I could barely even lift my backpack. I swear I tried to keep it to a minimum, but since I was going alone, I had to bring the tent, all the supplies, a cooking stove, 3 liters of water, my hammock, art supplies, a book, and of course all the food, a bit of rum, a sleeping bag, toiletries, a first aid kit, and more.
I dragged it across my living room floor and weighed it. Fifty-two pounds.
Shit.
My son had said, “Don’t carry more than 35.”
Well, oops.
The truth is, I wasn’t just carrying camping gear. Three weeks earlier, my relationship had ended. It was fresh.
And instead of distracting myself, finding company, or filling every empty space, I had decided to hike 8.4 miles into one of the most remote beaches in Hawaii and spend three days alone.
Just me, my grief, a bad knee, and a 52-pound backpack.
At the time, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea.
I’m required to pick up my permit before descending to Halape. Why don’t they give it to you online? Why do I have to go in person to pick it up? I mean the office only opens at 8. I heard stories of the scorching sun and wanted to beat the heat.
I get to the office at 8 at Volcanoes National Park, about 2 hours south of my house. The visitor center is coupled with an old military camp turned hotel. I see a sign on the visitor center door, opening at 9. Argh. I go sit at a coffee shop, drink some bad coffee, knowing it’s going to make me shaky and a half frozen spinach cheese pastry.
By 9 the center opens, already full of tourists looking to see the volcano erupt which as a local, I know it won’t go off for another week or 2. But they are hoping and all ready.
I wait for my turn. Oh, the ranger tells me, your backcountry permit is at another office. Argh. I drive 20 minutes to a much smaller less frequented area and find a little room with a phone number. Call if no-one is here. I call. She says they’ll send someone. I wait. They don’t come. I call again. He’s coming, she says, a bit irritated.
A man pulls up in his car, big belly, sauntering over as if he has all the time in the world. I’ve been there for 15 minutes counting down the time as I’m imagining the long hike in front of me. Argh.
“It’s raining on my day off” he complains. I’m grateful, maybe the hike down will be less torturous.
He turns on the computer. She’s gotta warm up he says. I sit back and wait, what is this computer from 1980?
He prints out the wrong permit. And then finally the right one. Re-verifies the info, yellow backpack, emergency contact. Then the whole reason why I had to come in person was to say, there is water in the catchment tank. Drink plenty of water, it’s hot. Not many people down there. Don’t move the stones or the cairns. Keep your permit with you at all times. If there’s an earthquake, get to high ground.
Inside I’m thinking, who the hell is going to be out there patrolling. It would only be if they found my dead body and would need a name, but I’m already registered in the computer when I applied online last night.
I feel like I’m back in the 80’s.
I thank him and arrive at the Keauhou trailhead at 10. The sun is peeking out from the clouds now. I load my heavy back on my back, ask why the hell is it so damn heavy. I stop first, say a prayer, thank the land, offer salt and pray for safety, all the way down and all the way up.
This is the first solo camping journey I’ve ever been on. I have been a nomad in a camper van for 10 years back in Italy. I have had a few camping experiences with others, but alone in the middle of the wild with all the potential wild animals and spirits and ghosts and creepy crawlers and things and potential murderers or psychopaths that could be waiting for a lone innocent girl? Never.
I’m also trying to practice being alone. I’m on the roller coaster ride from the break up— the one moment I”m fine next moment I’m not waves. I want to give myself time to experience being alone, fully. TO sit with it, let grief come if it wants to and to marinate in my own essence.
What better way to marinate in my self than by pouring sweat and dripping all over myself with a 52 pound backpack?
I have a bad knee. I hate saying that, sounds like I’m 80. It swells up when I run more than 30 minutes and on the downhill. I haven’t fully checked it out and have been trying to ignore it for the last 14 years until my son and I started climbing mountains 2 years ago. I have now begun talking to my knee and set up an orthodontic appointment in 2 weeks. I pray it will hold.
The hike down starts smoothly, across waves of hardened lava, still sparkling in the sun. Ohia trees pop up out of this rock landscape like miracles. How the heck can a tree grow amongst solid rock? They are blooming, dotted by tufts of red flowers. It’s beautiful. I look in the distance and see the ocean, way down hill from here. That’s where I’m going.
