Field Notes: Ramps, Backroads, and the Quiet Work of Access on Haida Gwaii
When my partner came home to Haida Gwaii after his spinal cord injury, he was not returning to the same island he had left. Nothing looked different to anyone else, but everything felt different to him. He had to learn how to live again. We had to learn how to move through our own community with a wheelchair, through gravel roads and steep steps, through ferry terminals, across boardwalks, into restaurants, through the quiet daily math of planning ahead.
We came home and soon there was a pandemic. Access was already complicated in a rural place, but those years brought an added layer of isolation. We were navigating new routines at the same time the world outside had narrowed. Our elevator at the house stopped working. We spent Thanksgiving that year eating with the in-laws in the basement. Caregiving became a full time rhythm for me, the trips away for surgeries took weeks, online physio appointments, learning to use ceiling lifts, and the thousand small tasks that we began to troubleshoot and automate.
The Practical Realities
Very quickly we became experts in the practical side of accessibility. Portable ramps. Door clearances. Gravel versus pavement. The weight of a manual chair on a slope. We learned which restaurants worked best and which ones needed extra planning. We know which tables he can or cannot fit under. None of this was symbolic. It was just the reality of moving safely and confidently through the world. Our photo rolls reflect that learning curve. Instead of scenery, we often captured pathways, entrances, and layouts. These images became tools, reminders, and planning aids, the quiet logistics behind ordinary outings.
We started noticing ramps the way some people notice good weather. A piece of plywood leading to the library. A handmade hospital ramp welded by someone who cared, the long portable ramp we pack for holidays, and the ones we spot in the wild that make us stop and smile because the first barrier is already solved. Before we even ask if there is a shower or if the doorways are wide enough or if there is space to turn, we look for a way in. These ramps are not perfect or pretty, but they tell us who has tried to make room. They are the quiet signals that someone thought ahead, that access was considered, even briefly, and that possibility lives past the first step (pun intended).
The People Who Make Space
What makes accessibility work on Haida Gwaii is not just the ramps, it is the people who go out of their way to make room. My partners’ Dad built ramps, at home and in Copper Bay, to make sure his son can still do and be part of what matters most. My dad was always sliding chunks of 2x4s under table legs so my partner could fit at holiday dinners, clearing entrances before we even pulled into the driveway, and learning how to turn their houses into places he could move freely. Siblings include us without hesitation, shifting plans, choosing spaces we can access, and making it feel easy to show up. Friends ask what they can adjust so we can join the fun, whether it is moving a gathering to a flatter yard or making sure the doorway is wide enough to pass through, building ramps, or making sure their wedding venue can accommodate a wheelchair as well. None of this is dramatic. It is quiet, thoughtful support that fills the gaps where infrastructure falls short. These small acts of care become the difference between being present and being left out, and they remind me that real accessibility is built as much by people as by anything made of wood or concrete. Two restaurants on Haida Gwaii that deserve mention are Gather Food and Sapporo Sushi. Gather Food has a ramp and wide door entry, and you can book seating for a wheelchair user, they even have a ramp to help enter their washroom. Sapporo has staff that will hold the door open, arrange the table, and make you feel so warm and welcomed each time.
The Places That Are Changing
Across Haida Gwaii, we have started to see small but meaningful shifts in access. At the Tlell Fall Fair Grounds, the Edge of the World Music Festival added an accessible entrance this year, and we arrived with ease. Out at Copper Bay, his dad built a ramp last season so we could stay overnight on our own, waking up to the sound of the river like everyone else who camps there during food fishing. These changes are simple in design but enormous in impact. They gave us back experiences that felt out of reach.
Wheelchair sports have also become a part of life on Haida Gwaii. Every year the Northern Adaptive Sports Association brings accessible recreation to our gyms, and kids of all ages try wheelchairs for the first time. They play, they learn, they laugh, and they grow their understanding of mobility in a new way. The ripple effect is real. When children grow up seeing wheelchairs not as limitations but as equipment, the whole community becomes more welcoming.
In Sandspit, the Dover Trail received accessibility upgrades, and of course we went to check it out. We ended up running into one of the original trail blazers, a reminder that access often grows from years of care layered on top of each other. Improvements do not erase the past. They honour it by allowing more people to step into the places others worked hard to build.
BC Parks has been one of the bright spots in accessibility on Haida Gwaii, championing the use of Mobi-Mats and, more importantly, building real experiences at the end of them. A mat on its own gets you to the beach, but BC Parks has started adding things like accessible picnic tables, fire rings, and gathering spaces so the destination is just as welcoming as the path. That shift matters. It turns access into belonging, letting people roll right up to the shoreline, sit with family, share food, and be part of the moment instead of watching from the edge. It shows what inclusion looks like when it is thoughtful and lived, not just installed.
From the gun range to the dunes, we keep trying to do more, even if every year looks a little different. Some seasons we push farther and say yes to bigger adventures, and other years we stay close to home because energy, weather, or health decides for us. Not every outing is smooth and not every plan is enjoyable, but the point is that we keep going. We keep finding new places we can reach and returning to the ones that feel good. That steady effort, year after year, is what builds a life that is still full of movement, even with all the planning it takes to get there.
Small Solutions, Shared Care
Some of the most meaningful accessibility work we have been part of has nothing to do with ramps or trails at all. It happens in small, practical moments where someone just needs something to make life a little easier. Recently my partner helped a woman who is blind in one eye design a simple 3D-printed Kleenex holder that fits into the cup holder of her car. It is not a policy change or a major project. It is a quiet solution to a real problem made with patience, curiosity, and skill. What I love most is that my partner does not do this kind of thing for attention or praise. He does it because he knows what it feels like to move through a world that is not designed for you. He understands the frustration of needing something simple and not being able to find it anywhere. So when someone asks for help, especially with something that could make their day safer or smoother, he has the capacity and capabilities despite his own challenge to make room to show up.
Living the Life, Not Just Advocating for It
Accessibility is something we live every single day, which means we cannot always be the ones pushing the work forward. Our time is spent on hospital visits, caregiving routines, appointments, planning, and just keeping our life moving in the shape it is now. Some seasons we have the energy to speak up or help organize, and other seasons we are simply trying to get through the week. But what keeps us hopeful is how much possibility grows when people around us take on the work too. Haida Gwaii is not an easy place to navigate with a wheelchair. You cannot fly here with a power chair, accommodations are limited, the ferry elevator may or may not work, and nothing is fully seamless. Yet with connection, kindness, and a bit of heart from the community, people can still find their way.
We are not the first to live this life here and we will not be the last, and that is why showing up for each other matters. When we can help someone else figure out the ferry, the trails, the beaches, we do. And when groups like the Haida Gwaii Accessibility Committee step up and carry pieces of the work we cannot hold ourselves, we are grateful. Inclusion grows because people choose to make room, and all we can do is keep saying haawa - thank you and keep doing what we can, when we can. You help us live a good life.
