The Vanishing on Highway 185

The sun had barely begun to scorch the desert asphalt when seven young cyclists vanished without a trace. It was Friday morning, July 19, 1985, and the dry New Mexico air smelled of scorched grass and suspended dust. The group, all high school students from Las Cruces, had set off early for their annual trip to Radium Springs, riding along State Route 185. A tradition of the local cycling club, the ride followed a lonely rural highway flanked by alfalfa fields and derelict farm structures, relics of an era long past.

They carried light backpacks, enough water for the journey, and the quiet thrill of youth accustomed to exploring without fear. The last anyone saw them was around 8:30 a.m., when Emilio Cortés, an elderly delivery driver, passed the row of teenagers near the old Tonuco Creek road crossing. He later recounted that they pedaled in a neat single-file line, laughing and shouting playful remarks into the wind, their carefree voices dissolving into the morning desert haze. By 10 a.m., however, they no longer answered the coordinator’s radio calls. By 11, there was nothing—no sign, no tracks, no explanation.

The first alert reached the Doña Ana County Sheriff’s Department at 11:45 a.m. Mrs. Evely Navarro, frantic and still in her apron, arrived personally, begging for someone to act. Her son, one of the cyclists, hadn’t responded to his pager and hadn’t arrived at the usual rendezvous point. The attending officer struggled to write down details amid her sobs.

What followed was an improvised and frenzied search. Local patrols scoured the highway, volunteers offered their trucks, and the high school principal suspended afternoon classes to gather community assistance. By mid-afternoon, rudimentary drones borrowed from the State University scoured the terrain but found nothing—no abandoned backpacks, no punctured tires, no stray water bottles. Only silence, deep and oppressive, blanketed the desert.

As night fell, the tension among families thickened. Some clung to the hope that the teenagers had wandered into the old northern irrigation facilities, as in previous years. But the deepening red dusk brought the coyotes’ eerie howls. One volunteer, passing a dilapidated pumping station, thought he heard something. He stopped, waited. Nothing—just wind, just silence.

The next morning brought a more organized effort. State helicopters surveyed Route 185 from Las Cruces to the last known location. K9 units and specialized rural search teams joined in. The area was divided into grids, each meticulously combed on foot. The old farms, many abandoned since the 1970s, were entered one by one. Dry wells, tangled wires, overgrown guardhouses—all were investigated. Yet the trail was invisible. No tire marks, no accident signs, no eyewitnesses beyond Tonuco Creek.

In the first 48 hours, local media coverage was intense. Newscasts showed photographs of the young cyclists, improvised missing-person posters, aerial shots of the desert, and neighbors’ confused statements claiming they’d heard muffled screams or seen strange lights. Some theorized the teens had strayed into the Rio Bravo; others spun dark fantasies of human trafficking. Most clung to the comforting idea of an innocent misadventure.

A week passed. No leads. Coverage faded. The Sheriff’s Department issued a formal statement acknowledging the disappearance and asking families for patience. Resources dwindled. The case went from urgent to latent to silent. By August, a single faded poster hung on the school doors: Return Soon.

Over the years, families tried everything—psychics, private searches, letters to legislators—but found nothing. Mr. Adolfo Ríos, one of the fathers, died in 1992 still riding the route annually in memory of his son. Mrs. Julia Torres moved out of state, hoping distance could ease the unbearable uncertainty. In 1995, an anonymous letter arrived at the Las Cruces Sun News: “They are near the water. Silence covers them.” No return address, no fingerprints. It was archived as a cruel prank.

By 2001, a national television program revisited the case, but nothing new emerged. The file, decades old, rested in a damp, forgotten basement, edges of paper stuck together with time. Other tragedies, other disappearances, replaced it in public memory. For many teenagers in Las Cruces, it became a local legend, a cautionary tale whispered by grandparents—until April 2017, when the silence shattered.

On the morning of April 11, 2017, two middle-aged hikers, Paulina Serrano and Mitchell Reyes, wandered into a semi-arid zone north of Radium Springs, near the dry Tonuco Creek. Paulina, an amateur botanical photographer, sought rare spring blooms. Mitchell, returning after two decades, was drawn by nostalgia. They wandered through cactus, brush, and abandoned irrigation structures dating back to the 1970s.

At 10:20 a.m., they arrived at a half-ruined pumping station, hidden beneath dead branches and graffiti. Paulina noticed a faint glimmer beneath debris. Curiosity drew her closer. Using a stick, she cleared the overgrowth—and froze.

Seven rusted bicycles emerged, their rear reflectors barely intact. One still bore a handlebar wrapped in sun-faded white tape. Hanging from a seat tube, a small plastic keychain contained a laminated school ID—miraculously preserved—bearing the name of one of the missing 1985 cyclists.

Panicked, they called emergency services. Police arrived within an hour, cordoning off the area. By 2 p.m., FBI agents were on site. What initially seemed like a decades-old pile of junk revealed itself as a frozen crime scene. Excavation began carefully. Backpacks, helmets, fragments of clothing emblazoned with 1980s prints—all emerged from the sand and rust.

