Wandering Beyond the Bend: Kauai, Hawaii
11 November 2005
Today is the day of the palindrome, starting with the date of our travels, 11/11, and the time at which we had to get up, 3:33 am, to catch what could only be the first flight to leave any country on any continent on the planet, the paired palindrome #1155. Being frugal has it’s price, this time paid in hours of lost sleep. Well, at least for me, as Gina can sleep anywhere – airplane, automobile, sag wagon, chaise lounge in the Macy’s powder room – it’s all the same to her. We arrive at Shuttle Park and share a ride to the terminal with a cranky old cadaver who clearly was not appreciative of having been exhumed from the grave for his impending vacation, nor respective of the airspace of his fellow shuttle passengers, as he bitterly complained, when informed by the shuttle driver that he’d parked in a prohibited area, that how in the hell should he have been expected to read the parking signs. I suppose it would not be out of the ordinary to expect that a person behind the wheel of a moving automobile be able to read road signs, but I kept these thoughts to myself.
In line with our bags, backpacks, one boogie board and a hat straight out of Texas, we arrive at the check-in counter where we are informed that, despite having months earlier reserved our seats to San Francisco, we had no reserved seats. Unlike Gina, I found this situation to be somewhat stressful, as I envisioned a long day of rejected middle seats stretching out in front of me, outside of the ones for which I was already booked. Once at the gate, we were informed that our names would be called when our seats were available. When that moment arrived, I popped up to head for the counter, not caring about leaving my bag unattended. This was a mistake. Gina, moonlighting as airport security, firmly reprimanded me for even considering leaving my bag behind. It seems that it didn’t occur to her that I wasn’t a terrorist, and therefore no harm done. I acquiesced to her demands (who’s the terrorist now?), grabbed my bag, and, as luck would have it, was handed two seats in Economy Plus. Thank you, gate agent gods. So what if Gina and I weren’t going to be sitting together? She only wanted to sleep with an extra 6 inches for her praying mantis frame, and I only wanted a little peace and quiet on my own side of the plane.
The flight to San Francisco was uneventful, exactly how a flight should be. There were no holes in the fuselage, no open landing gear doors, no oxygen masks dropping from the overhead compartments. There was only snoring and complimentary coffee while I read my book and Gina, across the aisle, slept soundly. I knew this by the position of her mouth, open yet emitting no sound. Ah, a tired Gina is a good Gina.
Upon a late arrival in San Fran, Gina’s priority was to check email, for technically she was working today. It’s amazing to me that a woman with six weeks of vacation a year still doesn’t have enough to cover her travel days. This, in turn, consistently leads to frenzied email kiosk treasure hunts followed by long periods of Qwest interrupting our always too-short vacations. My priority was finding us eggie sandwiches, which, after a few laps of the airport food circus peppered with a few dirty looks back toward the email kiosk, I accomplished. In this case, finding the eggie sandwiches turned out to be easier than ordering the eggie sandwiches. Apparently none of the three people in hair nets and latex gloves behind the counter were working, even though they nodded in unison that yes, they were open. It was like the construction zone of breakfast bars – lots of workers standing around and nodding but nothing remotely constructive going on.
Economy Plus seat tickets in hand, we strategized over breakfast on how to keep these fabulous seats but, for this leg of the trip, actually sit together. This was important to Gina so that I could ensure that all of her needs were met during the long, five-hour flight. My seat partners were a couple, leaving me to ponder the possibility that I might comfortably experience the next five hours as virtual alone time – just me, my iPod, and some light and brief banter with my neighbors before drifting off into an afternoon nap. This, however, was not meant to be. Gina’s seat partners consisted of a random group of women playing musical chairs, which worked in Gina’s favor, as she effortlessly got me in the game. Before I really knew what was happening, I was yanked back down to earth into yet another cramped middle seat next to a squirmy SportySpice.
On the way to the Garden Isle we snacked on our packed lunch, watched the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate factory, and lost the “Halfway to Hawaii” game by just a few minutes.
We arrive in Hawaii to brilliant blue skies, a gentle breeze, and the requisite call-backs that Gina must make to the office, as if she were still on the mainland. I am inclined to think that the tropical birds chirping boldly in the background of her calls might give her away, but she appears undeterred so I am left behind to porter the bags and boogie board, which, at the same height I am, is no easy task to maneuver around the airport. The rental car shuttle service drives us down a labyrinth of roads to a randomly located lot which I seriously doubt we will ever be able to locate again when it comes time to return the car. After all of that maneuvering, I wonder if we are even on the same island we started out on.
First order of business – determine how to cholo the driver’s seat. It’s imperative that my torso be leaning far, far away from the steering wheel, as my stubby legs have to be embarrassingly close. After a bit of confusion and associated griping, I figure out the seat controls and we are off, flying down the Kauaian highway toward Poipu, as fast as our little Dodge Stratus will carry us. As we enter Koloa, a tiny western-themed town plunked smack out of context on the road to Poipu, we stop for cheeseburgers and fries.
Having had most of my own needs ignored during our long transit across the Pacific Ocean, I take it upon myself to order the bucket-sized Diet Coke. It is slightly later, when I am consuming said bucket of soda, that I am informed by Gina that she ‘let’ me get the large drink. I am momentarily befuddled by this proclamation, as not only am I old enough to order my own soda, but I paid for the enormous thing as well. My befuddlement is interrupted by the unexpected launching of Gina up and off the bench we’re dining upon, as she had suddenly found herself and her half-eaten cheeseburger under attack by a feral cat and rooster, that latter of which we were soon to discover run rampant across the island, waking up foreigners and locals alike with the dawning of every day.
