Above the Clouds

We’d hit the end of the trail officially recognized and maintained by the state of Hawaii in about an hour and a half, at around eleven in the morning. A wooden bench played host to an older couple, and small families milled around with phones raised for pictures, children and parents smiling against the wide view of the ocean and the town of Hanalei nestled twelve hundred feet below in the sweeping lap of the valley. They’d all come equipped for the trail; shorts and tennis shoes abounded, backs unencumbered by packs that only would have served to free the hands which clutched twelve ounce water bottles. Eyes followed Charlie and I with curiosity.

We likely cut quite the ostentatious duo. Each of our backpacks was stuffed with energy bars for the hike up, sandwiches for the summit (with chips to help replace the salt we’d inevitably sweat out during the ascent), and a liter plastic bottle of water--backup for if we went through the other liter bottle and our hydroflasks tucked into either side pocket of our bags. Our pants were tucked into our boots to help keep the bugs off and our feet dry, and our button up shirts promised moisture wicking technology. Sleeves rolled up to our elbows because it felt like the right thing to do, we admired the view from under wide-brimmed felt hats.

We’d endured a few subtle sniggers to say the least. However, our plan to go beyond the official trail and ascend another twelve hundred feet up to the first summit of Hihimanu necessitated the clothes and supplies otherwise uncalled for by the casual hike to the end of the Okolehao trail. I’d be lying if I said we didn’t want to emulate a budget version of Indiana Jones or Jurassic Park’s rugged Muldoon as well. Function came first--but form was a bonus. I checked my phone, to refresh our memories of what lay ahead.

“So there’s about thirty-eight ropes we’re gonna have to ascend or descend on our way up to the peak. It says the trail is only maintained by the hikers who go on it, same with the ropes. It also says that if it’s rained in the past few days to be extra careful because the trail will be super muddy and slippery.”

“Oh, if it’s rained?” Charlie shook his head and laughed. It had rained almost every day since we’d arrived on North Shore.

“It’s another elevation gain of twelve hundred feet. Apparently the trail isn’t very wide. Most of these hiking bloggers say it’s really dangerous. One guy has been hiking for years and said he refused to do it--that he was ‘crazy, but not stupid.’”

Every blog post I’d seen about the trail mentioned that it shouldn’t be attempted by anyone without several years of rope-assisted climbs under their belt.

Charlie took a quick draught from his hydroflask, swallowed, and shrugged. “I came here to Percy Fawcett jungle trek up a goddamn mountain. We’ll be fine dude.”

I grinned. Charlie had always bolstered my own bravado and belief in my own abilities, and I was convinced there wasn’t anything we couldn’t do as long as we did it together. Almost twenty years of friendship left little in the way of doubt between us. We’d been chased by drunks, stalked by coyotes in the stygian darkness of the Oregon woods, and lived together for three years. Most people assumed it was a joke when we claimed to be “platonic soulmates”, but the truth of the matter is that it never was. Neither of us were in the habit of saying things we didn’t mean about one another.

The tall grass to our left tussled and sighed.

A slight man, barefoot and drenched, emerged and as the grass behind him began to lace back together I caught a brief glimpse of the trail that was to lead to the summit. The man’s scruffy face was scratched and red, betraying no signs of distress but instead an almost indifferent gaze. Charlie waved, and his long legs ensured only a few strides were necessary to approach the other hiker.

“Did you go up Hihimanu?”

“I did. Started this morning.” A susurrous French accent flitted through the air as he spoke. “I made it to the first peak. Tried to keep going to the second but...that trail is no good. Too many plants. You are going?”

We both nodded.

“Be careful. It’s very muddy. Long way to fall. Probably most dangerous hike I have done here.”

“How long did it take you to get up there?” I was getting hungry already, and debating eating one of my energy bars before the climb.

“A couple hours. Maybe two, three. You will use a lot of ropes.”

At the mention of the ropes, Charlie looked at me and grinned again. “Awesome. Thanks dude.”

“Good luck. Be careful.” The Frenchman set off down the mountain.

I waited until he was out of earshot. “Dude, he was fucking barefoot. That’s insane.” I paused. “This is going to be so rad.”

“That just means we’ve got one up on him. I’m so fucking jazzed dude.”

With that, we set off. As we came through the grass, the jungle unfolded verdant and thick to our left, broad-leaved foliage and bright flowers tangled in a level mass, the valley sweeping downwards at an alarming angle to our right. Pools of tea colored water dotted the trail, stepping stones leading to a tunnel of high grasses and tree limbs. The ever-present moisture had soaked into the ground here, and mud seeped up to our ankles and sucked at our boots insistently. The bites and stings of insects at the foot of the mountain were replaced by the equal efforts of snapping twigs and saw-edged grasses. As we came clear of the tunnel a wedge shaped slope rose above us. A single rope hung limp, tied to a tree at the top. I gave the rope a tentative pull--it couldn’t have been much bigger ‘round than number two pencil. Knots dotted the rope every foot or so, a charm bracelet discarded by gods or giants. I sighed, amazed and excited I was doing this at all. The only climbing equipment we had were bare hands and good boots.

