The note was on his desk.

Jed Hall had just turned sixteen. On January 22, 2018, he left his family’s home in Idaho Falls at 2:00 AM, climbed into his 2009 Nissan Versa with camping gear and a 9mm handgun, and drove straight into the dark.

His parents woke up to an empty bedroom and a letter saying he was going to take his own life.

“It was black madness,” his father told East Idaho News. “Just insanity. No lead, nothing. All of a sudden, he’s gone.”

His phone pinged one last time at 6:48 AM near the Interstate 15 interchange along the Snake River. Then silence.

 

But here’s where the story bends.

Surveillance footage from the American Heritage Charter School showed Jed breaking a window at 2:31 AM. He was wearing combat boots, knee pads, ear and eye protection. He didn’t steal anything. Instead, he walked to a specific locker—the girl who had just rejected his advances—and slipped in $1,000 in cash, a necklace, and another note.

Then he left. Got back in his car. Disappeared.

His family says he loved the show Hunted. He was in the Civil Air Patrol. He wanted to join the military.

A private investigator named Jim Terry put forward a bizarre theory in April 2020: Jed had a female friend who was assaulted. He wanted revenge. There was a shooting that same night on the driveway of someone who may have known her.

Jed’s parents rejected the theory. “He was a well-trained kid,” they said. “If he wanted to hurt somebody, he was capable. But he wouldn’t have done it.”

Thirty-one months later, his parents posted on Facebook: “$20,000 reward for information leading to finding my son or the Nissan Versa. Such a huge hole in our hearts and lives.”

Jed Hall has never been seen again.

 

Maximiliano Schwier’s LinkedIn profile said he was a clandestine analyst at the US Department of Homeland Security.

In 2005, he walked into an FBI lobby in San Francisco, demanded to speak with agents, threw a plant against the wall, broke chair legs, and smashed glass display cases. He caused $7,499 in damages.

In 2016, he was arrested again—threats of violence, obscene phone calls, threatening state officials.

Sometime between January 1 and January 5, 2018, Max entered Yosemite National Park. He left his rental car in the Camp 4 parking lot. The rental company reported it overdue. Yosemite NPS tweeted a missing person alert on January 6.

Max is 5’8″, 185 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes.

No searches were ever documented. No sign of him has ever been found.

Did he disappear on a secret mission? Or did something else find him first?

 

David Cook was a former Marine. He’d summited forty-six peaks over fourteen thousand feet. On September 19, 2016, he entered the White River National Forest in Aspen, Colorado, planning to add two more: Maroon Bells and Pyramid Peak.

The Maroon Bells have a nickname: the Deadly Bells.

Other hikers saw David on South Maroon at 1:40 PM. His phone pinged between 4:00 and 6:00 PM from somewhere inside the park—investigators couldn’t tell which peak.

The next morning, a parking attendant saw David.

That was September 20, 2016. The last confirmed sighting.

His wife, Marine, knew something was wrong when he didn’t come home. “He was kind and caring,” she said. “He wouldn’t just leave.”

Search teams used helicopters, boots on the ground, a plane with a million-dollar camera, and sniffer dogs. Heavy snow and bad weather shut down the search after a few days. His map for Pyramid Peak was still in his car. His crampons were missing, but he had microspikes.

Marine started the Dave Gives Back campaign to fund search and rescue teams in Colorado and New Mexico.

“I don’t want other families to go through this,” she said.

Dave Cook has been missing for six years.

 

Breck Phelps went fishing on October 2, 2016. The Stanislaus River, Stanislaus National Forest, California. He never came back to shore.

His friend found his 2007 Nissan Versa parked along Highway 108 near Donnell Vista—a trail known for extreme elevation changes, deep canyons, heavy foliage, and cold, fast-running water.

Helicopters. Sniffer dogs. Officers on the ground and in the water.

Nothing.

Donnell Vista has claimed at least two others. Patricia Sue Tolhurst was one of them.

 

Patricia owned the Patty Shack restaurant in East Sonora. Kind. Loving. But she’d been going through financial hardship. Stressed out.

On April 18, 2014, she was seen in Twain Harte, California. Two days later, she mailed a letter to friends saying she was going to Kennedy Meadows along the Pacific Crest Trail—a spot hikers call the Promised Land, over seven hundred miles of trail to reach it.

“I’m going to put my feet in the water,” she wrote.

On April 22, her white Toyota 4Runner was found at Donnell Vista. Her handbag and personal items were inside. No indication where she’d gone.

Patricia was 5’7″, 120 pounds, blonde hair, blue eyes. She wore a California State University 2006 class ring and a brown leather necklace with a charm.

She’s been missing for eight years.

