January 2, 2026, dawned bright and full of promise in the rugged beauty of Arizona’s desert mountains. David McCarty, a 59-year-old successful businessman and seasoned pilot from Oregon, was hours away from one of the happiest moments of his life—marrying his fiancée, Joelleen Linstrom. Family had gathered from across the Northwest, excitement buzzing as preparations for the wedding ceremony unfolded. To share the joy, David decided to treat three of his beloved young nieces to a short scenic flight in his private helicopter, showcasing the stunning canyons near his Arizona home. It was meant to be a quick adventure, a way to “show his family around” before the vows.

As the helicopter lifted off from Pegasus Airpark in Queen Creek, David pulled out his phone one last time. He sent a simple text to Joelleen—just five words that now echo with unbearable poignancy: “See you at the altar.” Or perhaps it was “I love you, see you soon.” Details of the exact phrasing remain private, guarded by a grieving fiancée, but those close to the family whisper that the message was tender, routine for a couple deeply in love, filled with anticipation for the life they were about to begin together. Little did anyone know, those would be his final words to her.

Minutes later, tragedy struck. The MD 369FF helicopter, with David at the controls and his nieces—Rachel McCarty, 23; her sister Faith McCarty, 21; and their cousin Katelyn Heideman, 21—on board, plummeted into the remote Telegraph Canyon near Superior, about 64 miles east of Phoenix. All four perished in the crash. What should have been a day of celebration turned into one of unimaginable loss, shattering multiple families in an instant.

David McCarty was no stranger to the skies. Founder of Columbia Basin Helicopters in La Grande, Oregon, back in the 1990s, he had built a thriving company specializing in firefighting support, power-line construction, logging, and agricultural work across Western states. He held ratings for helicopters, single-engine, and multi-engine planes, and owned several aircraft. Friends and colleagues described him as meticulous, experienced, and passionate about flying. He knew the Arizona terrain well, having a second home in Queen Creek and frequently navigating those canyons without issue. “He was just an amazing person,” one lifelong friend recalled, noting how David often used his helicopters to help fight forest fires alongside heavy equipment from the family ranch.

The young women aboard were the heart of a tight-knit Oregon family. Rachel and Faith, sisters with radiant smiles and boundless energy, were inseparable—described by relatives as bright, loving, and full of potential. Their cousin Katelyn, equally vibrant at 22, shared that unbreakable bond. All three were in their early 20s, on the cusp of adult life, excited to celebrate their uncle’s wedding. Mary Jane Heideman, Katelyn’s mother and aunt to Rachel and Faith, spoke through tears: “They were all so loved. The girls had such bright futures. It’s just hard to fathom this.”

The flight was brief, departing around 11 a.m. for what family called a “sightseeing tour.” But as the helicopter skimmed through the dramatic Telegraph Canyon, disaster unfolded in seconds. Investigators later pointed to a hidden danger: a recreational slackline—a high-tension rope used by adventure enthusiasts for tightrope walking—stretched invisibly across the canyon. A federal aviation notice had warned pilots of the temporary obstacle just a week earlier, valid through early January. David, familiar with the route, may not have spotted the thin line against the rocky backdrop. The rotor likely struck it, causing catastrophic loss of control. The helicopter plunged to the canyon floor, bursting into flames on impact.

Rescue teams faced brutal terrain—steep, inaccessible walls forcing hours of hiking to reach the wreckage. Deputies arrived around 5 p.m., but there were no survivors. The Pinal County Sheriff’s Office confirmed the deaths that evening, as wedding guests waited in growing dread. Joelleen, preparing for her walk down the aisle, received the devastating news instead of her groom’s arrival. In the hours before official confirmation, she quietly changed her social media profile to a poignant photo of David fishing with his dog—a silent tribute to the man she was about to marry.

The ripple of grief spread quickly through small Oregon communities like Echo and La Grande, where the McCarty family is deeply rooted. One niece, Elizabeth Gallup, posted a raw message: “Many have heard about the unimaginable losses in my family today—of my Uncle David, my cousin Katelyn, and my two baby sisters Rachel and Faith. They went out for a helicopter ride… and they never got the chance to come home.” She thanked supporters for prayers and messages, admitting the family had “no words right now.” Another relative noted the cruel irony: “The families lost 50% of their children on the wedding day, which was supposed to be a celebration. It’s extremely tough.”

David and Joelleen’s love story added another layer of heartbreak. The couple had announced their engagement in September 2025, sharing joyful posts about their future. David, a devoted partner with a warm smile and adventurous spirit, had found happiness again later in life. Joelleen, stunned into silence, offered no public statement beyond that evocative photo update. Those five final words from David—whatever their precise form—now stand as a frozen moment of normalcy, a husband-to-be’s casual assurance shattered by fate.

The crash has ignited broader questions about safety in popular recreational areas. Slacklining, a growing extreme sport, involves rigging highlines in remote canyons, often without permanent markings visible from the air. While a FAA notice alerted pilots, critics argue more robust oversight is needed—permanent warnings, better coordination with land managers, or restrictions in flight paths. The National Transportation Safety Board recovered the wreckage days later, launching a full investigation expected to take months or years. Early findings focus on the slackline strike, but mechanical factors and pilot actions will be scrutinized.

In the aftermath, memorials emerged quietly: flowers at crash sites, half-mast flags in Oregon towns, online tributes pouring in. Childhood friends remembered David as an inspiration—hardworking, generous, always ready to lend a helicopter for community needs. The young nieces were mourned as stolen futures: sisters and cousins whose laughter filled family gatherings, now silenced forever.

Yet amid the sorrow lingers that haunting final message. Five simple words sent from the sky, meant to bridge a short separation, now etched in grief. What if the flight had been delayed? What if the slackline hadn’t been there? In tragedies like this, the “what ifs” torment survivors most. For Joelleen, staring at her phone’s last text from David, those words are both a comfort and a dagger—a reminder of love cut brutally short on what was to be their happiest day.

As investigators piece together the final moments and families navigate funerals instead of festivities, the story of David McCarty and his nieces serves as a stark warning: Joy can turn to devastation in an instant, hidden dangers lurk in the most beautiful places, and sometimes the last words we send are the ones that endure longest. The Arizona canyons, once a backdrop for adventure, now hold a silent vigil over four lives lost—and a wedding that never was.