Theirs was to be a wonderful, magnificent life lived out loud.
Until hours stretched into days stretched into weeks.
Tim’s parents arrived on-site. His father, Martin, driving from Oregon to Wyoming with his mountaineering equipment piled in the back. Marty was a lean, nut-brown professional carpenter and experienced outdoorsman ready to take up the charge. In contrast, Tim’s mother, Patrice, appeared nearly translucent. Cancer survivor, the locals learned. Fifteen years ago, multiple bouts, barely made it.
Marge made it her mission to serve the woman coffee aboveboard and administer a little medicinal assistance on the down low.
Martin conferred with Nemeth and Sheriff Kelley, who’d taken charge of the search efforts. In the beginning, Martin would nod, approve, express his gratitude. By day five, he questioned and stewed. Day seven he headed into the woods himself, snarling under his breath when both Nemeth and Sheriff Kelley tried to hold him back.
The hasty teams stopped being hasty. Search efforts slowed, grew more methodical, no longer hoping for an easy victory, but now settling in to scour the wilderness foot by foot, trail by trail, grid by grid. Choppers scanned with infrared. Air-scenting dogs tracked areas of interest. Couple of psychics called in with hot tips, most involving flowing rivers or dark caves.
More volunteers showed up. The National Guard arrived to assist. Until twenty-three long, arduous, exhausting days later, as the temperatures plummeted and snow blanketed the upper elevations . . .
The searchers faded back to their real lives. The canine teams went home. The choppers were redirected to new missions. And only family and friends remained.
Martin O’Day fought the good fight the longest. He had a lifetime of experience and the advantage of being the one who’d trained his son. He headed back into the mountains, expedition after expedition, while Patrice held press conferences with her future daughter-in-law by her side. Twin advertisements for grief and desperation. The college friends, Neil, Josh, Miggy, and Scott, did their best to assist while having to accommodate the demands of jobs, family, obligations of their own.
Martin O’Day searched for his son. Then he searched for signs of his son. And then he searched for his son’s body.
“Grizzly bear,” Neil whispered.
“Mountain lion,” Josh argued.
“Goddammit,” Miggy said.
As for the real answer, the woods never said. Seasons turned into years and Timothy O’Day became one more missing hiker, vanished without a trace.
* * *
—
Here are things most folks don’t know: At least sixteen hundred people, if not many more times that number, remain missing on national public lands. Hikers, day-trippers, children on family camping trips. One moment they were with us, the next they’re gone.
There’s no national database to track such cases. No centralized training for search and rescue or, in many cases, even clear jurisdictional lines to identify who’s in charge of such operations. There’s also little in the way of designated funding. A large-scale search effort can cost upwards of three hundred thousand dollars a day. For many county sheriffs, that’s their annual budget.
Meaning when the volunteers go away, so do rescue efforts. Leaving behind a family with little hope and no closure. Most will continue on their own for as long as they can. Some, such as Martin O’Day, continue the hunt every year, assisted by friends, funded by online campaigns, and advised by various experts.
According to the article I’m reading in a small, local paper, Martin’s been at it for five years. This August will be his final attempt. His wife, Patrice, is now dying from the same cancer that tried to kill her before. She wants to see her son one last time. She wants her body to be buried next to his.
I sit in a diner not so dissimilar to the one Tim O’Day’s hiking buddies must’ve rushed into the morning after. I’ve spent the past twelve hours on a bus and am now catching my breath, somewhere west of Cheyenne and south of Jackson, Wyoming. I don’t particularly know, and I’m enjoying a sense of freedom—life on the road—as I read the article again, then again. Something about the story has sunk into my skin, refusing to let go.
My name is Frankie Elkin and finding missing people is what I do. When the police have given up, when the public no longer remembers, when the media has never bothered to care, I start looking. For no money, no recognition, and most of the time, with no help.
I have no professional training. I’m not a former detective or registered PI or ex–anything special. I’m only me. An average, middle-aged white woman, short on belongings, long on regret. I tried real life once. There was a house, a job, even a man who loved me enough to hold my hand as I fought my way to sober.