Hiking Hanakapiai Falls | Napali Coast, Kauai

The water roared through the carving in a cliff face, tinged green with mosses and lichen. Though I sat at least 50 feet from Hanakapiai Falls, I could still feel its spray against my skin. I cursed myself for not having worn a bathing suit. Hot, tired, and sticky with sweat, I’d have given anything to wade into the waterfall, letting it plaster my hair against my scalp and rinse the perspiration from my limbs. But the 4-mile hike back would be misery in wet gear. I settled instead for wading, thigh-deep, into a rocky pool the color of deep chrysoprase and splashing the water onto my arms, neck, and face.

When I was done, I boosted myself up, still dripping, onto a flat-topped boulder. “Lunch!” Floren—then just my significant other—shouted over the rushing of the falls. He handed me the backpack. He’d already laid his plastic-wrapped sandwich, a banana, and chips neatly on the rock beside him, like a priest arranging ceremonial objects.

I stretched my legs straight in front of me and tapped my wet feet together, nibbled a hummus and tomato sandwich grown damp in the humidity, and watched the falls, only the bottom 400 feet of which are visible from this vantage point. (Estimates put Hanakapiai’s total height around 1,600 feet.) Being here was simultaneously like everything and nothing I’d imagined. There in the partially sunlit opening in the forest, the water rushing in an everlasting loop, I felt like a part of an ancient landscape.

A Helicopter Tour over Kauai

I wasn’t sure I’d make it all the way while hiking Hanakapiai Falls (often spelled Hanakapi’ai), not with the setbacks I’d encountered on the trail. We’d headed out on the Kalalu Trail early—maybe 8:00 a.m., before the sizzling heat of daytime settles over Kauai. I’d researched the hike before we left for our Hawaii trip and had put it on my list of maybes; though it looked beautiful, it was also 8 miles total, which meant at least six hours on the trail. I’m a day hiker, and one who typically prefers trails of 5 to 6 miles—enough for a decent workout and to see some breathtaking overlooks, but not so much that my legs turn to noodles and I’m ready to drop at any moment on the back half of the trail. I also don’t always want to spend an entire day just hiking, not when a vacation affords so many other sights and experiences. But I packed my hiking boots anyway, extra socks tucked into the toes to save space in my suitcase.

When we arrived on Kauai the day before, we splurged on a helicopter tour—one of the best ways to really see the extraordinary beauty of the island, we’d been told. We’d been told right. We soared over the island, drier and more desertlike in the south and lush and green to the north and west. We zipped over forests so dense and green, it didn’t seem like anyone could actually live here. We hovered over the bright cyan waters of the Na Pali Coast, its shoreline dotted with beaches. I spotted Hanakapiai from my window even before our pilot-tour guide pointed it out. I couldn’t stop staring dumbly out the glass. My mouth was probably hanging open, and I didn’t care. In that moment, my mind was made up.

Heading out on the Kalalu Trail

The most-trafficked part of the Kalalu Trail is the first two miles, to Hanakapiai Beach. It’s easy to see why: after the first half mile or so, a steep climb through thick, leafy growth and exotic flowers, the trail opens up onto a red-dirt path that winds around the lip of the Na Pali Coast. Here, rocky peaks whose edges are softened with green growth look down on a swath of ocean so blue, it almost makes you wonder if you’re looking at a backdrop engineered in a CGI lab.

The initial climb had been steeper than I’d thought—I prefer my inclines of the more gradual variety, please and thank you—and I’d felt my feet slip a time or two. I paid it little mind; the trail was moist with a recent rain, so it was to be expected. Once I arrived at the overlook, about 500 feet above sea level, any complaint vanished like mist from my mind. The hike would be worth the effort if everything looked like this.

And it did, through another mile of never-ending vistas and waves that rolled onto sandy, unpopulated beaches. Through areas where seabirds soar from treetop to cliff to water, and back again. Through wildflowers that release their sweet fragrance as you brush past, and leave pollen trails along the hip of your shorts.