The trees subside and it’s just lava, small bushes and a blaring sun.
I’m going to make a long journey ultra short right now, because this isn’t the point. My knee started hurting around 2 hours down. The sun started getting crazy hot and scorching. I realized that I made a mistake not having a long sleeve shirt on as my forearms are starting to burn.
I stop every hour, there’s not even a bush anymore with an ounce of shade. Take off the weight and drink my electrolytes and water and pop a hard-boiled egg.
The backpack rubs up against the top of my hips and my trapezius muscles, it feels like a bruise or raw. I ignore it and keep going. This sport is weird. It’s like you want to be present with your body, but you also don’t want to react to it. It hurts, it’s hard, it’s painful, I feel the middle of my back rubbing raw from a spot on the bag, but you just notice it. Be with it, but not too long.
I’m listening again to “The body keeps the score” by Bessel Van Der Kolk, it’s the Bible of Somatic Therapy and Trauma in the body. It’s a 14 hour listen. It’s quite soothing feeling like I’m advancing my professional learning and hearing of all these horrible things that have happened to everyone else as I bear the gift of carrying this bag down the hill. Limping and pushing on my walking sticks to ease each step.
After 6 hot, scorching hours and 8.4 miles, turning my hips sideways to avoid the pain in my throbbing knee, wondering when will I ever see the predicted oasis of palm trees and water, I finally arrive.
It is quite pretty, the waves are crashing wild, no way I’m swimming in those rip currents. But there is a lovely large tide pool that looks quite appetizing.
Oh and there is one guy, about 18 standing on a rock, topless, fishing.
A human. Oh.
I yell over the sound of the waves and gesture with my hand. Water!? Where’s the water!?
He points up to to the top of a hill. More walking. It feels like the ground is literally a microwave radiating heat.
I lug myself up to the hill, to a shade structure. And find to my great relief the water catchment tank, I pull out my fancy new Sawyer Squeeze water filter, grateful that it barely contributes to the weight of the bag.
I go back down, looking for some sort of oasis campsite. There is none. It’s either hot beach, risk of waves or hidden in the bushes with no view.
Really? I came all the way down here to hide out in the bushes with no view? I have an ocean view from my room, I mean come on.
I search around.
There’s a couple clearings that seem completely unappetizing then I stumble across a shaded area with about an 8 foot wide opening to the beach and the ocean.
A tree overhangs what seems to be a natural entryway. To my left is a curved structure made of large lava stones, clearly a gathering place, like a curved bench. In the middle a large flat lava rock, like a coffee table. I kind of feel like I’m entering someone’s living room, but this spot could be perfect.
As is the necessary custom, I get down on the ground on my knees, close my eyes and ask. Is it ok for me to camp here tonight?
I’m facing this table and curved bench thing, on my knees as if I’m in front of an altar and in my mind’s eye, I see an image of a very large Hawaiian man, big belly, strong, covered in tattoos, his face is wide and warm. He has a ti-leaf lei on his head. He smiles at me, I bend my head and he slips a green lei over my head and around my neck. It is clearly a sign of welcome. Suddenly I am overcome by emotion. I begin to sob. I feel so much warmth and welcome by this image, as if I was being welcomed home.
I stood up, slightly surprised by this intense response. Clearly this will be my home for the next 2 nights. I look up at the overhanging branch marking the entrance. There is a half a body of a lobster with his head upwards and long antennae, like a strange totem and just below it is a dried lei hanging.
I set up camp, so grateful for the shade and the ocean view and this Hawaiian spirit welcome.
I’m more than exhausted, everything hurts, , my legs feel like 2 bags of potato sacks, but I manage to take a dip in the tide pool, drink some rum, make some of the heavy packaged rice I carried and prepare myself for the night.
I find out there is a small group of 6 people camping on the other side of the beach, a little mountaineering hiking teen group.
I exchanged a few words upon passing earlier but I was happy to be on my own, far from humans.
I still set up all my protective guides in every corner, create an energetic light grid of protection and a bubble over me.
The wind has been picking up for the last few hours and everything is moving. The bushes and plants and palm trees are swaying, the waves are crashing and the tent is planted to the ground with stakes, otherwise it would blow away.
I pull out my way too hot sleeping bag, that my son convinced me to buy for 20 degree weather. It’s probably about 80 by nightfall.
