If I’d known the hike to paradise meant fighting through mud that’s trying to eat me alive, I might have stayed at the resort and let my ex-husband witness happiness unsupervised.
The Secret Falls, aka the Uluwehi Falls, if you want to get fancy, are tucked away in the jungle, accessible only by kayak and then a trail guide who swore this was a quick twenty-minute stroll.
That same guide failed to mention the stroll involved mud pits deep enough to suck your shoes off, mosquitoes the size of chihuahuas, and humidity thick enough to curl my hair into something resembling a tangle of copper wire.
Twenty minutes,my flip-flopped foot.
We set out single file along a thin, slippery trail carvedinto the jungle with enough red dirt clinging to our legs that we look like we’ve been dipped in paprika. Ferns drip on us, vines grab at our hair, and the air buzzes with unseen things ready to bite. And let’s not forget the birds that screech overhead as if we’ve trespassed into their HOA meeting.
The cheerful local guide gestures toward what appears to be a path carved by extremely angry wildlife with poor planning skills, announcing, “Just another twenty minutes through beautiful tropical jungle!” with an optimistic smile that should come with its own warning.
“Anothertwenty minutes?” Ruby mutters, eyeing the thin, muddy trail that disappears into dense rainforest like a dare issued by Mother Nature. “Twenty minutes is what it takes me to apply proper sunscreen. The road ahead looks like it requires emergency evacuation procedures.”
The jungle closes around us with the enthusiasm of a green castle designed by architects on hallucinogens. Enormous ferns create a canopy overhead so thick that sunlight becomes a theoretical concept, while vines hang like nature’s obstacle course for people stupid enough to attempt recreation in paradise.
Within five minutes, the red dirt transforms into sticky, shoe-eating mud with the consistency of wet cement and the tenacity of a clingy ex-boyfriend. My sneakers make obscene sucking sounds with every step, attempting to negotiate their release from what might be quicksand disguised as a hiking trail.
“My shoes!” Ruby wails, hopping on one foot while her designer sneaker disappears into the mud with a sound like very expensive toilet plungers having the worst day of their lives. “Those cost more than my third husband!”
“Why did I think flip-flops were appropriate for jungle exploration?” Lani gasps, attempting to retrieve her footwear from what appears to be a red dirt monster with digestive issues.
Behind us, Bertha’s voice carries through the humid air with the melodic quality of a chainsaw attempting opera. She’s dressed in a bedazzled tracksuit and is being carried up the trail by two groomsmen who’ve been pressed into service as human crutches.
She hooks her gaze to mine and points an accusing finger at me. “This... is all... your fault... somehow,” she pants between labored breaths, possessing enough oxygen to assign blame but not enough to walk unassisted. “If you’d... been a better... wife... none of us... would be... hiking to our deaths... in this godforsaken... mosquito sanctuary!”
“Yes, Bertha,” I reply, wrestling my foot free from mud that’s decided to claim ownership rights. “My divorce definitely caused the geological formation of this particular hiking trail. I’m powerful that way.”
A mother hen with a parade of baby chicks appears on the trail ahead of us, as confused about navigation as the rest of us. The chicks are managing better than most humans, hopping from rock to root with the agility that comes fromnot wearing inappropriate footwear or carrying emotional baggage about failed marriages.
“Even the chickens look lost,” Ruby points out, watching a rooster attempt to negotiate a particularly treacherous section of muddied road. “If the local wildlife can’t figure out this trail, what hope do we have?”
A group of twenty-something hikers in proper gear bounds past us like athletic mountain goats. They’re wearing appropriate footwear, carrying hydration packs, and making everyone over forty feel inadequate about their fitness choices. I’m not over forty, but evidently the premise is the same.
They disappear up the trail with insulting ease while we struggle as if we’re trudging through quicksand. And we sort of are.
“I’m starting to understand why people pay for spa treatments instead of pursuing outdoor adventure,” I mutter.
From ahead on the trail, voices carry through the jungle canopy like a tropical domestic dispute featuring tropical birds who’ve made really bad relationship choices.
“This was YOUR idea!” Erwin’s voice echoes off the trees in his usual rude tone, usually reserved for me. “You said it would be scenic and relaxing!”
“I said I wanted romantic waterfall photos!” Candy shrieks back with the pitch that makes the chickens flee for cover. “I didn’t sign up for the Amazon survival challenge!”
“You insisted on bringing ALL of your camera equipment,”Erwin rages on. “We’re hiking, not filming a documentary about tropical suffering!”
“My followers expect quality content!” she rages back. “This ismybrand!”
I nod to Lani and Ruby. “And soon it will be Erwin’s funeral. I don’t think he can handle a woman like Candy.”
We catch up enough to see the melee firsthand.
Despite the chaos, Candy’s sister, Della, soldiers on with filming duties, somehow managing to keep her equipment steady while navigating roots, rocks, and relationship drama. She seems dead-set on documenting every moment of this disaster for social media posterity, regardless if it costs her a designer shoe or two.
“Just another day of our Hawaiian adventure,” she narrates to the camera while stepping over what might be a very small landslide. “As you can see, Candy is fully committed to bringing her followers the real island experience, complete with challenging terrain and emotional baggage.”
She can say that again.
Although Erwin is more of a sweaty disaster than emotional baggage, but I suppose in time, he can be all things to her.
