The long road to Alaska, a story of letting go and discovering - from Jasper to the Inside Passage

Rest day in Jasper 

After the intense impressions of Banff and the Icefields Parkway, Jasper was a welcome break. We settled in at Whistlers Campground, where the scent of pine trees and the soft rustling of the wind through the trees immediately put us at ease. After doing some shopping and laundry, we enjoyed a quiet evening walk. While the children played in the woods, we finally felt that we were getting into the rhythm of the trip.

Miette Hot Springs and an unexpected encounter

The next day, we drove up a winding road to Miette Hot Springs, nestled in the mountains. With a temperature of 42°C, the hot springs offered a wonderful contrast to the fresh mountain air. On the way back, we suddenly spotted a herd of bighorn sheep grazing by the roadside. They looked at us curiously but were undisturbed by our presence. It was one of those moments when you feel tiny in the face of nature's grandeur.

From Jasper to Prince George 

We left Jasper feeling grateful and drove west towards Prince George. The road wound its way through dense forests and alongside rivers sparkling in the sunlight. En route, we stopped at Mount Robson, the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies. Although the summit was shrouded in clouds, the view was impressive. In Prince George, we found a basic campsite where we enjoyed a peaceful evening sitting around the campfire under a starry sky.

Hazelton and Moricetown: culture and tragedy

From Smithers, we drove to Hazelton to visit the K'san Historical Village. The totem poles, longhouses and stories of the Gitxsan First Nation left a lasting impression. In Moricetown, we watched fishermen catching salmon in the swirling river using traditional methods. This was a powerful symbol of their connection with nature. However, that day was also overshadowed by a tragic accident: a young man had drowned in the river. The villagers were still searching for his body, which had been swept away by the current. The silence and sadness in the village were palpable. We reflected on the fragility of life and the strength that comes from communities mourning together.

Waiting for the salmon run – an ancient tradition

The indigenous communities were eagerly awaiting the salmon this year. It had rained much more than usual and the water levels in the rivers were exceptionally high. Consequently, the salmon run was later than usual. For the First Nations, the salmon run is more than just a season; it forms the basis of their livelihood. In summer, they catch salmon and store it, just as they do with moose and deer meat, to last them throughout the year.

Traditionally, salmon was smoked until semi-dry, but nowadays many people work in canneries and have learnt how to preserve it. The fish is cleaned and cut lengthways without being separated completely, then hung in the smokehouse for a day and a night. This gives the salmon a subtle smoky flavour. It is then cut into large pieces, placed in jars, and canned for four hours. Adding a little vinegar and salt softens the bones, combining traditional methods with modern preservation techniques.

The K'san: a culture of a thousand generations 

The reconstructed longhouses at K'san Historical Village, located at the confluence of the Bulkley and Skeena rivers, offer a striking insight into the rich culture that has endured for over 10,000 years. The Gitxsan people, whose name means 'people of the river of mist', live in a matrilineal society in which clan lines are passed down through the mother. Everyone belongs to one of four clans: wolf, frog, sea eagle or willow. These clans determine social structures, ceremonial roles and heritage.

The scale of life in the original longhouses struck us: up to sixty people lived together under one roof in dwellings three times the size of the current reconstructions. Within these communities, everything was shared – stories, food and responsibilities – and that sense of connection was almost tangible as we walked through the village.

Our guide, a proud Gitxsan, told us that their language is one of the most difficult in the world. Until the 1970s, nothing of their language or culture had been written down. Everything was passed down orally, generation after generation. That is why potlatches – ceremonial gatherings with dancing, storytelling and transactions – are so important: it is a way of keeping the history of a people alive.

Gerty and Jesse James' money: a story that sticks 

A few kilometres past the Cassier Highway junction is a modest native arts gallery: Gitksan Paintbrush. On a previous trip, we bought a large, round mask sculpture and a bald eagle rattle, both of which were made from red and yellow cedar wood. We gave them a place of honour in our home. This year, we just wanted to stop by and say hello. However, I took my handbag with me – you never know.

The owner recognised us immediately. He even remembered how we left with a car loaded to the brim and me holding the rattle on my lap. He still smiled at the memory.

As we walked around, I spotted a remarkable mask sculpture of an orca transforming into a human. The owner had seen the artist, H. Reece, carve the piece from a single block of cedar two years earlier. While we were thinking about buying it, he came up to us and told us a story that we will always remember.

Originally from Kansas City, the man now splits his time between Kitwanga in the summer and Kansas City in the winter. He is married to a local woman and has five children. He knew an elderly woman named Gerty, who lived in the village and attended the same church as him.

When Gerty fell ill and was admitted to hospital, social services asked some members of the church to visit her home and check her living conditions. What they found was shocking: piles of newspapers blocked the corridors, the bathroom was in a terrible state, and she was using the bathtub as a toilet. But hidden between the pages of those newspapers, they found money – $50 here, $250 there, and sometimes even more. And that was just the beginning.

They knew that Gerty's late husband, Lawrence Barr, was the grandson of Jesse James, the notorious bank robber. As they continued to clean up, they found bearer bonds and a box containing three thousand silver dollars. In total, it turned out that Gerty was worth around $900,000 – and she didn't even know it.

But the story did not end there. When Gerty was discharged from hospital, she gave the shopkeeper permission to take whatever he wanted from her house. He chose a few old books about the Wild West, published in 1926. Tucked between the pages was a handwritten letter from Jesse James to his daughter – Gerty's mother-in-law. The letter is now safely stored in a bank vault.

Eventually, a solicitor was appointed to manage her estate. No one could ever prove where the money came from. When Gerty died with no living heirs, her fortune was divided between two churches as stipulated in her will.

Along the Skeena to Prince Rupert 

The road to Prince Rupert hugged the banks of the beautiful Skeena River, one of the most breathtaking stretches in British Columbia. Patches of fog hung between the mountains, eagles circled above the water, and the rainforest had a mysterious glow. In Prince Rupert, we prepared for our ferry trip to Alaska. 

We visited the harbour, ate fresh fish and felt our excitement mounting. After a week on the road, we were about to cross the border into the land of our dreams.

The dance of the bald eagles

As I stood in the harbour watching a bald eagle perched in a nearby tree, an older man approached me. He was the epitome of an Alaskan man, wearing a red plaid shirt and faded jeans, with a weathered face, white hair, and a beard that seemed to reflect the passage of time. He asked me if I was looking at the moon. 'No,' I replied, 'at the eagle.' And then he began to tell his story.

He had once been walking in the mountains around the village when he suddenly saw a black column rising higher than the mountain peaks. Curious, he walked closer. Much to his surprise, it turned out to be a group of bald eagles — hundreds of them — flying around each other in a vertical dance. 'It was the spring dance,' he said. During the breeding season, they gather – never in the same place – and perform this harmonious aerial ballet.

He looked at me and smiled: "I wonder how they tell each other where to meet. They don't use mobile phones, you know." And with that remark, he wished me a safe journey and disappeared, as if he himself were part of the landscape.