ALASKA: Planes, Ice Packs, and a Seaplane to the Edge of the World

Stephanie Fluger
Jul 5
4 min read

Updated: Jul 5

Packing for a Flight with an Autistic Child

Here we go. Bags zipped, snacks locked in, and enough supplies to survive a week off-

My son will refuse to use a chewy 'cause someone once said it was gross in school. These water bottles have a silicone top, that he will chew on. I count this as a win!

grid — even though it’s just a two-leg flight to Alaska. But if you’ve ever flown with an autistic child, you know: over prepared is actually just prepared.

My son loves planes — we’re talking special interest-level love — which helps. Still, we don’t roll the dice. He’s got his tablet, Chromebook, big over-ear headphones and the Bluetooth backups in case those feel “wrong” mid-flight. Magnetic blocks, Lego binder, and yes, the sunflower lanyard.

Let’s be honest — the lanyard that’s supposed to indicate a hidden disability? No one really seems to know what it means. A flight attendant looked curious but clueless. TSA might’ve recognized it... or maybe just read the exhaustion on my face.

TSA: The Ice Pack Incident

TSA PreCheck usually makes things smoother — no shoes off, no laptop juggling. Except I forgot about the ice pack in the lunchbox. TSA rule: fully frozen? Okay. Even slightly slushy? You’re out of luck.

So now our bag’s pulled for screening, and the clock is ticking. Not worried about missing the flight — worried about missing pre-pre-boarding. That early boarding window with the wheelchairs and disabilities? That’s our lifeline. It lets us avoid the sensory storm of gate crowds and overhead bins and “stand here, wait here, move here.”

I find a TSA manager. “My son is autistic. Our bag’s three back. We need to pre-board.” He’s helpful. He moves us up. And of course — by the time the officer wanders over, it’s our turn anyway. But hey, they tried.

And yes. The problem was the ice pack. Classic.

Pre-Boarding with an Autistic Child: Just Ask

We made it to the gate, and I did what I always do: walk up, smile, and say, “Hi, my son is autistic — can we please pre-board?” I don’t launch into an explanation. Just that. Most agents say yes. A few don’t. I ask again.

Flight 1: LAX → San Francisco. Easy.Flight 2: San Francisco → Anchorage. Four hours. Uneventful.

Once we’re on the plane and seated, we’re usually fine. It’s the buildup — the bodies, the noise, the unpredictable — that can unravel the day before we’ve even taken off.

Anchorage: Where Sleep is the Real Vacation

We landed in Anchorage around 8 p.m. and checked into the hotel. And here’s a small victory: my kids shared a queen bed and didn’t fall out. Which feels like winning the lottery in our world.

I used to travel with two inflatable toddler beds — 30 pounds of dead weight — just to protect sleep. But this trip? I left them. And… my kids slept.

Okay, there were a couple wakeups — confused, groggy — but no meltdowns. I muttered something like, “You’re fine, go back to sleep,” and somehow, they did.

When the Sun Never Sets (Literally)

At 4:45 a.m., they were wide awake. Because in Alaska in June, the sun just doesn’t go down. Not dim, not dusk — bright. Which is great for adventure, terrible for neurodivergent sleep cycles.

I let my husband sleep (we trade off being the “parent with a brain”), and I grabbed what I could find in the dark: my son’s sweatshirt, no shoes, no bra. I tossed dry Cheerios and a chocolate protein drink into a bag with the Chromebook and tablet and headed to the lobby.

And honestly? It was peaceful. No guests. Just quiet staff setting up for the day. We found a booth and camped out for three hours. It wasn’t cozy. It wasn’t cute. But it worked.

Sometimes, that’s the win.

Flying a Seaplane with a Neurodivergent Kid

Later that morning, we headed to Rust’s Flying Service, a commercial seaplane charter. They were fantastic. No crowds. No chaos. Just us — the only passengers — which is my son’s dream scenario.

They weighed us and our bags (because small plane = balance matters). We made the cut for the four-seater we originally booked. Technically, all bags are supposed to go in the back, but I kept the electronics. It’s a 90-minute flight. I’m not risking boredom in a confined, echoing cabin.

Seaplanes are loud. Not just “regular loud.” Vibrating-in-your-bones loud. I layered Loop earbuds under my son’s noise-canceling headphones, and he was golden. Both kids were obsessed with the aviation headsets — the kind with the microphones — which let you talk over the engine noise. Honestly? Might get them for road trips.

We took off from the water and soared over glaciers, deep blue lakes, and jagged cliffs. It was… unreal.

And for those 90 minutes, everything held.

The prep. The exhaustion. The ice pack panic.It was worth it.Not because it was perfect — it wasn’t.Not because it was easy — it never is.But because we made it work. For him. For us.