The last time anyone saw Emma Carter and Ryan Mills, they were laughing.

It was September 17, 2022. The tourist season in Alaska was winding down, the air sharp with the first hints of winter. Emma, 25, and Ryan, 27, had arrived in McCarthy the night before with a plan: hike into Wrangell–St. Elias National Park for three days, camp near the glacier, and come back with photos they could turn into prints for the small online shop they ran together.

Both were experienced hikers. Ryan had worked in outdoor gear retail for years, and Emma had been backpacking since college. Friends described them as “adventurous but not reckless.”

At the small coffee shop in town, they sipped lattes and checked the weather—clear skies, no storms forecasted. By 9 a.m., they’d signed the park’s voluntary trail registry, shouldered their packs, and headed for the trailhead.

They never returned.

When they missed their expected return on September 20, the park service launched a search. Helicopters swept over the rugged terrain. Ground teams traced their last known route—finding boot prints along the ridge line and signs of a small campfire two nights in.

But beyond a narrow pass leading toward an unmarked valley, the tracks vanished.

The terrain in that direction was brutal: glacial runoff, steep scree slopes, and unpredictable weather that could turn a clear day into a whiteout in hours.

For weeks, dozens of searchers combed the area. Dogs were brought in. Drone operators scanned for signs of movement. Nothing. It was as though the mountains had swallowed them.

By late October, heavy snow made further searching impossible. The official mission was suspended.

For the families back in Oregon, the hardest part wasn’t just the loss—it was the absence of answers. Emma’s sister, Lauren, kept posting old photos of the couple on social media, pleading for anyone hiking the area to keep an eye out.

Winter came and went.

In early July 2023, with the thaw in full swing, Park Ranger Thomas Hale was making his seasonal inspection of backcountry zones. Hale had been with the park for 18 years—a quiet man who knew the land like the lines on his palm.

That day, he was surveying a remote section of the Copper River basin, following the curve of a ravine carved deep by spring meltwater. Most hikers avoided this route; the steep walls and unstable ground made it dangerous.

Halfway down, something caught his eye—a flash of color against the gray stone. He scrambled closer, bracing against the loose rock.

It was a scrap of blue nylon fabric, tangled in willow branches. Hale’s gut tightened. It looked like part of a backpack.

He radioed his location and began to search the area carefully.

Twenty yards downstream, he found it.

The base of the ravine opened into a sheltered hollow, almost invisible from above. Inside was what remained of a small camp: a collapsed tent, its poles bent and fabric shredded by wind. A metal camp stove lay on its side.

And leaning against the rock wall… two figures.

They were sitting close together, Ryan’s arm wrapped around Emma, her head resting on his shoulder. Time and weather had reduced them to still, silent outlines, but the closeness of their posture was undeniable.

Between them lay a weatherproof notebook, sealed in a ziplock bag. Hale’s hands shook as he picked it up.

The first entries were dated September 18.

Ryan had written: “Beautiful day. Clear skies. Emma keeps stopping to take pictures of the light on the peaks. We made it past the pass faster than expected. Found a flat spot near the stream to camp.”

On the next day’s entry, the tone shifted. “Tried to cross the slope above the ravine. Ground gave way under Emma’s foot—she slid but caught herself. Lost one of the tent stakes. Weather changing fast.”

September 20: “Whiteout hit us hard. Couldn’t find the trail back. We’re in some kind of gully. Decided to camp here until it clears.”

Then, as the days passed, the entries grew shorter, the handwriting shakier.

“Rations low. Saving most for Em.”

“Snow keeps coming. Emma’s coughing. Tried to climb out—too icy.”

“If someone finds this, tell our families we tried. Emma says she’s sorry for dragging me on ‘one last adventure.’ I told her this is exactly where I want to be—beside her.”

The final entry was a single line, dated October 1:

“She’s sleeping now. I’ll hold her until the sun comes.”

The coroner’s report later confirmed that both had died of exposure, likely within a day of each other. From the camp’s position, investigators believed that once trapped in the ravine during the storm, they couldn’t climb out. Their decision to stay put had probably kept them alive longer—but not long enough for rescue.

When Ranger Hale returned to McCarthy with the news, the whole town seemed to pause. For months, the missing couple had been a question mark in the minds of locals. Now there was an answer—but one that came wrapped in sorrow.

At a small memorial service held by the Copper River, Lauren read from Ryan’s last entry, her voice trembling:

“Exactly where I want to be—beside her.”

She looked up at the crowd. “They didn’t get their way out. But they got each other, until the very end. And I think that’s the most they could’ve asked for.”

Today, near the spot where they signed the trail registry, there’s a wooden bench carved with their names and a short inscription:

“In the heart of the wild, they found forever.”

And for those who pass it on their way into the backcountry, it’s not just a memorial—it’s a reminder. That the wilderness can be cruel, but love… love holds its ground, even when the sky falls and the world turns to ice.