The Last Hike of Samantha Jones

The mountains of Colorado are breathtaking — towering peaks, windswept ridges, valleys that seem carved by the hands of gods. But they are also indifferent. Beautiful, yes. But indifferent.

On the evening of July 7, 2012, as the last light slipped behind Humboldt Peak, Samantha Jones was alone on the trail. She had been walking since noon, her long hair tied back, headphones in, her notebook tucked into the pocket of her jacket. She stopped at the overlook one last time, scribbled something in her notebook — maybe a thought, maybe a sketch of the mountain skyline — and then shouldered her pack. She had three hours before darkness.

But weather in the Sangre de Cristo Range can turn cruel in a heartbeat.

The storm arrived just as Samantha reached the steepest section of the slope — sudden wind, rain lashing sideways, the trail slicking over with mud. The first slip was small, just enough to rattle her. She slowed down, searching for better footing, but the slope was treacherous. The second slip was worse — her boot caught, her ankle twisted, and she felt something crack deep inside her pelvis.

The scream was swallowed by the wind.

For a long time, she just lay there, gasping. She tried to stand, but white-hot pain shot through her hip. Panic rose like bile. She had two choices: stay where she was and risk hypothermia, or drag herself down.

She chose to drag herself.

The Crawl

Every foot was agony. Her pack became her enemy — too heavy, too awkward. Somewhere near the treeline she made a decision: leave it. She pulled out what she thought she might need — a flashlight, a carabiner, a few granola bars — and stuffed them into her jacket. The rest she abandoned, propping the backpack carefully under a rock outcropping, telling herself she’d come back for it once she found shelter.

Hours later, shivering and exhausted, she reached the abandoned recreation area near the old parking lot. There she found the boarded-up concrete cubicle. The inside was dry, dusty, and cold — but it was shelter. She used her last strength to pull the door shut and bolt it from inside.

She stayed through the night.

In the notebook recovered eight years later, police found faint, smudged writing on the last pages. They were hard to read, but investigators reconstructed enough to guess her thoughts: she wrote about pain, about trying to stay awake, about hearing sounds outside — footsteps? voices? — though no one came.

By morning, she had made a choice. She would try again for the trail.

The Final Walk

The cubicle’s bolt opened easily. Samantha stepped out into the pale dawn, leaving behind her backpack, her documents, and her food, hoping the lighter load would let her move faster.

She never made it back to the trail.

About 200 yards from the cubicle, she slipped again, this time on wet grass near a shallow ravine hidden by undergrowth. She fell hard, striking her head against rock. There was no one there to hear her cry out.

By the time the search began four days later, heavy rain had washed away most tracks. The dogs followed faint trails but lost them near the thicket. The rescuers looked in from the edges of the windfall, assuming they would spot a body if it were there. They did not.

The forest kept her secret.

Eight Years Later

When volunteers opened the boarded cubicle in May 2020, it was like stepping into a sealed time capsule. Samantha’s pack was there exactly where she had left it. The plastic bag with her documents was untouched.

The boards on the door became the greatest point of mystery. They had been nailed from the outside, but no one could remember when. Local rangers said they used to board up abandoned facilities to keep animals and campers out. The cubicle may have been sealed weeks or even months after Samantha’s disappearance, without anyone checking inside.

Police treated the cabin as a potential crime scene, but no fingerprints or foreign DNA were found — just dust, cobwebs, and Samantha’s things.

Then they found the bones.

The Forensics

The remains were scattered, partly buried under leaves, but forensic teams recovered most of the skeleton. The skull had a large fracture on the left temporal bone. The pelvis was broken in two places. There were no marks of knives or bullets.

Entomology reports estimated the time of death as summer 2012, consistent with her disappearance.

One detail bothered investigators: no clothing was recovered except a single metal zipper tooth lodged in the soil. Over eight years, fabric can degrade, but usually fragments remain. Scavenging animals might have dragged them away.

This uncertainty fueled speculation.

The Suspect Who Was Never Found

Back in 2012, some locals reported a bearded man who camped near the parking lot, asking for food and shelter. His name was never confirmed. He vanished around the time the search ended.

Could he have found Samantha? Helped her — or hurt her?

There was no evidence, no trace of another person at the site. Still, whispers persisted: what if someone had seen her alive that night, had entered the cubicle, had boarded it up afterward?

No proof ever surfaced. The police ruled out foul play.

The Family’s Closure

When the remains were formally identified, Samantha’s parents traveled to the site. Her mother stood by the cubicle, running her hands over the rusted doorframe.

“She was so close,” she said softly. “She almost made it.”

Her father asked the ranger to leave the cubicle unboarded from then on, so other hikers could find shelter if they ever needed it.

They buried Samantha near their home in Colorado Springs. At the funeral, her notebook was placed beside her. The last words were just legible enough to read:

“Trying to stay awake. Trying to make it home. If I don’t, tell them I tried.”

Aftermath and Meaning

The discovery changed local policy. Rangers began inspecting all abandoned structures in the backcountry twice a year, no longer assuming that a boarded-up building was empty.

For hikers, Samantha’s story became a cautionary tale about preparation and communication — but also about hope. She had fought to live until her last breath.

Some mysteries remained:

Who nailed the boards?

Why was there no trace of her clothing?

Was the bearded stranger real or just rumor?

But the mountains rarely give all their answers.

The Last Page

Two years later, a plaque was placed near the trailhead:

In Memory of Samantha Jones (1985–2012)
She loved these mountains and took her last journey here.
May every hiker find the strength to keep going, as she did.

Every summer, volunteers leave a small bouquet of wildflowers at the cubicle.

The wind moves through the pines, and for a moment, it almost sounds like a young woman’s laugh, carried down the trail.

Character Arcs & Closure

Samantha Jones: Her last hours are reconstructed with dignity. The evidence supports a fall, not foul play. Her decision to leave the backpack behind becomes an act of courage rather than recklessness — a desperate attempt to find help.

Family: They finally bury her, find closure, and turn their grief into action by lobbying for better safety measures in South Colony Lakes.

Investigators: By revisiting every clue, they show that persistence can yield answers, even eight years later.

Community: Locals stop speaking of the case in hushed, fearful tones. Instead, they tell hikers about Samantha as a way to teach respect for the mountains.