A Trail called Hope
The Regulars – Wai’ale’ale Expedition 2005
We’ve been looking for you
August 17th. 2005
So there it was, the “Idol of Wai’ale’ale”. I can’t tell, was it smiling at us, or was laughing. The wooden faces of the tiki idol were facing the summit of Mount Wai’ale’ale, which was only a few miles beyond us to the South. It really did look eerie. The way it was sitting there reminded me of an old Hawaiian King on a throne made of a tree which had been knocked down in hurricane ages ago. The little jungle king was nestled in a cloak of beautiful iridescent green moss which looked like velvet. Surrounding us was the Alakai, which is the highest jungle rain forest in the world. The idol reigned here. The story of the idol says that one face stands for strength, and the other stands for good fortune. I couldn't help but wish that even if one face was laughing, at least the other might be smiling on us. I thought, “I’ll be back for you one day.” We touched it and we walked away.
The research I’d done in the last 2 years led me to believe that each year there may be only two very small windows of opportunity to reach the water logged summit under relatively little rain. Ken and I had previously come here a few months ago in February and most of the island was bone dry. During much of that week I don’t even recall hearing of rain at all in the Alakai. So, I was feeling pretty good that again just after the solstice would be a pretty good time to come back, and here we are.
Years ago I struggled through school. Unless I was studying a subject I completely loved, I never did quite appreciate doing the homework. As the old saying goes, “Sometimes education is wasted on the youth.” In my case maybe the saying was true. But, there is another saying I always believed in, which can be touted all one wants in the present, but can only be proven in hind sight. “The end justifies the means”. As a creature of habit, now I find myself in my late thirties, and my habits are still the same – only now they’re amplified. I’m more driven to learn everything I can about the things I’m passionate for. And, as life would have it, I’m passionate about calling attention to Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s Disease, and conquering it my way. I have to say, I’m happy with myself. This time it seems I’ve stepped out of the shadow of what was once a terrible student in grade school, because my research on Mount Wai’ale’ale had paid off with relatively dry weather.
They call this “The Wettest Place on Earth”, but ever since arriving on this island the only full on rain fell upon us while we lay in the tent last night. The whole experience has been pretty exciting for Yankee’s like us. Branches were lashing around the sides of the tent and leaves were pasting themselves to the outer walls making a sound which reminded me of wet towels being slapped on the sides of a pool deck. The wind was no where near the speeds Ken and I have experienced on previous climbs, but it did sound like it had been blowing over Lions Head on Mount Washington. Our tent was nothing like the Hyatt at Poipu on the South side of the island where I stayed on my honeymoon, but it was surprisingly comfortable and dry. In the morning our shelter was camouflaged with twigs and all sorts of green and brown leaves.
Koaie stream, is the border crossing into Never Never Land. It’s every bit as surreal as one might imagine the world to be at the fringes of a place where few men willingly travel beyond. There was a beautiful low water fall cascading gently three feet down from an upper level of the river. Jutting into the waterfall like it was stomping out of the jungle was a large stone which resembled the fossilized foot of a giant T-Rex with water running through its toes. The magic of this place is that it captivates you. Here a person feels as though he is walking the machete’s edge between a mysterious ancient world, and cutting the edge in the seldom seen recesses of an overgrown planet which has miraculously avoided devastation by mankind. This river scene has been and will forever be frozen in time.
The days on the island leading into this were beginning to wear me out. Traveling over the hills was like a physical, mental and emotional roller coaster ride. I’d hit so many highs and lows over the last few days between the silence of the jungle and the bombardment of my thoughts. While I was clearly caught up in the moment and the excitement of being here, I felt so removed from the world I knew I could re-explore my thoughts of it, and reconsider everything I’d gone through over the last few years leading up to this point. The word “why” is no stranger to climbers. Why am I here? Why am I doing this? Why are there only two of us? Why isn’t this as easy as I thought? Why can’t we drink the water? Why am I lost? Why isn’t this GPS working? Why don’t I quit and go home? A thousand times…why, why, why?
With about 20 collective miles from the coast behind us, and with 60 pound packs on our backs, the welcome wagon Koaie Stream had rolled out for our tired and beaten bodies was a 300 climb up over the ridge of its Northern bank. We moved slowly hand over hand, grabbing any roots we could see or feel in the underbrush. Our feet would slip out from below us in the slick mud made in rain last night. The mammoth sized ferns constantly blocked our view of the next safe hold, and branches were whipping and tearing at our face, poking at our eyes and pulling on our clothing. My Black Diamond Raven mountain axe made itself useful for something more than being my walking stick. I would swing to sink it deep into rotten logs, or hook its head around anything strong enough to support my weight. Indiana Jones had his whip, and I’ve got my axe, it has always been an extension of my own arm. Ken wasn’t as fortunate because he’d only brought his walking sticks.
