He Didn’t Just Die on the Mountain — He Was Hung Upside Down, Frozen Like a Specimen, and the Park Never Saw It Coming
In September 2017, Glacier National Park swallowed a man and gave nothing back. No scream. No broken rope. No blood on the ice. Just absence. Twenty-eight-year-old software engineer and experienced climber David Kellerman vanished while attempting a solo ascent of Mount Cleveland, one of the park’s most demanding peaks. For nearly a year, the mountain kept his secret. When it finally released him, the truth was far darker than anyone imagined.
David Kellerman was not reckless. Friends described him as meticulous, disciplined, and almost obsessive about preparation. A Seattle-based software engineer by profession, he spent nearly every spare moment in the mountains. He had climbed for over eight years, tackling technical routes in the Cascades, Alaska, and the Canadian Rockies. To him, Mount Cleveland was not a gamble. It was a calculated challenge.
On the morning of September 14, 2017, David signed the climbing register at the Polebridge Ranger Station at approximately 6:30 a.m. He listed his intended route up the northeast face of Mount Cleveland and estimated a return date of September 17. The ranger on duty later told investigators that David appeared calm, confident, and exceptionally well-equipped. His gear included ice axes, crampons, a sub-zero-rated sleeping bag, and enough food for several days.
Weather conditions that day were nearly perfect for a technical ascent. Temperatures hovered around 35 degrees Fahrenheit with clear skies and minimal wind. Experienced climbers considered it an ideal window. There was no storm forecast, no avalanche warning, nothing that suggested imminent danger.
The last confirmed sighting of David came at approximately 2:00 p.m. Two climbers descending from a different route reported seeing a solo climber matching his description at roughly 8,200 feet. They said he appeared steady, in control, and showed no signs of distress. That sighting would be the final moment anyone saw David alive.
When David failed to return by September 17, park rangers initiated standard search and rescue protocols. His blue Toyota pickup remained parked exactly where he had left it. Inside were his wallet, cell phone, and a detailed climbing plan matching the route he had registered. There were no signs of panic, no indication he had deviated intentionally.
The search began at dawn on September 18. Helicopters scanned the mountain faces while ground teams combed ledges, known fall zones, and established camps. Search dogs traced David’s scent to around 7,500 feet — and then nothing. It was as if he had vanished into thin air.
For three weeks, Glacier National Park threw everything it had at the search. Thermal imaging. Metal detectors. Highly experienced mountain rescue specialists. Volunteers from the climbing community who knew every hidden corner of Mount Cleveland. Over 40 square miles of brutal terrain were searched.
They found nothing.
No gear. No body. No sign of a fall or shelter. By October 8, 2017, officials made the agonizing decision to suspend active search operations. Winter was approaching. Every accessible area had been examined. The mountain had given no answers.
David’s family refused to accept it. His parents, Robert and Linda Kellerman, traveled from Oregon and organized private searches. They hired independent guides and offered rewards. But winter came hard and fast. Snow sealed the mountain. Hope slowly froze with it.
Nearly twelve months later, in August 2018, a completely unrelated scientific expedition cracked the case open.
Dr. Amanda Pierce and her glaciology team from the University of Montana were conducting routine glacier measurements on the north face of Mount Cleveland. Their work focused on internal ice structures formed by melting and refreezing. On August 22, ground-penetrating radar detected a large void beneath the ice surface — a natural ice cave.
Such formations were not unusual. What happened next was.
As the team drilled an access hole, the equipment suddenly broke through into open space. Graduate student Kevin Walsh peered down with a high-powered flashlight. The beam swept across smooth ice walls — then stopped.
Hanging upside down from the ceiling of the ice cave was a human body.
Suspended by the ankles. Encased in ice. Perfectly preserved.
At first, Walsh thought it was an illusion caused by light refraction. But when Dr. Pierce looked down herself, there was no doubt. A man in mountaineering gear hung inverted, frozen solid, as if time had stopped mid-sentence.
Park authorities were contacted immediately.
When rangers arrived and descended into the chamber, the scene became even more disturbing. The body was positioned dead center in the cave, hanging from a single metal anchor drilled into the ice ceiling. The rope wrapped tightly around both ankles was not damaged, frayed, or tangled. It was deliberately tied.
The gear matched David Kellerman’s equipment exactly.
Recovery took two days. Every movement was documented. When the body was finally lowered, identification confirmed what many feared and yet could not explain. David Kellerman had been there all along — but not in any way that made sense.
The autopsy shattered the remaining assumptions.
David had suffered multiple injuries before death: fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, extensive bruising. These injuries showed signs of partial healing, meaning he had survived days or even weeks after sustaining them. His cause of death was hypothermia — but not from exposure during a climb.
He was dressed appropriately. His gear was intact. He was sheltered from wind. Something had prevented him from moving, generating heat, or escaping.
Forensic analysis of the rope revealed knots that were not used in climbing. They were restraint knots.
Then investigators found the notebook.
Hidden in a crevice behind the ice wall, wrapped in plastic, was a small notebook containing clinical entries dated days after David’s disappearance. The writing documented his condition, injuries, and deterioration. He was referred to as “the subject.”
One entry read:
“Subject showing signs of delirium. Injuries from initial capture healing slowly. Hypothermia progressing as expected.”
This was not an accident.
The investigation exploded overnight.
Records revealed a suspicious research permit issued just days before David’s disappearance to a man calling himself Dr. Carl Brener — a glaciology researcher with no real academic affiliation. Surveillance footage, purchase records, and false identities eventually led investigators to Thomas Aldrich, a former research psychologist fired years earlier for conducting unethical human experiments.
Federal agencies connected David’s case to others across seven states. Climbers and hikers who vanished. Bodies found positioned, restrained, observed.
David Kellerman was not unlucky.
He was chosen.
In November 2018, Aldrich was captured in Yellowstone National Park while preparing another operation. He later confessed to killing David and 16 others, describing his crimes as “research.”
He was sentenced to life in prison without parole.
The ice cave on Mount Cleveland has since been sealed, its location never publicly disclosed. Climbers still ascend the mountain, but those who know the story say the air feels heavier now.
David Kellerman went into the wilderness seeking challenge and solitude.
What he found instead was a predator who turned nature into a laboratory — and a mountain that kept the truth frozen until it could no longer stay silent.
