By the early afternoon of her 59th birthday, Kelly Frost had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had lunch with girlfriends near her home in Douglas City — a rural community nestled among the ponderosa pines of the Shasta-Trinity National Forest in Northern California. But she kept thinking about her “Daddy-o,” Jeffrey Butler, her 81-year-old father. He was not returning her calls.
As she drove home around 4 p.m., she stopped to check in on him. Her dad lived in a two-bedroom cabin just up the road from her place. “I was kind of feeling angry with him because he hadn’t answered all day,” Frost said.
When she opened the door, she glanced at the “papa chair,” his favorite recliner, the spot where she usually found him. He wasn’t there. That’s when she noticed his feet on the kitchen floor. He was slumped over on his right side, a pool of blood around his head.
Frost’s first thought was that her dad had taken a fall. She blew an air horn that she and her dad kept around in case they ever needed help. A neighbor met her promptly, and it was he who noticed the revolver.
“He said, ‘No, Kel, there’s a gun on the counter,’ and then I realized that he had shot himself,” Frost said.
Butler died on Dec. 18, 2024 from a self-inflicted gunshot to the head. His death is part of a dark reality — a public health crisis that often goes overlooked: older adults are increasingly turning to guns to end their lives.
In California, 5,825 adults aged 70 or older died by gun suicide between 2009 and 2023, according to mortality data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention provided by the Gun Violence Data Hub. The numbers are especially stark among older white men in rural areas.
In Trinity County – population just over 15,600 – at least eight men 70 or older, including Butler, died from an apparent firearm suicide between 2020 and 2024, incident reports from the Trinity County Sheriff’s office show.
Trinity County isn’t alone. Rural Northern California counties have some of the nation’s highest rates of gun suicides among older adults. Over the course of 15 years, the gun suicide rate of adults 70 and older in Trinity, Tehama, Plumas, Lassen, Glenn, Calaveras, and Amador was 35.6 deaths per 100,000, more than triple the statewide rate.
Across the country, adults over 70 have the highest suicide rate of any age group. Experts say these deaths may get little attention because society empathizes with struggling older adults who want to control how their lives end.
“I think we sometimes don’t talk about them because I think people sort of brush it off as like, it’s understandable or it’s not preventable, and I think that’s the real piece of the narrative that we need to change,” said Dr. Emmy Betz, an emergency medicine doctor and a firearm injury prevention expert at the University of Colorado School of Medicine.
Behind the deaths are a number of factors, according to research and law enforcement incident reports. These include loneliness and social isolation, depression, financial struggles, illness and pain, and feeling like a burden.
In rural areas, easier access to guns is also a key contributor.
Unresolved pain
For more than a year before his death, Butler had been in pain. It radiated through his abdomen, making the simple act of urinating an ordeal, Frost said. Last year, in February, a CT scan revealed the problem: a crystal blockage in his urethra. He found a urologist in Redding, one county over. Each visit to the specialist required navigating the hour-long descent down Highway 299, scenic but winding. Frost drove him to the appointments.
A Bay Area native with Oklahoma roots, Butler had retired early to Trinity County, nearly 40 years ago. He had worked for large companies, including Hanes and Hostess, and done well in the stock market. Alongside the Trinity River, renowned for its steelhead trout and salmon, he bought cabins for himself and his daughter.
It’s here where Frost’s kids grew up. Butler’s granddaughter Michaela Frost grew up to be a horse lover like her papa. His grandson Jake Ritter said he could spend hours talking and fishing with his grandfather. His papa was happiest fishing.
But the last months of his life brought Butler little joy.
In July of 2024, Butler had surgery in Redding to remove the blockage in his urethra. But the pain and discomfort continued through the summer. In September, he was admitted for three days to the emergency room in nearby Weaverville with a severe urinary tract infection. Frost said that during this time she tried to call her dad’s urologist several times to reschedule a follow-up appointment he missed while in the hospital, but she could only reach an answering machine.
Butler’s physician assistant in Weaverville called several times too, but no luck, Frost said. The physician assistant “literally threw her hands in the air and said, ‘I can’t get any response.’” That was one of the few times Frost saw her dad cry. “My dad never cried. He was a cowboy.”
After his death, first responders found an undated note in Butler’s home. It began:
The pain???????
!!!!!!!!!!
To much to stand
No Help
By mid-fall, the infections, desperation and heavy antibiotics use were changing her dad’s mental state, Frost said. He wasn’t interested in fishing. Or watching his 49ers. Or spending time with his wild mustang, Spade, or with the guys down at the Tangle Blue Saloon, where he would order a shot of whisky with a coke back.
His cabin grew darker; he no longer drew his camo-print curtains open. Frost estimates that in the span of about a year, Butler lost almost 100 pounds, transforming him from a stout 230-pound man to a fragile version of himself.
Older adults are likely to plan suicide more carefully, and their attempts are more likely to be fatal, according to the National Council on Aging. In California, older women are more likely to overdose, while most older men will use guns, according to state public health data.
Pain and health issues are a common thread among older adults who die by gun suicide. State data show that 55% of people 70 and over who died this way had a contributing physical health problem, and 27% had a diagnosed mental health condition.
Among the eight older men that died by gun suicide in Trinity County between 2020 and 2024, two struggled with respiratory conditions. One had recently discovered a bladder tumor. One man’s antidepressants were found near his body, and another had reportedly been speaking about suicide for some time but did not meet the requirements for an involuntary psychiatric hold, according to incident reports.
The rural divide
Trinity County holds a deep beauty: the rush of the Trinity River, the rising fog on a chilly morning, the sprawling pines that make the rugged mountain sides their home.
But large supermarkets are a county over, a steep and twisty road away. And so is most of the medical care.
