2021…I had made up my mind—I needed to head out to Kauai and conquer the Kalalau Trail. The time had finally come.
The Kalalau is an 11-mile beast, winding along the lush and rugged northern coast of Kauai. It ends at a beach only reachable by foot or kayak. Sure, a few people sneak in by motorboat, but that’s illegal and heavily fined. The real draw for me was the Nā Pali Coast itself—dangerous, magical, and remote. Out there, you’re on your own, so I prepped.
I broke in gear with a couple nights car camping in Big Sur, then tested myself on Catalina Island’s ridges, hauling a full pack to gauge my fitness. Those warm-up trips gave me confidence, maybe too much—because when I finally hit Kauai, I was clearly overprepared. Intimidated, I had stuffed my pack with more than I needed.
Just in case things went sideways, I booked an Airbnb for my whole stay. Lucky move: on my planned start date, heavy rains shut the trail. Rising creeks there have claimed lives, and it hit me—this wasn’t just some casual hike. With the delay, I wandered Princeville instead: manicured cliffs, golden beaches, Queen’s Bath. A soft start to a much harder journey.
The next morning, nerves steadied, I caught the earliest bus, then the shuttle to the trailhead. I was the only camper on board. Everyone else was day-hiking, and they treated me like I was hardcore. I just smiled. This wasn’t about being tough—it was about needing something. After years of work and months of COVID lockdowns, I craved a challenge that felt real.
From the first steps, I felt it. Wooden walkways led past taro gardens, and then—jungle. Humid air, green light filtering through canopies, vines dropping like ropes. Straight out of Jurassic Park (fitting, since parts were filmed here). My adrenaline spiked as I climbed and dropped along the opening miles, catching glimpses of cliffs towering above turquoise water.
At the two-mile mark, the casual hikers peeled off. I filtered three liters of water—my first time ever—and pressed on. Now I was in it. Mud, rocks, heat, and the thick perfume of tropical plants. Every climb left me drenched, but giddy. By mile six, there was a campsite option, but I was determined to reach Kalalau Beach, since I’d already lost a day.
Mile seven brought the infamous Crawler’s Ledge—steep, exposed cliffs where a wrong move means game over. By then, I’d linked up with a honeymooning couple from D.C. We talked each other through it, inching forward, hearts pounding. Honestly, I found the next stretch even scarier: long traverses where the drop never let you forget it was there. Another couple joined us, and we moved as a small, nervous caravan, taking turns leading and encouraging.
Those last five miles stretched me thin. Sweat, trembling legs, and constant focus. It might have been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But then—the valley opened, and there it was. Kalalau Beach. A secret world. It felt like stumbling into The Beach itself. The first people we passed were grinning, clearly tripping hard, which somehow felt perfect.
I was wrecked. Setting up camp that night was almost harder than the hike. But I was here. My first true backpacking trip, and I had made it.
The days that followed blurred into bliss. We explored the valley, found swimming holes, plucked mango and guava straight from the trees. Time slowed. My body was sore, my gear was muddy, but my spirit was full.
This was one of the most hard-earned joys I’ve ever known. A moment I’d dreamed of since childhood, flipping through National Geographic, imagining wild places. Now I was living it. And I had earned it.
