[Featured image description: Text on a photo. Centered text in strong font: Create Accessible Outdoor Content. Text below in a light blue box: Digital Accessibility Tips for Outdoor Content Creators. Black and white photo of a person standing on a mountain with sky full of stars curving above.] The outdoor community loves to share our adventures by posting photos and videos of the beautiful places we visit and writing articles and stories about the outdoors. But as you are hopefully already aware, outdoor recreation remains highly inaccessible for disabled people. This is particularly true for people with sensory disabilities – there are very few resources and facilities that are accessible for people who are Blind or low vision, Deaf or hard of hearing, autistic, or a have sensory disability. This inequity continues online when digital content is not made accessible. Disabled people are thus prevented from enjoying the outdoors and from enjoying content about the outdoors. But you can help change that! Making your outdoor content accessible takes a little extra time, but it pays off by increasing your reach. Approximately 10 million Americans are Blind or low vision, and 11 million are Deaf or hard of hearing. The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) celebrates its 30th anniversary this year, and digital accessibility is becoming standard practice. Now is the time for you to learn the skills to make your content accessible. There are several forms of digital accessibility depending on the media. For photos and graphics, you need to use alt-text and image descriptions. For video, you need to use audio description, captions, and a transcript. For audio you need to provide a transcript. There are additional things to keep in mind when creating online content: Avoid acronyms. Screen readers may not read them accurately. If you need to use an acronym, also spell it out completely. CamelCase your hashtags by capitalizing the first letter in each word. This makes it easier to read. For example: #DisabledPeopleHikeToo not #disabledpeoplehiketoo Don’t sprinkle your post with hashtags and mentions. Include them at the end of the post only. Use descriptive text for hyperlinks. Do not hyperlink text that says simply “read more” or “click here” – a screen reader won’t tell the user where the link goes. See the links in the post for examples. Avoid flashing or blinking elements – they can trigger seizures, migraines, vertigo, or other sensory issues. Use high-contrasting colors in graphics. Make sure your graphics aren’t too “busy.” Image Descriptions or Alt Text: which one do I use? The short answer is: you should use both alt-text and image descriptions in your outdoor content. Alt-text is text that is displayed in place of an image. Screen readers read this text aloud. Some social media platforms and websites create automatic alt-text, but they are seldom accurate and are only a couple of words. For example, a photo of a person on the beach at sunset may only display “nature, person” in the alt-text. Does that accurately represent the intent of your photo? You can also benefit from including alt-text in your photos. Alt-text is hard-coded into your image and is used by search engines to understand your photo. Alt-text can significantly improve your search engine optimization (SEO). Alt-text should always be created so that people who use screen readers can quickly understand what is in your photo. Image descriptions are an opportunity to provide a fuller explanation of your photo or graphic. They make content more accessible for people who use screen readers and people who don’t. For example, someone with low vision may be able to see the overall photo, but miss out on details or text. Someone who processes sensory input slowly or becomes overwhelmed with lots of imagery can read an image description to understand a graphic. Using an image description and alt-text helps make your content accessible to a variety of users. Below are some tips on creating alt-text, image descriptions, audio descriptions, and captions for your content. Alt Text Alt-text should be short, no longer than 125 characters. Provide a quick overview of the most important things in the photo. If your image is primarily text, write Text: and a brief summary. Always transcribe the full text in the image description. Examples of Alt Text A clear blue stream flows through a narrow canyon. A couple using an assisted wheelchair bike. A river and bridge in the background. Text: The Disabled Hikers Guide. A groundbreaking book. Support the project on Indiegogo. How to Create Alt Text Creating Alt-Text on Instagram: On the screen where you write the caption, look below the sharing options and click Advanced Settings. Under Accessibility, click Write Alt Text. Input your text in the field and click Save. Creating Alt-Text on Facebook (desktop): Select the photo you want to upload. Click Edit Photo (a pencil icon). On the bottom left is an option for Alt Text. Click override generated alt text. Enter your text in the box. Creating Alt-Text on Facebook (app): After you upload your post, click the three vertical dots at the upper right. Tap edit alt text. Enter text in the box. Creating Alt-Text on a Website: This varies depending on the platform. For my version of WordPress, on the Media page I select the image and click Edit. There are fields for a caption, alt text, and description. Image Descriptions Image descriptions should be longer than the alt-text, ideally about 275 characters, and provide more details for the photo. It should appear in the caption of your photos on social media or below the image on the web. If you do not have enough room in the caption on social media, you can place them in the comments but that can make it more difficult for someone to find. Always identify that an image description is available in the comments. For example: [Image description in comments]. For posts containing multiple images, number each image description. An image description should start with the most important elements of the image. When writing an image description, include the following: The type of image: a photo, graphic, drawing, etc. Position of objects and text Surroundings and scenery Emotions or mood of photo Description of people. Include names, clothing, and other identifying features as applicable. If you know their race and gender, identify them appropriately. If you do not know their race and gender, identify skin tone but do not assume gender – stick to describing features as appropriate. Colors – name the color but do not describe it. Things to avoid in an image description: Emojis Excessive punctuation Obvious details or details that are not relevant to the photo Examples of Image Descriptions The rectangular photo captures the scene at an angle. Aqua blue water flows between a moss covered cliff on one side and rounded rocks on the other. There is a small waterfall in the background. Photo of a smiling couple using an assisted wheelchair bike They are posing in front of a river with a bridge in the background. It is a sunny day and they are stopped in the shade. Andrea is wearing a bright yellow shirt and helmet and stands behind the bike. Ryan is wearing a red shirt and helmet and sits in the front bike chair. Graphic with text on a background photo. White text in a green box at the top reads The Disabled Hikers Guide. Text below: a groundbreaking book bringing diverse disability representation to the outdoors. Support the project on Indiegogo. URL: igg.me/at/disabledhikers. URL in green box below: http://www.DisabledHikers.com. Background photo of mountains rising above a beach with clear blue water. Audio Descriptions Audio descriptions make videos accessible for people who are blind or low vision, or have a sensory disability that affects their ability to comfortably watch a video. Audio descriptions are an audio track provided by a narrator who describes the important actions in a video as they occur. It can be challenging to get audio descriptions right. If you produce a lot of video content, you should definitely work with an expert and people from the blind or low vision community to make sure you are doing it right. It is a skill, and like any other you will become proficient with practice. Captions Captions are text displayed on screen in real time. Captions are not the same thing as subtitles, which only transcribe speech. Captions transcribe all relevant audio in a video, including speech, inflections, and other sounds. For example, a person telling a story around a campfire while others laugh may be captioned: [a crackling campfire and owls hooting] [Syren in an ominous voice: “it was a dark and stormy night”] [Friends: laughter]. Writing good captions takes practice. It is fairly easy to include captions on video streaming services like YouTube, Vimeo, and Facebook. Many services provide auto-generated captions but they are seldom accurate. There are also paid captioning services who will caption videos for you. Transcripts Transcripts provide a written version of a video. They are also necessary for audio interviews. Transcripts make content accessible to a wide variety of users, including people who are d/Deaf, blind, or can’t view video due to technical or other accessibility issues. They are also helpful for quickly reviewing and searching a video’s content. Transcripts should include all speech and on-screen text as well as any other important details that would be missed by not viewing the video. They must be published in an accessible format, such as a .doc, .txt, or .html. Do not publish transcripts as a PDF because many screen readers can not read text in a PDF. You can upload your transcript to the cloud and provide a link. Advocating for Digital Accessibility If you work in content creation, journalism, or social media, you can help advocate for more digital accessibility in the field. Feel free to share this or any of the additional resources below. But one final thing to keep in mind: some disabled folks are unable to provide digital accessibility. As more people advocate for digital accessibility, it is important that we not make assumptions about ability. If someone is not providing image descriptions, for example, offer to write them. Disabled creators can also ask for someone to write image descriptions for them. Additional Resources For an example of an audio described, captioned video with transcript, check out my Access Nature video with Rooted in Rights. Rooted in Rights provides a series of training videos on creating accessible content. Rooted in Rights also has a great overview of media accessibility with additional links at AccessThat: Digital Accessibility Basics Check out CorpsTHAT for deaf outdoor professionals and resources. Nature for the Blind provides resources on outdoor access and Braille trails. If you found this post useful, please make a tax deductible donation to www.givebutter.com/DisabledHikers2024

