Can a road be haunted by injustice? This is the question that lingers when you drive Highway 16 from Prince George to Prince Rupert. To the untrained eye, it is one of the most spectacular drives in North America. You wind through the Coast Mountains, past mist-covered rivers and ancient forests. It is the definition of “Super Natural British Columbia.”
But for the Indigenous communities of the Carrier Sekani, Gitxsan, Wet’suwet’en, and Haisla nations, this road is a scar. It is known globally as the “Highway of Tears.” For decades, women and girls—mostly Indigenous—have disappeared while traveling this route. Some bodies were found; many were not.
In my 15 years of consulting, I have helped many clients plan road trips across Western Canada. When we discuss this route, the tone changes. This is not a fun adventure; it is a journey through a crime scene that spans half a century. It is essential to travel this road with your eyes open to the history beneath the pavement. If you need assistance planning a safe and respectful journey through this complex region, let us help you navigate the logistics.
To understand the tragedy, you must first understand the geography. Highway 16 connects the interior city of Prince George to the coastal port of Prince Rupert. It is roughly 720 kilometers (450 miles). Between the small towns of Vanderhoof, Burns Lake, Smithers, and Terrace, there are vast stretches of absolutely nothing but trees and mountains.
There is no cell service for long portions of this drive. In winter, it is pitch black by 4:00 PM. The snowbanks can be six feet high, narrowing the road and creating a tunnel effect. If your car breaks down, you are entirely dependent on the kindness of strangers. For a tourist in a rented SUV, this feels like “getting away from it all.” For a young woman without a car trying to get to a doctor’s appointment in the next town, it is a vulnerability trap.
The isolation is physical, but it is also economic. The communities along this road are often resource-dependent (logging, mining) and have suffered from economic downturns. Public infrastructure is sparse. Until recently, there was no affordable bus service connecting these towns. If you were poor and needed to get somewhere, you had two choices: walk or hitchhike.
I often warn my clients about the “scale” of Canada. Europeans often think 700km is a day trip across three countries. Here, it is one long, lonely road. You can drive for an hour and not see another car. This emptiness is what predators rely on. It provides cover. It creates a situation where someone can vanish, and the evidence is swallowed by the forest within days.
The official RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) list of victims on the Highway of Tears stands at 18. However, Indigenous leaders and families estimate the number is over 40, potentially much higher if you include the surrounding corridors. The discrepancy comes down to how “Highway of Tears” cases are classified and historically, how seriously the reports were taken.
As you drive, you will see signs that say “Girls Don’t Hitchhike on the Highway of Tears.” You will also see red dresses. You might see them hanging from a spruce tree or painted on a billboard. This imagery comes from the REDress Project by Métis artist Jaime Black. The empty red dress signifies the woman who should be wearing it. It is a visual scream.
The victims were not just statistics. They were Ramona Wilson, a 16-year-old who vanished in 1994 on her way to a friend’s house. They were Alberta Williams, found murdered in 1989. They were mothers, daughters, and aunties. For years, families were told by police that their daughters probably “ran away” or were “partying.” The investigations were often slow, biased, and under-resourced compared to cases involving white victims.
This is the “MMIWG” (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls) crisis. It is a national genocide, recognized as such by the Canadian government’s own inquiry in 2019. But the Highway of Tears is the epicenter. Driving past a faded memorial poster at a rest stop is a sobering reminder that this crisis is ongoing. It isn’t history yet.
When I speak to travelers, I emphasize that these memorials are sacred ground. You do not take “selfies” with the red dresses. You witness them. You acknowledge the loss. It is a form of dark tourism that demands the highest level of ethical conduct.
Why does this happen on Highway 16? It is not just about a serial killer (though several have operated in the area, including Cody Legebokoff). It is about the “perfect storm” of systemic failures.
Transportation: For decades, Greyhound was the only bus service. When they cut routes and eventually left Western Canada entirely in 2018, it left a vacuum. The provincial government launched the “BC Bus North” service, but the schedule is infrequent. If a woman needs to get from Smithers to Prince George for a court date or medical exam, and the bus doesn’t run that day, she hitchhikes. It is a necessity, not a choice.
Resource Extraction: The region is home to massive logging, mining, and pipeline projects. This brings in “man camps”—temporary housing for thousands of transient, mostly male workers. Sociological studies have repeatedly shown a correlation between these camps and increased violence against local Indigenous women. The influx of high wages, drugs, and alcohol, combined with a lack of community connection, creates a dangerous environment.