Finally, we arrive at the Kiahuna Plantation, our home for the next week. The welcoming receptionist is a ditzy broad of the overly-smiley variety. We’ve just arrived in HAWAII for god sake, so it’s not like we need any cheering up.
It turns out that our condo is “in the boondocks”. No real surprise, given that we are on a package deal. But actually, there was a surprise, in that the boondocks turned out to be THE place to be, right next door to the Marriott Waiohai Beach Club. If you can’t afford to stay AT the Beach Club, then clearly the next best thing is to stay in its backyard. And the club did not disappoint – its beach access and our stolen moments lounging on its lawn provided the perfect setting for what would become our nightly Happy Hour routine.
The condo was quite cozy and clean, and we quickly unpacked, donned our swimming trunks, and headed for the beach. Could there be a more perfect tropical destination than Hawaii, at only five hours from Seattle? My freshly manicured toes, splashing in the warm Pacific, told me No.
After a lazy stroll along the beach and Gina’s brief body-surfing attempt, we contemplated the sunset. Namely, what time would the sun set? In order to complete the day, it was mandatory that we have fruity drinks in hand as the sun eased itself down past the horizon. So after a quick trip back to the condo to freshen up, we headed for pu pu’s and drinks at the Sheraton, catching the tail-end of sunset over insufficient serving sizes and expensive water-downed drinks. It was here that we observed a most interesting fact: Kauai, it seems, is the Hawaiian destination of choice for travelers over the age of 65. I didn’t recall seeing any white-haired models in the pictures on the gung-ho Go Hawaii website, but here we were, surrounded by a sea of golden oldies. Wanting to fit in, we obsessed over the price of our dinner, using it as a benchmark for every homemade meal to come. “This pork chop and side salad would have cost us $23.” “This eggie sandwich and fruit smoothie would have been $8.50”. And on and on we went.
We walk back to the condo through the Kiahuna Gardens on this warm, tropical, not-well-lit night. There are cactus everywhere, an oddity for sure but one planned by the plantation owners many years ago. As we stroll, Gina learns, by narrowly avoiding a broken big toe, the power of the Keens. We arrive back at the condo, exhausted from our travels, knowing there is a dreaded chore ahead: shopping at the local market. Before we actually arrived at the market, the dread originated from being over-tired and not able to think clearly about our meals for the days ahead. After arriving at the market in Koloa, the dread turned to disappointment and, in the case of the fruit and vegetables section, disgust. How could fresh fruit be so dreadful in a tropical climate? In retrospect, it is nearly impossible to write about our shopping experience that night, as I had reached a zombie state, shuffling down each aisle with arms outstretched, banging into displays as drool dripped down from my slack-jawed mouth, eyes glassy and unresponsive, mumbling words like banana and pineapple and cookie dough … the blackness enveloping me before I could take any worthwhile mental notes.
12 November 2005
Gina is intent on killing me this morning with a Bataan death jog at 7 am. No matter how many times I speak lovingly of my coffee addiction, it’s clear that only those that share my affliction understand this need. Gina happens to not be one of these people. Going for a run mere moments after the roosters have awakened us comes naturally to her, and as we head out the door, I steal a furtive glance back toward my beloved coffee pot, empty and alone on the kitchen counter. See you soon, I whisper.
Out the door we run, heading east toward the Hyatt, a five-star hotel with the most amazing salt-water pool this side of Lincoln Park. We don’t know exactly what route to take, but being on an island, we know that no matter what, we will eventually end up back where we started. We weave along the main drag, cutting off through a residential neighborhood before circling through the Hyatt beachfront. Perfectly content with stopping here for a nice latte and massage, I am disappointed to see Gina heading back toward the ocean path, clearly intent on finishing me off.
Running up the lava cliffs, Gina a small speck in the distance, I am reminded of the Nike ad campaign “just do it”. The sky is a perfect backdrop of blue, contrasting warmly with the deep red hillside, dotted with a long-legged beauty in yellow, increasing the distance between us with her every galloping stride. Meanwhile, back at the bottom of the cliffs, I am drowning in an ocean of my own making, salt water gushing forth from every pore of my body. As I make my way up the trail, I see what appears to be a cross on the mountaintop. I wonder if I actually dropped dead a few steps ago and this is my come-to-Jesus moment. As my bad luck would have it, I have not escaped that easily, and my ragged breaths and I finally reach the top to discover that my cross was merely an optical illusion – in reality, simply a nautical warning post for the wayward seafarer. I say a small prayer that my own suffering will soon be over.
But that was not to be. The death jog was merely a warmup for “Gina B’s Bootcamp” back at Poipu Park. Like any good drill sergeant, Gina directed us through an unending count of sit-ups and pushups, still intent on draining every last ounce of energy from my non-caffeinated body. Covered in sweat, grass and a sprinkling of sand, we finally shuffle back to the condo for breakfast. As I slave over the morning’s fare of eggie sandwiches, Gina is laying on the sofa and reading, ironically enough, an article about ambition. Based on her prone position, is it apparent to me that she aspires to be a modern day cleopatra attended to by a contingent of servants.
Our afternoon adventures begin with a stop at Poipu Village for flippers for myself followed by a quick drive to the Spouting Horn, a large blowhole through which the sea shoots upwards of 50 feet. Now as exciting as that may sound, even more thrilling was shopping for trinkets after completing a few photo ops at the hole. After spending a whole dollar apiece, we’re off to the next destination: a nearby beach for snorkeling.
