words from the world

I live the scramble of Honolulu to go to Lihue, main town of the Kauai island the local people and travel agencies generally nickname the garden Isle. As soon as I get out the airport I hold my thumb up to request a helping person to stop. I cover 50 miles by hitchhiking to reach the Kee beach at the north. Impossible to go further by car, the asphalt ribbon fades at the foot of the Na Pali cliffs; the next sides and coves, it's with the strength of the calves we have to explore them. The last host, who kindly takes me at the back of his pick-up, gives pieces of advice about the trek while I fasten my backpack.
It's late in the afternoon and I won't go further than the first campsite, the Hanakapiai beach, a little bit more than one hour from the beginning of the path. The low-key and soothing place would make the camping of the south of France green with envy. I lay down my tent near the river and near the beach at the same time. A luxury I savour sitting on a rock, the eyes drown into the ocean. A wonderful sunset intertwined with oceanic rumbles and invigorating sliding of freshwater. The name of this beach comes from a upstream waterfall. A narrow path drives me to this water stream, a private show I intensely enjoy.


















I hastily take down my tent. I put again my bag onto the back and step on the red-earth track which snakes towards the heights. The Hanakapiai beach looms downhill and the cliffs, built into the volcanic rock, weave the theater of my next hours of walking. A demanding hike where the stretches of flat ground don't exist to leave a clear way to exhausting ascents and staggering and slippery descents. Clung to this wild nature, my steps carefully go ahead on the ledge of the cliff while a jaw of foam roars at its feet. More I move forward and more the coves and promontories seem to follow on endlessly.
A strip of sand shyly stands in the distance, that's Kalalau beach, final point of the trek. But, as I trudge over the last crimson-clay mound, I can't go further. I put down my backpack; the beauty of the volcanic ridges draped on the cliff gives me the sensation of flying. A torrent of colours kissed by the setting sun. a green cover tops the black rock which overlooks the surroundings. The red earth which supports my steps dies down a pebble beach, wet by an azure-blue water dotted with milky-dressed rollers. The carpet of ochre sand at the end of the path waits for me. The tiredness vanished into the air while I start again my walk on this blessed soil. I undo my shoes and finish the last meters gliding bare-feet on this damp sand.

For three days, I live in this shangri-la with only a dozen of lucky people. An evening, the urge to sleep inside the cave is too tempting and I abandon my tent for a night to be even closer to the nature. In the morning I peer the beach, the tent disappeared! The incredibly powerful nocturnal waves overstepped the dune and swept my canvas shelter away, it finally finished its trip at the font of the cliff. Getting the tent out of the sand, rinsing it out and making it dry occupy my morning. My feet dig furrows into the ground to find the pegs. Damages are minor with a waterlogged travel guide and MP3 player out of order. These incidents don't make the happiness to be here weaken. But each moment of joy as intense and overwhelming it is collapses into a more or less painful and appaling end. In the morning of the fourth day, I restack my stuffs and start again. 6 hour of a demanding walk when I unfold the scenario in the opposite direction. As I hike out the path, I see others trekkers who enjoyed the same emotions among the Na Pali cliffs. We chat, forgetting the time. The dusk comes faster than I had imagined and homeless for the night, I settle under a table in a public park. A star-free night but spangled with colourful sequences of the marvelous Kalalau trail.