I never dreamed I would host a travel show on TV—or that the gig would teach me so much about accessibility.
by Christa Couture
Images by Accessible Media, Inc.
The view is breathtaking from this height. To my right, the rise of the Niagara Gorge; below me, the changing colors of autumn in the canopy; and to my left, the roar and rush of Niagara Falls. I’m standing at the top of the zipline tower, 220 feet off the ground, nervously waiting for my turn to be fitted with a helmet and strapped into a harness. I have never ziplined before. I’ve never wanted to zipline before. I’m not sure I want to even now.
It’s not that I’m afraid of heights or worried the zipline will malfunction. What horrifies me is the prospect of my prosthesis falling off midair and hitting a tourist below. What a cruel fate to view this stunning landscape from the safety of the ground, only to meet your demise when a leg falls from the sky.
“Next!”
The command from a zipline staffer snaps me back to reality. In my nervousness, I can’t form a coherent question about how we’re going to adapt this activity to my disability. Instead, I just point to my prosthetic leg, which I was sure to make visible in today’s outfit choice. People are much quicker to understand the kind of accommodations I might need when I use visual cues rather than statements like “I only have one leg.” Such declarations are usually met with a couple of eye twitches or a furrowed brow as the person processes what “only one leg” means.
But when I point to my floral-covered prosthesis, the attendant at the Niagara Falls zipline doesn’t bat an eye. “We’ve helped a lot of disabled tourists do this!” the person says cheerfully, and my genuine surprise at their understanding momentarily distracts me from the fear that my prosthesis might bombard an innocent tourist while I swing through the air.
As I’m helped into the seat, I’m relieved to find it feels less like a chair than like a basket or hammock, with plenty of support for my thigh and an upward lift to my knees. The fake leg should stay on at this angle. Phew!
I have to admit, though, that a leg malfunction would make for good television. And that’s the whole point of this adventure: It’s all being caught on camera. Two cameras, actually, plus a GoPro that somebody thrusts into my hand as I’m peering over the edge of the platform, getting ready for the adventure.
I’m about to zipline for the first time in my life because I host a travel show for a Canadian TV network.
It’s a job I never imagined having. So, as the gate swings open in front of me and the water’s roar crescendos from below, I lock in on this thought: “I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this incredible experience!” There’s no time to think further. Whoosh! I’m gliding through the air, arms outstretched, all my senses open. The color of the trees! The sound of the falls! The grip of the harness around my body! The smell of the air! I take it all in for 60 seconds before landing at the bottom of the run, where the rest of my show’s crew greets me, cheering.
As I doff the harness, another thought hits me. “Why can’t I just get a normal job?”
IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE I had one of those. Although I’ve worked as a bookkeeper, copy editor, receptionist, production coordinator, researcher, and nanny at various times, my primary career falls under the broad title of “artist.” I was a touring singer-songwriter for ten-plus years. I published a memoir and various essays. I produced a series of short animated films. I spent some time as a radio host.
But television host appeared nowhere on my resumé, and I didn’t envision it in my future until 2023, when I got an email from an old colleague named Leah Mallen. She said she was working on a TV show, and I came to mind as someone with whom to potentially collaborate. Vague, but interesting. I said yes to a meeting, and when I joined the Zoom call, I was met by Leah and the heart of the Vancouver production company Black Rhino Creative: Ryan Mah, Danny Berish, and Joanna Wong.
They began telling me about a documentary series they were producing called Postcards From…, a Canadian travel show for the five senses. The series is produced for AMI (Accessible Media Inc.), which broadcasts audio and television for blind and partially sighted audiences. Most AMI hosts belong to the visually impaired community, but some have other disabilities as well. I had worked for AMI previously on the audio side, so I was familiar with their mission and supported it.
The first three seasons of Postcards From… had been produced in-house at AMI. Black Rhino had come aboard for the fourth season and revamped the series with a new host, amputee and poet Therese Estacion. Those episodes were almost complete. I listened as they described the series: Every episode has five segments, each focused on a different sense, with destinations scattered across Canada. They incorporate IDV (integrated described video) to make the show inclusive for sighted and nonsighted audiences. They try to weave in the theme of accessibility implicitly, instead of taking a heavy-handed “They Are Disabled” approach.
It sounded fantastic, but I still wasn’t sure where Leah thought I would come in. Then it came out that conversations had begun about a possible fifth season, but Therese might not be available to host it. That’s when it dawned on me.
“Are you looking for a new host?” I asked. “Are you asking if I’d be interested?”