Now before we begin to discuss said snorkeling event, let’s take a moment to review my severe claustrophobia and Gina’s tendency toward motion sickness. One could surmise that these two attributes would make us unlikely snorkelers. But for me, after thinking that on a previous Hawaii trip I had overcome my fear of breathing through a straw-sized tube while looking below the sea surface for critters that I would neither want to touch nor eat, and that more likely than not, should one happen to startle me or worse yet, scrape up against me, would cause me to (a) have everlasting nightmares until my last day on earth or (b) scream straight into my snorkel resulting, no doubt, in my immediate death by drowning, the idea of snorkeling on a serene Kauai beach was nevertheless appealing. As for Gina, nothing stops The Bus when she’s faced with a sport of any kind, and nausea-inducing surf conditions be damned, that girl was snorkeling.
Upon arriving at the beach, my previous bravado is quickly replaced by my rising fear, this time not of the snorkeling itself, but instead of the pounding surf. The waves are as high as my IQ and I use it to decide that I’m not venturing into that foaming, frothing, angry sea. I watch as Gina dons her gear, transforming into a floppy yellow sea-like creature that somewhat awkwardly flippers herself out into the deep. I watch her floating on the surface, bobbing up and down with the rhythm of the sea, and then I watch her, mere moments later, swimming toward land, her color transitioning from yellow to green as the sea sickness start to takes hold. I tell myself that was fun. All 10 minutes of it, anyway.
Aborted snorkeling attempt behind us, we are now on our way to Shipwreck Beach for a little boogie boarding. Somehow the name “shipwreck” does not fill me with boarding inspiration, as I imagine splintered hulls and bones and tangled rotting nets strewn across the sand. To my delight, the beach is actually quite gorgeous, despite being adjacent to my arch nemesis from the morning, the running path along the Hyatt hotel. Gina watches the monstrous waves toss one lifeless boogie boarder after another onto the beach before opting not to venture out there herself. We content ourselves with playing in the shallow surf until it’s time to head to the next beach, arrived at via a long traverse down a pothole-strewn dirt road adjacent to the golf course. The beach was recommended by our friends Suz and Carol and soon we find out why – straight out of E Hollywood!, we find ourselves rubbing elbows with the stars. Well, not plural stars. Just one star. And we didn’t actually touch him, nor would we have wanted to. But it was definitely Michael Jackson, wrapped in white silk from head to toe, prancing through the dunes on delicate ballet-shoe adorned feet while flying his kite downwind of the beach umbrella he clearly stole from Barnum and Bailey’s big top or perhaps from some small captive child left home at Neverland. It is an odd sight, to be sure. We decide it’s time for a drink.
Happy Hour is at the Marriott Resort beach, costing us nothing but a few moments of furtive glancing around as we settle into our trespassing state. We are not guests here, but we see no reason to let the empty chaise lounges pass an evening of uninhabited recline. As we toast to our wonderful day, we notice an inordinate amount of activity around us: there are at least a dozen men slipping and sliding across the rocky beachfront with their wrecked outrigger, there’s a man with a voice not that unlike Goofy’s babbling about whales on the horizon (of which we see none), and then, best of all, there are the desperate housewives off to our left, deeply engaged in gossip, chain smoking, and gaudy beach attire. Gina, who seems not to possess an indoor voice, rants about the lack of a smoking ban while simultaneously observing a nearby middle-aged couple taking sunset photos, to which she boldly states “people who are having that much fun must not be married”. Yes, another profound moment with the girl.
13 November 2005
It’s Sunday, the quintessential day of rest. A day to sleep in, drink bottomless cups of coffee, read the paper, and go out for a lazy afternoon stroll. According to the Bible, it’s the day even the Lord rested, having created an entire world in less than a week, which you know couldn’t have been easy. But, having not yet created Gina, the good Lord had no idea that this concept of a rest day was one of his most unnecessary ideas, and that quirky sporty girls never really rest, and NEVER take an entire day off.
I, having the pleasure of being on vacation with that quirky sporty girl, know only too well what’s on the agenda for this day of non-rest, and it begins with 6:30 am bootcamp, which unfolds in much the same way as the day before, including the lava cliffs, ab crunches, and caffeine DTs. Bootcamp is followed by fruit smoothies, Frosted Flakes, and coffee (a $12 value, at least) and the daily research on where we want to play today. Conclusion: Polihale State Park.
We load up the car with everything needed for a day at the beach: mats, towels, cooler, frisbee, boogie board, sunscreen, and one large Texas-bred hat. First stop: Koloa, to check out the surf shop and use the washroom. The former is a quick trip, in and out with a minimal amount of dinking. The latter, however, proves to be one of the longest waits ever for an opportunity to relieve oneself. There were four Mormons, or at least we deemed them as such, in line ahead of us. One by one they slowly entered the washroom and even more slowly departed. Joseph Smith wrote the book of Mormon in less time. Astronauts arrived at the moon in less time. Gina blow-dries her big head of hair in less time. Long wait finally over, we did our thing and hit the road.
The first sign of trouble came when we turned off the paved highway. I could feel our little Dodge Stratus sigh heavily at the thought of traversing down yet another pothole-strewn Hawaiian dirt road. As we bumped and bounced from one hole to the next, I began worrying incessantly about our little chariot – could she make it, would she make it, all the way to the end, however far that might be? And that’s when I saw it, a huge sandpit looming ahead. There was no way my little sweetheart was going to make it through that ocean of silica. I slammed on the brakes and made a quick u-turn, all the while listening to Gina question my intentions. “Why are we stopping? Are we there yet? Where’s the beach? What are you afraid of, woman?!” I staggered out of the driver’s seat, blinded by my fear that we nearly lost her, my precious child, to that bottomless pit, as I was simultaneously blasted by the intense afternoon sun. This was hell, if ever there was such a place.
