I used to think “accessible” meant designated parking spots and smooth paths. Then I abseiled in my wheelchair

There is a moment, just before I tip backwards over the edge, when every sensible part of my brain asks the same question: What the hell am I doing?

I’m at Calvert Lakes activity center, just outside Keswick in the UK’s Lake District, looking out towards Bassenthwaite Lake. I’m strapped into my wheelchair, attached to a rope, about to lower myself down a rock face. Going backwards—in the chair I usually rely on to keep me safely upright.This isn’t what younger Carrie-Ann imagined when she thought about an ‘accessible’ day in the countryside.

Then again, younger Carrie-Ann would probably have had several questions about a lot of my life now.

For years, my understanding of countryside access had been fairly cautious. A smooth path. A viewpoint I could reach without someone having to wrestle my wheelchair over tree roots. Somewhere to park, and a wheelchair accessible toilet nearby. Sometimes that combination still feels like winning the jackpot.

The countryside has never felt like somewhere designed with me in mind. I’m a wheelchair user, and the things that make rural landscapes beautiful can also make them difficult for me to move through. Mud, gravel, grass, steep gradients, narrow gates. Tree roots that appear to have developed a personal vendetta against small front casters.

There’s a particular frustration in being able to see where you want to go, and yet knowing your wheelchair can’t get you there. It’s not a lack of curiosity or adventure that stops you.

Then there’s the information problem. A route described as ‘accessible’ tells me very little. Accessible to whom? What is the surface actually like? How steep is ‘steep’? Are there gates? Steps? Somewhere to rest? What happens when it rains?

Without that detail, the sensible option can become staying within the bits of countryside already deemed as ‘safe’ for you. Except, somewhere along the way, my version of countryside access got much more ambitious.

Abseiling in my wheelchair certainly helped.

The strangest part is how quickly the fear changes. There’s the initial ‘What the hell am I doing?’ but that’s soon followed by the realization that the equipment is holding me, the people around me know exactly what they’re doing and, perhaps most importantly, nobody seems remotely concerned by the fact that I’m doing this in a wheelchair.

That’s because Calvert Lakes has a purpose-built abseil slab that allows wheelchair users to descend without transferring out of their chair. I stay seated while the instructors rig me into the rope system, then I’m safely lowered down the slab, in my wheelchair. Adaptive harnesses and hoists are available for people with different mobility needs too.

My chair isn’t something that needs to be removed from the experience—because it’s part of how the experience happens.

And then I’m moving. Slowly lowering myself down, adrenaline replacing the voice that was screaming absolutely bloody not a few minutes earlier, I realise I’m actually enjoying it. That feeling has followed me into other adventures.

There’s a particular frustration in being able to see where you want to go, and yet knowing your wheelchair can’t get you there. It’s not a lack of curiosity or adventure that stops you. Sometimes it’s four wheels designed for pavements meeting several miles of rocks, mud and grass.

Put me in the right equipment though and suddenly the question changes. Not ‘Can Carrie-Ann manage this?’ But ‘Where shall we go?’

At Ladybower Fisheries, a fly-fishing venue on Ladybower Reservoir in Peak District National Park in central England, an accessible Wheelyboat gives me the chance to get out onto the water and take control myself.

Wheelyboats are purpose-built wheelchair accessible boats, created so disabled people can take part in fishing and other activities on the water. The idea dates back to the 1980s, when its founder Alan Faulkner wanted his friend Bill Buchanan to be able to continue fishing after he became a wheelchair user. The first Wheelyboat was launched in 1985. Ladybower now has an accessible pontoon and several adapted boats, with features including drop-down bow doors or hydraulic lifts for wheelchair access. Some, like the one I used, can also be driven directly from a wheelchair.

I’ve explored countryside routes in the past, using all-terrain mobility equipment that can tackle surfaces my everyday wheelchair would look at and immediately file under ‘No can do’. And this feels just like those times. I’m leaving the shore behind rather than watching everyone else disappear onto the water.

Of course, outdoor adventure needs to be safe—I’m personally very keen on continuing to be alive. But there’s a difference between managing risk and deciding, on someone else’s behalf, what they should be allowed to do.

Separate from activity providers like Calvert Lakes and Ladybower, Miles Without Stiles routes have become another part of this shift to feeling like I belong. Operating in the Peak District and where I live in the Lake District, the Lake District National Park Authority started its Miles Without Stiles initiative around 30 years ago, identifying countryside routes without barriers such as stiles, steps and, depending on the route grading, steep gradients.

They now promotes 50 routes in the Lake District, while the Peak District introduced its first 20 routes in 2018. Routes are graded according to factors such as gradient and surface, with maps and practical access information available before you set off.

I love the concept because it starts with something disabled people need far more often than sweeping promises about accessibility: Information. Tell me about the surface, the gradients, and what barriers I’m likely to find along the way. Then let me decide.

Sometimes, I’ll choose the gentlest route available. Sometimes, I’ll hire something with enormous wheels and head off towards terrain I wouldn’t dream of attempting in my usual chair. Both are adventure.

That’s perhaps the biggest thing these experiences have changed for me. I used to think making the countryside accessible meant smoothing its edges. Making it flatter, easier, safer. And of course, sometimes it does. But not necessarily.

Accessibility doesn’t always have to mean making the landscape less wild. It can mean giving us a different way into it. A piece of specialist equipment or an adapted boat. An instructor who looks at a wheelchair user and considers how they can make the activity work rather than immediately reaching for the word ‘Unfortunately’. Detailed information that allows us to make our own decisions about risk, comfort and what sounds like fun.

A good path can be transformational. So can a well-designed gate, somewhere to sit, useful signage or an accessible toilet that is actually usable rather than seemingly designed by someone who has only encountered wheelchair users in stock photos.

Disabled people are so often ‘protected out’ of experiences—it seems at times, other people’s fear becomes another barrier. What if something happens? What if it’s too difficult? What if they can’t do it?

Of course, outdoor adventure needs to be safe—I’m personally very keen on continuing to be alive. But there’s a difference between managing risk and deciding, on someone else’s behalf, what they should be allowed to do.

The truth is, the best accessible outdoor experiences I’ve had haven’t made me feel brave for simply turning up as a disabled person. They’ve made me feel trusted, to understand my own body, to decide whether I want the gentle route today or the one that makes me think, “Oh hell no!” as I tip backwards over an edge.

I still love a smooth path. Give me a beautiful view, somewhere for a picnic and a decent pub at the end and I’ll be extremely happy. But now I know countryside access can look like something else too. Mud, speed, water, adrenaline.

It can look like swapping the wheelchair that works for my everyday life for one designed to take me somewhere that mine just can’t. Taking the helm instead of staying on the shore. I want to decide ‘how much adventure’ feels right for me. As I head towards the bottom of the abseil, I find myself wondering why on earth I’d agreed to it but also how much I’m enjoying it. As I reach the final descent, I hear myself asking, “Can I go again?”

Read more

Find out more about all-inclusive adventures including wheelchair abseiling at Calvert Lakes, Lake District; Countryside Mobility’s all-terrain Tramper mobility scooters; adaptive Wheelyboats at Ladybower Fisheries, Peak District; and Miles Without Stiles’s accessible countryside routes in the Lake District and Peak District.

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