The park rangers suggested Ruby Beach had the
easiest access for someone who is handicapped—“it might even be accessible for
someone who was pretty good with a wheelchair” they intoned. I guess by “pretty
good” they meant a Paralympian with tree-trunk arms and no fear since there
were many, many steps. So, possible, yes. Realistic? Hahahaha.
But I like a challenge. I was pretty sure I could
make it down with my forearm crutches, I told Laura. She nodded.
“I’m sure you can make it down, too. I’m just
worried about the whole ‘up’ part.”
She did have a point. When I bonk, I really bonk
and need rest… a lot of rest. This hike, a total of a half mile, could take
hours. I figured, bah, there was a light breeze that easily carried any caution
(and perhaps sanity) away.
The trail was a touch muddy, but not sloppy. The
trail in places was a bit steep, but not steep steep. The stairs were many, but
not too many. The pebbles on the beach were tricky, but not too tricky. Best of
all there were places to rest all along the way—a bench, a rock, a perfectly
placed log.
When I finally made it to the beach (and since you
are reading this, made it back without the help of EMTs), it’s hard to relay my
elation for such a small victory. I just sat there with Laura and took in the
Pacific and all of its vastness as the afternoon unwound, the regular trappings
of my disease the furthest thing from my present.
For some, small victories might elicit a shrug--remembering
that coupon in your wallet to save you $1 off your kids’ Happy Meal or guessing
the right TV channel in your hotel room on the first try. But small victories
when you have a disability are just like big victories, only without the
fanfare. And we have to celebrate them. Be proud of them, no matter how
insignificant they may seem to an outsider. They all matter in their own way.
We are all champions.
