Alaska has no shortage of bold ideas, but bold ideas must also make sense for the people footing the bill. The proposed Alaska Long Trail, a 500-plus mile network linking Seward to Fairbanks, is being promoted as the next great boost to Alaska’s outdoor recreation economy. Supporters argue it could bring in $137 to $250 million in annual visitor spending by encouraging tourists to stay longer, and they are intent on building it piecemeal, out of sight from budget hawks and with collaboration from some state government managers. The problem is the Long Trail advocates base their claims on trails such as the Appalachian Trail, which benefit from a huge population base, and the data they cite does not hold up under scrutiny.

Unlike the Appalachian Trail, which draws millions of visitors each year simply because it is located within a short drive of more than 100 million Americans, the Alaska Long Trail sits at the end of a long and expensive trip. For most visitors from the Lower 48, just getting here means spending over $1,000 on plane tickets, or enduring long drives through Canada or expensive cruises followed by car rentals. That reality alone limits the potential visitor base. Alaska’s 2.5 million pre-COVID tourists were here mainly to fish, hunt, or take wildlife tours, not to hike for days on end. Suggesting that half of them will suddenly decide to stay an extra day or two, because of this trail, is an overly optimistic assumption that ignores both travel costs and tourist preferences.

Even if the Long Trail did attract new visitors, its economic impact would be concentrated in just a handful of towns, not spread across the state like the Appalachian Trail’s. Claims of a $250 million annual windfall are simply not grounded in the realities of Alaska’s geography and travel market. At best, we are looking at tens of millions in limited locations. After paying for a plane ticket to Alaska, most hikers will buy a bottle of water, disappear into the trail system, and we will not hear from them again until a search and rescue is needed, or crews are called in to clean up their waste.

The maintenance burden is another major problem. The Appalachian Trail survives only because of a vast volunteer network, with more than 3,500 people giving over 111,000 hours in 2020 alone. In Virginia, nearly 6,000 volunteers contribute 200,000 hours annually to keep their segment of the trail in shape. Alaska does not have that volunteer base. With fewer than 750,000 residents scattered across a massive and remote landscape, we cannot count on thousands of people putting in those kinds of hours.

In addition, Alaska’s harsh climate, remote access, and higher logistics costs make trail maintenance much more expensive. Estimates for the Appalachian Trail run $5,000 to $10,000 per mile per year. In Alaska, it will be far more. Unlike the Appalachian Trail, where costs are spread across 14 states, multiple federal agencies, and private partners, the burden here would fall squarely on Alaska.

This comes at a time when the state is already facing an $85 million backlog in state park maintenance and huge infrastructure deficits. Since 2021, the Alaska Long Trail has already pulled in $5.6 million in state money and $11.3 million in federal funds, with another $7.55 million requested. Yet most of this only covers planning and early development. The real costs are long-term maintenance, and those costs will keep coming year after year.

An even bigger concern is what happens if the trail is designated a National Scenic Trail. That sounds appealing, but it brings a new layer of federal oversight. Under the National Trails System Act, motorized access is usually restricted unless specifically allowed. Snowmachines are not just a hobby in Alaska, they are the backbone of our fastest-growing outdoor sector. Data from the Bureau of Economic Analysis shows snow sports, driven largely by snowmachines, grew 18.5 percent in 2023, far outpacing hiking. Snowmachine trails drive tourism, support local businesses, and provide critical access for hunters, rural residents, and even people with disabilities.

If federal agencies move to restrict snowmachine use on parts of the Long Trail, the project could actually harm Alaska’s outdoor economy instead of helping it. We have already seen this pattern in places like the Yukon-Charley Rivers National Preserve, where motorized use was curtailed despite local needs.

The hard truth is that the Alaska Long Trail is being built on wishful thinking. Hope is not a business strategy. The supposed economic benefits are overstated, the maintenance costs are minimized, and the risks from federal oversight are ignored. Worse, it diverts scarce dollars away from priorities that matter far more to Alaskans, such as education, transportation infrastructure, resource development, and responsible fiscal management.

Alaska should play to its strengths. Our outdoor economy is strong because of snowmachines, hunting, fishing, and activities that are unique to our state. We should not chase after a Lower 48 model that does not fit Alaska’s geography or budget. The Appalachian Trail works because millions of people live within driving distance. Alaska is different, and the legislature must plan accordingly.

The Alaska Long Trail may be a pet project for a few, but for most Alaskans it is nothing more than a costly gamble with limited returns. Before we spend millions more on it, we should ask a simple question: will this investment truly pay off for Alaska, or will it saddle us with another long-term burden? Right now, the evidence points to the latter.

Originally published on Substack: https://kevinjmccabe.substack.com/p/the-alaska-long-trail