I: Prince Rupert to J37.

I: Prince Rupert to J37.

In all reality, it wasn’t until July 2nd that I got on the road to leave Prince Rupert for real; I left Port Edward sometime in the late morning on that Saturday. I was first a little irritated with myself for not taking the work of being on the road seriously the day before. Now, once I got my first ride, I was going to make some miles. It took me forever to get my ride, so it seemed, but the first one was only “halfway” to Terrace, the city I had to cross on my way to Highway 37, Kitwanga, Meziadin and later, Tahltan territory.
“Steve”. Steve was a grower, and he was driving fast to meet up with a buyer somewhere. He talked a lot about the product and how proud of it he was. We drove for about 45 minutes of cultivation conversation, before he let me out, said he was “going to go 2 miles away to meet this guy, and then after if you are still here, I’ll come back and give you a bunch for the road.” Well, I was stuck at this spot for over an hour and the guy never came back—so let this be a request that you are not being the guy who makes the trip more fun/relaxing/enjoyable if you pick up a rider and then offer them things you don’t deliver. It’s not a god thing! But really, I never expected his return and was simply happy to be near water; I had run out while camping in the garbage spot (due to a lack of road humility). The water was the Skeena so I boiled it on my stove first, and to “quench thirst” was drinking hot water from a bottle.

After one of those silent rides where no one expects to talk and you can look out the window and think to yourself, I was across Terrace and didn’t need to use an “across town” sign at all. I did some shopping, made lovely cucumber, tomato and cheese sandwiches while hitching and had my ride out almost exactly when I finished my last bite of sandwich. Claire. She was moving to Vancouver, didn’t want to be in Terrace anymore and explained that fully. Also, to my complete non-amazement, was also another chronic. So, after discussing her childrearing strategies, life in Delta, ex and her school, I was at the Kitwanga Junction, heading north. This was a good place to be. I was looking forward to this part of the trip, as it would be the first time in a long time I was on such a barren road, attempting to get rides where there is next to no traffic. I love doing this—it is an exercise in taking the right to travel, to explore and go to what urbanites would consider “obscure places”. Plus, I have been on this road before and it is one of my favourites. The road is breathtaking in beauty, and would signal for me the beginning of the truly magnificent locations I would traverse this summer.

I have gone on this road three other times; twice to Stewart/Hyder and once straight through from the Junction of the Alaska Highway, some 800kms north; J37 as they call it there at the gas station and campground on the corner, perhaps one kilometer into Yukon. Though Hyder is one of my favorite places in the world and Stewart is close behind, the extra days and rides it would take to go into and out of the only 70km turnoff (past the Bear Glacier just before town and near the Salmon Glacier just in the Alaskan side) made this one of the places I am unable to see. Nonetheless, the whole road is marvelous and powerful nature, a sight to behold every few feet for about a ten hour drive from Kitwanga—and today, getting a ride was to be aided by bridge construction at the turnoff over the Skeena heading north—with a yellow-vested road employee (who makes 11.50 an hour, is in the union, lives in Terrace and was working a double shift) who decided to help me scheme, stopping traffic he didn’t need to stop and asking them if they wanted a hitchhiker. Heart being in the right place didn’t mean this was a good idea. When he stopped doing this, and about half an hour before it would start getting dark, Marty stopped.

