Day 5: Red Mud (or: Slip-Sliding Away)
Apr. 11th, 2016 05:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
The path downward isn't so much a path as a wall of stones that we're climbing down. Tree roots and branches clutter the way. I step over one, under another, then around a third.
I put my foot on a stone and it slides forward in the red mud until it reaches a branch on the other side. I'm afraid if I put my weight on it, physics will take over, and in the end I'll snap my ankle bone. So I pull my foot back, and try the step again. I get the same result.
The rain starts to patter down once more.
Five hours earlier.
The main topic of conversation this morning is the weather. We can all see that rain is coming down outside, but we're trying to assess whether that state of affairs will continue.
I finally offer up an analytical take on the subject: Wunderground says that each day from here until Thursday will have more rain than the last. So, irrespective of whether it's raining, today is clearly the best day to hike.
The folks are won over by my logic. We head out to the car after breakfast, minus Kimberly who will stay home and rest.
Then the rain starts to pour as we come abreast of Old Koloa Town.
It's quite illogical.
On the east shore, things have brightened up. We're much more confident about hiking once we reach the gate to the Ho'opi'i Falls hiking trail. I wait while the folks change from slippas to socks and hiking boots, then we're off.
Very quickly I make the joke, this if the forest primeval. I'm probably the only one who gets it. But it is. Ferns and fronds constantly loom over the path, creating a tunnel into a Jurassic park. It's one of my favorite places on the island.
The ground is the bright red that's typical in Kauai, but it's more troublesome than usual because it's red clay. Moreso, it's slick red clay because even if it's not raining this minute, it's clearly been raining recently. Not only do I not know my destination (because I've never walked this trail before), but I'm frequently slip-sliding away (because my sneakers just don't compare to the actual hiking boots that the folks have).
I enjoy the hike, but occasionally I let out a yelp as I suddenly slide along the slick path at a much faster speed than usual.
The first tricky spot on the hike comes when downed trees block the path here and there. I have to climb over and under them. It's particularly hard when there's really slick red clay right under a tree that I'm sliding under.
My dad suggests that someone purposefully downed the trees to block the path. This sounds crazy to me, but I give it credence on the way back when we spot several "Private Property" signs. It looks like there's some sort of struggle going on, with some private asshat trying to claim that he owns the county trail. After the fact, Googling suggests that there's some disagreement on what's private property and what's not.
I'm thankfully that we're in Kauai, not in Texas; the dispute is more likely to be solved by just ignoring the problem, not by shooting people.
The Upper Ho'opi'i Falls are nice. It's the Lower Ho'opi'i Falls that are the real treasure though — and of course these are the Falls that are now under ownership contention.
The final descent to the Lower Falls is quite treacherous. It's slick and steep. My dad opts to stay behind, but Mary and I brave it. There's now rain occasionally dropping down, and there's one part of the trek that is rocky and filled with tree branches. At the worst part, I'm not sure I can make it down without breaking an ankle. But Mary is able to offer a suggestion ... and with a hop, skip, and a jump I make it down.
When we reach the bottom of the Lower Falls there is an excess of picture taking. Me in front of the water fall. Mary in front of the waterfall. Me in front of the lagoon. Mary in front of the lagoon.
Finally we head back up to my father, who after this long pictorial lacuna no doubt suspects we've fallen to our death.
It's past noon as we trudge back up the slick red pathways. I suggest we call Kimberly to say that she should forage for herself for lunch.
Fortunately the refrigerator is full of easy foraging.
The three of instead decide to eat at the worst diner in Kauai.
I let out a louder-than-usual yelp not far from the end of our hike and manage to take a sideways slide to the ground. I catch myself on my bad shoulder, which has been mostly OK since we hit Hawaii, but it's not a smart reaction.
This adds to the mud on my jeans. The cuffs were already caked red. Now I've got red up the left side of my jeans from the cuff to the hip.
When we see the Ono Family Diner in Kapaa, I jokingly say "Oh no!" But we decide to eat there anyway.
It's a pretty standard American diner, except my salad comes with papaya seed dressing. I enjoy it, not realizing it's the only food I'm going to get for forty-five minutes.
My dad and Mary enjoy a meatloaf. We wait for their soup and more importantly my main course: a grilled chicken sandwich and french fries.
Forty five minutes later a waitress comes by to ask if we're ready for our bill.
We literally all talk at once. I say, "No, because we're still waiting for half of our meal". The waitress seems literally repelled by our vocal force. No one is yelling, but we're a bit loud.
Our waitress visits our table three times in the next several minutes. First she accusingly asks whether I've ever gotten my sandwich. (No.) Then she more contritely asks whether I've gotten my fries. (No.) Then she explains that another waitress gave my chicken sandwich to some other table, and asks if I would likely something faster to cook. (No.) She explains that it will take 10 minutes for a chicken sandwich, and I tell her to make it so.
But another waitress shows up just a minute later. She has what looks like the worst-looking chicken sandwich I've ever seen. It's brown and desiccated. "Is that a grilled chicken sandwich?" I ask in horror.
She stares intently at me for a moment, then stares at the sandwich.
She scoops it back into her hand and rushes away with the plate, like she's smuggling rum into prohibition-era Chicago. "No, it's a fish sandwich," she shouts out as she flees.
The chicken sandwich finally arrives. It's quite good.
"Worth the wait?" my dad asks. I have to say that the answer to that is no.
But the wait is a sunk cost. They would have had to serve a chocolate-covered chicken sandwich to make it worthwhile.