Gina is still ranting as I regain control. “It’s too hot, how much farther is it, are you SURE we can’t keep driving?” The little Stratus sniffles, afraid to go forward and yet afraid to stay here and lose the love and respect of her other master. I reassuringly pat her on the hood and turn to face Gina. As we begin to discuss our predicament – unknown miles to go in the relentless heat vs. the safety of our beloved Stratus – a vehicle approaches from the right. Unlike most every other vehicle we’d encountered on this road to hell, this was not another truck or SUV, but rather a tiny little baby of a Hyundai, driven by a pair of elderly tourists. I could see their small white heads bobbing as they whiplashed past, the Hyundai suddenly accelerating as the old man floored her, with nary a fishtail, directly across the bottomless sandpit, over the far crest, and immediately out of sight. The Stratus and I both gasped, knowing that we would soon have to follow in that firefly’s tire tracks, for Gina had witnessed the same miracle and there would be no going back, no walking to the beach, no dragging the cooler endless miles under a Texas-bred hat until we had reached our final destination.
Back in the car, I executed another perfect u-turn before making a run at the pit that lay before us. The little Stratus, summoning all of her guts and horsepower, plowed through the sand, fishtailing slightly to one side before hurtling us forward and out of harms way. Another silent prayer to Jesus, a WHOOP! from Gina served with a super-sized side of “I told you so” and we were back on our merry way to the beach.
And what a beach it was. Like a picture-perfect postcard, the sand stretched out for miles to the north, butting up against the southern end of the Na Pali coastline mountains. In the other direction, more endless miles of beach, as far as the eye could see. There were many “I CAN’T STAND ITs” uttered before we stretched ourselves out upon this heavenly slice of Hawaii.
Sunscreen reapplied, it was time to frolic in the waves. Gina hauled out the boogie board, riding every wave with a giggle and a smile. It was my job to take the action shots, of which my favorites are the ones that show only a broken wave, with the caption “Gina’s under there somewhere”. As we laid back down on our towels, we noticed that the wind had picked up mightily. This was also evidenced by our aborted attempt at playing frisbee, requiring dive after dive out into the ocean to retrieve the wayward disc. I also started to get the distinct feeling that this is what it must feel like to be on the receiving end of a sandblaster. Sand was flying everywhere, pummeling our bodies, scraping the polish off my nails (let the trailer trash toes begin), mucking up our sun-screened skin, attacking the cooler lid with a vengeance, and generally making a big mess of everything. but hey, at least we were at the beach.
On the drive back from Polihale, we make a side excursion to Hanapepe. Shop owners here apparently believe in a day of rest, for everything is closed except for the swinging bridge. So we take a quick stroll across it, stopping only for a photo or two before calling it good and returning to the road, where we take another short detour to Salt Pond Park. The highlight of this detour was the signs warning us to “watch for falling coconuts”.
Happy Hour is again held over sunset at the Marriott Resort Beachfront. Tonight Gina is dressed as a cowgirl. I am glad she’s not really from the south, for I can only imagine how much sillier her mixed up sayings would sound if also delivered with a southern drawl … “Ya,ll that tain’t neither here nor then.”
14 November 2005
Today’s destination is the north shore of Kauai, with a planned hike along the famed Na Pali Coast. This requires yet another early morning, rising at 6 am for coffee, smoothies, and Frosted Flakes before hitting the road a short 45 minutes later. As we established yesterday, there is no rest for the adventurous in Kauai. There is, however, traffic. Despite the underlying sleepiness of this little island in the big ocean, there are some folks here that must go to work. Apparently, quite a few folks, based on the amount of rush hour traffic we now find ourselves stuck in. This makes Dena cranky. For Gina, it’s an opportunity to not miss any scenery, as it’s not really changed in the last half hour of essentially sitting in the same place, while she checks her voice mail. Now that the girl is OFFICIALLY on vacation, she decides to set up her out of office message. Nevermind that we’ve already been in Hawaii for THREE FULL DAYS. Our adventures in paradise have taken a toll, for she tries several times to leave just the right message, only we’ve been here so long already the poor girl has no idea what day it is, and thus what day to which her message should refer. I would have found the whole event more humorous if I hadn’t left my sense of that three miles and thirty long minutes back behind us.
Luckily for us both, eagle-eye Gina spots a Starbucks in Kapa’a and we temporarily abandon traffic to stop for eggnog lattes. And not a moment too soon for this cranky girl. The service was nearly as slow as the traffic but the nutmeg helped my spirits, along with a new pair of board shorts purchased at the adjacent ABC store.
Back in the car and headed north, the scenery is becoming more and more spectacular. Gina has become a parrot, squawking over and over and over again “I CAN”T STAND IT” as we drop toward Princeville and past into Hanalei. We pull over briefly at Haena beach to get her out of the car where the “I CAN”T STAND ITs” can ricochet off the nearby mountainsides rather than continue to bounce around deafeningly inside the Stratus. In short time we arrive at literally the end of the road – Ke’e beach, the start of the Kalalau Trail, which winds its way for 11 miles along the Na Pali Coast. Our goal – make it at least the first 2 miles in to Hanakapi’ai beach where we can enjoy the scenery, even if we can’t pronounce the location.
