In an earlier post, I had mentioned the struggles I had encountered whilst attempting the Hanauma Bay hike with Monica. Later, I moved on to more challenging, tropical scenery with Alexa when we trudged through the rainforest to Manoa Falls. Both of these hikes had one thing in common, they kicked my ass. But little did I know that Koko Head Mountain would be the cherry on top of my ever melting pile of achievements.
It all began when my interest in Koko Head became and obsession, and I took a verbal oath to reach its peak. I considerably over estimated my physical limitations even before I began the climb. The start to the hike is a mere 45 minute jont down the road from Claira's house, and already I could feel beads of perspiration forming on my body. With an optimistic smile plastered on my reddening face, I effortlessly began hopping up the stairs. About a hundred steps later, the spring in my step became a forced drag and my legs screamed in protest as I pushed on. Let me stop here and explain that Koko Head's "stairs" aren't really stairs at all. The path that leads to the peak consists of a 60 year old abandoned rail cart track with termite infested wooden beams and rusted steal frames. And don't be fooled by the enticing plateau you see at the beggining of the hike; the rail track archs up after the first leg of the mountain into what feels like a straight 90 degree angle. Sounds like a good place to take the family, right?
So, I managed to ignore my body's pleas for retreat until I came to the bridge. If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm not a very coordinated person and more often than not, my body tends to flake off and do its own thing. This, combined with my catastrophic fear of heights makes for an interesting story. But this isn't where I describe my epic plummet into the solemn valley below, no it's actually the opposite. I managed to cross the bridge in one piece, but was not impressed by what I found on the other side. As if it's even possible, the mountain took yet another stretch in the vertical direction, and I began to feel more inclined to treat the railroad tracks like a ladder rather than stairs. Trying not to look up, I trudged on. It wasn't easy for me to keep a steady pace; the uneven ground and my lack of cardiovascular skills voted against me. By this time, Alexa had long since passed me and I took a seat on a near by rock. From where I sat covered in sweat, dirt, and the willingness to give up, I could see further than any of the other hikes had allowed. In my head I ran through my reasons for continuing up the deadly mountain and not one of them stuck through my innate criticism. But, I had made a promise and I was going to see it through. My body was definitely not impressed. Climbing up the mountain as the sun began to creep over the horizon only added to the buckets of sweat that fell from my face, and my lack of water bottle put me on the path to steady dehydration. I began to feel light headed and dizzy and just as a wave of nausea hit me, a 60 year old woman and her shih tzu motored past me. How embarassing, outclimbed by the elderly. With a deep breath and quick re-evaluation of my body's physical condition, I slowly (and when I say slowly I mean at a sloth's pace) advanced up the mountain. To add to my ever growing embarassment, Alexa passed me on her way down, having already reached the top, waited for me for some time, and assumed that I'd given up. Now it was on. With clentched teeth and strained muscles, the same face of constipation I might add, I crested the mountain and celebrated with a few fist pumps in the air. After the celebration was over and I took in as much of the view as I could, I began the slow hike downhill. With my entire lower body trembling from the strain I placed on it, my legs morphed into jello and the rest of the descent became more of an clumsly tumble.
I collapsed beside Alexa instantly after reaching the bottom. Atop a grassy knoll we laid in silence as our bodies writhed in agony. I rolled over to face Alexa who had the same expression of pain written on her forehead. "Never again" were the exasperated words that crept out of my mouth. Alexa let out a weak laugh and nodded in agreement, and for the rest of the afternoon we remained stationary, basking in our own achievements.
It all began when my interest in Koko Head became and obsession, and I took a verbal oath to reach its peak. I considerably over estimated my physical limitations even before I began the climb. The start to the hike is a mere 45 minute jont down the road from Claira's house, and already I could feel beads of perspiration forming on my body. With an optimistic smile plastered on my reddening face, I effortlessly began hopping up the stairs. About a hundred steps later, the spring in my step became a forced drag and my legs screamed in protest as I pushed on. Let me stop here and explain that Koko Head's "stairs" aren't really stairs at all. The path that leads to the peak consists of a 60 year old abandoned rail cart track with termite infested wooden beams and rusted steal frames. And don't be fooled by the enticing plateau you see at the beggining of the hike; the rail track archs up after the first leg of the mountain into what feels like a straight 90 degree angle. Sounds like a good place to take the family, right?
So, I managed to ignore my body's pleas for retreat until I came to the bridge. If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm not a very coordinated person and more often than not, my body tends to flake off and do its own thing. This, combined with my catastrophic fear of heights makes for an interesting story. But this isn't where I describe my epic plummet into the solemn valley below, no it's actually the opposite. I managed to cross the bridge in one piece, but was not impressed by what I found on the other side. As if it's even possible, the mountain took yet another stretch in the vertical direction, and I began to feel more inclined to treat the railroad tracks like a ladder rather than stairs. Trying not to look up, I trudged on. It wasn't easy for me to keep a steady pace; the uneven ground and my lack of cardiovascular skills voted against me. By this time, Alexa had long since passed me and I took a seat on a near by rock. From where I sat covered in sweat, dirt, and the willingness to give up, I could see further than any of the other hikes had allowed. In my head I ran through my reasons for continuing up the deadly mountain and not one of them stuck through my innate criticism. But, I had made a promise and I was going to see it through. My body was definitely not impressed. Climbing up the mountain as the sun began to creep over the horizon only added to the buckets of sweat that fell from my face, and my lack of water bottle put me on the path to steady dehydration. I began to feel light headed and dizzy and just as a wave of nausea hit me, a 60 year old woman and her shih tzu motored past me. How embarassing, outclimbed by the elderly. With a deep breath and quick re-evaluation of my body's physical condition, I slowly (and when I say slowly I mean at a sloth's pace) advanced up the mountain. To add to my ever growing embarassment, Alexa passed me on her way down, having already reached the top, waited for me for some time, and assumed that I'd given up. Now it was on. With clentched teeth and strained muscles, the same face of constipation I might add, I crested the mountain and celebrated with a few fist pumps in the air. After the celebration was over and I took in as much of the view as I could, I began the slow hike downhill. With my entire lower body trembling from the strain I placed on it, my legs morphed into jello and the rest of the descent became more of an clumsly tumble.
I collapsed beside Alexa instantly after reaching the bottom. Atop a grassy knoll we laid in silence as our bodies writhed in agony. I rolled over to face Alexa who had the same expression of pain written on her forehead. "Never again" were the exasperated words that crept out of my mouth. Alexa let out a weak laugh and nodded in agreement, and for the rest of the afternoon we remained stationary, basking in our own achievements.
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