Imagine this: Two lifelong friends, geared up with rifles, packs, and the unbreakable bond of adventure, set out into the wild vastness of Colorado’s Rio Grande National Forest. The air is crisp, the elk calls echo through the pines, and the promise of the perfect shot hangs like morning mist. Andrew Porter and Ian Stasko, both 25 and bursting with the kind of youthful vigor that turns weekends into legends, were living that dream. But on September 12, 2025, a freak storm turned their passion into peril. What started as a routine elk hunt ended in unimaginable loss, confirmed as a devastating lightning strike. As families grieve and communities reflect, this story isn’t just about tragedy—it’s a stark reminder of nature’s raw power and the fragility of life in the great outdoors.
The Hunt That Vanished into Silence
Andrew Porter, from Asheville, North Carolina, and Ian Stasko, from Salt Lake City, Utah, weren’t greenhorns. Both were seasoned outdoorsmen, the type who could read a trail like a book and pitch a tent in a downpour. Friends since their days hunting in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains, they reconnected for this annual ritual in the San Juan Wilderness, near the Colorado-New Mexico border. Porter, with his easy smile and quick wit, was weeks away from marrying his fiancée, Bridget Murphy. Stasko, ever the steady sidekick, shared Porter’s love for the wild, trading urban life for high-altitude escapes whenever possible.
They arrived at the Rio de Los Pinos Trailhead on September 11, parking their truck and vanishing into the backcountry. Porter, ever the communicator, sent updates to Murphy and his family every few hours—photos of fresh tracks, texts about the weather holding steady. But by afternoon, silence fell. His last message pinged at around 2 p.m.: a location share, nothing more. When he didn’t check in that evening, worry set in. By September 13, the Conejos County Sheriff’s Office launched a massive search, spurred by reports of the overdue duo.
What they found at the trailhead chilled rescuers: The truck, unlocked and intact, with camping gear, backpacks, rifles, and coolers still inside—as if the men had stepped out for a quick hike and never returned. Heavy rains had lashed the area, turning trails to mud and swelling streams. “It was like they’d evaporated,” one volunteer searcher told Denver7, capturing the eerie void. Fears mounted: Hypothermia? A fall? Foul play? The rugged terrain—steep ridges, dense forests, and unpredictable weather—made every scenario plausible. Murphy, holding vigil from Asheville, poured her heart into social media pleas: “Andrew and Ian are experienced, but storms came in fast. Please share, help bring them home.” Her words rallied hundreds, including locals who knew the forest’s deadly moods.
The response was Herculean. Over six grueling days, teams from Conejos County, state agencies, and federal land managers combed 20 square miles. Helicopters thumped overhead, drones buzzed through fog-shrouded valleys, K-9 units sniffed for scents lost to rain, and horseback riders navigated rocky outcrops. Volunteers—hunters, hikers, even drone hobbyists—joined the fray, their flashlights piercing the night. Costs soared into tens of thousands, but no one flinched. “This is our backyard; these could be our boys,” said Sheriff Garth Crowther, whose office coordinated the effort. A GoFundMe, started by Porter’s aunt Lynne Runkle, raised over $50,000 in days, funding gear and fuel while fueling hope.
Then, heartbreak: On September 18, around 11 a.m., Colorado Search and Rescue teams spotted two bodies about two miles from the trailhead, below a lightning-scarred tree near Los Pinos Creek. Clothed in hunting gear, with one small daypack between them, Porter and Stasko lay side by side—no signs of struggle, no visible trauma. Runkle broke the news on the fundraiser: “It is with a broken heart… Andrew and Ian have both been found deceased.” The post, raw with grief, urged prayers for the families. Murphy, shattered but stoic, later reflected, “They were prepared, doing what they loved—until nature decided otherwise.”
Lightning’s Deadly Whisper: The Cause Revealed
Initial inspections offered no clues. Coroner Richard Martin, surveying the scene, noted “no clear cause of death, no trauma”—a puzzle that ruled out immediate foul play or accident. The bodies, transferred to El Paso County’s coroner’s office for autopsy on September 22, showed faint burn marks: small, match-tip singes on arms and torsos, like fleeting kisses from hellfire. “A pretty intense electrical jolt,” Martin told PEOPLE, describing injuries classic to lightning: ruptured eardrums, charred skin patches, and internal burns without external gore.
