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i go on a mundane adventure (oahu 2023-10-23)
kuliʻouʻou ridge-pu'u 'o kona loop trail
When my alarm went off some time past 4 am, I groaned, knowing I had only myself to blame. I'd gotten it in my head to do the kuli'ou'ou ridge trail to see the sunrise, an idea that didn't seem nearly as enticing now. Somehow, I dragged myself out of bed instead of hitting snooze, got dressed, dragged myself into the car, drove. I arrived at the trailhead a little past 5. Decent timing, since the way up was supposed to take around 1.5h and sunrise was at 6:30.
Now, if only I could find the trailhead. I'd known it would be dark, but not how dark it would be. I turned on my phone flashlight, the only light I had, and tilted my wrist so that it cast an eerie white glow in front of me. Without it, I could see almost nothing. In retrospect it was stupid to have expected anything else, on the dark paths of the mountain. But somehow I'd gotten tricked by light pollution, streetlights, even the moon that lit up the streets at night, into thinking I'd have some amount of night vision. I walked by the beginning of the trail by accident at first, missing even the wide turnoff in the dark. I only realized I'd missed the turn when I saw my little blue dot moving away from the path on the alltrails map.
Luckily, once I got onto the trail, most of it was clear enough—it wasn't like pali notches where I couldn't tell what was trail and what was just the side of the mountain—and aside from the tree roots crisscrossing the path, the way up was pretty much unobstructed. I did accidentally go off trail a couple times at some of the sharper switchbacks, but the alltrails map was always there to save my sorry ass.
I tried not to think of how I felt like I was walking into a horror movie. Of being alone, of the tree roots lying like tangled limbs, of something watching. Funny that I wasn't afraid of the more realistic "stupid tourist twists ankle in the dark". But, well, no one ever said fear made us smart.
About an hour later, the first hint of natural light started filtering in. Something incredible about these hikes I've done so far on Oahu, and this one especially, is how drastically and abruptly the flora changes. I'd started out among leafy trees, on a dirt path cut through with their roots and rocks, and now I was walking through a pine forest, stepping on soft pine needles, layered thick enough that I couldn't see through to the dirt beneath. I was grateful for the light, how could I not be when I could finally see again, but knew it also meant my time was running out. Sunrise was coming fast, and I didn't know if I would make it to the top by then. I might've lost too much time fumbling in the dark.
I tried to speed up. The ground reappeared from under the needles, the trees changed again. There were some with smooth gray trunks now, some with twisted branches. Around them, an explosion of ferns. The sky grew lighter, and stairs emerged out of the dirt.
I reached the end of the trail as the sun climbed into the layer of clouds hovering low over the ocean, not too long after 6:30. For a while, I sat there, watching the sun's rays fan out between the clouds, drawing paths of light through the ocean. I don't know how long I stayed there. Clouds passed, a few drops of rain fell and misted my face, the sun emerged from behind the clouds and cradled my cheeks in warmth, and disappeared again.
I was about to head back down when I remembered what one of the hikers yesterday had said, that if I hiked only 30 minutes more I would reach the peak ahead of me. There wasn't a nice wide trail up there like the one behind me. It would be narrow and steep. I was tired too, not sure how much more uphill I wanted to attempted. But only 30 minutes... I could do it, I thought.
I carefully picked my way around the side of the mountain onto the path. For a couple beats of my heart, the cliffside felt too close for comfort, but once I'd crossed over it didn't seem like the path had been so narrow, or that I'd been as close to falling as I thought. Then the real uphill began. This part was a lot of fun, scaling up steep dirt paths with the help of ropes. Thinking about how whoever had put these ropes up there must've climbed up without any help at all.
I crested over the top of the peak and saw the other side of the mountains, lush and green under the sweep of the clouded sky. It was beautiful again, here too. Beauty I couldn't capture on a flimsy camera, or describe now with my flimsy words, or keep ahold of with my flimsy memory.
I kept going along the path. It ran along the tops of the ridges of the mountains. The path was overgrown by dense vegetation on both sides, and only wide enough for one person. At first I tried to keep my shoes dry, but it was a lost battle. The plants that pressed up against the sides of the path were wet, possibly condensation, possibly the remnants of rain, possibly both, and soon my shoes were soaked from passing through. It was lucky that I'd worn leggings, otherwise the branches would've scratched up my legs. My arms weren't as lucky, since I'd worn a sleeveless shirt, and sometimes the plants were at the height of my torso or shoulders, sometimes up even over my head.
