Alaska Disappearances: The Cases Search Teams Cannot Explain

Alaska disappearances don't make the news the way they should. The state logs more missing persons per capita than anywhere else in the country — and a significant number share conditions that standard search and rescue cannot account for.  In this podcast, we investigate three Alaska missing persons cases that have never been adequately explained. Each carries the hallmarks of a Missing 411 disappearance: experienced individuals, favorable conditions, no remains found, and search teams that came up empty.  These aren't accidents. These aren't misadventures. These are the cases that get filed away and forgotten — until you start looking at them together.

Transcript

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You're out in Alaska and your companion falls a few minutes behind you. You expect them to catch up. You stop and turn around. You call out and start walking back. You scan the area, the brush, the open space in front of you, but there's nothing. No movement. No sign that they were ever there. So if you're drawn to stories like these, the unsolved, the unexplained, and the unanswered, you're in the right place. Welcome to the Sheldrake Files. The missing woman they had been looking for would eventually be found alive. The volunteer who helped search for her would disappear instead. That volunteer was Gerald DeBerry, a 53-year-old searcher who knew the country northeast of Fairbanks well. He had taken part in previous searches, understood the terrain, and showed up ready to help. He came in on a green Yamaha Kodiak four-wheeler after word went out that Melinda Stratz of Utah was missing. The situation started at around 2 in the morning when Melinda became separated from the other riders in her group. Her brother, Michael, contacted authorities and reported that she was gone. He went to the Long Creek Lodge and told law enforcement that his sister had disappeared while riding back from the wilderness. Besides Melinda, her red four-wheeler, trailer, and Jack Russell Terrier were also unaccounted for. Alaska State troopers responded, and by daylight a large search effort was coming together. Volunteers, responders, and aircraft support would soon be part of the operation. Gerald joined that effort as one of the experienced locals in the field. Through the day, searchers worked the area trying to locate Melinda before temperatures and fading light made things worse. Late that afternoon, Gerald mentioned that he was getting cold. Other volunteers stopped long enough to build a fire, and someone handed him an extra coat. After warming up, he headed back out. At some point after that, the search for Melinda finally paid off. Another volunteer located her alive near Frozenfoot Creek. Public reporting on her case was thin, and there are few details about what exactly happened to her during the hour she was missing. What mattered in that moment was that she had been found alive. But while teams began returning from the field and the operation started winding down, another problem surfaced. Gerald DeBerry had not come back. At first it may have seemed like a delay. Searchers were spread out, the terrain was rough, and people did not all return at the same time. But as more of the volunteers checked in, Gerald's absence became impossible to ignore. He had last been seen roughly four miles from the trailhead where the search had started. Instead of heading home after a successful recovery, several of the same volunteers turned around and went back into the field to look for one of their own. That changed the tone of the entire operation. Gerald was not new to the area. He was not someone expected to lose his bearings in country he already knew. Search teams were also informed that he had medical issues, though no specific condition was ever released publicly. That possibility added urgency, and by the early morning hours of October 11th, the response had expanded again. Two aircraft equipped with infrared began scanning the woods for any heat sources. The Alaska State Troopers sent their helicopter and a Piper Supercub. The Alaska Air National Guard deployed ground rescue teams. What had started as a search for Melinda Stratz was now a full effort to find Gerald De Barry before time and weather made the odds even worse. Days passed with nothing. Formal searches continued. Informal efforts continued too. Volunteers kept looking, and those familiar with the area tried to make sense of how Gerald could have disappeared at all. A week went by without any clear sign of him, no confirmed trail, no personal belongings, no solid indication of where he had gone after leaving the warming fire and heading back out. One of the people struggling with that question was Paul Potvin, the owner of the lodge where searchers had been staging. He was also an old friend of Gerald's. In a statement reported by the Alaska Dispatch on October 14th, Potvin made it clear that simple disorientation did not seem like a convincing explanation. Gerald knew that country too well. People close to the case felt the same way. He had spent too much time in that region for an ordinary wrong turn to explain the outcome. Then there was the matter of the four-wheeler. Gerald had gone out on his green Yamaha Kodiak, and it was gone too. That detail mattered. If the machine had been sitting somewhere in the search area while aircraft equipped with infrared were overhead, there should have been