We parked alongside a quieter portion of the Roaring River in Kings Canyon, near the end of the careening road through the stone walls. I wanted to make my hippie ancestors proud and wash myself in the cold mountain water, so I changed into my swimsuit and grabbed a towel and our biodegradable camp soap. “I won’t be able to feel the water, anyway,” I assured myself, fearing this river water would be similar to the freezing water we’d waded in at Lake Tahoe but knowing that my spinal cord injury would prevent me from feeling anything up to my waist.
But I was very, very wrong. Even though I couldn’t feel the ice water that I’m sure was going to freeze over any minute, my legs still spasmsed violently in protest. Quickly I squirted the soap all over my head and over my body, caring less by the second how clean I was actually getting. Ethel looked worriedly over the top of my head, balancing on the rock I was leaning against to check on me but not caring so much that she would have to get in the water too. Dusty just clutched his stomach laughing at me, having camped and trained in the woods enough times to know no amount of clean was worth getting this cold. “Qqq-uuiiet you”, I scowled at him with my teeth chattering and braced myself for another dunk to rinse.
Dusty helped lift me from the water and sit me down on the rock behind me to dry off in the sun. The dry air and high elevation thankfully made quick work of my sopping wet hair and soon my breathing returned to normal. “Julia, look,” Dusty said suddenly and grabbed the back of Ethel’s harness. I turned to reprimand him, I don’t like anyone grabbing at Ethel other than myself and her former trainers, but he pointed to thirty feet away on the other side of the river. “A black bear!”
And sure enough, there was a black bear. Not quite a mature adult, the smaller bear was walking along the far bank of the river looking for what seemed to be a good place to enter the water. He (or she, I’m not going to pretend to know how to tell the difference between male and female black bears) was moving in the way bears do in what only can be described as a gallumphing fashion (gal-LUMPH gal-LUMPH) with the paws on each side moving in asynchronous order. Hardly hearing myself, I alternatively commanded Dusty to “take a picture! Take a picture! Hold onto Ethel! Ethel, don’t move! Did you take a picture?!”. The large paws gripped the slippery rocks as he bent towards the water and then smoothly glided into the stream. It was majestic watching him swim, barely making a disruption in the fast moving water. “Ok, we gotta go,” Dusty said suddenly. “Why?” I wanted to watch this beautiful beast catch a fish like in the Pixar movie Brave. “Because it’s coming to this side of the river. Let’s move!”
Forgetting that I, you know, can’t walk, I tried getting to my feet in a sprint to get back to the RV. All I got was wet as my feet slid back into the water and Dusty turned so I could climb onto his back. Ethel had seen the bear too and while interested in the big dog across the way, Ethel wouldn’t go near water to meet any friend or person. But the bear either hadn’t seen Ethel or wasn’t interested and I was not in a hurry to find out. Dusty jogged back to the RV, too much in a hurry to try to secure me with his arms and left me dangling from his neck getting jostled with each step. On our way we called out to the four caravan family that had just parked behind us, telling them of the bear that could be headed this way. They didn’t seem that eager to photograph a bear sighting on their family vacation, because I distinctly heard car doors slam as Dusty set me down safely inside the RV.
It wasn’t until later, after we’d left the river, did I remember from the educational signs all over the park that I was supposed to make a lot of noise if a bear was nearby. So, for good measure, I screamed loudly when we had pulled into a gas station to fill up. Even though I explained I was trying to save all of our lives, Dusty was still mad.
And thus concluded my first bear sighting. You could say that while we ended up safely ensconced in our RV afterwards, we really only bear-ly escaped.
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The journey down the Oregon coast became our first attempt at some serious boondocking exploration. Boondocking, or the fancy French way of saying “I don’t want to pay for a campsite so I’m going to pull over here on the side of the road”, is similar to tent camping in that you don’t have a water, sewage or electricity hookup and must rely on your stores in your RV. This type of camping, however, is illegal on private land, city parks or any public area that says “No Overnight Parking”. The big chains of Walmart and Cracker Barrel do allow overnight parking, however, and we have used them liberally when we’re just trying to get from point A to B.
As a state rule, Oregon allows for day and overnight parking in its state parks as long as you do not park at any one spot longer than 12 consecutive hours. We set out down Route 101 from Seattle with plans to spend our daylight hours in one area and then park in another free spot for the night, understanding that we’d leave again in the morning. This may seem tiring, but we’re young, dumb and ambitious so the constant movement only served to fuel our wanderlust. Our RV is smaller, but has adequate clean, gray and black water storage to last us for quite a few days (not showering, but, eh, we love each other anyway) without needing to resupply. This was how we explored the beautiful Oregon secret of the People’s Coast, a section of the Oregon coastline that follows Route 101 along the Pacific Ocean and is home of the infamous 804 hiking trail.
