Tourist Vanishes in National Park — 2 Years Later Rangers Find a Coffin Hanging From a Tree

The Secrets of Olympic National Park

They say the forest keeps its secrets, but sometimes those secrets find their way back to us in ways we can never imagine. On a crisp autumn morning in September 2021, park rangers in Washington’s Olympic National Park made a discovery that would send shockwaves through the entire Pacific Northwest.

Suspended 15 feet above the ground, swaying gently in the morning breeze, hung a crude wooden coffin wrapped in chains. Inside was something that would answer questions that haunted investigators for two years while simultaneously opening doors to mysteries far darker than anyone could have anticipated. This is the story of Marcus Chun, a 32-year-old software engineer from San Francisco who ventured into one of America’s most pristine wilderness areas and never came back.

It’s a story about the thin line between civilization and the wild, about the secrets that ancient forests hold, and about a discovery so bizarre that it would challenge everything we think we know about missing persons cases in our national parks.

An Encounter with the Wilderness

Before diving into the mystery, we need to understand something crucial about Olympic National Park itself. This isn’t just another scenic destination where families take photos and hike well-marked trails. Olympic is nearly a million acres of some of the most rugged, untamed wilderness left in the continental United States. It’s a place where temperate rainforests receive over 12 feet of rain annually, where fog rolls in so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face, and where more than a thousand miles of trails wind through terrain that has remained virtually unchanged for thousands of years.

The park has a reputation. Ask any ranger who’s worked there for more than a few seasons, and they’ll tell you stories that don’t make it into the official reports. Stories about hikers who swear they’ve seen things moving between the trees that don’t match any known animal. Stories about entire groups who’ve gotten turned around on trails they’ve hiked a dozen times before. Stories about sounds echoing through the valleys at night that seem almost human, but not quite.

The indigenous peoples of the region, the Quillayute and the Quinault nations, have their own stories about these forests—stories that go back centuries. Stories that speak of spirits and warnings, and places where humans simply shouldn’t go.

Marcus Chun’s Journey

Marcus Chun didn’t know any of this when he arrived at the park on September 15, 2019. He was an experienced hiker. His social media accounts showed years of weekend adventures in the Sierra Nevada, the Cascades, and the coastal ranges of California. He had the right gear, the right training, and the right mindset, or so everyone thought.

Marcus drove up from San Francisco alone, which wasn’t unusual for him. His friends later told investigators that he often preferred solo hiking trips, calling them his reset button—a way to disconnect from the constant demands of Silicon Valley and reconnect with something more fundamental. He posted on his Instagram the night before his hike a photo of his campsite at the Heart O’ the Hills campground just outside Port Angeles. The caption read simply, “Going dark for a few days, the woods need me.”

The Hoh Rainforest, one of the most iconic sections of Olympic National Park, was his destination. He checked in at the ranger station the next morning, September 16th, and filed a wilderness permit for a four-day solo trek on the Hoh River Trail, with a planned extension into the backcountry toward Mount Olympus. The ranger who processed his permit, a veteran named Sarah Morrison, later recalled that there was nothing unusual about the interaction. Marcus seemed prepared, excited, and respectful of the wilderness he was about to enter. He had a satellite communicator, a device that could send emergency messages even without cell service. He had ten days of food, appropriate cold weather gear, and a detailed itinerary that he’d left with a friend back in San Francisco.

That was the last confirmed sighting of Marcus Chun by anyone official. He walked into the forest at approximately 9:30 that morning, and he simply vanished.

The Search Effort

When Marcus didn’t return by his expected date of September 20th, his emergency contact, his sister Emily, became concerned. She’d received a few brief satellite messages during the first two days of the hike—short notes saying everything was fine, that the forest was incredible, that he was making good progress. Then nothing. By the evening of the 20th, when he still hadn’t checked in, she called the park service.

What followed was one of the most extensive search and rescue operations in Olympic National Park’s history. More than 100 personnel were involved over the course of three weeks. Search dogs tracked along the whole river trail for approximately eight miles before losing the scent near the Blue Glacier Creek junction. A helicopter with thermal imaging equipment scanned thousands of acres of forest. Technical rescue teams rappelled into ravines and searched along the riverbanks. Volunteers from local search and rescue organizations combed through the underbrush in grid patterns. They found almost nothing.

On the fourth day of the search, they located a satellite communicator, smashed to pieces, scattered across a small clearing about half a mile off the main trail. There was no blood, no signs of a struggle, no animal tracks—nothing to indicate what had happened. It was as if Marcus had simply set down the device, destroyed it methodically, and walked away. But why would anyone do that? The device was his lifeline, his only way to call for help if something went wrong.