We strike out on the trail, if you could call it that. It’s more like a narrow chute of mud, rocks, and roots, at times running precipitously close to the vertical dropoffs to our right. The views are out of this world, the aquamarine waters visible through the lush, jungle-like vegetation, the steep Na Pali cliffs fanning out in front of us with every turn. Not considering myself to be a prissy girl, I am nonetheless quite skittish about the trail conditions, for the mud does not want to relent and my feet are less than cooperative, slipping and sliding with nearly every step. It’s not so much that I don’t want to get muddy as I don’t want to do my best Indiana Jones impression and fall flat on my butt, gravity and the slick conditions not on my side as they hurtle me down the trail and off the nearest cliff. In my preoccupation with these thoughts, I find myself slowly falling behind the SportySpice, who is skating down the trail ahead like Dorothy Hamill on Olympic ice. Noticing my granny-like speed, Gina makes an unfortunate decision to ridicule me. This is unfortunate in that it immediately angers the Hawaiian gods who have frequented this coastline for hundreds of years. Their retribution: a quick cosmic misstep for Gina and suddenly she is flailing ahead, nothing but arms and legs spinning like windmills, every ounce of her sportiness straining to keep her from landing with a squoosh onto the muddy trail. To her credit, she succeeds in keeping her shorts clean, if little else, and the lesson is learned, for the word “priss” is not uttered again.
As we near the beach, we pass some interesting man-made additions. One is a tsunami pole, above which one is safe and below which one is not. Perhaps 6 inches really can mean the difference between life and death so I don’t poke fun at this, for we have already seen what the Hawaiian trail gods are capable of. No sense pushing my own luck. And speaking of luck, or the lack there of, the other trail adornment is a sign tallying up the number of unfortunate souls who have died at our destination beach. Nothing funny about that. I make a mental note not to become another notch in that sign.
At the bottom of the cliff we have just slid down is a small river. This must be crossed without any apparent permanent pathway to help us. We puzzle over how to accomplish this feat, while watching the others around us who must do the same. Of greatest interest is the angry couple – he, who is clearly not wanting his outdoor experience to be hampered and slowed by her, who is clearly annoyed with him that he has somehow crossed and is doing nothing to help her reach the other side. As she strikes upriver, we decide that our best chance for a successful crossing is to remove our shoes and let our toes find the way. This is very difficult on Gina’s delicate feet, or so I surmise after being subjected to several minutes of her ongoing exultation’s of pain and misery as we wade across to the far bank.
Our river crossing behind us, the beach lies ahead, a welcome oasis of sand, surf and sun. Oh, and a feral cat or two, who, sensing Gina’s extreme dislike of the feline, take an instant liking to her. My amusement over this is interrupted by the arguing that has erupted off to our right. The angry woman, after apparently much distress, completed her crossing and is now bitching out the angry man, who doesn’t seem to have an ounce of compassion to spare. Ah Hawaii, lover’s paradise that it is. We marvel over the surfers out challenging the monstrous waves, death toll sign be damned, and decide that the only way they could have made it out here to this beach is by boat or jet ski. This assumption is later shattered when, on the difficult hike back, we are effortlessly passed by two of these young, barefooted things, surfboards in tow.
The river crossing on our return trip is nearly as entertaining as that when we arrived. There are locals easily hopping from one unstable rock to the next, not so much as getting a toe wet; there’s a fat bubba with moves of a gazelle; and there’s the requisite female, stuck in the middle, can’t go forward, can’t go back, wishing, a little too late, that she’d opted for the no-shoe route. It turns out to be a long haul back in the jungle heat and humidity. I decide during the course of our trek that this travelogue would be best named “Survivor: Kauai”.
Our post-hike reward is a stop back at Haena beach, where we originally let the “I CAN’T STAND ITs” free. Thinking it’s finally time that I, too, play in the surf, I’ve picked an impossible beach for beginners. According to the guidebook, the swimming is “very hazardous” here and there’s a “deep dropoff” just off shore. They weren’t kidding. As I watch Gina get sucked out to sea, a grin as big as a crescent moon in summer plastered all over her face, I decide to suck back in my belly and head for the safety of the towel. Lounging in the sand, I take multiple shots of Gina, looking like a trained seal as she bobs up out of the surf for her photo shoot.
Our beach frolic is followed by shopping in Hanalei, where we decide that this is THE place to stay. It’s cute beyond words and its location is ideal. We drive to Hanalei Bay for a walk out on the pier, watching the sun set behind the Na Pali peaks, and stop at the Hanalei Valley Viewpoint as the moon rises over the taro fields. It’s truly been a perfect mix of a day, here on the north shore.
Back in the car, we head toward Princeville. Like a Sunday tourist in Omaha, my mouth is moving much faster than the car, as I call out store names to Gina in the unlikely event that she can’t read the billboard-sized neon messages on her own. “Look, True Value. Hey, is that a Borders? And lookie there, it’s a Burger King. Well, I’ll be!” While reveling in the anywhere-USA-ness of the Princeville shopping mall, I turn my thoughts momentarily back to the act of driving. And not a moment too soon … a Peterbuilt logo fills the entire rear view mirror, and if the mirror is right and that object is closer than it appears, we are in serious trouble. Not wanting to become the next former insects splattered across the semi’s grill, I yelp and floor the precious Stratus, and with a slight hiccup, we take off at the same speed as a beer bottle rolling down a movie theater aisle, slowly gaining momentum with every passing foot yet never really moving very fast. I nervously watch behind us as the Peterbuilt matches our every move, not once leaving his hold upon our bumper. I think of the signpost back on the Na Pali Trail, the one tallying up the number of victims, and I wonder if the Peterbuilt has something similar etched into its dashboard. I feel as though we have been transported into the movie Duel and I am Dennis Weaver, crazy with fear as I desperately try to elude the rig and it’s unseen driver. This goes on for miles, despite the pleas of Gina to pull over there, no there, no wait – THERE, before we dart recklessly into a bus pullout, the Peterbuilt flying past to terrorize the next poor driver up ahead.
