Alaska:Arrival day @ Tutka Bay Lodge

We stepped off the seaplane and onto the low-tide beach at Tutka Bay—slick rocks underfoot, little tide pools glinting in the sun, and that unmistakable smell of ocean and wildness. We didn’t even have time to take it in.

Within seconds—seconds—one of my kids was holding a starfish the size of his face.

That’s how quickly this place lets you know: you’re not in Kansas anymore.

Right away, we met Mak—our guide for the week and the kind of person you instantly trust with both your plans and your overstimulated kids. There was no “check-in” process or formalities. She walked us to our cabin, gave us the dinner time, and then casually said,

“I’ll meet you at the gazebo. Let’s plan the rest of your day.”

And just like that, we were off.

There wasn’t a moment of “settle in.” We weren’t told to relax in the lodge. There was no pause. It was go time—and that was exactly what worked for us. We followed Mak right back out to the beach, skipping rocks while the salty air and wide open sky worked their magic. No Wi-Fi. No itinerary. Just water, rhythm, and two kids trying to out-skip each other with intense competitive energy.

Then came lunch—and a moment I’ll remember forever.

Before arriving, I sent Tutka a detailed list of my son’s safe foods. If you’re raising a neurodivergent or selective eater, you get it—predictability matters. I assumed we might see one or two familiar items on the menu.

Instead, they had the whole list.

Chicken nuggets? Yes.The exact mac and cheese I sent? Yes.Prepared exactly how he likes it? Absolutely.

If you’re prepping your own trip and wondering what to pack or send ahead, I’m sharing our picky eater list as a free download—click here to grab it.

Later that afternoon, we regrouped with Mak at the gazebo to look over the week’s activity options—hiking, foraging, tidepooling, cooking, kayaking, and more. We picked kayaking (because obviously we weren’t tired enough yet), and within 20 minutes we were gliding across the bay.

My daughter was up front with me, my son with my husband. The water was still. The air was light. Eagles circled overhead, and sea otters popped in and out of view like little whiskered comedians. It felt… cinematic.

But the day wasn’t done.

Next up: a cooking lesson with Chef Jackie. Honestly, I had doubts. My kids were fried—travel-weary, sensory-drenched, and in that unstable space between adrenaline and crash. But Jackie? She was cool, patient, flexible. She never made us feel behind or “off.” She answered their questions, laughed when they veered off-track, and somehow we walked away with homemade vanilla ice cream and two kids who felt empowered—not pressured—to participate.

We returned to our cabin with just enough time to freshen up for dinner. Not required, but let’s be honest: if you’re in a lodge tucked into the Alaskan wilderness with a four-course meal on the menu, you throw on real pants and a swipe of mascara.

At 6:30, we met Mak back at the main lodge for appetizers and drinks. She walked us through the next day—what we’d be doing, what gear we’d need, and when to be ready. It was detailed without being rigid, which as a parent juggling sensory schedules and social energy, felt like a total exhale.

Also in the lodge? A beautiful chess board.And this is where the wheels came off—briefly.

My daughter decided to play by “Deena rules.” My son tried to course-correct, then stole her pawn, and it escalated into a full sibling spat over knights and rooks. I quietly closed the board and slid it away like it never existed. Some luxury travel traditions are better saved for solo trips.

Then dinner was served.

A plate was placed in front of my son and I instinctively braced myself. Was this going to be a “chef’s version” of the food I sent? Something close-ish, but elevated?

Instead, Chef Angel came over and said gently:

“I thought about making it from scratch, but I wasn’t sure how specific your son’s needs were. I just wanted him to feel comfortable—so we used exactly what you provided. No surprises. Eating shouldn’t be stressful.”

I looked down and saw it: the exact Costco meatballs from his list. The exact tomato sauce. Not reinvented. Not “chefified.” Just familiar. And safe.

That’s inclusion.

Not a policy. Not a label. Just a quiet moment of being seen. That’s what this lodge does differently.

We finally made it back to our cabin—The Eagle’s Nest—and let me tell you, the website photos don’t even come close. The Cal King bed downstairs had actual cozy sheets (not the scratchy hotel kind). The upstairs loft had twin beds and just enough personal space for the kids to reset. There was a microwave for heating up their meals and a fridge stocked with Alaskan sodas, local beers, canned cocktails, and even some Alaskan wine.

They thought of everything. I mean everything.

We all passed out minutes later—exhausted, fed, supported, and honestly a little stunned by how deeply cared for we felt.

And that was just Day 1.