Written by: Meg Max Content notes: grief, loss of parent, anxiety, depression, ADHD Because I have anxiety, exploring new trails can be hard. Usually, I walk in the local woods, my dog and I both moving at a pace that befits our middle-aged bodies. She sniffs, I stare. I pick up things that interest me, and bring them home to make art or line the windowsills of my studio. I follow animal tracks, climb trees to peek into nests and discover trails that were passable in winter have turned into marshlands come spring. Hikes hold exactly the right kind of surprises; enough stimulation that they’re interesting without overwhelming. Although I’d had long standing diagnoses of anxiety and depression, my ADHD wasn’t flagged until I was in my late 30’s and burnt out. I’d spent my life hiding how difficult I found “simple tasks,” how exhausting I found small talk, and how much I missed when people were talking to me. Learning I was neurodivergent offered a new lens to view my life through. Suddenly, my overwhelm in big box stores, movie theaters, parking garages and other spots most folks seemed to move through without issue made so much sense. It also added another layer to the healing I had to do. As a kid, I loved being outdoors. I walked and walked and walked down the defunct railway tracks near my home. I collected rocks. I poked at the dirt with sticks and lost my rubber boot in the spring mud while trying to pick flowers in a ditch. At night, when I was afraid to fall asleep, I’d lie in bed and imagine drifting off in the middle of a giant pink flower, stars overhead, the petals closing over me as I rested. The outdoors have always been a place of solace and comfort. In the past few years, as I’ve navigated my burnout, processed the death of both of my parents, and learnt how to actually feel my emotions, I spent hours and hours and hours hiking through the woods near my home. At first, I hiked those trails with podcasts blaring, so I didn't have to think. I stomped. I walked as fast as I could. I was so restless I could keep moving for hours. Over time, my hikes have changed. Not in location but in intention. ADHDers are constantly pushed towards mindfulness practices. I hate meditating. It feels absolutely antithetical to the way my brain naturally works, and I chafe against the idea that my mind is an unruly thing that needs to be corralled. But hiking lets me keep moving, and still slow down. I started crying while I walked. I counted my breaths, noticed the way my feet felt on the trail, the smells and sounds and sunshine. Sometimes, I stopped and stared. Hiking became a way to calm my mind without calling it mindfulness. I unintentionally started paying attention. Being in the same woods almost daily has also allowed me to tap into nature as a way of noting the passage of time. I try to hike on the full moons and the new moons. I note the signs that the seasons are changing. I notice how I’m changing, too. Since my safe spaces are art and hiking, it seemed inevitable that nature would become a part of my art practice. My writing has long been an exploration of what it means to be wild. Beyond writing, art-making has become an enormous part of my emotional processing and a way I feel safe exploring my feelings as a person who was not especially well resourced to deal with the depth of my emotions. Living with anxiety, depression and ADHD is a constant dance between rest and movement, under stimulation and overwhelm, being afraid to do new things and needing novelty so my brain doesn’t shut off. Hiking is a way to balance these many needs. Hiking, and art, are where I’ve never been too sensitive, too loud, too excited. Where my magpie inclination to fill my pockets with treasures is welcome. Where there are no fluorescent lights or muzak making my heart pound with irritation. Where nothing feels uncomfortable or dangerous. Where I can sit and build tiny homes for my sadness to live in, or plot my next story, or just get in touch with what’s happening in my head. I take myself hiking so I can move, and make, and feel, safely. So many people are afraid of the woods. Wild animals, strangers on the path, poison ivy, cliff edges. But, the only time I’ve been afraid to go hiking was after my mom died in February. I knew the woods were where my grief was waiting. I avoided writing or making art until a month after her death, when I turned an empty mint tin into a tiny altar to my sadness. It wound up looking like a pocket-sized forest. My heart knows where it belongs, even when the rest of me wants to hide. The woods, first the ones near my childhood home, now the ones near the house we bought over a decade ago, and slowly, the ones I hike in as I move both into and outside my comfort zone, are where I feel the most at home. Bio: Meg Max is a writer and artist living on the stolen land of the Algonquin Anishinaabe Nation. She's most comfortable surrounded by art and/or trees. She is the founder of Writers in Bloom, where she hosts writing workshops and creative care practices centering and celebrating mad, neurodivergent and chronically ill folks. @writersinbloom www.writersinbloom.com

Eco-Crip Theory bridges disability and environmental studies. This is a growing list of resources about eco-crip theory, eco-crip politics, eco-ableism, environmental justice, and other ecological and place-based resources that center Disabled experiences. Books Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities: Toward an Eco-Crip Theory edited and with an introduction by Sarah Jaquette Ray and Jay Sibara. Designed as a reader for undergraduate and graduate courses, Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities employs interdisciplinary perspectives to examine such issues as slow violence, imperialism, race, toxicity, eco-sickness, the body in environmental justice, ableism, and other topics. Feminist, Queer, Crip by Alison Kafer. Challenging the ways in which ideas about the future and time have been deployed in the service of compulsory able-bodiedness and able-mindedness, Kafer rejects the idea of disability as a pre-determined limit. She juxtaposes theories, movements, and identities such as environmental justice, reproductive justice, cyborg theory, transgender politics, and disability that are typically discussed in isolation and envisions new possibilities for crip futures and feminist/queer/crip alliances. Exile and Pride: Disability, Queerness, and Liberation by Eli Clare explores environmental destruction and capitalism, sexuality and institutional violence, gender and the body politic. Essays weave together memoir, history, and political thinking to explore meanings and experiences of home. Beasts of Burden: Animal and Disability Liberation by Sunaura Taylor. Beasts of Burden suggests that issues of disability and animal justice—which have heretofore primarily been presented in opposition—are in fact deeply entangled. Fusing philosophy, memoir, science, and the radical truths these disciplines can bring—whether about factory farming, disability oppression, or our assumptions of human superiority over animals—Taylor draws attention to new worlds of experience and empathy that can open up important avenues of solidarity across species and ability. Academic Articles Risking Bodies in the Wild: The “Corporeal Unconscious” of American Adventure Culture by Sarah Jaquette Ray, appears in Disability Studies and the Environmental Humanities. By examining adventure culture through disability studies, this article exposes the relationship between environmentalism and ableism. It argues that disability is the category of “otherness” against which both environmentalism and adventure have been shaped and revises environmental thought to include all kinds of bodies. Bodies in Nature: The Environmental Politics of Disability By Alison Kafer, appears in Feminist, Queer, Crip. PDF shared with permission of the author. This article explores how might we begin to read disability into formations of “nature” and “wilderness” and how compulsorily able-bodiedness/able-mindedness shaped not only the environments of our lives—both buildings and parks—but our very understandings of the environment itself? The author explores a cripped environmentalism that looks to disabled bodies/minds as a resource in thinking about future nature differently. (De)constructing Nature and Disability Through Place: Towards an Eco-Crip Politic by Jenne Schmidt. PDF shared with permission of the author. This dissertation project examines the intersections of environmental and critical disability studies, to imagine new ways of understanding disability and environmentalism as coalitional. Disabling Bodies of/and Land: Reframing Disability Justice in Conversation with Indigenous Theory and Activism by Kelsey Dale John and Laura J Jaffee. A central claim of this paper is that the disablement of the Earth-through practices of settler colonialism largely ignored within disability studies-is disabling to Indigenous’ ontology and, concomitantly, Indigenous communities. [The authors] suggest that Indigenous ontology -specifically relationships to land – challenges disability theory at the epistemological level by rejecting the taken-for-granted dualism between the environment and (dis/abled) humans within (settler) disability studies. Articles, Blogs, Poetry Conservation, Eco-ableism, and Reclaiming Limitations by Syren Nagakyrie. Syren discusses the role of ableism in conservation, how access to the outdoors is intentionally limited, and why reclaiming limitations can shift perspectives on disability and the environment. Crip Ecologies: Complicate the Conversation to Reclaim Power by Naomi Ortiz. This article muses on Crip ecologies as the messy, diverse, and profoundly beautiful ecosystems which exist for disabled people. Journals, Magazines, and Zines Orion Magazine, Bodies of Nature Winter 2021. This issue gathers a selection of writers and artists whose experiences broaden our understanding of sickness and disability, to foster a conversation among them about how the body informs our perception of and engagement with our surroundings. Videos and Presentations Claiming Connection: Cultivating Relationship with Place as Disabled Artists This panel discussion between Syren Nagakyrie, Naomi Ortiz, Galadriel Mozee, and Denise Vasquez crips the conversation about art, landscape, and connection with place.