Thankfully, the rest of our trip back to the condo is unremarkable, save for the amazing scenery that is Kauai. Dinner is leftover spaghetti. Chores include laundering the red, mucky dirt of the north shore out of our hiking clothes and planning our next few days, then it’s off to bed. Probably the safest thing we’ve done all day.
15 November 2005
Today is what the founder of Gina B’s Bootcamp would call a late start, even though we are out of the condo and on the road to Waimea Canyon by 8:30. The driver in front of us this morning must have a fear of speed limit signs, for every time he sees one, he abruptly brakes. This would make more sense if he was speeding, but alas, he is not. As the cars pile up in my rear view window, he finally pulls over only for us, five minutes later, to miss our turn and have to head right back in his direction. Something gives in the universe at this very moment, and we are gratefully not subjected to following him again.
Heading up the canyon, we are treated to pristine views of red rock and green trees. We stop at all possible lookouts to take in the scenery, both the natural landscape and the busloads of Asian tourists. All of this sightseeing is making us hungry, so we eat our lunch before 10:30 am. This may prove to be a bad decision later, when we are hiking an endless trail with few snacks left in our packs. But we don’t consider that at the time. In fact, our biggest consideration as we munch down our lunch is how to keep the overly inquisitive roosters at bay.
After a leisurely drive up the canyon, it’s time to get down to business. We park at Kokee State Park headquarters, consulting maps and books before deciding upon the Nualolo Trail, which will take us out to Lolo Vista Point, on the Na Pali coastline. This is an out and back hike, but if we’re feeling more adventurous, we can instead turn it into an 11 mile loop, combining the Nualolo and Awaawapuhi trails. By the time we headed out, this option seems unlikely, given the blistering afternoon heat. However, after descending multiple steep ‘slots’ – the equivalent of rappelling down a laundry chute without a rope – we decide that we’d rather go the extra distance than crawl back up those slippery slopes. We are surprised more than once as we pick our way down through them to be passed by other hiking couples – one from Oklahoma, heretofore referred to as Bubba and Laurie (the kind spelled with all of those extra vowels), and one from Canada, which we surmised solely based on the presence of Roots hats on their rapidly receding heads.
The sheer exposure along the trail to Lolo Vista Point is enough to make my stomach churn with unease. To quote our trail guidebook, it’s a “narrow and crumbling track”, not to be attempted during inclement weather. I look skyward, scanning for thunderheads but seeing only a reassuring blue, and step gingerly forward onto the trail. Gina, meanwhile, is far ahead, skipping merrily down the hairline path toward a view that will definitely be worth the effort. I push on and, as Phil would say, we are the fourth couple to arrive. Bubba and Laurie and the Canadians have already settled down to lunch, and there’s a boy couple out here as well. We take some pics, eat most of what we have left in our packs, which is really nothing more than an orange and some chips, chat with the boys who are also doing the loop option, and hike out through the tall grass to begin the loop back.
As we walk, the day is getting impossibly hotter, while the hike is getting progressively harder. For every down there is an opposite and steeper up. Thinking we can’t take one more step, we stop for our final snack break. We are down to a single teriyaki stick. We drool like St. Bernards as we sit, exhausted and spent, chewing our teriyaki and wondering how we’ll ever make it back to the car.
Finally we emerge from the wooded trail into a small parking area. Should we have planned ahead, this is where our car would have been parked. Since we did not plan ahead, this is the place from which we must start hitchhiking our way back to the state park headquarters. Assuming that no one would stop to pick up one dusty, sweaty, clearly exhausted almost-40-yr-old accompanied by a tall, dirty and arguably dopey muppet, we only halfheartedly attempt to get a ride, backs turned and barely raising a thumb toward the cars headed our way. Perhaps on a bet or maybe just out of boredom, a wealthy father-son combo from California end up stopping and giving us a lift back to park headquarters.
In forewarning, I must tell you that the part of the story I’m about to relay next is R-rated, in this particular instance for language. After dusting ourselves off and enjoying a cold beverage, we decided to drive to the end of the road so as not to miss the last possible views of the Na Pali coast. We also intended to “pay it forward” by hopefully coming across the boys hitching back, as we knew they were somewhere behind us on the trail and would no doubt be in need of a lift. This part of the tale was all uneventful, peppered with nary a word of bad language. It was at the last lookout that the sailor talk struck.
Picture this scene, if you will: we are sitting inside our dependable Dodge Stratus, enjoying a quick snack, when an innocent and adorable red-headed birdie takes notice of our food. Poor little hungry birdie, simply hoping for a tiny morsel of a handout, wings his way toward the Stratus. As he lines up his landing approach, all hell breaks loose inside the car. Gina, sensing menace rather than cuteness, starts clawing at the car door, desperately trying to find the button to roll up the window. Meanwhile, our sweet little birdie is coming in hard, aiming directly for the snack dangling halfway out Gina’s mouth. This is when the yelling starts, for the windows are electric and the ignition isn’t on. Now all you little ones, cover your ears while I tell the next part of the story, which starts with Gina yelling “Start the freaking car!” and ends with Gina yelling “Start the freaking car!”. In between and despite all of the chaos around me – a likely endangered and federally protected songbird fluttering just over the right ear of a dangerously angry Gina – I start the car. Up zips the window and off flies my little red-headed friend, thankfully out of harms way.
