Ignorance of service dog laws
and exemptions common

Kyle Walpole and Max on their way to the summit - a huge achievement on a personal level, but equally satisfying to Kyle was knowing that his insistence on recognition of Max as a service dog and his acceptance on public transport and in parks and reserves, has helped to gain recognition for all types of service dogs, and has contributed to the speed at which Federal properties finally came under the newer Americans With Disabilities Act, giving all service dogs unrestricted access. Page 1 photo: Kyle and Max reach the summit.

Diagnosed with Meniere's disease in 1998, I opted to raise, train, and utilise my own service dog to assist with hearing loss and, on rare occasions, balance problems. With the help of Delta Society and the realities of what owner-training would entail from IAADP, I finally found my match in a two-month-old, very vivacious German shorthaired pointer. Committed to Max's public access and skill training through the puppy years and adolescence, he now assists me full-time, signalling the door, phone, alarms, suspicious sounds, and providing balance support. Skill training, I soon found out, was just the beginning.

I had assumed, as the result of careful study of state and federal law, that business owners, people in authority positions, hotel managers and members of the public would be at least vaguely familiar with the role of guide and service dogs. As many of those who use service animals quickly realise, this is not the case. My trip to Yellowstone brought this reality abruptly to my attention.

Having booked a motel room in Cooke City, Montana, in advance, I discovered just how difficult travel can be when I was denied access with Max, despite copies of the ADA, a laminated ID card, and a copy of Montana law regarding guide/hearing/service dogs. After filing a criminal complaint and a day of vacation lost, I finally managed to locate alternate accommodation. The experience, however, was tempered somewhat by the warm reception I received from Yellowstone Park Rangers.

The tourists, however, were another story. Many often yelled, "Get that dog off the trail - can't you read the no dogs sign!" and while on a walking path, one elderly woman angrily shook her cane at me and said, "You sure as hell don't look blind to me sonny!" I was by now well acquainted with such experiences and realised that the role of advocacy often falls to those of us who use service animals as much to advocacy organisations and government intervention.

Once at home, I set my sights on hiking closer to Boulder. The sunburned peaks and snaking trails of Rocky Mountain National Park, just an hour's drive away, became the focus of my anxious enthusiasm. My pack, walking stick, and Max ready at my side, I set out for the Park. "NO DOGS ALLOWED" signs adorn the entrance to nearly every trail, and an intercom announcement on the Park trail busses warns visitors not to take any pet away from the paved parking areas. However, before even getting three feet from the parking lot with a very well identified Max, who wore a backpack with large "SERVICE DOG/HEARING DOG" patches, a volunteer ranger approached, stood in front of me, and asked, "Where do you think you're going?"

Despite politely informing him that I was headed out to have the bus take me to the hiking trails, he then scoffed, "Oh no you're not." Thirty minutes later, my "suspicious paperwork" apparently sufficed for him to let me continue. I endured the same scenario at the entrance to the trail, twice on the trail going up, once on the trail going down, and again when a different bus driver told me dogs were not allowed on the bus system to take me back to my car.

Frustrated, I contacted the Park back-country office that afternoon. Officials there said they had "no idea" what service dogs were, what tasks they performed, or that they were allowed in public places when accompanying their disabled owners. They also didn't realise that their own regulations specifically stipulated that guide and hearing dogs were allowed with their disabled handlers within the Park. I thought that pointing out the Park regulations might help them to spread the word to their employees; however, that was not the case.

Return trip after trip resulted in hours wasted in detailed explanations as to why Max was with me (he was always wearing an ID cape or pack), threats of arrest and orders to get off the trail and return to my car. At that point, I decided it was time to try to get the word out through other avenues. Park Ranger Jim Detterline, an advocate for disability rights within the park and enthusiastic about expanding access for service dogs in the Park, supported my decision to attempt to become the first service dog team to climb the Park's highest point, the 14,255 foot high Long's Peak. Such a climb, I believed, might help raise service dog awareness and demonstrate the teamwork service dog teams employ every day, albeit in a slightly different venue.

Although I had completed many technical climbs and mountaineering ascents since the age of 11, Long's had always loomed in my mind as something of a dreamlike nemesis. I remembered stories of friends who had taken the easiest route to the top, noting the long 4800 ft. ascent and descent, difficult boulder fields, dicey ledges, steep troughs and perilous cliffs that added to the dangerous fall potential. Now, uncertain as to my own stability and abilities for such a challenging route, I decided such a climb would take preparation for both Max and me.