I partnered with Visit Idaho to create several accessible hiking guides for the Boise area. I had a wonderful trip to the region, and was really taken with the beauty and ecological diversity of southwest Idaho. Here are a few of my favorite accessible trip ideas near Boise for disabled outdoor lovers. Take a Scenic Drive Idaho is home to 31 Scenic Byways, and six of them start near Boise! These routes offer stunning views without ever leaving the car, and often pass through historic towns and other cultural sites. For a fantastic day trip, I recommend driving the three byway scenic loop. It includes a part of the Payette River Scenic Byway, the Wildlife Canyon Scenic Byway, and a part of the Ponderosa Pine Scenic Byway. This loop offers a little bit of everything that is wonderful about this area – rushing rivers, towering canyons, snow-capped mountains, forests, open sagebrush, and of course lots of wildlife. Plan on at least 4-6 hours, but you could easily take all day to really enjoy the experience. The entire route is paved two lane highway with passing lanes and pullouts. It is curvy in some areas, but there aren’t any unprotected or scary drop offs, so it should be a fairly comfortable ride. Fuel and food is available in the towns along the way, but accessibility is hit or miss, so you may want to fuel up and pack a picnic before you leave Boise. You can follow the loop in either direction, but I started at the Payette River Scenic Byway. From Boise, head west on State St / Idaho 44 to Idaho 55 and turn right (north). Start your trip odometer once you turn onto Idaho 55. The first overlook you pass on the left is the Bread Rock Overlook (mile 14). It provides a view of the rolling foothills (the rock for which it is named is difficult to spot – I never found it). It is a dangerous turn though, so you may want to pass it by and continue your drive through the foothills. Rapids on the S. Fork Payette River as seen from one of the pull-outs along the Byway You cross the Payette River as you enter the town of Horseshoe Bend. The Byway continues to follow the river, with places to stop and take in the views. At mile 32, you pass the Banks Beach Picnic Area on the left. The parking is at a pullout along the road, and it is a steep walk down to the picnic area, but there is river access and a swimming beach. There is a vault toilet by the parking area. It is a very popular spot in the summer and can be congested – be cautious as you drive through this area. Continue another mile to the town of Banks, and turn right onto Banks-Lowman Rd. This is the beginning of the Wildlife Canyon Scenic Byway. There is a large gravel pull-out on the right with a sign and a view of the river, but the best views are up ahead where you can pull over right next to the rapids on the S. Fork Payette River. It is a nice place to stretch your legs with a short walk along the river’s rocky bank. The Wildlife Canyon Byway lives up to its name – it continues through a stunning canyon, with the river rushing below you and towering mountains on either side. There are a number of campgrounds along the way, but none of them are accessible. There is an accessible wildlife viewing station at a pullout at about the midpoint on the route though. There are interpretive signs and viewing scopes, one of which you can use while sitting down. The wildlife viewing point on the Wildlife Canyon Scenic Byway The Wildlife Canyon Byway ends at the Ponderosa Pine Scenic Byway, where you turn right (south) to heads back towards Boise. I recommend a short detour north towards Stanley. The byway quickly rises into the mountains, passing between two wilderness areas with incredible views along the way. There are a few overlooks to stop and take it all in, but make sure you get to the Park Creek Overlook located on the right just before you reach Stanley. There is a picnic table and a vault toilet at this paved parking area. The Sawtooth Mountains tower above the valley, and you may see Pronghorn Antelope and other wildlife. Head south on the Ponderosa Scenic Byway. There are many recreation sites along this route, but other than wildlife viewing from your vehicle, there aren’t many accessible recreation opportunities. It is still a beautiful drive as it passes through vast areas of national forest, squeezing between mountains on a curvy two-lane highway. It ends at Lucky Peak State Park, which is a wonderful place to stop before returning to Boise. Both the Sandy Point unit and Discovery Park unit have picnic tables, restrooms, and other accessible amenities, and provide access to the Boise River Greenbelt. Sandy Point has a paved path along the lake. An entrance fee or state park pass is required at both locations. Visit the Ribbon of Jewels The city of Boise is home to over 90 parks, and Boise Parks and Recreation has done a lot of work to make the parks accessible for all. This is especially apparent on the Ribbon of Jewels. These nine parks are all linked by the Boise River Greenbelt – the “ribbon” joining these precious parks named for women who have made significant contributions to the Boise community. Combined with the eleven other parks along the greenbelt, it is truly a “choose your own adventure” experience! My personal favorite on the Ribbon of Jewels might be Kathryn Albertson Park. This 41 acre park near downtown Boise is truly a refuge. Designed as a haven for wildlife in the city, it is a wonderful spot for quiet, sensory-friendly enjoyment of the natural surroundings. The park is part of the Idaho Birding Trail and is home to over 100 bird species, including Belted Kingfisher, Bohemian Waxwing, and Hooded Merganser. The park features paved sidewalks throughout, several viewing decks, and reservable pavilions. Restrooms and water fountains are also available. Kathryn Albertson Park. A paved path leads over a bridge, surrounded by green and flowering trees I also loved the section of the Boise River Greenbelt that begins at the Willow Lane Park and Athletic Complex, travels through the Veterans Memorial Park, and ends at Esther Simplot Park – another of the crown jewels of this park system. It follows the north side of the Boise River, and at two miles one way it makes for a nice outing, or you could break it up into sections by starting at any of the parks on the route. The entire route is level and paved except for the last part as you approach Esther Simplot Park where it is hard packed gravel. There are lots of places to enjoy the river, including some spots to get down to the river bank. It is a busy route, so don’t expect to be entirely alone, but it doesn’t feel like you are in the city.s Hike the Foothills – on foot or on wheels! There are eight reserves in the Boise Foothills, offering easy access to hundreds of acres of natural space to enjoy. While all of the trails are somewhat rugged, there are many options that are generally flat and relatively accessible for adaptive bikers and hikers. The Oregon Trail Reserve is a particularly interesting place. The loop trail through the reserve is flat, but it may difficult for wheelchair users due to large, loose gravel and some spots that are pinched by grass and sagebrush. The reserve sits on the rim above the Boise River, with views of the basalt cliffs, Boise Front, and historic sites of the Oregon Trail. There are a few overlooks with interpretive signs about the Indigenous people of the area, the arrival of settlers, and the history of the Oregon Trail. Walking through the sagebrush and wildflowers, and feeling the wind as it moves across the valley is an unforgettable multisensory experience. The Rim Trail at Oregon Trail Reserve. A gravel trail is surrounded by sagebrush and grass. The Boise River Canyon is in the distance. Another spot I really enjoyed is the Harrison Hollow trail. This 1.5 mile out and back trail allows off-leash dogs – which is great to exercise your pup without overexerting yourself – and gains about 100 feet in elevation. It is entirely exposed and there are no places to sit, so bring plenty of water and something to rest on if you need to (there is an accessible water fountain at the trailhead as well). The trail is surrounded by hills on three sides, with a lovely view of Boise and the mountains to the south. It is just one of those spots that I could see returning to regularly – and locals seem to agree! Bonus Trip: Visit the Snake River If you have time for more adventures, I highly recommend a day trip out to the Snake River. There are several easily accessible locations where you can appreciate wildlife, learn more about the history of the area, and enjoy scenic views of the stunning Snake River canyon. Deer Flat Wildlife Refuge offers accessible birding and wildlife opportunities along Lake Lowell, including a 2.4 mile paved trail that travels through sagebrush uplands to a birding blind and an observation deck. The Snake River Birds of Prey National Conservation Area features a 60-mile scenic drive, views of the canyon from Dedication Point, and accessible picnicking along the river at Swan Falls Dam. Snake River Canyon with the Owyhee Mountains in the distance. Learn More about the Indigenous Peoples The ancestral lands of the Northern Shoshone and Northern Paiute encompass much of present-day Idaho, eastern Oregon, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, and Montana. Northern Paiutes became known as the Bannocks when they moved into southern Idaho in the 1600s, and began traveling with the Shoshones. The Shoshones and Bannocks signed the Fort Bridger Treaty and were moved to the Fort Hall Reservation. 1.8 million acres were originally set aside for the tribes, but it was reduced to a little over 520,000 acres through survey errors, legislation, and allotments. The Shoshone-Bannock Tribes contribute $400 million to the local economy every year. The Upper Snake River Tribes Foundation, which includes the Burns Paiute Tribe, Fort McDermitt Paiute-Shoshone Tribe, Shoshone-Paiute Tribes, and Shoshone-Bannock Tribes, works to protect the rights of the Tribes, address climate change, and restore lands in the Snake River Basin.

