The Coastline Conquest

by Sarah Cousins (Canada)

A leap into the unknown USA

There was no mistaking where Crawler’s Ledge began. At an elevation of 500 feet, we could see the 1 mile path sweep downward into a gulley, then stretch back up against the rising mountainside and disappear as it wrapped around an open cliff face. It was steep, it was narrow, and it was very high up. 8 miles down, 3 to go, and it had taken us just over 3 hours. Posted hike time for the expert-level hiker: 6 hours. A quick beat of math here and you’ll conclude that we had a legitimate shot to reach Kalalau in under 6 hours. Perhaps it was my competitive spirit or maybe just the mountain air making me crazy, but I became all consumed with crushing this thing in less than 6. Our bodies were sore. By mile 9 we’d gained and lost almost 4000 feet of elevation, and every step downward now sent jabbing aches through our ankles and knees. With still 2 miles to go, our feet were heavy with mud and we were soaked in sweat. Conversation was replaced by wind sucking groans and the occasional curse to the heavens. But in all this, we were happy and we hustled, and we made those first glorious steps onto Kalalau Beach at 5 hours and 38 minutes. Booyah. Take that, suggested expert hiking-time sign. This was paradise: a utopia unjustly served by words. Jurrasic-like flora grew thick at the edge of the sand, and the mountainscape was pushed up against the sky on every side. The sun began to set almost just as we arrived, and as its light hit the clouds in washed-out whisps of pink and orange we were overcome with gratitude that our feet would play on a place of earth so seldom touched by others. Overjoyed in conquering this coastline, we played in the ocean like happy kids and strolled the beach hand in hand like the lovebirds that we are. We set up our oceanside camp, lit a fire using toilet paper from the dudes camping next door, and took in the twinkly stars over a thermosed bottle of wine that we were so happy we’d made a packing priority. There were maybe a dozen other campers all spread across the beach and under the trees, and with enough privacy for each of us to feel claim to our own piece of paradise. Everyone had hiked in, the same as us, and it felt good to know that others were in search of the same wonder and awe that we were. It rained all through the night, and feeling like a couple of regularly-rotating weenies on the 7Eleven grill, our sleep was mostly tosses and turns in a tent most certainly not built for two. So romantic. We rose early, bid farewell to a place whose beauty we could still hardly fathom, and began our 11 mile hike back out. It poured on us, basically start to finish. At the first river crossing, the rocks that Dave had hopped across just the day before were now submerged and the current was bigger and louder. Water was gushing at our waistlines and it pulled with heavy force. Trail conditions were now a concern. Places that were dry now teemed with water, and every time we ascended to the open side of the mountain’s edge, the wind whipped so hard that we were forced to be entirely still for fear of being swept straight off the cliff. Everything we had earlier declared to each other about the ease of Crawler’s Ledge had absolutely no truth on this homeward trek. We could move only inches at a time and the smashing rain against our faces made it difficult to see. Barely 2 miles, soaking wet, and a snail’s pace in, we watched our feet slide out from under us almost every step. The trail, narrow to begin with, was nearly washed-out. I was forced at points to entrust my weight to the grip of my hands around skinny tree roots growing from the side of the cliff. We couldn’t see, we could hardly move, and the ocean was seething 500 feet below and just inches to the left…