Three College Friends Vanished Hiking in 2014 — 9 Years Later, Hikers Found Their Shelter…

 

In June 2014, three college friends vanished while hiking along Virginia’s Appalachian Trail — a disappearance that baffled investigators, haunted families, and became one of the most unsettling unsolved cases in the region’s history. For nine long years, their names faded into local legend: Tyler Morrison, Amber Hayes, and Chris Park — three 22-year-old graduates who went into Shenandoah National Park and never came out.

Then, in July 2023, the wilderness gave up a secret it had kept for nearly a decade.

Two day hikers, lost and disoriented, stumbled across an overgrown concrete shelter buried deep in the forest near Big Meadows — nearly a mile from any known trail. The structure was barely visible, swallowed by vines and soil, built into the hillside like something the forest had decided to erase. Inside were three sleeping bags, a camp stove, food wrappers stamped with 2023 expiration dates, and a spiral-bound notebook lying open on the floor.

The most recent entry, dated July 3, 2023, was written in a woman’s hand.

“Hikers getting closer. Need to move soon. Chris says we can’t go back. I want to go home, but he’s right. It’s too late. How do you explain nine years?” — Amber.

The handwriting matched that of Amber Hayes, the same woman who’d last been seen hiking into the Blue Ridge mountains nine years earlier with her two friends. The notebook contained entries in three distinct hands, spanning from June 2014 to the present — entries that told an impossible story.

They had been alive.

Not trapped. Not lost. But hidden — living within miles of civilization, watching the search parties come and go, never crossing the invisible threshold back to the world they’d left.

The discovery began on July 8, 2023, when David and Rachel Martinez, a couple from Charlottesville, took what was supposed to be a simple two-hour hike. A wrong turn, then another, carried them off the main trail. By early afternoon, they realized they were lost. Their GPS flickered uselessly under the canopy, and rather than retracing their steps, they decided to bushwhack back toward where they believed the road must be.

It was Rachel who first spotted it — a faint, unnatural shape through the tangle of undergrowth. Straight lines. Concrete edges. The kind of geometry nature doesn’t make.

“What is that?” she whispered.

The pair pushed closer, realizing they were standing before an old maintenance shelter, half buried by decades of soil and moss. Its rusted steel door hung crooked, ivy winding through the cracks. It looked abandoned — until they stepped inside.

The air was stale and cold. Their flashlight beams swept across three sleeping bags, a small gas stove, a water filtration kit, and neatly stacked food supplies. The walls were lined with plastic containers of instant noodles, protein bars, and canned beans. Someone had been living there — recently.

David’s light caught on a spiral notebook resting near one of the sleeping bags. The cover was torn, the edges smudged with dirt. When he opened it, his pulse quickened.

On the first page, written in blue pen, were three names:

Tyler Morrison. Amber Hayes. Chris Park.
June 6, 2014.

He flipped to the next page. The handwriting was uneven, excited:

“We left the trail this morning to explore. Found this old shelter about a mile west of Pass Mountain. It’s not on any map. We’ll stay here tonight instead of Hightop. Chris wants to check out the area tomorrow. Plenty of food. Feels like an adventure.” — Tyler.

Rachel gasped softly. “These names — these are those missing hikers, right? The ones from years ago?”

David nodded slowly. His hands shook as he turned more pages. The entries continued, shifting between the three handwritings. Early entries were cheerful, casual. Then they began to change.

“June 8th. Tried to hike back to the AT but took a wrong turn. Got seriously turned around. GPS not working under the trees. We’ll try again tomorrow.” — Amber.

“June 9th. Found Skyline Drive this morning. Watched cars pass. We heard helicopters — they’re already searching for us. Tyler wanted to flag down a car. I said we should wait, think it through. It’s a big search — people will be angry if we just walk out now and say we got lost. Better to let it cool down, make a plan.” — Chris.

The entries continued daily, then weekly, describing how the three stayed near the shelter, rationing food, listening to helicopters overhead. They intended to reemerge once the search died down. But it never did.

When the couple realized what they were holding, Rachel called the ranger station with the single bar of signal she had. The dispatcher sounded skeptical — until she mentioned the names.

It took three hours for rangers to reach the coordinates.

When they arrived, led by Park Ranger Sarah Chin, who had personally worked the 2014 search, the scene was exactly as the couple described — only colder, emptier. The sleeping bags were still warm to the touch. The food was fresh. But the shelter was deserted.

