Highway of Tears by Brandi Morin
Heading to report on a certain story series this summer was a scary ordeal. Normally I love travelling; being out on the road, meeting people along the way, and taking in the sights and sounds of a new place. But I wasn’t looking forward to the drive on this trip, because it is life-threatening. It’s the infamous Highway of Tears, and I won’t drive it alone.
It’s obvious why: I’m Indigenous and I’m a woman, and it’s one of the most murderous highways in the world that targets Indigenous women.
This wasn’t the first time I’d driven this highway, but I’m always nervous about it. The day I left for my story, I got a flat tire after hitting an unmarked manhole in Edson, AB on my way to Smithers, BC. Finding a tire to match my small SUV and getting it fixed set me back six hours, but I trudged on.
The sky turned dreary and foggy when I glided past the border and headed towards Prince George. After fueling up in the small mountain town of McBride, it started to rain.
The road twists and turns through valleys and along mountain edges, with endless rows of thick, green trees adorning both sides.
This is about where I started to feel antsy. I shivered at the thought of breaking down out in the middle of nowhere. It could happen so easily, I’d only just blown out a tire. I mean, there were a few other vehicles and semi-trucks travelling the road too, but the fear of being stuck on the side of this road was intense. It was still daylight, but the risk of encountering foul play is higher there, not far from where the Highway of Tears starts.
An Indigenous woman’s life is not taken seriously in Canada, and this was a prime place for a murderer to take me out. Thoughts of being kidnapped or raped and left in a shallow grave in the woods flashed in my mind. Once I shook off the what if’s, my eyes focused on the profound beauty of the mountain scene surrounding me. I wondered how such evil could exist in this stunning place. Sadness enveloped me as I thought of the unsolved cases of the missing and murdered.
I turned on some music and pressed the gas harder, my heart speeding up with each accelerated mile. My 16-year-old daughter, Dani, was travelling with me to Smithers, where I was slated to report on stories from the traditional Wet’suwet’en Peoples who are battling a liquified natural gas project on their lands. The Wet’suewet’en live along this menacing highway that has claimed many of their own women.
I explained to Dani about the dangers of where we were going, and how when we arrived we had to be extra careful. This is an area that’s not safe for Indigenous women—they vanish or turn up dead and no one is held responsible, I explained. She assured me she would be diligent and stay close when we got there.
I was relieved to safely make it to Prince George for the night. But the sudden panic I felt earlier bothered me. The names and faces of the women who’ve died there played through my mind as my head hit the pillow.
I arrived in Smithers the next day and it was heavy. I felt a covert presence there that I can only explain as dark and mystifying. From the outside it looks like a charming little town, nestled in a valley with breathtaking mountain views. But there are bloodthirsty killers on the loose somewhere, with a special appetite for Indigenous women and girls.
Over the last 50 years, almost the same number of women have gone missing or been found murdered on the Highway of Tears. Many of them were Wet’suewet’en.
I visited a spot where a young Indigenous mother’s body was dumped down a mountain cliff outside of Smithers in 2018. Posters requesting information on the murder of Jessica Patrick, 18, are taped in storefront windows around town. She was beautiful, with long, dark hair and eyes whose light was hellishly snuffed out. I thought of my daughter Dani and the horror I would feel if anything ever happened to her—she’s just two years younger than Jessica was.
But death around there is an epidemic. The ditches have red dresses blowing in the wind, hung in place to honour the missing and murdered.
Bright yellow billboards warn young women to stay off the highway near the Moricetown reserve. Rumours swirl; some even told me they believe the RCMP have been involved with harming Indigenous women and are covering it up. There aren’t many people who trust authorities there because police don’t do much to solve the continuing assault on the lives of Indigenous women.
One Wet’suewet’en woman I met with told me of a hooded figure she and two others saw dashing across the highway late one night. It wasn’t a living person, she said. But she believed it was the wandering spirit of one of the taken women. Ghoulish stories like this are common. Some take comfort in believing the souls of their lost loved ones are still around.
Most Indigenous women won’t walk the highway there even if it’s daylight. Some told me of being stalked, taunted and nearly rammed off the road by unknown passersby. I dreaded driving back to Smithers one night after meeting with a few women on the reserve because it was dark out.
Dani was with me in the back seat when my vehicle started to fog up from the inside and I had to pull over. I was distraught. It was a nightmare to be stuck on this death trap of a highway. I briefly thought of my own past trauma, surviving rape and escaping with my life. At age 12 I ran away from a group home with two other girls. I was raped and held hostage by older men over a period of about a week in Edmonton.
The terrors of that experience resurfaced and I started to cry as I frantically pushed buttons to defrost my vehicle. I could also sense the cries from the women who were massacred on this highway and the lack of justice was infuriating.
My daughter witnessed my meltdown and I felt a surge of guilt. Unfortunately this is the reality for us, and there’s no beating around the bush about the trauma that ensues.
After a few minutes, the fog dissipated and we made it back to our hotel.
Being there for two weeks, covering highly contentious stories in an epicentre of missing and murdered Indigenous women was hard. Some nights I shot straight out of bed with anxiety, and I haven't had a panic attack in years.
A profuse heaviness lingered until I got off the Highway of Tears and back home.
It got me thinking about the women who live there, under the threat of death each and every day. They are courageous, and I admire their strength.
Smithers is not all bad. There are friendly people, breathtaking views and tasty local food.
I’ll go back because I want to share the stories of the Indigenous people there.
However, one thing’s for sure, I’ll never drive that highway alone; that’s like playing Russian roulette and I’m not yet ready to die.
Brandi Morin