Stage 1: Boreale Ranch to Carcross

Distance: 15 miles (total 438 miles)

Climb: 233 feet

Stage 2: Train from Carcross to Fraser

Distance: 44 miles

Climb: 2,044 feet

Stage 3: Fraser to Skagway

Distance: 22 miles (total 460 miles)

Climb: 673 feet

Journey to Alaska!

This was a big day for me! I felt as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. I know that may sound silly to some—especially folks who live in this region or have visited Alaska often—but I was genuinely excited to arrive.

Skagway holds special meaning for me, and I’ll explain more about that in the coming days.

At breakfast, I sat with a young couple from Georgia and three Canadians about my age, including Kevin, the motorcyclist I had met the day before. We chatted about Riding for Peace (R4P), and everyone agreed that community healing is urgently needed.

When I mentioned my 900-foot climb over 33 miles for the day, one of the Canadian women said, “So you’ll just ride downhill to Skagway from Fraser.”

“Yes,” I laughed, though I suspected that leg would still have its challenges.

The Canadians mentioned that many of their fellow citizens are avoiding travel to the U.S. these days. But they were happy to welcome Americans to Canada. The Georgian couple said they’d been received very warmly.

Around 9 a.m., I packed up Lucy and set out. The first 15 miles to Carcross were not difficult.

About two miles in, I noticed Kevin riding his motorcycle alongside me.

“I just wanted to tell you that I admire what you’re doing,” he said.

I thanked him and turned on my camera to capture a bit of film.

A few miles later, I met four Canadians at a scenic overlook who were struggling to snap a picture of themselves.

“Want me to take a photo?” I asked as I rolled up.

“Yes,” one woman said. “We were waiting for you.”

We exchanged photos, and I told them about R4P. One man said, “I think I read about you.”

Just before Carcross, I came upon Wild Adventure Yukon—a recreation of an old mining town with 19th-century shop fronts, dog cart rides, and gold panning.

As I rode Lucy slowly through the street, a young, dark-skinned man waved. This was Rishi. He was of Indian descent but didn’t speak Hindi and had never been to India. He was born in Kenya and went to school at Braeside, a private school in Lavington, where we used to live.

“You should meet my boss,” he said. “She’d like to meet you.”

That’s how I met Donna, a warm and professional New Zealander. It was her third season working there.

“Want a donut for the road?” she asked, bringing me a black coffee and two freshly made cinnamon donuts. We talked about R4P. Both she and Rishi were incredibly hospitable.

Train Ride from Carcross to Fraser

Around 11 a.m., I reached Carcross—a quaint little town originally called “Caribou Crossing” because of the herds that once migrated through. During the Gold Rush, the herds were decimated, but a recovery program has brought their numbers back to about 450.

I bought tickets for Lucy and me on the train from Carcross to Fraser and had a few hours to kill. I ate one of the best cheeseburgers of my life at the Bistro and waited at the station.

When the train arrived around 1 p.m., I met Conductor Spencer Morgan.

“We need more of that peace-building nowadays,” he said while loading my bike. “Not many people are trying to be part of the solution anymore—they’re trying to be part of the problem.”

The cruise ships park at Skagway, and about 150 to 175 people pile into the train to ride across the border to Carcross. Tour buses then take them to places like Wild Adventure Yukon, and a few hours later, they catch the train back.

Train Car 272 was mostly filled with Americans, except for a young Asian couple to my right. A clan from Chicago occupied the four booths in front of me. The grandparents, about my age, both wore fur caps—likely purchased on this trip. Their son, in his late 30s, sat with his pregnant wife and two little blond boys. In front of them sat a blond woman, probably their daughter, with her husband and their son, who had inherited his father’s long, thin face. In the final booth was another blond sister with her own family.

Half an hour into the trip, the grandmother turned to me, looked at my bike helmet, and asked about my journey. I explained the entire R4P route, PeaceBridge’s goals, and my 23 years with the U.S. Government and USAID doing humanitarian and peace-building work in Somalia, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Yemen, and elsewhere.

“In March, my wife, my daughter, and I started a nonprofit to promote peace in North America and beyond. I want to bring home some of the techniques we used overseas.”

The family listened politely—except for the kids, who were either sleeping or playing war with a deck of cards.

The elderly couple wasn’t impressed.

“So do you make money off this?” the wife asked. I couldn’t tell if she was accusing me of profiting or of not profiting.

“No, we’re a nonprofit,” I explained. “PeaceBridge tries to help communities heal.”

They weren’t rude, but it was clear they thought humanitarian work like this is a waste of resources.

When I asked what they thought would help heal divided communities, the husband said, “That’s a tough one.”

“We should just keep our tax dollars and use them how we see fit,” the wife finished for her husband. I wasn’t sure if she truly believed that or if it was commentary on my career.

The rest of the adults lost interest. The couple and I kept talking.

“In Chicago, people just believe whichever news station they watch,” the husband said. “And no one is going to change that.”

Fortunately, the train attendant rescued us with box lunches: ham sandwiches, chips, fruit, and cookies. Even though I’d just eaten that amazing cheeseburger, I ate again.

Later, the smallest blond boy woke up, and his grandfather played peek-a-boo with him. These were good people. They shared the same basic values as the rest of the world—marriage, kids, putting food on the table, giving the next generation more than they had. They wanted to protect their families from the world’s dangers.

Years ago, after the Arab Spring, I tried to get a U.S.-based nonprofit and an Egyptian for-profit to produce a documentary called Common Ground. The idea was to interview Arab families and American families on topics like children, education, religion, tolerance, and economics—showing that parents everywhere love their kids and work hard to give them a better life.

I wanted Americans to see the Arab world as I do—and for Arabs to see Americans the same way. I was naïve enough to think better understanding could reduce tensions, increase trade and tourism, and solve problems before they escalated.

Once in Kabul, talking about this with an American friend, he told me, “None of us will ever understand that suffering the way you do.”

He was right. I see the unnecessary suffering. These aren’t statistics—they’re people. The wrongful death of a Palestinian child is just as tragic as an Israeli child, an African-American child, or a Salvadoran child. I can’t differentiate injustice.

I will never justify bombing a hospital full of civilians because terrorists might be hiding there. My grandmother taught me to protect the innocent, no matter who they are.

At Fraser, the Canadian customs stop, Lucy and I rode over to check in. That’s where I met Allen—one of the kindest customs officers I’ve ever encountered. We talked about R4P, he shared his thoughts, and sent me on my way.

The next seven miles were almost all uphill.

At one point, I heard a screech. I thought it was an eagle, but when I stopped, I spotted a hoary marmot on a rocky cliff—known for their piercing whistles.

The headwind was brutal—probably 14 to 18 mph—but there was no cell coverage, so I couldn’t check my usual stats like wind speed, temperature, or incline. It was slow going, but I didn’t mind. The sun was out, and this was one of the most breathtaking rides I’ve done anywhere.

Finally, I reached the U.S. border. Lucy wanted her picture taken, so I snapped a few shots. Eight miles later—mostly downhill—I reached U.S. Immigration and Customs. They treated me well and seemed supportive of R4P. I gave them some stickers and rolled on.

I reached Skagway around 7 p.m. Alaska time. I’d been on the road for 11 hours.

Jaime Bricker, the Tourism Director of Explore Skagway, sent me a welcome text.