Lost in the Wild: The Chilling Case of a Hiker Who Disappeared in Alaska, With Only a Backpack and a Single Boot Found!

In 1987, one of the strangest missing person cases in the history of U.S. national parks unfolded deep in the wilderness of Alaska. Rescuers discovered an ordinary hiking backpack, but it was hanging 30 feet up in the top of a spruce tree. Inside were documents belonging to Fred Larson, a tourist who had gone missing ten days earlier. His torn tent was found nearby, but there were no signs of a struggle or any blood. The official version cited a bear attack, but no bear is capable of neatly hanging a backpack in a tree. This story is not about a bear attack; it is a tale of what lurks in the shadows of the mountains and what is not on any map.

Fred Larson: The Experienced Hiker

Fred Larson was no novice to the wilderness. At 36, he was an experienced engineer from Portland, Oregon, and an equally seasoned hiker. He approached everything with methodical precision, ensuring his equipment was always top-notch, his routes carefully planned, and his actions calculated. For him, hiking was not a means to prove anything; it was a way to disconnect from the hustle and bustle of city life and immerse himself in the beauty of nature, which he both respected and understood.

Larson knew that the wilderness does not forgive mistakes. That’s why what happened to him still doesn’t make sense.

In June 1987, Larson took a vacation to fulfill his lifelong dream of hiking solo through Lake Clark National Park in Alaska. This park remains one of the wildest and least visited in the United States, accessible only by air. It is a vast area of untouched wilderness, featuring mountains, glaciers, tundra, and forests where humans are merely guests.

Larson flew to Port Alsworth, a small town that serves as the gateway to the park. On June 14th, he registered at the ranger office. His plan was simple: a three-day hike along one of the lesser-known trails at the foot of Mount Iliamna. He marked his route on a map, left a copy of the itinerary, and noted his expected return date of June 17th. The ranger who spoke with him later recalled Larson as confident, well-equipped, and perfectly sane. Nothing about his behavior raised any concerns.

The Hike Begins

When Larson did not return on June 17th, there was no immediate panic. Delays are common in Alaska due to unpredictable weather changes. For the first two days, they waited, assuming he was waiting out bad weather. But when four days passed with no word from him, the park service launched a search and rescue operation. A small plane was sent up to fly the presumed route, but the pilot saw nothing indicating the presence of a human being.

A ground team was dispatched on the sixth day after his expected return. The searchers, consisting of rangers and volunteers, knew the area well. They understood they were looking for a needle in a haystack, as Larson’s route passed through an area where trails were barely visible, and in some places, non-existent. This was the land of grizzly bears, wolves, and moose—any of which could pose a deadly threat.

The first few days of the search yielded absolutely nothing. The team followed the route marked on Larson’s map, but found no traces, no equipment, and no signs of a camp. It seemed as if the man had vanished. On the tenth day after his disappearance, June 24th, one of the volunteers combing the dense fir forest on a hillside noticed something unusual. In a small clearing, hidden from view, stood a tent.

The Discovery of the Camp

It was Fred Larson’s camp. But the sight of the camp immediately gave the searchers a heavy feeling. The tent, a bright orange model from North Face, was torn. However, the tear was strange—a long, almost straight cut on the side, made as if with a single stroke of something sharp. It didn’t resemble a bear tearing a tent with its claws, which would leave several parallel furrows.

Inside the tent, everything was in order except for the sleeping bag, which was unzipped and lay as if the person who had been in it had left in a terrible hurry—not climbed out, but literally jumped out. Larson’s personal belongings—his clothes, helmet, food supplies—were still there. This immediately cast doubt on the bear attack theory; a bear attracted by the smell of food would have scattered everything in search of something to eat. Here, however, everything was untouched.

There were no signs of a struggle, no blood stains, and not even clear footprints of Larson himself on the ground around the camp. The ground was covered with a thick layer of moss, which does not preserve traces well. However, an experienced ranger’s eye would still have noticed flattened or broken branches. Nothing.

The most gruesome discovery awaited them 50 feet from the camp. One of the searchers scanning the treetops suddenly froze. At the very top of a tall, nearly 30-foot spruce tree hung Larson’s backpack. It hadn’t been thrown up there by force; it had been carefully hooked by one of its straps onto a thick branch. To do this, one would have had to either climb to the top of the resin-covered trunk or have incredibly long arms.

They examined the tree from all sides. There were no claw marks on the trunk, nor any traces of climbing equipment. The branches at the bottom of the tree were too high and sparse for a person to climb without special equipment, which Larson did not have. The backpack had to be removed with a long pole.

The Backpack and Its Contents

When it was lowered to the ground and opened, the mysteries deepened. Inside, in perfect order, were his documents, wallet, lighter, knife, and route map. Everything was dry and undamaged. The map was folded so that the area where he was now could be seen, suggesting that he was not lost. But why would anyone—whether Larson himself in a state of panic or someone else—hang a backpack at such a height? If he wanted to protect his food from animals, he would have hung up the bag with provisions, not the entire backpack with documents.

