In the summer of 2012, 44-year-old Garrett Beckwith and his 19-year-old daughter, Della, set out for what was meant to be a father–daughter trip they’d remember forever. Both were experienced hikers and climbers, united by a shared love of wild places and challenge. Their destination: Mount Hooker, a remote granite monolith deep within Wyoming’s Wind River Range.
It was supposed to be another adventure—long days, thin air, and the quiet bond that forms only miles from civilization. But Garrett and Della never came back.
Mount Hooker isn’t for the faint of heart. Rising nearly 12,500 feet, it is one of the most imposing peaks in the lower 48 states. Its north face is sheer and merciless—1,800 feet of vertical granite that has humbled even the most seasoned climbers. Reaching the base alone requires days of trekking through rugged terrain, rivers, and alpine passes where the weather can turn lethal in minutes.
Garrett, a seasoned outdoorsman, knew all of that. He’d raised Della to respect the wilderness—to move through it with discipline and awe. By all accounts, they were prepared: proper gear, supplies, and an established plan to check in after the climb. But sometime after they began their ascent, all contact stopped.
When they didn’t return as scheduled, family and friends immediately sounded the alarm. Search and rescue teams were deployed—helicopters, K-9 units, expert climbers, and rangers who knew the range better than anyone. The operation spanned weeks, scouring ridgelines, crevasses, and hidden valleys. But no trace of the Beckwiths was found. Not a scrap of equipment, not a rope, not a single piece of evidence to explain what happened.
As days turned into months, the official search wound down, but the mystery only deepened. Some rescuers believed the pair may have fallen during their ascent, possibly swept away by a rockslide or buried under tons of debris. Others suggested they were caught in one of the sudden high-altitude storms that regularly lash the Wind River Range, disorienting climbers and driving them off their intended route.
Mount Hooker’s remoteness only compounds the enigma. Few climbers attempt it each year, and the area’s isolation means that even large-scale searches often miss critical details. In that kind of wilderness, nature erases human traces quickly.
Charitable giving platforms
For Garrett’s wife, Emily, and the rest of their family, the lack of closure became a slow, endless ache. “Not knowing is its own kind of hell,” she once said in an interview. “Every time the phone rings, part of me still hopes it’s someone calling to say they found them. Even after all these years.”
Friends described Garrett as methodical, patient, and fiercely protective of his daughter. “He wasn’t reckless,” one fellow climber recalled. “He knew his limits. If something went wrong, it wasn’t because of carelessness—it was because the mountain decided otherwise.”
Della, an environmental science major at Colorado State University, was her father’s shadow on the trail. She had inherited his love for the outdoors and was already an accomplished climber in her own right. For her, Mount Hooker represented both a challenge and a rite of passage—a way to prove she could stand shoulder to shoulder with the man who had taught her everything she knew about survival, grit, and respect for nature.
As years passed, the story of their disappearance became something of a legend among Wyoming mountaineers. Campfire conversations and online forums buzzed with theories. Some speculated they’d made it to the summit but were caught in a sudden snow squall on their descent. Others wondered if they might have taken refuge in one of the region’s many caves or overhangs and never made it out. A few even entertained wilder ideas—that they’d chosen to disappear, escaping the world entirely.
But those who knew them best rejected that notion outright. “Garrett wouldn’t do that to his family,” said one of his climbing partners. “He loved adventure, but he loved his wife and daughter more. He’d never walk away from them intentionally.”
