Mountain Mystery: Girl Disappears, Strange Trails Point Deep into the Forest

There are stories that slip quietly into local legend, whispered around campfires and passed between generations. Some are dismissed as tall tales, others as unsolved mysteries. But every so often, a disappearance in the wild leaves behind more than questions—it leaves evidence so strange, so unsettling, that the truth is almost impossible to accept.

In August 1990, 22-year-old Kelly Rhodess vanished from her campsite in the deep woods of Mount Baker National Forest. The official explanation was simple: a probable animal attack. But the tracks found at her camp, the behavior of her dog, and a single, haunting photograph tell a story that refuses to be forgotten. This is the secret of Hansen Creek, and why some files in Whatcom County remain forever sealed.

The Last Night at Camp

Kelly Rhodess was no stranger to the Cascade Mountains. She grew up hiking their foothills, and as a college student in Bellingham, she often escaped to the woods for peace and solitude. On August 14th, 1990, she packed light—just the essentials and her young Labrador, Roy—and drove out to the Hansen Creek Trail for a quick getaway before the fall semester.

She set up camp in a small clearing half a mile from the gravel road. The evening was perfect: cool, clear, and windless. Another hiker, a man in his fifties, camped a hundred yards down the slope. He saw Kelly by her fire around 7:00 p.m., her blue tent pitched behind her, Roy chasing a stick. They exchanged greetings. She seemed at ease, confident, and comfortable in the wilderness.

The Morning After

The next morning, August 15th, the same hiker packed up his camp and passed Kelly’s site. What he saw made him stop cold. The fire was nearly out, the tent flap open, and an overturned water bowl lay on the grass. Kelly was gone. Roy sat trembling at the entrance, silent, his eyes fixed on the edge of the forest. He didn’t bark or run—he just whined, paralyzed by fear.

The man called out, “Kelly?” No response. The forest was eerily silent. He moved closer, expecting her to return from the woods. But Roy wouldn’t move, his hackles raised, eyes locked on the trees away from the trail.

Then the man looked down. The ground was soft, covered in moss and pine needles, and it bore marks—marks that told a story. There was a wide furrow, as if something heavy had been dragged from the campfire to the edge of the clearing. The drag marks began five feet from the tent, where the ground was trampled, suggesting a brief struggle. Kelly’s boots were neatly placed at the tent entrance, a flashlight nearby, turned off.

He followed the furrow and saw something else: strange footprints, pressed deep into the wet earth. They were long—15 or 16 inches—but wide, the ends compressed and indistinct, almost as if the toes were fused together. The prints sank nearly two inches into the soil, indicating something incredibly heavy. They ran parallel to the drag marks, measured, walking not running, straight toward a wall of brush and young fir trees at the edge of the clearing. Fifty yards on, the tracks and drag marks simply vanished, as if the creature had stepped into the thicket and disappeared without a trace.

The Search Begins

The hiker ran to his car and drove 15 miles to the nearest pay phone. The first call to the Whatcom County Sheriff’s Office came in at 9:40 a.m. By 11:00, two deputies and a Forest Service ranger were at the scene.

They were skeptical at first. Most missing hikers got lost or wandered off. But the details at the camp didn’t fit. Roy, young and healthy, should have fought or run if a bear or cougar attacked. Instead, he was frozen with terror, uninjured. The tent wasn’t torn, the sleeping bag was still inside, the backpack and food untouched. This wasn’t a predator looking for food.

The tracks were documented and plaster casts made. The official report described them as “unidentified, possibly human, distorted due to soft soil.” But a seasoned ranger told the deputies privately that he’d seen every kind of track in those woods—poachers, bears, cougars. These were different. The depth suggested a weight of at least 400, maybe 500 pounds, but the shape didn’t match any known animal.

Search and rescue teams arrived. By noon, more than 20 people combed the forest, starting from where the tracks ended. Sniffer dogs picked up Kelly’s trail at the tent, followed the drag marks to the brush, and stopped. They whined, backed away, and refused to go further. The trail, sharp and fresh in the clearing, simply vanished at the edge of the trees.

Inside the thicket, there were no broken branches, no signs of struggle, no blood—nothing. Kelly and whatever had taken her were gone.

Evidence and Oddities

The search expanded over the next 48 hours. Volunteers from Bellingham and local loggers joined the effort. The terrain was punishing—steep slopes, deep ravines, fallen trees, and dense underbrush. The casts of the prints were sent to the Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife. Their response was brief: the prints were not bear, not cougar, and not consistent with any known North American fauna. The abnormal length, great depth, and lack of distinct toes were noted, but no explanation was offered.

Officially, Kelly was a missing tourist, possibly disoriented. But the search teams knew something was wrong. On the third day, Friday, August 17th, two events changed everything.

First, a group combing a mile north of camp reported hearing a low, guttural roar that echoed through the canyon. It wasn’t a bear’s growl or a cougar’s scream. It was deeper, vibrating, and repeated itself, but no tracks were found.

Second, another team working east of the camp, in dense vegetation, spotted something blue high up in a Douglas fir—Kelly’s camera bag, wedged 25 feet above the ground. The bark was undamaged, no sign anyone had climbed the trunk. The bag was intact, not torn or chewed. A Forest Service employee retrieved it using climbing equipment. Inside was Kelly’s 35mm camera.

The search leader halted operations in that sector, citing “unsafe conditions.” Privately, searchers said the forest felt wrong, as if they were being watched.

The Photograph

The camera bag was taken to the sheriff’s office. The film was developed immediately. There were 24 frames. The first 20 were ordinary—Kelly smiling by her car, Roy playing, landscapes. Frame 21 showed Roy curled by the tent at night. Frames 22 and 23 were almost black, as if she’d tried to photograph something in the dark.

But frame 24 was different. The photo was blurred, the camera jerked violently as the flash went off. Most of the frame was a dark, out-of-focus mass. But in the right third, there was a massive shoulder and arm, covered in thick, tangled fur, almost black. The proportions were wrong for a bear—the shoulder was upright, the arm thick and muscular. In the upper left corner, two dim red spots reflected the flash, looking straight into the lens.

The photo was never published. It was placed in a separate archive, evidence that the tracks and the creature that left them were real—and still out there, somewhere in the Mount Baker forest.

Aftermath

The search for Kelly Rhodess continued for a week, but no further trace was found. The forest seemed to swallow all evidence. The official story remained an animal attack or a lost hiker. But among the searchers, rangers, and locals, the truth was whispered: something else had taken her.

Roy, the Labrador, was never the same. He refused to leave the yard, flinched at shadows, and spent his days staring at the edge of the woods.

The camera, the photograph, and the plaster casts were sealed in county archives. The files were marked “confidential,” never released to the public. Rangers who worked the case avoided Hansen Creek. Some moved away. Others refused to speak of what they’d seen.

Over the years, stories of strange tracks, guttural roars, and vanishing livestock persisted in the foothills of Mount Baker. Campers reported feeling watched, hearing strange sounds in the night. But no one could prove what haunted those woods.

Epilogue

Some mysteries are meant to remain unsolved. The disappearance of Kelly Rhodess is one such story—a warning to those who venture too deep into the wild. The evidence exists, locked away in archives, whispered among those who know the truth. But the forest keeps its secrets well.

And sometimes, when the wind is right and the night is quiet, the people of Whatcom County remember the girl who vanished without a trace, and the creature whose tracks led straight into the darkness.