Route 101 wove serenely along the coastline, leading up and around bluffs that leaned away from the ocean as if trying to pull away from the rhythmic, pounding waves. We watched as the thin trees gave way to rocky walls sheltering sandy beaches clearly strewn with large boulders and rock formations. By the time we parked in a small picnic overlook, we felt the pulse of the Pacific below us in the driftwood railing that lead down to the beach. Even later, as we stopped at one of the many coffee huts for an espresso while we waited for our laundry to finish at a coin laundry shop, we heard the drumming of the heart of Oregon, the pull of the Pacific, in the people of the small town Yachats and Waldport. While of the residents we met had the slower pace of retirement in their step, even the young families and adolescents we spoke with met us with acceptance and had the attitude of live and let live. Possibly even rarer than the beauty of the Oregon coast itself was the contentment we saw in the residents of the coastline towns, a contentment that is hard pressed to be found in much of the western culture.
Where to Boondock along the
People’s Coast of Oregon
In between Waldport and further south to Yachats, there is the Governor Patterson Memorial State Reservoir, Beachside State Park, Smelt Sands Park Recreation Site, the residential area of Wakonda Beach and San Marine, and then the Yachats Ocean Road State Natural Site just south of Yachats. These areas are wonderful day use parks and beaches, with picnic tables, bathrooms (or outhouses), and shade. Along Route 101, or the Oregon Coast Highway, there are overlooks with parking lots and beach access for day use as well. All of these areas are clearly marked that overnight camping is not allowed and we only parked here for the 12 hour daylight hour times.
For overnight parking, however, we made our way to Cook’s Chasm south of Yachats where the rock formations Thor’s Well and Spouting Horn are located. This smaller parking area is one of the few that are not marked for “Day Use” only and does allow overnight parking. We’d arrive here around 9 or 10pm each night and there were parking spots still available.
Laundry and gas, two necessities of the boondocking adventure, were taken care of in Waldport. There is gas available in Yachats as well, but the only open laundry facility we found was in Waldport. There is also a Post Office available in Waldport.
For groceries, we kept to the single, but thankfully open late, market in Yachats.
There is free water and RV dumpingat Carl G. Washburn Memorial State Park located just south of Yachats on Route 101. This is also has great beach access for day use.
An Accessibility Footnote
Sadly, none of the Oregon coast was particularly accessible. The beaches did not have boardwalks, for most of the shoreline protected by sand bluffs and boulders. To access each beach we found, there was a flight of stairs and then usually several rocky areas to cover. Dusty simply carried me down to the water and once I plopped down to the sand, he went back for my wheelchair. The only “accessible” path along the shore was the 804 Trail found at Smelt Sands State Park Recreation Site. This trail is a dirt path, not particularly level, and can be steep in some sections but it does follow along above the water and is home to some spectacular views. With the help of my mobility service dog, Little Miss Ethel, I was able to ride the trail without Dusty but I would not recommend this trail for a power wheelchair.
There were two other sights near the coast of Oregon that were accessible (hilly, but level dirt trails with little difficulty): Catherine Creek and Lost Lake
There is a great resource from the National Park Association about accessibility in Olympic National Park, giving detail descriptions of campgrounds, trails and sights deemed accessible. We used this resource to guide our itinerary, choosing to visit only the sites and trails I could roll easily. Already equipped with our accessible RV, La Tortuga, choosing an accessible campground was less of a necessity. Here is the list of campgrounds where we stayed and trails that we took during our exploration of Olympic National Park, as well as a map from the park service.
Staircase Campground, just past Lake Cushman in the Mount Skokomish Wilderness
This lovely campground is deep into the forest, off the paved main highway 24 by twenty minutes on a gravel trail. But the campground itself was built among giant boulders and thick trees, giving each camp site rock walls and tree trunk screens of privacy. The thick canopy of leaves overhead makes the campground continually cool and just a few meters from a few of the camp sites is the rushing Slate Creek river. There is a handicapped campsite, which was a level paved site located right next to the campground bathroom (also accessible) and water station. Due to the nature of the location for the campground, however, it is quite hilly and I relied on my service dog Ethel to pull me up and down the rolling grounds.
