For readers of Jon Krakauer and Douglas Preston, the critically acclaimed author and journalist Jon Billman's fascinating, in-depth look at people who vanish in the wilderness without a trace and those eccentric, determined characters who try to find them.
These are the stories that defy conventional logic. The proverbial vanished without a trace incidences, which happen a lot more (and a lot closer to your backyard) than almost anyone thinks. These are the missing whose situations are the hardest on loved ones left behind. The cases that are an embarrassment for park superintendents, rangers and law enforcement charged with Search & Rescue. The ones that baffle the volunteers who comb the mountains, woods and badlands. The stories that should give you pause every time you venture outdoors.
Through Jacob Gray's disappearance in Olympic National Park, and his father Randy Gray who left his life to search for him, we will learn about what happens when someone goes missing. Braided around the core will be the stories of the characters who fill the vacuum created by a vanished human being. We'll meet eccentric bloodhound-handler Duff and R.C., his flagship purebred, who began trailing with the family dog after his brother vanished in the San Gabriel Mountains. And there's Michael Neiger North America's foremost backcountry Search & Rescue expert and self-described "bushman" obsessed with missing persons. And top researcher of persons missing on public wildlands Ex-San Jose, California detective David Paulides who is also one of the world's foremost Bigfoot researchers.
It's a tricky thing to write about missing persons because the story is the absence of someone. A void. The person at the heart of the story is thinner than a smoke ring, invisible as someone else's memory. The bones you dig up are most often metaphorical. While much of the book will embrace memory and faulty memory—history—The Cold Vanish is at its core a story of now and tomorrow. Someone will vanish in the wild tomorrow. These are the people who will go looking.
CHAPTER 1: THE OLYMPIC PENINSULA
Jacob answered, “My life of wandering has lasted a hundred and thirty years. Those years have been few and difficult, unlike the long years of my ancestors in their wanderings.”
MUCH DEPENDS ON a red bicycle. The bike is heavy and too small for Jacob’s athletic five-foot, eleven-inch frame. Ideally for a journey of this scale he’d ride a large, but the medium is what he has to roll with. After all, he figures, bikes are like surfboards— you don’t always have the perfect one for every condition. The important thing is the wave, the ride. And this one was free. The red Specialized Hardrock says Milwaukee Tools on it because his dad, Randy Gray, age sixty-three, won it in a raffle. Jacob— like his house-builder father, handy with a Skilsaw—fashioned a plywood rack behind the seat and bolted two milk crates to it side-by-side.
Instead of cycling-specific shoes with stiff soles and ski-binding- like clipped-in pedals favored by seasoned touring cyclists to allow for more power transfer to the cranks, Jacob’s bike is outfitted with stock flat BMX-style rattrap pedals that accommodate his running shoes and hiking boots. Not built for speed, not lithe, not pretty, a size too small, but hell-for-stout, as the builders say. And as utilitar- ian as a pickup truck. He’d recently sold his Volkswagen sedan and now the bike is his transportation, which suits him just fine.
Jacob’s preferred gear shop is the Port Townsend, Washington, Goodwill. He loaded his third-hand yellow-and-red Burley child trailer with pots and pans that still have the thrift-store price tags on them. His grandfather’s wool Hudson’s Bay blanket is heavy but warm, even when wet. A full roll of duct tape, a toolbox, camp stove, deck of cards, a Holman Bible, a tent, fuel bottles, a case of vintage Mountain House dehydrated meals, two first-aid kits, carabiners, climbing crampons, a bow and a quiver of arrows, a rain poncho, a sleeping bag, spin-cast fishing rod and reel, and enough tarps, rope, and bungee cords for a one-ring circus. The bike, trailer, and supplies weigh as much as the 145-pound twenty-two-year-old does soaking wet. Which he is.
The weather is snotty, which it never isn’t in northwestern Washington in early April, but that doesn’t slow him down. Jacob, a keen surfer who grew up on the beach in Santa Cruz, California, is ionized by water, as Randy puts it—whether surfing on it or riding in it. His dad talks of getting a dose of negative ions via whitewater, no matter how cold. Jacob is known to frequently trunk it—not don a wetsuit even when conditions warrant, which in the cold currents off Santa Cruz is most of the time. Jacob loves water, the colder the better.
What Randy’s ion theory lacks in scientific proof, it more than makes up for in shaka vibes. “Even if we don’t go surfing, we’ll get a mocha and go down to the beach and watch the sunrise,” Randy says. “That’s our thing, Jacob and me.” The two will sometimes sleep on the beach, with no sleeping bag, just watch the sunset and curl up in the sand like sea turtles until dawn.
Jacob has nowhere he has to be, and all the time in the world to pedal there. He doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going, not even Wyoma Clair, his grandmother, whom he’d been temporarily living with in Port Townsend. On April 4, 2017, he quietly leaves Wyoma fifty bucks on the table and heads out into the headwind and rain in the middle of the night.
When it hits social media that a cyclist is missing, there are reported sightings, few and mostly credible, but not very helpful. The cycle touring season hasn’t ramped up yet, as most cyclists wait for the weather to temper. Car and truck traffic is light on Highway 101 at night. So it’s logical that no more than a couple motorists report seeing a young man on an overloaded bike pulling a trailer west- bound through the driving rain. A man claims to have seen Jacob twice on April fifth, in Indian Valley and along Lake Crescent. On Thursday, April sixth, a woman reports having seen a man towing “a red trailer” climbing Fairholm Hill at one o’clock in the morning.
No one gives it much thought. Touring cyclists are legion here soon, and Jacob is just the first robin of spring.