“One at a time?” That seemed to be the safer move to me.

Charlie didn’t even pause to consider it. “Yeah. That way if one of us slips we don’t make it worse for both of us.”

I took the line in hand. Rough fibers poked into my palms, made no softer by the damp that permeated the rope. I remarked to myself that it was probably good the fibers maintained their stiffness despite the conditions. I hoisted myself up, and planted my boots firmly into the slope. It was a short climb--maybe fifteen feet or so. The incline climbed at about a fifty degree angle from my feet. I could handle this. Hand over hand, I ascended. The earth under my feet was treacherous, the mud doing its best to stick and slip me at once. Small stones worked their way free, tumbling down the slope.

“Watch the rocks!”

Charlie had already backed up. “Yup!”

The weight of my pack on my back and the weight of my own body in my arms twisted me slightly left and right, the axis of my weight doing its best to flip me over on the line. After a handful of seconds, I reached the top. Climbing over the edge of the slope, I shouted down.

“You’re good, I’m up!” Charlie began his own climb, encountering the same axis shift that puzzled my own body. I turned to look ahead.

It was as if we had clambered over the crosspiece of a knife. The trail wasn’t more than two feet across, and to either side the ridge dropped off to the floor of the valley thirteen hundred feet below. Clinging to the near-vertical slopes were stubborn trees and bushes, promising nothing more than an ante mortem gift of gashes and broken bones to those doomed folk who fell. The Hanalei river snaked its way through the valley, impossibly small at this elevation. Nausea wormed its way into my gut, brought on by the certainly fatal drop. All it would take was a single clumsy step, and I’d be just another dumb and dead tourist. I took a few deep breaths, attempting to smother my fear. I suppose that’s why I was here--to do something that scared me. And scared I was.

Through the clouds, emerald mountain peaks promised glory. The reddish earth wound its way on and on, trumpet shaped flowers blooming here and there; yellow, surrounded by nests of delicate pink tendrils. The whooping calls of jungle birds carried like notes on a staff of wind, originating from feathered forms we had yet to see. A grey frog hopped indignantly into a bush, unperturbed by the sheer drop below. Charlie emerged on the ridge behind me.

“Je-sus.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

A surge of joy and excitement set me alight. After years of consuming endless pieces of adventure media, childhood fantasies where the suburban backyard became a hostile jungle, and countless declarations that we would take the trips for real when we were older--we were here. Charlie’s face glowed next to mine.

“We’re doing it dude!” He threw out his arms and whooped into the sky, one arm coming to rest across my shoulders. “We’re finally doing it.”

I draped my own arm across Charlie’s shoulders. “About time. Little Charlie and Tj would be so stoked.”

We paused for water, and to tighten the straps on our bags. The last thing we needed was our packs swinging loose on our backs when climbing. The first peak of Hihimanu stood tall and proud in the distance.

“Alright, let’s go.” I was too enthralled to say much more. Both of us were.

The trail never widened, never dried out. Eventually we were pushing our way through patches of ti plants, their leaves saturated with ambient moisture that clung to our clothes. By the time we had ascended a few more ropes, the two of us found ourselves enveloped in the clouds that constantly drifted around the mountain. We were as thoroughly drenched as we would have been had we jumped into a pool. Thankfully the impeccable weather of a Hawaiian summer meant that we were neither hot nor cold. Just wet.

We made our way leisurely, in turn admiring the view of the valley and ocean beyond and keeping an eye on our footing. A short, winding little jaunt up a small hill spit us out at a circle of mud and undergrowth where a lone tree stood silent guard. A single rope tied to the tree dangled down the edge of a steep, bare slope. The climbs before this had all been ascents--I was thankful for a break. Twenty feet below the trail sat as narrow and treacherous as ever. I didn’t bother testing the rope--whoever maintained them clearly knew what they were doing. I took it in hand.

“Finally, a break. I thought they’d all be going up. I’ll shout up when I’m down.”

I slowly backed over the edge, body folding to keep my chest and belly clean. This slope didn’t have the patches of weeds and shrubs the other one did--this was all mud.

I quickly decided while descending was less taxing physically, it took a toll on the mind. At least when you’re going up you can see where you’re going. Going down means having to stop and look, trying to ignore the sheer drop closing in on you from both sides. I imagined falling into the empty air, plummeting down as my body careened against branches and the side of the ridge, tumbling and falling in equal measure before being dashed upon the ground over one thousand feet below. My head swam. Maybe looking down wasn’t the best idea. I decided to plant my feet one by one and hope for the best.

They tell you not to look down when you’re up high. At least make sure to look where you put your feet.

My right boot slipped. On mud, a rock, nothing--I don’t remember. My leg flew out to one side and as I lurched sideways my left boot slid free, the weight of my bag pirouetting me on the rope. My hip and shoulder found no purchase on the muddy wall and before I knew it I had left the trail.