written by Andrea and Ryan My partner Ryan and I recently stayed at an accessible cabin in Blue Mound State Park. Both of us enjoy the outdoors and love to camp when we can. Unfortunately, we were quite busy with life stuff this summer and didn’t get to go camping. Ryan had Power Soccer practice in Madison, WI on a Sunday so we thought it would be a perfect time to try out the accessible cabin at Blue Mounds State Park. There are two accessible rustic cabins available to rent in the Wisconsin State Park System. One is at Copper Falls State Park (We highly recommend!!!-stay tuned for another blog post) and one in Blue Mound State Park. Additionally, there are other properties with larger accessible cabins designed for groups of more than 4 people. The cabins are only available from May-October and you need to complete a request form. For more information check out https://dnr.wi.gov/topic/parks/camping/cabin.html. A little bit about the Blue Mound State Park Blue Mound State Park is located about 40 minutes west of Madison, WI and has a pool, mountain bike and hiking trails, a campground, and a decent sized picnic area with a view of the surrounding area. The state park is the highest point in the region, with unique geologic features on the ancestral lands of the Miami, Sauk, Meskwaki, and Ho-Chunk peoples. The park itself is somewhat accessible; there are two paved accessible camper/tent sites in addition to the cabin. And the pool, when in season, looks to be accessible with a lift into the pool and ample accessible parking in the lot adjacent to it. To my knowledge, there are not any ADA accessible trails, however, Ryan uses a power wheelchair so we went off road on wide mowed trails. He did get stuck in the mud/soft spots a few times, but for us that is a part of the adventure of being outside! The Accessible Cabin The cabin is located in the heart of the campground, right next to the shower building. There is a locked, accessible gender neutral shower and bathroom with a large bench to change/sit on and a shower bench. There is a paved driveway for easy parking with an accessible vehicle. The rest of the campsite is a crushed rock surface, which could be a hassle for people who use manual chairs for mobility. There is a tent pad for one tent behind the cabin and there is an accessible picnic table. If you wanted or needed to move the table you probably could ask the campground host or park ranger for assistance. Contact numbers for park personnel and local hospitals are listed on the wall in the cabin. Outside the cabin, there was a small porch with a plastic chair and an outlet. The cabin has electricity with a lot of outlets, and a ceiling fan with a light (both have dimmer switches). That was perfect, since Ryan likes to sleep with a fan on and at night you don’t need to brighten the room to 100 (am I right?!). There was a bunk bed with thin mats on it, with a double-size platform with 4 thicker mats (think phys. ed.). We brought extra sleeping pads in preparation, but we ended up just sleeping on the double bed with our respective sleeping bags. There were two additional plastic chairs and a table which were next to the wall. The cabin also has three windows, which we left open at night. Ryan and I checked in a little late on Saturday, so we made a fire right away before I cooked dinner of brats and veggies. The fire pit has raised sides with a grill you can flip over the top, to create a stable raised cooking surface. We were surrounded by campsites on all sides, however there was enough understory to give us some visual privacy. Unfortunately, not noise privacy. One campsite was blaring a classic rock party playlist and the other “Today’s Country Party Mix.” All in all, everyone settled down by about 9 pm. Our experience was great. Everything went smooth and easy compared to our usual tent camping experience, which involves a lot more work and preparation.Sitting around the fire, talking or not, and just being in nature is one of my fondest memories of this trip. Over breakfast on Sunday morning, we chatted about how we could build an accessible “tiny house” or rustic cabin of our own and live in the woods. It is our collective dream to live in a cabin or a van, but you know how life goes. Maybe we will have to stay longer than a night to test it out. About Andrea and Ryan Andrea and Ryan were born and raised in Wisconsin. They have been together for close to a decade and enjoy bird watching, camping, hiking, drinking coffee, and cheering on Wisconsin sports teams together (Go Brewers!). Andrea is a Certified Therapeutic Recreation Specialist and the Inclusion Program Coordinator for WisCorps Inc. Ryan is a Receptionist Lead and Support Team Member for Smith.ai. They live with their bird Holly, and service dog Wally in southwest Wisconsin. Follow their adventures on Instagram.

written by Haley Diaz Content Notes: chronic pain, hiking, accessibility, ableism, quarantine I am a person who currently spends a lot of her life in unmanaged pain. When you’re experiencing pain like that, an hour in sunlight and wind and leaves is powerful stuff. Even when my pain wasn’t this severe or consistent, a day in open space after weeks or months of being restricted and cautious was almost magic. I know that means something different to a lot of people right now. There are two parts to this. First, I believe that nature is medicine. But so are all the pharmaceutical bells and whistles. My life relies on supplies. Sterile, single-use packaging. Medication and ice packs and creams and salves. I am so grateful to have those things (especially now). But it doesn’t make the task of packing my gear any easier; I know that if I forget one single item it means the day is over. The fact is, I can’t pop out for a quick walk through the woods. I can’t simply escape into nature for a bit when things feel constrictive. And that leads to the second point, that many of the parks that I loved before I got sick are inaccessible to me now. Whether or not I remember to pack the right meds, whether or not they are closed to visitors or too full to be safe, I cannot see those beautiful places. If I have a “good day” and I want to escape into the woods, it takes level paths, well-maintained trails, and easy grades. I need nearby parking and accessible bathrooms. Benches too, please. What’s complicated about access is that it doesn’t mean just one thing. My list is not the list of every disabled person. People tend to ignore that when we talk about access. Different disabled people need different things. Braille. Sign language interpretation. Large print. Loaner wheelchairs. Guides. Cement walkways. Ramps. Hand rails. There is no disabled monolith. But what we all need (and what seems most rare of all) is information about where to find the stuff we need — or whether it’s available in the first place. And yet conversations about disabled hiking often assume that access means wheelchair access. So, they turn to the idea that disabled people want to pave the wilderness. Non-disabled hikers ask, full of bristle and outrage, how I expect to balance my niche needs with the needs of the many to access untouched majesty. Partly, it is a misunderstanding (that I can only call intentional) of how much white people have already touched this land. Partly, it is a belief that disabled people are a stark, teeny minority and not at least twenty percent of the population. If the conversation isn’t battling strawmen who threaten to pave paradise to put in accessible parking, it’s a conversation about tricked out wheelchairs that can climb steep hills or go up the stairs. And while having the right tools is a beautiful thing, it matters that the cost of one of those chairs could fund a more accessible trail that far more disabled people could enjoy. Suggesting that I (or any other disabled person) just need to do x, y, and z (Start A Go Fund Me! Talk To This Very Nice Non Profit Run By Ableds Who Want To Help You!) to get a chair that would save nondisabled people from having to change anything about their outdoor experience is unrealistic and ableist. If you love the outdoors, if you are missing the parks right now, if you are privileged enough to have this be the first time you’ve lost access to them, I invite you to seek out folks who are doing access work already. Listen and follow their lead. Pay them for the work they are doing. And notice, as the world opens up, who is missing in those beautiful places. You can follow Haley (she/her) on Instagram @haleyrdiaz

written by Aprili Content Notes: climbing, physical injury, neurodivergence, psychological disability, brief reference to drinking At 21, rather than follow the tradition of drinking my lights out, we opted to live abroad for a year, throughout the mother continent of Afrika. Tanzania became my new home — my preferred home, unbeknownst to me. We knew we’d be visiting national parks over the course of about four months; we didn’t know just how much we’d come to love the climb. Fast forward eleven years later, it’s still my new home. Only, primarily for reasons beyond my control. We cannot afford to live in the US emotionally, psychologically, financially, or spiritually. Mount Meru, neighbor to Mount Kilimanjaro, is the second tallest mountain in Tanzania. For nearly a century, many were led to believe Mount Kili is in Kenya, this tallest mountain in Afrika is by all means inland of Tanzania. Since living in Tanzania, there are two Mountains ave grown to know and love — Usumbara Mountains, where the peak is called Mazumbai, and Mount Meru. My first Afrikan homestay was 1500 meters above, and 8 kilometers away from, Arusha town on the slopes of Mount Meru! So! We gained the endurance and enjoyment of climbing through the necessity of returning home. Recently, and am talking Saturday June 20th, 2020 about 44 minutes til 2pm, East African time, we added an ankle sprain of the anterior talofibular ligament (ATFL) nature to our life hourstory. Well we were walking with a buddy, just over an hour into the ascend. Happy. Tuned out to good tunes and excited to surprise my host mama after having stayed in contact 11 years. All of a sudden, there’s this slow thud on the ground — it was me. We hadn’t planned on making out with dirt; apparently, gravity traded places with cupid and there we were — hurt. Now, ave had my days playing in the streets of Indianapolis. You fall, you get back up, you walk it off. 2 hours later, there was no walking on the menu. Ten days later, x-rays and diagnoses. Meh. It was worth it! Now we witness the body’s profound ability to heal. Now, we want only my brain to heal. My neurodivergent diagnosis needs only Rest, Ice, a Massage and Elevation, right? Well, after three generations of psychiatric disability through my maternal line, we were the first to mountain climb and live to share the story. Nature has meant a lifeline to me. A mourning dove, a swooping night owl, an oak tree with rich hourstory, the nature of a healing body — it has kept me well enough to express love, gratitude, and hope. Even when the ground, or an insect, says hello — am honored; am welcomed as a part of the whole. While my ability to walk will ultimately restore, when my psychological state is at its worst, my bed is my only playground — and recess has been reduced to detention. My hope is to share my stories in solidarity with disabled and differently abled siblings. May the streams along these mountains, each passersby greeting you in Swahili, and the delicious avocado trees, all be with you. Love always, @alwaysaprili @realestmemoirever Bio: Aprili whisks you along a journey where hip hop has raised her, streets made her, and love for Swahili language and culture grounds her today. Triumph and tragedy, she’s cookin’ up what she calls the realest memoir ever, entitled Be. A Spelman alumna, my works encourage scholarship amidst hardship, exploring the parallel universe of psychosis, travel throughout Afrika and Turtle island, and creative writing. Positivity, humor, balance and spiritual practices, are sprinkled throughout Be to highlight tools which spare my life. Be challenges language. “We”, not the progeny of personality disorder or unbelievable voices, creatively proclaims myself as one with my affirmative ancestors and living community. “I” represents narcissism, ego, and selfishness. Am pleased to practice pidgin expression by substituting “I’ve” and “I am” with “ave” and “am”.