News of the discovery spread in hours. Headlines screamed “Mystery Reopens: 1985 Teen Cyclists Found.” Families, many elderly, gathered silently at the old high school. Mrs. Navarro returned, eyes hollow, but with a spine straightened by decades of waiting.

Investigators analyzed each bike in specialized labs. Organic material yielded DNA traces. One backpack contained a journal from Cyclist #4. Initially filled with jokes and lists, the last entries were dark: “They hear us, but do not speak. Silence grows heavier each day.”

The journal became central evidence, proving the teens had been held before their deaths. But there were still no bodies, only signs of long-term confinement. Search radius expanded, georadar scanned the desert soil, but the sandy, rain-eroded terrain hid secrets well.

The case shifted to presumed homicide. Local theories ranged from desert psychopaths to organ trafficking. The FBI’s sole lead: who knew the abandoned pumping station well enough to hide evidence there for decades? Records showed the station had been owned by a cooperative dissolved in 1982. Employee lists identified one man—Horas Raymond Velasco, Vietnam War veteran, maintenance worker from 1981–1986, with prior erratic behavior, threats, and unexplained disappearances of youths nearby. Never arrested, but removed from his post in 1986.

Investigators tracked Velasco to Hatch, north of Radium Springs. Now elderly but lucid, he denied returning to the station after its closure. Photos and recovered items failed to elicit reaction. The FBI needed more: a testimony, a confession, a clue tying him to the hidden chamber.

Then came Roy Ledesma, a retired county officer. In 1985, he had received an anonymous call about teens entering the station. Sent to investigate, he saw from afar a man shutting a rusty door. Ordered not to report, he stayed silent for thirty-two years. His testimony now matched Velasco’s appearance, height, and movement on that day.

Early May brought grim confirmation. A subterranean chamber beneath the northern site yielded skeletal remains of at least six teens. Plates bore the school cycling club symbol, nearly eroded. Bones, teeth, fragments of clothing, and part of a fractured clavicle were carefully recovered. DNA confirmed identities. Cyclist #7 remained missing, but personal items, including a Saint Christopher medal, were present.

Evidence suggested prolonged confinement, possibly accidental at first, then willfully ignored. Notes in the recovered journals revealed anguish: “They told us it was for safety. Outside, only silence.” Velasco was arrested on charges of kidnapping, aggravated negligent homicide, and evidence concealment. Defense cited dementia, but independent evaluations confirmed competency.

At trial, Velasco barely spoke, except once: “The world is dangerous. They were going to speak.” The court relied on Roy Ledesma’s testimony, forensic findings, and Velasco’s work log confirming his presence at the station that day.

Families testified, sharing decades of unfulfilled grief. Mr. Antonio Mendoza described leaving a lamp in his window nightly for thirty years, hoping his son would return. The courtroom wept. Roy’s detailed account, describing wind over the station, uniforms, shadows, and fear, broke the decades-long silence. A maintenance journal signed by Velasco on July 19, 1985, sealed his culpability.

The town of Las Cruces became a stage for collective mourning. Vigils, prayers, and replicas of rusted bicycles filled streets. Students curated an exhibition with photos, maps, and news clippings. Congressional investigations reopened the county sheriff’s archive. Institutional negligence was acknowledged; internal failures exposed.

Velasco, during a recess, muttered: “I never planned it, but once I closed the door, I couldn’t open it again.” Though ambiguous, the remark reinforced moral culpability.

On July 22, 2017, Velasco was found guilty of all charges. Life imprisonment without parole. Families, now aged, were silent witnesses. The courtroom remained quiet, only a faint collective exhale at the end. Velasco showed no emotion.

The town erected a memorial on Route 185: seven iron bicycles pointing north, each with a plaque: “They never stopped pedaling.” Paulina Serrano placed white flowers on each bike, leaving silently.

The seventh cyclist’s remains were finally recovered on August 2, 2017, completing the tragic circle. Governor declared July 19 Day of Silenced Youth Memory. Educational programs and criminology studies emerged from the case. Las Cruces learned to carry absence differently: vigilance, reflection, and memory replaced indifference.

Each year, new cyclists retrace the old route, leaving flowers, silent, attentive. The old classroom remains preserved: seven chairs, seven blank notebooks, and a sign: “Here, silence also teaches.”

Justice came late, but memory endured. Names of the seven are absent from monuments, yet present in the town’s transformed vigilance, in the careful crossing of children, in lessons passed to new generations. Silence was heavy, but shared, it became sustainment.

The desert, the road, the rusted bikes—each a reminder that some disappearances leave deeper marks than any visible wound. That even after decades, the truth, when finally spoken, has the power to reshape an entire community.

And so, Las Cruces remains, not only as a point on the map, but as a cautionary monument: seven bicycles, seven lives, one silence that finally spoke.