Locked In by Design: How Incremental Decisions Shape Alaska’s Access — and Who Is Left Carrying the Weight of Division

Author: Samuel Schilling,

President, Alaska Outdoor Access Alliance &

The Chugach Backcountry Freeriders

Access in Alaska is rarely lost through dramatic closures or sweeping decisions. More often, it

fades quietly through small adjustments, reclassifications, and deferrals framed as clarification

or alignment. Each change appears minor and reasonable on its own, but together they alter

the framework governing access. By the time the consequences are understood, the structure

has already shifted, leaving little left to challenge. This slow erosion creates the illusion that

nothing serious is happening and reinforces the belief that if access were truly at risk, it would

be obvious.

This process thrives on fragmentation and fatigue. User groups with shared interests remain

divided by geography, capacity, or focus, while participation declines not from apathy, but

because each change feels too small to warrant engagement. As engagement drops, the burden

does not disappear, it intensifies. A shrinking group of volunteers reviews dense documents,

attends overlooked meetings, and raises concerns long before impacts appear on the ground.

They coordinate across organizations and regions, not because others don’t care, but because

the system advances quietly ahead of public awareness.

The most difficult part of watching access change is not the moment it disappears, but the long period before that, when patterns are visible to a few and ignored by many. The process often begins on paper. Language in management plans shifts just enough to change how future decisions are made. Protections soften into goals. Historic use becomes something that may be “considered.” Authority moves subtly from public process to administrative discretion. These changes are rarely explained plainly and are framed instead as housekeeping or technical

updates.

When concerns are raised, they are met with reassurance. We are told nothing is final, that

details will be addressed later, and that accommodations will come. We are asked to trust the

process. But nothing is written into decisions, nothing is enforceable, and nothing survives

beyond the meeting where it was spoken. Words replace commitments, and promises stand in

for protections.

Over time, authority shifts. Land once governed under one framework is reclassified, conveyed,

or transferred into another. Oversight changes. Decision-making moves farther from the people who use the land, even while the appearance of local control remains. Management names may stay familiar, but the power to decide moves upstream administratively. By the time this becomes visible, the shift is already complete.

In other cases, erosion happens through ownership changes. Long-standing use continues

without issue until a single change makes history irrelevant. A new owner arrives, proof is

demanded, and because only documented access now matters, use that once felt secure

becomes fragile. When help is sought, original intent is acknowledged but dismissed as unclear

or unenforceable. Obligations exist in spirit, but not in practice, and the burden shifts fully to

the public to justify continued access.

This pattern repeats predictably: small changes to the trail, then the plan, then classification,

then authority, then ownership. Each step feels survivable, but together they narrow the path

until none remains. What makes this so painful is the isolation of seeing it unfold. A small

number of volunteers recognize the sequence early and try to raise warnings, often meeting

disbelief or fatigue because impacts are not yet visible.

Incremental change also reshapes participation. Agencies have learned that slow, prolonged

adjustments generate little response. Engagement is complex and time-consuming, and as long as impacts feel distant, people reasonably step back. That response is not apathy. It is fatigue by design. As participation declines, organizational capacity shrinks. When attention builds, processes are delayed, reset, or stretched out until momentum fades and the cycle repeats.

Public involvement is often redirected rather than avoided. Meetings are scheduled where

impacts feel abstract, while the most affected communities are engaged later or less. On paper,

participation appears balanced, but in reality it remains fragmented. Different groups receive

different assurances, just enough to prevent unified action. Promises are implied but never

secured, producing hesitation rather than resolution. The work does not disappear. It

intensifies on fewer shoulders.

Access advocacy is carried by people willing to give far more than time alone. It happens on

personal hours, with personal resources, and at personal cost. For many, this effort becomes

woven into daily life, shaping work schedules, family calendars, and household conversations.

Families absorb the impact because they understand what is at stake. It means missed evenings at home, weekends spent traveling instead of resting, and money spent not because it is reimbursed, but because the cause matters enough to justify it. 

People step into this work not because they agree on everything, but because they believe in

enough of the same things to keep showing up. People like Michele Stevens, President of the

Alaska Snowmachine Alliance and the Vice President of AOC South Central, consistently

leverage relationships and experience to engage early and resist harmful changes. Rob Arno,

Policy Director of the Alaska Outdoor Council, whose institutional knowledge and lived

experience make opaque systems visible before it is too late. Lisa Agnew, President of the

Anchorage Snowmobile Club, serving as connective tissue, driving outreach, communication,

and coordination. There are others who remain steady when pressure builds, holding direction,

maintaining momentum, and refusing to let the effort stall simply because it has become

difficult, Caleb Martin, Executive Director of AOC, being one example among many. This is not

about credit; it is about continuity.

Participation does not always mean leading. Participation takes many forms. Sometimes it is

simply showing up. It could be one person sitting in a courtroom, attending a meeting, listening, and relaying back what was said or simply just your presence. Every role matters. Each one reduces the burden and keeps the work alive. When that happens, the weight begins to shift and each action (even small ones) helps reduce the burden.

Much of what has been lost faced little opposition because it was designed to prevent

opposition from forming at all. It relies on delay, fragmentation, and the belief that the moment to act will be obvious. By the time it is, decisions are often already made. There remains a very narrow window where engagement still shapes outcomes instead of reacting to them. That window depends on your participation. Getting involved with local clubs that actively defend access, and supporting statewide organizations like the Alaska Outdoor Council and the Alaska Outdoor Access Alliance, keeps decision-making connected to the people who use the land.

Access will continue to be shaped increment by increment. Whether it is protected depends on

who chooses to show up before the door quietly closes.