written by Ionah Scully, Cree-Métis and Irish—Michel First Nation Content Note: contains mentions of sexual assault, domestic violence, and colonial violence Aren’t you scared to hike alone? I am often asked this question when people hear of the mountain summits I hike to—almost all of them entirely on my own. I have hiked nearly all of the 46 high peaks of the Adirondacks, a range of mountains in Mohawk lands that have rugged, remote trails to subalpine forests. Climbing over rocks and roots, in thick mud and waist-deep bogs, scaling up boulders and steep rockslides, I have hiked over a thousand miles in the Adirondacks and in mountains across Turtle Island—often spending ten or twelve hours at a time getting to better know the lands—nearly all on my own. I used to take pause when asked this question. Why would I be scared to hike alone? What dangers lurk in the woods that I do not already encounter as someone who runs errands alone, lives alone, takes strolls in my neighborhood alone? A working-class, Indigenous Two Spirit with multiple chronic illness disabilities, the dangers in the woods and mountains are nothing compared to those I fear simply heading out to get groceries, trying to access appropriate healthcare, surviving colonial capitalism and racist violence, and—especially—violence from cis-het white men. I have never been able to take a stroll in my neighborhood without being catcalled, honked at by a car leering as they pass, or approached and sexually harassed by some cis-het man. On a walk many years ago, I was also sexually assaulted. As an Indigenous Two Spirit person that most of the world sees as a cis-woman, there is often not a single place where I am safe. I have been followed at stores and had to hide in aisles from cis-het men who would follow me to my car, have had stalkers for whom I’ve had to get restraining orders and many more for which that was not possible. I’ve been raped and sexually assaulted and—even in my own home—had to endure domestic violence for a number of years. When I hike alone, there is distance between myself—my body—and that which would try to invade it: the impositions of capitalism to exploit my time, labor, and even my trauma for its own benefit; from medical gaslighting; from racism that bars access to appropriate medical care and more; and from cis-heterosexism that would exploit my body—like capitalism does—for its own benefit. Not merely distance however, the land holds me. The Adirondacks hold me. I am Cree-Métis and Irish of the Michel First Nation. I’ve been displaced from our Treaty 6 lands in Alberta, Canada to what is now known as New York State. I am displaced to Mohawk lands, lands of the people in my ancestry and namesake of our nation. The land has always held me through these traumas. Balsam fir and cedar fronds wafting under my nose and brushing against my arm as I climb are medicines. The ground underneath firmly carries me higher to the summit. Sharp thorns that scrape my knees and fallen trees both warn of dangers and of spaces the land does not consent to me visiting. Wind at the summit cools my skin and calms my nervous system so that I can see better what the mountaintop can see and sense better what the land has to share. The land communicates and teaches—this we know as Indigenous people. To hike alone allows senses that are otherwise taken up in service of fear of colonialism to better pay attention to how the land communicates. I pick up on sensory feelings—the wind on my skin, the smells in my nose, the snap of a branch or fallen log or sharp thorn—that all provide information. The more time I spend in the land—the more hikes I go on alone—the better I am at understanding the way the land communicates and the more meaning I make from the knowledge the land imparts. I learn better skills to mitigate the risk of fall or injury, to pay attention to the way the land demands I ask for its consent to enter a space. A fallen tree, a sharp branch scraping my leg, steep slopes, and extreme weather are usually signs that the land wishes to be left alone either on that particular day or in that particular area. The land teaches me how to pay attention and be aware of possible animals around me that would also prefer to be left alone so that I do not harm them and, in turn, possibly put myself in danger as well. The more I hike alone, the more I am able to pick up on these teachings and practice safer hiking with each subsequent mountain climb. This is my birthright—to hike alone, build this relationship with the land to be reciprocal to it and learn from it. To learn consent and to heal. The Adirondacks and all land holds me. One time when I was hiking, a cis-het white man bounded up and asked where I was headed, proclaiming that he had never hiked alone and was missing his companions. Without asking my consent, he hiked alongside me. I tried to lose him multiple ways—slowing down, speeding up, dropping hints that I prefer solo hikes, and more, but he insisted on reaching the summit with me, helping me up a challenging slide when I was fine navigating it on my own (albeit with a bit more thought and time than he had patience for). He did not learn the land’s consent. He did not recognize how I was expressing it. I had thoughts to be more direct with him, but as an Indigenous Two Spirit who he assumed to be a woman, directness does not always mean safety. This is something I know from experience. The land also tells me how to express consent to maximize my own safety—sometimes fighting, sometimes fleeing, sometimes fawning. So in this case, because I feared this man would not respond well to directness, I fawned. It worked for a time. So too did my desire to stay on the mountain summit for an hour getting to know the space, give back to it, and learn from it—something his cis-het, white male frame of view could not understand. Thus after five minutes on the summit, he bounded on to “bag” the next peak like every explorer seeking to tame, explore, invade, and conquer bodies of water, lands…and Two Spirit or cis-het women’s bodies. An important caveat here to note is that am a white-Native coded as white or “racially ambiguous” and thus the way I navigate remote mountain hikes is vastly different than those who are not coded as “white.” This undeservedly affords me a level of safety that kin and community who do not “pass” for white are undeservedly denied despite that safety being their birthright. And still no matter where I am, I am not safe from cis-het white male harm and that has been my experience 41 years earthside. And usually when people ask me “aren’t you scared to hike alone?” they add a qualifier that they would be worried about injury, falling, getting lost, being mauled by a bear, or some other act of nature. It is usually only people like me who live on the margins of colonialism that recognize the harm I may encounter from cis-het white men on the trail. I am not afraid of the land. The land only helps and holds me. It only teaches me. I am not denying that I could get hurt by the land and the more reciprocal I am to it, the less likely that is to happen. I have anxiety each time I start a hike and, by the end, a bit of that fear is chipped away more and more. Climate catastrophes enact danger because globally, white supremacy and colonialism have not been reciprocal to land, have not listened to land, have not learned from the land. Harm and dangers befall when that occurs. Capitalism only adds fear where there should be none and masks real fears—healthy fears, if I may call them—of land that allow us to approach it with curiosity and respect rather than with a desire to conquer, tame, and control it. What fears lurk in the woods and mountains have I not encountered tenfold elsewhere? Yes, but you are far away and … alone. Am I? When I traverse the Adirondacks, I feel ancestors moving with me, curiously admiring the land as I do. I try to be the senses for the ancestors—my body a vessel for them to see, hear, smell, feel the balsam fir wafting in the air and brushing against skin or the wind whipping around my braid and cooling the sweat when I finally reach the mountain summit, admiring a scenic vista of slopes and valleys and lakes and everything quiet but the voices of the land. And in the city, trees engulfed in sidewalks, wilted grasses growing in parking lot cracks, or squirrels and birds along street edges and in dumpsters nod to me as I pass by and say, “I know.” They have seen all of the trauma I and others like me have endured for over 500 years. They have endured it too. They have much to teach, but they are tired and traumatized. They do not want to have to be resilient all the time. “Go to our kin in the mountains,” they say. “Bring back their medicines to us,” they ask me. When I traverse the mountains, I feel all my kin—human and other-than-human—curiously and joyfully moving with me. I imagine my body a vessel of communication between the rocks of the mountains and valleys and the gravel of city trees and sidewalks. Alone, the land tells me what it desires because everything is quiet but the multiple sensory experiences I share with the land. It misses me. It misses its city kin. It tells me which medicines to bring back to them. You hike ALONE? Aren’t you scared? This question has always given me pause—often for many reasons. I cannot answer the question directly because yes, I suppose I am scared, but also I have never really hiked alone. The land is always there, my companion and friend and kin who I do my best to listen to and support and who in turn, protects me from harm. So I am scared, yes, but not in the way most think and I may be the only human with whom I hike, but I have never really hiked alone. Ekosi.

