WHERE THE FOREST KEPT ITS SECRET

June 14, 2018 — Seattle, Washington

Haley Ford was twenty-two. Clare Martin was twenty-one.

They boarded a flight from Seattle to Anchorage carrying backpacks that had been packed and repacked a dozen times. Both were ecology students at the University of Washington. Both had been hiking since their teens. Over the previous three years, they had completed dozens of trails across Washington, Oregon, and California.

Alaska had always been the dream.

Endless forests. Mountains without crowds. Bears, eagles, glaciers. A place where civilization thinned out and nature took over completely.

They planned a week-long hike through Chugach State Park, nearly a million acres of wilderness stretching from Anchorage into remote mountain ranges. It was one of the largest state parks in the country—and one of the harshest.

Weather could change within hours. Grizzly bears were common. Trails washed out, vanished, or were blocked by fallen trees. People who came here unprepared didn’t always come back.

Haley and Clare were prepared.

They showed friends their gear lists before leaving:
A four-season tent.
Sleeping bags rated to –10°C.
Ten days of food.
A camping stove.
First-aid kits.
Bear spray.
Signal flares.
A Garmin GPS with pre-loaded maps.
A solar charger.

They were fit, experienced, confident.

No one worried.

On June 15, Haley and Clare registered at the park entrance and filled out a route form. They planned to hike the Black Ridge Trail, roughly fifty miles, with five overnight stops. Their final destination was the summit of Wolverine Mountain, overlooking Anchorage and Cook Inlet.

They planned to return on June 22.

The ranger on duty, a fifty-year-old man named Dan, later said the girls were cheerful and confident. He gave standard advice—store food properly, avoid hiking at night, report problems using a satellite phone.

They didn’t have one.

Dan suggested renting a satellite phone. They declined. They planned to stay near trails with occasional cell service.

It was a small decision.

One they would never get the chance to reconsider.

THE LAST MESSAGE

The first three days went exactly as planned.

Each evening, Haley and Clare sent messages home when they reached camp. Photos followed—streams cutting through forests, mountains rising behind them, two young women smiling into the camera.

On June 17, Clare texted her sister Emma.

“At the summit. Almost no signal. We’ll camp by the stream. See you in a week.”

The message sent at 9:04 p.m.

Attached was a panorama from Wolverine Mountain—green valleys below, snowy peaks in the distance.

It was the last anyone ever heard from them.

THE SEARCH

June 18, 19, 20—nothing.

Their families worried but didn’t panic. No signal was common in the park.

On June 22, Haley and Clare didn’t return.

The park office was notified. Ranger Dan checked the logs. The girls had not signed out. Attempts to ping their GPS failed. Either the devices were off—or no longer transmitting.

On June 23, search and rescue began.

Eight rangers. Ten volunteer hikers. Rain, fog, mud, poor visibility.

They followed the route exactly.

They found traces—fire pits, flattened grass, energy-bar wrappers.

But no people.

On June 26, the team reached Wolverine Mountain. Below the summit, near a stream, they found a campsite—trampled grass, stones arranged for a fire.

But no tent.

No gear.

No backpacks.

Nothing.

It was as if the girls had stood there… then vanished.

Tracking dogs were flown in by helicopter. They picked up scent from clothing provided by the families and followed it from the summit, down to the stream, into the eastern forest.

Then the trail ended.

The dogs circled, whining.

The handler said this usually meant one of two things:
The scent had been washed away by water—or something had happened that completely changed the situation.

Like being taken.

The search expanded to forty people. Helicopters. Drones. Thermal imaging. Caves. Ravines. Mines.

Nothing.

On July 9, the search was suspended.

Official explanation: lost hikers, fall, animal attack.

The families refused to accept it.

THE DISCOVERY

September 12, 2018

Three months later.

Two Canadian tourists were hiking an unmarked trail in eastern Chugach—an overgrown old hunting road not listed on official maps.

Around 3:00 p.m., the woman smelled decay.

At first, they assumed it was a dead animal.

They walked thirty meters off the trail.

Into a clearing.

And stopped.

Two naked bodies were tied to a spruce tree.

Both women.

Standing upright.

Backs against the trunk.

Hands bound behind them. Legs tied to exposed roots.

Displayed.

The bodies were partially mummified—skin dark and stretched over bone, faces destroyed by animals. Hair still intact. One dark. One light.

The poses were deliberate.

The tourists fled, reached cell service miles away, and called police.

DNA confirmed the identities.

Haley Ford.
Clare Martin.

Both died from ligature strangulation.

But that wasn’t all.

Clare had a skull fracture—blunt force trauma to the back of the head inflicted before death.

Haley had chemical burns—acid or alkali—on her torso and limbs, also inflicted while alive.

Both had multiple broken ribs.

Both were emaciated.

Stomach contents showed berries, roots, grass—nothing cooked.

They had been held captive, starved, beaten, tortured.

For weeks.

There was no evidence of sexual assault.

Their clothes were gone.

Only their sneakers remained—clean, unlaced, placed neatly beside the tree.

A message.

THE THEORIES

This wasn’t robbery.

It wasn’t opportunistic violence.

This was control.

Planning.

Display.

The FBI profile suggested a man familiar with the wilderness, likely a hunter or former military. A loner. Sadistic. Territorial.

Someone who knew how to disappear.

Three suspects emerged.

A fired park ranger.

A traumatized veteran.

A reclusive woodsman.

All were investigated.

None could be linked conclusively.

No DNA. No witnesses. No mistakes.

AFTERMATH

Haley and Clare were buried side by side in Seattle.

Haley’s mother died a year later, unable to recover from the loss.

Clare’s father still writes letters—to police, to the FBI, to Congress.

The case remains open.

No arrests.

No answers.

Chugach State Park still draws thousands of visitors each year.

Most never know.

A plaque now stands on Black Ridge Trail: “In memory of Haley Ford and Clare Martin.

They loved these mountains.
Walk safely.
Come home.”