saw fields of taro in valleys nestled against cloud-shrouded mountains.

And we saw surf pounding against barren cliffs.

And we saw islands in the deep blue sea.

And we saw the surf breaking on the sand.

And we sat in the shade, watching the waves and breathing the breeze.

We drove up and down the coast and saw these things. And the day ran away from us. And as we headed home the mountains began receding into night.

At least we thought it was there. The fair and industrious Trudy was doing her best to decipher the directions, but as I drove up and down the street, we found nothing.

“Do you want me to pull off?” I asked. (There are only so many times you can drive up and down a street before someone notices.)

“Yes,” she said as she read and re-read the description.

“We’re looking for an old road,” she said, “and a gate.”

But we had seen nothing except for a fence that ran along a cow pasture.

Wait.

There was a narrow footpath leading into the woods… One of us remembered seeing it, although there was no gate. So we drove slowly up and down the street again. Here is what we found.

Do you see it? The gate. It’s painted yellow. 

We pulled off the road as far as we could, locked the car, walked down to the path, squeezed around the gate and walked into another world.

To our left was a field, silent, pastoral, with mist-shrouded mountains in the distance and a cow grazing in the shade just on the other side of the fence.

To our right was forest.

Before us was a flower-strewn path leading down to Kapa‘a Stream.

As we hiked down the path the silence was gradually filled by the sound of rushing water. Trudy was all smiles.

The last few steps were steep and slippery, but after the day before this was a cake walk, almost like descending a staircase … ok, a really muddy staircase.

The stream emerged from the woods to our left and tumbled over some rocks and gurgled left and right and then plunged 10 or 20 feet down a gorge cut in the black rock.

We sat and listened to the rushing water. We snapped pictures of the white and the black and the green.

And we stood aside when another couple emerged from the woods behind us with a tripod for their camera.

“Are you going to the second falls downstream?” the woman asked us.

Well, no we weren’t, we said, looking at each other to make sure. We had a long day ahead of us.

And besides, we had to hike back up the trail we had just come down. Yes, that trail that looked so easy coming down. Did I say something about stairs?

The first order of business was finding something to eat, and we chose the first place we found: Bobbie’s BBQ. As it happened, we chose quite well.

There were people sitting at tables set up in the street. There was a line at the counter. The Friday dinner special was BBQ chicken or ribs. Trudy got the chicken. I got the ribs. And we sat at the last free table and devoured our food, at which point we felt moderately human again.

This part of Hanapepe almost felt like a set from a classic western movie. Well … except for the rain forest climbing up the slopes of the mountains just outside town … and except for the drizzle that was falling … and except for the Hawaiian BBQ we’d just eaten … and except for the strings of lights illuminating the sidewalks … and except for the fact that almost every business along the street was an art gallery or studio … and except for the musicians playing in the streets and in the stores. Except for all that, it kinda felt like a little town out of a classic western movie.

There were boardwalks that ran along the street. There were benches and places to sit along the sidewalk. There were photographers selling their pictures under tarps to protect them from the rain. There was someone selling spices. There was a cheerful woman selling pies who gladly sold Trudy a slice of lemon creme. And there was the western-most bookstore in the United States.

We walked up and down the street, going into almost every place. We were exhausted from our hike, and Trudy was falling asleep. Our muscles got stiff as soon whenever we stopped moving. So there was no question that Hanapepe was our last stop of the day. When we satisfied ourselves that we were done, we slowly walked back to the car.

Back in Kapa‘a, we limped from the car to our room, climbing the stairs one agonizing step at a time, amazed at how much our legs hurt from our hike earlier in the day.

We both took hot showers and collapsed into bed.

Obviously this was going to be more work, and it was going to take us longer than on the way down. The problem was that it was late afternoon, and a return trip of three hours (or worse, three and a half) would put us on the trail after dark. I was muttering out loud.

“We’ll be fine,” Trudy said. 

You must understand, that fairness and industriousness are only two of Trudy’s many attributes that make me count my blessings every day. Boundless optimism is another. So here she was, being herself.

“We’ll be fine.”

I kept my thoughts mostly to myself.

And in the event, it did not rain on the way out. Drops were still dripping from the canopy of the rain forest over us. And from the state of the trail, it had clearly rained very hard while we were enjoying out snacks along the cliffs. But it was raining no more, and we were able to unzip our jackets as we trudged uphill. 

Not only was there no more rain, but we had no slips or falls, and to our surprise (and to my relief), climbing back up the rocky and wet dirt trail proved much easier than the hike down. We made very good time, and in only an hour and a half, we emerged from the jungle at the dirt lot where we had parked our car.

We were tired. When we got in the car after changing out of our hiking boots, we both sighed and just sat there silently for several minutes catching our breath. But was still daylight. And it was indeed, as Trudy fearlessly predicted, fine.