The Highway System of Fear

When I finished my deep-dive investigation into serial predators targeting Indigenous women, one pattern kept clawing its way back to the surface — the highways. The long stretches of isolation, the endless truck stops, the miles of rural land where a scream goes unheard and a body can disappear without a trace.

I couldn’t shake it.
And the more I dug, the more disturbing the picture became.

Across the United States and Canada, certain highways have earned reputations so grim that entire communities warn young women not to travel them alone. Activists refer to some routes as “highways of tears,” “highways of silence,” or worse — “highways of no return.” Beneath the romantic mythology of the open road lies a reality that Indigenous families know far too well:

North America’s highways have become some of the most dangerous places for Indigenous women — and serial killers know it.

This isn’t speculation. It’s not rumor. It’s a documented, decades-long crisis woven into the geography of violence.

And it’s time the rest of the world pays attention.

The Anatomy of a Perfect Hunting Ground

Highways offer something predators crave: anonymity and mobility.

A serial killer can murder in one jurisdiction, dump a body in another, and be hundreds of miles away before anyone notices a woman is gone. Indigenous women living in remote or rural areas often have few transportation options. For decades, hitchhiking wasn’t rebellion — it was survival. A way to get to work. To visit family. To reach medical care. To escape danger at home.

The lack of public transit created highways as lifelines.
But those same highways became traps.

For predatory truck drivers, transient workers, or men traveling across states, the roads became perfect corridors to find isolated victims. The FBI eventually acknowledged what researchers had been warning: hundreds of long-haul truck drivers may be responsible for clusters of unsolved murders across the country. Many involve Indigenous women.

This is not a rare phenomenon.
It is a pattern born from infrastructure and indifference.

Truck Stops: Where Routine Meets Risk

Most truck drivers are hardworking, honest people. But like any profession, predators sometimes hide in plain sight.

Truck stops have long been hotspots for:

• trafficking
• survival sex work
• transient populations
• women fleeing violence
• hitchhikers and stranded travelers

All of these vulnerabilities intersect in ways that disproportionately affect Indigenous women. Historical trauma, poverty, displacement, and systemic racism push Native women into situations where predators find them more accessible — and less protected.

Serial offenders know that women on the margins are less likely to be reported missing quickly, and their deaths less likely to spark urgent investigations.

It’s the cruelest kind of calculus.

Why Indigenous Women Are Targets on the Highway

Indigenous women are often:

• traveling alone
• dependent on rides from strangers
• far from cell service
• moving between rural communities and cities
• passing through areas with limited law enforcement presence

When combined with police bias and jurisdictional chaos, the dangers multiply.

There were women who disappeared along highways before their families even realized they had left town. Women whose loved ones were told, “She probably took off” instead of, “We’ll start searching now.” Women who never made it home because someone saw them not as human beings — but as opportunity.

These are not isolated tragedies. They are the logical results of a system that leaves Indigenous women exposed while predators roam freely.

Clusters the Public Was Never Told About

The Murder Accountability Project — an independent organization tracking unsolved homicides — discovered patterns that many agencies missed. Their algorithm identified multiple homicide clusters along major interstate systems. Some of the most disturbing:

• I-40 corridor: multiple unsolved murders across Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, and Tennessee.
• Pacific Northwest routes: cases linked to serial predators known to target Indigenous victims.
• Canadian Highway 16 (the “Highway of Tears”): dozens of Indigenous women and girls have disappeared since the 1970s.
• Alaska’s isolated roadways: Indigenous women found near highways used by transient workers.

These clusters aren’t theoretical — they are bodies. They are names. They are families still grieving.

And they tell us one thing clearly:
Predators know these highways better than the police do.

The Role of Hitchhiking — A Risk Indigenous Women Were Forced Into

For many Indigenous communities, hitchhiking has never been a sign of recklessness. It is a necessity rooted in:

• lack of public transit
• long distances between towns
• limited access to affordable cars
• rural isolation
• poverty created by decades of disenfranchisement

When you have no bus route, no taxi, no rideshare, no car — you walk, or you hope a kind driver stops.

But kindness is not the only thing traveling those roads.

And predators learn quickly that highways give them a steady supply of women who have no choice but to take the risk.

Serial Killers and the Road: A Dark History

Consider the worst offenders who have used highways as hunting grounds:

• truck drivers who crossed multiple states before dumping bodies
• men who prowled remote roadways looking for women traveling alone
• predators who targeted Indigenous women because they knew police rarely communicated across jurisdictions

Even in cases where serial killers were caught, investigators often discovered that:

• multiple jurisdictions failed to share information
• missing Indigenous women were not entered into national databases
• cases were mislabeled or misclassified
• victims were written off based on stereotypes about substance use or sex work
• evidence was lost or never collected

The road was not just their hunting ground — it was their shield.

And Yet, Indigenous Women Continue to Walk These Roads

Not because they want to.
Because they have to.

Women trying to reach court dates, treatment centers, shelters, family visits, or new beginnings often find themselves standing on gravel shoulders with their thumbs out because no other option exists.

This is not a transportation problem.
This is a human rights failure.

It leaves Indigenous women exposed to the most dangerous category of predator: those who hunt strangers.

When Survivors Speak, the World Should Listen

Indigenous women who have escaped these encounters describe:

• men circling back multiple times
• offers of rides that felt wrong
• vehicles slowing beside them on empty roads
• threats when they refused
• being followed for miles
• being propositioned, cornered, or coerced

Some managed to get away.
Some never returned home.

Their stories reveal an unsettling truth:
The danger was predictable. The deaths were preventable.

The Highway Crisis Is Not an Indigenous Problem — It Is a National Failure

Indigenous communities have been sounding the alarm for decades.
The silence wasn’t caused by lack of evidence — it was caused by lack of willingness to hear.

The systems responsible for public safety:

• ignored patterns
• failed to communicate
• minimized reports
• misclassified victims
• underfunded tribal law enforcement
• allowed jurisdictional loopholes to persist

Predators saw all of this and acted accordingly.

This isn’t an Indigenous issue.
This is a law enforcement issue.
A transportation issue.
A systemic racism issue.
A serial predator issue.
A crisis that exists because of choices — not inevitabilities.

What Comes Next

This piece is not simply an exposé of highways and serial killers.
It’s a call to action.

To improve safety for Indigenous women, we must:

• expand transportation options
• require full participation in national crime databases
• properly track race and tribal affiliation
• strengthen communication across jurisdictions
• fund tribal police and investigative units
• train officers in trauma-informed, culturally informed response
• recognize the intersection of trafficking, addiction, and vulnerability
• take every Indigenous woman’s disappearance seriously

Because Indigenous women deserve roads that carry them safely home — not highways that lead to unmarked graves.