Spirit of Aloha | Features | November/December 2006

The Spirit of Kalalau
By: Kathryn Wilder

Into the valley of the thick fog and the folded cliffs

Koke‘e. Weather rules. What’s different in Hawai‘i is that weather moves like the sea, undulating. Rain today does not mean rain tomorrow, or even tonight. Some weeks, if that’s your luck, it could rain for days in a row. But usually there’s a trough and crest and surge, as with any wave. Though you can count on it being cold mauka, up­country, in winter, where fires draw people close in the evenings and frost has been known to cover dawn in delicate lace.

Up at Koke‘e, one of the highest spots on Kaua‘i, breath is visible as fuel is fetched for the woodburning stove. I snuggle under blankets and listen to the talking of men, which carries me across midnight toward morning. ‘Awa, the traditional Hawaiian drink made from the root of the ‘awa plant, is offered and shared, and in the warmth of its bitterness, and the fire and soft light, I find the legendary Pi‘ilani.

A hundred-plus years ago, somewhere on this same mountain, somewhere near to here, Pi‘ilani may have stopped on her final sojourn into Kala­lau Valley, accepting the warmth of fire, hot tea and food, and the company of women be­fore reentering the rainy dark­ness. This one last time she would descend the ancient and treacherous trail down razorback ridges to the cliffs and caves below to check the grave of her husband. This time she went alone. “Climb­ing in the dark she felt the small stones turn/along the spine of the path whose color kept rising in her mind ... the way was in her feet again ...” (from W.S. Merwin’s epic tale The Folding Cliffs).

Kalalau. When I first decided to go into Kalalau, it was, in a sense, for research purposes. Having worked as a wilderness and river guide, I imagined taking a small group of women in for a backcountry writing workshop. But I needed first to experience Kaua‘i’s rugged Nä Pali Coast, to hike the Kalalau Trail and explore Kalalau Valley, accessible only by foot and boat. I gathered up information, maps, permits, backpacking gear and food and my longtime friend Re­becca, then got a ride to the trailhead.

Early signs of dehydration? Emotions rising to the surface, which I noted as we rounded the end of a huge horseshoe bend only to find another one awaiting us, the trail on the far valley wall barely visible in the distance. Rebecca stopped, her body shaking. “Are you crying?” I asked tentatively. At this she sank slowly into a heap at the side of the trail, choking on uncontrollable laughter. I knew better than to sit down with my pack on—I might not be able to get up—and leaned against a rock, tears spilling as I gasped for air.

A statement like that can be construed as a challenge and, for Cazimero, that’s exactly what it was. Nā Kamalei was her dream, he says, and it was Ma‘iki who asked him, her student at the time, to open a hālau for male dancers.

The Earthwalk Press map I had to have but failed to read carefully before departure says, in red, “Get an early start to avoid hiking in the hottest part of the day.” It warns of dehydration, heat ex­haus­tion, sunstroke. Like novices, we pack­ed too much stuff and left too late in the morning.

The army retreated, searing the cliff walls with rifle fire for four days as Ko‘o­lau, Pi‘ilani and their son drank dew from leaves and ate nothing. Cannon fire followed, but Ko‘olau snuck his small family away to a secret place. Crim­inals in their own land for wanting to stay together, Pi‘ilani nursed her husband and son through the pains and horrors of leprosy while they lived in hiding nearly four years.

Kalalau, Mile 8. I’m sitting at the edge of a green knoll, on the grass of an emergency helicopter landing pad that is as short as a resort lawn. Pack shorn, I rest against a boulder set back from the ledge, my feet hanging over. Below me, the cliff rounds out like a woman’s belly in early pregnancy, then undercuts.

There’s a sea cave to the left, and scattered across the ocean floor, easily seen through turquoise and teal waters, are huge shadows of rock. Erosion eats away at the oldest of these young Island landforms, stone by plunging stone. Feral goats expedite the process. On the steep hillside behind me, in the exposed iron-red dirt, other large basalt chunks await their moment. May it not be now.

Small tomatolike plants grow on a vine on this cliff face. They smell and taste like tomatoes, but as soon as I eat one my throat feels funny and my imagination swirls. Surely if there were poison tomatoes growing here there would be warnings! I look at my trusty map. In red: “Do not eat wild or once-cultivated plants. They may be poisonous or you may be allergic to them. Help is far away if you have a severe reaction.”

