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It's not that I'm not a resort person. I'm just much more of a spend-all-day-exploring person. Given the choice between a pool bar and a trailhead, I'll pick 12 miles. Every single time. So when I flew to Kauai, the most remote, untamed, and only unconquered of the Hawaiian islands, it wasn't for the hotel. It was to hike the Kalalau Trail along the Nā Pali Coast, routinely ranked among the best (and most dangerous) hikes in the world. For the third time. Then I checked into 1 Hotel Hanalei Bay, and my entire travel identity got thrown into question.
It's hard to believe Kauai is just a six-hour flight from LAX. On the descent, you feel like you're approaching the end of the Earth. Or about to land in Jurassic Park, because, well, you basically are. Kauai is where the still-going-strong sci-fi dinosaur franchise was famously filmed, even though the story takes place on a fictional island off Costa Rica. And Kauai’s Nā Pali Coast, that 17-mile stretch of primeval cliffs rising out of the middle-of-nowhere Pacific, is unmistakable and, whether or not you've seen the movie, breathtaking.
But here's the thing about Kauai's North Shore: it's utterly wild. You can’t get there by car (as is 70% of the island). And it beckons you to be wild, too. Or rather, to say aloha (the goodbye version) to any plans you dare to make and to the versions of yourself you’ve outgrown. Stay with me here. Each visit to Kauai forced me to confront myself in one way or another.
In 2019, I learned the hidden danger on the way to Hanakāpīʻai Falls
I stayed in a quaint, secluded rental ringed by mountains in Wainiha Valley. Construction on the single road to Hāʻena had closed Nā Pali Coast park access to everyone except residents and people staying beyond the closure, which luckily included me and my now-husband (at the time we had been dating for six months). We rented bikes and had the coastal road to ourselves under the full moon. On the four-mile round-trip hike to Hanakāpīʻai Beach (the most trafficked stretch of the Nā Pali Coast), we passed exactly two people, then had the beach to ourselves for hours. It was so idyllic that we went back two days later for the eight-mile version, pushing on to Hanakāpīʻai Falls. This time we passed only four people, and again we had the falls to ourselves for hours. We stripped down and swam into the icy plunge pool. It felt like the Garden of Eden, and we never wanted to leave.
But leave one must, ideally with enough daylight to avoid hiking back in the dark. We overstayed our welcome and paid for it in mosquitoes and frogs. Technically, cane toads: the same invasive, poison-oozing hoppers that overran my childhood backyard in Miami. After sunset, thousands of them come out to play (i.e., breed), blanketing the rocky trail in a cacophony of croaks. With every one that hopped across my path, a wave of panic rushed through my body. By the time we reached the parking lot where our bikes were locked up, the sky had opened into a torrential downpour. And so did I.
Until that hike, I had no idea I had frog trauma. Years of running home with frog stories, only to have my parents brush off my fear, came pouring out with the rain. They were tears of purification (not hyperbolic). My partner Jason was sweet and comforting—a re-parenting moment that made me realize I was (falling) in love. Which also terrified me. But Kauai has a way of making you lean in.
Then in December 2021, I experienced the unexpected downside to Kauai’s North Shore
December is one of the North Shore’s rainiest months. That December the rain came down so relentlessly that it kept us mostly indoors, this time in a Hanalei rental a block from the beach, with feral roosters waking us up at dawn. Brutal. Cabin fever and crankiness set in fast.
Due to rain, the park had been closed for three days straight, when our hiking day finally came up dry (ish). The trail was a mud pit, and this time it wasn’t just Adam and Eve (me and Jason are Adam and Eve in this metaphor). Hundreds of hikers were sloshing along with us. A five-year-old trudging past with his parents said it best: “I hate it here!” Little guy had no idea he was in one of the most beautiful places on Earth. How could he, in the throes of Kauai’s dark side?
Of course, rain or shine, I was still determined to reach the waterfall. Then a flash flood warning came through. I wanted to push on. Jason didn’t feel good about it, so I relented, and then sulked the whole way back. We’ll come back, I told myself. We still have a few days on the island. Jason tested positive for COVID the next morning. We did not come back.
With nowhere to go, I had to go inside, literally and figuratively. When Kauai is at its best, so are you. But the opposite is also true: Kauai brings out your shadow. It turns out that when conditions don't meet my expectations and my creature comforts are stripped away, I get restless and dissatisfied. (Who knew?) Kauai was teaching me to contain my ambition and surrender control. Ironically, for reasons beyond my control, I wouldn't return until I'd truly learned that lesson, which took four and a half years. You know what they say, third time’s a charm!
My brutalist jungle luxury bunker: checking into 1 Hotel Hanalei Bay
Summer, roughly May through September, is the North Shore's peak weather season, with calmer seas and drier trails. Hurricane season starts June 1 for Hawaii, and hurricanes are also on my childhood trauma bingo card, so, knowing there was a strong El Niño in Pacific waters this year, I opted for a mid-May visit.
I'd been tracking 1 Hotel Hanalei Bay since it opened in 2023 in the shell of the former St. Regis Princeville, after a $250 million renovation. The old resort's concrete bones are still there, but it’s virtually unrecognizable (in a good way). The lobby has been blown open to the sky, its walls swapped for a tropical garden with miniature waterfalls and fire-burning planters. The best phrase I could come up with to describe the vibe is brutalist jungle luxury bunker.