The whole way through this part of the ridges felt like pushing through a tangle of branches and leaves, and honestly was kind of a slog. But in the moments between trying not to get slapped in the face by leaves or trip over clumps of plants, it was cool to see how many different types of plants there were, so different from the ones only a little farther below. Wild raspberries and acai, little white and purple flowers, brown mossy growths, and many different green leafy bushes and short trees. Plants with some kind of fruit? Or what looked like fruit, in the middle, with hard, pebbled skin. A light green, spongy plant that looked like it had little, grabby hands. Red, leaf-like flowers that were home to thousands of tiny flies, that flew up into your face as you passed by.
I ran into one other hiker near the end of this part of the path, the only one I had seen so far. I tried leaning as far back into the plants as I could, so that he could pass. The backs of my legs grew wet.
"Are you...comfortable with hiking these kinds of trails?" he asked me.
"Does it get worse?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"More overgrown?" I asked, because for me that had been the worst of it so far.
"No, but there is a part where the trail has been washed out." He pointed at a place not far ahead. "And there are parts where you'll need to climb with ropes." He pointed again, at another incline further away with some ropes I could barely make out. "And for the way down it's better to go in the opposite direction. But well... if you can do up through that rope section, you'll probably be okay?"
I thanked him for the advice and continued onward. I told myself I'd go see what he was talking about, and if I didn't think I was up to it, I would turn back there. But I think in my heart of hearts I had already decided not to turn back. I didn't have the willpower to make myself push through all these plants again.
I emerged out of the edge of the vegetation, onto the washed out part of trail. It was short, maybe a couple meters at most, but as narrow as before, enough space only for one. And on both sides, there was only the long way down. If there'd been a lot of wind, it would've been terrifying. As it was, it wasn't bad. Only a few steps, and I was over to the other side.
Then it was back into vegetation, but less dense, until that set of ropes up. It was no steeper than the previous sets of ropes, and after all the previous rope practice from the earlier part of the hike and the previous couple days, it felt much easier, safer, and more fun than the previous couple miles of pushing through overgrowth. I caught a glimpse of the other hiker standing on a distant hill as I made my way up. I think he might've been watching out for me, what a nice guy. I was grateful for it. Since, now that I thought about it, no one knew I was here.
The way up continued for a short while, through some more ropes, then to the top of the tallest peak among the ridges. It started to rain at little at the top. Which was...great. Just great. Just in time for the descent. I had no choice but to keep going. Luckily the rain wasn't very heavy, and stopped after a short burst. Not long enough to create mud.
The way down was an endurance battle against balance and fatigue. There were several sets of ropes on the way down too, over the steepest parts, but despite what you might think, these felt like the safest and easiest parts of the trail. When I saw the ropes, I knew that my feet could finally take a break from creeping down the trail, that my eyes could rest from watching out for loose gravel and rocks. The most dangerous parts were the parts that were steep, but not steep enough for ropes. There I had to crouch low and pick my way down while gripping tight onto nearby rocks and tree branches, sometimes pressing my hands into the dirt. I could've been being overly cautious, but it's hard not be wary when sliding in the wrong place could mean sliding off the mountain. I did slip once or twice, but never somewhere too dangerous, and not enough to fall. Sometime later I emerged into clearer skies. When I looked behind me, the peak where I'd been was now enshrouded by a white cloud. Above me, the sky was blue with patches of white.
The plants changed again and again as I continued down, as if each small piece of mountain were a whole on its own. I walked back through a landscape covered with ferns, a few larger trees growing in between. Beneath taller trees with dark bark and patches of light green moss, through shorter ones with smooth, thin trunks. Between bushes with shiny, oblong leaves, and waist high wild grass. Farther down, I finally left the tops of the mountains for another pine forest, needles thick on the ground. I got lost there this time, and looking down the side of the mountain, I had a moment of doubt that I'd find the path again. But, after clambering down over some tree trunks and fallen branches, I made it there somehow. Past that the pine forest ended, the ground became drier and rocky, with yellow dried grass and trees with fewer leaves. The road wasn't much farther.
I stumbled back out into civilization like a baby deer. Blinking stupidly, as if I wasn't sure where I was, or where I had been. Things looked different in the light of day. My legs didn't feel like my own, but they still moved me mechanically back to the car.
I don't know if I'd do this hike again, but I'm so glad I did it once. It's been a long time since I've felt any sense of adventure in the real world. I feel silly saying that out loud. I know it's so melodramatic and so not-a-real-problem, still I grow afraid that each day will always feel like flipping through pages of gray, and that what color I do find will only be in increasingly rare moments of escapism in books/manga/video games/tv. This felt like...I don't know, a reminder that I can feel wonder?