After several weeks of long hikes, the purchase of a special climbing harness for Max, and training with him on rock faces and steep climbs, I believed both of us were fully prepared. On July 9, accompanied by my long time climbing partner Peter Clifford and his wife, Cynthia, we set out for the Boulderfield campground after confirming at the trail entrance that our climb with Max was Park-sanctioned.

The gruelling ascent with full packs proved to be quite an endeavour. On reaching timberline, a Park official travelling with two llamas approached. An immediate stream of vituperations began after she noticed Max. She demanded that we turn around and not continue any further, as having a dog in the backcountry was illegal and she intended to make sure I was prosecuted. My attempts to inform her of the purpose and legality of Max being with me fell on deaf ears and we all continued uphill despite the woman's final comment that she would be sending law enforcement to "get us" should we be lying.

By mid-afternoon, we finally reached our camp, surrounded by large boulders that spanned the upward horizon to the steep east face of Long's Peak, known for its 1000 vertical foot diamond," which beckons those more technically inclined in the summer months. From our vantage point, we could see the large rock cut-out known as the "keyhole" which unlocked the western ledges and steep trail that winds its way around the mountain for over a mile before the final steep cliffs to the summit. Exhausted and nauseous, we soon met the dark, and the light of our headlamps was replaced by the hint of a moon placing the shadow of the summit against the white wall of my tent. For the first time, I realised how fearful I was both for my own safety and for Max, and just how daunting a challenge the next day would be.

Morning arrived quickly following my restless night with apprehension as my constant companion. After harnessing Max and anchoring him firmly to my left side for support, double-checking the climbing gear, wrapping our rope, and making sure emergency supplies, food, and water were packed, we headed towards the keyhole. Max and I managed to find the rock hopping fairly typical of the types of rocks on which we had practiced and similar to other summer ascents of much easier summits within the Park. Once past the keyhole, the route became more difficult, meandering up and down over a series of ledges. These eventually gave way to a steep trough heading towards the south-western ridge of the peak. By mid-morning, having gained approximately three quarters of a mile, my own uncertainties ran through my mind as bouts of nausea came and went, as did cascading rocks knocked down by climbers above us and a particularly boisterous group of marmots.

For Max and me, the technical portion of the route began as we entered what is referred to, notoriously, as "the narrows." The trail thins to a few feet in width with several hundred feet of sheer cliff cascading vertically down to the right. It was a solemn warning, having ended even the most ambitious attempts of several climbers in prior years. Pete and Cynthia set anchors and traversed the narrows. Max and I followed tenuously. Surprisingly, Max conveyed his typical confidence combined with curious caution that I have come to depend on when in public. Slowly, the two of us worked our way towards the beginning of what is called "the home stretch."

Two climbers who had camped not far from us the night before and heard of our service dog endeavour were on their way down from the summit. One scratched his head and without any hesitation said "There is no way you and the dog are going to make it. You don't have enough rope. It's slippery and steep, and if you fall the two of you are going a long way down and very quickly." My heart sank and I looked over the rocks that had obscured my view. Indeed, a steep rock face laddered in broken vertical faces several hundred feet to the summit. The most sure-footed hikers were helping each other up and down by calling out hand and footholds and grabbing every possible hold for purchase on the rock face.

I told Pete and Cynthia, disappointedly, that I would wait for them if they wanted to summit. Pete urged me to give it a shot. With small, cautious steps, we slowly worked our way from ledge to ledge. Since they would be working together, Max and I would be on our own to the top. Max would ascend with a small hop or slow stretch making his way up the uneven, thin, stair-like footholds. Following, I climbed in the traditional hand and foot fashion, with Max bracing to keep me from falling if I became dizzy or unstable. Losing track of time and place, I used the same skills I had learned when rock climbing in the past. I knew I had to remain constantly aware of how best to have Max help me, and both of us to navigate our way up the steep face. With a final push, we reached the summit of Long's and looked out over the Front Range. It was my first fourteener since my diagnosis with Meniere's, and my first fourteener with Max. I knew that although dizzy and feeling a bit out of sorts, in a deeper sense, it was the first time two feet and four paws had helped each other to reach that place.

The descent proved to be just as challenging. As before, we navigated the steep cliffs, narrow winding ledges, rocky boulder fields, and managed to keep aloof of falling rocks. The addition of our heavy gear at camp made me wish to spend another night in a cosy tent and sleeping bag, free to sleep off my delirium.

