a tale of adventure & risk: climbing hihimanu (part II)

Last week I posted part one (the backstory) of this tale about risk and adventure here in Hawaii. Here's the finale. It's about taking risks and finding strength. It's about grace within fear. I hope you enjoy it.

our route to the summit of hihimanu (green: 'Okolehao trail; red: summit trail)

it’s time

Hawaii's version of wildflowers: orchids

In mid-April, on a sunny Sunday, Bracken and I sat in our studio condo discussing plans for the day. Our time on Kaua’i was winding down and we had a list of things we wanted to do before returning to the mainland.

I thought for a minute, then looked up and simply stated, “Today’s the day. It’s time to climb Hihimanu.” He looked at me and must’ve seen the determination in my eyes because he hesitated only a moment (I suspect he was about to ask, “are you sure?”). Then, with controlled excitement, replied, “we should leave as soon as possible.”

We arrived at the trailhead just before noon. The sky was clear with only a few scattered clouds. We discussed a basic set of agreements: if either of us (although we both knew it’d most likely be me) felt uncomfortable and didn’t want to continue, we’d turn around. No pressure, no pleading from the other. If it began to rain, we would turn around. We’d go at my pace and not rush. If we ran out of time, we'd simply turn around.

The first part of the trail covers the ‘Okolehao trail. We’d hiked (and I’d run) this part previously and although steep (rising 1,250’ in the first 2 miles), it’s a popular trail for tourists.

We agreed to move quickly through this section so we’d have more time for the tougher section to come. Moving through the trees, my mind began to wander back to a conversation we'd had while driving to the trail. Bracken had casually inquired whether I’d brought gloves.

Gloves?

“Yeah, for the ropes. To protect your hands,” he explained. Oh. I asked if he'd brought some. “No, I’ll be fine," he assured me. Ah. Damn.

I didn’t even think about my hands on the ropes. We didn’t know how many there would be. What kind of gloves would I have brought? For that matter, what gloves had I brought with me to the island? I couldn’t remember. Would I blister? Would not having gloves ruin my experience? Had I just made a huge mistake before we’d even started? These were my thoughts as we traveled over the first two miles. What was I in for?

I took stock of what we did have with us: rain jackets, plenty of water (I love my nathan pack), almonds, trail bars, cameras. Decent supplies for an afternoon hike. I decided that I’d have to let my worry over the gloves go. I didn’t have them and I’d simply have to deal with whatever happened. Blisters or no, I’d make it.

view of Hanalei Bay at the end of the 'Okolehao trail

and it begins

We got to a small clearing and looked out towards Hanalei Bay. Wow, the waves looked good from up here. Clean, glassy and oh-so-blue. A beautiful day, indeed. We had arrived at the first rope. It dropped down a steep slope. I couldn’t see where it ended.

I stood still. This was my challenge. This was my test. This was it: my fear was directly in front of me.

the first of many ropes

Yet in that moment I felt something bigger than my fear. A conviction settling deep in my bones. A sense of freedom washing over me. I felt a sudden—and deep—understanding that I was up for this task. The fear and anxiety I’d been feeling was still present, but my strength emerged with a confident force. I felt safe. I felt strong.

I stepped ahead of Bracken, grabbed the rope and headed down the slope cautiously. Feeling my weight on the rope, and taking care with the placement of my footsteps. One rope down... how many more to go?

I continued to hike ahead of Bracken. I’m not sure why, but it was important for me to go first. I liked seeing the ropes ahead, and tangling with the brush on my own—without seeing someone else do it. Call me a little stubborn, but I wanted the independence of doing it my way without outside influences.

I was grateful he had my back and it felt good to know he was watching me. I think part of the allure was doing it on my own terms. And I also believe that leading us to the summit was an integral part of facing my fear and taking the risk of being on that mountain.

mental tactics

descending to the first saddle

I kept track of the number of ropes we encountered. I got mixed up somewhere around 15 or 16. There was a rope about five feet long (did that count?). There was the one I didn’t use (was I getting more comfortable?). The final number wasn’t important to me (I will admit I was curious). It was the process of counting that was important for me.

It provided a sense of comfort and anchor for me. Not for the way up, but in anticipating the way down. I knew reaching the summit wasn’t the goal. The car was the final destination. Making it back safely and uninjured was the goal.

It happens all the time in mountaineering and climbing. Accidents on the descent. Or on the way back from a long hike. It’s hard to gauge how tired we’re going to be. We think downhill is easier than up. But it’s not always. It’s easy to relax and get lazy once the summit is under our belt. The rush of accomplishment and success has come and gone, and we forget that we’re only half way done.

