On the island of Kauai, we can sojourn several weeks, plan a daily hike, get enthusiastic at each time for the wonderful sights and finally leave and have the feeling we don't see everything, thousands of secrets, hidden waterfalls, craggy ridges remain to be discovered. I rent a car and head for the west coast following the circular road which describes the periphery of the island. So little time, I drive without admiring the mount Waialeale, the wettest area in the world that gets more than 12m of water each year, to reach the Waimea canyon. A prodigious scar which is really unbelievable when we know the small size of the island.
Alongside the road, signs indicate the beginning of treks but I can't stop and that's with a certain disgust I push the accelerator down and ignore these calls. I've chosen another hike which will allow me to see the Na Pali coast from above. The walk through the forest differs from the Kalalau trail. An easier trek which ends onto an ochre-earth plateau. A supplementary and inviting view of this natural highlight. As proof, this series of snapshots which immortalized a blend of water, air and earth forever.
Keyword - in another world -
Friday 31 October 2008
on the other side of the island
By dorian on Friday 31 October 2008, 18:49 - RTW2-Hawaii
Wednesday 29 October 2008
pedestrian pleasure on the Kalalau trail
By dorian on Wednesday 29 October 2008, 18:24 - RTW2-Hawaii
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.
Friday 17 October 2008
some fears on the Yasur volcano
By dorian on Friday 17 October 2008, 19:29 - RTW2-Vanuatu
From a tip to the other one of the Vanuatu archipelago, I leave the underwater scenery of Espiritu Santo to dive into the smoking steams of the Yasur volcano on the Tanna island. A 20-seat small plane drops us off at the tiny airport of Lenakel. In the arrival hall, a driver of the Jungle Oasis resort (a gathering of wooden huts built for the tourists) holds out a sign with the name of the campground on it. I unload my bag at the back of the pick-up and we head towards the inside of the island. An about-2-hour lift on a road furrowed by continuous rains. The abundant vegetation isolates me from the sight of the surroundings. We go over a hill where the view clears out and we dash down again into the meanders of the forest before the verdure suddenly stops, pushed back by a grayish strange sand made up of minute particles of pumice. The Yasur volcano spreads out its claws and marks its territory outwards the crater. A hoarse rumble soars out of the gray thickness. A shout of an angry nature who shows the beginnings of an encounter with an genuine active volcano which expresses itself by expelling its venom of lava.
One of the singular activities, probably unique in the world, is the opportunity of surfing on the ashes of the volcano. Jungle Oasis owns a worn-out, bad-quality snowboard which will do for the occasion (I will learn later it was possible to rent a better snowboard at the next-door village). The ascent is exhausting with an eye riveted skywards, at each new chuckle of the mountain. Each step sinks deeply in the particles of ash. Practically arrived at the top, I put on the board and face the steep slope. I make up my way onto the volcano. A total freedom punctuated by otherworldly splutters which make me jump at each new expression. A unique experience in a unique scenery.
However, the main part of the action stimulated by a pathological curiosity drives me to the origin of this telluric cough. From the campground, it's a 45-minute short walk on a 4WD path. I pay the right of going ahead at the end of the village and stride along this rocky-ash-covered soil. The greenery-clad sides accompany my stroll when the track opens out a car park where several 4x4 vehicles are still there. A mailbox (the only one on a volcano!) marks the beginning of the final path dotted with the footprints of number of thrill-seeking adventurers wannabes. The detonations sound clearly when a explosion, louder than the others, propels glowing residues high in the sky. My eyes rise, a natural firework illuminates the firmament. The survival instinct of each guest present on this inhospitable land assesses the size of the lava projectiles. No worries for this time, each chunk of magma heavy falls down in the crater. A muffled and choked sound which leaves us a break before the next explosion. I sit down and wait. The roars are constant and the episodic gushing out of melting rock delight the spectators. With this hint of continuous fear when the reddening mouth spits out its drops of lava, each one lift his eyes towards the highest particles and size up their potential danger as they fall down.
The next day, I climb again the Yasur, the viewpoint of the last day is filled with smoke and I stop on the right side of the crater. The activity seems calm until all the visitors of the evening leave the place. I'm alone. The crimson shine of the volcanic hearth breaks through the black night. A weird feeling takes me up, an awe-inspiring mixture of curiosity and fear. The reason should have wanted me to go down with the last tourists and yet the irresistible urge to remain, to listen to and to marvel at another explosion, to thrill again at the rhythm of the earth vibrations. But, the activity of the volcano increases, the interval between two expressions reduce and the incandescent shells fly higher and higher. My heart palpitations fidget far beyond bearable, I stand up and clear off. The volcanologist Aroun Tazieff will wait to find a successor. However, reminding it again, how exciting it was to be sitting alone at the edge of this crater.
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