The trail began to descend. I slowed, instinctively protecting an ankle weakened years earlier in my dance-and-gymnastics youth, back when I could still grand jete across the floor or tumble a series of back handsprings without breaking a sweat. I tamped down the unfavorable comparison and picked my way more carefully over the steep decline and glanced ahead. There was at least one rocky switchback—ankle-breakers, if you’re not paying attention—until the trail straightened out again. I kept my eyes on the ground all the way through to the crossing at a burbling stream. Though I didn’t hop rocks across it like some of the twentysomethings on the trail, I made it over in less than a minute, without putting a foot in the water. I counted it as a triumph.

The View from Hanakapiai Beach

On the other side, we emerged onto Hanakapiai Beach. The New England coast, where I grew up, has always seemed especially stony to me. While it may be more jagged and craggy, like an old fisherman’s face, it has nothing on the rocks-everywhere beach at Hanakapiai. I lengthened my stride to walk from boulder to boulder, and caught up with Floren near where the stones end and the sand begins.

Beautiful as it is, Hanakapiai is not a beach for swimming. It’s known for its powerful undertow and rip currents, and volatile waves that form as the surf bounces off the rock walls along the shoreline. Quite a few people have died attempting to swim here, though, surprisingly, most accidental drownings in the Hanakapiai Valley have occurred in the river. Especially when it’s flooded, it’s easy for hikers to be swept into its raging currents.

Since the beach is roughly the halfway point between the start of the Kalalu Trail and Hanakapiai Falls, we took a rest break, wiping our foreheads on the hems of our T-shirts and downing a bottle of water between us.

Hiking Hanakapiai Trail

On the other side of the beach, the ascent began again. We diverged onto the Hanakapiai Trail, which is not maintained by a parks service, but is trafficked enough that it’s not impassably overgrown. Most guidebooks list this trail as a moderate hike, to which I say: Ha. And by the way: You’re full of it. I love to hike and am in good overall shape, but I also don’t believe in pushing my middle-aged body to its absolute limits—and suffering the weeks of recovery time every itsy-bitsy muscle strain seems to require these days. So back at home, I routinely pick moderate trails solely for their moderation. I can authoritatively say that Hanakapiai Trail is a strenuous hike.

For one, it rises over 700 feet in elevation as it approaches the falls. Not the tallest incline, to be sure, but enough to make you puff your way up toward the end. We went through close forested areas, trees and shrubs reaching out to rake our clothes and hair as we passed. I stepped up into another forested part of the trail, this one crowded with bamboo. My foot slipped again. I swore. My legs weren’t tired yet. It had only been a couple of miles. Be more careful, I admonished myself.

Here’s the second part of what makes Hanakapiai Trail challenging, and something you’ll smell before you see, at least if you visit in December: the dense, overly sweet, damp smell of guava. Dozens of the overripe fruits, carpeting the forest floor in pastel pink and yellow, releasing their tropical fragrance like a candle store on steroids. Fruit pulp squelched under foot with each step, caking my boot treads—which were already packed with mud—and making me slide sideways.

The edge of the guava-strewn forest slopes down to one of the trail’s several stream crossings. It didn’t look terribly intimidating—it wasn’t more than ankle-high, and was clear enough to see down to the bottom. I’d taken water shoes in my backpack for stream crossings, but this one seemed so mild, I decided to skip the inconvenience of moving off trail to switch out my shoes and just hop the rocks instead.

I put my right foot on the closest rock to the stream’s edge, a fat one with a rounded top. I extended my left, choosing a long, flat rock that appeared perfectly balanced. As soon as my foot touched down, it slipped sideways. So did I, my foot splashing into the stream. I didn’t fall, at least. I’ll be fine, I thought, stupidly more concerned above saving face with others on the trail that about my soggy shoes and socks. I’d come to regret my shortcut later. But for now, I was still upright.

By the final incline into another rocky passage, my leg muscles were feeling the stirrings of fatigue. I stumbled in my waterlogged boots, catching myself just before my bare knees struck rock. Floren put out his hand to help me up. I waved it away, as if he had somehow been responsible for my overconfidence.

The Waking Meditation of Hanakapiai Falls

The trail flattened out. A roaring sound filled the air. Ahead, I could make out the top of the falls, drops of watering glittering in the sunlight.