Beach 1 through Beach 4 of the
Continuing west from Staircase campground, we arrived at the coastline on Highway 101 and parked at the Kalaloch Ranger Station to explore the beaches. Unfortunately, we were disappointed to find that the shoreline was twenty feet below us and could only be accessed by a steep climb down the cliff side. Stairs had been fashioned at each of the Kalaloch beaches (beaches 1 through 4) and there was a trail above the shore connecting each of the beaches. Upon further review of the Olympic National Park accessibility guide, we saw that only Beach 4 was made accessible and the ramp was only taken out during the summer months.
However, we parked for the night at the Kalaloch campground and were astounded by the view. The higher vantage point above the shoreline gave us an eagle eye view of Washington coast. Windblown trees surrounded each campsite to give privacy, as well as the planted hedge groves separating each site. There were several handicapped camp sites, which had more of the site paved than a non-accessible site. The campground bathrooms and water stations were accessible as well and the entire campground was paved and flat. There were several trails along the coast that left from the campground and while they were not paved, there were level and wider.
This short hike was well worth the drive off Highway 101 following the Elwha River. The drive of Highway 101 around the perimeter of the park is a scenic route in itself and is enjoyable. While the parking lot was not paved, the entire trail to the falls was paved and level. It became steep at a few points, but my service dog led the way and after less than a mile we had arrived. The hike leads to a viewing platform of the Madison Falls waterfall and made for a pleasurable afternoon.
The drive to Hurricane Ridge takes you south into the center of the Olympic Wilderness and climbs up the Klahhane Ridge mountains to reach an elevation over 6000m. While our RV is small enough to handle the hairpin turns and switchbacks of this drive, I was white knuckled as I listened for any signs of our belongings flying out of the cabinets. None did and we arrived at the top of the ridge safely. The few is astounding from the Hurricane Ridge Visitor Center, which is paved and accessible. There was also a short, paved trail around the top of the ridge to reach a higher viewing area.
Dungeness National Wildlife Refuge
While not part of Olympic National Park, this wildlife refuge sits on the northern Dungeness Bay above the little village of Sequim. We camped here for two nights and while not advertised as accessible, this refuge was one of the more inclusively accessible areas we had come across in the park. The camp sites were level and the camp bathrooms were accessible, however I only saw the RV side of the campground. But the best feature of the wildlife refuge was the accessible trail along the coastline and down into the tiny peninsula Dungeness Spit. The refuge covers the Spit and Bay shores, which are accessed by a paved trail through the Wildlife Refuge complete with informational signs about the protected species of the refuge. Down on the Spit, a common sight was the hoard of seals that would sun themselves on the rocks. The last portion of the paved trail is a very steep descent down to the water and was too steep for me to roll down, even with Ethel and my husband. I would not recommend the trail for manual wheelchairs, but a power wheelchair could have climbed this last portion with ease.
There was another trail that was part of the Dungeness campground that followed the coastline through the Dungeness Recreation Area. The trail hugged the edges of the cliffs with the water twenty or so feet below. This was not a paved area and there were roots protruding the trail every so often, but did not have steep portions.
Port Angeles and Port Townsend
This seaside villages were great hubs of all the necessities campers in the park would want. We visited a few restuarants and gorged ourselves on the fresh seafood taken right out of the bay a mile away. The towns did not seem to have the funding to have the most accessible sidewalks, however, and I did encounter many stores without ramps and streets without sidewalks.
Leaving the experiences of Yellowstone and its’ later twin Pike Place behind, Dusty and I turned our RV towards the Pacific coast of Washington State. We were needing the solitude of the forest, the serenity of the ocean and the caffeinated high of Washington style coffee.
We were not disappointed. As we drove into the Olympic National Park, giant dark trees with moss climbing up their trunks towered over us with their canopy of deep green leaves. Low hanging branches dripping with stringy, hairy moss cradled the deserted road where we traveled and blocked the sun to give the forest a magical, dim glow. I couldn’t decide if we had entered someone’s Secret Garden, the Dark Forest at Hogwarts in Harry Potter or a rainforest where any minute a monkey would shriek out our arrival. But we were met with silence. The racketing sounds of various instruments clunking in the RV as we drove along were the only noises and they echoed off the ravine walls and dense forestry, giving way to the small waterfalls that appeared every now and again. But these sounds too were swallowed in the thick mist of silence of the forest.