This incident is more than enough to convince us that perhaps we have stayed long enough at this viewpoint. On our trip back down the road, we are pleased to find Alex and Arthur, our hiking trail companions, and we give them a lift while hearing about their own Hawaiian adventures. It becomes clear that these boys have money, for they are not only staying at the Hyatt and in Princeville, but they are island hopping for the next few weeks. We feel good about paying it forward, and, after dropping them off at the state park headquarters, feel even better after seeing Bubba and Laurie emerging from the woods, covered in slot canyon dust, having not opted to loop back like we did, and arriving at least 2 hours later. It’s not that we’re happy about the misery they must have endured; just that we didn’t make the same choice. It’s one thing to always choose the wrong lane at the grocery store; quite another to pick the hardest possible hiking route back to one’s car.
Now that the hiking and swearing are out of our systems, we enjoy a happily-exhausted drive back to the condo. On the way, we stop at a store outside of Hanapepe for steaks for tonight’s dinner (a $31.99 value, no doubt). We shower, eat, and call it a night.
16 November 2005
It’s day six in paradise. The alarm goes off early but we dink around, me not wanting to get up because I’m lazy, Gina dinking because, well, that’s just what Gina does. However, just when I’m getting comfortably sleepy again, Gina bounds up and decides it’s time for Bootcamp. Because I refuse to join her, she leaves me explicit instructions regarding what it is then that I must accomplish while she’s away. This list includes making breakfast and packing lunch. After she leaves, it occurs to me that Bootcamp might have been easier. This holds true given the amount of time it takes me to complete all of my assigned chores, leaving me with mere minutes to spare. Just as I settle out on the sunny deck to enjoy a few precious moments of solitude and mindless pondering, Gina returns. “Get up woman and get my breakfast on the table!” She doesn’t actually say this out loud, but I know that’s what she’s thinking.
We eat our eggie sandwiches and discuss what we mostly don’t know about business plans, as Gina’s decided to move to Kauai to start Gina B’s Bootcamp, which admittedly has a nice ring to it. Gina B’s Bootcamp will cater to those who are, and I quote, just looking for motivation. Three classes per morning, 15 bucks per class per person, five days per week. We decide that I will keep the books because I’m the one who won the accounting medal in high school. We decide that Gina’s brother-in-law will prepare the business plan because he’s the one with a background in sports marketing. We decide that our friend Cheri will be in charge of sales, because Cheri, with her bartender ear, can sell anything. And Gina will, of course, be the CEO and primary instructor, until we grow into a huge franchise and need to hire other Gina B’s. It’s a total win-win situation for everyone. While we’re working this out over coffee and tea, Ms. Bootcamp informs me that she saw two monk seals hauled out on the beach on her run back. This I must see, so we stop the shop talk and head for the beach, me still in my pj’s and sporting this morning’s bedhead, Gina looking a little more put together if you don’t count her post-breakfast bloaty belly, which makes her look surprising like the monk seals on the beach. Gina takes a quick dip in the ocean while I snap a few pictures of our endangered sea friends, then it’s back up the hill to the condo for fruit smoothies and packing for today’s adventure – another trip north.
Given the trauma of our last trip to the north side of the island, in which I narrowly avoided getting us run down by a crazed semi, Gina drives today. This has the added benefit of allowing me to finally take in some of the scenery outside of the white and yellow lines. First stop: Kilauea Lighthouse. Bonus point: the grounds upon which the lighthouse sits double as a bird sanctuary. This is good news for those of us that like birds (me) and not so good news for those that don’t (Gina). Perhaps that fact that we see no little red-headed birds helps. We also see no lighthouse stamps for our books. Although disappointed, we improvise with pictures taken on the lighthouse steps and enjoy the gorgeous backdrop of surging seas and spray before departing for our second stop: Anini Beach Park.
Compared to some nearby beaches, the water at Anini Beach Park appears to be relatively calm, and there are views to the east of the lighthouse. Seems like as good of a place as any to relax with our books, so we spread out our towels and settle in. But not for long, for we have parked our gear too close to the water. Moving back another foot or so, we settle back in. But again, not for long, as either the tide is coming in fast or we are simply morons, unable to correctly judge the distance between the incoming waves and where it is that we can lounge and not get wet. One would think after six days in paradise we’d have this all figured out, but it takes us another try before we get it right. Finally comfortable, we commence again with the reading, accompanied soon enough by the eating of our lunch.
Now that we’ve managed to keep the sea at bay, it’s time to turn our attention towards the heavens, for it is from here that the water now threatens to come. About the time that we decide we better pack up and head for shelter, the rain starts pelting down. All I have to say is that running in flipflops – not easy. While the rain shower passes through, we pass the time sightseeing from the car, checking out nearby rental homes and, of course, more amazing views of the Pacific. Our sightseeing afternoon continues with a short walking tour of Kapa’a, which turns out to be mostly a freeway town. We decide that Hanalei is still THE place to stay.