Full confirmation came swiftly: Lightning strike. A bolt, likely from the September 12 thunderstorm that dumped hail and gale-force winds, hit a nearby tree and arced into the men—perhaps as they sought shelter under its canopy. “Instantaneous,” Martin emphasized to The Colorado Sun; they felt no prolonged agony, no time for fear. Murphy confirmed the timeline on Facebook: “Andrew was just trying to get back to the car as storms rolled in on Friday. He was in the wrong spot at the wrong time.” The sheriff’s office echoed this on September 23: “Consistent with a lightning strike,” extending condolences in a statement that praised the searchers’ resolve. Full toxicology and pathology reports, due in eight weeks, will detail the manner—accidental, a cruel caprice of weather.
Colorado’s lightning season is no joke. The state sees 25 million strikes yearly, per NOAA, with peaks in summer monsoons. Hunters and hikers account for 20% of fatalities—often under trees or in open meadows, myths of safety be damned. In 2025 alone, three others perished statewide: a rancher in Routt County, a trail runner near Boulder. “It’s the split-second unpredictability,” says meteorologist Nolan Doesken, who tracks these bolts. “One moment blue skies, the next—a silent killer.” Porter and Stasko’s story joins a grim roster, underscoring why experts preach the “30-30 rule”: Seek cover if thunder’s within 30 seconds of lightning, wait 30 minutes after the last rumble.
Lives Cut Short: Echoes of Joy and Unfinished Dreams
Andrew Porter was the dreamer—sensitive, strong, with a laugh that lit rooms. Raised in Charlottesville, Virginia, he chased adventure from Appalachian trails to Asheville’s craft brew scene. An environmental consultant by trade, he bonded with nature through hikes and hunts, often quoting Thoreau: “In wildness is the preservation of the world.” Murphy, his fiancée of two years, called him “brave and carefree,” their wedding set for December in the North Carolina mountains. “He proposed on a cliff at sunset,” she shared in a tearful KOAA interview. “We were building forever.”
Ian Stasko mirrored that spirit—quietly fierce, with a knack for maps and a heart for the hunt. From Utah’s Wasatch Range, he worked as a ski patroller in winter, trading slopes for elk bugles in fall. Friends remember his dry humor and unyielding loyalty; he and Porter met as teens on Virginia hunts, forging a friendship that spanned states. “Ian was the guy who’d share his last granola bar,” a mutual pal posted on X, where #RememberAndrewAndIan trended with 50,000 mentions, blending tributes and safety PSAs.
Their families, oceans apart yet united in sorrow, lean on memories. Porter’s parents, in Virginia, hosted a vigil under starry skies; Stasko’s kin, in Utah, planted a tree in Zion National Park. The GoFundMe pivoted to memorials, funding services in Asheville and Salt Lake—simple affairs with elk calls at dawn and toasts to wild hearts. Murphy’s words cut deepest: “They died without fear, well-prepared. A bizarre, horrific act of nature that could’ve struck anyone.” On X, @WildernessWatch shared, “Lightning took them, but their spirit roams free. Hunt safe, folks—carry a PLB, watch the skies.” A YouTube drone flyover of the site, posted by a rescuer, drew 200,000 views, sparking debates on backcountry tech: Personal locator beacons saved 15 lives in Colorado this year alone.
Nature’s Lesson: Respect, Prepare, Mourn, Move On
This isn’t just a headline—it’s a gut punch to anyone who’s laced boots for the backcountry. Porter and Stasko’s tale highlights lightning’s stealth: No roar, just a flash and finality. Experts like those at the National Weather Service now push “no tree shelter” campaigns, urging open-air crouches over tall risks. Colorado’s hunting community, reeling from 2025’s wettest monsoon on record, pledges more weather apps and group check-ins. “They were pros,” Crowther reflected. “But the mountains don’t care.”
A month on, as October snow dusts the San Juans, their absence aches. Murphy wears Porter’s ring, vowing to hike for two. Stasko’s buddies plan a memorial hunt, scattering ashes where elk roam. In wild places, we chase thrill and peace, but stories like this ground us: Pack the PLB, heed the thunder, hug tighter. Andrew and Ian didn’t choose their end, but they chose the wild—and in that, they lived fully. Their light? It flickers in every safe return, every shared sunset. Rest easy, brothers. The hunt goes on.
