HIKING...FOR THE BIRDS

Let's review.  I said a couple of days ago that I "enjoy a shorter, less strenuous hike" with my adventuring husband.  I guess he thought "moderately strenuous" was the very definition of "shorter, less strenuous" when he ran across the Canyon Trail hike description in the Kaua'i Guidebook.

So yesterday we drove to Waimea Canyon to hit the trailhead (also in search of the drier, sunnier side of the island since the rain and clouds where we are staying have been a bit persistent of late).

I knew I was in trouble right away.  I am leery of trails that start out going downhill.  Common sense, and previous excruciating experience, has taught me that what goes down, must come up.  And down we went..down...down...down.  I was already dreading climbing my butt back out of that canyon.  Regardless of the promised twin waterfalls, our destination, I was already certain they would not be worth the trek up, up, up at the tailend of our day.

Plus going down also means staring vigilantly at my feet, to avoid tangles of roots reaching for the tips of my toes, rocks and boulders to navigate, and slippery loose gravel underfoot -- all leading to the dreaded butt-whack onto surprisingly hard Kaua'i red dirt jarring my tailbone, back, and neck into spasm -- often with legs and arms akimbo and stretched unnaturally in their opposite and incorrect position.  Again, experience is the teacher here.

But with Hub's urging, optimistic encouragement, a nice walking stick, and his arm to hold onto, I kept on, only completely balking at yet another steep decline on that damnable gravel slipway and announcing, "That's it!  I'm waiting here!"  He assured me we were "95% there".  (Hub gives a running commentary on our assumed progress throughout each hike we've taken; he means this to be encouraging.)  So I got pissed and decided "Screw it...he can just carry me and my broken hip out of here then -- 2 miles -- uphill!"  I kept going.

The waterfalls were there, as promised.  But unspectacular.  My PBJ sandwich was the trail's end highlight for me.  I tried not to think of the uphill slog back to the car.  Instead, I started to listen to the "quiet" -- the wind rustling the leaves, the sound of the water trickling down ancient lava rock, the songs of birds all around me.   I saw the blue sky, the myriad shades of green in foliage, the brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds of flowering bushes along the trail.

So, instead of my usual "game" of getting through a difficult hike by pretending I've been taken hostage in a militant Third World country where I am forced to march through thick jungle with a gun at my back, I decided to listen to the birds.  That's all.  No thoughts.  No feeling the blister forming on my big toe, or the thorny twigs scratching bloody trails on the backs of my legs.  No wondering how much farther.  No thinking my lungs will surely burst and my heart will pound straight out of my chest, Alien-like.  Just listen to birdsong.  Hiking meditation.

Turns out, going up hill was surprisingly easy.  Much easier than going down.  Hub kept me hydrated with frequent gulps from the Camelpack.  My sturdy walking stick helped propel me.  My footing was sure.  My breathing was deep and strong.  My healthy heart was pumping and the birds were singing everywhere, lifting me...up, up, up...arriving at the trailhead much sooner than I thought possible.  I felt a grudging sense of accomplishment -- and wonderment that my meditation practice, the practice of "letting go of suffering", seemed to hold the key to my surprisingly pleasant regard for Hub as he "high-fived" me when we emerged from the trees.  On other "adventure" occasions there have been more murderous thoughts.

The fact remains, however;  I still don't like hiking.  Hub needs to join the Mountaineers or something.

At least, that's the view from here...©