Colonialism: You cannot separate the highway from the history of the Residential Schools. Many of the communities along this road were traumatized by the forced removal of children. This created cycles of poverty, addiction, and family breakdown that pushed young people onto the road. The lack of trust between Indigenous communities and the RCMP means crimes often go unreported or unsolved.
As a travel consultant, I believe it is vital to support the economic independence of these communities. When you travel Highway 16, stay in Indigenous-owned lodges. Buy art directly from the ‘Ksan Historical Village in Hazelton. Put money into the hands of the people who are fighting to keep their communities safe. Economic empowerment is a tool against vulnerability.
Is it safe for you to drive the Highway of Tears? Yes. The violence is targeted. It targets the vulnerable, the pedestrian, the hitchhiker. As a tourist in a vehicle, your risks are environmental (wildlife, weather), not criminal. However, you must travel with awareness.
This drive will change you. It forces you to confront the reality that for some people, mobility is a luxury, and a simple road trip is a life-or-death gamble.
This is the most common question I receive from international visitors hearing the name “Highway of Tears.” The short answer is: Yes, for a tourist driving a personal or rental vehicle, it is generally safe regarding crime.
The violence along Highway 16 has historically been predatory and opportunistic, targeting individuals who are walking, hitchhiking, or living in vulnerable circumstances on the margins of the towns. Tourists who stick to the main road, stay in hotels/motels, and have their own transportation are not the primary demographic for this specific type of violence.
However, “safety” involves more than crime. The physical road presents significant hazards.
The name “Highway of Tears” is not an official government designation; it is a name born of grief. It was coined in 1998 during a vigil held in Terrace, British Columbia.
Families of the missing women gathered to shine a light on the fact that so many of their loved ones had vanished along this specific corridor. The name captures the collective sorrow of the Carrier Sekani, Gitxsan, Wet’suwet’en, and other First Nations who have lost daughters, sisters, and mothers.
Before 1998, these cases were often treated in isolation by the police and media. The “Highway of Tears” moniker helped group them together, forcing the public to see the pattern. It transformed individual tragedies into a recognized systemic crisis. It is a name that demands acknowledgment of the tears shed by the families left behind, waiting for answers that often never come.
As you drive through Northern BC, you will likely see red dresses hanging from tree branches, displayed in windows, or painted on rocks. This is part of the REDress Project, an art installation and movement started by Métis artist Jaime Black in 2010.
The concept is simple but devastating: the red dress represents the woman who should be wearing it. It marks the absence of a Missing or Murdered Indigenous Woman or Girl (MMIWG).
Why Red? Jaime Black chose red because it is the color of lifeblood and violence, but also because, in many Indigenous cultures, red is the only color that spirits can see. The dresses are intended to call the spirits of the lost women back home.
When you see one, understand that it is a memorial. It is not decoration. It is a reminder that the land you are driving through is the site of a genocide. It is an invitation to pause and reflect on the systemic violence that removed these women from their families.
There is no single reason; rather, it is a tragic intersection of geography, economics, and systemic racism.
1. Geography & Isolation: The road is long, dark, and surrounded by dense wilderness. It provides easy cover for predators to abduct someone and dispose of evidence quickly.
2. Lack of Transport: Historically, there was almost no affordable public transit between these small communities. For low-income residents (disproportionately Indigenous due to colonial history), hitchhiking was the only way to get to work, school, or medical appointments. This “forced hitchhiking” created a steady stream of vulnerable targets.
3. Transient Workforce: The region is a hub for industrial projects (logging, oil, gas). This brings in thousands of temporary workers. The “man camp” culture creates a transient population with little accountability to the local community.
4. Systemic Apathy: For decades, reports of missing Indigenous women were not prioritized by law enforcement or covered by the media. This lack of urgency signaled to predators that they could target these women with impunity.
If you are traveling the Highway of Tears, the best way to help is to practice “Ethical Tourism” and economic support.
Educate Yourself: Before you go, read the “Highway of Tears Symposium Recommendations Report.” Understand the land you are on. Visit cultural centers like the ‘Ksan Historical Village in Hazelton or the Nisga’a Museum. These places tell the story of survival and strength, not just victimhood.
Buy Indigenous: Spend your money at Indigenous-owned businesses. Stay at lodges run by First Nations. Buy art directly from local artists, not cheap knock-offs at gas stations. Economic stability is a key factor in community safety.
Don’t Be a Voyeur: Do not treat the memorials as tourist attractions. Do not stop to take “artsy” photos of the red dresses for your Instagram grid unless the caption is purely educational and respectful.
Donate: Consider a donation to the Carrier Sekani Family Services or local women’s shelters in Prince George or Terrace. They are on the front lines providing safe transport and support for at-risk women.
Don't have an account? Sign Up