Three days later, searchers found his backpack. It was neatly placed at the base of a massive Sitka spruce tree, approximately two miles from where the communicator had been found, but in a completely different direction. Inside the backpack was everything you’d expect: his sleeping bag, his tent, his cooking equipment, and his food supplies, barely touched. His wallet was there, his ID, his credit cards, but his phone was gone, and more strangely, so were all of his maps and journal—items that hikers typically keep accessible.

The Investigation Shifts

The investigation shifted. Was this a voluntary disappearance? Had Marcus staged his own vanishing? But that theory didn’t hold up under scrutiny. His bank accounts remained untouched. There were no large cash withdrawals before his trip. His family insisted there was no reason he would want to disappear. No financial problems, no relationship issues, no legal troubles. He had a good job waiting for him, friends who cared about him, a life he seemed to enjoy.

As the weeks turned into months, the search was eventually scaled back and then suspended. Marcus Chun was officially listed as a missing person, presumed dead, though his body had never been recovered. For his family, it was an unbearable limbo. They couldn’t grieve properly because there was no closure—just an absence, a void where their brother and son used to be. Emily Chun gave dozens of interviews to local news outlets, pleading for any information. For anyone who might have seen something, the case went cold. It joined the ranks of hundreds of other missing persons cases in America’s national parks—a disturbing pattern that outdoor enthusiasts and researcher David Paulides has documented extensively in his Missing 411 series.

The Discovery

For two years, Olympic National Park kept its secret. The forest was silent. And then came that autumn morning in 2021. Ranger Thomas McKenzie was on a routine patrol along one of the less traveled sections of the Hoh River Trail when he spotted something that made him stop in his tracks. At first, he thought it was some kind of art installation. Maybe an unauthorized sculpture that someone had hung in the trees. But as he got closer, he realized this was something entirely different.

Suspended from a thick branch of an ancient Douglas fir about 15 feet off the ground was a rectangular wooden box, roughly the size and shape of a coffin. It was wrapped in heavy chains and hung by a thick rope that had been secured around the branch multiple times. The box was weathered, covered in moss and lichen, and it looked like it had been there for a considerable amount of time. But what made McKenzie’s blood run cold was the smell. Even from the ground, even in the open air of the forest, there was a distinctly unpleasant odor emanating from the suspended box.

He immediately called for backup and secured the area. Within hours, a full investigative team had arrived, including detectives from the local sheriff’s department, forensic specialists, and park officials. Getting the box down was a delicate operation. They couldn’t just cut the rope and let it fall; they needed to preserve as much evidence as possible. A technical rope team was brought in, and by late afternoon, the coffin-like box was carefully lowered to the ground.

What they found inside would make headlines across the country. Human remains, significantly decomposed but still identifiable. Personal effects including a phone, a journal, and maps. And most critically, a driver’s license belonging to Marcus Chun. The discovery answered the question of what had happened to Marcus but opened up a dozen more. Who had put him in this coffin? Who had hung it in the tree? How had it gotten there? And perhaps most disturbingly, why had it been done this way?

The Investigation Continues

The forensic analysis began immediately. The medical examiner determined that the remains were indeed those of Marcus Chun, confirmed through dental records. But determining the cause of death proved more challenging. The advanced decomposition made it difficult to identify specific injuries or signs of trauma. There were no obvious fractures, no bullet wounds, no clear evidence of violence. Toxicology tests were inconclusive due to the state of the remains.

What the forensic team could determine was a timeline based on the degree of decomposition and the condition of the tissues. They estimated that Marcus had been deceased for approximately two years, which aligned with the time of his disappearance. The coffin itself was crude but well-constructed, made from rough-cut cedar planks that appeared to have been milled by hand or with basic tools. The chains were standard hardware store fare—nothing special or traceable. The rope was hemp, a natural fiber, the kind that can be purchased at any outdoor supply store.

But here’s where things get truly strange. The location where the coffin was found was nearly six miles from where Marcus’ backpack had been discovered during the original search. It was in an area that had been searched, though perhaps not as thoroughly as the main trail corridors. The tree the coffin hung from was just barely visible from a lesser-used spur trail, but you’d have to be looking up and at exactly the right angle. It was positioned in such a way that it could have hung there for months or even years without being noticed.

The journal found with Marcus’ remains became a critical piece of evidence. The entries were water-damaged, and many pages were illegible, but forensic document specialists were able to recover portions of the text. What they read was deeply troubling. The journal confirmed that Marcus had indeed hiked into the Hoh Rainforest as planned. His early entries were exactly what you’d expect from an experienced backpacker—notes about trail conditions, observations about wildlife, reflections on the beauty of the old-growth forest. But around what appeared to be the third day of his hike, the tone changed dramatically.

