On September 14, 2012, Asha Baduri, a 23-year-old from Portland, Oregon, stepped off a plane in Salt Lake City, her heart set on a solo trek through Utah’s Uinta-Wasatch-Cache National Forest. A meticulous planner, she’d mapped every trail, packed her bright yellow sleeping bag, and promised her father, Calin, a text every 72 hours: “All good.” But when her first check-in never came, Calin’s world began to fracture. Six years later, in 2018, a fisherman’s discovery of her sleeping bag in Silas Lake—weighted with a man’s body—unraveled a chilling tale of betrayal, murder, and a father’s unyielding search for truth.
Asha was no reckless adventurer. Raised by Calin, a single father, she’d inherited his precision, her bedroom walls lined with maps and hiking journals. Her final photo, sent to Calin, showed her on a wooden bridge, pine trees framing her confident smile, her yellow sleeping bag strapped to her pack. She craved solitude, not danger. Yet, by day six of her hike, with no texts, Calin alerted the Summit County Sheriff’s Office. Her rental car sat untouched at the trailhead, her gear gone. Helicopters scanned the forest, search teams scoured trails, but found no trace—no broken branches, no campfire, nothing. As snow dusted the mountains, the search was called off, and Asha became case number 1067M73, a cold file in a system that moved on.
Detective Miles Corbin, a relentless investigator, took up Asha’s case in 2014. Digging into her digital life, he found a bookmark for Ridgeline Collective, an obscure hiking forum. Under the handle “Asha B,” she’d discussed trails and gear, but a private message from “Karen Wraith”—a user named Alistair Finch—stood out. Finch, a student from Perth, Australia, preached “ghost hiking,” vanishing without a trace. “The Uintas are a good place to start,” he wrote Asha a week before her trip. “I’ll show you trails off the map.” Corbin traced Finch to Australia, confirming he’d never been to Utah, a dead end that left Asha’s trail colder than ever.
In June 2018, Silas Lake, a remote stretch of water far from marked trails, broke the silence. Tyler Sims, a 19-year-old fisherman, spotted a yellow object beneath his boat, swollen and bound with rusted wire. It was a sleeping bag, weighted with barbell plates, a human shape inside. Tyler called his father, who urged him to alert the sheriff. Divers retrieved the bag, its bright yellow hue matching Asha’s. On shore, bolt cutters revealed a man’s body, not Asha’s. Dental records identified Milo Ratich, 24, a hiker from Phoenix, missing since September 2012, days after Asha vanished. Her sleeping bag, his body—a collision of two mysteries.
Detective Gene Hackett, a cold-case veteran, took over. Milo, like Asha, was a hiking enthusiast, but his bank records told a darker story: regular cash deposits, just under federal reporting limits, tied to trips near remote airstrips. He wasn’t just hiking; he was a courier, moving illicit goods. A friend of Asha’s recalled her mentioning a hiker from Arizona, met through an online group, planning a Utah trip. Inside Asha’s preserved hiking map, Hackett found a torn business card scrap with “Light” and a partial Utah phone number. It led to the Starlight Motor Inn, a crumbling motel halfway between Asha’s trailhead and Milo’s last known location.
The Starlight, a forgotten relic on a deserted highway, reeked of mildew and neglect. Its 2015 owner, Orville, pointed Hackett to a moldy back room of records. Officer Diaz unearthed a 2012 guest register, listing “John Smith” in Room 7, with a note: “Silver sedan, AZ plates, complained about AC.” Milo drove a silver sedan from Arizona. Beatrice Row, a former housekeeper, recognized Asha’s photo: “Too nice for that place.” She recalled Milo, nervous, and a third man—“the mean one,” dangerous, cold. Late one night, Beatrice heard yelling from Room 7, a young man’s scared voice, a deeper one, then a thud. Days later, she saw the mean man load a heavy bundle into the sedan, Asha standing nearby, pale, hollow, before they drove off.
Hackett’s theory crystallized: Asha’s solo hike wasn’t solo. She’d met Milo, likely at the Starlight, with a third man—Dante Voss, 54, a career criminal with a history of assault and extortion. Milo’s cell records showed pings from a burner phone linked to Voss, always near his hiking routes. Bank deposits followed each trip, painting Milo as a courier for Voss’s illicit network. A utility bill in Boise, Idaho, under “David Vosen,” led to Voss. In 2018, Hackett knocked on his door. Voss, calm, coffee in hand, didn’t resist. In interrogation, he stonewalled until Hackett presented the evidence: motel records, Beatrice’s statement, Milo’s phone data. “She saw you,” Hackett said of Asha. Voss sighed, asked for protective custody, and confessed.
Voss admitted Milo worked for him, moving stolen goods through remote trails. Milo wanted out, bringing Asha as backup, unaware of the danger. In Room 7, Voss beat Milo to death, forcing Asha to help clean up. He drove them to Silas Lake, made her seal Milo’s body in her sleeping bag, weighted it, and sank it. Then, he assaulted her and took her to the Great Basin Desert. There, he drew a crude map for Hackett, marking an X among rock formations. Two days later, a convoy found Asha’s shallow grave, wrapped in purple fabric, exactly where Voss indicated.
In 2019, Voss was convicted of two counts of first-degree murder, kidnapping, and assault, sentenced to life without parole. Calin Baduri buried Asha in Portland, her gravestone reading: “She walked into the wild not knowing it was her last journey.” The Starlight was demolished, replaced by a marker in 2021: “For Asha and Milo, may their final miles not be in vain.” Calin founded the Asha Initiative, training search teams in digital forensics, its motto: “Every trail leaves a trace.” Asha’s map hangs in the Summit County Sheriff’s Office, a plaque beneath it: “She led us here. We’ll never stop walking forward.” Her final text to Calin—“Starting now. Wish me luck. Love you”—lives on in bracelets worn by volunteers, a reminder that her courage, and Milo’s tragedy, sparked a legacy of justice that endures.
