Roughing it, Hawaiian style

KAUAI, HAWAII | Couple bypasses the usual tourist stops to bike, backpack their way up Na Pali Coast

I'm not one for tropical resorts and lounging on the beach. Backpacking 40 miles of Alaskan wilderness is more my style.

So I'd never really thought of Hawaii as the ideal vacation destination, until my husband, Mark, told me about his dream trip: backpack the challenging Na Pali Coast on the northern Hawaiian island of Kauai.

Called the Garden Isle, Kauai -- home to the wettest spot on earth -- is known for having more rain and being less touristy than other Hawaiian islands.

We decided to spend 10 days here last month, and we'd make our trip even more interesting by foregoing the rental car and bringing our bicycles instead. We planned to bike 30 miles north from the east coast town of Kapa'a to the Na Pali Coast, backpack for five days, and keep the last few days open for any surprises.

We soon discovered there's not much information on biking on Kauai. And for good reason -- not a lot of people do it.

We spent our first night at the friendly Kauai Beach House hostel in Kapa'a, an urban-hippy town near the airport in Lihue. We stored our gear here at the hostel to lighten our load. Other guests warned us that biking on the island could be dangerous; there's only one main highway and locals and tourists usually see cars on it, not bikes.

I started to have doubts about our plan, especially when it took until 2 p.m. to organize our gear. Then we found out the wheel axle to latch the trailer to the bike was the wrong size, necessitating a trip to Kauai Cycle, a great full-service bike shop that also has rentals. The shop's bike mechanics trimmed the axle and gave us the low-down on island biking.

The low-down is really quite simple: Biking on Kauai means either going up a hill or coming down. If you have gear-phobia, as I did for the first half of the ride, you're going to suffer. I spent the first few hours in the saddle trying to squeeze every ounce of momentum from each downhill to help propel me up the next hill.

Midway through the first day I finally figured out my gears and began shifting like a pro. That doesn't mean I always rode like a pro. I had to get off my bike and walk it up a hill near the end, but at least I caught the waterfall that Mark missed as he flew by.

The road from Kapa'a to Princeville is wide with a shoulder, and shoulders are cyclists' friends. But from Princeville on, we had to say goodbye to our friend and ride on the road, often up some steep inclines. Despite our slow speed, drivers patiently waited before passing.

For two days, we rode past farmland and small towns, golf courses and forests, the ocean always to our right, and mountains like the Sleeping Giant to our left.

We stayed at north coast campgrounds in Hanalei and Ha'ena, where there are more locals than campers, and they're generous with information about their island home.

The north coast road ends at Ke'e Beach, where we had a crucial task -- stashing our bikes and trailer while we disappeared for five days. About a half-mile from the trailhead we stumbled upon a secluded spot in the woods. We locked our bikes, trailer and gear to a tree and covered our stash with branches.

"If somebody steals them," Mark said, "it's not 'cause we didn't try."

With 35 pounds of belongings stuffed into our backpacks, we ventured past the "Trail Closed -- Hazardous Conditions" sign and onto the Kalalau Trail.

In the summer, kayakers can paddle the entire Na Pali Coast and arrive at Kalalau Beach in under three hours. When the surf is high, as it was when we were there, the only way in is by helicopter -- or hiking the 11-mile path that climbs roughly 5,000 feet, traipsing through valleys and around ridges that plummet straight down to the ocean.

One minute we were hiking up a waterfall, the next we were hacking through a rain forest. We made our way through a desert peppered with aloe and cacti, followed by a dense hayfield, another waterfall, a wall of rocks to scramble up -- while wearing those 35-pound packs. The path narrowed along a cliff and we boarded a brief plateau before facing more rocks to climb and yet another waterfall. Suddenly we were standing in a natural cabana of palm trees, overlooking the ocean. We'd drink some water, eat a Clif Bar and repeat.

Our first night we spent at the Hanakoa campsite six miles in, beside a graffiti-covered picnic table, a raised toilet with dozens of bags of garbage beneath it, and a lime tree. As much as the trash spoke of frequent visitors, we saw no one.

