Hawaii Day Nine (Part 1)

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My hiking day at last! Read, hiking morning,
All the project hastened by the warning
Deadline of returning for our cruise
By one o'clock. So, not an hour to lose:
At dawn I took the rental car alone --
The first vacation outing on my own --
And sunrise found me speeding to the West,
Then up the canyon country toward the crest
Of Kauai's inland highlands, and the trails
That hovered in my mind like holy grails.
A hard-core hiker? No. How then explain
The din of this agenda in my brain,
Predating e'en the trip, when I would look
With hungry romance through my travel book,
Or online sites, for hiking on Kauai?
Mute feelings but suggest the reasons why --
A need to meet the island face-to-face,
Reunion with a lost and promised place,
A sense that only inward, off the road,
Would presence on the island be bestowed...

Now flies the Hyundai in long upward swerves
On empty morning two-lane Alpine curves
Through drying woods. Relaxed behind the wheel,
With narrowed eyes I take the road by feel,
Aware of canyon vistas to the side
But focused on the smooth ascending ride,
The higher goal, the trailhead and the clock,
And it's with something of a scenic shock
When what I thought was canyon doubles down
And opens up that monster of renown:
Waimea! Here I have to stop and stare.
The lookout platform seems to float in air
In dessicated silence, while below
The ramparts of a giants' city grow
In ruined slabs and pillars from the pit,
Massive red castles crumbling into it
Down haze-dim miles, a deep and ancient throne
Of cataclysmic power gone to stone.



A quick gaze only, then I'm on my way,
At war against the fast-advancing day.
The road is long; already I'm behind;
I drive and drive but still I cannot find
The sign that marks my trailhead. In my eyes
Already mine is half a compromise;
The best and famous canyon trails set by
As taking too much time to fully try,
I've picked the Waipoo Falls trail, short and near,
But hours and curves run on, and soon, I fear,
I won't have time to hike even Waipoo.
At last the trailhead lurches into view,
And finally I can park my car. Now to it!
But, alas, as I'm about to do it,
Starting in along a wide dirt road,
My water-heavy pack a happy load,
I double-check just what the guidebook said.
This isn't yet the Waipoo Falls trailhead:
The head is found a mile further in
Down the dirt road. Reluctant to begin
By hiking dull preliminary woods,
I walk back to the car to chase the goods.
And now I nose the glossy Hyundai down
A steep and rutted funnel of dun-brown,
Moguled and potholed "road," choosing to scorn
The wooden sign whose chiseled letters warn,
"4-wheel drive only, slippery when wet." Why,
This road is clearly firm enough, and dry!
I'll just go to the trailhead, then I'll stop.
However, now the road begins to drop
At an alarming pitch, and lurching round
The pits and boulders, oft with scraping sound,
I start to ponder getting up again,
Especially if, God forbid, the rain
Comes on while I'm off hiking. Which it could!
The sky looks whitish through the masking wood.
Ah, finally here's a trailhead: not Waipoo,
The "Black Pipe Trail"; well, it will have to do.
Mercy of mercies, here's some level grass
Where I can park so others cars can pass
And, more importantly, turn mine about,
A first requirement of getting out.

I left the silver Hyundai at its ease,
Incongruous among the hanging trees,
And finally hit a trail! Nervous and tight,
Through falling forests jailing out the light,
I marched into the heartland of Kauai,
Not knowing where I was, or really why.
The woods were thick and pretty, but the slope
Increasing made my fast and hearty lope
Aware that hours would double coming back.
With one eye on my watch, hefting my pack,
I angled downward, weighing time and skill --
Then met a hiker coming back uphill.
An elder woodsman, native, fast of tread;
I stopped and asked him what I'd find ahead.
He rambled out a tortured roving tale
Of climbs and clambers o'er long miles of trail,
But said just down this hill I'd find a creek
With ancient waterworks I ought to seek.
We parted, and the echoed plashing sound
Guided me through the trunks to lower ground,
Where, sure enough, a sweet and shallow stream
Pooled in an open glade and warm sunbeam.
And here, lost in the forest, miles from Man,
An old cement canal still curving ran,
Guiding its flume through long-forgotten locks
Half-overgrown beneath tall birch and rocks.
The stream and pool in purling freedom spilled
Beside the system man had thought to build:
Two different waterways, the one to shun
This quiet clearing basking in the sun,
With warm white boulders by the shallow bank,
Green woods with only rain and light to thank,
And shunt its captive cargo through the shade
Entrenched in purposes that Man had made.
An artifact of bygone irrigation
Built to serve King Sugar's vast plantation,
Now an industry that's left Kauai,
But still the old machine drains highlands dry,
Almost a part of nature, mystery
Of wilderness and human history
Entwined and shared. The secrets of the Isle,
Presented as I picnicked, made me smile
And feel an understanding oddly earned.
I sat there for a while, then returned.



My little hike (though sweaty up the climb)
Had left me unexpected extra time,
So, having bounced the Hyundai back to road --
Successfully: no dings (at least, that showed) --
I turned my silver prow on upward to the top,
With freedom now to savor every stop.
This proved just one: the best, all books allow,
The lookout from the cliffs of Kalalau!
The road ends here; we've met the farther coast,
But at the highest ridge the Isle can boast,
The summit of the walls of Napali.
From here the land goes plunging to the sea,
Which, viewed again from this triumphant height,
Extends blue brilliance dazzling in the light
Forever to the edges of the world.
Between, like ripples in a flag unfurled
Before the ocean wind, the pleated cliff
Cuts out a sheer and ragged wall, as if
Kauai was one immense pistachio cake
And God a single piece had deigned to take.
The great green valley echoed with the snarl
Of helicopters' tiny flitting quarrel
Mosquitolike within, while the big breeze
Off clean Pacific spaces stirred the trees
Below the lookout lawn. In awe we gazed,
Tourists to kings by mountain vistas raised,
And clicked our little cameras, sadly knowing
Wé were more than what they would be showing
Later in the valleys of our lives.
Only with you, Muse, something here survives.

--Matt