It was funny to hear Ken only twenty feet below me on the hill, but out of sight in the overgrowth thrashing around and grunting in pain every so often as his feet would slip into a hidden opening in the ground. The roots would clamp in on his ankles like a bear claw trap. Listening to him howl was giving me a flash back to one of our late winter climbs on Mount Washington. Ken and I had come off trail during a white out as we were making out way back down from the summit, and we’d had lost our way. When a person walks on the compact snow of a well worn trail it feels like walking down a Manhattan sidewalk, it’s so easy you just glide. But, when you find yourself even two feet off trail you could count on sinking into deep snow and going nowhere but down. Wading through snow which is up to your mid thighs makes it real tough going and super exhausting. In the all too familiar Mount Washington white out I could barely see Ken, but even if I couldn’t see him at all I knew where he was.
“Fuckin’ Shit! Dam it! Owww I twisted my ankle! Where’s that Fuckin trail??? Ugggg I’m going to kill you for getting us off trail! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I hate this Shit! Slow down Enzo you asshole! I’m going to break this pole over your head! Where did you go? Slow down! Enzo! Enzo! …Enzo???”
All those poetic words and phrases meant that Ken was having a great old time post-holing or wading through the snow bending his legs and ankles in all kinds of directions. He can never fool me. I knew once we got off the mountain he’d be saying that he was loving every minute of it.
Back in the present, Ken’s legs had already taken a good beating on the way into the Alakai, and I know it’s not supposed to be funny but I had to laugh at something, and listening to him doing his usual bitching was killing me in the best way at the moment. I know he be laughing at me if the shoe was on the other foot.
The humidity in the air was making it hard to breath. I’m no stranger to breathing problems. I had grown up with terrible asthma, and when I was young I’d been known to get adrenaline shots with ultra long needles to the chest to help get me back in control of my breathing. It always feels like hell but you learn to compensate for it, and it has gotten much better in recent years. On my way up hill through the ferns and in the still air I noticed I was dragging then holding my breaths. Casey Grom our head guide up the chute on Mount Rainier popped into my head. As a teacher of mine in the sport of mountaineering I could remember him always shouting down the slope to me “Enzo I can’t hear that power breathing!” Although it’s a breathing technique designed for traveling at high altitudes; in the heavy humid air here in the Alakai it might work just as well. Our legs were burning from overwork, and we’d already built up a sweat before starting this pitch, so I thought I’d give that “power breathing” a go to see if I could get air around to the parts of the body which were screaming for it. It works pretty damn well. After what seemed like an eternity of toil on this steep tangled face it seemed like a breeze blew right out of heaven. We must be near the top, I thought! The wind blowing across the upper hillside was making its way through the trees, between the giant ferns and down into my jacket like hands. It was like one of those fantastically beautiful almost better than sex feelings, and in a similar fashion I was going to enjoy it while it lasted. I unzipped my jacket all the way down and held it open like a sail to catch the breeze, and I stood still on the incline enjoying this amazing moment. Ten minutes later we were on top.
The weather was as perfect. It was a beautiful morning so far, and I was hoping nothing would change that. The Alakai looked so vast from this vantage point. To my left was the Poomau Valley, stunning, steep and only just beginning to make its long decent down into the Waimea Canyon. To the right was another valley which was dropped away from us about 200 feet and rolled across like a bowl to the next ridge about ½ a mile away. The jungle here is no joke. You can be seduced by its strange beauty, drawn into its dark green recesses, and fall captivated in a trancelike state by Eden in the truest sense of the word. But if you loose your game face for more than a few seconds you might find yourself sliding head first down a bank into a bog you might never walk out of. Even on a crystal clear day if you get more than 30 feet from your partner, he’s gone....completely out of sight. If you’re more than 50 feet away not only will you not see him, but you might not even hear him scream. The lush rain forest vegetation will muffle sound so much that the only things you'll hear are your heart pounding inside your chest, you’re labored breathing, and a swarm of flying insects you never seem to see.
In the dense mists of a whiteout you’d better be a master at navigation, or plan on standing still for how ever long it takes until the sightless whiteness lifts for long enough for you to scramble up a tree to look as far as you can and figure your next heading. I’m no expert at navigation, so thank God for a clear day.
Eclipsing all other more practical ways to raise funds and awareness for Alzheimer’s, get ourselves killed, hurt, or at very least in trouble, the most unnerving danger associated with exploring the back country in Kauai would have to be hands down ...the Drug Fields. Tell me again why we’re doing this?