The next morning we washed and crossed the stream, and that's when we lost the trail. We wandered the muddy, steep woods with heavy backpacks until finally spotting a wall that looked to hold a path. Sure enough, there was a pavilion at the top and some more campsites. A good lesson when hiking Na Pali: The path is always there, you just have to change your perspective to see it.

During our hikes, we met few backpackers. But those we did meet were pretty memorable folks. Climbing up a switchback our second morning, we came upon a nearly naked girl hiking barefoot and topless in ill-fitting bikini bottoms. She gave us helpful pointers on the valley, including where to find homemade pizzas on the bluff. A little further on we met a man hiking naked, save for a towel draped from his neck.

Near our destination at Kalalau Beach, we approached a barren red mountain and climbed down to a green oceanside plateau. At the bottom, a barefoot -- but clothed -- woman welcomed us. She introduced herself as Sage, telling us she'd lived in the valley for long time and lately had taken to just walking for miles, all day long.

Until 1919, the entire Kalalau Valley was full of people. Conservative estimates claim at least 5,000 called the area home. These days, as you hike along the rocky terraces you see occasional signs of squatters -- a shredded tent, a shirt hanging on a tree, bedding, a garbage bag, a bucket with pots and pans.

We'd spent two nights on the beach beside a waterfall and were alone the entire time, despite there being plenty of campsites.

On our last morning of hiking, we were eating breakfast and breaking our camp when a helicopter swooped in and dropped off a crew. Employed by the state, they come once a month to haul out the squatters' garbage. Last time, they flew away with 47 bags of trash.

While we talked with the workers, a boat approached the shore, whistled, and then dumped overboard buckets that washed toward land.

"Supplies," the clean-up crew told us, explaining how squatters will spend months in the valley, making arrangements for food and other necessities to be dropped off. "And it all turns into garbage."

It took nearly nine hours to hike out, with the last three miles covered in mud as slippery as ice. We reached the end of the trail at 6 p.m., just as the sun was setting. We found our bikes, undisturbed, and packed our gear by the three-quarters moon.

It was dark by the time we boarded our bikes. And after a full day's hike, our weary legs could barely pedal. We weaved all over the road, trying to stay out of the way of cars and trucks careening past with their brights on. Our goal was to cycle six miles to Hanalei, but after two miles we passed a sign for the Hanalei Colony Resort and pulled into the lot.

Covered in mud and smelling awful, I explained to the night person that my husband and I were biking and had just come from the trail. Did she have a room?

"Oh yes," she said, "and we're running a special tonight, too." She gave us a deal almost too good to be true, charging us $125, or half the normal rate. We stayed the night in a spacious two-bedroom suite with a view of the ocean. We showered twice and soundly slept in a king-sized bed.

We had three whole days left and wanted to see the southern part of the island and the famous Waimea Canyon. Problem is, weekend traffic was increasing on the island and it was a full 60 miles around to the west coast. After checking it out with locals, we rode 30 miles back to Kapa'a and traded in our two wheels with pedals for two wheels with a motor and heated seats: a 2007 Honda Gold Wing.

Motorcycling is about as popular on Kauai as bicycling, but it proved to be a great way to see the winding park and Grand Canyon of Hawaii, despite the brief hourly rain shower. We got to visit parts of the island we missed, including the Queen's Bath on the northern coast near Princeville.

The Queen's Bath is the size of several backyard swimming pools, carved into a lava shelf close enough to the ocean that fresh seawater continuously pours in. Fish and hermit crabs swim there, along with people.

On Mark's first stroke he yelled, "My wedding ring!" The white gold band sank to the rocky bottom of the Queen's Bath, where it remains.

If he was going to lose his wedding ring anywhere, the Queen's Bath seems the best place to do it. We couldn't do much about it anyway. It's hard to strap a metal detector on the back of a bicycle, backpack or motorcycle.

Felicia Schneiderhan is a Chicago-based free-lance writer.