some sign of it, especially if it had been running not long before. Yet nothing was found. Either the vehicle was not in the area when those flights happened, or it didn't show up the way people expected it would. Then the case went cold. Nearly a full year passed before anything significant turned up. On Labor Day in 2012, a miner walking near the Faith Creek mine at mile 69 on the Stees Highway came across Gerald's four-wheeler, parked on a slight incline. That discovery brought searchers back into the area for another large-scale effort. Once again, they combed the ground around the location where the vehicle had been found, and once again, they found nothing. The location of the four wheeler only added more questions. The Faith Creek area is rugged, but the machine was not discovered in some far-off place beyond any reasonable route back to help. Maps of the area show the site sitting just northwest of the Stees Highway, beyond a small rise, with a road leading north from the highway toward the mine. A shallow valley runs alongside the mountain there, roughly parallel to the road. Even if the four-wheeler had broken down, the route back toward the roadway was not impossible. For a man who knew that region as well as Gerald did, it becomes difficult to explain how he could have failed to make his way out, especially when the larger mountain range to the north would have made it clear which direction led deeper into trouble. Gerald's family came to Alaska to help deal with the aftermath and stay close to the search. His sisters flew in to handle his affairs and wait for any development that might finally bring answers. One of them, Cheryl Hart, spoke publicly on October 20th and said the family was still holding on to hope that Gerald would either somehow come back or be found. That hope never turned into a recovery. Melinda Stratz was found alive. Gerald DeBerry was not. He vanished while helping search for someone else in a place he knew during an operation that drew volunteers, troopers, aircraft, and National Guard support. His four-wheeler was eventually located. Gerald never was. More than a decade later, the same questions still sit over this case. Why did an experienced searcher fail to return from terrain he understood? Why was there no immediate sign of his vehicle from the air? And what happened in the hours between the moment Gerald went back out and the moment everyone realized he was gone? Glacier Bay National Park lies about 70 miles northwest of Juneau, Alaska. It is a vast, isolated region where the Pacific pushes inland through a maze of narrow waterways, covers, and long inlets. It's beautiful country, but it's also hard country, with distance and terrain working against anyone who runs into trouble. In September 1985, 36-year-old Kevin O'Keefe traveled from his home in Sacramento, California to Juneau, then continued on to Glacier Bay National Park headquarters. He enrolled in a course focused on living in the backcountry and spent time preparing for a stay in the park. On September 22nd, he was flown by floatplane into the Muir Inlet just north of Wolf Point where he set up camp. He was alone. For more than two weeks, everything appeared normal. Kevin was scheduled to be picked up on October 19th, but on October 8th, National Park Ranger David Nemath and another ranger were patrolling the Wolf Point area by boat when they stopped at Kevin's campsite. What they found immediately raised questions. The tent had been pitched close to the high tide line. Nearby there was a band of debris that appeared to mark where high water had passed through. In his report, the ranger made specific note of the tent itself. One pole had collapsed inward. Kevin's sleeping bag, foam pad, and other personal items were lying outside the tent on the ground. Even so, because Kevin was not due for pickup for another eleven days, the rangers left everything in place. They came back the next day, this time with four rangers instead of just two. When they returned, the camp looked exactly as it had the day before, but nothing suggested that Kevin had spent the night there or come back after the first visit. The site appeared untouched. Rangers called out for him, but there was no answer. Even with the condition of the camp causing concern, the National Park Service did not launch a full search at that point. On October 10th, Rangers went back yet again, now with a seaplane helping to cover the area from above. They conducted a two-hour flight over the region, looking for Kevin and scanning for any sign that he had moved away from his camp. They found nothing. As more information came out, the case only became harder to understand. An October 1985 article in the Anchorage Daily reported that search dogs were used and led Rangers to some of Kevin's belongings away from the main campsite. His boots and a hat were found about half a mile away, down in a gully that could not be seen from the camp. Rangers also located his food and supply caches, but Kevin himself was nowhere to be found. The same reporting also made clear what investigators were not seeing. Early ideas that a bear might have attacked him were dismissed. Rangers said there were no bear tracks in the area around the camp. They even noted that there was almost no wildlife activity of any kind nearby. A review of National Park Service records adds to the picture. Kevin's belongings were scattered at varying distances from the tent, roughly 60 feet away, 120 feet