Back in 2014, the trio had set out on what was meant to be a graduation adventure — a week-long hike across a 60-mile stretch of the Appalachian Trail through Shenandoah. They’d planned every detail: entry at Thornton Gap, exit at Swift Run Gap, camping at designated huts each night. They were young but not reckless, experienced but still cautious.

Their first night went perfectly. They signed the Pass Mountain Hut logbook on June 5. Tyler wrote, “Day one. Perfect weather. Epic week ahead.” They uploaded photos to Facebook that evening — smiling, laughing, cooking dinner by a fire. It was their last post.

By the next day, June 6, they were gone.

When they failed to appear at their scheduled pickup point, families called authorities. What followed was one of the largest search operations in Virginia’s history. Helicopters, drones, thermal imaging, bloodhounds — over 200 volunteers covered every mile of trail between Pass Mountain and Swift Run Gap. Nothing was found. No gear, no tracks, no trace of the three.

By late June, the search was scaled down. By August, memorial services were held. Their families grieved. Their friends moved on. The Appalachian Trail kept its secrets.

For nine years, there was silence.

Until the shelter.

Inside the notebook, the early optimism gave way to panic, then resignation.

“June 13th. Helicopters all day. We thought it would slow down, but it hasn’t. If we go back now, everyone will ask why we didn’t come out sooner. Chris says they’ll think we did it for attention, or worse. He says we should wait longer, let it fade.” — Amber.

“June 20th. We talked about hiking out again. Amber’s scared. I’m scared too. The forest feels different now. Every sound makes us freeze. Maybe we just stay here until things stop.” — Tyler.

“July 2nd. We heard voices today — searchers, close. We didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I don’t even know why.” — Chris.

Over the next months, the tone of the entries shifted entirely. Days blurred into seasons. The handwriting became slower, less frequent, the words fragmented. They described food shortages, cold winters, fear of being found, and the constant argument about returning.

Then, new supplies appeared — propane tanks, sleeping bags, newer food packaging. Someone had either made supply runs or scavenged from nearby campsites. No one knew how.

The last entry, written by Amber on July 3, 2023, read like a final confession.

“Hikers getting closer. Need to move soon. Chris says we can’t go back. I want to go home, but he’s right. It’s too late. How do you explain nine years?”

When forensic analysts compared the handwriting to university records, class notes, and letters, the results came back clear. The journal was authentic. The entries were genuine.

By the time rangers reached the site that evening, there were no footprints beyond those of the hikers who discovered it. Forensic teams found no DNA other than the three identified in the notebook. Food wrappers dated to just months before the discovery, meaning the shelter had been occupied recently — perhaps even days earlier.

How they survived undetected for nine years remains unknown.

The park’s dense forest canopy could easily conceal movement. The shelter’s remote location made accidental discovery almost impossible. And over time, fear likely became their jailer. The deeper they hid, the harder it became to imagine facing the world again.

What began as a wrong turn had transformed into something stranger — a psychological wilderness from which they never escaped.

The search for the trio resumed briefly in 2023, focused around the shelter and nearby ridgelines. Drones scanned for heat signatures. Dogs traced faint scent trails that vanished into thick vegetation. Nothing more was found.

To this day, Tyler Morrison, Amber Hayes, and Chris Park remain missing — their story frozen between fact and myth. The concrete shelter, now sealed off by authorities, sits under a blanket of ivy and silence once again.

And somewhere in those woods, if you stand very still, hikers say you can still hear it — a faint metallic click echoing from the hillside.

The sound of a lighter being flicked, again and again, somewhere just beyond the trail.

Continue below

 

 

 

In July 2023, 2-day hikers get lost in dense forest near big meadows in Shannondoa National Park and stumble upon an old concrete maintenance shelter hidden nearly a mile off any marked trail.

 The structure is barely visible, its entrance concealed by decades of vegetation growth built into a hillside like a forgotten relic from the 1960s. Inside they find modern sleeping bags, a camp stove, food wrappers dated 2023, and a spiral notebook. The notebook contains journal entries in three different handwritings spanning 9 years. The most recent entry dated July 3rd reads, “Hiker’s getting closer.

 Need to move soon. Chris says we can’t go back. I want to go home, but he’s right. It’s too late. How do you explain 9 years?” Amber. The handwriting matches three college friends who vanished while hiking the Appalachian Trail in June 2014. Tyler Morrison, Amber Hayes, and Chris Park were 22 years old.