A swarm of dark, noisy birds swoops suddenly up over the cliff directly at us. Their large wings fan me with air as the birds head for Rebecca, who screams and ducks. I double into giggles as Rebecca hides her head and hugs the earth. The geese settle a few feet away. “Nënë,” I say. She glares at me, at them. “A native goose,” I explain. She doesn’t forgive us.

In the days of Pi‘ilani and Ko‘olau, many families lived in the valley. An 1893 report shows 28 victims of leprosy living among 120 Kalalau residents. Terraces where Hawaiians farmed kalo, taro, still exist beneath the overgrowth. Banana and guava, liliko‘i and tomato, sweet potato and ‘ulu were farmed or grew wild. Goats and pigs fed on fallen fruit, and fed the people.

Koke‘e. This morning, I went to look into Kalalau from the top, hoping to see a distant ridge upon which Pi‘ilani carefully stepped with her husband, son, mother and niece on their first descent. But mist hung thick in the valley and swirled up over the ridges, coating us with graceful moisture and hiding the view. Greenery punctuated by blossoms fell over each ridge and dropped into the thick fog. A commanding sense of steepness and depth dominated the beauty of the cliffs, which looked like the sides of a deep vat of swirling soup. A misstep could have sent me sliding into forever.

Lepers,” as they were cruelly called, also risked the ancient ridge trail as they fled laws and a government not their own. The rules of leprosy had changed: The prescribed treatment for the then-incurable disease was segregation, and family members were no longer allowed to accompany victims to the isolated peninsula on the island of Moloka‘i. Some victims chose not to go to “the grave where one is buried alive” and disappeared instead into the vapors of places like Kalalau.

Kalalau, at “Red Hill,” above the valley. We watch small bands of the Clan of the Shirtless march by—two or three at a time. One of them wears nothing but her backpack and boots. The young women, often accompanied by dread­locked men, look about 20 years old—they have no lines, wrinkles or stretch marks, none of the signs that mark the wisdom Rebecca and I have earned. We demonstrate this wisdom by resting before descending to the beach.

Helicopters full of visitors circle above the valley every few minutes. Those noisy moments erase the sense of wilderness that an 11-mile, five-day backpacking trek can bring, when you alone are re­sponsible for yourself and your safety. The map warns that an evacuation from this isolated valley could take up to five hours, but these metallic birds whap-whap-whapping above make civilization feel too close.

In a brief interlude, I hear the waves below, the voices of birds and women in the trees, and the wind that lifts up over these cliffs from the sea. The long, deep Kalalau Beach stretches across a pocket in the cliffs, and the valley runs up to the high mountans behind us. In “Ko‘olau the Leper,” Jack London writes, “In fine weather a boat could land on the rocky beach that marked the entrance of Ka­la­lau Valley, but the weather must be very fine.” Today the ocean is calm—not like yesterday when it thrashed against the cliffs 800 perilous feet beneath us, further eroding an island more than 6 million years old. Two kayakers pull their kayaks up onto the beach as we watch. Their journey from Hanalei probably took them four hours; ours has taken two days.

London does not mention Pi‘ilani in his account. Did he see and feel this red soil, those steepled cliffs, or did he write Ko‘olau’s tale only from what he’d been told?

The next steel bird flies in, eroding the moment.

Princeville. The Rebecca experiment failed. At her insistence, we left a day early—she did not want to camp another night and I dared not let her hike out alone. She firmly stated that she would not return to Kalalau unless someone carried her in—and out. The valley and trail were beautiful, she ad­mitted, but she preferred the Princeville condominium, hot water and flush toilets. I longed to be back on the trail.

I admit the pleasure of a hot shower and clean body, but a familiar longing haunts me. It’s what I feel when I leave the deep, mysterious, compelling world of the river: craving the days moved along by sun and water like the tides by the moon, where people work together to take care of what’s elemental and let the rest go. Where walking or rowing is the most important thing after water and food, bodies become equally beautiful, and the details of place glow like sunset all day and night long.

In 1906, a man named John Sheldon purportedly wrote down Pi‘ilani’s version of her story. In Frances N. Frazier’s English translation of the Hawaiian account of The True Story of Kaluai­ko‘o­lau, Pi‘ilani laments as she exits the valley, “And O, the succoring, hospitable valley of Kalalau! I am go­ing on a road that leaves you behind, leaving in the intense fragrance of your wildness the bones of our beloved ones. You will be hidden from my sight, but always in my heart I will gaze in remembrance.”

