There Was No Road In… and No Road Out

When we first started talking about Alaska, the plan was simple. Shon was retiring from the Texas Department of Public Safety Aircraft Division, and we thought we might go up there so he could fly professionally for a few years. We weren't thinking long term - just a couple years of adventure. We even talked about renting an apartment in Anchorage so there would be no big commitment. We wanted to just go, experience it, and come back to Texas.

But the more we looked, the more something shifted.

We didn’t just want to visit Alaska. We wanted to live there. It wasn't long before we were searching for a home. Most mornings, we’d sit in bed with our coffee and scroll through Zillow, dreaming a little bigger each day. That's when I noticed something—Shon kept widening that search circle… wider and wider. One morning, he looked over at me and said,

“This is it. This is the perfect home for us.”

I leaned over to look. It was beautiful, quiet, remote, surrounded by trees. It was everything I imagined when I thought about Alaska, so I asked the obvious question: “Where is it?” He showed me the map. And then I asked the next question: “How do we get there?”

Because right there in the address, it said: Cub Lake — No Road, Alaska

Tucked deep in Alaska, this cabin became home in a place far removed from roads—and everything familiar.

No road.

Shon was convinced there had to be one. “There’s a bulldozer out there,” he said. “They didn’t just fly that in.” Even when I called the real estate agent, I asked her the same thing. She said, “Well… you can fly in. Or maybe you could get there with a four-wheeler.”

Maybe. That wasn’t exactly reassuring. It wasn’t until we got in touch with a neighbor across the lake that we understood what we were looking at. There really was no road. We could get close—about three miles out—by boat along the Yentna River. But those last three miles?

Treacherous.

There was no driving in. No easy way out. We later learned that in the winter, we could make the trip by snow machine—about 55 miles—but even that wasn’t exactly casual.

The reality was simple:If we chose this place… we were flying in, and our lives would change completely.

People asked me sometimes if I felt trapped. Did I feel claustrophobic, knowing I couldn’t just get in a car and run to town. And I’ll be honest—there were moments I missed that, especially when I needed groceries.

No road. Just Alaska.

But something unexpected happened out there. Without a road, life slowed down. Instead of running to town for one or two things, I made a list. I planned ahead. I thought differently. As a result, the pace of life changed with it. There was a kind of freedom I didn’t expect. In the summer, I had my canoe and the lake stretched out in front of me. In the winter, I could take the snow machine and go wherever I wanted. And everywhere I looked… it was quiet. Still. It was peaceful in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it.

No road in. No road out.

And somehow… it didn’t feel limiting.

It was freedom.

There are so many more moments like this—times when Alaska stretched me, surprised me, and changed the way I see life.

Some of those stories found their way into my book, "Follow Me to Alaska."

But even now, I find myself going back to that place in my mind…

No road in. No road out.

And a kind of freedom I didn’t know I was looking for.