1. On Footgear
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.