We parked at Staircase campground, a secluded spot along a small river deep inside the southeast corner of Olympic Park. We could faintly hear the other campers in their camp sites scattered around, but the steep embankments that surrounded each site gave a rare privacy not normally seen in public campgrounds. The thick air seemed to swallow the sounds of tents rustling, cook wear washing and the twinkling jingle of light conversation around us.
There was a time in my life when silence unnerved me. I felt a responsibility to fill any gap in a conversation or to divert attention away from an awkward silence. A fear would seize me in those moments of silence, where I anxiously thought that the silence was brought on by my uninteresting self and my fault. I fled from yoga, meditation, moments of reflection or even the silent pray time at church.
But something changed while we were stationed in Europe. While traveling in Spain, Portugal and Italy, I would notice the young and the old sitting around tables at a café or in the benches in front of fountains gazing at something in the distance. Sometimes their eyes would lazily wander of the crowds in front of them and occasionally these eyes would close and I’d hear a satisfied, slow sigh. These quiet ones along the peripheral of the densely populated tourist cities of Europe struck me as one of the more unusual things I had seen. In the United States, the only people I remember seeing being stationary in the cities were either homeless, elderly or made of marble. “Why aren’t they doing anything,” I wondered to myself. “Aren’t they going to be late for something? They’re just sitting there, wasting time.” I mentally dismissed these quiet curiosities as lazy and, feeling superior and self-important, I carried on my trek.
How wrong, judgmental, sanctimonious and ignorant of me. These gazers, sighers and quiet examples of strength sitting in the edges of my selfie photos in front of World Heritage tourist sites were investing in a practice so foreign to me and so crucial to happiness. They were practicing being silent and relishing in the happiness that silence can bring.
Back in Washington, the thick canopy of the trees and cradling rock ravines towering on either side of the road in Olympic National Park forced upon its’ inhabitants a quiet stillness that no human could break. I could sit on the edge of the river below me, nearly as still as a lake, and yell out to the wind but the sounds would simply ricochet around the rock walls and fade away. The park was intent on keeping its’ sanctuary as free from human sound as possible and as we set up camp for the day and hiked in the woods, I surrendered to its’ silent will. I shut my mouth and tried to simply be. I had taken enough meditation and yoga classes just to accompany friends in the past to know you always try to start with focusing on the breath.
There have been so many conversations over the years between Dusty and myself or with friends that claim a desire to find contentment in a slower life. “Yeah, at the next duty station we’ll be able to slow down and take it easy,” we’d assure our friends, who would respond with an agreeing “You should try to meditate, I read about how healthy it is for you. But who has the time, really? There are so many things to do in a day!”. And given the opportunity to learn how to be still and be happy with moving slowly, I’d push down the gas pedal and promise to go slower in the next chapter of life. Military assignments at different posts required fast decisions and rapid movements. Traveling called for cramming in as many sites and photos in the available hours as possible. Being silent and moving quiet equated with not keeping up, not being good enough. There was never a real desire to slow down because that meant letting go of another opportunity to move on to what always seemed to be greener pastures.
Sitting on the bridge by the river in our campground in Olympic Park, I let my eyes become unfocused on the slowly moving water and breathed in crisp air. Unsurprisingly, my timid but unrelenting friend Doubt whispered in my ear as he moved in close to my shoulder. “You’re missing seeing the trail behind you. This isn’t going to do anything for you, you’re not good at this and you can’t learn how to get better,” he malevolently said. I tried to shrug him off and concentrate on breathing, but I could feel his tight grip in my mind. Ready for a fight, I imagined my breathing as a dragon, with flames of passion and when I exhaled my next breath I visualized the flames coming from my mouth to chase away the scampering, simpering Doubt. But then the flames blew into an oven in my mind and in the oven cooked what had to be brownies and then I forgot what I was doing on the bridge in the first place and when was the last time I had a brownie.
Muttering to myself to stay focused, I quietly continued to breath a few more breaths and but again got lost pondering the curious relationship between a dog and an elephant I had seen online after searching for the meditation recipes that dominating Pinterest and Instagram. Frustrated I had lost focus again, I reminded myself sternly that I was supposed to be finding contentment and following in the footsteps of all the yogis I’d seen smiling serenely on Pinterest. I could hear Doubt laughing on my shoulder. “What a jerk,” I thought to myself. And then I realized something.
I didn’t need to be good at this now. I didn’t need to make this happen today, this trip, this year. I’ll know when I’m ready to understand how to be silent. Maybe it’s more important to appreciate each step in this journey of learning how to find contentment in simply being than it is to have mastered this on the first day.
