The Search for Access: A Family’s Ride Through Barriers

"Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better."

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- Attributed to Maya Angelou

As we approached the entrance to Sasquatch Mountain, we were glad to see there was no line. During the summer, the entrance had seemed crowded and chaotic, but on this cool weekday evening with school in session, we had the queue all to ourselves. For a family with multiple disabilities, having no one else around meant we would have more time to board without the added stress of other people's judgment and impatience.

Even without anyone in front of us, we still had to wait. At least we had a highly animated Bigfoot animatronic to keep us occupied. It even had expressive facial movements; at one point it looked like it sneezed.

It was only after we were released from the queue that we were informed that our party of five would be broken up. My mother and two daughters were sent up a flight of stairs, while my wife and I were directed to follow a staffer. We were not told where we were going, but I assumed it would be an elevator that could accommodate my wife's motorized scooter.

Once we were in front of the elevator, we were told to wait in the empty hallway while the staff member went to check on something. Another staff member came over to ask if we were waiting for the ride, and then she disappeared. The lack of communication was becoming a pattern.

After a few more minutes, the first staff member returned to assure us he had not forgotten about us, but then started to head off again. We stopped him before he could walk away.

Growing impatient, my wife asked what the issue was. A private event was being held in the room they use to provide wheelchair access to the ride, and he was trying to figure out what to do.

As we waited, my concern grew for the rest of our family. My two adult daughters are on the severe end of the autism spectrum, and it had been at least twenty minutes since we had last seen them. They are usually well‑behaved, but my mother was visiting from California and not used to their quirks. Having never ridden the ride before, we also did not know whether they would face any obstacles while boarding.

Finally, the staff seemed to have resolved the confusion. We were let onto the elevator, but faced another delay as soon as we stepped off. The meeting was over, but they had locked the door we needed. A gaggle of staff members was discussing whether my wife's mobility device would fit through the door we could access.

At this point, I pointed out that the only way to answer the question was to try. It was a tight fit, but once I retracted the door stop, she was able to maneuver through. We had finally made it to the preshow room.

Despite the lack of crowds, the staff was clearly struggling with how to provide access for a family with disability‑related needs. What had they done for families like ours during the busy summer months, with the added pressure of a full queue waiting downstairs?

Sitting in the otherwise empty room was the rest of our family. We found out later that the staffers hadn't even bothered to tell them why we were delayed or to communicate any other information to them. Also, because of where they had been seated, we were not able to get close to them, even though no one else was in the room.

Unfortunately, this view changed as we entered the room with the ride. While people who were standing were still visible enough to navigate the space, I did not realize that my wife's image had disappeared, and I walked right into her scooter. Ouch.

Unable to negotiate the process of getting into our ride seats while wearing our headsets, we were forced to take them off. We had to hold onto them as we went through the already complicated process of transferring my wife out of her mobility device. No one from the attraction's staff made themselves available to help.

Settled into our seats, the experience was excellent. The on‑screen images linked up perfectly with the movement of the seat, the storyline was basic but engaging, and the physical effects were not overdone.

My one complaint was that the preshow made it seem that we would somehow participate in the action, but in reality, the experience required no participation. All of the action was passive, and we did not have to do anything.

At the end of the ride, the on‑screen video instructed us to leave our headsets on until we exited, but by then we knew better. At least this time someone came over to take them from us.

After being led back to the elevator, we were subjected to one last indignity: no one bothered to tell us where the rest of our family would exit the attraction. We had to make our way back to the entrance only to learn they were inside the building, in the opposite direction of where we had come from.

From the time I met my daughters when they were six, I have insisted on including them in as many family activities as possible. Their intellectual disabilities would not be a reason to leave them behind, nor would we hide them from view.

As my wife's physical limitations have increased due to her progressing Multiple Sclerosis (MS), I have tried to follow the same goal. But unlike the obstacles faced with my daughters, which can often be solved with patience and creativity, assisting my wife requires facilities to provide basic infrastructure and proper employee training.

The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) requires that access be provided for people like my wife, and the attraction's elevator met this requirement.

But the spirit of the law was violated by the apparent lack of planning and training for their employees. My wife is not alone in her need for a motorized scooter to participate in family adventures. In the months since this attraction has been open, how many others have encountered the same barriers to access that we did?

Even more concerning is the possibility that some who encountered these obstacles gave up. Or, even worse, let the experience dissuade them from attempting future adventures, leaving them outside holding everyone's stuff as their families made memories without them.

A society should be judged on how it treats its most challenged members. We must do better.

Carl Petersen is a former Green Party candidate for the LAUSD School Board and a longtime advocate for public education and special needs families. Now based in Washington State, he writes about politics, culture, and their intersections at TheDifrntDrmr.