“We have more limited access to essential services and resources compared to the rest of California,” said Cathy Tillman, a health services program manager at Trinity County Health and Human Services. “We have to travel further for all services, which plays a role in the ability for people to get their needs met.”
California’s rural counties have more older residents: about 25% compared to the state average of around 17%, according to the SCAN Foundation, an advocacy and research organization for older adults. By 2040, the 85-and-older population in rural California is expected to grow 50 times faster than the working age population. But access to medical and social services for seniors lag significantly when compared to larger, urban regions.
Trinity County has one 25-bed hospital, and a handful of clinics, largely in Weaverville, the county seat. But even reaching Weaverville from other Trinity County communities could take 30 minutes to an hour. For anything more specialized, residents here usually travel an hour to Redding, or two hours for providers in Eureka and Chico. With a small population, Trinity County can’t easily support specialists — like a neurologist or urologist — setting up practice.
Going further for care means people often miss appointments, or delay them, and live longer with pain.
Arina Erwin, deputy director of the county’s health and human services agency, said even some general practitioners who come to Trinity don’t stay long.
“Living in a small community and a frontier community can be a challenge on its own,” Erwin said. Doctors and specialists have student loans to repay, making cities where they can earn a significantly higher income seem more attractive. For years, the hospital and clinics in Trinity have reported trouble replacing retiring doctors. Even virtual care here can be a challenge, because broadband is spotty, especially in pockets with only a few dozen residents, Erwin said.
People who live in rural areas also foster a cultural barrier — a rural spirit of sorts. Tillman said they tend to be more independent, and used to doing things on their own terms; they may also be less likely to seek help.
Frost said that sounds familiar. She saw first-hand how her proud, self-reliant, sometimes stubborn father lost his independence as the pain took hold.
Remembering papa
In Frost’s living room – with the sun shining through the large windows on a December afternoon – memories of Butler, called Papa by his grandkids, stirred both laughter and tears.
As a kid, grandson Jake Ritter would get up before sunrise to go fishing with his Papa — sometimes begrudgingly — but by lunchtime they’d be happily eating their catch. He remembers cruising on Butler’s riding lawnmower and watching old westerns with him.
Ritter and his sister, Michaela, loved listening to his stories, like the time he shot a bobcat as it launched toward him while he was out deer hunting. He had the bobcat stuffed to prove it. Or how, as a teen in San Pablo, Butler chased and tackled a man trying to rob the Lucky store where he worked. The family still has the news clipping.
Michaela is glad her papa got to meet her first-born, Blake, and wishes her three-month-old, Daniella, could have as well.
Butler’s suicide left his family in turmoil and with so many questions. Ritter felt angry at his papa for the way he decided to go. Why do this on his mom’s birthday? Frost often wonders: What were her dad’s last thoughts?
After a suicide, families are more likely to experience a complicated grieving process, with feelings of guilt, confusion, shame, anger and trauma, research shows.
In the year since Butler’s death, Frost’s family has largely relied on each other through their grief. Ritter said his anger at his grandfather has subsided; he is now coming to terms with his Papa’s decision.
“I’m sad that he didn’t get the help that he needed, and I’m sad that he felt so strongly that this is the road that he chose,” Ritter said.
Frost said she gave herself a year to navigate the feelings on her own, but now with the encouragement of friends is considering seeking professional help.
Warning signs and storing guns
In Trinity County, health officials are preparing to launch an injury and suicide prevention program, said Tillman, the county health services program manager. A big component of the county’s strategy will be education to help reduce the stigmas associated with suicide and mental health. Tillman said the plan is to find and train trusted messengers in the small pockets where people live.
Dr. Amy Barnhorst, a psychiatrist and associate director of the Centers for Violence Prevention at UC Davis, said that recognizing a sense of independence and self-reliance common to rural communities is essential to prevention programs. Education around safe gun storage is also key, she added.
“You can’t discount the fact that having access to a firearm, period, all other things being equal, increases the risk that somebody will die by suicide by a factor of more than three,” Barnhorst said.
She helps lead a state-funded curriculum at UC Davis called The BulletPoints Project, which trains health providers on how to identify at-risk patients and speak to them about gun safety.
The project also trains people applying for and renewing concealed carry weapon permits. Under state law, that category of gun owners must complete at least an hour of mental health training.
The course aims to help these gun owners identify a mental health crisis. People who already own guns – like Jeff Butler – never had to take a course like this.
Kelly Frost said she doesn’t know if her dad would have accepted mental health help. It was not something they talked about. His will to live wrestled in the words found in his house, the note she still clings closely to. It ends:
What would you do?
End it???
The pain not life
Since her dad’s passing, Frost has had many sleepless nights, pondering questions and thoughts. She feels she tried her best to get him care, but wishes access had been easier. What signs did she miss? But mostly: Why hadn’t she taken away the guns?
Growing up around guns, it never crossed her mind that her Daddy-o would one day turn his revolver on himself.
“Had I known that he was capable of this, I probably would have worked a little harder to make sure that the guns were not accessible,” Frost said.
This Dec. 18, the one year anniversary of Butler’s death and Frost’s 60th birthday, she had a shot of Canadian whisky from the last bottle she gave him. His guns are now in a safe.
If you are having suicidal thoughts, you can get help from the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline by calling 988 or visiting https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org
Data shared by the Gun Violence Data Hub by The Trace. Data analysis and visualizations by Natasha Uzcátegui-Liggett. Additional reporting by Aaron Mendelson.
Supported by the California Health Care Foundation (CHCF), which works to ensure that people have access to the care they need, when they need it, at a price they can afford. Visit www.chcf.org to learn more.