 

Brian George Breneman was last seen on Halloween 2011 at his sister’s home in Pleasant Hill, California. He’d been depressed about being out of work. Financial worries.

Two weeks later, his abandoned car was found at the Boulder Creek Falls Trailhead in the Whiskeytown National Recreation Area. Park rangers, the Shasta County Sheriff’s Department, search and rescue teams, and the California Highway Patrol scoured the woods around Mill Creek and Boulder Creek.

By November 17, the search scaled back.

Brian is 5’9″, brown hair, brown eyes. He’s been gone eleven years.

 

David Michael Bernie bought a red Toyota Tercel on June 29, 2007, and planned to drive to Georgia to see his two daughters. He never arrived.

His car was found abandoned in Bankhead Forest, Winston County, Alabama, on County Road B15—over a month later. Locals said it had been there since July 7. The car was out of gas. The battery was missing. No signs of a struggle.

David had last been seen at the Jet Pep gas station on Highway 157 in Battleground, Alabama.

“He had enemies who could have harmed him,” his family told the Charley Project.

He left behind six children. Graying brown hair. Brown hazel eyes. Several tattoos on his right arm. Missing several teeth.

No trace.

 

Nita Mayo was a licensed practical nurse at Mount Grant General Hospital in Hawthorne, Nevada. Hardworking. Loved. On August 8, 2005, she had the day off, so she met a friend for breakfast, then headed to Sonora, California, to do some shopping. She drove over the Sonora Pass—a beautiful mountain road only open certain times of the year.

She never showed up for work on August 9.

Her coworkers called. No answer. Her four children reported her missing.

Two days later, her silver 1997 Mercury Sable was found locked in the parking lot at Donnell Vista. Keys, handbag, purse, ID, and phone inside. The only thing missing was her camera.

Sniffer dogs followed her scent for a few yards. Then nothing.

In September 2005, authorities announced they were seeking Jewel Jean Rice as a person of interest. Rice’s car had mechanical problems in the Sonora area on the day Nita disappeared. She’d been asking strangers for help.

Nita spoke with a British accent. She wore oval prescription glasses with gold wire frames and a mother’s ring with a pearl, pink, blue, and purple stone.

She’s been missing for seventeen years.

 

Patrick Terrence Whalen was called “the survivalist” by his friends and family. He’d logged hundreds of miles on the Pacific Crest Trail and in Glacier National Park, the Blackfeet tribal lands, and the Columbia Falls region of Montana. He was training to become a naturopathic doctor. He raised money for cystic fibrosis research.

The last time anyone saw or heard from him was November 2, 2000, in Glacier Park.

His car was found abandoned at the Lake McDonald Lodge Restaurant. On May 27, 2001, investigators found an abandoned campsite at the Atlantic Creek Backcountry Campground, near Bad Marriage Mountain and Medicine Grizzly Peak. His personal items were left behind.

No sign of Patrick.

His family noted he’d been displaying signs of mental illness before he vanished—obsessive behavior, paranoia. He was 6 feet tall, 155 pounds, blonde hair, hazel eyes, wire-frame glasses.

In 2008, his family held a vigil in his memory.

They’re still waiting for him to walk through the door.

 

Ten people. Ten stories. Same questions.

Why do experienced hikers leave their cars with phones and wallets inside? Why do cars end up locked at trailheads with no sign of their owners? Why do sniffer dogs lose the scent after a few yards? Why does the weather always turn right when someone disappears?

Jed Hall’s parents offered $20,000. Then raised it to $220,000.

“We won’t ever get that time back,” they wrote. “Such a huge hole in our hearts.”

The woods don’t give up their secrets easily. Sometimes they don’t give them up at all.

 

I want to linger on David Cook for a moment longer, because his case illustrates something important about how these disappearances unfold.

Forty-six summits. Former Marine. He knew how to read terrain, how to conserve energy, how to signal for help. He wasn’t a rookie. He wasn’t reckless.

And yet, somewhere between the Maroon Bells and Pyramid Peak, between a parking attendant’s sighting on September 20 and the moment his phone went dark, David Cook simply ceased to exist in any way that search teams could find.

The Pitkin County Sheriff’s Office used everything. Helicopters with infrared. A plane with a million-dollar camera. Sniffer dogs. Boots on the ground for days.

Nothing.

The weather turned. Heavy snow buried any possible trace. By the time the search was called off, the only thing left was a Facebook page—Find Dave Cook—and a campaign to raise money for other families who might go through the same thing.

His wife Marine didn’t give up. She started the Dave Gives Back campaign. She wanted his name to mean something, even if his body never came home.

That’s the part that breaks my heart. Not the mystery. The waiting.

 

Max Schwier’s case is different. It’s stranger.