Later that morning, a local Port Angeles woman named Stacey passes Jacob as he churns up the Sol Duc Hot Springs Road, about two miles upriver from the 101. The park entrance shack is closed for the season, but the steel gate is open because the park itself is open, as is the Sol Duc Hot Springs Resort. Coming down- mountain later that afternoon, Stacey notices the rig, laid down
6.3 miles upriver from the 101; she’s curious enough that she snaps a quick photo of the abandoned contraption, a flash of red-and- yellow aluminum and nylon against the lush universe of rainforest greens. It isn’t a good place to camp or stash a bike for long, highly visible there under a Sitka spruce tree, not ten yards from the road, twenty yards from the river.
On the afternoon of April 6, an Olympic National Park worker radios his dispatch. “Dispatch, 7-4-1 Ron on North Plain. I’ve got a bicycle that has went off the Sol Duc Road about, ah, mile marker 7, and I can’t find anyone around it. You might want to send a ranger up here so we can see what’s going on.”
ONP Dispatch: “Copy, thanks for the info, 16:30.”
Dispatch connects him to Ranger John Bowie.
Ranger: “Ron, I’ll head that way. Is that bicycle down the bank a ways, or is it easy to get to?”
“It’s easy to get to. It’s got a little carrier on the back of it too. It looks like it crashed off the road.”
“Okay, so it didn’t look like maybe somebody hid it there to go off for a hike?”
“It doesn’t look like anybody’s hit it, he just went off the road. I’m gonna stay here until you get up this way.”
Standing next to the bike, which is just off the tarmac, Ranger Bowie can hear the roiling Sol Duc River even though he can’t see it. There is a recurve bow and some target arrows poking out of the trailer. He sees four arrows stuck in the ground between the road and the bike and trailer; the arrows seem stuck there deliberately, in a row. A little strange, but he’s seen it all, probably meaningless. Bowie does a quick look-around and doesn’t find the cyclist. At six p.m. he calls Ranger Brian Wray and asks him to check it out in the morning.
On Friday, April 7, just before nine a.m., Ranger Wray arrives at the bike. No cyclist. No anyone. The four arrows are still there, stuck in the ground. No sounds but the rush of the Sol Duc River and spring birds—you could lie in the middle of the road and it’s more likely you’d die of cold exposure before getting run over by a car.
Rangers perform what’s called a “hasty search.” Some search-and-rescue personnel hate the term hasty search, preferring to call it the Reflex Phase of a search. “Hasty” implies half-assed, a lazy afterthought. At any rate, rangers don’t find anything other than the bike, trailer, and gear; they don’t know anything more than anyone else about where the cyclist could be. This is becoming a head-scratcher even to trained rangers.
Searchers use the acronym POS and sometimes joke that it stands for “piece of shit.” It stands for probability of success, finding the missing. At this point the POS still remains high—the bike’s owner will come walking out of the bush and greet them with a hello.
But what nags at the rangers is the positioning of the bike, trailer, and gear. Nothing is locked up or secured. There seems to have been no attempt to hide anything from the infrequent motorists. Rangers don’t think there’s much they can do other than kick through the ferns for evidence of any sort, and walk the riverbanks, looking for something washed up on the bank or snagged on one of several logjams. Still, is anyone even missing, just because they aren’t, at the moment, logically, where they should be?
Searchers speak of “scenario”—why and how did the target come to be missing? It appears that Jacob—or someone—has been organizing gear. A tarp is partially spread out. But no logic points them in any one direction.
The four arrows are puzzling to the rangers. A bow and practice arrows are quite the tools to pack on a bicycle outfitted for a multi-day tour. They ponder the significance of the number, four— the four arrows stuck in the ground in a line, when the remainder stay in the quiver, next to his recurve bow and fishing rod, are a head-scratcher.
Wray photographs the scene. It’s time to more closely inspect the cyclist’s belongings. Wray secures the bow and arrows in his duty SUV. At approximately 9:20 a.m. he calls the district ranger, Michael Siler, to get one of his bosses up to speed. The ranger looks through the other gear in the trailer. It’s surprising he doesn’t find a kitchen sink.
Wray finds some iodine tablets—good for emergency water purification—but figures this cyclist would have a water filter and bottles, which are not there. Logic points him toward the river, twenty yards or so away. It makes sense that the cyclist bush- whacked to the river for water. He—it’s assumed the cyclist is a he—slips on a rock and ends up in the cold, swift current. He can’t swim, or he hit his head and is unconscious, drowns. Or the current is such he can’t get out and succumbs to hypothermia in the thirty-something-degree water.
Or, he hitched a ride up to the lodge where he could soak his damp bones for an hour before catching a ride back to his bike.
Mountain lions live in the park, but an attack on a human would leave messy evidence. Same with a black bear, though a bear attack on a human is extremely rare here. More probable is an abduction, but that doesn’t make the top of any lists.
Park rangers see the full spectrum of human behavior—it’s possible the rider decided bike touring is not for him or met someone interesting and caught a lift to Seattle.
Though it’s more probable than human abduction, it’s less likely that the owner abandoned the bike to go on a trail hike—there isn’t a trailhead in the immediate vicinity, he didn’t secure his gear, and a hiker won’t get very far before hitting snow.
The bike, trailer, and gear along the Sol Duc Road is now what searchers call the “LKP”—Last Known Position. Rangers do not find a phone among the gear, but do find a paper list of phone numbers—they’re on to whose stuff this is. And they know where he was; now where the hell is Jacob Randall Gray?