When my alarm went off some time past 4 am, I groaned, knowing I had only myself to blame. I'd gotten it in my head to do the kuli'ou'ou ridge trail to see the sunrise, an idea that didn't seem nearly as enticing now. Somehow, I dragged myself out of bed instead of hitting snooze, got dressed, dragged myself into the car, drove. I arrived at the trailhead a little past 5. Decent timing, since the way up was supposed to take around 1.5h and sunrise was at 6:30.
Now, if only I could find the trailhead. I'd known it would be dark, but not how dark it would be. I turned on my phone flashlight, the only light I had, and tilted my wrist so that it cast an eerie white glow in front of me. Without it, I could see almost nothing. In retrospect it was stupid to have expected anything else, on the dark paths of the mountain. But somehow I'd gotten tricked by light pollution, streetlights, even the moon that lit up the streets at night, into thinking I'd have some amount of night vision. I walked by the beginning of the trail by accident at first, missing even the wide turnoff in the dark. I only realized I'd missed the turn when I saw my little blue dot moving away from the path on the alltrails map.
Luckily, once I got onto the trail, most of it was clear enough—it wasn't like pali notches where I couldn't tell what was trail and what was just the side of the mountain—and aside from the tree roots crisscrossing the path, the way up was pretty much unobstructed. I did accidentally go off trail a couple times at some of the sharper switchbacks, but the alltrails map was always there to save my sorry ass.
I tried not to think of how I felt like I was walking into a horror movie. Of being alone, of the tree roots lying like tangled limbs, of something watching. Funny that I wasn't afraid of the more realistic "stupid tourist twists ankle in the dark". But, well, no one ever said fear made us smart.
About an hour later, the first hint of natural light started filtering in. Something incredible about these hikes I've done so far on Oahu, and this one especially, is how drastically and abruptly the flora changes. I'd started out among leafy trees, on a dirt path cut through with their roots and rocks, and now I was walking through a pine forest, stepping on soft pine needles, layered thick enough that I couldn't see through to the dirt beneath. I was grateful for the light, how could I not be when I could finally see again, but knew it also meant my time was running out. Sunrise was coming fast, and I didn't know if I would make it to the top by then. I might've lost too much time fumbling in the dark.
I tried to speed up. The ground reappeared from under the needles, the trees changed again. There were some with smooth gray trunks now, some with twisted branches. Around them, an explosion of ferns. The sky grew lighter, and stairs emerged out of the dirt.
I reached the end of the trail as the sun climbed into the layer of clouds hovering low over the ocean, not too long after 6:30. For a while, I sat there, watching the sun's rays fan out between the clouds, drawing paths of light through the ocean. I don't know how long I stayed there. Clouds passed, a few drops of rain fell and misted my face, the sun emerged from behind the clouds and cradled my cheeks in warmth, and disappeared again.
I was about to head back down when I remembered what one of the hikers yesterday had said, that if I hiked only 30 minutes more I would reach the peak ahead of me. There wasn't a nice wide trail up there like the one behind me. It would be narrow and steep. I was tired too, not sure how much more uphill I wanted to attempted. But only 30 minutes... I could do it, I thought.
I carefully picked my way around the side of the mountain onto the path. For a couple beats of my heart, the cliffside felt too close for comfort, but once I'd crossed over it didn't seem like the path had been so narrow, or that I'd been as close to falling as I thought. Then the real uphill began. This part was a lot of fun, scaling up steep dirt paths with the help of ropes. Thinking about how whoever had put these ropes up there must've climbed up without any help at all.
I crested over the top of the peak and saw the other side of the mountains, lush and green under the sweep of the clouded sky. It was beautiful again, here too. Beauty I couldn't capture on a flimsy camera, or describe now with my flimsy words, or keep ahold of with my flimsy memory.
I kept going along the path. It ran along the tops of the ridges of the mountains. The path was overgrown by dense vegetation on both sides, and only wide enough for one person. At first I tried to keep my shoes dry, but it was a lost battle. The plants that pressed up against the sides of the path were wet, possibly condensation, possibly the remnants of rain, possibly both, and soon my shoes were soaked from passing through. It was lucky that I'd worn leggings, otherwise the branches would've scratched up my legs. My arms weren't as lucky, since I'd worn a sleeveless shirt, and sometimes the plants were at the height of my torso or shoulders, sometimes up even over my head.
