By the summer of 2022, the story of Patrick O’Hara had nearly disappeared into the mist that drapes over the forests of Ketchikan, Alaska. Locals remembered him as an experienced hiker from Vancouver who had vanished without a trace nearly a decade earlier, one of many who had disappeared in the dark, sprawling wilderness of the Tongass National Forest.
Known for swallowing travelers whole, the Tongass is both breathtaking and merciless, and Patrick’s disappearance had become another whisper in its long history of mysteries. But in August 2022, two forestry workers stumbled upon something deep in the woods that would finally, and tragically, reveal what had happened to him after nine long years. Patrick was not the kind of man who usually made mistakes in the backcountry. At 34, he was a careful and skilled outdoorsman, spending years exploring British Columbia’s rugged terrain while balancing his job as an IT specialist. In July 2013, he traveled to Ketchikan with plans for a solo hike along an isolated section of the coastal route through the Tongass, which spans 17 million acres of thick forest, heavy rain, and sudden, blinding fog. He was last seen at a local tourist shop, buying supplies and talking with the owner about his gear.
He knew exactly what he needed: gas canisters, ten days’ worth of freeze-dried meals, waterproof matches, and a new compass. Calm and prepared, he paid in cash and left with his backpack slung over his shoulder. On July 12, he texted his sister in Vancouver, telling her he was heading out and would check in again in eight days. That was the last anyone heard from him. When his silence stretched past ten days, his family grew alarmed, and by July 23, Alaska State Police launched a full-scale search.
Rescue teams, helicopters, and local volunteers scoured the dense forest, but the Tongass is unforgiving—its thick canopy hid the ground from above, while the rain-soaked terrain slowed search parties to a crawl. A week into the search, they found his camp, but it was more baffling than enlightening. His tent was neatly packed, clothes folded, backpack ready to go. There were no signs of panic, injury, or struggle. It looked as though he had simply packed up and walked away, never to return.
After weeks of searching with no results, the operation was called off, and Patrick was declared missing. His disappearance became a local legend, the mystery of a skilled hiker who left behind only neatly packed belongings. For nine years, the forest kept its silence—until two forestry workers, Mark Collins and Dave Miller, were surveying a remote area far from any trail. Mark noticed a strange shape among the trees, a weathered wooden cabin perched twelve feet above the ground, wedged between four massive spruce trees. There was no ladder or rope leading up to it. Driven by curiosity, Mark climbed up and forced the door open.
Inside was a chilling scene: a human skeleton sat slumped against the wall, dressed in tattered hiking clothes. A skull lay separately nearby, as though it had been deliberately placed. In one corner sat a modern backpack, a rusty radio, and a pot containing petrified food. The most disturbing detail was the door, which had been boarded shut from the inside, with fingernail scratches etched into the wood near the lock. Inside the backpack, investigators found an ID card—Patrick O’Hara.
His fate was finally known, though the discovery raised more questions than it answered. Forensic experts determined hypothermia was the official cause of death, worsened by a blow to the back of his skull consistent with a fall or blunt object. Yet his supplies suggested he had not starved, and his choice to board up the door hinted at a deeper fear. One theory suggested he stumbled into the cabin while exploring, fell and struck his head, then accidentally knocked away the ladder and trapped himself. Disoriented and injured, he may have barricaded the door out of panic, eventually succumbing to the cold without his sleeping bag, which had been left at the abandoned camp.
But another, darker theory emerged. Investigators considered the possibility that Patrick had encountered poachers in the forest. Perhaps he witnessed something he should not have, and the poachers, rather than killing him outright, confined him to the cabin. The head injury could have been from a confrontation, and the barricaded door could have been his desperate attempt to protect himself after they left him behind, knowing exposure would finish the job. This theory explained the packed camp, the head wound, and the planks on the door. Yet after combing through poaching reports and interviewing locals, no evidence surfaced.
Nine years had erased any chance of finding those responsible. Patrick’s case was closed with hypothermia and head trauma listed as the cause of death, though the true circumstances may never be known. The cabin was dismantled, and the forest once again grew quiet, leaving behind only four old spruce trees where his grim prison once stood.
For his family, the closure was painful—they finally had his remains, but no justice. The unanswered questions about who or what sealed his fate linger in the community, a haunting reminder of the dangers that lurk within the Tongass. To this day, Patrick O’Hara’s story is retold in Ketchikan, a chilling tale of how the forest guards its secrets, and how sometimes those secrets are far darker than anyone dares to imagine.