Counting ropes for me was a way to help me navigate and pace the downhill. That’s what scared me most anyway. (I’m much stronger going up.) I knew I’d be tired towards the end of the hike. Tired = fatigue = lazy and loss of concentration. The hazards were real: tripping over roots or overgrown brush I couldn’t see; tired quads shaking; and the sun could easily be close to setting. We didn’t know how long the hike would take us (or how many miles it was, for that matter.)

rope 15 or 16

Counting the ropes on the way up meant comfort and a way to mitigate the risk. It allowed me to feel more in control. More responsible and alert. Despite losing track at 15 or 16, the counting continued: the sketchy rope was 18 or 19; the loooong wire rope was 20 or 21.

the journey

Hiking in Hawaii is at times quite similar to hiking in Colorado or the mountains in western North Carolina. There are roots and leaves along the trail. The views are stunning and the canopy of foliage can make you feel protected and sheltered.

However, the differences are just as striking. The foliage itself is, in fact, a jungle. Thick brush lines the narrow trail, scratching skin and growing almost as tall as me in places. The maze of external root systems line the steeper sections (often providing bomber hand holds). Looking into the forest, it makes you wonder how the trail got here in the first place.

        

It’s these roots and general craziness that brought a smile to my face as we climbed. The trees we ducked under or climbed over; the sturdy roots that felt like mother nature had installed hand rails just for me. The orchids growing wild. The faint scent of lilikoi (also known as passion fruit) wafting up the ridge with the breeze.

As we climbed up particularly long series of ropes, I looked at Bracken and with a huge smile on his face, he exclaimed, "this is fun." Fun. I thought for a moment... assessing my nerves and general sense of ease. Maybe not the care-free fun I feel when there are no significant consequences likely to be dealt with, but I could see some fun.

paper trees (not their real name)

I loved the discovery of new experiences. The texture of a particular tree (it felt—and looked—like paper); the wildness of the brush underneath the bushes; the strength of the hala trees with their roots clinging to the side of the steep ridge; the red clay carpeting the trail.

We continued up. We established a communication system of calling “off rope” or “on rope” when we couldn’t see the end (or each other) to make sure we weren’t both on a rope at the same time. The ropes were in varying degrees of condition and style. Some with knots along the way to help with grip, some without. A few climbing ropes, but most of them basic nylon. All of them welcome protection (no matter how suspect, in my opinion) for staying on trail. There were places where two ropes were provided. Holding on to both, I wondered which one was almost “pau.” (The local term for “done.”)

The numbers were climbing. Soon we were at rope 25 (or 26). We got to another plateau. This one narrower with loose dirt. We looked up ahead and saw a tree up a short incline. The summit just beyond it. We looked at each other. “It’s getting late,” I noted, watching the clouds approach, shielding the afternoon sun.

decisions

rope 20 (or maybe it was 21)

I was tired. Twenty-five ropes I'd counted. We were pacing slow. The summit looked far away. The drops on either side of me were steep and reached far below. I felt my body shake. Anxiety creeped in as I thought about potential rain. Dusk. And twenty-five more ropes. My hands were thankfully spared from any abrasions or blisters so far, although the rest of my exposed skin was scratched and tender from the branches and overgrowth lining the trail.

I wanted to reach the tree ahead and took a step forward. I stopped. I looked down and I just sat. I was pau; ready to turn around. Bracken passed around me (it was really narrow) and made it to the tree. He turned around and said, “we’re so close.” I looked up at him. My desire to continue conflicted with my need to simply sit and take it all in. The hours and trail behind us. The accomplishment. The descent ahead.

Bracken, moving a lot quicker over the terrain without me, made it to the summit and back to me in about 15 minutes. He knew instinctively that I had gone as far as I was going to go. All of my feeble attempts to go further turned my knees to jelly. I’d met my goal. I was proud and disappointed at the same time.

view from the summit (taken by Bracken)

limits

Risks are hard to navigate. When do you know your limit? When do you push through and when do you honor the instincts of fear? I knew I was a lot slower than Bracken. The sun was getting lower each moment. If it took him 15 minutes, it would take “us” 30 or more. My nerves were on edge. We were only half way through. And I was tired.

Do I regret not going for it? Sometimes. Especially when I look up at Hihimanu from Hanalei Bay and see just how short that last jaunt was. Most times, though, I remember where I was mentally and physically up there on the ridge. Could I have done it? Very likely, yes. But when you take risks, you have to trust yourself. You have to know that you can do it. And in that moment, I didn’t. So I made the difficult decision to pay attention to my instinct to sit down.

