The Night Mike Disappeared

On December 17th, Mike Bishop attended a celebration of life for a family member who had passed months earlier. After the gathering, he dropped his wife off at home and, as he often did to clear his mind, drove toward the Mississippi River — his quiet place of reflection near the Toolsboro boat ramp.

That night, weather was worsening. The temperature was dropping fast, and ice was beginning to crust along the river’s edge.
Sometime around 7:00 p.m., Mike exchanged text messages with family members, letting them know he was heading home.

Then came the last, chilling contact.

At approximately 7:58 p.m., Mike’s daughter, Shaden, called her father after he didn’t return.
He answered, but only briefly — his voice strained, panicked.

“It’s sinking,” he said. “My truck is sinking.”

Then the line went dead.

By morning, Mike Bishop was missing — along with his silver 2021 Chevy Trail Boss, a truck he was immensely proud of.

Frozen Waters and False Leads

When Chaos Divers — a volunteer sonar and recovery team known for helping families locate lost loved ones — arrived on December 26, the Mississippi River was sealed in ice.
Up to twelve inches thick in some places, the frozen layer made sonar scanning nearly impossible.

“We’ve been on the Mississippi since Wednesday,” said Jeremy Hunt, a local diver and operator of TowBoat Diving Services in Muscatine. “We’ve moved ice, pulled cables, broken through the current — but the river just keeps freezing over again.”

The teams worked through freezing temperatures, breaking the ice manually and with heavy equipment.
Some days, they located sunken trucks — but none belonged to Mike.

One early discovery, a pickup submerged near the Lock and Dam, raised hopes. Divers went down, only to realize it wasn’t Mike’s Trail Boss. The temperature dropped to single digits, cables snapped, and their gear froze solid.

“It wasn’t his truck,” Jeremy recalled. “By that time, the river was freezing over completely. We had to call it off — too dangerous.”

Every day the search continued, the current shifted. Ice ridges grew taller. Hopes sank lower.

Still, no one gave up.

“Even if you didn’t like somebody, in a time like this, everybody becomes family,” one volunteer said. “Everybody helps.”

The Family’s Resolve

Mike’s father, known affectionately as Beaver, stayed close to the search team.
He didn’t want a media circus or speculation — only honesty and results.

Rumors circulated online that Mike’s truck had been found, creating waves of false hope and grief for the family.
So Beaver made his stance clear.

“Record everything,” he told the divers. “Do what you do. This is how you help families.”

Those words resonated with the team. They documented every scan, every dive, every heartbreak.
Through live updates, they invited viewers around the world into the struggle — transforming a search into a shared act of compassion.

When the River Finally Moved

Days turned into weeks. Temperatures dropped, rose, then froze again.
Then, one Monday morning in early January, everything changed.

As the divers crested the levee at the Toolsboro ramp, they saw something extraordinary — the river had opened.
The ice had broken apart, pushed away by the current. For the first time in weeks, the Mississippi flowed freely.

“It was as if something greater than all of us had opened the river,” one diver said.

They launched their boats immediately. Using sonar and Garmin LiveScope, they made pass after pass, scanning from the Toolsboro boat ramp all the way down to New Boston Landing, several miles downstream.

On their return trip, cold, tired, and hungry, the sonar screen suddenly flickered.
A shape appeared — rectangular, unmistakable.

“That’s it,” said lead diver Jacob Grubbs. “That’s a truck.”

A Shadow Beneath the Ice

The sonar image was clear: a four-door pickup truck resting upright on the riverbed, 55 feet below the surface.
The team dropped a magnet — it clanged hard against metal.

“We knew what we were looking at,” Jacob said. “And we knew what it meant.”

They called Beaver immediately.

“We’ve found a truck,” Jacob told him. “We can’t confirm yet if it’s Mike’s, but we’re going to dive.”

The Dive

Diver Eric from R&R Dive Recovery volunteered to go down first.
Dressed in a dry suit, he stepped into the frigid water as the team watched from the boat.