People say everything slows down when things like this happen. I don’t think that’s necessarily true--the brain goes into panic mode and starts operating a lot faster than normal, slowing everything else down by comparison.

I swung through the air. The yawning drop opened up beneath me as blurs of green and brown sped by. My feet dangled uselessly below me and the rope slid through my hands, scorching my digits before a knot sank into the fleshy part of the palm below the little finger. The canopy of trees, impossibly far away, seemed to be rushing up to meet me, leafy limbs thick with age reaching up to offer a shattering embrace. A flock of thoughts flitted about in my head.

I’m going to die.

I can’t believe this is it.

I guess there are worse ways to go.

All in the span of a few seconds. Fear. Disbelief. Resignation. Three warm-up kick drums of thought.

I felt the side of my body break into something that tore at my clothes and eyes, flipping me onto my back where I came to an uncomfortable halt. A faint whooshing sound hung in my ears. I waited to keep falling, but remained still. There was another noise--insistent, drawn out. Though I could feel the beckoning severity of it tugging at my mind, it did little for me. It sounded as if I were back at the beach, underwater, the sounds of waves muffling shouts above. As my body finally began to relax, I was extricated from my stupor. Charlie had been screaming my name.

“I’m ok,” I breathed more to myself than anyone. I lay there a moment more. I was ok. I just had to get up. The rope was still clenched in my hands, and I relaxed my knuckles before they burst through my skin. My nails left painful crescents in my palms, though I was shaking too much to care. I managed to sit up, to some extent. I was cradled in a patch of bushes no bigger than a loveseat, the stubborn roots having clung tight to the near-vertical surface with surprising tenacity.

“Hey! I’m ok.”

“Tj?”

“Yeah I’m--hang on. I’m fine.”

I squirmed up the rope, paying careful attention to my feet. As I reached the top, I wrapped one arm around the trunk of the tree, making a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh at feeling something so solid and unmoving. I crumpled, prone, to the ground for a moment, shaking body allowing me some degree of relaxation. The loamy mud brushed my lips, a welcome back kiss from a lover. I tried to slow my breathing down, and didn’t stand until I succeeded. Bit by bit my breaths became more relaxed as my heaving chest settled. My eyes cut to Charlie, momentarily forgotten in the relief of solid ground.

“Oh my god dude. I almost died.”

Charlie’s head was thrust forward, mouth agape and eyes misty under upturned eyebrows. He pulled me into a hug.

“Yeah! Tj I thought...oh my god I thought I just watched you die. I didn’t know what to do all I could think was what am I gonna tell his parents and what am I gonna do…”

“No, no, I’m ok. I’m here, we’re good.”

Both of us managed to smile, laughing in equal parts relief and disbelief. My heart had slowed from a thrash metal to an electronic beat, and I became suddenly aware of how full my bladder felt. I glanced at Charlie.

“I told you this was a bad idea. I almost played out, there.” I tried to make it sound playful.

Shame crossed Charlie’s face. “Do you wanna head back?”

I turned to face the first peak of Hihimanu. Twenty-two hundred feet above one one of the most enchanting and ethereal landscapes on the planet, the first of a set of twins birthed by an ancient native goddess rose up misty, jagged, and impossibly magnetic.

“Hell no. The worst thing that can happen now is that I actually fucking die. Let’s go.”

Since that day, my threshold for excitement has been a lot higher. In a sense, part of me dropped like a stone to explode on the ground hundreds of feet below. My fear of heights is gone. Everything said we shouldn’t have been able to make it to that peak--but we did. Far, far above the tour helicopters, trekking quite literally through the clouds constantly hovering around the mountains, we made it to the summit of the peak. Two Fuji pines stood solemn sentry, a length of Tibetan prayer flags strung between them. My apartment living room took up about twice as much space, but it was enough to have lunch on. An opaque view of the island reached out on all sides, the glory not stymied by the thick curtains of cloud. The last stretch--an eighty foot vertical climb through tree roots, thorny vines, and slick mud--lay momentarily forgotten, conquered.

Charlie and I shared lunch. I sat quietly, thinking as I chewed a peanut butter sandwich. I was cognizant of the effects my medication was having on me, of the strain it had put on our friendship--I’d found myself irritable, antisocial for months. Avoiding Charlie when he was at the apartment, though neither of us realized it was happening. Charlie leaned casually against one of the little pines. In between bites he expressed a degree of childlike glee and wonder that found their way into my own demeanor. He was here with me, despite everything. The moodiness, the isolation. Together, no matter what, just as promised. Home was two cats in a shitty apartment on the mainland, home was the gas station down the street where we’d stop to buy cigarettes before work, home was the plane on the way to the furthest we could get without passports--home was here, posted up against a Fuji pine with a can of yerba mate in one hand and a bag of chips in the other, making me laugh and bask in the triumph over what was said to be near-impossible.