away, and in some cases two to three hundred feet out. His boots and a knit cap were found in a gully. Yet the main camp still held nearly everything a person would need to stay alive in the backcountry. His survival manuals and pamphlets were there. His food was there. His film, toothbrush, soap, cigarettes, vitamin C, compass, flashlight, and other basic supplies were there as well. It looked like the camp of someone planning to remain in place for an extended stay. Rangers also spoke with Kevin's family and learned more about what he intended to do while he was in Glacier Bay. He had planned to make short hikes from camp on a daily basis. He was not expected to leave on long overnight trips. He was not supposed to be meeting anyone. Just as important, Rangers found his day pack during their inventory of the campsite, which suggested he had not deliberately set out on a hike away from camp when he disappeared. That detail matters. So does the location of the rest of his property. Kevin's glove liner turned up several hundred yards from the campsite. His boots and knit cap were found nearly half a mile away, and search dogs were needed to locate them. Even with those items spread out over the area, there was still no blood at the camp and no sign anywhere nearby that he had been attacked by an animal. No evidence at the scene pointed clearly toward one explanation. What remained was a layout that made little sense. His day pack was still at camp. His larger backpack was there. His sleeping gear was there, his food was there, untouched. If animals had been active in the area, that food likely would have been disturbed. It wasn't. The essentials Kevin would have needed if he had chosen to leave for any length of time were still there. That strongly suggests he was at or near his campsite when something happened. And whatever that was, it separated him from his boots, scattered part of his gear across the area, and left no clear trail showing where he went. Kevin O'Keefe disappeared from a remote camp in Glacier Bay National Park in the fall of 1985. Rangers found his belongings. Search dogs found more of his clothing and gear away from the camp. Aircraft searched from above. There were no signs of a bear attack, no blood, and no clear evidence that he had planned to leave. The place where he should have been was still holding almost everything he needed. Kevin O'Keefe has never been found. Seward sits on Alaska's southern coast, about 60 miles south of Anchorage, with the town spread out at sea level beneath steep mountains that rise almost straight up from the water. Looming above it is Mount Marathon, the peak tied to one of Alaska's most famous races. The event begins in downtown Seward, sending runners up the mountain's brutal slopes to the summit, and then turns back toward town. It is short in distance, usually somewhere between three and three and a half miles, depending on that year's route, but no one mistakes it for an easy run. The course is steep, punishing, and physically demanding from start to finish. Minor injuries have long been treated as part of the event. A disappearance was something else entirely. On July 4, 2012, 36-year-old Paul Lemay stood at the starting line ready to take on that course. He was in excellent condition and worked as a civilian employee at Joint Base Elmendorf Richardson, helping soldiers leaving the military prepare their resumes and move into civilian life. He had entered the Mount Marathon race and had been assigned bib number 548. Family members were there when the pistol fired and the runners began climbing out of Seward toward the mountain. Paul was not there to chase a record. He simply wanted to finish. That was the goal. Completing Mount Marathon in a solid time was hard enough on its own. The race had a long reputation for testing people, even those who arrived prepared. As the event unfolded, there were already signs that the day was not going smoothly. In two separate incidents, runners were seriously hurt in steep sections of the course. Public details were limited, but the injuries were described as severe. That stood out because Mount Marathon had long promoted itself as a difficult race with a strong safety record. Serious injuries were not impossible, but they were unusual enough to get attention. Paul had gone on to the mountain wearing a black running shirt and black running shorts. He had poor eyesight, and on race day he was not wearing his glasses. As the hours passed, other runners came down, crossed the finish line, and rejoined family and friends in Seward. Paul Lemay did not. By all available accounts, he was the last racer still on the mountain. That alone would have drawn concern eventually, but there was one important update that seemed to calm things for a time. According to a local news report on July 9th, a race timing crew stationed near the summit began descending the mountain at around 5 45 p.m. As they were coming down, the lead timer encountered Paul at about 6 p.m. He was nearing the summit, roughly 200 feet below it. The timer spoke with him directly. Paul confirmed that he wanted to continue. The report stated that he looked fine, showed no sign of physical or emotional distress, and was moving slowly but steadily uphill. After that conversation, the timer continued down the trail towards Seward. At around that same time, a race official spoke with Paul's wife and told her he had been seen and appeared to be fine. She was told that if he