I heard the gravel crunch as Dusty walked towards me. “The next campsite is further north, near the beach. Ready to go?”, he asked. I refocused my eyes on the stringy moss wrapping around the trunk of the tree next to me. “No, I’m not,” I answered slowly, with a smile. “Let’s stay here a little longer”.
This story has no ending, no moral resolution or lessons learned. There’s no way to tie up this story with a neat little bow at the end and leave with a satisfied sigh. It’s unfortunate and for this, I apologize. If a resolution is to be found, I hope a reader could find it and let me know. I would love to an ending.
Being the overzealous twenty-somethings that we are, Dusty and I have yet to learn how to “ease into things” or “take it easy” or even “slow the eff down”. We throw caution to the wind and follow the pace of our beating hearts; fast and with a fury. We decided upon leaving Salt Lake City that we’d next try the infamous Yellowstone National Park, a monument to the West often making the news for some form of wildlife or another approaching stray tourists. Challenge accepted, we dared fate. From Yellowstone we then chose Seattle, home of the famous Pike’s Place Market and newest dwelling on Whidbey Island to another recipient and family of the Service Dog Project, Renee Le Verrier and Sir Thomas. Renee’s Tommy is also Ethel’s uncle, his brother having sired Ethel’s litter. It had been over a year since the two dogs had seen each other.
Our first clue that we might be in over our heads occurred just south of the entrance to the park, as a traffic jam rivaling the staus of Stuttgart, Germany welcomed us. Throngs of cars, RVs, bikers and tourist buses honked and waited for the slow crawl to advance. Any hints of trepidation I’d felt began to mount. Thus far, Ethel and I had not encountered crowds together. There was an infamous day at Lamberts Café (a notoriously packed Missouri restaurant made famous by the waiters and waitresses actual throwing the rolls at the patronage), where Ethel tried her hardest to stay down amidst the piles of stray rolls and other food fallen on the floor. We had only been together a few weeks at that point and it was a rougher day for both of us.
But I still hadn’t been prepared for those two days. It had been over a year since I was been made to feel like such a spectacle, a show to satisfy someone else’s curiosity and provide entertainment. It began shortly after we parked the RV and I took her for a run, holding onto her harness and letting her gallop as I rolled with her. “I think that’s cheating!” a potbellied middle aged man in a trucker hat yelled across the parking lot and then proceeded to guffaw at his own joke. That was followed by an entire family yelling at each other to “Come, look!” and each held up a camera to their faces and shot away as I urged Ethel to “Giddy up” and get us out of there.
The next day we set out again on our morning run and I tried avoiding any crowds leaving the lodges. No such luck. “Hey, I’ll getcha a saddle!” I heard someone yell behind me and I steered Ethel off into some deserted parking lots.
But suddenly Ethel stopped without warning, her nose high in the air. “What’s up, girlie?” I asked her and looked around. Not twenty feet ahead of us was an enormous, bushy bison.
“Ok,” I said, trying speak softly, slowly and not as hysterically as I felt, “Just back up, that’s right, we’ll walk backwards for just a little bit… do not show fear, Ethel, that’s the key, don’t show fear”. We crept backwards until we were a safe enough distance away and then, with impressive speed, pulled out my phone and snapped a picture. Because, I mean, photo opportunity of a lifetime. Then at my command, Ethel took off galloping us to safety.
But the day went downhill from there. It started to pour and didn’t let up until that evening. To keep dry, the three of us huddled down in one of the lodges and drank hot coffee. But not in peace; we were interrupted every 1o minutes by someone, or a group of someones, wanting Ethel’s picture or wanting to tell us about their dog or the worst, just reaching down to pet Ethel and get their hand slapped away by me. It was exhausting. “No, she’s not a Dalmatian, she’s a Great Dane from the Service Dog Project. Here’s their poker chip”, “No, you cannot pet her, she’s a Service Dog and she’s working”, “No, you cannot take her picture, you’re interrupting us and she’s working”, ” I’m sorry you lost your dog, but you absolutely cannot touch her” and “Ma’am, please tell your children to stop bothering my Service Dog. They’re distracting her and that’s endangering me”. I put in headphones trying to deter their attention, but that left Dusty getting bombarded instead.
We left Yellowstone for the safety of our RV and made a team decision to lick our wounds and take refuge in the welcoming Service Dog Project that awaited us in Seattle. For two days we relished in the rich love of the Le Verrier family, laughing over the antics of our Great Danes frolicking and Ethel stealing any bone or bed that her uncle Tommy had. They sympathized with our experience at Yellowstone and shared similar stories. Capturing the fantastic and resolving curiosity seemed to be of greater priority than respecting personal boundaries or privacy to many of the people we had encountered.