I’m proud of that decision. It’s easy to see in hindsight what energy you have left after a long trek, but you can’t know that in the moment. You can’t see into the future. You can only use the information you have at hand. You have to tap into yourself. You have to activate all the awareness and knowledge you have in your possession about yourself and you listen to yourself in that moment and trust that feeling.

It’s a lesson I continue to learn: paying attention to my intuition. Honoring myself in each moment, regardless of what my brain might be telling me. Learning to separate my voice from the voices of the world around me. Some days the lessons seem easier. That day, overlooking Hanalei Bay, the lesson was difficult. I wanted to want to continue. But I believe I made the best choice I could in that moment.

beginning the descent

staying practical

One of the more practical lessons I’m bringing home with me from this hike is down climbing. I hate down climbing. Facing into a mountain or rock wall while finding the best foot placement is uncomfortable for me. Yet with the rope, I was able to practice and started to feel more proficient and relaxed. It actually did feel safer than crab-walking down facing forwards (as friends have been telling me for years).

        

We also took a lot of pictures on the way up. On the way down we tried to increase our pace a little so we wouldn’t be hiking in the dark (but we still took a lot of pictures). We took note of some interesting wildlife. Huge spiders who had spun amazing webs; a centipede we hung out with for awhile watching it move (seriously... they're fascinating to watch).

albizia trees

The albizia trees with their Dr. Suess-like trunks glowing in the late afternoon light. Counting down the ropes, we came closer and closer to the clearing that marked the end of the ‘Okolehao trail. We were almost home.

one of the last ropes on the descent

connections

Once you experience an environment so viscerally, it stays with you. I connected with Kaua’i moreso on that April afternoon than in the previous six months on a trail that felt raw and remote. I went beyond the tourist experience. I touched something I hadn’t known existed, only recognizing the power and uniqueness weeks later.

back on the 'Okolehao trail, feeling happy

I'd appreciated my experience living on Kaua'i before this hike, yet it didn't quite felt like a home for me. It’s different now. Something changed. It’s been a month since we hiked Hihimanu and since then life has seemed brighter. Calmer in a lot of ways. And easier. Almost as though she (the island) has accepted me, and I, her. We’ve shared something.

I posted about feeling vulnerable in the outdoors earlier this week. Of stripping down to our core selves and feeling our power. Of how, when we're out in nature, the accoutrements of life fall away and we connect to something bigger within.

This is why I challenge my internal status quo. It's why taking risks is an essential skill to keep refining and doing.

It's why I continually push my boundaries and test my limits. When I'm surrounded by nature and the power of the natural environment, I reconnect with myself and learn more about my capabilities and my strengths. And then I take those strengths home with me.

mahalo nui

For those of you who like details, here’s the information from our Garmin 305:

• total time: 6:42:03
• total distance: 5.40 miles
• average pace: 30 minutes per mile
• minimum elevation: 29 feet
• maximum elevation: 2,151 feet
• total elevation gain: 2,828 feet

Comments

[Kate]

Gorgeous: the writing; the honesty; the integrity, and the photos. What an amazing journey. And what an amazing gift to be received by Ma Kauai -- take Her wherever you go!!
Loved this post.

PS
The photo with you in the background on the ropes - and orchid in the front: perfection. A couple of wild flowers.

[Mike]

What a great blog entry! I've always wondered about this hike after a guide told me about it (although he said it was one of the toughest hikes he ever did, breaking both his trekking poles). I'd have a lot of trouble trusting my life to 25+ ropes that may or may not be able to last through another hike.

[Amy C]

Kate - thank you. she will be with me, providing strength and courage for my new adventure. :)

Mike - glad you enjoyed the entry. it's definitely a beautiful hike. it looks like there were definitely newer ones mixed in, which leads me to believe that someone's taking care of it. but i hear you... it's a tough call.

[Kath]

Totally amazing article and perspective!

You're pretty much summed up everything you need to know about life in your stunning-pictured post.

Bravo!!

[Amy C]

@Kath thanks for your kind words. :) Funny how certain experiences mirror life on a bigger scale.

[terry s]

About two lines in, I read "defeat." It brought to mind an apt old Nike slogan.

Looks like you enjoyed it though. Great pix, thank you.

For a sublime rebirth, try the Kalalau 11 miler. Solo. It's dangerous; you'll be more than fine. Bring gear for 2 nights at least. Your fears will add fuel, not draggage.

Physical exhaustion quells mental chatter better than any chemical I've tried.