written by Crystal Gail Welcome As an advocate for a better planet led by love and compassion, we can equip ourselves with a powerful tool of understanding through conversation. I hope sharing my experiences will educate those with little to no idea of the challenges of being a hiker living with a disability. In writing, I also hope to reduce the stigma surrounding individuals living with disabilities. I am an environmental and social justice advocate, a writer, a hiker, and a person living with a disability. Utilizing my intersecting identities: Black, disabled, lesbian, and backpacker, I’m on a mission to get historically excluded folks outdoors in Nature. One might classify me as a semi-professional backpacker, and my accomplishments are well documented. However, as an individual with invisible illnesses, some may not know the roads I’ve traveled to get here. I am living with bipolar – a disorder associated with severe mood swings ranging from manic highs to depressive lows. I also live with Intracranial Hypertension (IH) – a rare brain disease causing my body to think and act like I have a brain tumor – yet, I don’t. For the latter, I have an implanted neurological device to control the negative side effects that stem from IH. Over the past decade and a half, only my closest friends and family truly understand my struggles. IH made me sick all the time. Days were spent trying not to fall while struggling to stand. For years, I wished the room would stop spinning long enough to make a meal – and once complete, I hoped I kept the meal down. I suffered from debilitating migraines and lost complete vision in one eye. I endured multiple invasive surgeries, many of which were brain surgeries, to help alleviate and control the symptoms of IH. I lived with the symptoms of IH for the greater part of my adulthood. During that period, I had no interest or desire to do anything. I was depressed, heavily medicated, and experienced significant physical changes. I slept all the time because everything I did hurt. I worried constantly and was filled with anxiety. My outlook was pessimistic and bleak. I was tired of the pain and lost the desire to fight. I finally moved back with my parents during one of my darkest moments. I was blessed to have the support of my family. Especially my Dad, who every morning made me repeat the mantra: “I can. I must. I will.” Then, he would drive me a little over a mile up the road to the gate entrance of our subdivision, leaving me to walk back home. I was barely able to walk a block without rest. Had someone told me then that someday I would enjoy walking miles on end, I would have laughed. But I found something to keep me coming back. At the halfway point between the gate and home was a little park I’d use as a resting place. I didn’t realize it then, but being outside in that park was healing. In little time, I began carrying a backpack on the walks. Inside were writing aids and usually a book to read. I started looking forward to those daily walks, especially the time I spent in the park. I finally accepted that I would be in pain no matter what I did and recognized that I wanted to live a full life. Walking and being outdoors brought a sense of joy. I even craved spending time outdoors and walking. Which, in short, led me to run and, ultimately, my decision to become a backpacker. Now, most days, I’m filled with unbelievable joy to be alive. That doesn’t mean I’m cured or that I’ll feel as fabulous tomorrow. I still have IH, and I’m still living with a mental health condition. Many things could change tomorrow, but Nature has taught me to embrace today. Hiking and spending time outdoors have positively impacted me. I think about how much better all our lives would be if we all took our cues from Nature to accept everyone and love unconditionally. Spending time outdoors can be wonderful in many ways. The solace, the stillness, the trees, and the fresh air are a few things I enjoy about being outdoors. I think we all want positive experiences —and to get through adversity— in solidarity with like-minded folks. I find these connections outdoors. I believe in creating inclusive, empowering outdoor experiences for all. I’m aware of the importance of visibility – growing up, I didn’t think the outdoors was for people like me. I was never exposed to Nature-based activities and never saw myself reflected in the outdoors. So, I set out on a campaign, Footprints for Change, to hike the Great Western Loop (GWL). The GWL is a 6,875-mile-long footpath that links together the Pacific Crest Trail, Pacific Northwest Trail, Continental Divide Trail, Grand Enchantment Trail, and Arizona Trail — and a trail-less segment through the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts. I began the three-part journey in 2021 on the PCT, hiking a little over 1,100 miles. I became the first person with a neuromodulator to climb Mt. Whitney, the largest mountain in the contiguous US. Unlike other hikers, I have to stop every ten days to recharge my neurological implant batteries. Because of this and other health and safety-related concerns, I creatively covered the 675-mile segmented trail as a car camping road trip. This season I hiked 2,384 miles, including 400 miles on the AZT, completing a calendar year thru-hike of the 800-mile scenic trail. I have plans to rejoin the loop in 2023. One reason I decided on such a huge undertaking is to advocate for more diversity in the outdoors, representing women, BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, People of Color), the LGBTQIA + community, and people living with disabilities. I believe that Nature is a unifier; through her, we can build an equitable existence for all folks to thrive. When we can be our authentic selves, we feel more connected. I can work to make the outdoors a safe place for all creatures. I must actively engage others to join me. In solidarity with others, I will pave a path for folks with my various intersecting identities to have a reciprocal relationship with Nature and others. Through this relationship, we can work to heal humanity and save our dying planet. I will continue to do my part. I can. I must. I will.