Honestly, I was dubious. Princeville sits on the bluff before the Hanalei Bridge, and I'd always wanted to be past it, closer to the wild end of the road. But I figured I'd give 1 Hotel a shot. Now I don't think I'll ever come back to Kauai and stay anywhere else.
Perched above the bay, 1 Hotel feels like its own enclave, so much so that every time we left the property, we missed it. There are no rooster wake-up calls like the ones at my old rentals, no 45-minute line for an average breakfast (looking at you, Hanalei Bread Company). The water at the hotel's beach stayed clear, too, at least during my visit, even when runoff turned nearby Hanalei Beach brown and unswimmable. There's also an adults-only infinity pool and what might be the best hotel gym (by Anatomy) I've ever set foot in.
Neighbors, the hotel’s casual café, was my morning go-to: get the breakfast burrito, the banana bread, and the macadamia cookie. Plus, the matcha latte with vegan coconut cold foam is the best I've found anywhere on the North Shore (this from someone who travels with a matcha kit and is often disappointed). After three trips' worth of eating my way around the North Shore, Welina Terrace is my top dinner pick. (Though for lunch, nothing beats the supremely fresh poke at the Dolphin Fish Market in Hanalei.) Come sundown, Welina Terrace boasts jaw-dropping views and live music every single night. Go for the hamachi collar with a side of sushi rice, and wash it down with a cocktail made with herbs from the hotel's rooftop garden. During my five-night stay, I had the sesame mochi cake four times. Do with that what you will.
The stay wasn't perfect. At peak shower hours, the hot water and pressure took a serious dip. And it rained every single day, one day almost all day. But for once, the conditions were all external. My internal landscape got to rest in an ultra-comfortable bed, in a room with panoramic views of Hanalei Bay, under the best lighting of any hotel room I've ever stayed in. (Yes, we also travel with a lighting kit, dimmers included.) I was so relaxed by my environment that I barely winced when our Nā Pali hike plans got thwarted not once, or twice, but three times.
What nobody tells you about hiking the Nā Pali Coast
By now I'd learned to front-load our Nā Pali day so that if it rained, we'd have as many days as possible to rebook. Reservations for Hāʻena State Park are required and sell out fast, so book on gohaena.com as soon as you have dates. Parking passes are ideal and give you maximum flexibility to wait it out if it rains, but availability is very limited. If parking is gone, a shuttle departs from Waipā every 20 minutes from 6:20am to 12:40pm (with free parking).
When picking a shuttle departure, budget your time generously. Give the four-mile round trip to Hanakāpīʻai Beach four to five hours. Give the eight-mile round trip to the falls a full day, about eight hours, if you want it to feel spacious enough to stop for photos, lunch, and to smell the Kokiʻo (hibiscus), plus a dip at Kēʻē Beach, where the trailhead begins. To be clear: no one should be swimming at Hanakāpīʻai Beach, which, though stunningly gorgeous, is one of the most dangerous in the world. And bring two liters of water per person and waterproof hiking shoes.
A trio of girls rocking Converse and half-liter water bottles was not having a good time on the hike back. Lucky for them, we had a bit of water to spare.
Lucky for us, we managed to get back to the trail before our 2026 trip ended. When we arrived at the trailhead, it wasn't totally dry, but it was a far cry from the muddy hellscape years earlier. At Hanakāpīʻai Beach, I checked myself. Pushing on to the falls would have been mind over body, and I didn't need to hit that goal. I also didn't need to swim at a beach where somewhere between 30 and 100 people have drowned (depending on who's counting), even though plenty of people were doing it. Ambition had been contained! Almost…
Why you should skip the island helicopter tour
My ego was convinced that a helicopter tour was the “best” way to write a story about Kauai. The only problem: I’m terrified of flying. Shouldn’t I face my fear of helicopters the way I’d faced the frogs and my loss of control? I asked the universe for a sign and got one at Vitality Kauaʻi, 1 Hotel’s in-house medical wellness outpost, where you can book everything from IV drips to DEXA body scans without leaving the property. There, hooked up to my very first IV (facing yet another fear: needles), I got to chatting with my nurse, a Kauai native. She told me she refuses to ride the local helicopters anymore. Kauai’s air tours have claimed more lives than those on any other Hawaiian island. More lives than Hanakāpīʻai Beach. Sometimes facing your fear means learning when to listen to it.
Luckily, there’s another way to see the Nā Pali Coast: by boat. Book the earliest departure, when the seas are usually calmest. It’s at the top of my list for my next visit to Kauai, along with snorkeling at Anini Beach, home to one of Hawaii’s largest fringing reefs, and walking distance from 1 Hotel. Will I get to it? Maybe. Maybe not.
Have I entered my resort era? Why I’ll never stay anywhere else in Kauai.
Kauai forced me to slow down and sink into deeper rest. For a lifelong overachiever who measures a trip in miles, that's more challenging than any trail (and I've hiked Maui’s Haleakalā, Sicily’s Mount Etna, and Japan’s Kumano Kodo). Doing absolutely nothing feels lazy. It feels indulgent. But indulge I did. I curled up on a beach bed with a good book. I took beach naps. I took real naps. I did a whole lot of nothing. And I felt damn good about it.