Notes from a Fowl’s Paradise: Kauai

By Eric Lindberg

> Wailua River
> Local food
> Seal encounter
> Waimea Canyon
> Adventurous island

© Eric Lindberg

Chat with any island tourist long enough and inevitably the question comes up. "What’s with all the chickens?"

They’re everywhere. They lurk at scenic overlooks and jungle waterfalls. They prowl remote beaches and show up poolside during Mai Tai hour. Roosters shriek day and night in a cheery cacophony of crowing matches.

Kauai is a fowl’s paradise.

But the naughty birds were scarce 35 years ago when I first set foot on Kauai. Short on cash and long on time during a summer college break, my best friend and I arrived with backpacks to wander the island’s trails and beaches. Decades later I’ve returned, carrying fond memories and a few more dollars, to dig deeper into the culture as I revisit old haunts and explore new places.

It’s soon clear that wayward chickens are not the only change here since my last visit. Leaving the airport, my return to paradise begins with a plunge into rush hour in Lihue. During the traffic-snarled crawl through town there’s ample time for rubbernecking, but nothing looks familiar. Where coconut palms once crackled in the trade winds, Taco Bell, McDonald’s, and Walmart now beckon.

But on the road north toward Kapaa, traffic thins and old landmarks reappear. On the mauka (inland) side, shadowy mountains rise into a mantle of white mists. Too sheer and wet to be built on, they remain as moody and pristine as I remember them.

On the makai (seaward) side of the road, occasional strip malls and condos block the ocean view, but there are also near-deserted beaches. Glimpses of the island appear like a game of hide and seek, and I wonder whether it was naive to come searching for the past. But sometimes the past comes calling in unexpected ways.

Wailua River

In the morning I join a guided kayak trip up the Wailua River, paddling past steep mountains and grassy plateaus where parts of "Jurassic Park" were filmed. Entering a narrow channel, we tie up our boats and begin the short walk to Secret Falls. With a dozen other kayaks already here, it appears the secret is out.

Walking along the river bank, we round a bend and almost collide with a muscular, middle-aged Hawaiian man. Long gray hair cascades down his back, and tribal tattoos cover his bare chest and arms. A fish net hangs over one shoulder, and each hand clutches a big silver fish. Looking down, he hurries silently by. As I turn to watch him leave, he steps off the path and vanishes wraithlike into the jungle.

The fleeting encounter feels like a brush with ancient Hawaii. My companions are wide-eyed but nobody speaks. It’s as though we’ve just seen a spirit and no one wants to break the spell.

It’s also a hint that beneath the veneer of fast food joints, traffic jams and condos, old Kauai remains. And it comes in many shapes and flavors.

Local food

Local food reveals much about a place and its culture. Able to afford more than peanut butter and bananas this time around, I’m hungry for authentic island cuisine. And the best place to start is Hamura Saimin.

Saimin is a much-loved Hawaiian dish first concocted by immigrant workers during Hawaii’s plantation era. Wheat egg noodles are added to a simmering fish or shrimp stock, and then topped with roast pork, fish cake, spam, ham, egg, veggies, won ton or leftovers from the fridge. It’s a mainstay of island cuisine and, when done right, it’s culinary art.

Hidden down a side street in Lihue, Hamura Saimin serves a variety of simmering bowls. Tonight the gentle patois of Pidgin English fills the diner as folks drift in for dinner.

Finding an empty stool at the Formica counter, I watch through the open kitchen as several ladies chop, stir, assemble and serve. Eventually my bowl arrives brimming with veggies, meat and rich broth. The night ends with a slice of light, creamy lilikoi (passionfruit) chiffon pie. The pie alone is worth a visit.

Seal encounter

Along the wild Maha’ulepu coastline east of Poipu seabirds often outnumber tourists. This may explain my luck in stumbling across an intimate, centuries-old ritual. When I arrive at Gillin’s Beach the next morning to hike along the cliffs, an eighty-yard section of sand is roped off. Lying in seclusion at water’s edge are a Hawaiian Monk Seal and her newborn pup.

