🌿 Redesigning the Outdoors, One Trail at a Time

Because access isn’t extra—and everyone deserves to feel at home outside.

Stopping for a selfie over Whiskey Creek 📸: @Jen Reynolds

This past weekend, I hiked one of Michigan’s most beautiful hidden gems: the trail through Fisherman’s Island State Park. It was the kind of early summer day that makes you believe in magic again—blue skies, whispering pines, the buzz of mosquitoes doing their annoying part to remind you you're alive. We wandered through shady woods and open clearings, and then came to a scene straight from a fairytale: Whiskey Creek, bubbling over rocks and framed by ferns and wildflowers.

It was stunning. And it was also—like so many trails—not built with bodies like mine in mind.

Because here’s the thing: I’m legally blind. My guide dog stayed home that day because it was too hot (and frankly, she’s not really trained for hiking), so I relied on my trekking poles, my husband and two close friends—two in front, one behind—to help me safely navigate the trail. I watched their body language to anticipate obstacles, crouched when they crouched, paused when they paused. It worked, mostly. Until it didn’t.

At one point, I got stuck—literally. My foot wedged in a branch while climbing over a downed tree, and for a few tense moments, I couldn’t go forward or back. I had to wrestle my leg free without toppling over. Moments like that are frustrating—but they’re also familiar. I’ve had to learn to treat hiking as both joy and calculus. I do everything other hikers do—just with more caution, more planning, and usually a bit more bruising.

And you know what? I’m still one of the lucky ones. I’ve got experience, supportive people, and stubbornness in spades.

But what about someone who’s new to the outdoors? Or someone with a wheelchair? Or sensory sensitivities? Or chronic fatigue? Or someone like my elderly parents, who love nature but need to know exactly what they’re getting into?

That’s where we’re failing. And not because trails aren’t “accessible enough”—but because we aren’t sharing the right information.

Here’s the part we don’t talk about nearly enough:

Access is how we build community—not just compliance.

I remember hiking Emerald Bay in Lake Tahoe—one of the most breathtaking trails I’ve ever attempted. Steep cliff drop-offs, narrow rock paths, barely room for my dog and me to walk. It was terrifying. I pushed past my comfort zone until I finally turned back, unwilling to risk my dog’s safety. I remember thinking: I could’ve done this—if only I’d had better information.

It’s hard to tell from this photo exactly how high up we are—but trust me, it’s HIGH.

If someone had told me, “This trail has massive drop-offs and minimal guardrails,” I could’ve made a better decision. Maybe I would’ve used my cane instead of bringing my dog. Maybe I would’ve picked a different trail altogether. But at least the choice would’ve been mine.

Instead, like so many disabled hikers, I had to rely on guesswork.

It was that moment—and a dozen others like it—that planted a seed:

What if we could crowdsource trail accessibility in a way that actually works for disabled people?

What if reviews didn’t just tell you the length and elevation, but whether there were tactile markers, sensory hazards, or places to rest?

I’m working on a project to help close that gap. It’s early. It’s grassroots. But it’s built on this belief:

Access helps everyone.
Disabled hikers. Parents with strollers. Older adults. Anyone who’s ever felt unsure whether a trail was reallydoable for them.

I don’t have a big app to launch (yet). But I do have a voice, a vision, and a tribe of people who believe in better trails, braver stories, and bolder belonging.

So here’s my invitation to you:

• If you’ve ever helped clear a path for someone else—literally or metaphorically—you’re already part of this movement.

• If you’ve ever felt unsure whether you belonged on a trail, know this: you do.

• If you’ve ever thought “someone should really fix this,” maybe that someone is us.

The trail doesn’t need to be perfect.

It just needs to be possible.

Sometimes the most radical thing we can do is show up and share what we’ve seen.

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Curious where this path leads?

I’m sharing updates, stories, and trail-tested insights over at WanderABLE on Substack. Come walk with me.