At the time, before sainthood, Father Damien used to paddle a two man canoe with a friend from Kalawao, where he lived, to Halawa Valley and Kaunakakai to visit the churches he had a hand in establishing and building.

Exploring the deep ravines and wild rivers of Molokai’s steep, wild side requires persistence. I was told ‘back side Molokai’ was lawless and people didn’t always come back. Also that wild pigs would eat me while I slept, supernatural night marchers guarded the valleys, dope growers set traps and man-eating sharks guarded the bays.  Pristine places stay that way if few people find them.

On the other hand locals talked about fun family camping trips to Wailai and Pelekunu. Clearly they lived to tell about it, but when I asked how to get there, they invariably brought up killer pigs.

Eventually I met a woman who owned land in Wailau Valley and she gave us permission to stay on her property. A friend and I hired a fishing boat to drop us off and pick us up a week later. We swam ashore, over a gray sand bottom, no sharks in sight, with gear and supplies in sealed buckets.  

Roughly one and a half million years ago a massive landslide broke the northern third of the island off and dumped it on the sea floor creating the island’s famous 3,000-foot-high sea cliffs.  

Intense rainfall eventually sculpted deep, fertile valleys which were inhabited by seafaring Polynesians over a thousand years ago. Estimates of the peek population in the valley range from ten thousand or more. Wailau means many waters, although there is no accurate count of the hundreds of waterfalls that line the cliffs when it rains as it is always changing.

Audrey Sutherland swam the entire back side many times and never ran into any sharks, but I can’t understand how her imagination allowed this to happen. There are people we are not supposed to compare ourselves to. (Her 1978 memoir, documents her late 50’s adventures swimming and paddling Molokai, republished as “Paddling Your Own Canoe” in 2019)  

It used to be possible to hike over the mountain and down into the back of the valley. The ancient trail is still printed on maps, but from what I could find out it has not been traversed in many years. Supposedly there are ragged bits of rope left for swinging across the sections of trail that have fallen away. No thanks, although it could be meant to scare people off, akin to a killer pig stories.

On the boat a helicopter high over the vertigo inducing sea cliffs looked like a gnat. To the people looking down we probably looked like a Styrofoam cup.

Land in Wailau Valley is privately owned, divided into parcels, and camping is allowed by the discretion of the owners. Several families who own plots set up camps on the beach for the summer.

I had been told the river water was fine to drink, but it didn’t look so good after we began exploring. There was a lot of algae growth, usually meaning slow moving water and more chances for bacteria. One dead thing upstream can ruin a good camping trip. Boiling it worked and since I had planned to drink from the stream that’s what I did, until we met up with people who knew where to find artesian springs of pure, fresh water that gushed out of the bottom of the cliffs.

We hauled our gear to a beach campsite away from the river, surrounded by coconut and hala trees. The ocean crashed at our front door and cliffs rose straight out of the beach on either side. On closer inspection the ground looked much too organized. Ancient Hawaiians had built level platforms, steps and walls along the beach. Wailau Valley remains undisturbed, aside from the ravages of nature. The last Hawaiian residents left over 100 years ago. Short rock walls, lo’i, snake through the valley forming terraces for growing taro, evidence of many hands working long ago. Behind the heiau where I strung my hammock a leaning stone stuck out of the ground and steps covered in fallen fronds rose mysteriously into the jungle. 

At dusk men from a camp near the river walked into the light of our fire wearing camouflage clothing with rifles slung over their shoulders. They came to tell us they were going hunting so we wouldn’t accidentally get in the way. They were hunting deer, pigs or goats. They invited us for breakfast in the morning, which was not my first thought when I saw men with guns. It was a polite invitation, but not meant to be used. We dropped off oranges and let them know we were going hiking. An exchange of food is standard peacekeeping in Polynesia, whether offered or handed over without fanfare.
Halfway into the valley we stumbled onto a swimming hole, deep and wide enough to dive in and swim laps. A gigantic, ancient koa tree clung to the steep side of the pool spreading shade over the swimming area. It must have been the playground of kings and queens. There was a feeling of privilege in a place so perfectly formed. We climbed the cliff by scrambling up the roots of the tree. On a level area overlooking the swimming hole rocks had been laid in regular patterns. In that ancient, unspoiled place I had the feeling people had lived well, but with all ancient ruins comes an undercurrent of interminable sadness for all that has been forever lost.

We found our host after a few days on a hidden branch of a trail. She had more guests that weekend than she need to help build her cabin, so it was good we had made our own camp. Also, the mosquitoes didn’t like the breezy beach quite as much as the still, damp jungle.

By the time the boat came to fetch us, our minds had slowed to the rhythm of the sun traversing the sky. We met other inhabitants of the valley and visited a hidden working taro farm, as if going back in time a thousand years. On our last morning a rainbow graced the sunrise as we packed our buckets, lighter now for having eaten most of the food. Wailau Valley is difficult to reach, which has preserved it’s wildness and ancient ruins. I left feeling reverence for hidden places with a calm mind and a full heart. Time in the valley erased anxiety with that intangible elixir only nature at its most fertile and pristine can impart.