Marty asked me where I was going. I said “north”, and he said he was going north. I said “north at Meziadin (the junction most people take to Stewart/Hyder)”, he said the same. Then I said Iskut, actually… and he agreed, telling me he was going to Telegraph Creek. I said that this was also my other goal—to get to Telegraph. He stopped talking, and looked at me with a pregnant pause.
“What are you doing in Telegraph Creek?”
“I’m looking into all the things that have been going on in the band office and what not,” I replied.
“Who do you know in Iskut?”
“I’m meeting with that guy Oscar Dennis,” I answered. “A friend of mine interviewed him on the radio.”
“Who else do you know?”
“Well, if I can’t find Oscar, I’m supposed to talk to this James guy, uh…” he interrupted me.
“James Bourquin?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Let me guess, you are an environmentalist.” I hesitated. He continued, “I oughta let you out right here, I work for Shell Oil!” He waited for about two maybe three seconds before busting a gut laughing at me. “Just kidding,” he went on. “I got you good there, hey? Heh heh heh. No, Oscar is one of my good friends.”
Marty was a Tahltan from Telegraph Creek, wheras Oscar and James lived in Iskut. Marty went to school and now worked in Prince George. He and his wife were going to Telegraph to camp for the weekend. She was driving ahead of him on the road. Marty was a simple joy to ride with; because of the nature of the project I’m working on, the details of our discussions around Tahltan issues will remain “off the record”, except to state that he referred to what is happening to the people of Iraq as the same thing being done to his people-- destroy the land and the people to get their resources. He drove me all the way to Iskut, about 4-5 hours from the time of being picked up. Didn’t seem long at all. I went to sleep in what seemed like a park on the edge of the village, and managed to get a ride to Dease Lake, where I asked my ride what kind of ride I was likely to get.
“Ah, just wait over there and you’ll get some drunk Indian picking you up,” this local Tahltan joked. Or did he? I got a ride with a Newfoundlander across town to the Telegraph Creek turnoff. Once I got the this turnoff to the airport and last stop on the road before Telegraph, not a single car passed me for the first over an hour. Then, the first car that did picked me up. Two guys who lived in Telgraph and had been racing about were driving home and grabbed me.
“you just got a ride with two drunk Indians, man. You want a beer?” They drove like bandits on the getaway, and we were done this roughly two hour gravel backroad of a backroad in an hour, aside from stopping to hang out with the other cars driving the same route a couple of different times. The driver said when I asked him what he thought of the Elders occupation, that Canada and Shell were going to take things anyway, that they couldn’t be stopped.
“I’m against those elders. We might as well get what we can and let them have it all now, rather than get nothing for it and lose it later anyway,” he said. Interesting that he didn’t oppose what they were saying, just that it was a losing battle. Later I mentioned this conversation to Oscar Dennis, who replied to me
“What the Hell did we ever get out of having our land taken? What he needs to tell me is that.” The ride was fast and stomach turning, but I figured they must know the road, as the saying goes. I was let out by the post office, and then given another ride across town a little further by a man who simply wanted to see who I was.

Two days later, I headed back to Iskut. After packing up, I started to walk out of town. While I was walking, a car slowed down, looked at me in minor astonishment, and opened the door.
“Wanna lift?”
“Would love it,” I answered. “Where are you going?” Joe paused, and then replied
“Dease,”
“Great!”, and in I went. When we got to Dease, they said they were going to Iskut, and offered me a ride right there. Some of the easiest hitchhiking I have done on this trip was between these two reserves, where apparently no one else ever hitchhikes.

Upon leaving Iskut two more days later, I was given a ride from a man driving home from his mother’s funeral in Stewart (he lived north in Watson Lake). He wasn’t in a very talkative mood, so quietly off to Dease we went. From there, it took me about an hour and a half before Scott and Michelle, two tourists from England, picked me up. They asked me what I was doing, I told them quickly a bit about the conference in the Mackenzie Valley I am headed to.
“A pipeline leave such a small little ribbon like cut through the land, I don’t see what these people have against such a pipeline.” I had just got into the car, so I changed the subject to the beautiful weather. They were quite nice to me, and I asked to be let out 1 km before J37, the place where the Stewart-Cassiar meets the Alaska Highway, because I knew this spot by “Albert Creek” to camp. This was to be my second night in the ten with a broken zipper. The bugs, for the first time this trip, drove me into a mild hysteria and made me get out the bug goop that I hate. A great fire and another spaghetti meal later, and I had to hide inside my sleeping bag to get to sleep, realising that I needed to replace the tent. Plus, my shoes had busted open, leaving me to decide where to look for work. I was headed to Dawson anyhow…