Still wanted to experience Seattle, we borrowed the Le Verrier car they graciously offered and headed to the city. Ethel wore a borrowed blue vest and collar from her uncle Tommy for me to see how I liked the design, with the words SERVICE DOG printed much more boldly than on Ethel’s normal vest. After finding parking, we meandered to Pike’s Place Market in downtown Seattle. The wind coming off the ocean masked the roar of the throngs of tourists occluding the market and spilling out into the surrounding streets. People yelled for family members, high pitched shrieks of children echoed off the walls and sellers laughed loudly at the inside jokes they shared with one another. The Market, being a true maze in itself, was too packed to wander deeply in and Dusty went on ahead to find a stall that sold something to have for lunch. Almost immediately as the people swallowed Dusty into the crowd in front of where I stood with Ethel, off to the site of a part of the entrance, a finger tapped my shoulder. A woman motioned to her camera, which was pushed so close to my face I had to jerk back to avoid head-butting the invasive object. I pointed to the “SERVICE DOG” clearly written on Ethel’s side and shook my head no. Before she could respond, a man squatted in front of Ethel and began to baby talk “what a pretty girl she was”. I asked Ethel to back up and told the man to “Please stop interacting with my service dog, she’s working” to which he said “Geez, sorry” and walked away. I spoke with Ethel, explained to her what had just happened but was then poked again. “Oh, she is just a doll,” a woman with a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt cooed. “So what do you have? Cerebral Palsy? MS? I’m a nurse practitioner,” she explained, as if that gave her permission to ask about my private medical history. Before I could answer this baffling invasion of my privacy in such a public setting, I noticed that two separate people behind her were filming me with their phones. “Stop. Leave us alone”, I told the group with what I hoped was a voice that hid the exasperation I was feeling. Suddenly there was a high-pitched wailing coming from a child being held by her overwhelmed mother already holding the hand of an older brother. “She gets to have her dog in here, why can’t I have Maxy” she cried, her red face glaring at Ethel and me. “Why don’t we ask her if we can pet the dog?” the mom said, trying to placate her crying child. “No, I’m sorry, she can’t. This is a service dog,” I answered, fearing the child’s reaction. The girl’s entire face seemed to split open as the loudest shrieking cry heard yet emanated from the gaping mouth. Ethel and I quickly turned around and fled the market.
Wearily, our trio returned to the warm embrace of the Le Verrier as the sun set over the splashing waves of the sound. We retold our nightmare of the market to their indignant faces, outraged and disappointed that our Seattle experience had matched Yellowstone. They fixed us dinner, gave us beer and seltzer water to soothe our souls and regaled us with stories of their new Washington life. Their happiness and contentment in their new surroundings was evident, even in the quiet face of their 14 year old son who failed to have the surly demeanor 14 year old boys are usually prone to having.
We set off from then to the refuge of Oregon, desiring the trees and ocean to be our only companions and the seals and seagulls our only interactions. I do not know the lesson of our Nightmare at Pike’s Place, only that I lack the thick skin and steely demeanor of someone who knows how to survive in an overpopulated area just like the seemingly cold personalities of so many people I’ve met in New England cities who’ve adopted that attitude out of necessity. If I must, I’m sure Ethel and I can adapt to this lifestyle. In the meantime, I have lunch with a seagull awaiting me and I really can’t miss it.
An old friend, now an international Occupational Therapist, perfectly surmised this experience and gave me her insight. As someone who is an advocate for disabilities and has the unique perspective of having watched me transition from able-bodied to disabled, she identified the true need in both these nightmares: education.
“ Moral of this story: a complete lack of education provided to our society. Lack of education regarding people that appear “different” than us. Lack of education regarding resources for individuals, such as yourself, that utilize various forms of assistance throughout their daily lives. And lack of education for the respect and dignity of people of all cultures, races, ethnicities, and varying degrees of abilities! You should honestly start carrying a brochure around with you. Every time someone tries to touch sweet Ethel when she is working you can emphatically hand them the brochure with a large and friendly 😉 stop sign on the front and then details on the inside about Ethel’s role. Unfortunately, our society, while better than many out there, doesn’t adequately educate the public on abilities and disabilities, and therefore our American people go on living as if they are entitled to handle your service dog!” – Hayley C., Pediatric Occupational Therapist