I had declined bringing the camping mat due to extra weight and regretted it every time I’d roll over searching for a comfortable position at least 20 times that night. But I felt safe, even with the wind blowing and the leaves tapping against my tent.
Big papa Hawaiian dude was guarding over me. I could feel his welcoming presence.
The next morning I woke at dawn, my body in shambles from the hike and the restless sleep. The group of 6 were leaving that morning.
I set up the hammock, determined to read a book that I had been neglecting for 5 years, written by a colleague, called Jungle Jean. It seemed appropriate for my situation. A story about a woman who found her way into the amazon and hung out with a tribe and formed the continuum concept, a way of raising children and relating that was the opposite of traditional society.
She emphasized how happiness is innate and not something to search for and that our society was constantly complaining and lamenting about life while this tribe saw everything as part of life. Work didn’t exist. You just did the thing because it was to be done. Nobody pushed anyone to be anything, you found your place by honoring your own nature.
Sounded like a perfect read.
And of course, I was supposed to be working with the grief thing.
I spent the day reading, had a random crying moment for no particular reason and then had an impulse to write. What would be my ideal relationship? What would I feel like in it? How would we feel together? I wrote it all down. Happy to see that not everything did match in this relationship.
Many things did, but certain things weren’t there and I realized that those elements were really important to me. Having them written down helps with the impulse to run back into his arms immediately. It sets up that invisible figure that puts out a stop signal saying, remember your list. Remember what you’re truly desiring in a nourishing relationship, remember the qualities that are fundamental to you. This helps when the pain of loneliness rises and the ache of missing.
I find some trash hidden behind the rocks, some plastic water gallons. I cut off the top with my way too heavy Swiss army knife and fashion a bucket. I start piling buckets of sand under my tent, imagining that if I put more sand, it might be more comfortable tonight when I hear someone yell my name “Carly!”
I turn and see 3 girls in sarongs walking by. Being completely alone in the wilderness and someone knowing your name was a bit surprising but I had heard from a friend that one of their friends would be out here this weekend. Not having seen anyone in sight, I assumed they didn’t go.
The blond girls says “Oh we’re staying 1.6 miles away at Keauohou point, just popping over for a meander. I heard there was a brackish water pool hidden behind the bushes around here.”
I perk up.
Can I come?
I had already heard about this girl named Lauren a couple days ago, as I was lamenting that I only had one guy friend who liked to do adventurous hikes. My friend says “you have to meet Lauren! She loves that stuff.” And there she was, with two other equally fit ladies that hiked mountains, knew all about peptides, vitamin injections, had kids and were about 40.
They took me to the pool that we managed to find through a narrow passageway between the bushes near a collapsed side of a mountain that I later found out had collapsed during an earthquake followed by a 47 foot Tsunami wave in 1975 where some campers had died.
Ah. That’s why the ranger said if you feel an earthquake, run to higher ground. Right, now the two hour wait for him to tell me that in person was all worth it, I inwardly roll my eyes.
We come to a shady spot near a gorgeous overhanging tree and next to the cliff is a clear pool of water about 12 feet deep in one spot and about 30 feet across. It looks like a mini haven. I can imagine people back in the day coming here for their freshwater dips.
We jump in and chit chat about life. Those 3 know each other and I feel like a bit of an extra wheel but am content to see that they are interested in me too and I’m not just a leech tagging along. My old childhood loner syndrome wanting to rise up to the surface.
I breathe and relax into it. How much do I want to be with them? How much am I supposed to honor my solo journey of grief? This is kind of nice not being alone.
We head back towards my camp that feels like my home. I’m distinctly aware of how I have thoroughly occupied the space and created energetic boundaries and a little stone line across the entrance. I invite them in as if they are stepping into my home.
They decide they are going back to eat at their camping spot but stop to chat a bit before heading out.
I’m touched. They actually want to hang out with me. My inner teenager once again is feeling her heart warm. They like me. Ah.
We exchange numbers and agree that if timing works we may meet on the trail back up at sunrise. I hesitate to commit as I am more committed to my internal journey than girls I just met, but I keep the possibilities open.
They leave. I eat, nap and go for another swim.
