Andrew Palmer, �I.F. Stone: A Portrait�
This is part eight of a 25-part story about Hawaii. The story begins here. Part five is located here. Other parts you'll have to find yourself. So there.
---
Later, we find our way back to the main trail and continue up the mountainside. Very near the end of the trail, I see a sign marker naming a different trail that shows the distance of the trail to be 2.8 miles. We�ve nearly traveled four miles already. I make a mental note of the trail as we pass.
We hit the end of the trail � a guardrail with a sign tells us we�ve reached the end of the trail by posting a sign that says simply, �END.� I pull my pants down and The Girlfriend takes a picture of my bare ass next to the sign.
I don�t care what you�ve heard � I�m the only person who has ever thought of doing this. She hands me the camera and flashes me her tits standing next to the same sign. She�s also the only one to think of doing this.
We enjoy the view for a while, and then realize by the position of the sun that we should probably head back soon before it gets dark. We head back down the trail.
When we reach the signpost again, I point to it. "Look," I reason. "It took four miles to get to this point. If we take this trail back, we not only get to go a different way, but it�s only 2.8 miles back."
Let me just interrupt by saying that, yes, I know in hindsight that this is an incredibly stupid idea. After all, we just started in the middle of a canyon and climbed up the face of the mountain. I don�t know why I thought by going a different way we would reach the center of the canyon quicker. Perhaps I thought there was a slide, or a fireman�s pole. All Arlette needed to do was simply point out that my plan made no fucking sense at all and was completely idiotic, and I would have dropped it. But she didn�t argue, and off we went in a new direction.
There are markers every quarter-mile. We slog past them, the sun rapidly slipping behind the mountainside. But the hike actually works in our favor, as we keep pressing further to the edge of the cliffs, enough to make the sun reappear from behind the mountainside. It�s like a goddamn race.
Finally, as we reach another section overlooking the cliff face, we stumble upon two gay guys who have decided to illegally camp on the edge. No, I don�t have any proof they were gay. But c�mon � two guys, both shirtless, setting up one tent in an area where it�s illegal to camp? You could practically hear the wacka-ja-wacka music. They look nervous as we approach but soon figure out that we aren�t rangers.
We explain how we went off from the main trail, and one man tells us that we�re about at the halfway point, so he�s not sure whether we should turn around or not. �At this point,� he says, �It doesn�t really make a difference.�
We press forward.
The sun sets completely behind the cliffs, and we�re now moving along the thin trail by the reflection off the ocean and the pink and orange clouds. We pass a few points where the surface trail is directly hugging the cliff�s edge, which looks to be about 2000 feet straight down, with only a few edges to make sure you broke every single bone on the way down so they would shatter easier when you finally hit bottom.
Then the last of the sunlight slips away.
�Um,� I say, �I�m sorry?�
She rolls her eyes and keeps walking.
We�re lucky this night, however � there�s a full moon and a clear sky, so we use the moonlight to forge ahead. We can�t, however, see any markers showing how close we are to the end. We do know that we�ve walked much longer than two and a half miles.
Saving our strength, we no longer talk about zombies. We do however, look like zombies, shuffling slowly along the trail, and occasionally moaning. Arlette has taken the lead of our forced processional, as whenever I take the lead I move too quickly for her to follow.
And then the trail ends again.
It�s another vista point, providing another view of the ocean. It would look very pretty, with the moonlight shimmering off the ocean below us, if it didn�t look like it was the spot where we were going to die.
Arlette asks me to take the lead. I move slowly, watching my stride so I don�t get too far ahead. It takes all of three minutes before it�s obvious that I�ve gotten us lost. She points out that the trail that we�re walking on is filled with fresh, crunchy leaves � hardly the sign of a well-traveled trail. We turn around, with The Girlfriend taking the lead again.
Hours pass.
We�ve obviously been headed north this entire time, when the direction we need to go is southeast. Occasionally, the moonlight shines bright enough so that we can see something resembling a trail that goes southeast, but two steps in and we can tell that the only things that go this way are of the four-legged variety.
We keep going. We trudge on.
Stone�s biography talks about his rise above his conditions, but he�s never been lost on a mountainside, and so I have no sympathy for the fucker. And this book is miles away from my thoughts at this point.
By now we�re both exhausted. We don�t stop, however, as we�re afraid our legs will lock up and we�ll never be able to move again. The markers finally reappear, and it looks like we have a mile to go.
That mile turns out to be yet another vista point that suddenly ends. We�re again looking at a spectacular vista point that overlooks the ocean.
What I really need to see right now is a road. I�ve never hated the ocean more in my life.