Moreover, there was almost no food in the backpack; most of it was in the tent. The official search report was full of confusion, stating that the scene did not match the typical pattern of a predator attack. The lack of tracks, the strange cut in the tent, and, most importantly, the backpack in the tree all pointed to something out of the ordinary.

One of the search party members, a man who had worked in the area for over 20 years, later shared his thoughts anonymously with a local journalist. He said, “I’ve seen dozens of places where a bear attacked a camp. It’s always chaos—blood, torn clothing, and scattered food. Here, it was quiet, too quiet. It felt like something was wrong, something unnatural had happened, as if someone had cleaned up after everything happened. And the backpack… I still can’t find an explanation for it. We all felt like we were being watched while we were there. It was a very unpleasant feeling.”

Despite all the oddities, the case had to be closed somehow. In the absence of other theories, a bear attack was named as the leading cause of Fred Larson’s disappearance. But none of those who had been in the clearing believed it. The search for his body continued for several more weeks, but to no avail. Fred Larson was gone.

The Search is Called Off

The search was called off in early July. The team was exhausted, and the chances of finding Fred Larson alive were slim to none. The wild nature of Alaska quickly takes its toll. The official case was closed with the note: presumed dead as a result of a wild animal attack. But for those who worked on the case, the story was not over. The file was shelved, but questions remained unanswered.

About three weeks later, when the official operation had long been over, a new, even stranger piece of the puzzle emerged. Two volunteers who had participated in the initial search decided to take a risk and comb the area again, but this time away from Larson’s main route. Obsessed with finding some answer, they searched a marshy land overgrown with thick bushes.

In one of the peat windows where dark, stagnant water stood, one of them noticed something dark. It was a hiking boot. When they managed to pull it out of the sticky mud, it was clear that it was Fred Larson’s boot—the same model, the same size. It was half submerged in the swamp, and the laces were tightly tied.

The find was immediately handed over to the authorities. The boot was examined. There were no teeth or claw marks on it. The leather was intact, with no punctures or tears. If a bear had dragged the body, the boot would most likely have been torn off or badly damaged, but it was in perfect condition except for the dirt.

The Questions Arise

Two questions arose. First, how did the boot end up a mile and a half from the camp, off the trail, with no signs of dragging or a struggle? And second, even more disturbing, why was there only one foot in it? The lack of damage suggested that Larson might have taken it off himself, but why take off one boot in the middle of a swamp? Or maybe someone else took it off. This detail further distanced the investigation from the convenient bear theory, plunging it into the realm of completely irrational assumptions.

At the same time, one of the investigators, dissatisfied with the official conclusion, decided to take a different approach. He began interviewing local residents, including representatives of the indigenous population, the Ahtna people, who had lived on this land for centuries. Usually, authorities treated their stories and legends as folklore, unrelated to reality. But in this case, the reality itself was so strange that any source of information could prove helpful.

The investigator spoke with the elder of one of the communities. The conversation was long and took place through an interpreter. The older man did not talk about spirits or magic; he spoke of a very material creature that his ancestors called “Nantun,” which can be roughly translated as “he who hides in the trees” or “tree man.”

According to the stories, it was not an evil monster; it was just different. A vast, human-like creature covered in dark fur that led a predominantly arboreal lifestyle. It was incredibly strong and fast, able to move through the treetops at such speed that it was almost impossible to spot from the ground.

The elder said that Nantun rarely showed itself to humans and avoided contact, but it possessed a kind of primitive intelligence and curiosity. Sometimes, if a hunter left the camp unattended, the creature would come down and examine unfamiliar objects. It could move things from place to place, take things apart, and even carry away anything shiny or interesting, not out of malice, but out of pure curiosity.

The elder emphasized that the creature never attacked first, but if cornered or provoked, its strength was overwhelming. He also mentioned that they could grow to be 8 or 9 feet tall and that they could make strange low-frequency sounds like a rumbling that made people feel uneasy for no good reason. The investigator listened with a degree of skepticism, but one detail caught his attention: the creature’s ability to climb trees and its interest in human belongings.

The Pilot’s Testimony

The backpack, neatly hung on a branch, suddenly took on a sinister but logical meaning within the context of this legend. A month after the search was called off, a man came to the park service office. He was the pilot of a small private plane that delivered cargo to remote settlements. He said that he had flown over the area of the Iliamna volcano around June 15th, the day after Larson set out on his route.

He had not reported this earlier because he did not think it was significant. During the flight, at a very low altitude, he noticed movement below in the thick alder thicket. His first thought was a bear or a moose. But what he saw was moving strangely—a vast, dark creature that moved on two legs, but with incredible speed and fluidity, uncharacteristic of a human being. It did not run across open ground but literally tore through the thicket, bending the bushes as if they were grass.

The pilot said he only saw it for a few seconds, but he was struck by the creature’s disproportionately long arms. He dismissed it as a trick of light and shadow. But when he heard rumors about the strange circumstances surrounding the disappearance of a tourist in the same area, he realized he had to report what he had seen.

Now, the unofficial investigation had three disparate but frighteningly interconnected pieces: the scene of the crime—a torn tent, no signs of a struggle, and a backpack 30 feet up in a tree; the legends of the indigenous people about a tall, tree-like creature with great strength and curiosity; and the testimony of a pilot who had seen something large, bipedal, and very fast in the same area at the same time.

