It’s hard to write about Kauai because its not exotic. After all, it’s one of the United States of America. It’s easier to write about the intense smells of Marrakesh, Istanbul’s lush textiles, or Bora Bora—so exotic you say it twice. Kauai has a lot of roosters and deep red dirt and the most beautiful views of steep green cliffs rejoining the ocean that you ever could see.
With this baseline of beauty comes the people who live here, people who have grown up surrounded by this landscape that doesn’t exist anywhere else on Earth. They are at the same time constantly appreciating it, with #livelikepan or #kauaiizwhy hashtags peppered throughout Instagram, and also so deeply accustomed to it, that its lush beauty is as everyday as what a sense of thirst must be in the desert. People visit for a glimpse of one of Earth’s wonders, people move here for the deep vibration of nature’s serenity, and people work here to support their families.
But there’s one thing that remains constant. When you stay here, it’s easy to begin caring about the environment.
The way to really get into it is hiking. One shoe in front of the other, often one shoe a steep step above the other, sometimes one shoe slipping to rejoin the other. At first, it’s exercise. I leap up the cliffside, hopping from one rock to another. Then up the wooden steps—planks pushed into the red dirt for stability—and feel the burning sensation in my thighs and calves. The climb leads to a jaw-dropping, indescribable view of layers and layers of cliffs stacked behind one another, leading out to an endless expanse of ocean. There’s some people lining up to take pictures, and a nice system of one couple taking it for the next family and so on. Onward. It feels like I’ve hiked 5 miles, at least. And then there’s something that happens, after a never-ending descent over burnt orange dirt. Your body is aching, and you know you have more than 6 miles to go. The ground, the lush jungle, and the glimmering ocean become constants. You are painstakingly making your way over and across and down Earth’s very surface. From Ke’e beach to Kalalau Valley, cutting a path around the side of a mountain, climbing up rocks, slick with rain, while grabbing countless lauhala trees for stability. And what a long, meandering way you’ve walked!
2 miles in, there’s a beach. You can choose to walk over more rocks, doing your best to avoid the wobbly ones, and set foot on the sand. I did it, and reached the sand. Then you have to traverse a small lap pool, filled with freezing cold straight from the rain water mixed with ocean, formed by a sand hump between itself and the ocean. Waist deep, I started to regret it. But I had bruised my ankle getting caught between 2 rocks earlier, so it felt nice. Then finally, I reached the purely salty ocean. A quick dip, watching a girl and boy running around in the lap pool, splashing each other with joy, before running back to their dad.
And then I was back on the trail. Heading up to the waterfall inland. The hike begins with your first stream crossing. You must leapt from rock to boulder and boulder to rock, keeping momentum or you might lose your nerve and wade across like the old people. But I’ve done it before. You walk through jungle, passing a bamboo forest before heading into the really deep jungle. This hike feels even longer than the first, because there’s no horizon or ocean in sight. I finally get my palms dirty from using my hands to climb up more rocks.
What happens is a realization that you are walking and living on an amazing planet. The feeling comes from, quite literally, connecting with the earth. You realize more fully that you’re a part of it all when you’re stepping on slightly squishy red earth instead of a hard wooden floor or concrete sidewalk. At first you just notice the views—stunning, jaw-dropping, one-of-a-kind beautiful. But it takes the 10 hours of plodding along, scrambling, and hopping to really notice what it is you’re walking on.
And now you’re at the waterfall. There’s no words for the feeling so I won’t even try.