 Recent graduates celebrating their last adventure together. They disappeared without a trace despite massive searches. For 9 years, their families believed they were dead. But the journal proved something impossible. They’ve been alive, living hidden in the forest, watching the world search for them while staying invisible.

Not because they couldn’t leave, but because they chose not to. When rangers arrive at the shelter three hours after the discovery, it’s empty. The three are gone. And somewhere in Virginia’s wilderness, three people who vanished at 22 are now 31, unable to cross the invisible psychological barrier that keeps them from returning home.

This is the story of how three days of bad decisions became nine years of hiding. Tyler Morrison, Amber Hayes, and Chris Park met freshman year at Virginia Commonwealth University. They became inseparable, shared an apartment senior year, studied together, planned to stay close after graduation. In spring 2014, they organized one final adventure, a 7-day section hike covering 60 mi of the Appalachian Trail through Shannondoa National Park.

 All three were experienced backpackers. Tyler had grown up camping with his father. Amber had worked as a summer camp counselor and knew wilderness first aid. Chris was the meticulous planner who researched roots and coordinated logistics. They weren’t reckless kids. They were prepared, capable, excited. They arrived at Shannondoa on June 5th, 2014, registered at the Ranger Station, showed their permits, reviewed their route.

 The ranger on duty, Linda Morrison, remembered them clearly. She’d later tell investigators they seemed happy, well equipped, professional. They had detailed itinerary entering at Thornton Gap, hiking south along the AT, camping at designated shelters, exiting at Swift Run Gap on June 12th. They had 7 days of food, proper gear, GPS units, phones with downloaded maps, and written route left with Tyler’s parents.

Everything correct. First night, June 5th, they stayed at Pass Mountain Hut, signing the shelter log book. Tyler’s entry. Day one, perfect weather. Epic week ahead. They posted photos on Facebook. Three friends at the shelter smiling, cooking dinner. Amber’s caption, “Best friends, best trail, best week ever.

” That was their last social media activity. By June 6th, something changed. They never reached High Top Hut. They never signed another log book. They simply vanished. On June 12th, when they didn’t appear at Swift Run Gap, Chris’s parents called Rangers. Search operations mobilized immediately. The park’s SR coordinator, Frank Delqua, led a textbook search.

 Teams hiked every mile between Pass Mountain and Swift Run Gap. Helicopters with thermal imaging flew grid patterns. Blood hounds tracked from their car. Over 200 volunteers searched for 2 weeks. They found nothing. No backpacks, no tent, no gear, no sign three people had passed through. By June 20th, the intensive search was scaled back.

 The assumption they’d had an accident, fallen, died somewhere the forest had concealed them. Families held memorial services in August 2014. Tyler’s younger brother went to college, never mentioning his older sibling. Amber’s parents moved to a smaller house. Chris’s father developed heart problems doctors attributed to chronic stress.

The families met yearly on June 5th to hike Pass Mountain together and leave flowers. By 2020, the case was mostly forgotten. Ashley Hayes, Amber’s sister, still checked missing person’s databases weekly, but had accepted she might never get answers. Then came July 8th, 2023, 9 years after the disappearance.

David and Rachel Martinez, a couple from Charlottesville, were dayhiking in Shannondoa. Around 2 p.m., they realized they’d missed a turn and were off any marked trail. They decided to bushwack back rather than backtrack. Pushing through dense undergrowth nearly a mile from the nearest trail, Rachel spotted something.

 straight lines, concrete, unnatural in the wilderness. They approached cautiously and found a small structure built into a hillside, a concrete maintenance shelter, maybe 12 by 8 ft from the 1960s or ‘7s. The entrance was almost completely concealed by vegetation that had grown over decades. David called out. No response. They entered carefully.

 The interior was dark but revealed. Three sleeping bags on the concrete floor, a camp stove, water filtration system, food supplies, energy bars, noodles, jerky, and camping equipment. Everything organized lived in. Rachel whispered, “Someone’s here. We should go.” But David noticed a spiral notebook near one sleeping bag. The first page had three names.

 Tyler Morrison, Amber Hayes, Chris Park. Date: June 6th, 2014. David’s heart rate spiked. He opened to the first entry. Masculine handwriting. June 6th, 2014. We left the trail this morning to explore. Found this old shelter about a mile west of Pass Mountain. It’s not on any map. We’re staying here tonight instead of Hightop, just for tonight.

