Terrace, British Columbia

Distance: 43 miles (total: 280 miles)

Climb: 457-foot incline

Happy Birthday, Cassie and Kevin! Independence Day!

What a strangely amazing day! After resting and trying to get warm all day Thursday, I had my work cut out for me on Friday. Yesterday, was my daughter Cassie’s birthday. And today is my cousin Kevin’s birthday. It is 4th of July back in the US as well.

To be honest, I was dreading this day initially. The distance between here and my booked hotel in Terrace was 81 miles. No way I could make that. My best hope was to get a ride to Kitwanga, a junction about 20 miles west, and ride from there. Even that 61 miles, with an 800-foot climb, would be challenging. Also, I didn’t have a ride. Usually, hotels can find a taxi or driver to carry a cyclist without much problem. But I was a guest at Brenda’s house.

Last night, she had reached out on a Facebook ride-share group to see if she could find someone for me but had struck out. We agreed I could always go up to the gas station and hitch a ride with someone, particularly if I offered to pay.

That’s when Brenda told me about the Highway of Tears. The road I’ve been riding—Highway 16 in British Columbia—for the past week, stretching from Prince George to Prince Rupert, has witnessed the death or disappearance of between 17 and 40 (mostly Indigenous) women since 1970. A couple in the past few years.

I remembered seeing photos of missing women posted on signs along the route, but I didn’t really understand the implications.

On this Fourth of July morning, I woke up around 5 a.m. I was finally warm and somewhat recovered. I worked on transferring the videos from the camera to the iPad. I got most of them transferred.

Around 7:45 a.m., as I began packing, Brenda told me she struck out finding someone to give Lucy and me a lift halfway to Terrace. Either they were going on Saturday or in the afternoon—something always came up.

“No problem,” I told her. “I’ll go up to the gas station and find a ride.” I had never done this before, but it made sense, right? Pay someone to take us 40 miles.

I asked Brenda if she, Glenn, and I could get a photo. She told me Glenn was still sleeping, so the two of us snapped a quick photograph, and she left for yoga.

As I packed up Lucy and got close to departing, Brenda returned. “Glenn’s awake, and he wants a picture.”

He came downstairs.

“How about a hug?” I asked, and he stepped in. I’m a good hugger—been practicing most of my life.

Hugs are free! I should be handing out more.

We got our photo, and Glenn helped me finish packing.

“You’re an intelligent young man. Keep doing what you’re doing. Maybe I’ll see you in Djibouti someday,” I said, referring to the only country he couldn’t find on the globe two nights ago when quizzed.

“Maybe.” His smile brightened my day.

I pushed Lucy up to the top of the hill and rode down to the gas station. I approached a couple of people, telling them about R4P and my need for a ride. The first man was already in his pickup.

“Welcome [to Canada]. Good luck! Sorry, I’m on my way to work.”

An older man inside said, “Sorry. I’m going the other way.”

The turbaned Sikh clerk told me to just keep talking to people—I’d find a lift.

Two other men said they were from a town near Vancouver and were up here fishing. They’d caught some good halibut yesterday. “Welcome to Canada.” They spoke about PeaceBridge’s cause and how Alaska was far away. They were headed in the opposite direction but wished me luck.

An Asian couple were on their way to Prince George for a day out. They said the goodwill was much needed, and upon departure, the woman wished me luck.

Two First Nation women pulled up in a double-cab pickup. Plenty of room in the back. They came from the west, the direction I was headed. Still, it was worth talking to them about R4P and asking for a ride.

The younger woman went inside, and the older one began pumping gas.

A First Nation man arrived in a tiny convertible—too small to carry Lucy—but before I could greet him and explain R4P, he greeted me and began telling me about himself.

Lawrence Shanoss was 72. A little eccentric and as friendly as anyone I’ve ever met. He told me he’s a soccer player, still active at his age. After a hip replacement and neck surgery a couple of years ago, he’s getting in shape to play in Mexico next month. He lifted his jacket to show me both his soccer jersey and his fit body.