“Pakalolo” as marijuana is called locally, is grown in small plantations tucked far away from easy access to the general public and law enforcement officials. There, in the secrecy of a deep unexplored valley or a hillside covered by a canopy of trees to blanket them from above, they quietly do their thing. Unfortunately there's no one who will tell you where they are, or how to avoid them other than “Don’t go back there. If you hear people or see them far back in the jungle you’re probably going to wake up dead”. The drug fields aren't helpfully located on any trail maps, so if you're ever unlucky enough to step into a Venus Fly Trap like this, it will probably be your first and last trip to a marijuana plantation. Back there you might hear a muffled "BANG" before the lights go out on life.
As I worked out in the gym during in the months going into this expedition I was counting on being physically strong enough so that this expedition wouldn't kill me, but I couldn't help but laugh at the irony of possibly staring down the barrel of a gun and into the eyes of some backwoods crunchy boy then dying of drug related causes, even though I’ve never smoked any Mary Jane.
We cleared through a section of wet dangling undergrowth, and would likely have a few minutes before we headed into another damp bank of ferns. We checked the GPS to see if we could get a fix on our location in relation to our heading. The track back setting on the GPS looked like spaghetti on the screen while we were moving through this section. The trail was so faint and subtle that in order to stay on track we had to differentiate between what was a wild boar track, a few less leaves on the ground, or a slight thinning of obstructions in our way. Our pace was slowing down to almost a standstill. Getting lost here is unavoidable, and we did a few times. I’d like to say we did it just for kicks but we didn’t. We could only hope it didn’t happen often, and when it did, we needed to try to find our way back on track as quickly as possible.
Sometime down the trail I found I actually wasn’t on it at all…again. In the midst of zig’zag’ing back and forth for a clue to the way back I stepped over a fallen tree and into a mud pit. Oh joy! This area was about 300 square feet of trampled, gored, and uprooted muck which was softer and deeper than I thought it was going to be. My military jungle boots with me in them sank to about half way up my calves. A gang of wild boar must have had a field day on this spot last night. The suction was intense, and it seemed the more I moved, the more difficult it became to pull myself out. I called out to ken for a hand, then fell back and noticed he wasn’t behind me. He must be back down the trail taking it easy on his swollen ankles. The mud was making loud slurping sounds as I struggled in it, but finally after a few minutes there was a pop and I was free. It was a miracle my boots were still on.
Well that was fun. It reminded me of when I was younger growing up in Mount Kisco, New York. My friends and I used to play a game called “Run for your life” in the swamp across the street from my house. With a name like that we had to run, jump, hide, climb, and crawl any which way possible to escape from the opposite team. Nowhere was safe. If we ever had to make a break for it across a mud field, speed was no longer going to be part of the game plan.
I kicked my formerly black boots against a tree to get some of the mud off, and carried on.
Strange as it might sound, not more than 5 minutes later I started to hear voices. They weren’t in my head, and oddly enough it sounded like a conversation between two people, and as far as I could tell I wasn’t going crazy talking to myself, and Ken was still out of site down the trail behind me.
Oh shit, this could be bad. There weren’t supposed to be people back here.
Oh my God, could I have stumbled across a marijuana plantation? I turned quickly back and forth to look around me scouring the plant life to see if there was any Pakalolo growing nearby. Damn it, where the hell was Ken? I couldn’t see anything unusual, but I wasn’t about to fool around in a chance meeting with some dangerous crunchie underworld types. So, I flipped my ice axe around to hold it by the shaft, which I had been holding by the head as a walking stick. I pulled the axe leash tight around my wrist and gripped it hard like a battle axe made for swinging.
The voices were getting louder but they weren’t yelling, they were talking to each other. That could only mean one thing; they were somewhere very close. “How the hell did I get myself into this shit”, I thought.
Just then, coming around the brush about 30 feet ahead of me two men stepped out from under a branch leaning over the trail and came into view. They momentarily stopped talking looked at each other, then right at me and started heading my way. With my axe hidden behind my back, I mustered up some of my mom’s polite British charm, and hoped for the best, but I was completely ready to start swinging.
“Hey guys, how are you doing?” I asked.
Still watching me, they took a few steps closer. “Are you with the New Englanders here to climb Wai’ale’ale for the Alzheimer’s Association?”
“Ah, yeah?”
“Are you Simone?”
“I am Simone.”
“We’ve been looking for you”.
I loosened the grip on my axe ...........“What?”
World up,
Enzo
(to be continued)
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