Chris wants to explore the area tomorrow. We have plenty of food. Rachel looked over his shoulder. Is this real? David flipped through pages. Multiple entries, different handwriting, dates spanning 2014 through 2023. He found the last entry. Feminine handwriting. July 3rd, 2023. 5 days ago. Hikers getting closer. Need to move soon.

 Chris says we can’t go back. I want to go home, but he’s right. It’s too late. How do you explain 9 years, Amber? They stood processing what they held. Rachel called the park’s emergency line with barely one bar of signal. She explained they’d found a shelter off trail, evidence connected to the 2014 missing hikers. Dispatch sounded skeptical, but sent rangers.

It took 3 hours for rangers to reach the location. Park Ranger Sarah Chin arrived at 5:15 p.m. leading three rangers. She’d worked the original 2014 search. When David showed her the journal, she went pale. She recognized the names immediately. Chen’s team documented everything with photos and videoed for additional support.

 The sleeping bags were modern, maybe 5 years old. Food wrappers dated from 2022 and 2023. The camp stove looked wellused but functional. Everything suggested recent habitation. By 700 p.m. law enforcement swarmed the site. Frank Deloqua, now retired but brought in as consultant, stood in the shelter with tears in his eyes.

 He led the 2014 search, felt personally responsible. Now he stared at evidence they’d been alive all along, hidden less than 3 miles from where his teams had searched. The journal was taken to park headquarters. Forensic document analysts from the FBI examined it over the following week. Three distinct handwritings confirmed throughout compared to known samples from the missing persons, old class notes, birthday cards, applications.

 The analysis came back high confidence matches. The journal was authentic. The entries told a disturbing story. June 6th, 2014, they’d left the AT to explore. Found the shelter. Thought it was cool. Decided to stay one night. June 7th. Tyler’s entry. Stayed another day. This place is amazing. Hidden. Feels like ours. June 8th. Amber.

 We tried to hike back to the AT, but took a wrong turn. Got seriously turned around in dense forest. The GPS isn’t giving clear readings under the tree cover. We’ll camp here and try again tomorrow with better light. June 9th. Chris’s entry changed everything. Found Skyline Drive this morning. Took us two hours of bushwhacking, but we made it.

 We stood 20 ft from the road watching cars pass. Then we heard helicopters. Search helicopters. We’re only 4 days overdue, but they’re already searching. Tyler wanted to flag down a car immediately. I said we should think about it first. We’ve wasted massive search resources. People are probably really worried if we just walk out now and say, “Oops, we went exploring and got a little lost.

” We’re going to look incredibly stupid and irresponsible. Tyler and Amber agreed we should wait until tomorrow, get our story straight, figure out how to explain this without looking like complete idiots. June 10th, Tyler still at the shelter. Chris has a point. If we come out now, we’ll look terrible. The search is apparently huge. Helicopters all day.

 We decided to wait a few more days, let things calm down, then hike out and say we got lost. And it took us a while to find our way back. We have enough food for another week if we ration. The entries from mid June showed the psychological trap forming. June 13th. Amber. It’s been over a week. The helicopters are still flying.

 Chris says if we come out now, there might be legal consequences for causing a massive search. Is that true? I don’t know. Tyler’s getting nervous, but Chris keeps saying we just need to wait a little longer. June 15th. Chris saw search teams through binoculars today about a half mile away. Hiking trails calling names.

 We could have signaled them, but I really think if we do that now, after 2 weeks, there’s going to be serious trouble. Better to wait until the search ends, then hike out quietly and say we were lost. June 18th, Tyler, the search is scaling back. We heard on a ranger’s radio they were close enough we could hear. They’re moving to recovery mode.

That means they think we’re dead. Chris says, “This is actually good. Now we can wait a few months, hike out, and say we survived by staying at this shelter. People will understand. will be survival stories, not idiots who wasted resources. But they didn’t hike out in a few months. The entries became less frequent. July the 2nd, 2014.

Tyler, it’s been almost a month. We’ve all agreed we can’t go back now. How do you explain a month? Sorry, we worried everyone. We were just camping in a concrete bunker for fun. Our families held memorials. I heard it on someone’s radio when we were near a trail. My family thinks I’m dead. How do I show up now and say I was fine the whole time? Chris is right. We’ve made our choice.

We have to see it through. July 15th. Amber, I want to go home. I miss my family. But Tyler and Chris are right. We can’t explain this anymore. It’s been too long. We’re committed now. August 1st. Chris, one month became two, two became three. We’ve learned to forage, identify edible plants, mushrooms, set snares for rabbits.

