The trail register at Monarch Pass showed her neat handwriting: “Megan Walsh – CDT – June 14, 2018.”
It was the last official record of her. Megan, a 31-year-old solo thru-hiker from Oregon, had been determined to complete the Continental Divide Trail. Friends described her as experienced, cautious, and deeply committed to documenting her journey. She often posted dispatches on social media when service allowed, usually uploading trail photos and short voice memos to reassure her family back home.
But in mid-June, her updates suddenly stopped. Search and rescue was called a week later when her family reported her overdue. Teams scoured the rugged San Juan Mountains, battling unpredictable weather and steep terrain. Helicopters circled drainages, volunteers combed side trails, and dogs were deployed along possible routes. They found fragments of her gear: a rain jacket wedged in tree branches, and a trekking pole half-buried in scree. But Megan herself seemed to have vanished into thin air.
The media picked up the case quickly—“Experienced Woman Hiker Missing in Colorado Wilderness.” Her story gripped the public because she didn’t fit the profile of a reckless wanderer. She had left a clear itinerary, carried satellite navigation, and trained extensively. Theories multiplied: an injury, hypothermia, a slip into hidden crevasses, or even foul play. Yet the weeks turned into months, and the months into years, with no sign of her. The file eventually grew cold. Megan’s parents held a small memorial service in Portland, though they admitted they never felt closure.
In September 2021, a hunter scouting for elk stumbled upon a dilapidated shoe tucked beneath a fallen log near a remote drainage twenty miles off the CDT. Inside, hidden under the insole, was a small micro SD card sealed in a plastic wrap. The hunter, startled by the odd find, turned it over to the Chaffee County Sheriff’s Office.
Technicians managed to recover data from the card: photographs, short video clips, and geotagged notes. The files painted Megan’s last days. One clip showed her speaking directly into the camera, her face pale but determined, describing how she had left the main trail to find water. Another clip, timestamped two days later, showed her voice trembling as she admitted she was lost. “I’m trying to head east, but the ridges all look the same,” she said. Her final log entry, dated June 20, was chilling in its simplicity: “If found, please tell my family I love them. I can’t walk anymore.”
Search teams were immediately redeployed, this time guided by the GPS data extracted from the files. Within weeks, skeletal remains were located less than a mile from where the shoe had been found. The coroner confirmed the remains as Megan Walsh through dental records.
The revelation shocked the hiking community. The idea that she had documented everything but hidden the card for safety raised questions: Had she known she wouldn’t survive? Why hide it in her shoe rather than her pack? Investigators speculated she wanted to protect her digital record from weather, wildlife, or theft, ensuring someone—someday—would understand her fate.
The release of Megan’s recovered footage made national news. For the first time, her family heard her final words, a bittersweet gift that both devastated and comforted them. Her mother described it as “like receiving a letter from the other side of a locked door—not the door of death, but of silence.”
The hiking world dissected every detail. Online forums debated whether she had taken a navigational risk or whether water scarcity had forced her hand. Her case sparked new safety campaigns: encouraging hikers to carry satellite messengers capable of transmitting distress signals, and to avoid solo detours off established trails. Outdoor retailers even cited Megan’s story when promoting waterproof data storage solutions for emergency notes.
For locals in Chaffee County, the closure ended years of mystery. Some search-and-rescue volunteers admitted the discovery haunted them: “We were so close, but the wilderness swallowed her.” Yet others viewed it as a testament to resilience—that even in her last days, Megan had left behind a record, proof of her journey and her will to be heard.
In the end, the tragedy of Megan Walsh became a cautionary tale but also a reminder of the delicate balance between adventure and risk. Her story was not just about loss—it was about a woman who, even in her final moments, thought about leaving behind truth for those who loved her. The card in her shoe was her voice, recovered years too late, but never silenced.
Three years later, when a hunter stumbled upon a single weathered shoe hidden beneath a fallen log, the mystery of Megan Walsh would finally begin to unravel.