was not down the mountain within 90 minutes, she should contact the authorities. At that moment, the assumption was that he was simply taking his time and would eventually come down. That never happened. At 8 p.m., Paul's wife notified race officials that he still had not returned. From there, the response escalated quickly. Race officials contacted the Seward Fire Department, which in turn brought in the Alaska State troopers. A search began almost immediately. Conditions on the mountain were bad. Fog moved in and visibility became poor, at times dropping low enough to make ground searching dangerous and aerial searching difficult. Search teams worked through treacherous terrain, trying to account for every place Paul could have gone after being seen just below the summit. During the operation, ground searchers also encountered two black bears, though the animals ran off when the search groups approached. Near the summit, there was even a light dusting of snow on the night Paul disappeared. Searchers examined that area carefully, looking for tracks or any disturbance that might show where he had gone after the timing crew saw him. They found nothing. No footprints, no sign that he had moved off in one direction or another, nothing that gave the search any immediate answer. Aircraft equipped with infrared technology were brought in to scan the mountain. The Alaska State Troopers searched from the air and found no sign of him. On the ground, the Alaska Mountain Rescue Group worked the terrain and came up with nothing tied to Paul. Dog teams from the Alaska Search and Rescue dogs were also deployed in an attempt to pick up his scent. They were unable to do so. The scale of the response quickly became enormous. Reporting in the Alaska Dispatch on July 9th described a rescue effort involving hundreds of volunteers. The list included Alaska Mountain Rescue, Nordic Ski Patrol, Alaska Search and Rescue Dogs, Bear Creek Volunteer Fire Department, the Air National Guard, the Alaska State Troopers, local Seward residents, and even racers who returned to help once it was clear that one of the runners had not come back down the mountain. That matters because Paul did not disappear in some empty section of remote backcountry where no one knew where to start looking. He vanished on a marked race route that had just been used by hundreds of runners. Near the top of Mount Marathon, the terrain is largely open, with rock, dirt, and boulders rather than thick cover. There is also an overlook near the summit where the direction back towards Seward in the finish line is obvious. This was not a place where someone should have been able to simply fade out of sight without leaving a trace. The search continued for four and a half days. It was comprehensive and it pushed far beyond the official race path. Teams did not limit themselves to the marked trail. They searched the backside of the mountain as well, working from the possibility that Paul might have become disoriented and gone over the opposite side. Even with that expanded scope, there was still no sign of him. And that's what makes the case so hard to explain. Paul was known to have been near the summit between 5.45 and 6 p.m. on July 4th. He had spoken with the lead timer. He had seen the direction that official was descending. He was less than two miles from Seward, from the finish line, and from his waiting family. Searchers knew the general area where he had been. They had skilled mountain teams on the ground, infrared aircraft overhead, dog teams working for scent, and large numbers of volunteers covering the slopes. Yet nothing turned up. His physical condition only adds to the puzzle. Paul was not a small man who would be hard to spot in open country. He was reported as six feet two inches tall and about 215 pounds. Searchers were looking for a full-grown man on a mountain that had already been crossed by hundreds of people that same day. The weather was a major obstacle, and his poor eyesight raises the possibility that disorientation may have played some role, especially once the fog moved in. Even so, the lack of any physical sign remains difficult to account for. In time, Paul was formally listed as deceased by exposure, and his family wrote an obituary for him in an Anchorage newspaper. But that official conclusion did not answer the central question. It only reflected the reality that he had disappeared on the mountain and never returned. Paul Lemay vanished on a race course in daylight that was slipping toward evening after being personally seen alive and still climbing. He disappeared from a known location on a mountain packed with runners, race staff, rescuers, and later some of the most capable search personnel available in Alaska. Searchers dealt with fog, bad weather, rough terrain, and failed scent work from the dog teams. They searched the front side of the mountain, the backside, the summit area, and the descent routes. None of it led to Paul. He was within sight of finishing one of Alaska's most famous races. He was close to town, close to safety, and close to the people waiting for him at the bottom. Then, somewhere between the summit and the finish, he was gone. If you've got thoughts on any of these cases, go ahead and drop them in the comments, but please keep it respectful. If you'd like to see more episodes like this, go ahead and get subscribed and turn on your notifications for our channel. So thanks for tuning in, and I'll see you in the next one.