Content Notes: fatphobia, injuries, changes in ability, active living, loss of parents, miscarriage I used to hike to the top of mountains in the Cascades and Olympics. I taught yoga, on beaches and in parks. I built and managed incredible urban gardens. I lead herb and plant ID walks in gardens, parks, urban areas and forests. All as a fat woman. And not just a chubby woman - I’ve always been fat fat. The kind of fat that people comment on gratuitously, and always have a problem with. I’ve dealt with mobility issues and disabilities since birth as I was born with musculoskeletal deformities that left me prone to injuries. I’ve had many! Because despite being fat and disabled, I’ve always led a super active lifestyle. Nothing could stop me, or so I believed for a very long time. Coming to terms with my own loss of ability is one of the most difficult things I’ve dealt with, as difficult as grieving the loss of my parents. It is a grief process of its own. You have to grieve a life you once had, the future you envisioned, and the person you used to be, and you have to do it over and over again each day. It can be quite disorienting, especially when it smacks you in the face every day you can’t do something you once could. Something you love. Something that brings you joy. Something you used to live for. I used to want to be that anomaly, the fat disabled girl who could do “all the things,” due to my own internalized fatphobia and internalized ableism. The fat girl who wasn’t like other fat people and was athletic, ate organic and vegetarian and cared about my health - even though people told me every day that I didn’t, merely because I am fat. I thought I had to earn my humanity by proving that I led a healthy lifestyle as a fat and disabled person. I wanted to prove to the straight sized and able-bodied world that I too, could do whatever they could and that I didn’t need any special accommodations. Until my health began to significantly decline after pushing myself past the brink of exhaustion as a caregiver while in intense clinical graduate studies, working 4 jobs tryna survive and support myself and my stroke survivor mom, after we both took care of my father for 14 years and watched this racist fatphobic medical system slowly kill him, with no real support system at all in the world. I was forced to come to terms with the idea that I actually even had disabilities, as disabled was never something I ever considered myself to be, even though I absolutely was. Over the course of the last 8 years of my life I’ve not only accepted myself as a disabled person, I’ve also had to accept myself as no longer just regular fat (3x), but instead superfat (5x), along with being a lot less mobile and using mobility aids, ADA accommodations, etc. I’m having a completely new and different experience in the world. All that healthy eating and exercise didn’t keep me from being disabled or becoming fatter, so I am a living example that you cannot diet and exercise yourself into optimal health. That's literally just not how most bodies work. I also came to realize that I don't have anything to prove, and I'm not any less worthy because I have less ability and am fatter now. I began to finally understand that it’s not me or my body that is the problem, but the world that purposely excludes me, and so many other differently abled people and people who live in fat bodies. I’m now excluded from a lot of places and things. It’s infuriating and makes me sad and angry. I still want to hike to the top of mountains. But medical fat phobia is why I cannot get relief for the issues I have. As a trained natural healthcare provider (Acupuncturist and East Asian Medical practitioner) and trained yoga teacher with a deep understanding of the human body and it’s healing potential, as well as having multiple medical and healing modalities in my toolbelt, I am blessed with the knowledge and skills to provide myself with a lot of care and pain relief. But the reality is I need surgery. I have an 11 mm spondylolisthesis in my L4 and degenerative disc disorder and osteoarthritis in the facets of L4-5. It hurts a lot all the time. Even when I’m taking care of myself and doing “all the things.” I can’t stand for more than a couple minutes without being in excruciating pain and sitting isn’t much better. But the orthopedic and pain doctors will only refer me to the weight loss surgeon, not any back or knee surgeons. They say I have to lose weight before they’ll operate on and correct my musculoskeletal issues because otherwise I’ll just ruin their work with my fatness. And listen, I have been active my whole life, practiced and taught yoga for years, have always swam laps and worked out regularly. I mean I lived in a van following around bands and vending my art at shows, festivals and events from my late teens til I was nearly 30 years old, dancing 3-12 hours almost every night and sometimes the whole day. I walked miles, in parking lots, cities, venues, forests, parks, just everywhere! I even did a year of boot camp at a local gym several times a week the entire year of 2017 (which greatly increased my pain, btw). I was fat the whole time! But the medical world thinks I don’t deserve to be out of pain now because I’m fat. I have to lose weight first. They don’t think that maybe, a person who used to be as active as I was until I literally was not able to in these last few years, would likely lose weight naturally if they were out of the pain keeping them from being active the way they once were. And even if I still lost no weight after surgery, I deserve the option to live pain free even if I never lose a pound. But the medical field doesn't believe that I have a right to live pain free if I don't lose weight. That’s the reality for a lot of fat people living in chronic pain. And let’s be clear, I’ve been fat my ENTIRE 46 years of life. I was born with Osgood Schlatters so my knees never properly developed, as well as completely flat feet, making me prone to injuries. Broke my ankle the first time at age 8 riding my bike then again at age 13 at Girl Scout camp. The doc set my ankle wrong in the cast at age 13 as it was his first fiberglass cast. I had to have surgery to have it rebroken. I lived in leg contraptions most of middle school/junior high. I started having pain then. But it never stopped me. I was always so active, until I couldn’t be. I also tore my ACL at ages 19 and 28, also damaging the meniscus and shattering the patella when I was 28. I broke my foot at 38. I had a miscarriage about 2 months before breaking my foot, and my mom died 2 weeks after that miscarriage. That’s when the decline really started for me, in 2015. But back in 2015 I could still lead herb walks, go on hikes, maintain a regular dynamic yoga practice, walk long distances in the city, and stand and dance all night at a 2-set show. I can’t do any of those things anymore. And it’s been a difficult thing to accept and mourn. I've learned that the world really does not care about us disabled people. I was excluded from something recently at a retreat I attended and it hurt deeply. It didn’t have to be that way and I was shocked and disappointed it was happening, they of all people should have known better. But it happens often. And usually when I advocate for myself, that causes me to be further ostracized. I have done my best to adapt and still be able to enjoy nature and live music, the things that make me happiest in life, but it's a different experience now, and I've had to learn to accept that there are just a lot of things I will be excluded from. Acceptance does not make it hurt any less when it happens, even though I'm always prepared for it to happen. I know I won’t be able to hike up switchback mountains or maintain my garden on my own anymore at my current level of mobility, but the world needs to do a better job making sure people like myself and people of all abilities can access the natural world, events, parks, gardens and all spaces in society. We’re only excluded because able bodied people have purposely created a world that excludes us. So, it is able bodied people's responsibility to create a world that includes us. We shouldn't always have to be the ones advocating for ourselves, it is exhausting and demoralizing. I want able bodied people to be more proactive and when you are in a natural space, garden, event, or ANYWHERE and see issues of accessibility, SAY something. Write an email, make a phone call, DO SOMETHING. Because we matter, and we deserve to live a full life and enjoy all the beauty this planet has to offer like everyone does. Are you a fat person who has experienced medical fatphobia? Complete this survey to help Shelagh gather data on fatphobia in healthcare. Bio Shelagh Brown is a clinical herbalist, ethnobotanist, medical historian, writer, poet, storyteller, cultural worker and healing centered engagement practitioner who infuses traditional ecological wisdom with modern science. She filters all her work through an intersectional, abolitionist, Black, womanist, queer, disabled and fat liberation centered lens. Shelagh holds a BS in Herbal Sciences, a MS in Acupuncture and Traditional Chinese Medicine from Bastyr University and a MA in Social Justice and Community Organizing from Prescott College. Shelagh is the Community Partnerships Director at Creative Justice, an arts and healing justice program for court impacted young people, and she is the founder of Decolonizing Healthcare, Homegoing: a Grieving Space for Black and Brown people, and the Psychedelic Wellness Collective. Shelagh believes in all our innate potential to heal by reconnecting to nature through plants, creativity, and cultural and ancestral wisdom as we work to dismantle systems of harm and create a planet that is safe, healthy and just for everyone.