We swim at Lydgate afterward. Much of the water is dirty and brown, filled with tiny, tiny bits of debris from a storm two weeks ago.
It feels like there should be a metaphor here.
I put my foot on a stone and it slides forward in the red mud until it reaches a branch on the other side. I'm afraid if I put my weight on it, physics will take over, and in the end I'll snap my ankle bone. So I pull my foot back, and try the step again. I get the same result.
The rain starts to patter down once more.
Five hours earlier.
The main topic of conversation this morning is the weather. We can all see that rain is coming down outside, but we're trying to assess whether that state of affairs will continue.
I finally offer up an analytical take on the subject: Wunderground says that each day from here until Thursday will have more rain than the last. So, irrespective of whether it's raining, today is clearly the best day to hike.
The folks are won over by my logic. We head out to the car after breakfast, minus Kimberly who will stay home and rest.
Then the rain starts to pour as we come abreast of Old Koloa Town.
It's quite illogical.
On the east shore, things have brightened up. We're much more confident about hiking once we reach the gate to the Ho'opi'i Falls hiking trail. I wait while the folks change from slippas to socks and hiking boots, then we're off.
Very quickly I make the joke, this if the forest primeval. I'm probably the only one who gets it. But it is. Ferns and fronds constantly loom over the path, creating a tunnel into a Jurassic park. It's one of my favorite places on the island.
The ground is the bright red that's typical in Kauai, but it's more troublesome than usual because it's red clay. Moreso, it's slick red clay because even if it's not raining this minute, it's clearly been raining recently. Not only do I not know my destination (because I've never walked this trail before), but I'm frequently slip-sliding away (because my sneakers just don't compare to the actual hiking boots that the folks have).
I enjoy the hike, but occasionally I let out a yelp as I suddenly slide along the slick path at a much faster speed than usual.
The first tricky spot on the hike comes when downed trees block the path here and there. I have to climb over and under them. It's particularly hard when there's really slick red clay right under a tree that I'm sliding under.
My dad suggests that someone purposefully downed the trees to block the path. This sounds crazy to me, but I give it credence on the way back when we spot several "Private Property" signs. It looks like there's some sort of struggle going on, with some private asshat trying to claim that he owns the county trail. After the fact, Googling suggests that there's some disagreement on what's private property and what's not.
I'm thankfully that we're in Kauai, not in Texas; the dispute is more likely to be solved by just ignoring the problem, not by shooting people.
The Upper Ho'opi'i Falls are nice. It's the Lower Ho'opi'i Falls that are the real treasure though — and of course these are the Falls that are now under ownership contention.
The final descent to the Lower Falls is quite treacherous. It's slick and steep. My dad opts to stay behind, but Mary and I brave it. There's now rain occasionally dropping down, and there's one part of the trek that is rocky and filled with tree branches. At the worst part, I'm not sure I can make it down without breaking an ankle. But Mary is able to offer a suggestion ... and with a hop, skip, and a jump I make it down.
When we reach the bottom of the Lower Falls there is an excess of picture taking. Me in front of the water fall. Mary in front of the waterfall. Me in front of the lagoon. Mary in front of the lagoon.
Finally we head back up to my father, who after this long pictorial lacuna no doubt suspects we've fallen to our death.
It's past noon as we trudge back up the slick red pathways. I suggest we call Kimberly to say that she should forage for herself for lunch.
Fortunately the refrigerator is full of easy foraging.
The three of instead decide to eat at the worst diner in Kauai.
I let out a louder-than-usual yelp not far from the end of our hike and manage to take a sideways slide to the ground. I catch myself on my bad shoulder, which has been mostly OK since we hit Hawaii, but it's not a smart reaction.
This adds to the mud on my jeans. The cuffs were already caked red. Now I've got red up the left side of my jeans from the cuff to the hip.
When we see the Ono Family Diner in Kapaa, I jokingly say "Oh no!" But we decide to eat there anyway.
It's a pretty standard American diner, except my salad comes with papaya seed dressing. I enjoy it, not realizing it's the only food I'm going to get for forty-five minutes.
My dad and Mary enjoy a meatloaf. We wait for their soup and more importantly my main course: a grilled chicken sandwich and french fries.
Forty five minutes later a waitress comes by to ask if we're ready for our bill.
We literally all talk at once. I say, "No, because we're still waiting for half of our meal". The waitress seems literally repelled by our vocal force. No one is yelling, but we're a bit loud.
Our waitress visits our table three times in the next several minutes. First she accusingly asks whether I've ever gotten my sandwich. (No.) Then she more contritely asks whether I've gotten my fries. (No.) Then she explains that another waitress gave my chicken sandwich to some other table, and asks if I would likely something faster to cook. (No.) She explains that it will take 10 minutes for a chicken sandwich, and I tell her to make it so.
But another waitress shows up just a minute later. She has what looks like the worst-looking chicken sandwich I've ever seen. It's brown and desiccated. "Is that a grilled chicken sandwich?" I ask in horror.
She stares intently at me for a moment, then stares at the sandwich.
She scoops it back into her hand and rushes away with the plate, like she's smuggling rum into prohibition-era Chicago. "No, it's a fish sandwich," she shouts out as she flees.
The chicken sandwich finally arrives. It's quite good.
"Worth the wait?" my dad asks. I have to say that the answer to that is no.
But the wait is a sunk cost. They would have had to serve a chocolate-covered chicken sandwich to make it worthwhile.
We swim at Lydgate afterward. Much of the water is dirty and brown, filled with tiny, tiny bits of debris from a storm two weeks ago.
It feels like there should be a metaphor here.