By By Lisa Ferrero
I’m in the somewhat odd position that my physical difference is extremely obvious but the effect on my ability to do normal things is pretty minor. I don’t remember anyone ever referring to me as disabled when I was a kid. I was just Lisa, and Lisa had a little arm.
It never really entered my head that I might be any more limited in what I could achieve than other people, in anything that actually mattered. There are very few things I actually need extra help with, I may do it unusually or a bit more slowly, but I’d much rather do that than people do things for me. After all, if you don’t practice a skill, you will never learn to do it, and if you stop practicing, you will only get worse.
I think as humans we like categorising things and people. We put them in nice simple boxes, and in my case, at first sight, it’s often the box marked ‘disabled’.
Our multi-day adventure
Travelling gives you thinking time; as we journeyed through Paris, the Paralympics got me thinking about how people see disability. I often notice these sorts of things more when on holiday, with different people and in different situations.
There were noticeably more visibly disabled people around and I wondered how many people assumed I was also heading to the Paralympics. In fact, I was on my way to the Dolomites in Italy for a multi-day trip between mountain huts, with much of the route being on ‘Via Ferrata’.
Via Ferrata were created during WW1 to provide through-routes through the high mountains for soldiers by widening and tunnelling, and adding ropes, staples or ladders on the difficult sections. Via Ferrata take you into rock-climber’s territory without requiring as high level of skills and equipment, though you still need the head for heights!
Our friend Claire would be joining later, so me and my partner Walt started with a couple of day-trips, including a ‘medium’ Via Ferrata. We both rock-climb, but Walt hadn’t done Via Ferrata before, and I hadn’t for nearly 20 years.
Our first route got off to a slightly un-nerving start, turning out to be steep with poor footholds and a big rightward reach to a critical handhold – the worst possible combo for me! Within 30 metres I had to ask Walt to get out the ‘get Lisa over the steep bits’ rope which we only bought as a just-in-case. The route also had a basic wire-bridge. Now, as well as the obvious challenge this presents with only one long arm, I REALLY don’t like things that wobble. With some experimenting I inched my way across sideways, with little hand on a side-wire and my strong hand holding the over-head wire. It was slow and tiring, so despite feeling proud of myself, I told myself I’d make sure we didn’t have a wire bridge on our multi-day route!
Sometimes when I have a day where my little hand does mean I’m the ‘weakest’ in the group, I think, ‘should I be here/ am I being a burden?’ Thankfully, I’ve never been too prone to that, and have just given it a go anyway.
Over the years, I’ve not only learned to judge what will or won’t cause issues and built a network of climbing partners that know me, but I’ve realised that everyone has strengths and weaknesses. Claire is a skilled and fit mountaineer, but struggles with the cold more than me; I’m usually fitter than Walt, but he’s stronger; I often take on a lot of the organisation and route planning, whilst others lead the way on steep routes that I find hard. One of the things that bonds mountaineers is each having helped and depended on each other. Everyone needs help sometimes.
We ‘cheated’ the start by catching a ski-lift up the mountain. In many countries, they have established a system where people with a disability get a ‘badge/ID’ with which you get discounts almost everywhere. I have no such ID and no need for a reduced price or carer ticket, but I’ve had a few times when kind-hearted ski-lift cashiers are determined to ask the manager, causing queues behind me as they try and get me the ‘disability ticket’ that I didn’t ask for.
Another favourite is random strangers trying to help me- this time just as I was figuring out how to climb up a tricky slippery bit. They were politely fended off by Claire – the last thing you want on slippery rock is someone giving you a (well-intentioned) shove from behind when you don’t expect it!
Back at the hut, Claire walked into the bedroom as I was decanting bottled water into my water bottle, so I explained that I’d been trying to do it somewhere more sensible but people kept offering help… distraction is the last thing you want then no matter how many arms you have.
“They must all think we’re inconsiderate friends, never doing anything for you,” said Claire with a grin.
“Just how I like you,” I said.
Claire was joking. My friends do help but when I ask them to.
Amazing pizza at a little local place that evening brought back funny memories of a previous trip and a lesson to all waiters – never take a hungry mountaineer’s (or anyone’s) pizza away without asking. The waiter had put it down, and just as I was about to cut into it, a senior waiter whipped my plate away – it came back sliced (but by then rather lukewarm). It was sweet that my friends were so indignant on my behalf that I didn’t need to do anything to make sure the waiter got the message. (Though I did still pointedly eat the entire thing with knife and fork despite mimes that I could just pick up the slices.)
This trip, no problem, the lady offered to slice it, as subtly as the language barrier allowed and I thanked her but declined. She gave me a very genuine and non-patronising thumbs up.
Day 5 was a beautiful hot day and the via ferrata was very popular. It was a fairly steep route so we told the teams following us they could overtake. As it turned out, it was our Scottish heat intolerance that limited our pace, not any ‘Lisa-barriers’. At the top, a lady from another group said she was very impressed and asked if I had special techniques…
“Erm- not really, just a lot of practice of having one and a bit arms!”
I find those conversations annoying if I feel people are just impressed by someone with a disability ‘doing something’. But if, like this lady, I get the feeling they’re genuinely interested and think what I’ve done is particularly difficult/skilful (even if I don’t agree), I don’t mind.
That evening, we asked the hut staff for suggestions for a Via Ferrata. Even with poor Italian I could tell the guy got told off for suggesting a ‘medium’ route to a one-armed person. Once we showed them photos from that morning’s route they seemed less worried, but the next day when we returned early they (wrongly) assumed we’d turned back…
If anything, though, I found the oddest moment of the trip to be on a busy German train on our way back when there was only one free seat, next to a lady in a wheelchair’s friend/carer. They thought we should tell the person across the aisle to move, as that seat is reserved for “invalids” (her word – this was all in German). Being as Walt had no visible disability and she’d just seen me walking ably up the carriage carrying lots of stuff, I found this odd. Did she really think I needed Walt as a carer, or that I should take advantage of my ‘invalid’ status to claim the seat? The other person could have had a less visible disability for all she knew. We declined, and (being as he’s tall and inflexible) I gave Walt the seat and sat in a clear corner on the floor. Who knows what she thought of that 🙂
What message am I trying to relay? I suppose it’s mostly that over the years, in my career, hobbies and life I’ve learned that if I allowed myself to be limited by what others thought I wouldn’t have done a fraction of the things I’ve done. No-one else knows your limits and the only way to guarantee failure is not to give it a go.
I’ve also learned that the wrong amount of help can disable you, too much or too little. In my experience many people think that doing things for you is a kindness when often in the long run it could stifle your freedom, ability and self-belief.
(Lastly, thanks to my glove-share buddy, Within Reach editor Max Swinhoe, for the ropework glove that was well-used throughout this trip 😊)
Shared from Within Reach Magazine Spring 2025. Read the latest Within Reach magazine here!