I have been walking on painful joints for some time, but that never stopped me from doing what I love best: hiking alone in the Rockies. Then my knees finally refused to go any further. I face a goodly amount of time recovering on crutches and a wheelchair. I was pretty upbeat about the whole thing until it hit me: no hiking. No communing with the silences and the rustles of the aspen. No gathering that special one red aspen leaf.

I lost it. I couldn't stop the tears. Nothing had hit me like the stripping away of my annual pilgrimage to Colorado's fall beauty.

Then I found Wilderness on Wheels. Some kind souls have been working for decades to build a mile-long boardwalk that hugs Kenosha Pass--just off Highway 285 and about 4 miles past Grant.

I grabbed my shiny new wheelchair and headed out. I could hardly wait to get back into the mountains, and this seemed like a godsend.

I could have gone with friends, and I intend to come back here next week with some companions, just to share the beauty of it all. But I love my independance. I love having time just for me, to go exactly where I want to go when I want to. To sit and stare at a leaf for as long as I want, to write and meditate in the beauty of our Rockies, to have a silly but private conversation with a squirrel.

And now, I could do exactly that.

The friendly folks greeted me at the entrance, and I signed in. Parking was easy. Even though I am just getting the hang of crutches, wheelchair, car, on top of the usual hiking gear, it was easy to manuever and get prepared for my adventure. The parking lot even offers neat little campsites that just beckon me to plan for next year.

The first stop on the boardwalk is a lovely little pond, resplendant in fish. Watching the fish jump was like watching the Perseid showers--there were so many that it was nearly impossible not to see a jumping fish. Fish gathered at the entrance of the pond, bathing in athe clear coldness of the mountain stream.

I, too, wheeled along the stream, and breathed in the cool amber scents.

And looked up to see that yes, once again, this year's leaves were going to turn colors and drift slowly to the ground, preparing for yet another winter. The seasons would continue to turn; the years continue to roll by; and the mountain would continue to stand.

Even my new perspective could not change the meadows. I sat staring, grateful for some constancies in my now topsy-turvy existence.

And the path beckoned me on. Boy scouts, companies, friends, families, and others have all pitched in to build inviting benches, smooth pathways, comforting fence rails. The trail inclines slightly, but I managed pretty well in my manual chair. Ok, I admit it. I took a lot of breaks--mostly to look at the lovely scenery, to examine a fallen leaf, the slant of light in a turning tree.

However, I must admit that if I ever hear the joke "I just flew in from Ohio, and boy are my arms tired"--I will know exactly what those tired arms feel. I mentally blessed whoever put the level portions in, and whoever made the benches at just the right intervals to take a breather.

I took in the vistas of neighboring hills, wondered at unexplored paths like the one that lead down to an amphitheater, and revelled in the changing patterns of sun and leaf and sky.

I had the chance to look closely at rosehips ripening in the sun, to examine the sharp acrid smell of juniper, to admire the tiny sharp leaves of kinnikinak.

And of course, there was a lovely little picnic table halfway up where I could spread out my lunch and have a feast.

I rested there, thinking about the wonders and beauties that lay just beyond the corner, just over the hill...and I smiled, knowing that I could indeed get there, that these treats were not denied me simply because I could no longer hike.

But the aching in my arms and the darkening of the sky convinced me to turn around and leave the rest of the trail for another day. And so I easily glided down the hill, and took my time admiring the wilderness...on wheels.

The downhill slope was gentle enough so that I could even steer around the tree so carefully left in the middle of the path.

 Of course, all of this would not be possible without the many helping hands and people who have donated time, materials, and money. To all who participated in this endeavor, I want to just say: "Thank you." You have made more of a difference than you can possibly imagine.

Deena Larsen