"The little guy’s only four days old, and he’s never far from mom." Dan Keyes volunteers with a seal response group that sets up temporary fences around mother and pup, answers questions and logs seal behavior. "Mothers may abandon their pups if people get too close, so we make sure everyone stays at least a hundred feet away."

The chubby black pup wriggles in the shallows as it feels the ocean for the first time. These endangered animals are found only in Hawaii, and with an estimated population of 1,200-1,500, I’m lucky to see them.

I’m also lucky to have met Dan. He can explain the mystery of the proliferating poultry.

When Hurricane Iniki blew through in 1992, it demolished chicken farms and backyard coops. The freed birds have been multiplying in the wild ever since. Kauai is mongoose-free, and without this egg-loving predator to keep the numbers in check, the feral fowl are free to roam, chase bugs and crow at 3 a.m. Some visitors are charmed. Others are just sleep-deprived.

Waimea Canyon

Along with seal-birthing beaches, Kauai is home to some of the world’s most spectacular landforms. Waimea Canyon—ten miles long, a mile wide and more than 3600 feet deep—is the largest canyon in the Pacific. And the 18-mile drive up the canyon is a journey into a moist world of swirling mists, giant ferns and rare endemic birds.

At road’s end I park and follow the trail into Alakai Swamp. The first mile follows the ridge with sweeping views along the Napali Coast thousands of feet below. Large green dragonflies hover and dart fearlessly over the abyss, riding the soft breeze streaming up from the valleys.

After a steep downhill trail the weathered boardwalk begins, plunging into a boggy rain forest of native scrub flora. Endemic apapane and amakihi birds chatter in the stunted trailside trees, oblivious to my passing.

At a junction deep in the swamp I turn toward the coast, climbing into a steaming plain of bog ponds and bonsai trees. Entering a thick tangle of moss-covered trees, the trail emerging minutes later at the Kilohana Lookout. Beyond the dizzying precipice, 4000 feet below, lies the blue Pacific.

Six of us sprawl tired and sweaty on the platform: Norwegian, German and American. We watch white-tailed tropic birds soar over emerald ridges that fall away to the ocean’s edge. Nothing below hints at the 21st century. A bag of Finnish gummy vampire bats is passed around and we sit in silence, humbled by the loveliness at our feet.

Adventurous island

With limited time, I cram too much into my remaining days. Strapped into a helicopter, I hang on for a heart-pumping ride up the Napali Coast. I go zip-lining over deep canyons above Princeville. At Kilauea Lighthouse, magnificent frigate birds and Laysan albatross patrol the skies, while spinner dolphins leap from the bay far below. And I happily indulge in island delicacies such as shave ice, teriyaki Spam musubi (think Spam sushi), and poke (raw, marinated fish and seafood).

But it’s the tropical North Shore, with its memories of jungle living and quirky non-conformists at freewheeling Taylor Camp, that I save for last.

A few miles past Hanalei, the road ends at Ke’e Beach. To the west is the Napali Coast, reached by the rugged Kalalau Trail. A few hippies still live in the remote coastal valleys, but the tree houses at Taylor Camp are long gone, replaced by a parking lot and portable toilets.

I had hoped to hike the trail once again, but a worn-out knee won’t cooperate. Instead, I join the roosters and sunset-watchers on the beach as the last ruby ribbons of light flicker into the Pacific. Returning to my car in the near-darkness, I meet men with weapons stumbling off the mountain.

Three local guys in full camouflage are returning from a three-day pig hunt. Each carries a bow, arrows and a full pack. The older guy looks fresh, but the two teenage boys are clearly beat.

I ask if they had any luck and the man’s face lights up. "No pig, but we got 60 pounds of fresh water prawns." He glances at his young companions and grins. "And guess who carryin' dem?"

These days helicopter rides, zip lines, and catamaran cruises are just a few of the more thrilling ways visitors experience Kauai. But the older, simpler island rhythms remain. A slow stroll along a remote beach or a quiet paddle up a river will reveal much. Even the roosters have a certain authentic charm.

Just don’t forget the earplugs.

Eric Lindberg is a writer and photographer based in Lakewood.

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