A hike back in time to Hanakapiai Valley
with a dear friend who "gets it" and a couple of serendipitous encounters
The second time I visited the Haena State Park on Kaua’i in Hawaii was a week after I’d put Mom on a plane back to Maui. I wanted to show the Forest House to my writer friend Holly Robinson, who, in addition to being my best friend, was a ghostwriter, novelist, and “book doctor” who helped me so much editing the Freckled memoir.
Holly and I got up early at our Air BnB in Princeville, ate a solid breakfast, and dressed and packed for hiking as our plan was to hike to Hanakapiai, the first major stop on the famously rugged, twelve mile hike to Kalalau Valley, but it felt important to show Holly see the Forest House restoration first.
Each of us bringing two water bottles and a small day pack loaded with a picnic cobbled together of protein bars, clementine oranges, cheese sticks, hard boiled eggs, and trail mix.
As soon as the office in Hanalei opened that morning, we met Bryson (who I’d interacted with when Mom and I visited the park) and another staffer at the Hanalei Initiative in the heart of Hanalei. There, we obtained official permission to visit the cottage and park in the lot like kama’aina.
Even that short errand was enlivened by Holly’s excitement as a newcomer to Hawaii. She loved the friendly, colorful chickens, views of the triptych of the Hanalei mountains with their gushing waterfalls, and the blooming, fragrant tropical flowers which I kept inflicting on her “here, smell this Tahitian gardenia!” in spite of her allergies.
We'd hoped for access inside Montgomery House this time, but there was still no key available. Bryson sent a text to the gate attendant to expect us, and after a drive out to Hana that delighted Holly with views of Hanalei Bay, Lumahai Beach, and Wainiha Valley, we were warmly welcomed into the park by none other than a classmate of mine from my elementary school days, a Hawaiian man named Sherman Maka.
Sherman, proud of his work at the Park and embodying Hawaiian hospitality, remembered me with delight. “They told me some VIPs was coming, but I nevah know it was you!” He and I hugged and reminisced about the antics we had got up to on the long bus ride from Haena to Hanalei back in the day when we rode it together.
“My mom drove the bus back then,” Sherman said with a grin. “She nevah like me make trouble. Made me sit up front.” He had been four years older than me, but remembered me vividly. “We always picked you and Minka up right over there.” He pointed to the spot where we’d stood on the side of the narrow road at the top of the trail from Taylor Camp and our cottage. “There you two girls would be. Still remember your red hair, and she was blonde. Couldn’t miss you.”
“Yeah, we stood out back then. Wasn’t it you who got us all singing that rock song, ‘Jeremiah was a Bullfrog’? I remember how we sang it so loud every day,” I said. “One of my favorite bus memories.”
“Oh yeah, that was me! I was teasing my cuz Jeremiah with that song. He was so mad! No one ever forgot it,” Sherman chuckled. “He was always Jeremiah the Bullfrog after that.”
“I had no idea about that,” I said. “I just remember the way the bus was rockin’ with all of us singing, and we were all getting along for once.”
“Yeah, good times and bad times, too, yeah?” He glanced down at his wrist and smiled. “Now I'm staying healthy and getting my steps in while I show folks the park.” Brandishing his Fitbit, Sherman told us of the surgery that had changed his life after an unhealthy diet caught up with him.
“I accidentally ordered one of those local plate lunches,” Holly said. “I couldn’t handle all those carbs!”
“Yeah, two scoops white rice with macaroni salad is kinda overkill,” I agreed. “Pun intended.”
Sherman grinned. “As how. I only eat small kine servings and more vegetables and keep moving. I want to stay healthy.” He was clearly enjoying his job welcoming people to Haena State Park, and we felt his aloha as we said goodbye.
Holly I and then walked to the Montgomery House trail and proceeded down it. At the same point in the trail as before, I performed my chant and a quick prayer.
The house had been cleaned up a bit since I there last; someone had weed-whacked the yard and periphery in preparation for our visit. After a quick look around, we walked down the rocky, unkempt trail to the beach. I showed Holly where I had learned to ride a bike, and where we’d bathed in Limahouli Stream.
We kept going down the overgrown path to the sea, ducking under dangling vines and making our way around dense ferns until we entered the open space under kamani trees at the beach where the Taylor Camp tree houses had been.
"Wow, I can't tell any of that was ever here," Holly said. “I wouldn’t know it had existed if I hadn’t seen John Wehrheim’s Taylor Camp pictures.”
“I love how the park’s cleanup has restored this area to its former glory,” I said.
Very different from our slow meander through the park, taking in the lo’i taro plantings and resting under the trees as I walked with Mom, Holly and I were on a mission. We pep-stepped to the restrooms, used the facilities, and filled up our two liters of water each for the hike ahead, eager to get to it.
We were warned by a bedraggled couple coming down that there were a lot of wet, muddy areas on the trail, and that we would need a support staff. I was glad we’d both dressed properly in wet/dry hiking footwear and clothing that could withstand sun or wick sweat and rain, because we’d likely experience the gamut that day. I had brought along a hiking pole, and Holly made do with a sturdy stick from a collection left at the end of the path by previous hikers.
We got on the trail by nine a.m. For those who have never hiked it, the four-plus-mile round trip is short but strenuous. Initially, the trail is all uphill through slick boulders with a lot of climbing and careful dexterity required–though cool and shaded by heavy jungle growth.
The reward for completing that section is reaching the first lookout before the trail swings around the corner of the headlands that make up the Na Pali Coast. From this spot, you can see to infinity in any direction. A fresh breeze rose from the green jungle and turquoise sea to spank our hot cheeks as Holly and I gazed down at the aqua-blue horseshoe of Ke’e Beach, trimmed in yellow sand and barrier reef, and then as we took in the series of bluffs receding into a blue-hazed distance that the Hawaiians understatedly named Na Pali, “the Cliffs.”