 We filter water from the stream. We’re surviving fine. Maybe we can do this for a year, then figure something out. But a year became two. The entries from 2015 showed adaptation. March 2015, Tyler made it through winter. We insulated the shelter with moss and leaves. We built better systems for food storage, water collection.

 This is our life now. June 5th, 2015. Amber, one year since we entered the trail. I cried all day. Tyler and Chris don’t talk about leaving anymore. I think we’re all too afraid of what we’d face if we did. By 2016, the entries revealed a disturbing dynamic. April 2016, Amber. Chris won’t even discuss leaving anymore.

 He says we’d be arrested for fraud, letting people think we were dead, not coming forward. He says we’ve made our choice. Tyler agrees with him. I’m outvoted. The psychological control Chris wielded became clear. He convinced them the consequences of returning would be worse than staying hidden. The journal documented theft starting in 2017.

We’ve started taking supplies from unattended campsites when we’re desperate. Just small things, food, batteries, clothing. We’re careful. We watch from the forest and take items only when people aren’t looking. We leave no trace. It feels wrong, but we need to survive. By 2018, theft had become routine. Supply caches mentioned stored extra gear in three locations within 2 mi of the shelter.

Entries from 2019 to 2022 showed psychological deterioration. October 2020. Amber, I’m 30 now. I was 22 when we came here. I’ve spent my entire 20s hiding in a forest because Chris convinced us we’d go to jail if we returned. Would we? I don’t even know anymore. But it’s too late to find out. January 2022.

 Tyler, a hiker saw me yesterday. I was near a trail checking if Coast was clear to reach a supply cache. He called out, “I ran.” He probably thinks he saw a homeless person. “I used to have a job, a family, a life. Now I’m the person people are afraid of when they see me in the woods.” The final entries from 2023 showed Amber’s growing desperation and Chris’s control. May 2023.

 Amber, I told Chris I want to leave. Find a ranger. Explain everything. Face whatever consequences exist. He got angry. Said if I leave, I’m on my own. Tyler won’t choose sides anymore. He’s given up. June 15th, 2023. Amber, I heard hikers talking nearby. They were so close I almost called out, but Chris was watching me. June 28th.

 Amber, I’ve decided when the opportunity comes, I’m leaving. I don’t care what Chris says. I want my family back. I want a real life. July 3rd, 2023. Amber. Hiker’s getting closer. Need to move soon. Chris says we can’t go back. I want to go home, but he’s right. It’s too late. How do you explain 9 years? Amber FBI analysis declared the journal authentic, but it raised questions more disturbing than if they died.

 They were alive, had been alive the entire time, living voluntarily in hiding because shame and fear paralyzed them. Park Service was in crisis mode. Additional discoveries followed. Rangers found the earth sheltered construction that had hidden them from thermal imaging. The concrete shelter built into a hillside and covered with decades of soil and vegetation created an effective thermal barrier.

 When helicopters with flur technology flew overhead, the thick earth covering masked heat signatures. By the time they emerged to try signaling, if they ever did, helicopters had moved to other search areas. This explains why thermal imaging failed in 2014. They found evidence of serious health problems, medical items stolen from campers, first aid supplies, antibiotics, pain medication.

Amber’s later entries mentioned chronic pain, infected wounds, severe dental problems. Chris’s handwriting had become erratic, suggesting neurological issues from malnutrition. Forensic medical experts who reviewed the evidence estimated all three were likely in critical condition by 2023. Park investigators reviewing theft reports from 2014 2023 found something disturbing. There had been patterns.

Small items missing from campsites over 9 years. Rangers had documented it but attributed to wildlife or different opportunistic thieves. The thefts were spread across the entire park, different areas, suggesting whoever was taking items traveled widely and carefully avoided detection. Only after the shelter discovery did rangers connect dozens of incidents into one 9-year pattern.

Search operations resumed. Rangers cordined off the shelter area. Helicopters with thermal imaging and megaphones flew patterns broadcasting. Tyler, Amber, Chris, your families are waiting. You’re not in trouble. Please come home. Ground teams with search dogs combed forest. Surveillance cameras were installed around the shelter.

 The families were notified. Patricia Morrison, Tyler’s mother, collapsed when she got the call. Her son might be alive. Ashley Hayes drove to Shannondoa demanding to see the journal. Chris Park’s parents hired private investigators. The FBI classified the three as endangered adults voluntarily evading contact. Then came witness reports.