“I’m a historian,” he said. And for the next two hours, Lawrence gave me “an exclusive” into the unwritten history of his Gitxsan Nation.

He put the top down on his convertible—bought only a few weeks ago and heading to the shop for an overhaul soon—and we placed Lucy in the back seat.

My seatbelt didn’t buckle. It had been taped.

“Just put it over your shoulder,” he said with a laugh, then explained that his friend once got trapped because the buckle wouldn’t release. “Good thing I had that knife,” he added, pointing to the hunting knife in the console.

With the top down and 50-degree wind slapping our ears and faces, Lawrence drove us to the Hagwilget Canyon Bridge, a 460-foot suspension bridge.

“On January 26, 1700 at 10 a.m., an earthquake created this canyon,” Lawrence said. “It caused a tsunami on the coast of Japan.” He was referring to the well-documented Cascadia earthquake.

“Menstruating women couldn’t cross this bridge,” he explained, citing Gitxsan tradition. “Or they would bring death to themselves and their families.” He outlined a rectangle on the hood of his car. “Women on their period had to stay in longhouses,” he said. Menstruation huts or houses were common in many pre-modern cultures.

In 1880–1881, the Omineca Gold Rush led to a settlement of 4,000 European miners in Hazelton. In 1881, William Collison established an Anglican mission here among the Gitxsan. An uprising occurred, and the Victoria government sent a militia to quell the disturbance. The church ran the government-funded Hazelton First Nations school until 1950.

Now a retired commercial fisherman, truck driver, and heavy equipment operator, Shanoss recounted how his grandmother hid him in 1963 from the government, which was carting off children for Western education in English. The victors contorted the history, he said. He received a First Nation education in the Gitxsan language instead. He learned English later, though today he speaks like an educated North American.

At 61, he became the oldest First Nation man to get a degree at the University of Alberta.

His “exclusive” wove together Western education, Indigenous folklore, Christian spiritualism, and oral history.

As we drove down the Highway of Tears, the self-described “Great Chief of the North” pointed out landmarks like a tour guide. “On the right are our fishing grounds.” “Up that mountain—pine mushrooms… we were goat herders.”

Back on the right: “400 acres” of ancestral land being converted into a sports complex. “Michael Jordan is coming here.”

“Who owns this?”

“You’re looking at him,” he said.

We turned off Highway 16 at Skeena Crossing to visit a burial ground of at least 65 graves, now paved over. His grandmother once lived nearby.

“Here, record a little bit for my documentary,” he said. And I did.

Back in the car, he said, “I’m very spiritual, but I’m not religious.” He recited the Lord’s Prayer in his native tongue. “My grandmother taught me that.”

Waking from a coma, his late wife once said she had spoken with his grandmother—whom she’d never met. These dreams are meaningful to Lawrence. They’re ways the spirits of our ancestors communicate with us.

Now, with his wife also gone, Lawrence spends his days trying to work on history projects—but on days like today, he seems more idle, looking for something meaningful.

He dropped Lucy and me off about 43 miles from Terrace. Perfect. The ride ahead was mostly downhill or flat.

We were both grateful for the auspicious encounter.

We are both case studies in contradiction: a wounded First Nation chief hidden, protected, and educated in his native tongue to prevent the influence of Methodist schools—while still loving soccer, Christianity, and photography—all Western imports. He now wants to chronicle Gitxsan history, folklore, and spirituality. He seeks honesty, trust, and kindred spirits among anyone open to listening.

I, on the other hand, am of European descent. Born in southern Indiana, of Appalachian ancestry. First in my family to complete a college education. Traveled extensively. Married a Salvadoran woman, of part-European and part-Indigenous ancestry. Dedicated most of my career to education and peacebuilding. And amid perhaps the greatest American social and ethical crisis since the Civil War, I’ve launched a nonprofit to promote peace and reconciliation.

I, too, have history projects to complete. And more aspirations than I have energy.

Today, I made a new friend.