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Hi, I'm Christopher Kain.

If you've found your way to Kellisa's Path, chances are we already have something in common. Maybe you love hiking. Maybe someone you love uses a wheelchair. Maybe you're searching for accessible trails, planning your next adventure, or simply wondering if the outdoors can still be part of your life after a disability changes everything.

Wherever you're coming from, welcome.

This website—and much of my life's work—began with a promise I made to my oldest daughter, Kellisa.

When Kellisa was born at just 25 weeks gestation, weighing only two pounds, one ounce, our lives changed forever. The doctors prepared my wife, Lisa, and me for the possibility that she might not survive. Against incredible odds, she did. As she grew, we learned she would face challenges that most families never have to imagine. Cerebral palsy, hydrocephalus, epilepsy, and other complex medical conditions became part of our daily lives.

But I quickly realized something important.

Her disability didn't change her desire to explore the world.

It only changed how we would get there.

I refused to believe that beautiful places were reserved only for people who could hike under their own power. I wanted Kellisa to experience mountain overlooks, waterfalls, giant redwood forests, colorful deserts, ocean beaches, and the incredible landscapes that make America so special. If she couldn't walk the trail, then I would push her.

That simple decision changed my life.

What started with an oversized jogging stroller eventually became thousands of miles of hiking with specialized mobility chairs. Along the way, our family has explored national parks, state parks, wildlife refuges, forests, scenic byways, and countless hidden gems across the United States. Every trip has taught us something new—not just about accessibility, but about perseverance, creativity, and finding joy in unexpected places.


Over the years, I realized we weren't the only family asking the same questions.

Can we do this?

Will the trail really be accessible?

How steep is it?

Can a wheelchair make it?

Where can we park?

Is the restroom accessible?

Will the effort be worth it?

Unfortunately, I discovered that reliable information was surprisingly difficult to find. Most trail descriptions focused on distance and elevation but rarely explained whether someone using a wheelchair, adaptive stroller, or mobility chair could actually enjoy the experience.

So I decided to change that.

That's why I created Kellisa's Path.

What began as a way to document our family adventures has grown into one of the most extensive collections of wheelchair hiking experiences and accessible travel stories available anywhere. Every trail report I write comes from firsthand experience. Every recommendation is based on actually being there. If I describe a steep hill, it's because I pushed Kellisa up it. If I mention a rough section of trail, it's because I felt every bump through the handles of the chair.

My goal has always been simple: give families the information I wish I had when we started.

I don't believe in sugarcoating accessibility.

Sometimes a trail is harder than expected.

Sometimes accessible parking isn't actually accessible.

Sometimes a restroom is locked, a boardwalk is damaged, or a trail surface has changed after a storm.

Those details matter.

Families deserve honest information so they can make informed decisions and create successful adventures.

One of the greatest joys of this journey has been watching other families discover places they once thought were impossible. I've heard from parents who never imagined their child could see a waterfall, grandparents who thought their hiking days were over, and individuals who finally felt confident enough to visit a national park after reading one of our trail reports.

Those messages mean more to me than I can put into words.

They remind me why this work matters.

Over time, our adventures became something bigger than family vacations. They became a mission to encourage parks, land managers, and communities to think differently about accessibility. I firmly believe accessibility isn't just about meeting minimum standards. It's about creating opportunities for people to experience the wonder of nature.

That belief eventually led me to write Rugged Access for All, published by Rowman & Littlefield. Writing the book allowed me to share not only practical guidance for accessible hiking but also the stories behind our adventures—the triumphs, the setbacks, the laughter, the exhaustion, and the unforgettable memories that have shaped our family.

One thing readers often ask is how I came up with the word "pushiking."

The answer is simple.

There wasn't really a word for what we were doing.

We weren't just hiking.

We were hiking while pushing someone who couldn't hike independently.

So I combined the two words, and "pushiking" was born.

Today I love seeing other families use the term because it reminds people that there are many different ways to experience the outdoors. Adventure doesn't have to look the same for everyone.

When people ask what accomplishment makes me the proudest, they usually expect me to mention a famous national park or a difficult trail.

But honestly, that's not it.

What I'm most proud of is the relationship we've built as a family through these adventures.

Some of my favorite memories aren't dramatic at all. They're quiet moments watching a sunset together, spotting wildlife along a trail, laughing over a flat tire at exactly the wrong moment, sharing a picnic beside a lake, or celebrating after reaching an overlook we weren't sure we could reach.

Those are the moments that matter.

Those are the memories that last.

Professionally, I spend my career in the flooring industry as a technical manager, where problem-solving and attention to detail are part of my everyday work. Surprisingly, those same skills have helped me become a better trail researcher and accessibility advocate. I naturally notice surfaces, slopes, transitions, obstacles, and construction details that many people overlook. Those observations often become the practical information readers appreciate most in my trail guides.

Outside of work, you'll usually find me planning the next road trip, researching trails, editing photos, writing trip reports, or looking for overlooked destinations that deserve more attention.

One thing I've learned over the years is that accessibility is constantly evolving. Trails change. Equipment improves. Parks make upgrades. New opportunities appear every year. That's why I continue exploring and updating Kellisa's Path whenever I can. There's always another trail to discover and another story to tell.

People sometimes describe me as an advocate, an author, or an outdoor explorer.

While I'm grateful for those descriptions, I think of myself first as a dad.

Everything started because I wanted my daughter to experience the beauty of the natural world.

Everything else grew from that.

If there's one message I hope visitors take away from this website, it's that disability doesn't have to mean the end of adventure. It may require more planning. It may require different equipment. It may require patience, creativity, teamwork, and determination.

But adventure is still possible.

My hope is that every trail report, every photo, every travel guide, and every story on Kellisa's Path gives someone the confidence to try something they didn't think they could do.

Maybe it's your first accessible trail.

Maybe it's your first national park.

Maybe it's your first family road trip after an injury or diagnosis.

Whatever your next adventure looks like, I hope something you find here helps make it a little easier.

Thank you for visiting Kellisa's Path and for allowing me to be a small part of your journey.

The outdoors has given my family more memories than I could ever count. If my experiences help your family create even one unforgettable adventure together, then every mile we've traveled has been worth it.

I truly believe that nature has the power to inspire, heal, teach, and connect us. Everyone deserves the chance to experience that, regardless of ability.



I hope I'll see you out on the trail someday.


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