The Fall of a Cowboy: Six Years, One Mother’s Quest, and the Mystery of Chance Englebert. Hyn
It was a stormy July night in the American West, the kind where thunder cracks like a whip and rain lashes the earth with relentless fury. Chance Leslie Englebert, a 25-year-old rodeo prodigy, stormed away from a family gathering, frustration and a belly full of beer fueling his steps. A quick text, a curt farewell, and he vanished into the darkening plains. What began as a brief flare of anger would echo through the lives of those who loved him for six long years.
On October 10, 2025, beneath the jagged spires of Scotts Bluff National Monument, hikers stumbled upon skeletal remains tucked into a remote crevice, nearly 290 feet below the rim. Personal effects—a weathered wallet, a rodeo buckle etched with “C.L.E.,” fragments of clothing stiff with dust—spoke of a life cut tragically short. DNA testing confirmed the unthinkable: these were Chance’s remains.
The official verdict: an accidental fall. The Douglas County Coroner’s report cited “blunt force trauma consistent with rapid deceleration.” In layman’s terms, a fall from sheer heights turned a vibrant life into fragments of bone. But the official story did little to ease the anguish of Chance’s mother, Dawn Englebert, who has spent six years clawing at the edges of uncertainty. “This is never going to be closure for us,” she said, her voice quivering. How did a careful, capable young man take a path so treacherous in the dark and the rain? A misstep—or something more sinister?
Chance’s life was as rugged as the prairie he called home. Born in Moorcroft, Wyoming, on December 2, 1993, he embodied the Western spirit: a cowboy’s grin, tousled hair, and a frame honed by years of wrestling steers. Rodeo coursed through his veins—his grandfather had been a circuit champion, and Chance carried that legacy into bareback bronc events across Nebraska and the Dakotas. “He lived for that rush,” said childhood friend Matt Miller. “The crowd, the dirt, the roar—Chance was untouchable.”
Off the arena floor, life had its own struggles. Chance had married his high school sweetheart, Baylee, and their infant son was the center of his universe. Work was steady but exhausting—a coal mine in the Powder River Basin—and July 2019 brought layoffs that left him scrambling. A new construction job seemed a lifeline, a glimmer of stability, but fate had other plans.
The Fourth of July weekend was meant for respite. Family gatherings, golf, barbecue, and laughter should have marked the days. But tensions bubbled beneath the surface. A lighthearted jab about Chance’s recent unemployment escalated into a clash of words. Red-faced, anger flaring, he bolted. “I’m walking home,” he texted Baylee, aiming for Moorcroft—over 200 miles across highways and badlands.
Cameras at a nearby gas station caught his final known steps around 8:45 p.m.: hoodie up, head bent, boots slapping against wet pavement. The rain began in earnest, lightning painting the sky, obscuring the path he would take. At 9:08 p.m., a garbled text pinged his mother, a string of letters trailing a lone smiley. No reply came. The signal died. So did the trail.
Search efforts erupted immediately. Law enforcement swarmed the area: Gering Police, Scotts Bluff County Sheriff, Nebraska State Patrol, and volunteers combing scrublands and riverbeds. Helicopters and cadaver dogs scoured the terrain. Tips trickled in, none conclusive. Trucker sightings, mistaken identities, and phantom clues haunted the family. Every day without news was a fresh wound, every false lead a cruel echo of what-ifs.
Over the years, the hunt grew both broad and deep. State and federal agencies joined forces—FBI, National Park Service, K-9 units from neighboring states—all chasing a shadow that refused to reveal itself. Billboards, social media campaigns, and $200,000 in rewards kept Chance’s name alive, but hope began to fray. For Dawn, every sunrise was a pang of grief: the ache of a missing son, a husbandless family, a life left suspended in time.
Then came the October discovery. Two hikers found his remains off the Saddle Rock Trail, in a crevice hidden from ordinary eyes. The bones were scattered, weathered, marked by wind and time. Teeth matched dental records; DNA confirmed identity. Investigators cited a catastrophic fall, but questions lingered. Why would a man as surefooted as Chance tread a path so dangerous in the middle of a storm? Why no footprints on the access roads? Why no sign of struggle—or signs that might suggest foul play?
