Chapter 13
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 carved into 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.
“Another twenty 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 from not 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 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 is my brand!”
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.
The trail continues its assault on human agility and appropriate footwear.
Stream crossings require leaping between slippery stones that clearly enjoy watching tourists question their medical coverage, while steep sections make you understand why some people choose careers that don’t require leaving air-conditioned buildings.
Red mud covers everything like it has a personal vendetta against clean clothing. My hair has achieved a texture that resembles steel wool, while my clothes have that red dirt look that tourists pay a mint for in all the local shops.
“Never again,” Lani declares as the mud claims what might be her last remaining shoe. “The next time anyone suggests adventure tourism, I’m suggesting they adventure themselves to the nearest exit.”
Forty-five minutes later, the guide’s twenty-minute warning, it seems, was calculated using advanced mathematical formulas involving wishful thinking and the delusions of tourists—our bedraggled group finally reaches the Secret Falls.
And what glorious falls they are.
I think I can hear a choir of angels singing—which is impressive given how loudly my calves are screaming.
The waterfall is legitimately spectacular, which makes me forgive the trail from hell and understand why people risk life and limb, and perfectly good footwear to visit this stunning destination.
A thirty-foot cascade of crystal-clear water tumbles into a natural pool surrounded by an emerald jungle so beautiful it looks too perfect to be real.
The entire lot of us stagger forward, oohing and ahhing, looking like we’ve been attacked by a red dirt monster with personal vendettas—hair plastered down, clothes stained beyond recognition, and shoes, for those who still have them, caked with enough mud to start our own pottery business.
Despite our disheveled state, the group begins entering the water without hesitation as if we’ve crossed the finish line in the dirtiest race ever. The blue pool is blissfully cool and clear, washing away approximately half the evidence of our hiking catastrophe.
Erwin and Candy decide that nearly dying on a jungle trail is tantamount to couples therapy, because they’re suddenly all over each other as they swim toward the waterfall for romantic reconciliation. The near-death experience has either bonded them or made them both temporarily insane.
“And finally, we see love conquering adversity,” Della continues narrating while somehow keeping her camera equipment dry. “Nothing says romance like surviving a tropical hike together.”
Candy positions herself under the falls for what’s clearly intended to be the perfect social media shot with her hair flowing and her makeup intact. Unfortunately, the waterfall has different plans.
Within seconds, Candy is sucked into the flow, and the water pressure proves more powerful than industrial-strength hair products.
Candy’s carefully styled blonde locks get absolutely demolished, falling across her face like wet seaweed that’s given up on life.
Her makeup runs in colorful streams that gives her a clownish appeal, creating a look that’s more drowned mermaid than tropical influencer.
Erwin plucks her out of the fray, and she emerges coughing and sputtering, looking like she’s been attacked by a stylist with some serious anger management issues.
“Don’t worry, Candy,” Della shouts. “You’ve got some serious island goddess vibes happening!
” she announces with the dedication of a documentarian willing to spin a disaster into positive content.
She really is good at this, I’ll give her that.
“You’re just embracing the natural beauty of Hawaiian waterfalls! ”
Candy stares at her reflection in the pool water, and once she realizes this is something her ring light can’t fix, she belts out a hearty scream.
I nod to Lani and Ruby. “Honestly? Her follower count might actually increase because of this.”
While everyone recovers from their hiking ordeal in the cool, sparkling waters, I realize this is the perfect opportunity for strategic information gathering.
Guards are down, energy is depleted, and Candy might need some serious emotional support after discovering that nature doesn’t care about her personal brand.
“This is my chance,” I whisper to Ruby and Lani as we recover on the rocks surrounding the pool.
“Your chance for what?” Ruby asks, wringing out her hair like a tropical mop with attitude problems.
“To make my move,” I say, eyeing the scattered wedding party like an amateur sleuth spotting opportunity in chaos. “Everyone is exhausted, emotionally vulnerable, and Candy looks as if she’s cursing every decision that led to this hair catastrophe.”
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” Lani says as she shoves me in the direction of the wedding party.
Time to see what secrets a waterfall can wash out of people when their defenses are as demolished as their hairstyles.