Mahalo, Kalalau

It’s 2pm on a Monday, and I’m one misstep away from falling off a 300-foot cliff into the Pacific. My body, already worn from 7 miles of hiking with a 30-pound pack, is taxed—but it’s the emotional weight of inching along this life-or-death ledge that’s truly exhausting. While “Crawlers Ledge” is said to span just 20 feet, we discovered the cliffside path stretched on—more like half a mile of sloped, treacherous trail. I quickly realized: I was woefully unprepared.

This past June, my husband and I flew to Kauai to fulfill a shared dream: hiking the Nā Pali Coast to Kalalau — an 11-mile trek to a beach and valley often likened to the Garden of Eden. Accessible only by boat or foot, Kalalau sits tucked into the wild edge of Hawaii’s oldest island.

Our love story began in Kauai, and it felt fitting to embark on this adventure together as newlyweds, with the ulterior motive to do a fertility ritual in the valley — very Adam and Eve of us — to symbolically mark the beginning of our conception journey.

I’d secured camping permits exactly 90 days prior, but otherwise did little planning. I had lived on Kauai during Covid and knew people who had done the trail — including a couple who hiked it with a 1-year-old strapped to their back. How hard could it be?

My only prior visit to Kalalau was via kayak, during a chaotic group trip we still refer to as the time we “Normandy-ed” onto the beach, limbs and gear flailing in the waves.

Four years later, I felt the same heart-longing pull back to this remote getaway. Picture lush greenery, mango tree groves, red clay overlooks, waterfalls, big pools to swim in, and a river running through it all. Our intentions were simple: connect with each other, and connect with nature.

By those measures, it was a beautiful success. We stumbled off the trail two days later, sore and spent, but something inside had shifted. Being fully offline in such a remote place reoriented me. I left with clarity—and a few life lessons I won’t forget.

1. Take one step at a time—and ask for support.

The old adage holds true. 11 miles sounded fine until mile 9, when I was desperate for it to end. At that point, all I could do was trust my legs and move forward—step by step. My saving grace? A slim branch I found at the trailhead, which became my walking stick, balancing my weight and easing pressure on my joints. No fancy poles—just a humble twig and a lesson in how small support can make a big difference.

2. Break big things into small milestones. Pause often. Celebrate.

When the road is long, the path feels daunting. We divided the hike into segments: to Hanakāpīʻai, then Hanakoa Falls, then “the scary part,” then the mossy forest, and so on. Each river crossing was a checkpoint—time to rest, splash water on our faces, and eat a snack. As an entrepreneur, I relate to the overwhelm that comes with an ambitious goal with an ambiguous roadmap. Like the Pomodoro method, breaking the trip into intervals helped us stay motivated and energized. We rejoiced the small wins.

3. Fear of the future is more draining than the challenge itself. Stay present.

The dread of the “scary part” consumed me—for miles. The first time, because I didn’t know how long it would last. The second, because I did. But all that anxiety was unhelpful—and unsafe. What I needed was presence and calm focus. Worrying only made me shaky and distracted. And whatever you do: don’t look down. It’s true on the trail and in life—fixating on catastrophe robs us of peace and progress. Just look at your feet. Inch forward.

4. Comparison is a joy killer. Gratitude brings you home.

We camped beside a waterfall—an idyllic spot. But when another couple left their prime site nearby and we were too slow to grab it, we spent an hour in a funk. Instead of savoring where we were, we fixated on what we didn’t have. It was a perfect reminder: “To compare is to despair.” When I shifted back to gratitude, joy returned instantly.

5. Savor the destination. Frolic. Rest. Be.

Our rest day in the valley will forever stand out as one of the best of my life. No agenda, no sense of time, nowhere to be—just a day made for play. We wandered, swam in hidden pools, splashed in waves, played cards, cuddled, laughed, and lounged. Sometimes joy looks like doing absolutely nothing. This day was one long, gleeful frolic. In one word: bliss.

6. Mark life’s chapters with intention and ritual.

Our guiding intention was simple: to reconnect—with nature and each other. That lens shaped everything. On our rest day, we crafted a fertility ritual with a baby mango we found. It was sacred and silly and perfect. Meaning doesn’t have to be elaborate—it just has to be yours.

7. Be an essentialist. Pack only what you need—in life and on your back.

I overpacked. It made everything harder. Even just a few days offline reminded me how light life can feel when you strip away what doesn’t matter. In the simplicity of Kalalau—no service, no distractions—I found clarity. There’s a levity that comes with letting go. A freedom. A lighter gait.

Mahalo, Kalalau, for the aching legs, the stunning views, and the reminders I didn’t know I needed.

P.S. If anyone’s ever curious about this hike, please reach out! I’d be happy to share more.