Retirement harder than any job dad ever had

It's that time of year again when I load up the kids and head to my parents' house. For us, it's a semi-annual - or sometimes just an annual - event. Mom and dad don't live that far away, but getting there is no small task.

It started in the 1970s when mom and dad grew weary of the rapid growth in Washington state. My grandfather had seen Alaska during World War II and my dad was fascinated by those stories. After visiting Alaska a few times, my folks decided to make the move. They started out in Anchorage, but quickly learned Anchorage isn't Alaska and moved to Wasilla.

Back then, Wasilla was a little Podunk town with just a few buildings and an airstrip, but it was close enough to Anchorage that mom was still willing to make the drive to work (dad found work in the Valley). They found a small place out off Fairview Loop Road and stayed in that neighborhood while my brothers, sisters and I were growing up.

By the time the youngest graduated high school, Wasilla looked a lot like it does now - "Little Anchorage." Mom and dad didn't like it so much, but they endured a few more years until retirement. But where would they go to retire?

Years ago they purchased 10 acres cheap in the general vicinity of Glennallen. I didn't see the spot until a rare vacation in my early 20s when I went with my dad to the cabin for a weekend. At the end of a 30-mile dirt road, dad and I loaded the quad and the trailer and headed out into the trees at a walking pace, over ungodly mud and bumps, through blinding dust and flooded swamps.

After five hours we arrived at his property on a late May afternoon. Dad's property is on top of a hill overlooking a lake and the quiet and view are wonderful. Despite all the rough aspects of getting out there and the very bare-bones accommodations, I thought it was pretty cool. And besides, if it were easy to get to then it wouldn't stay very secluded for long.

Eventually, mom and dad sold their Wasilla home and moved out there. Over the years, the cabin grew to the size of your average living room, albeit with two levels. After a small shop went up, a greenhouse, an outhouse and eventually a second guest cabin, I began calling it the "Compton Compound."

Dad spent endless hours hauling material back on trailers behind his large quad. In the winter, he could pull the loads across a series of frozen lakes and reduce his travel time by several hours. A large barn went up with enough room for him to work on his machines indoors in the heat. A shower house was attached to the greenhouse. A large dock was built extending out into the lake. A generator room that fed a second room stacked top-to-bottom with batteries. A set of impressive solar panels allows him to run power for several hours or even days before starting the generator. And finally, within the last few years, dad spent two winters hauling large logs back to the property and built an amazing large, two-story cabin with indoor plumbing and a root cellar. The outhouse is a thing of the past thanks to an ingenious propane toilet that doesn't require a septic system, just a pit to place ash. Lake water is pumped up to the cabin and run through a filtration system. The whole thing is pretty dang cool.

But, as for his "retirement," Dad works harder now than he ever did when he had a job. He has a nonstop list of things to be repaired, wired, re-done, fixed, hauled, chopped, stacked, loaded, moved ... all just to survive. He grumbles when he has to leave mom and run "into town." If Glennallen won't work, it means a drive to the Valley. After all the trips he's made, I still can't believe it when he leaves his cabin at 0-dark-30 so he can rocket down here, get what he needs and be back home by nightfall.

Mom and dad are getting up there in years, and my siblings and I worry. How in the heck are they going to live out there for another 10 or 20 years? What happens when dad can't do all that anymore? He's already had a few health issues, but he just keeps pushing himself. When my brother, Paul, and I talk about it, I have to remind myself to stop and take a step back. After all, this is their retirement and if this is the way they chose to spend it, who are we to tell them what to do or judge whether or not it's foolish? Lord knows I hope my kids won't try to boss me around when Glenny and I retire.

So in a few weeks, we'll load up the family and supplies and head up the highway.

Dad will meet us at the end of the road and we'll pile on his snowmachines, trailers and tracked Polaris like some big expedition and head back to the cabin. While we're there, Glenny, the boys and I will do what we can to pitch in and get some things done for them. We'll enjoy the sound of pure silence when we go to bed at night and once again be astounded at what my parents have accomplished out there. And we'll look at each other and agree that when we retire, we're going to move up and out too - but on the road system.

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column as "Compton's Corner," the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.