The current was strong — even dangerous. Sheets of ice drifted past.
Eric descended, following the guide rope toward the dark outline below.

Minutes passed. The radio crackled.

“I’m on it,” Eric said. “It’s a Chevy Trail Boss. Iowa plate — black, ends in 232.”

He surfaced, breath ragged but steady.

“Good job, buddy,” Jacob said, wrapping him in a blanket. “We found him.”

It was the confirmation they’d all prayed for and dreaded at the same time.
Mike Bishop’s truck — and likely Mike himself — had been found.

A Second, Harder Dive

Because of the site’s conditions, it wasn’t possible to remove the truck immediately.
The Army Corps of Engineers initially restricted heavy equipment due to buried infrastructure near the ramp. That meant a manual extraction.

Eric agreed to go down again — this time, to bring Mike out of the vehicle directly.

The plan was simple but dangerous: break the window, secure Mike, and bring him gently to the surface.
But when Eric descended again, disaster struck — his dry suit began to leak. Icy water filled the lining, soaking him completely. His breathing quickened; his hands went numb.

“The magnet came loose, and I couldn’t find the truck again,” he said through chattering teeth after surfacing. “I had to call it. I was freezing.”

They rushed him back to shore, stripped his suit, and wrapped him in blankets.
Still, the mission wasn’t over.

Permission to Bring Him Home

Hours later, a new call came through. The Army Corps of Engineers had given permission to use heavy machinery — as long as no trees were cut.
That meant one thing: they could finally bring Mike home, truck and all.

Local diver Mike Hunt from TowBoat Diving Services volunteered to make the final descent.
He dove beneath the freezing black water, secured a heavy chain to the vehicle, and surfaced shivering but triumphant.

“Hooked,” he said simply. “He’s ready.”

An excavator roared to life nearby, its headlights cutting through the dark as snow drifted sideways in the wind.
It was nearly 7:30 p.m., well after sunset. The temperature had dropped below zero.

Slowly, the chain tightened. The cable groaned.
And then — through the ice and the darkness — the front of the truck emerged.

“That’s the front,” someone shouted. “That’s it!”

The crowd fell silent.

Moments later, the truck broke the surface completely. Inside was Mike Bishop.

It was over.

Bittersweet Relief

For the divers, the emotion was overwhelming — a mix of triumph, sorrow, and gratitude.

“It’s always hard,” Jacob said, his voice shaking. “You’re relieved to find them, but you wish it hadn’t ended this way.”

Mike’s father, Beaver, stood at the ramp surrounded by friends and volunteers.
He nodded quietly, tears in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said. “You brought my boy home.”

A Town United

In the days that followed, the people of Muscatine and Toolsboro poured out their hearts — donations, meals, hotel rooms, fuel, equipment.
Local businesses, like The Royale Hotel, opened their doors to the divers free of charge.
Churches held vigils. Children made signs that read “Welcome Home, Beaver.”

It was more than a search — it was a movement of compassion.

“Even though we hadn’t found him yet,” Jacob said earlier in the week, “this family has shown nothing but grace. This community — it’s something special.”

Mike’s daughter, Shaden, later said her father would have been proud.

“He always loved this river,” she told reporters softly. “It’s where he found peace. I think he just went there one last time.”

The Legacy of “Little Beaver”

Mike “Little Beaver” Bishop was more than a name on a missing-person poster.
He was a father, a husband, a craftsman, a friend — and a man deeply woven into the soul of his town.

His passing left a hole, but his recovery left a message.

That even in tragedy, a community’s love can move mountains — or break rivers of ice.

In the words of diver Jacob Grubbs:

“We can’t change the ending. But we can make sure families get answers. We can make sure no one’s left wondering where their loved one is.”

As the Mississippi River flowed quietly again, the people of Iowa stood together on its banks, candles flickering in the cold.
For the first time since December 17th, the Bishop family could finally say goodbye.

And the town that had rallied behind them could finally whisper back to the river:

“Welcome home, Little Beaver.”