With just a few miles to go, having completed one of the greatest challenges of my life, I was stopped by another ranger. Walkie-talkie in hand, ticket book at the ready, she and her companion immediately demanded proof that we had a backcountry pass. Then, despite Max's ID labels on his pack, she demanded that I show her "government ID" proving Max was what I claimed. I informed her that was not a legal requirement and then showed her my ADA information card provided by Delta Society. She insisted again and asked why she should believe my "story," as anyone could purchase a patch and put it on a pack, and anyone could claim to have a service dog.

I explained as well that service dogs were in use for myriad reasons, may or may not wear capes, and that the disabled person does not have to identify his or her disability. For 15 minutes I received a lecture as to why the government was foolish for allowing people to claim they had a service dog and her suggestion that I not bring him with me next time so "you don't go through this again". Although she was mollified but not convinced, I set off once again, into an afternoon hailstorm and the sense that something had to change.

The days passed and my body recovered from the climb. Max returned to his normal routine and seemed not the slightest bit fatigued. On a subsequent return to the Park for a hike, I knew there remained much work to be done. One volunteer ranger exclaimed, "Here's the guy who thinks he can bring his dog in here again." After returning to the parking lot, the same ranger I had contacted during the Long's climb approached and criticised, "Do you know how many calls I've had about you two on the radio today?" I returned to Park headquarters.

Following a complaint to park administration, and after conversations via email with Mary Marques-Caramico, founder of Assistance Animal Access Consulting Services/Disability Sensitivity Training Network, I learned the Americans with Disabilities Act did not apply to federal properties, which fell under the older and far more restrictive Rehabilitation Act of 1973. The latter does not provide any definitions or designate any specific rights to disabled persons who use service animals. National Park regulations provided that only guide and hearing dog users were protected.

After numerous conversations, emails and letters, I received a call from Tom Coleman and officials at the Department of the Interior in Washington. Mr Coleman noted that he had received numerous complaints by other disabled people who had been prohibited access to national park sites as a result of their service animals and had received word of my complaints and efforts in Rocky Mountain National Park. At that time, he said they were trying to determine how best to approach the issue and that they realised that applying the ADA to the national parks was "the right thing to do" and improving access could preclude potential lawsuits. Although urging me to be patient, he said that our efforts had sparked changes that would eventually provide access for service animals in the national park system.

To my surprise, Ms Marques-Caramico subsequently emailed me a copy of a recent memorandum issued to all associate and Regional Directors, as well as Superintendents, of the many national parks. The memorandum, dated September 5, 2002, states its "intent to revise our current regulations regarding service animal use; and to provide interim guidance on what we as an agency must do in order to comply with the Department of Justice (DOJ) guidelines and regulations and Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act." The memo notes that "this information will be incorporated into Director's Order No. 42 when it is updated."

The memo clearly identifies the provisions of the ADA that "expanded the concept of service animals to include those providing a service for individuals with other than hearing or vision disabilities." It provides the ADA definitions of service animals and "disability" and notes the "confusion for the parks because of our current regulations that recognise only guide dogs for individuals with visual impairments and signal dogs for those with hearing impairments." After "careful review" of the issues regarding service animal use and access, the memo concluded that the NPS is "legally required by Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act to allow all types of service animals into the parks." It further emphasizes that until the order can be incorporated into Director's Order No. 42, the national park system is to consider protections of the ADA and the Rehabilitation Act as "essentially the same".

The previous regulation allowing only signal and guide dogs "is unenforceable against persons with disabilities who rely upon service animals for other purposes". As a result, "all park units must immediately expand the definition of service animals to be consistent with the DOJ definition" and "allow all service animals accompanying persons with disabilities the same privileges currently provided to guide dogs and hearing assistance dogs". Park officials may not require proof of certification nor question a person regarding the nature of the disability.

The steady flow of climbers traversing the trails towards Longs' summit have all but slowed to a trickle with fall's first dusting of snow and the cool winds of winter soon to come. My thoughts of the mountains have shifted to the more mundane tasks of lesson planning, grading and daily attempts to instil enthusiasm for geography in my middle school students. A wet nose and a wagging tail are never far away. I often see Long's Peak as I travel along the Front Range or head to the hills on a weekend hike.

Memories of struggling over boulders, scaling rock faces, feeling sick and fatigued, and wondering if I would make it are tempered by my thoughts of Max. In my years of climbing, I have depended on my ropes, my gear, my ice axes and crampons, a sturdy walking stick, and my partners - and most assuredly on him.

Without the tools necessary to provide safety, security, and the ability to adapt to changes, mountains would remain the places where few ever tread. Without the ability to use the technology at our disposal and attempt all of life's challenges, we would remain grounded, only to gaze upward and dream.