Hiker Vanished on Appalachian Trail — 2 Years Later Remains Found in a Scarecrow | HO!!!!

In the heart of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, where the Appalachian Trail threads through ancient forests and rolling farmland, the story of Sarah Jenkins has become a chilling legend—one that exposes the darkest corners of rural America and the monstrous secrets that can hide in plain sight.

Sarah Jenkins, 24, was a bright, ambitious journalism graduate from Columbus, Ohio. In the summer of 2005, she set out to fulfill her lifelong dream: hiking a significant portion of the Appalachian Trail solo before settling into adult life. She was not a professional hiker, but she was prepared—months of planning, gear selection, and research had gone into her journey.

Sarah’s optimism was infectious; she documented her adventure on her travel blog, “Sarah Sees the World,” sharing photos and stories of the beauty and kindness she found along the way.

Her parents worried, but they were proud. Sarah was strong, independent, and resourceful. She called home regularly from trail towns, her voice always full of enthusiasm. The last time they spoke was in late July 2005. Sarah was in Virginia, feeling great, and about to enter a secluded stretch of the trail.

Her final blog entry, posted July 28 from an internet café in Daleville, Virginia, joked about blisters and cheeseburger cravings. She signed off: “The mountains are calling and I have to go. Don’t lose me.”

Those would be her last published words.

A Vanishing Without a Trace

Ten days passed without contact. Then two weeks. Sarah’s parents sounded the alarm. Search parties combed the wild expanse of Appalachian forest, checking every shelter and cabin. In one shelter’s logbook, they found her last entry, dated July 29 or 30: a brief note about the weather, signed “Sarah J.” After that, the trail went cold.

No backpack, no tent, no camera. No signs of a struggle or accident. It was as if Sarah Jenkins had vanished into thin air.

Investigators considered every possibility: an accident, a wild animal attack, or—most chilling—kidnapping. But after weeks of searching, the operation was called off. Sarah’s parents spent their savings on private investigators, but no leads emerged. The story made national news briefly, then faded. For most, it was another unsolved mystery of the Appalachian Trail. For her family, the pain never faded.

The Scarecrow in the Cornfield

Two years later, in August 2007, the answer was found in a place no one expected—a cornfield just miles from the trail, on the farm of Silas Blackwood, a 70-year-old local known for his reclusive ways.

Silas Blackwood was a fixture in the valley, a solitary widower whose family had owned the land for generations. He was considered eccentric but harmless. Every spring, he placed a scarecrow in his field. But for two years, his scarecrow had been odd—large, misshapen, dressed in faded women’s hiking pants and a synthetic jacket.

After a powerful summer storm flattened the corn, a neighbor named Jim drove past the Blackwood farm and noticed the scarecrow had toppled. Something white and smooth protruded from the torn burlap. Curious, Jim approached and uncovered a human skull, tangled in rotten straw and scraps of clothing. He called 911, his hands shaking.

Sheriff’s deputies arrived within minutes. Blackwood met them on his porch, calm and seemingly annoyed at the disturbance. Forensic experts began working in the field. The scarecrow was stuffed with human bones, broken and mixed with straw. Among the remains, they found a hiking boot laced onto a human ankle and the same synthetic jacket Sarah had worn.

The Monster Next Door

The proximity to the trail and Blackwood’s property made the connection to Sarah Jenkins immediate. Blackwood was arrested as a person of interest. He offered no resistance, only silence and a flat denial—claiming he found the bones in the woods and hid them in the scarecrow out of fear.

Police began a full-scale search of his farm, convinced more secrets lay hidden. The breakthrough came in an old barn, where officers found an army box locked with a padlock. Inside, wrapped in burlap, was a bright red hiking backpack—Sarah’s. Her diary, a map marked in her handwriting, and a digital camera were inside.

Forensic experts confirmed the remains were Sarah’s through dental records. But the most damning evidence came from her camera’s memory card. Hundreds of photos retraced her journey—mountain vistas, selfies, snapshots of fellow hikers. The last five photos, blurred and chaotic, showed a plaid shirt, boots, and finally, the enraged face of Silas Blackwood. In her final moments, Sarah had photographed her killer.

The Confession

Confronted with the photos, Blackwood’s composure cracked. In a voice barely above a whisper, he began his confession.

He described working at the edge of his property that July day, watching hikers pass by. He despised them—outsiders, symbols of a life lost to him. When Sarah left the main trail to fetch water from a stream, he was overcome by a predatory impulse. He attacked her as she bent to the water, enraged by her youth and confidence.

Sarah fought fiercely, snapping photos in the struggle. Blackwood raped and strangled her, then hid the body in blackberry bushes. He returned to his routine as if nothing had happened.

Months later, as winter passed and spring arrived, Blackwood decided not to bury the bones. Instead, he built a scarecrow, mixing her remains with straw and dressing it in her clothes. For nearly two years, he looked out at his creation, hiding his crime in plain sight.

Justice and Aftermath

Blackwood’s trial was swift. His confession, supported by physical evidence and Sarah’s final photographs, left no doubt. The defense argued insanity, citing dementia and isolation, but the prosecution presented his cold, methodical account. The jury saw the last photos Sarah took—her final act as a journalist, documenting the truth in the face of death.

Blackwood was found guilty on all counts: first-degree murder, kidnapping, and rape. The judge called his actions “absolute evil beyond human comprehension.” He was sentenced to life without parole.

Sarah’s parents attended the trial, their grief now mingled with pride. “Even in the face of death, she did everything she could to ensure her killer was found,” her father said.

Blackwood died in prison seven years later. His farm was sold, the house and barns demolished, the cornfield plowed under. The land erased the physical traces of horror, but the story remains—a reminder that evil can hide in the most ordinary places.

The Legacy of Sarah Jenkins

Sarah Jenkins set out to share the beauty of the Appalachian Trail. In the end, she revealed a different story—a warning about the darkness that can lurk behind a neighbor’s quiet facade.

Her final act was not just survival, but truth. Through her lens, she gave investigators the evidence they needed to bring her killer to justice. Her legacy endures, not as a cautionary tale about wilderness dangers, but as a testament to courage and the power of bearing witness.

In the cornfields of Virginia, the scarecrow is gone. But its story will haunt the valley—and the trail—for generations to come.