The plunge pool below the falls wasn’t crowded when we arrived—maybe a few dozen people on the rocks or in the water. I watched with envy as those who’d had the foresight to bring swimsuits waded in up to their stomachs, splashed backward in the pool, or swam out under the falls itself. After dipping my legs and rinsing my arms in the water, I contented myself to sit on the rocks, droplets slowly evaporating off my skin, and closed my eyes to listen to the falls blasting down the rock face and splashing into the pool. I leaned back onto my elbows, turning my face up into the light mist that spritzed my face and the tree leaves that made a lacelike pattern against the sky. I thought of absolutely nothing other than being in this spot in this moment—a waking meditation like no other.

We stayed at the falls even after most of the people who’d arrived around the same time hoisted their packs and headed back onto the trail. Finally rested enough after hiking Hanakapiai Falls, and finally ready to let go of this extraordinary place, I slipped on my water shoes—ironically, the only dry shoes I had—and headed back out the way we came.

The Way Back | Hiking Hanakapiai Falls

With each step, my hiking boots, tied together by the laces and slung over my shoulder, bumped my hip and left muddy toeprints on my shorts. But they weren’t the only annoyance. It didn’t take long for me to realize that—no surprise—thin-soled rubber water shoes weren’t exactly ideal for hiking over rocky terrain. I swore again under my breath and trudged on, back through the stream—easy to cross now that it didn’t matter whether I stepped in it—and through the carpet of guava, which made wet smacking noises under my soles, the pulp squishing in through the mesh of the top of the shoes and around my feet.

After what felt like days of every rock and twig assaulting the bottoms of my feet, we made it back to the dry clay trail. I breathed a sigh of relief. Even if this portion was mostly uphill, we were only about thirty minutes from the end of the trail. Only a few steps up the incline, I felt it: the telltale hot spot on the back of the heel, midway between the belly of the Achilles’ tendon and the heel bone, that signals the formation of a blister. And not a little nuisance eruption, but the monster-size pockets of fluid that take more than a week to go away, and that are so inconveniently located that any bit of sock, sandal, or sneaker causes unbearable friction. I sighed and continued by uphill march, trying to slide my foot forward in the shoe to break the contact.

“Catch,” I said as we finally arrived in the parking lot, and tossed the keys to Floren. “You’re driving.” I tore open the passenger’s door and sank into the car, rear end first. Delicately, I peeled off my water shoes—some of my skin coming along with it—and grit my teeth against the sting as I rinsed the pink epidermal skin exposed by several ruptured blisters in the last of the clean water. We rolled down the windows, blasted the fan, and eased out onto the highway. I propped my feet on the open window and let the cool air whisk over their hot, perma-pruned surface.  

Afternoon had given way to early evening by the time we made it back to our Airbnb in Princeville, in the home of an agreeably chatty, kaftaned host with a chic black bob and a ready supply of fresh-from-the-yard lemons and avocados. She widened her eyes and gasped when she spied my pork-chop feet, and rushed to bring me disinfectant and bandages.

After a nap, we roused ourselves to go watch the sunset. Although my muscles had turned to liquid and my feet were too tender for much walking, we sat on a stone wall. The earth hushed itself to sleep around us. In the fading light, I closed my eyes. As clear as day, I saw the falls behind my lids, heard the rumbling and splashing of the water. Hiking Hanakapiai Falls was burned into my memory, as sensorial as sitting under the sunset. The image came to me once more in bed, in the space between waking and dozing, and again when I woke up in the morning.

Now, five years later and 5,000 miles away, I still carry that image of Hanakapiai Falls with me. It’s even become a visual cue for me: when I sit down to write but the words refuse to cooperate, I close my eyes and visualize the falls. I see myself wading into in them, turning outward to face the trail. Water pours over my head, plastering my hair against my skull, running down my neck and arms and dripping off the tips of my fingers into the pool below. “Flow,” I say. “Flow.” The words come, as they always do when given enough time and space.

And for one more moment, I return to this exceptional place, where for an hour I felt like part of the landscape, and knew that my tiny sliver of the universe had expanded a thousandfold in one 8-mile trip.   

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