The Terrifying Possibility

The picture began to take shape, and it was far more terrifying than a bear attack. The following scenario became possible: during the night, while Larson was asleep, his camp attracted the attention of this creature. Driven by curiosity, it approached the tent. Perhaps it touched the fabric, and its claws easily tore it open. Larson, suddenly awakened and seeing a huge dark silhouette in the tear in the tent, was shocked. He jumped out of his sleeping bag, perhaps without even having time to scream. What happened next is unknown.

The creature may have grabbed him. Given the difference in size and strength, there would have been no struggle. It would have been as quick as a human holding a mouse. Then, left alone in the camp, the creature continued to examine the strange objects. Its attention was drawn to the backpack. It picked it up, climbed the nearest tree—easy for it as climbing stairs is for us—and hung the backpack on a branch, perhaps imitating the way humans hang things. It was not a malicious act, just something alien and incomprehensible.

Then it left, taking Fred Larson with it. As for the boot in the swamp, it may have been lost while the body was being carried away, or the creature may have taken it off later, again out of curiosity, and thrown it away. These were all just guesses, but unlike the official version, they explained all the oddities of the case. And these explanations only made things worse.

Because it’s one thing to die at the hands of a wild but understandable animal. It’s quite another to become the object of curiosity of something that shouldn’t exist. Of course, the hypothesis of a creature unknown to science was never officially considered. The authorities and science operate with facts and evidence, not legends and vague testimony.

The Aftermath

The Fred Larson case was and remains in the archives of Lake Clark National Park under the heading “accident.” The investigator who showed interest in local folklore was politely but firmly advised to focus on more practical versions and not waste time on fairy tales. The pilot’s testimony was recorded in the report, but with a note stating, “Probable misidentification of a large animal, such as a moose or grizzly bear, in poor visibility.”

The bureaucratic machine worked as usual. Anything that did not fit into the standard framework was either ignored or fitted into the most convenient explanation. It was easier to close the case as a bear attack than to admit that something had happened in the park for which they were responsible that could not be explained.

But the story did not end there. It continued to live on in the small circle of people who had encountered it firsthand. The rangers who had been involved in the search became more wary of that section of the forest. Some admitted that when patrolling the area, they had an inexplicable feeling that they were being watched from the thick undergrowth.

These are subjective feelings that cannot be used as evidence, but they created an exceptional reputation around the place. The last and perhaps most objective piece of this story emerged two years later. An ornithologist from Anchorage studying the migration of rare bird species was working with an archive of audio recordings made in various parts of Alaska. One of the automatic recording stations had been installed in the summer of 1987 in Lake Clark National Park about ten miles from where Larson disappeared.

It was set to turn on when it detected movement or sound and operated autonomously for several months. A scientist was listening to the night recordings in search of owl cries when he came across something strange. The recording was made on the night of June 15th, a day after Larson disappeared. At first, the tape contained the usual nighttime background noise—the chirping of insects, the distant howling of a wolf. Then all sounds abruptly stopped.

There were a few seconds of complete unnatural silence, and then there was a sound unlike anything known in North American fauna. It was a series of very low guttural clicks and a deep vibrating hum at the threshold of infrasound. The sound was powerful, causing distortion on the recording. It was unlike the growl of a bear or the bellow of a moose. Analysis of the sonogram revealed a complex structure to the sound with repeating elements that could indicate a primitive form of communication.

The ornithologist sent the recording to several bioacoustics experts. None could identify the source. One expert suggested it might be a recording of a very close and unusual geological phenomenon. Still, this theory did not explain the sudden silence of all other natural sounds before its appearance. The animals fell silent because they sensed the approach of something large and dangerous.

Conclusion

So, what do we have in the end? Do giant humanoid primates really exist, hiding in the forests of Alaska? Common sense and science say no. For a stable population of such enormous creatures to exist, they would need a vast territory and a sufficient number of individuals, which would make their discovery inevitable. There are no bones, no corpses, no irrefutable genetic material—only circumstantial evidence, eyewitness accounts, and old legends.

But the facts of Fred Larson’s case are stubborn, and they don’t fit into a world where everything is known and cataloged. How did a backpack end up 30 feet up in a tree without a single scratch on the trunk? Why was the tent cut open rather than torn apart as a bear would have done? Why was an experienced hiker pulled out of his sleeping bag without the slightest sign of a struggle? And what strange sounds did the ornithologist record that night?

The official version of a bear attack does not answer any of these questions. It simply closes them, putting a period where there should be a huge question mark. Fred Larson’s story is not proof of the existence of a cryptid; it is proof of how little we really know about our planet. We launch satellites into space and explore the depths of the ocean, yet vast swathes of land, especially in places like Alaska, remain virtually blank spots on the map.

This is a story about the collision of our orderly world with something ancient, alien, and utterly indifferent to our existence. Fred Larson set out to find solitude in the wilderness. Perhaps he saw something more—proof that not everything is marked on the maps and that the oldest and darkest corners of this world still do not belong to us. His body was never found.