After the story broke, missing hikers may be alive, hiding for 9 years. People came forward. A trail maintenance worker remembered seeing three people in ragged clothing in 2019, moving quickly away when he called out. A couple reported supplies stolen from their tent while they slept in 2021. Ranger Marcus Webb revealed that in 2022 he’d seen three people at a distance watching him from behind trees.

 When he approached, they vanished. Each report added to the picture. They developed incredible wilderness survival skills and ability to avoid detection. Psychologists consulted on the case. Dr. Dr. Emily Rhodess, expert in trauma and group psychology, explained, “This appears to be a case of escalating commitment combined with folia, shared delusional thinking among closely bonded individuals.

” They made a small bad decision in June 2014. Stay an extra day to avoid embarrassment. That became 2 days, then a week. Each day made returning harder. Shame compounds. Add Chris’s apparently dominant personality convincing them of legal consequences. And you have three people trapped not by forest, but by their own psychology.

After 9 years, they may genuinely believe they can’t return, even though legally and practically they absolutely can. Rangers set up surveillance cameras. For weeks, nothing. Then on July 28th, cameras captured a figure approaching the shelter at 3:47 a.m. Infrared footage showed a person, gender unclear, thin, wearing layered tattered clothing.

 They stood at the shelter entrance for several minutes, then retreated into darkness. Analysis suggested it might be Amber based on height and build, but the person didn’t return. Ashley Hayes wrote a letter posted at the shelter. Amber, it’s Ashley. Mom and dad miss you so much. I miss you. You have a niece named after you. She’s 4 years old.

 Please come home. Nobody’s angry. Nobody’s going to prosecute you. We just want you back. We love you. Nothing else matters. The letter remained untouched for weeks. As of now, the case remains open and active. Tyler Morrison, Amber Hayes, and Chris Park are no longer classified as missing persons. They’re endangered adults choosing to evade contact.

Legally, they’re adults who haven’t committed crimes. Theft of minor items wouldn’t warrant prosecution given circumstances. So, authorities can’t force them to return. But concern for their welfare is extreme. 9 years of wilderness living, likely suffering from malnutrition, untreated medical conditions, psychological damage.

Families hold on to hope. Patricia Morrison moved to a cabin near Shannondoa, hikes trails every weekend, leaving notes and supplies at shelters. Ashley Hayes maintains the Facebook page, posts updates, shares photos of Amber’s niece, writes open letters. Chris Park’s parents have private investigators patrolling Forest Monthly.

Occasionally, there are sightings. September 2023, a backpacker reported seeing three people at dawn moving through forest away from trails. October, a ranger found a fresh supply cash. November, motion sensors captured what might be a person at 3:00 a.m. Image too unclear to confirm.

 Each sighting renews hope and heartbreak. The question haunts everyone. Why? What happened in those first days that convinced three intelligent people to abandon their lives? Dr. Rhodess offers perspective. In isolation after trauma, even self-inflicted trauma like their embarrassment, people develop alternate belief systems that seem rational to them but irrational to outsiders.

 They convinced themselves they couldn’t return. That belief strengthened over years. Add survival challenges, lack of outside perspective, and group reinforcement, especially from a dominant personality like Chris, and you have three people who may genuinely believe they’re trapped, even though the only prison is psychological.

Rangers continue patrols. Cameras record family’s hope. Somewhere in Shannondoa, three people who were 22 when they entered in 2014 are now 31, living off land, watching world pass by, unable to cross the invisible boundary between forest and life they left behind. They’re not lost geographically. They know exactly where they are relative to roads and civilization.

They’re lost psychologically, trapped by shame, fear, and nine years of compounding bad decisions. The shelter remains where it was found, now marked and monitored. The journal is in FBI evidence storage. The families meet there yearly on July 15th. Date when, according to journal, they first realized they couldn’t go back.

 They leave photos, letters, favorite foods. They wait. They hope. They pray Tyler, Amber, or Chris will see the love waiting and find courage to come home. because they’re not lost anymore. Everyone knows where they are. They’re in Shenondoa, probably within miles of shelter, living a life they can’t let go of and a past they can’t return to until they choose to cross that boundary.

 The forest keeps its secret. And three families keep waiting, leaving notes in wilderness that say the same thing. We love you. Come home. You’re not in trouble. It’s not too late. The mountains hold no judgment. They simply stand watching as people search and hope and wait for three who aren’t dead, who might be watching back, too afraid of shame and consequences, real or imagined, to take final step into Fight.