Marcus wrote about feeling watched. He described hearing footsteps that seemed to follow him but would stop whenever he turned around. He mentioned finding what he called arrangements along the trail—collections of sticks and stones placed in patterns that seemed too deliberate to be natural. In one entry, he wrote about seeing smoke from what he thought might be another camper’s fire. But when he went to investigate, he found only a cold fire ring that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, surrounded by strange symbols carved into surrounding trees.

His later entries became more fragmented and harder to read, not just because of water damage, but because his handwriting became erratic. He wrote about dreams that felt too real, about voices calling his name from the darkness, about a growing certainty that he wasn’t alone in the forest. One entry dated what investigators believe was September 19th, just three days into his hike, reads in part, “Something is wrong here, the forest is wrong. I try to turn back, but the trail keeps leading me in circles. My compass is spinning. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

The final legible entry in the journal is perhaps the most chilling. Written in shaky handwriting, it says simply, “They’re not hostile. They’re just showing me where I belong. I understand now.”

The Ongoing Mystery

As news of the discovery spread, other hikers began coming forward with their own stories about Olympic National Park. A couple reported that they’d been hiking the Hoh River Trail in the summer of 2020, about a year after Marcus’ disappearance, and had noticed something hanging from a tree in the distance. They thought it was a bear cache, a method hikers sometimes used to keep food away from wildlife. They hadn’t investigated further.

A solo hiker claimed he’d been in the same general area in early 2021 and had heard chains rattling in the wind, but he’d assumed it was some old logging equipment left behind from before the area became a national park. He’d been in a hurry to make camp before dark and hadn’t looked for the source of the sound.

These reports were frustrating for investigators because they suggested the coffin had been hanging there for potentially the entire two years Marcus had been missing, and it had been close enough to established trails that people had noticed it or at least noticed signs of it. But no one had thought to investigate further. The forest, it seemed, was very good at hiding things in plain sight.

Theories about what happened to Marcus Chun proliferated. The official investigation remained open, but without clear evidence of a crime, authorities struggled to develop a coherent narrative. Some investigators leaned toward the theory that Marcus had experienced some kind of psychological break, possibly triggered by isolation, dehydration, or even accidental ingestion of toxic plants. Psilocybin mushrooms grow wild in Olympic National Park, and while there was no evidence Marcus had consumed them intentionally, some speculate he might have done so accidentally.

This theory suggested that Marcus, in an altered mental state, may have constructed the coffin himself as part of some delusional ritual. Perhaps he climbed into it voluntarily, possibly as a result of hypothermia-induced paradoxical undressing—a condition where people experiencing severe hypothermia feel hot and remove their clothing or engage in other irrational behaviors. But this theory had significant holes. How could someone in such a disturbed mental state have had the presence of mind and physical capability to construct a coffin, haul it into the forest, secure it with chains, and suspend it from a tree branch 15 feet off the ground?

Other investigators favored a darker theory: that Marcus had encountered someone else in the forest—someone dangerous, someone who had killed him and staged the scene for reasons unknown. The crude construction of the coffin suggested whoever built it had basic carpentry skills, but not professional training. The choice to hang it in a tree was seen as potentially symbolic—perhaps the work of someone with a specific message they wanted to send, even if that message remained obscure.

This theory was supported by the fact that Olympic National Park, despite its remote reputation, is not as isolated as many people believe. The park has squatters—people who live illegally in the backcountry, sometimes for months or years at a time. There are stories of Vietnam veterans who retreated to the forest decades ago and never came back out, of dropouts and runaways who’ve established hidden camps deep in the wilderness. Most of these people are harmless, seeking only to be left alone. But not all of them.

Some local researchers pointed to historical precedents. The Olympic Peninsula has its own dark folklore—stories about hermits and mountain men who’ve gone feral, about cults that supposedly established compounds in the deep forest in the 1960s and 70s. While most of these stories are unverified or exaggerated, they speak to a cultural understanding that the wilderness can harbor those who wish to remain hidden.

Then there were the more fringe theories—the ones that made law enforcement officials roll their eyes, but that captured the public imagination nonetheless. These theories drew on David Paulides’ Missing 411 research and suggested that something inexplicable was happening in America’s national parks—something that transcended normal criminal activity or accidental death. Proponents of these theories pointed to the patterns in Marcus’ case that align with other mysterious disappearances: an experienced hiker vanishing in good weather on well-traveled trails, search dogs losing the scent, personal items found miles apart with no trail connecting them.

The Ongoing Investigation

As the one-year anniversary of the coffin’s discovery approached in 2022, the case remained officially unsolved. The manner of death was listed as undetermined, and while homicide hadn’t been ruled out, there was enough evidence to pursue it as a criminal investigation. The FBI had been consulted but declined to take over the case, seeing no clear indication of federal crimes. For Emily Chun and the rest of Marcus’ family, the discovery of his remains brought some measure of closure, but it also brought new anguish.