Please do not share, reproduce, or cite without the above credit and a link back to this website. If you find this resource useful, please consider making a tax deductible donation to support our work. What are accessible trails? There is no one size fits all solution to creating accessible trails. Access needs vary widely among disabilities, and what is accessible to one disabled person may not be to another. It is important to keep this in mind while advocating for accessible trails in your community. Trail surface is one factor of building accessible trails. This article provides an introductory overview of the different types of trail surface, and the pros and cons of their use for an accessible trail. Boardwalks I love a nice boardwalk. Boardwalks can immerse you in a landscape that would otherwise be too difficult or too dangerous to enter. Most often built at wetlands, estuaries, desert soils, and other sensitive environments, boardwalks can provide a safe and accessible way to experience a diversity of habitats. However, it is not accessible to everyone. Boardwalks are also an expensive trail type, but can be a real attraction. Pros: Provide access to environments that would otherwise be inaccessible Wet soils, sandy areas, and tidal zones are not the most accessible places for anyone, especially people with physical disabilities. An elevated boardwalk in Hillsborough River State Park, FL Guard rails and barriers offer safety and a way to guide along the path The “bumpers” at the edge of boardwalks help prevent wheels from going over the edge. Guard rails and barriers not only prevent wheels and feet from falling off, but offer a guide for people who are Blind or low vision, and something to hang on to for those with mobility or balance concerns. However, barriers must not prevent people from seeing through them at sitting height – wheelchair users don’t want to stare at a wooden wall on their hike. Protects sensitive habitat Boardwalks allow for good drainage and reduce off-trail use Firm and stable surface Firm, stable surfaces tend to be more durable and are the most accessible. Cons: Can be very uncomfortable for wheelchair users ‘Shake, rattle, and roll’ is a common experience for wheelchair users on boardwalks. Every transition between boards can be a jolt. The surface of each board is often uneven, creating an overall rattling experience in a chair. Horizontal boards are the worst for this, but vertical boards can cause small wheels to get stuck. Individual boards can come loose, warp, or lift This creates a toe and mobility aid tripping hazard and be impossible for some wheelchairs to cross. Loose and warped boards can also throw off a person’s balance. Surface can be very slippery Boardwalks are notoriously slippery, which is a major risk for people with mobility related disabilities, hypermobile and painful joints, or problems with balance. One way to address this is to tack anti-slip tread on at least one side. Trail surface at the ends of the boardwalk can erode The most accessible boardwalk can be rendered inaccessible if the trail surface on either end erodes. If there is more than a 1-inch rise from the trail to the boardwalk, it will be very difficult for many wheelchair users to pass. Asphalt Pavement, the love-to-hate-it darling of many outdoor recreationalists and conservationists. Unfortunately, discussions about pavement are often used against disabled people in an very ableist manner. There is a lot to unpack here, but for now let’s focus on the pros and cons of pavement for accessibility. One important note: paved doesn’t necessarily mean accessible. Pros: Accessible to many wheel-users A smooth, level paved surface is perfect for wheel-users, including A paved trail at Lava Lands Visitor Center near Bend, OR wheelchairs, strollers, and bicycles, making it very multi-use. This can also be a con – sharing a trail with fast moving bicycles when you are a slow-moving walker or wheelchair user can feel very unsafe. Also, many paved trails are still too steep for wheelchairs. Can reduce impact on surrounding area Paved trails are a great option for high use areas, helping to prevent erosion and trail damage overall. It can also reduce the impact on surrounding trails, because more people will be drawn to the easy paved trail. Users may also be less likely to go off trail. Firm and stable surface Pavement meets the accessibility guidelines for a firm and stable surface Cons: Prone to cracking and root damage Cracks and roots lifting the surface can make a paved trail inaccessible for wheelchair users. It is also difficult and expensive to repair. Can be painful for people with chronic pain to walk on Pavement is not pleasant to walk on, especially if you have chronic pain in lower limbs, hips, or back. It can be inaccessible for some ambulatory disabled people for this reason, especially if there aren’t any benches. Surface can become very hot Hot pavement isn’t only a risk to puppy paws, it can be dangerous for people who are heat sensitive. Preconceptions that pavement = bad Getting a paved trail built can be very difficult due to expense and the perception that “paving the wilderness” is bad. To be fair, there is a risk of environmental contamination in the building process, but it can be mitigated with care. Gravel A crushed gravel trail at Smith Rock State Park in Oregon There are a variety of crushed stone and gravel types. When designing for accessibility, finely crushed and firmly compacted pea gravel is most appropriate. Large pieces of crushed rock can be painful to walk on and impassable for wheelchairs. Wheels can get stuck in loose or deep gravel, regardless of size. Pros: Accessible to almost all trail users When the proper type is installed correctly and compacted well, it forms a very firm and stable surface. Can complement the natural landscape Of the “artificial” trail surface types, gravel can be the most complementary, particularly when stone from the local landscape is used. Cons: Erosion and drainage issues can make it inaccessible Gravel trails can still erode or wash away in time, and drainage issues can create holes and dips in the surface. Loose, deep, or large gravel can be a hazard to wheel-users As mentioned above, not all gravel is the same, and the way it is installed matters. Wood Chips Wood Chip trail at Deschutes Falls Park near Olympia WA I am personally not a fan of wood chip paths, but they do offer a cheap and easy to build trail surface. Wood chip trails are not very accessible. Pros: Provides a gentler tread for walking A fresh, well compacted wood chip trail can be comfortable to walk on. A more “natural” appearance Wood chip trails blend into the natural environment well and can even have a “peaceful” sense to them. Cons: Not accessible to wheels or other mobility aids Most wheels can’s get through wood chips, and other mobility aids can sink into the surface. Surface can become spongy and slippery Spongy, slippery wood chips are even more inaccessible, and can require twice the effort to walk on. It is not a firm or stable surface. Needs to be replaced regularly Wood chips need to be maintained regularly and replaced every year or two. Natural Surface Narrow muddy trail through the Bogachiel Rainforest near Forks, WA. Natural surface trails are the most common. They are typically created by removing plants and the top layer of earth to expose a firmer surface. Natural surface trails can significantly damage the landscape, particularly as frequent use leads to more erosion. It is difficult to create an accessible natural surface trail; some landscapes are more difficult than others, but they all require regular maintenance. Pros: Offers the most “natural” appearance A well-designed natural surface trail blends into the landscape. Simplest to build Building a natural surface trail requires a lot of labor, but with a little training they can be built by most able-bodied people. Cons: Generally not accessible Most trails are not particularly accessible, depending on the landscape. They are usually not firm, stable, or barrier free. Roots and rocks present trip hazards, and uneven terrain can be difficult to navigate. Other features like benches and toilet facilities may not be present. Conditions are unpredictable and difficult to describe Natural surface trails are especially susceptible to changes due to weather, usage, and erosion. The conditions can change quickly, making it difficult for disabled people to plan. Since conditions are so varied and there are so many potential obstacles, it is difficult to describe the trail for accessibility. Requires regular maintenance for accessibility All natural surface trails have to be maintained for erosion and drainage. A trail designed for maximum accessibility needs even more regular maintenance. Off-trail impacts Natural trails tend to create more of an impact as people widen the path around puddles, create social trails, or otherwise go off-trail.

One of the most common requests I get is for boot recommendations for disabled hikers. Unfortunately, it’s never as simple as just finding a shoe that you like – there are so many factors to consider depending on your specific needs. So, I asked other disabled outdoorspeople to share their favorite hiking shoes with us. Here are the top recommendations. A few commonalities came up: ankle support, wide toe boxes and narrow heals, stability and shock absorption, and traction. The majority of these shoes also fit well with braces, orthotics, or prosthetics. This isn’t an exhaustive list, but hopefully it provides you with a place to start. I recommend trying on as many shoes as you can at a knowledgeable retailer, such as REI or a specialty/orthopedic shoe store. I’ve listed the typical retail price of each shoe, but you can often find them at a discount, especially if you shop end-of-season sales; it is possible to get good quality hiking shoes for $50-60. Many thanks to the Disabled Hikers community for these recommendations! Keens Targhee: The Targhee II and III in high and low rise received the most recommendations. Many users wear them daily. Adequate arch support for flat feet, wide rounded toe box and narrow heal, excellent ankle support, with balanced stability and feedback. Waterproof, sturdy, and good traction. Fit customized inserts and ankle braces. Has held up for multiple years of daily use. Available in wide and standard widths. Price point: $120 Style: Men’s, Women’s Retailer: REI, Keen Merrell Moab II: received the second highest number of recommendations. Moab comes in several styles; the Moab 2 has low and mid height. Mid-height has good stability without being rigid, excellent shock absorption. Good traction even on ice, waterproof, good temperature regulation in summer and winter. Price Point: $120 Style: Men’s, Women’s Retailer: REI, Merrell La Sportiva: Wildcats are a rugged trail running shoe. Provides good ankle support, enough room and flexibility for orthotics and braces, wide toe box. Has held up for 200-300 miles before support and cushion wears out. La Sportiva boots are a comfortable vegan leather option with great ankle stability and long wear, but they may take time to break in. Price Point: $200-250 Style: Women’s Hoka One One Sky Toa: lightweight, waterproof, good cushioning and arch support. Great traction (“on regular cement, I feel like I have little suction cups on my shoes”). Breathable but comfortable in winter with thick socks; works with microspikes. Didn’t require breaking in. Price point: $170 Style: Men’s, Women’s Retailer: Tried them on at a specialty/orthopedic shoe store then bought online from REI. (Note: REI does not carry them in store) New Balance M1400V1 Boot: very lightweight, waterproof, designed in wide width. Price point: $100 Style: Men’s Retailer: WalMart, other general shoe retailers Lowa Renegade GTX: Excellent ankle and foot support with high impact cushion. Waterproof, sturdy but flexible. Poor traction on slick surfaces. Renegade comes in many styles. Price Point: $200 Style: Women’s Retailer: REI, Lowa Boots Columbia OutDry sneaker boot: cross between hiking boot and trail runner. Lightweight, great traction, fits well on a prosthetic foot. Price Point: $150 Style: Women’s Retailer: Columbia (being phased out?) Altra Lone Peak trail runners: Good traction and padding, wide toe box and narrow heel. Typically wears at 300 miles. Price Point: $120 Retailer: REI, Altra (being phased out? product was on clearance half off, and some sold out) Want to support more resources for hikers with disabilities? Become a member today.