A man with a LinkedIn profile claiming ties to Homeland Security. An FBI lobby vandalized to the tune of $7,499. Arrests for threatening state officials and judges. Then a rental car left at Camp 4 in Yosemite, and nothing else.

No search was ever documented. No clues. No body.

Some people think Max was given a new identity and sent on a mission. Others think he walked into the woods and never walked out. A few think he’s still out there, living off the grid, watching the stars come up over Half Dome.

But here’s what keeps me up at night.

If a man with possible government connections can vanish from a national park without a trace—without even a proper search—what does that say about the rest of us?

If the people who know how to disappear can’t be found, what chance do we have when the wilderness decides to take us?

 

Patricia Tolhurst’s case haunts me for a different reason.

She was struggling. Financial hardship. Stress. She owned a restaurant called the Patty Shack in East Sonora, and everyone who knew her said she was kind and loving.

But kindness doesn’t protect you from the desert.

She mailed a letter to her friends on April 20, 2014. “I’m going to Kennedy Meadows,” she wrote. “I’m going to put my feet in the water.”

Two days later, her Toyota 4Runner was found at Donnell Vista. Handbag inside. Personal items. No note. No explanation.

The searches turned up nothing. No sign of her anywhere.

It’s been eight years.

Her family still waits.

 

The thing about Donnell Vista is that it keeps happening.

Breck Phelps disappeared there in 2016. Patricia Tolhurst in 2014. And those are just the ones we know about.

The trail is beautiful. The views are stunning. The river is cold and fast and full of crevices where a body could get wedged and never come up.

But the disappearances don’t all involve water.

Some of them involve nothing at all.

 

Brian Breneman’s car was found at Boulder Creek Falls Trailhead in the Whiskeytown National Recreation Area. His wallet was in the car. His phone. His keys.

He just walked away.

Or something walked him away.

The Shasta County Sheriff’s Department searched for days. Nothing. The search scaled back. It’s been quietly ongoing ever since.

But quietly ongoing is just a gentle way of saying we don’t know and we probably never will.

 

David Bernie’s case is the one that feels most like a crime.

Red Toyota Tercel. Out of gas. Battery missing. Found in Bankhead Forest, Alabama, over a month after he was last seen at a gas station in Battleground.

His family said he had enemies. People who could have harmed him.

But if someone hurt David, where’s the evidence? Where’s the body? Where’s the motive that makes sense?

Six children lost their father. A mother lost her son. A sister lost her brother.

And the forest kept its silence.

 

Nita Mayo was a British national living in Nevada. She worked as a nurse. She was dependable. Respected.

On August 8, 2005, she drove over Sonora Pass to do some shopping in California.

She never came back.

Her car was found at Donnell Vista—same place as Breck Phelps, same place as Patricia Tolhurst. Locked. Keys inside. Purse inside. Phone inside.

The only thing missing was her camera.

Sniffer dogs picked up her scent for a few yards. Then nothing.

Jewel Jean Rice was named as a person of interest. Her car had broken down in the Sonora area on the day Nita disappeared. She’d been going around asking people for help.

But no charges were ever filed. No answers were ever given.

Nita’s children are still waiting.

 

Patrick Whalen’s family called him the survivalist.

He knew the Pacific Crest Trail. He knew Glacier National Park. He knew the Blackfeet tribal lands and the Columbia Falls region.

He was training to be a naturopathic doctor. He raised money for cystic fibrosis research. He believed that nature could heal us.

On November 2, 2000, he was in Glacier Park.

His car was found at Lake McDonald Lodge.

His abandoned campsite was found months later at Atlantic Creek Backcountry Campground, near Bad Marriage Mountain and Medicine Grizzly Peak.

His personal items were there.

He was not.

His family noted that he’d been showing signs of mental illness before he vanished—obsessive behavior, paranoia.

But paranoia doesn’t make you disappear. Obsessive behavior doesn’t explain why a survivalist would leave his gear behind and walk into the woods and never come back.

 

Ten cases.

Ten families.

Ten holes in the hearts of people who loved them.

The National Park Service does incredible work with limited resources. They search for days, weeks, sometimes months. They bring in helicopters, dogs, volunteers, million-dollar cameras. They don’t give up easily.

But the wilderness is bigger than all of us.

It doesn’t care about our technology. It doesn’t care about our experience. It doesn’t care about our families or our jobs or our plans for the future.

It just is.

And sometimes, it takes.

 

If you know anything about any of these cases, call the numbers you’ve heard. Someone is waiting for answers.

Jed Hall’s parents raised their reward to $220,000.

They’re not looking for justice. They’re not looking for revenge.

They’re just looking for their son.

The woods don’t give up their secrets easily.

But sometimes, with enough time and enough love, the secrets come out.

Sometimes.