At least they could hold a funeral. At least they could lay him to rest properly. But the questions haunted them. What had Marcus experienced in those final days? Had he suffered? Had he been afraid? Or had something about the forest called to him, drawing him in, as his journal seemed to suggest?

The funeral was held in San Francisco on a gray November day. Hundreds attended—colleagues, friends, and family members who all struggled to reconcile the vibrant, intelligent man they’d known with the mysterious circumstances of his death. Several of his hiking friends spoke about his love for the wilderness, how alive he seemed when he was out on the trail, how he’d always said the forest felt like home to him in a way that cities never could.

But Olympic National Park wasn’t done with this story yet. In the spring of 2023, nearly two years after the coffin had been found, a park ranger making a routine patrol in a remote section of the backcountry discovered something that reignited the entire investigation. Deep in the forest, miles from any established trail, the ranger found what appeared to be a camp. Not a modern backpacker’s camp with a tent and sleeping bag, but something more permanent, more deliberate.

There was a crude shelter built from branches and bark, weathered but structurally sound. There was a fire pit with stones arranged around it, and there were signs that someone had been living there, possibly for an extended period. Most significantly, there were tools—a handsaw, still sharp, an axe carefully maintained, coils of rope, and nearby, hidden under a tarp, stacks of rough-cut lumber that appeared to have been milled by hand from cedar trees.

The location was less than three miles from where Marcus Chun’s coffin had been found hanging from a tree. DNA analysis of items at the camp is still ongoing, as I speak, but preliminary results have identified at least two different individuals who spent time at that location. One set of DNA samples matched Marcus Chun. The other remains unidentified, not matching any profiles in law enforcement databases.

This discovery transforms everything we thought we knew about the case. It suggests Marcus may not have died shortly after his disappearance as originally assumed. It suggests he may have spent time at this camp, possibly days or even weeks. It suggests he was not alone.

The question now is whether Marcus built this camp himself, perhaps as part of some kind of wilderness survival experiment or psychological crisis, or whether he encountered someone who was already living there. Did he seek them out? Was he held there against his will? Or did something else entirely happen in those woods? Something we still don’t fully understand.

The investigation has been officially reopened, this time with federal involvement. The FBI has deployed specialized teams to search the area around the camp more thoroughly, using ground-penetrating radar, cadaver dogs, and advanced forensic techniques. They’re looking for more evidence for anything that might explain who else was in that forest and what role they played in Marcus Chun’s fate.

Conclusion

But here’s what makes this case so haunting, so emblematic of the mysteries that seem to plague our national parks. Even with all of our modern technology, even with all of our investigative techniques and resources, we still don’t have definitive answers. The forest, it seems, guards its secrets jealously.

What we do know is this: Marcus Chun walked into Olympic National Park in September of 2019. A living, breathing human being with plans and hopes and a life waiting for him back in the city. Somewhere in that vast wilderness, in those ancient forests where the trees have stood for centuries and will stand for centuries more, something happened to him. Whether it was an encounter with another person, a psychological break brought on by isolation, or something else entirely, we may never fully know.

His body was found in a coffin, hanging from a tree—a bizarre and unsettling end that raises more questions than answers. The camp discovered later suggests a timeline and a sequence of events that investigators are still trying to piece together. And somewhere out there, there may be someone who knows exactly what happened. Someone who helped build that coffin. Someone who lifted it into the tree. Someone who has remained silent while a family grieved and investigators searched for answers.

The Olympic National Park remains open. Of course, thousands of people hike its trails every year, marveling at the massive trees, the lush ferns, the rushing rivers. Most of them will have perfectly safe and enjoyable experiences. They’ll take their photos, have their moment of connection with nature, and return home with nothing but good memories.

But sometimes, when the fog rolls in thick, when you’re miles from the nearest trailhead, when you hear something moving in the underbrush that you can’t quite see, you might find yourself thinking about Marcus Chun. You might wonder what he saw in his final days. You might wonder if that arrangement of sticks you just passed was natural or deliberate. You might wonder who else is out there watching from the shadows between the trees.

The forest keeps its secrets. It has kept them for thousands of years, and it will keep them for thousands more. We are just visitors in that ancient realm—temporary intrusions into a world that operates by rules we don’t fully understand and can’t completely control. We bring our maps and our GPS devices and our satellite communicators, and we convince ourselves that we’ve mastered the wilderness, that we’ve made it safe and knowable. But cases like Marcus Chun’s remind us that the wild places are still wild. That there are still corners of our world where the unknown lurks, where answers are elusive, and where the boundary between the natural and the inexplicable becomes blurred.