Sometimes, life can change
dramatically in the blink of an eye.
The biggest change
in my life came seven years ago, when I was backcountry skiing in
the Hoover Wilderness near Yosemite. I missed a turn on a steep icy
slope and fell into a rocky gully. In that ugly tumble I crushed my
spinal cord, and suddenly, I became a paraplegic.
Every
able-bodied person has probably wondered: What would I do if I lost
the use of my legs? How would I get on with my life? My transition
was anything but smooth. Besides the physical setbacks, I suffered
bouts of depression, and my marriage disintegrated. One thing
remained unchanged, however, and that was my love for the outdoors.
As Americans, we share a long tradition of seeking
solitude, peace — and redemption — in the wilderness.
The spring following my accident, friends practically forced me to
take a float down the Green River in Utah’s Canyonlands
National Park. I was skeptical beforehand, but I emerged from the
river trip overjoyed to discover I could still camp out under the
stars and enjoy the tranquility of wilderness.
Wilderness
helped me heal both physically and mentally; it helped me get my
life back together. In turn, I have tried to help others with
disabilities realize their own capabilities by facing the
challenges of wilderness. This past summer, I witnessed newly
disabled Iraq war veterans find inner peace on the banks of
Idaho’s Salmon River. I have watched disabled people sleep
away from the noise of civilization for the first time, and wake up
with broad smiles to the sunrise over an alpine lake.
These experiences are incredibly empowering, even transformative.
They translate directly to a person’s everyday life. Somehow,
after coping with the challenges and rewards of wilderness, the
obstacles to maneuvering in a city, working at a job, and plain
everyday living don’t seem as daunting.
There is
still the need to gain access to wild places. Here in Idaho, my
congressman, Mike Simpson, R-Idaho, has included authorization and
funding for two modest primitive-access wheelchair trails as part
of his bill to protect over 300,000 acres of wilderness in the
Boulder-White Cloud Mountains. That’s along with additional
benefits for motorized recreationists, ranchers and struggling
rural communities.
Simpson’s bill is not without
controversy. But it is the product of over six years of
negotiations designed to come up with a balanced management
prescription for this magnificent area. As a wilderness advocate, I
believe it is an acceptable compromise, and the best chance we will
ever have to break the 25-year drought of new wilderness
designation in Idaho.
Simpson’s legislation also
marks the first time ever that accessible trails have been included
in a wilderness bill pending before Congress. The 1990 Americans
with Disabilities Act reconciled itself with the Wilderness Act of
1964 by saying that people who use wheelchairs for everyday indoor
mobility are allowed to use them in a wilderness area. The managing
agencies are neither obligated to make any special accommodations
for us, nor prohibited from doing so. The main impediments to the
creation of accessible wilderness trails have been either lack of
money or of political pressure. Simpson’s legislation
provides both.
Under his bill, one section of trail would
provide approximately one mile of primitive access within the
proposed wilderness, along the East Fork of the Salmon River. The
other one-mile trail lies just outside the proposed wilderness
boundary and reaches Phyllis Lake, a high alpine jewel. It would
remain open to snowmobiles in the winter and to wheelchairs and
other non-motorized uses the rest of the year, as de facto summer
wilderness.
One mile may not seem like much of a trail,
but to a wheelchair user, it is a substantial distance. When you
cast for trout from the shores of emerald green Phyllis Lake,
looking up to the snow-streaked walls of its cirque, you might as
well be 20 miles deep in the wilderness.
Perhaps most
important, these modest trails will allow many wheelchair users to
roll along alone and unassisted, experiencing the solitude and
independence that only wilderness can provide. Providing an
independent taste of the wilderness is in harmony with both the
disability and wilderness laws, and this will not compromise the
land.
Including accessible trails in wilderness
legislation also drives a big stake into the tired argument of
wilderness opponents that designation discriminates against the
disabled and the elderly.
Americans respond to themes of
independence, equality and inclusiveness. With any luck, our modest
efforts here in Idaho will broaden public support for wilderness
designation and have national implications for improved access to
our public wildlands.
Erik Schultz is a
contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of High
Country News (hcn.org). He lives in Hailey, Idaho, where
he directs the ABS Foundation, a nonprofit that supports wildlands
conservation and outdoor opportunities for the
disabled.
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