Red Mountain Park is cool. Especially if you’re blind. Namely because they have a sensory trail, which is an offshoot from the main trail at the park, specially designed for hikers with disabilities. Such as hearing disabilities, vision disabilities, or for those using wheelchairs.

The sensory trail terrain is compacted, but not paved. Free of roots and boulders, but still rocky enough to be considered a REAL trail and not an imitation. Meaning, you’re REALLY hiking.

The trail is lined with ropes, on both sides. So if you are blind, you can use the guideline and find your way along independently.

The trail was designed and constructed by Birmingham Eagle Scouts. And I wish these young Scouts knew how much their hard work means to a 12-year-old little girl who is blind.

And so it was, one beautiful Friday afternoon, the aforementioned 12-year-old and I came upon the sensory trail.

Becca, the 12-year-old, and I have been hiking a lot lately. Our normal system of hiking is simple. She grasps a five-foot rope which is attached to my backpack, keeping tension on the rope so she can feel which direction I am going. She follows that direction, using her white cane as a kind of modified walking stick.

But when we came upon the sensory trail, everything changed.

“What’s a sensory trail?” she said reverently.

So I told her.

Her mouth dropped open. “You mean they HAVE things like that?”

“Apparently so,” I said.

We walked the trail, Becca held the guidelines. Her face was alight with ten thousand smiles.

“I can’t believe I’m hiking on my OWN!” she said. Her little voice reverberated throughout the woods. Birds flitted away from us. People were staring.

“Look at me!” she said. “I’m hiking by myself!” She was practically running. At times, she was singing even though we were not in a musical.

“Slow down,” I said, bringing up the rear.

Hikers passed us on the trail. Becca greeted them. “CAN YOU BELIEVE THEY HAVE A SENSORY TRAIL?” she hollered. “THIS IS AWESOME!”

Most of these were sighted hikers, and you could just tell they did not grasp the awesomeness which Becca was referring to.

The sensory trail, as I say, is a brief path. Thus, Becca and I hiked it 36,298 times to get her fill. We walked the trail up and down. Back and forth. Forward and backward. Upways, downways, sideways, longways, and every which way.

And I thought of all the trails in our country. The national trail system consists of nearly 200,000 miles of hiking trails. Comparatively speaking, almost none of these trails are accessible to those with disabilities.

When we finished, Becca and I sat on a park bench to eat “hiking food.” Hiking food is food that primarily comes in the form of “bars,” which are sold in the “organic section” of your local supermarket, and taste like “excrement.”

But when you’ve traversed the sensory trail as many times as we did, you will eat this food gladly.

“You know what I wish?” Becca said, happily chewing. Her little backpack on her shoulders. Swinging her tiny hiking boots beneath her.

“What do you wish?” I said.

“I wish EVERY trail had ropes, so that I could hike whenever I wanted, and I could experience this good feeling all the time, just like a real person does.”

“You are a real person,” I said.

“Well, I know. But I actually feel like one today.”

Thank you, Eagle Scouts of Birmingham.