When they said yes, I reflexively started trying to talk them out of it. “I’ve never hosted TV before,” I stammered. “I mean, I’ve done radio, and I’ve been on stage a lot, but, um…” I also wondered why they considered me a good fit for a show about accessible travel. I had the accessibility angle covered—I’ve written about it and advocated for inclusion in my art—but I’m not an athletic, outdoorsy type with a thirst for risk-taking or pushing my limits. I write sad songs on the acoustic guitar. What did I know about guiding viewers through adventures all over Canada?
Two of the Black Rhino team came to Toronto, and we filmed a short screen test. AMI loved it. I got the job. Less than a month later, I found myself learning how to milk a cow, strolling through a cannabis greenhouse, and zipping up a wetsuit (backwards, naturally, because this was another personal first) to swim in the ocean on Salt Spring Island—all for my first episode of season five. That eight-episode season aired in 2024 while we were filming another eight episodes for season six, which premieres in April 2025.
This unexpected job has yielded many gifts that have changed me for the better. It turns out that not being an accessible-travel expert is one of my best assets as a host. It makes every segment of each episode a real learning experience, both for me and for the audience.
Since each Postcards From… episode contains five segments, I decided to share five things I’ve learned about accessibility while hosting the show.
1. IT’S OK TO SUCK AT THINGS
In the last two years, I’ve tried dozens of things I never would have attempted before I started hosting Postcards From.… The list of firsts is long: riding a motorcycle, eating “prairie oysters” (spoiler: they’re fried calf testicles), playing bagpipes, axe throwing, blacksmithing, burlesque dancing, gold panning, wrestling…. I could keep going.
Some of these firsts had never entered my mind because of a lack of awareness—who knew using a chainsaw to carve ice sculptures was a thing? In other cases, self-imposed limitations deterred me from trying something—I always knew sit-skiing existed for bodies like mine, but I didn’t think I would like it, and I was afraid it would be too hard. I didn’t want to face that disappointment. And of course, there were lots of things I’d never had the money to try and destinations that weren’t accessible because of my disability.
Hosting Postcards From… eliminated many of these barriers (excuses?), and each of these first-time experiences pushed me out of my comfort zone. The biggest source of discomfort wasn’t, “Will I be able to do this?” It was, “Will I be okay with being bad at this?”
No one likes feeling incompetent, but it’s unavoidable when trying something new. And somewhere between stepping into a wrestling ring in leopard-print spandex anointed with the moniker “Phantom Pain” and producing a sound on the alpenhorn that resembled a dying cow more than a melody, I found a joy in the playfulness of being terrible at something, a joy in newness.
2. DISABILITY CONTAINS MULTITUDES
As a sighted person hosting a show that’s targeted to blind and partially sighted audiences, I’ve gained a meaningful shift in my perspective. I’ve gotten pretty good at describing the shape and appearance of objects. (How do you describe bagpipes to someone who can’t see them? I went with “like a purse with stilts.”) I’ve retrained myself to include visually descriptive narrations of my actions—to say, “Can you pass me more of the gold leaf to brush onto this piece of wood?” instead of simply “Pass me that.”
I’m grateful for the frequent reminders to consider another person’s experience. My entry into travel is definitely more through vision than through touch or movement because of my disability. But which senses are at the foreground for others? In bringing my own attention to the senses beyond sight, I enrich my own experience while including more people in the stories I tell.
I’m keenly aware of the limitations amputees like me face in navigating the world. Being disabled (and queer and Indigenous) does not mean I inherently understand other marginalized identities. It takes conscious effort to expand my empathy and awareness of experiences different from my own. Postcards From… features guests and experts with a myriad of disabilities different from my own. Learning how others enjoy an experience has broadened my own enjoyment and opened my eyes to the kinds of barriers others face (and that we all need to address).
Frequently, just as the cameras start rolling, the director will remind me, “Christa, give us a little IDV.” I hear that question in my head all the time now. “Who is excluded from this experience? How can I best include them in this moment?”
3. ACCESSIBILITY IS ABOUT COMMUNITY, NOT CONSTRUCTION
In Edmonton, there is a stunning funicular down the side of the river valley that brings passengers to the beautiful trails at the bottom. It’s a wonderful architectural design that allows people who can’t access the stairs to explore this landscape.
Large cities and major tourist attractions usually have the resources to invest in accommodations of this type. The zipline crew at Niagara Falls surprised me with their sensitivity to disability, but that’s par for the course at a destination that welcomes millions of disabled visitors among their 14 million tourists a year.