Friends, family, and locals struggle to reconcile the coroner’s report with their understanding of the man they loved. Trailblazers retraced the route: steep cliffs, thorn-choked ravines, switchbacks barely discernible even in daylight. The mind struggles to envision navigating them alone in torrential rain. Yet, no evidence of other human involvement was officially reported.
Despite the official closure, speculation and grief persist. Online forums buzz with analyses, debates, and reconstructions of his last steps. Social media memorials share stories of Chance’s energy, his joy, his kindness, and his rodeo triumphs. His son grows up knowing a father’s face only through pictures and anecdotes, the absence as sharp as any physical wound.
For Dawn, memory and ritual sustain him. Chance’s Stetson rests on the mantel. His son’s words—“Dada rodeo!”—echo in her home. Friends and fellow cowboys honor him with memorial rides, lanterns sent skyward over starry plains, a collective act of remembrance. Even as investigators close the book, the heart refuses.
Chance Englebert’s story is not merely one of a fall. It is a testament to human hope and perseverance, to a family’s refusal to let mystery erode love. Six years of searching, questioning, and yearning culminated in discovery, but not in comfort. The cliffs of Scotts Bluff may keep their secrets, yet Chance’s life, his laughter, his legacy, continue to stir the wind-swept plains he once called home. The accident explains the how—but the why remains, unyielding, like the monument itself.
A Second Chance for a Fragile Life: The Baby Dolphin Who Found Hope in Human Hands
In the quiet waters off the South American coast, a fragile life clung to existence. A newborn La Plata dolphin, scarcely able to draw her first breaths, washed ashore with her umbilical cord still attached. The ocean had released her too soon, and her fate should have been sealed. But destiny placed her in the hands of a man who refused to let her story end before it truly began.
That man is Richard Tesore, caretaker and guardian at SOS Rescate Fauna Marina, a wildlife rescue center in Uruguay. For years, Tesore has devoted his life to protecting creatures great and small. Yet even for him, the sight of the tiny dolphin struggling against the sand was unlike anything he had encountered. It was as though life itself was testing whether compassion could rise to meet tragedy.
Without hesitation, Tesore cradled the fragile calf and began the delicate process of keeping her alive. With a baby bottle in his hand and unshakable patience in his heart, he became both mother and protector. Feeding her drop by drop, hour by hour, he ensured that her first days would not be her last.
But food alone cannot sustain a dolphin. These creatures belong to the sea, and for the calf to grow strong, she needed to swim. So Tesore waded into the waters of Piriápolis, guiding her small body through the waves, teaching her to glide as nature intended. Each practice swim became more than exercise—it was a bond between human and animal, a reminder that survival requires not only strength but love.
The La Plata dolphin, known locally as the franciscana, is a rare and vulnerable species. Unlike their oceanic relatives, these dolphins inhabit rivers and coastal shallows. Their population is dwindling due to fishing nets, pollution, and habitat destruction. Every life saved is more than a personal triumph—it is a victory for an entire species fighting against silence and extinction.
This newborn, fragile yet determined, represents that fight. With every lap through the seawater, she carries the weight of her kind’s survival. And with every feeding from Tesore’s hands, she reminds us that compassion is humanity’s greatest gift.
For now, she will remain under the care of SOS Rescate Fauna Marina. The road ahead is uncertain; the sea is both her home and her greatest challenge. But with time, strength, and continued nurturing, there is hope she will one day return to the open waters, not as a fragile orphan, but as a thriving survivor.
Her story is more than an isolated rescue. It speaks to the fragile balance of our world, where a single act of kindness can ripple outward, shaping the destiny of a species. The sight of a man kneeling in the surf, guiding a dolphin calf through the waves, is a reminder that humanity is at its best when it chooses to protect rather than exploit, to heal rather than harm.
Perhaps years from now, when she is strong enough to fend for herself, this dolphin will disappear into the blue horizon. No plaque will mark the moment, no crowd will cheer. But somewhere beneath the waves, a survivor will swim free—because one man chose not to look away.
In her fragile body lies a lesson for us all: life is precious, species are irreplaceable, and the future of the natural world depends on the guardians who care enough to act.
For the La Plata dolphin calf, her second chance at life began the moment compassion reached down from the shore. And for us, her survival is a reminder that even in a world full of loss, hope can still be cradled in human hands.