I have my snorkel and there’s not far to go. It’s a tide pool. There are fish and a few coral heads, even a flounder with his little beady eyes staring up at me as his body blends in perfectly with the sand.
I have the thought, after I’ll go dip in the clear freshwater pool again.
I notice my to do list mind popping up. Here I am on vacation finding solace in creating a plan. Drop the plan, Carly. You can float around in this tide pool for 4 hours if you like. I slow down, thinking that if anyone saw me they would think I was a floating dead body, I glance up occasionally and reassure myself, I am completely alone in this wild territory.
The fish peek out from under the coral eyeing me. I follow one around, he literally seems like he’s checking me out too. I telepathically tell him I’m not going to hurt him as I analyze his movements, eating habits, the way he swims. I now have an adopted fish at home. Their name is Wanda. I say they because technically it’s a he, but with a name like Wanda… they are a Betta fish who would attack any other fish but apparently need affection.
I am connecting slowly with Wanda, I totally get the get away from me vibe but I need you at the same time vibe. They come up to me and stare at me with their big googly eyes and wiggle their tail around, I think they are happy to see me.
I realize that if a betta fish can be that expressive, then probably the other fish and animals in the ocean are too. I stop and watch a sea cucumber. The epitome of the slowest creature alive, it looks like a nice big long fat piece of poop. But I hang out, its mouth is slowly doing something with the sand, then ploop. I see it land a small oval shaped thing out the other side of its long body. Oh my god! Those are poop pellets. I’m giddy. The sea cucumber has now begun to take on some sort of identity in my mind.
Then I look at the yellow coral head with orange spots. I get closer. The orange spots are actually little tiny tubular openings, and they are opening and closing. Ah! It’s alive. I look around slowly, everything is freaking alive in here. Suddenly it creeps me out. This whole place is crawling with life, everything, even under the sand. I feel small. And then I feel cold.
Ok. I can get out and head over to the fresh water pool now and take a dip.
I whack through the bushes and climb over the small hill down to the pool and jump in. Now that my eyes are adjusted to seeing life I notice all these little red shrimp sitting on the rocks under the water staring at me. I look around, they are everywhere, checking me out.
I feel a little awkward and comparatively huge. I totally jumped in on their party.
I climb out and go take a rest back at the campsite.
It’s near evening and preparation for the next day is coming.
I climb up to the water catchment tank, happy the sun is finally beginning to set and the evening fresher air arriving with the breeze.
I fill water and as I am about to walk back to my site, thinking about my upcoming porcini cheese noodles in a package with my packet of tuna and my rum and lemon as an appetizer. I realize I’m doing the thing again.
Planning and projecting.
I stop. Look around. It’s gorgeous. I can see an immense view of wild greenery, lava flow, collapsed rocky mountains, palm trees and wild immense ocean and no-one.
I notice I’m standing on a large flat lava stone. I sit down.
I notice the wind moving the grass around me, yellow green with red tips. The brushes are swaying. Orange butterflies are hopping from flower to flower.
I stop. Ok. I’ll do an akashic record reading now and I’ll ask about my life, etc.
No. Carly, just stop and look around.
I stop. Everything goes silent. My mind stops filling up all the space.
The wind is moving all the trees and plants, it’s all alive.
I can feel everything alive, each being, each piece of grass, pulsating with life and it’s own essence of being.
I realize that the fear I had, of being by myself alone, stems from facing the unknown. I’ve always been terrified in nature at night. Because I feel how alive it is. It feels like being with presences, and at night, I don’t know who they are and I feel them in my body, like they are watching me.
I take it in. You are all alive. It’s me and you, all of us vibrating life together. I almost feel like we are seeing each other fully for the first time.
I want to offer a gift to the beauty. One of the best ways I have found is through song. At this moment I so desperately wish I knew a Hawaiian chant besides “on the island we do it island style song” I wish I could sing one of their sacred chants that make my hair stand on end.
I try anyway and just let sounds come out of my mouth. It has a melody a bit like the song Aloha Hawaii but I don’t analyze and just let the words reverberate throughout the open space.
Plants speak in vibration and my song vibrates to them. I can tell in my body, each time I’ve sang to the land or nature, it likes it. I can feel a happiness wash over me at the same time. I am hitting those deep bass hawaii notes, as if we are vibrating at the resonance of the earth.