Kalalau. Despite my perceived failure with Rebecca, a couple of years later I planned to lead a group of high school seniors in. Wet weather stopped us—the trail too slippery, streams impassable—so I led a group in the next year.

Actually, I followed. We were led by An­drea, a Brazilian, a competitive swim­mer and outrigger canoe paddler, 23 years old—and five-and-a-half-months pregnant, her bare belly protruding be­tween shorts and bathing suit top. At first, the strapping young private-school students pressed her, but, eventually, few could keep up. At the back of the pack, looking at cultural sites and scenery, at the different plants and for birds, and pausing for breath repeatedly, I didn’t even try.

We all carried an equal distribution of community food and supplies, but the students complained about their heavy packs. Of the 14 participants, only two of the young men helped without being asked. The others stood around while Andrea and I cooked. They wash­ed dishes reluctantly. When we reached Kalalau, they argued when I insisted they pitch their tents somewhere other than on the nicely manicured helicopter landing pad, staring open-mouthed an hour later as a helicopter descended loudly onto the pad, uprooting a tent staked nearby and sending it flying down the beach.

Each evening, dishes washed, food put away, the cooking fire extinguished and the youth off to their tents, Andrea and I, in voices muted by night waves, debriefed quickly before sleep overcame. We would return, we vowed—just us, light packs, no pressure. That was the hope this winter, but seasons make their own plans.

TKoke‘e. The men talk further into the night, stoking the fires in the stove and their hearts. I imagine the men in Kalalau at the end of the 1800s discuss­ing similar issues. In 1893, Ameri­cans de­throned Queen Lili‘uokalani. Hawai­ians had already lost hundreds of thousands of people and hundreds of thousands of acres, and now they’d lost their queen.

It was after the overthrow of the mon­archy that the Provisional Govern­ment came into Kalalau to get Ko‘olau and re­move all the “lepers.” Pi‘ilani had com­mitted to her husband and son to stay with them throughout their illnesses, and if she could not go to Moloka‘i, Ko‘o­lau told the sheriff, he would not go. Pi‘ilani’s commitment ran so deep that she agreed that Ko‘olau should kill the three of them rather than risk capture, a plan that meant watching her own son die at the hand of her husband.

Instead, Ko‘olau shot the sheriff.

Other Hansen’s disease victims turn­ed themselves in. The Provisional Gov­ern­ment emptied the valley of all its long­time Hawaiian residents, diseased or not. Ko‘olau and Pi‘ilani carried their son higher into the folds of Kalalau. Pi‘ilani’s mother and niece had already climbed out toward the safety of home. After the soldiers’ deaths, only twice did Pi‘ilani and Ko‘olau speak to anyone other than each other and Kaleimanu.

Kalalau hid them and fed them, but Kalalau could not heal them. Kalei­manu died first. When Ko‘olau passed, Pi‘ilani stayed hidden for another month before climbing the cliffs to the place that is now Koke‘e State Park, where I snuggle by the fire. From Ko­ke‘e, Pi‘ilani descended the mountain to the ocean town of Kekaha and her family, nearly four years of story wrapped in her worn-out clothing and tattered heart.

She did not disclose the location of Ko‘olau’s body. Despite efforts of lawmen to find him, to this day he lies protected by silence. As does Pi‘ilani—only her family knows the place of her burial. Who else needs to?

Home. I am older than 45 now, and I never led that small group of women into Kalalau to write. My interests shifted, moved inward toward spirit, and no longer do I want to risk taking others into backcountry places. The risk lies not so much in the physical challenges, but in facing despair when people misunderstand the land.

While the Clan of the Shirtless and the Dread Heads occupy Kalalau for weeks at a time (illegally), the valley is no longer (legally) inhabited by Ha­wai­ians. But there are eons of story within those folded cliffs—Pi‘ilani, Ko‘olau and Kaleimanu being only three among the generations of Hawaiians who have lived and died there since the beginning. Mer­win writes, “Mr. Fornander said/that the story is all that we have when things are over/the story begins as an echo of what went before/but then it is only the story we are listening to.” As with anywhere in Hawai‘i, the ‘äina holds the voice and the iwi, the bones of its people—it holds the story.

Today I want to go into Kalalau simply to listen. When weather allows.

KATHRYN WILDER paddles with Lae‘ula o Kai canoe club on Maui, and teaches writing in between immersions into wild places.

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