Smaller communities may not have the same accessibility infrastructure, but they often provide more intimate, personal forms of accessibility. In Dawson City, a town just below the Arctic Circle in Yukon Territory, there are no paved roads or sidewalks. The dusty streets and wood-planked boardwalks were not easy for me to navigate on a prosthesis. But in a town where half the population lives off the grid and folks cut through ice to haul river water up to their homes, problem-solving acumen and a welcoming spirit are second nature. In these smaller towns, I routinely meet people who might never have thought about accessibility per se, but who understand the importance of including everyone and find a way to make their community experience accessible to me.
In other words, creating access for all takes much more than adding a wheelchair ramp or a funicular. Don’t get me wrong, universal design can be a dream come true in the places that have the means to create it. But DIY, person-to-person accessibility is a gift I brought back from the remote corners of the continent, and it has made my life in a big city feel a little less impersonal.
4. HELP IS NOT A FOUR-LETTER WORD
As an artist, I’m very used to doing things on my own—memoirist is not a team occupation. So another unexpected gift I received from working with the Postcards From… team is the experience of creating something with others and benefiting from their support. Help is a form of collaboration; in the planning of each episode, texts like “Would you milk a goat?” and “Can you get on a horse?” were part of the ongoing task to make each episode work for me. When I’ve traveled on my own, I’ve done my own research about elevator availability at every place I want to visit. Having producers to do most of that searching for me is a luxury, but that frees me up to focus on doing my own part as well as I can.
I’ve been notorious for refusing wheelchair assistance or golf cart rides at airports. I almost always end up regretting the choice, but before Postcards From… those situations didn’t happen frequently enough to make me question my own stubbornness. Accepting help, and feeling the relief it brings, has made me proactive about lightening my own load and seeking opportunities to find assistance. I’ve ditched my backpack for a small wheeled carry-on bag (a game changer for back pain), and now I always request the wheelchair, even if I’m having a good leg day.
5. MY BODY IS A CONTINENT TO EXPLORE
My left leg was amputated above the knee when I was 13; I’m now 46. I suppose we’re always getting to know our ever-changing bodies, but people with limb loss and other disabilities have an enhanced consciousness of what our bodies can and can’t do. I thought my understanding of my body’s capacity was thorough, but travel challenged those definitions and perceptions.
I had always avoided Nordic sit-skiing because I didn’t really like sporty things. But when Postcards From… forced me to try, I discovered that the upper-body strength I’ve built up from daily use of crutches made me pretty good at sit-skiing. I felt very capable gliding along a snowy stretch in Whistler, and ultimately exhilarated by it. I came back to Toronto Googling where I could sit-ski close to home, which might be one of the most surprising outcomes of my travels for anyone who knows me well. I had no idea that my body, as it already is, could be good at skiing—and I didn’t know I would love how it felt.
Season six pushed my limits even further—I rode as a passenger in a stock car, sat in front of the pilot in an open cockpit airplane, and learned choreography dressed in drag. The main thing I learned from riding in the stock car is that I really don’t like high-speed transit. But soaring above Saskatoon in a yellow World War II biplane felt like freedom. Donning a mustache and cowboy hat and dancing with a drag queen and burlesque performer made me feel less self-conscious of how my disabled body moves while emboldening me to play with gender. Teach me a line dance, and it turns out I’m ready for more.
WHAT ARE WE SEEKING WHEN we visit a new place or try a new thing, other than to learn and enjoy? I write that and it seems obvious—yet I now know that my sense of learning and enjoyment was limited before I got this improbable job.
I hope that disabled audiences of Postcards From… will come away with the thought: If she can do it, I can do it. I hope nondisabled viewers will look around them and ask: How can I make the places I love more inclusive? And through this wild gig, I hope I can keep the lessons I’ve learned and continue to have fun, new, and courageous experiences.
Life-changing lessons are not exclusive for TV hosts. It took this weird job to get me there—so follow my lead. Try the new thing, ask the locals for help, get out of your comfort zone, and lean into the unknown.
The joy of travel is available for all of us, even without someone yelling “action!” from the sidelines.
How to Watch Postcards From… in the United States
Canada has some fantastic TV shows about disability, so it’s a pity the content isn’t easier to watch in the United States. The best way to see Postcards From… if you live south of the Canadian border is via Proton VPN, a free, legal, and trustworthy virtual-private-network service. Download at protonvpn.com.