I sing another note and it is cracked with a broken note, a sob begins to rise and I cannot sing anymore. I am crying, sobbing, sobbing. I don’t even know why. Is it a sense of belonging, is it the grief, is it the break up or is it the awareness of interconnection with all. I don’t know and I don’t analyze.
It is time now. I go back to my home. Drink my rum and eat my pasta and don’t freak out at the cockroaches jumping all over my trash. They’ll be gone in the morning I say to myself.
I sleep terribly again. The extra sand didn’t help, it still feels like a hard board under my back. I toss and turn, but I feel safe.
At dawn I wake, pack my things, drink a black coffee that tastes like the best black coffee I have ever tasted. I never drink coffee but this feels like a good start of the day along with some granola turned into oatmeal with hot water. Delicious.
I’ve kept my phone off until now, but I text the girls I met to let them know I’m running late and probably won’t see them as I know they are leaving earlier.
Before I put on my backpack, I reopen the stone barrier at the entry. I get down on my knees with my salt and palo Santo to thank the temporary home. Once again I feel the warmth of something in front of me. Again my giant Hawaiian dude’s energy, so warm and loving. I feel him gesture to stand up. I stand with my eyes closed, feeling my feet firmly on the ground. It feels like I have been here before. I feel as if multiple Hawaiians in tribal clothing gather around me. It is a farewell gathering. They are offering me gifts, flowers and blessings. I feel as if I am going on a voyage and my home people are bidding me farewell. And suddenly I am crying again, sobbing. I don’t know how long it will last but all I know is my feet cannot move. It is as if a whole ceremony is happening to me and it feels like home, as if I knew this place, these people, this land. About 15 minutes pass as the tears stream down my face. Finally I feel my feet able to move. I bow with gratitude one more time and leave.
The morning walk feels heavenly, the dawn rising, the glow of yellow across the sky, the cool breeze and a feeling of wholeness in my chest.
My backpack is now lighter, about 40 pounds. My son was right, so much better.
At about 2 miles in I run into the girls. “Yeah, we took the wrong road and had to turn back” they said. I was just about to continue onto the trail they had just turned around from. Thank goodness they met me at the right time.
We walked a bit together, exchanging lightly, it felt good to not be alone and to feel in camaraderie. I was awed at how in shape they were, walking at a speed I could barely keep up with. I thought I was sporty, but these girls, wow.
At a certain moment, I decided I wanted to savor the hike up and stopped to drink. Go ahead go on without me, let’s connect for another adventure, I say. They went on and I was happy to return to my Body Keeps the Score book and pray for cloud coverage as the sun was beginning to peek out and I was already pouring sweat.
Shortly after, the clouds did come in, then mist and winds.
I stopped multiple times, taking pictures, giving thanks for the cool weather and grateful that even though I could feel the bruises in my back, my knee was feeling fine.
It was long, but not as long as the way down. The bag was heavy, but much lighter on the way up.
My spirit felt whole. As if I had a journey of solitude, belonging, homecoming, and community all in one.
As I reached the last stretch, the terrain seemed to get even more beautiful as the end of my audio book was perfectly timed with my arrival. The last stretch of the smooth lava fields, the curve of an Ohia tree, embracing that mist in the distance and the speck of red flowers. This is why we do this I thought. This long arduous journey to go where you can’t go in the hustle and bustle of the mind in a daily life. It requires this trek to free it all up, break past and find a space of peace and come back transformed.
I arrived at my car. Still happily there and in order.
I put down my pack, now barely able to even lift it into the car, I walked back to the lava field and got down on my knees with my hands on the earth.
Thank you. Thank you so much for keeping me safe. Thank you spirits who have walked here before for welcoming me and making me feel at home. Then I sprinkled some salt, took a breath and got in my car for the journey from home back home.
Later at home, thrilled to have a hot shower, a real bed and even a delicious meal offered by my lovely neighbors. I curl up in bed and look up the history of Halapé. It was a thriving fishing village it seems and there are ruins of seating areas where they would gather. I smile to myself, so my Hawaiian spirits that I saw, could have been real and maybe I did know that place in some other distant life. I curl into my 4 pillows and sink into the mattress under my weighted blanket and fall into a long night’s sleep.