We have spent a sufficient amount of time dinking around today that it’s now fast approaching happy hour, which gets us back into the Stratus and gunning her south to Poipu. Tonight’s happy hour is to be held at Shipwrecks Beach. Specifically, on the cliff walk. only there’s a slight hitch – we can’t actually seem to find the cliff walk. Now granted, a cliff seems like a pretty obvious topographical feature, one that might even be considered hard to miss, but miss it we did. We wander aimlessly down what we dub to be ‘coconut alley’ before deciding that we better head back to the beach before one of us gets knocked senseless. From the safety of the sand and well beyond the water’s reach, we watch a golden retriever chasing a stick unless it lands in the surf, apparently wisely sharing my fear of drowning, as well as a pair of young kids chasing and falling and rising and chasing once again. They seem to belong to the youngish helicopter pilot and his polynesian wife. Of course, we actually don’t know this about the parents, but nonetheless decide that this is their story. This goes, too, for the dog owning couple, who we decide is a pair of wealthy, retired smokers whiling away their golden years and what’s left of their burnt out lungs on the Garden Isle.
Our toast to the sunset and storytelling hour is followed by a tour of the Hyatt grounds and shops, confidently displaying their overpriced keens and sandals. Knowing a good bargain when we see one, and not seeing any, it’s time to leave the rich behind and go for a moonlight cruise in the Stratus. Gina is driving, detouring us back up the dirt road down which we had formerly seen the one and only Michael Jackson. Trying to be cooler than she really can be, she performs what can only be considered a full-on muppet brodie, jerking the wheel around full circle as I’m flung recklessly into the passenger door. Thinking, again, that she’s cooler than she really can be, she continues this driving maneuver by dropping her left hand from the wheel and steering only with her right index finger while she props her left elbow out the window. Only, the window was closed, so this results in a loud “ow” followed by long, howling laughter from the passenger seat.
With the driving situation slightly out of control, it’s back to the condo for another yummy dinner of BBQ pork chops, steamed green beans, pineapple and rice (a $19.95 value, at least), and watching Martha’s show. This is accompanied by much agonizing over how to spend our last full day … a hike? A road trip north? Gina actually uses the phrase “gauge the time” during this discussion, as we never seem to have enough of it, which is something I thought only I noticed. Tomorrow’s decision not yet made, we make one last decision tonight and that is to go to bed.
17 November 2005
It’s our last full day on Kauai, meaning that we must squeeze in as much activity as possible, staring with our alarm at 7 am for bootcamp. We are out the door by 7:30, but not before I decide that the next getaway will involve a weekend at the foggiest, rainiest, dreariest beach I can find, where there are no alarm clocks, no bike paths, no hiking trails – just a cozy fireplace, coffee percolating in the kitchen, and a heavenly bed from which I will rise only well after the sun for lazy morning jogs and to which I will return for endless afternoon naps. As part of this discussion comes the following exchange:
Dena – The first one up is very very quiet until the other rises.
Gina – What are you saying?
Bootcamp runs us to the Hyatt and, in a new twist, along the outskirts of the golf course to the cliffs above the sea. Here we find ourselves on the infamous cliff walk trail which had so cleverly eluded us the day before. Given that the word “walk” is its name, I see no reason to rail against this fact by continuing to run, so walk I did, with Gina slowing down her pace as well. Mind you, I am referring to just her running pace, as her planning pace is going full steam ahead, already rattling off the logistics of our next trip to Hawaii. Never mind that we are still here.
After walking the cliffs we run back to Poipu beach for a dip in the ocean in front of the Marriott. It’s a barefoot walk back up to the condo where we replay the scene from days before – the one in which I slave over breakfast while Gina lays on the sofa with her book. This is okay because we want Gina to continue practicing her reading skills. Our delicious breakfast of eggie sandwiches is followed by more reading and journaling, a small luxury after so many days of run run running. We decide that today will officially be spent as a beach day. Off to the Marriott beach we head for more lounging and swimming. This makes us hungry (really, what doesn’t?), so it’s back to the condo for a pizza lunch.
With a good full afternoon still to go, our next beach choice is the one in front of our own condo complex. It’s almost as if we have just checked into this place, given how little time we’ve spent here relative to our vacationing over at the Marriott.
We pull a couple of lawn chairs off the stack and tiptoe hastily across the burning sands, planting ourselves on the upper reach of the shoreline. This has two distinct drawbacks: one, the sand here, being beyond the reach of the waves, is an otherworldly kind of hot, akin, I imagine, to the surface temperature on the wheels of the Mars rover, making it difficult to keep ones feet on the ground. This, in turn, contributes to the awkwardness of drawback two, which is that this upper beach is steeply sloped, requiring one to sit severely pitched forward in one’s seat without using one’s feet to keep one from falling forward. This isn’t quite the relaxing afternoon at the beach we had envisioned, so we abandon the sand and head for more level ground – the green and well-manicured lawn behind us.
Like croquet wickets, we plant ourselves into the lawn and don’t move for quite some time. Well, I don’t move for quite some time. Gina, as we have previously established, is more like a croquet ball, not likely to stay in one place for too long. For once, this works in my favor, as on one of her many forays from chair to beach and back again, she discovers that there’s another monk seal hauled ashore. We investigate his sweet and tired self, trying to get a few winks of sleep in the late afternoon sun. I imagine that’s not easy to do when you’ve got a bunch of tourists staring at you, particularly when a couple of them turn out to be bubbas who can’t resist (or, apparently read the signs warning against) purposefully trying to disturb you. It’s too bad it’s not the American bubba that’s endangered.
The days light fading fast, it’s time for me to procure happy hour treats while Gina moves our chairs to a prime sunset-viewing location. I return with wine and cheese and a Hawaiian plumeria for the Texas hat. We walk back to the beach, wine glasses in hand, to toast the return of the monk seal to the ocean. He accomplishes this with much rolling around and shuffling and snorting, not unlike how Gina maneuvered her way into the water the other day when she went snorkeling.
Back to our chairs for the last sunset in Kauai, we smile and sigh and wish for one more day before calling it a vacation.
