Not only were its leaves used for weaving baskets, mats and hats, but its trunk served as an effective pipe to drain the taro fields.
Cooksey’s one-mile journey into the Hanakapiai Valley went much more quickly. It was several degrees cooler down there, as the trail snaked beside a tumbling stream resplendent with stately mango trees, guava and huge Hawaiian tree ferns. A crimson bodied apapane fluttered its jet-black feathers and lowered its curved, gray bill. Two white-tailed tropic birds sat serenely on a mango branch, their sixteen inch snowy tail feathers streaming in a gentle breeze.
Conscious of the surrounding paradise, Cooksey unloaded his pack.
Before grabbing something to eat, he took a dip in the nearby stream.
The water was clear and warm. Close by, a small waterfall cascaded down into a deep, blue pool. Here, for the first time during his hike, he saw another human being.
Floating on her back at the edge of the pool was a young woman.
Oblivious to the voyeur watching from above, she lay completely naked.
Cooksey could make out a tall, thin frame, bronzed by hours in the tropical sun. From her coloring and features he sensed that she was most likely a native Hawaiian. A wave of long absent longing rose in his loins and Cooksey guiltily backed away. He had decided long ago that it would be much safer to stay as far away from the female species as possible. He wasn’t about to break his promise now.
After picking out a packet of trail mix, he reloaded his gear and began the four-mile trek to Hanakoa.
Steep switchbacks dominated the route for a mile as he climbed out of the Hanakapiai Valley. Fortunately, the sun was still at his back and the cooling trade winds helped temper his exertions. The trail gradually narrowed and soon followed a most precipitous slope.
It was on such a path that he entered the thickly foliated Hoolulu Valley. Again the temperature dropped as he crossed through forests of fern, kukui, guava, koa and hala trees. Morning glories and mountain orchids splashed the scene with color as thick bushes of tithe plant out of which hula skirts were made, pushed up in every available open space.
The adjoining valley, the Waiahuakua, was a much broader one. Here he sampled a crisp, juicy mountain apple. Cooksey also sighted his first strawberry, coffee and ginger plants.
At the five-and-a-half-mile marker, he got his first view of the Hanakoa Valley. This broad, terraced depression would be his last reference point until he reached Kalalau Beach. Here he received his first soaking, as a quick-forming tropical downpour drenched him with several inches of cool rainwater in a matter of minutes. Refreshed, he initiated the strenuous, three-hour hike to his goal, 4.8 miles distant.
The character of the landscape changed drastically in the miles that followed. It was much drier, and as the path turned westward, a completely new assortment of vegetation was evident. Desertlike sisal and pink-blossomed lantana shared the banks of the barely trickling streams with dozens of foraging feral goats. The earth was reddish, as if scorched by the fiery sun itself.
There was the distant, muted sound of human voices, and Cooksey caught sight of its source. When he did so, he had to look twice, for approaching him on the trail was a family of backpackers — long-haired father, mother and a ten-year-old son. What caught Cooksey’s attention was the fact that each of them was completely naked! He tried not to look so obviously shocked as they passed him displaying broad grins and flashing V-shaped peace signs with their hands.
Not knowing what could possibly lay around the next corner, he continued on without complaint.
Twice he had to take long drafts from his canteen before the trail again turned toward the cooling ocean.
Here he was afforded a breathtaking view of Kauai’s ruggedly beautiful northwestern coastline. This sight alone was well worth his arduous journey. With the sun gradually falling toward the western horizon, the sharp cliffs and rounded valleys stretched out in a seemingly endless, misty procession. This was the type of scene that belonged on a master’s canvas, and Cooksey felt humbled in the presence of such raw, natural beauty.
There could be no denying the rapidly passing hour and the tightness gathering in the calves of his legs. It was time to reach his destination and begin setting up camp. Before long the trail began snaking its way down a narrow ridge and Cooksey got his first look at Kalalau. Nearly two miles wide and three miles long, the valley beckoned invitingly. A good-sized stream could be seen smashing its way toward an unspoiled, spotlessly white beach. Like a pilgrim called home from a decade of wandering, he pushed on to this final goal.
It was well into dusk by the time a proper campsite was set up. In order to deflect the incessant wind blowing off the ocean, he chose a site on the opposite side of the remnants of a solid, six-foot-square volcanic stone wall. He barely had time to unload his gear and begin work on dinner before the waning light gave way to total darkness.
Seated on the soft white sand, with his back propped up against the wall, Cooksey gobbled down a meal of chicken, carrots and rice that proved to be quite good for dehydrated food. With the pounding surf surging behind him, he topped off his repast with a dessert of fresh, ripe mango, picked from a nearby grove. With his hunger now temporarily appeased, he stretched out his sore limbs and contemplated the day’s activities.
The hike had progressed way beyond his expectations.
Bountiful vistas, unlike any he had ever dreamt of, seemingly lay around every corner. Added to this were rarely seen plants and animal life, which could be appreciated in a clean, fresh setting with hints of man few and far between.
Cooksey had forgotten how much his privacy meant to him. Being surrounded by his crewmates, twenty four hours a day for months on end, afforded him little time for personal contemplation. Though he had left Pearl only three days ago, it felt like weeks. So much new stimuli had been generated during this brief time that his past worries were but hazy shadows of a distant life.
Gazing up into the crystal clear, blue-black heavens, he issued a brief prayer of thanks. With practiced ease, he identified the great box of Pegasus and followed the tail of Pisces to Aquarius’s urn. A shooting star shot through Capricorn and triggered Cooksey’s imagination.
What had been the prayers of the ancient mariners who had landed on this island thousands of years ago? What had their thoughts been as they looked up into the nighttime heavens to contemplate the wonders of the universe?
The hiker’s guidebook had mentioned that Kalalau Beach was one of the first inhabited sites in Hawaii.
Here the original Polynesians had built a massive heiau, or temple, where they worshipped the magical menehunes. For all Michael knew, the wall that he was presently leaning against could be a remnant of such a structure.
A sharp “wolf whistle” pierced the darkness, and Cooksey stirred to the cry of the elepaio bird. Its alien, raspy call was soon swallowed by the hypnotizing sound of the pounding surf. Lulled by this song, he slipped into his double-wide sleeping bag and drifted off into a deep slumber.
Sometime before dawn, Cooksey was possessed by a vision whose source balanced on the thin line between dream and reality. It began with the sound of crackling underbrush waking him. He directed his weary eyes to locate the creature responsible for the disturbance.
Softly lit by the glow of the stars, he saw a tall, thin, familiar figure break from the stand of coconut palms. Only when this wraithlike vision calmly entered his campsite did he identify it as the girl he had seen floating in the jungle pool that afternoon. She was still completely naked. He couldn’t help admiring her long, silky black hair, pert, dark-nippled breasts, flat stomach and slender legs.
His loins ached, and this time he didn’t look away as she smiled and continued on toward him.