If you’re lucky, a pure white tropicbird with a graceful trailing tail might be catching an updraft nearby, and there could even be a rainbow trailing from a cloud over the sea. Such things happen often at that enchanted viewpoint. Our family photo albums are filled with pictures of that view from 1970 on—and happily, it hasn’t changed in its jaw-dropping beauty.
Holly and I wanted to try to make it all the way to the falls, another two miles after we reached Hanakapiai Valley, so we carried on after a short break.
Every turn of the trail framed another postcard view, so we stopped often for photos. The trail was fairly dry and in good condition, considering how slick and muddy it could become during heavy rains. I reminisced with Holly about different times we had hiked this trail, including the last time Mike and I took our kids as teenagers. We’d brought them to Kauai to see the island for a family vacation, and counting back I was shocked to realize it had been at least twenty years since I last hiked this trail.
The latter part of the path is in exposed sun, but on the way in, thankfully it slants downhill. It’s still a rough trail, though, so vigilance is needed for every footstep because of mud, rolling pebbles, roots, and other hazards like slippery, thorny hala leaves.
Holly and I were more than ready for lunch and a break by the time we reached Hanakapiai Beach, but we pushed on, turning inland after we crossed the creek, because I remembered that we used to go skinny-dipping in the river not far off of the trail back in the day. I told Holly that we could get off the trail and enjoy the water away from all the other hikers milling around at the top of the beach, which was unsafe and washed out by huge, heavy surf that filled the mouth of the valley with salt spray and the roaring boom of breaking waves.
What I didn't realize was that the trail we were on was new, and instead of paralleling the creek as I remembered, it climbed away from the water immediately and continued on at elevation. A passing hiker coming down hill told us it would eventually cross the stream at some point a good way in. Meanwhile, clouds massed at the back of the Valley, threatening rain.
We made it halfway to the falls before hunger and overheating drove us to turn around. I was able to find some windfall guavas to share with Holly, but sadly, the wild mangoes I remembered were out of season. I picked ferns and made a head lei for her. It was too hot to wear but a fun exercise as I shared the names and uses of various kinds of tropical plants growing along the trail with my friend, who was interested in botany and was a biology major in college.
Returning to Hanakapiai Valley’s stony beach, we found a shallow pool away from the main creek crossing area and changed into our swimsuits. Floating in that fresh, clear, cool water after the sweaty hike was the best feeling ever.
“What’s a highlight from your time on Kauai so far?” Holly asked me as we picked up our clementine peels and eggshells after eating our simple picnic.
“This,” I said. “Right now.”
I sat on a warm rock in my swimsuit, gazing up the boulder-strewn, bubbling stream into the green grotto of distant Hanakapiai Valley. My tummy was full from lunch and my body replete from challenging exercise. I had a sweet-smelling ginger blossom behind my ear, and I was with a good friend who “got it” how special this island was, and even knew all the gory and glorious details of how I’d grown up “wild” here.
Not only that, I was deeply grateful that, at almost sixty, I was still physically fit enough to get here.
One more dip in the stream and a bit of time to dry out in the sun, and we were ready to hike back.
The way back is, of course, the opposite of what the way out is—so all that exposed traversing going downhill was now uphill switchbacks in the hot sun. Fortunately, the rainclouds we’d glimpsed at the back of the valley rolled down every so often to sprinkle us with refreshment.
At one point we stopped to listen to a shama thrush perched on a branch overhanging the trail. Holly is a lifelong birder and it was such a treat that this rare songbird had showed up to sing for us.
Another pair of hikers came up behind us to listen too; the four of us stood without speaking as the bird’s intricate trills spilled over us, a waterfall of mesmerizing sound. After the shama fluttered off, I turned around and recognized one of the women standing behind us. “Kelsey! I don’t believe it!”
Vibrant as ever, one of the two gifted yoga teacher/ayurvedic healers I’d worked with at a healing retreat on Kauai in 2013 stood beside me on the path, a slim pink-cheeked angel. We exchanged hugs and brief updates. “I finally read your book, Freckled, that you were working on when you visited us,” she said. “I loved it!”
“Well, read the second one, Open Road. You’re mentioned in it,” I told her.
After that bit of serendipity, Holly and I made it back to Ke’e Beach and the park with no injuries—which at our ages was noteworthy.
Holly returned her stick to the pile, and we staggered down to the now-crowded beach, peeling off muddy clothes and shoes to cool off in the ocean in the swimsuits we’d left on since Hanakapiai.
An endangered monk seal had come ashore in a corner of the beach and lay napping in the sun like a giant gray sausage with a friendly-looking, bewhiskered face. Caution cones warned visitors not to approach; these seals, who still only number around fifteen hundred in the world, are protected by federal law.
A pair of curious little girls were watching when the seal rolled over and gallumphed in a comical rippling motion akin to the dance move, “the Worm” all the way down to the water. The seal then bobbed near the children, observing them curiously as they observed him.
“Kauai is showing you her best stuff, Holly,” I said. “Not only is a monk seal rare, I’ve never seen one doing anything but sleeping.”
“The seal’s cute, but nothing could be better than that hike,” Holly said. “So glad you invited me to see all this.”
On the way out, we pulled over and rinsed off the salt water in the natural pool beside the road at Limahouli Stream, as had been our family tradition all those years ago. Kauai is indeed, a place of extraordinary beauty. Some days, like the one we’d just had, were pure magic that even sore knees couldn’t dilute.
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Enjoyed the hike with you from here! I was lucky enough to visit Kauai years ago!
You are inspiring me to make time for this hike on one of my visits to Kauai this year!