The whole way through this part of the ridges felt like pushing through a tangle of branches and leaves, and honestly was kind of a slog. But in the moments between trying not to get slapped in the face by leaves or trip over clumps of plants, it was cool to see how many different types of plants there were, so different from the ones only a little farther below. Wild raspberries and acai, little white and purple flowers, brown mossy growths, and many different green leafy bushes and short trees. Plants with some kind of fruit? Or what looked like fruit, in the middle, with hard, pebbled skin. A light green, spongy plant that looked like it had little, grabby hands. Red, leaf-like flowers that were home to thousands of tiny flies, that flew up into your face as you passed by.
I ran into one other hiker near the end of this part of the path, the only one I had seen so far. I tried leaning as far back into the plants as I could, so that he could pass. The backs of my legs grew wet.
"Are you...comfortable with hiking these kinds of trails?" he asked me.
"Does it get worse?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"More overgrown?" I asked, because for me that had been the worst of it so far.
"No, but there is a part where the trail has been washed out." He pointed at a place not far ahead. "And there are parts where you'll need to climb with ropes." He pointed again, at another incline further away with some ropes I could barely make out. "And for the way down it's better to go in the opposite direction. But well... if you can do up through that rope section, you'll probably be okay?"
I thanked him for the advice and continued onward. I told myself I'd go see what he was talking about, and if I didn't think I was up to it, I would turn back there. But I think in my heart of hearts I had already decided not to turn back. I didn't have the willpower to make myself push through all these plants again.
I emerged out of the edge of the vegetation, onto the washed out part of trail. It was short, maybe a couple meters at most, but as narrow as before, enough space only for one. And on both sides, there was only the long way down. If there'd been a lot of wind, it would've been terrifying. As it was, it wasn't bad. Only a few steps, and I was over to the other side.
Then it was back into vegetation, but less dense, until that set of ropes up. It was no steeper than the previous sets of ropes, and after all the previous rope practice from the earlier part of the hike and the previous couple days, it felt much easier, safer, and more fun than the previous couple miles of pushing through overgrowth. I caught a glimpse of the other hiker standing on a distant hill as I made my way up. I think he might've been watching out for me, what a nice guy. I was grateful for it. Since, now that I thought about it, no one knew I was here.
The way up continued for a short while, through some more ropes, then to the top of the tallest peak among the ridges. It started to rain at little at the top. Which was...great. Just great. Just in time for the descent. I had no choice but to keep going. Luckily the rain wasn't very heavy, and stopped after a short burst. Not long enough to create mud.
The way down was an endurance battle against balance and fatigue. There were several sets of ropes on the way down too, over the steepest parts, but despite what you might think, these felt like the safest and easiest parts of the trail. When I saw the ropes, I knew that my feet could finally take a break from creeping down the trail, that my eyes could rest from watching out for loose gravel and rocks. The most dangerous parts were the parts that were steep, but not steep enough for ropes. There I had to crouch low and pick my way down while gripping tight onto nearby rocks and tree branches, sometimes pressing my hands into the dirt. I could've been being overly cautious, but it's hard not be wary when sliding in the wrong place could mean sliding off the mountain. I did slip once or twice, but never somewhere too dangerous, and not enough to fall. Sometime later I emerged into clearer skies. When I looked behind me, the peak where I'd been was now enshrouded by a white cloud. Above me, the sky was blue with patches of white.
The plants changed again and again as I continued down, as if each small piece of mountain were a whole on its own. I walked back through a landscape covered with ferns, a few larger trees growing in between. Beneath taller trees with dark bark and patches of light green moss, through shorter ones with smooth, thin trunks. Between bushes with shiny, oblong leaves, and waist high wild grass. Farther down, I finally left the tops of the mountains for another pine forest, needles thick on the ground. I got lost there this time, and looking down the side of the mountain, I had a moment of doubt that I'd find the path again. But, after clambering down over some tree trunks and fallen branches, I made it there somehow. Past that the pine forest ended, the ground became drier and rocky, with yellow dried grass and trees with fewer leaves. The road wasn't much farther.
I stumbled back out into civilization like a baby deer. Blinking stupidly, as if I wasn't sure where I was, or where I had been. Things looked different in the light of day. My legs didn't feel like my own, but they still moved me mechanically back to the car.
I don't know if I'd do this hike again, but I'm so glad I did it once. It's been a long time since I've felt any sense of adventure in the real world. I feel silly saying that out loud. I know it's so melodramatic and so not-a-real-problem, still I grow afraid that each day will always feel like flipping through pages of gray, and that what color I do find will only be in increasingly rare moments of escapism in books/manga/video games/tv. This felt like...I don't know, a reminder that I can feel wonder?