Layover at the Charming and Slightly Haunted Old Faithful Inn

Magical! There was no other way to describe it. On a sunny winter day in January of 2005, I was back-country skiing in Yellowstone National Park.

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My friend, Bonnie, and I had come to Yellowstone for a winter adventure. Something we had both been missing since moving to the Midwest after living and playing for many years in Alaska. From Oklahoma and Missouri, we met up at the airport in Bozeman, then shuttled to our cozy cabin at Lone Mountain Ranch outside Big Sky, Montana.

Big Sky was a quaint and unique place in winter, and proudly dubbed itself “Gateway to Yellowstone National Park.” Snowmobiles outnumbered cars and trucks parked in the diagonal spaces on the main thoroughfare through town. The streets were intentionally unplowed and hard-packed with snow—just the way the locals liked it.

Our cabin was small, rustic, and completely adorable. Chinked poplar logs, blue and white checked gingham curtains, and a tiny wood burning stove in one corner. A single-width bed and a queen, which we flipped a coin for and I won. The outside porch was furnished with a bent willow chair and loveseat that looked like they’d weathered a blizzard or two. And since we were late arrivals, translation “the dining room is closed until 7am,” the staff had left us a very gourmet goodie basket of cold cheese and turkey sandwiches with cranberry mayo, potato salad, blueberry cheesecake and bottles of local mineral spring water. 

After a sumptuous breakfast in the still-Christmas-decorated lodge the next morning, we met up with a group of fellow adventurers from all corners of the country for a guided Nordic ski tour around the 165-acre ranch. We skied past several log cabins of various sizes, and an old western vintage barn and corrals. A young man was grooming a matching pair of mahogany Clydesdales, combing out the tangles from their cream-colored manes, tails, and leg feathers in preparation for the evening’s sleigh ride, weather permitting.

Me and Bonnie thought we were made of pretty tough stuff, but the altitude was kicking our backsides. Still, we had a blast taking pictures, laughing, falling, stopping often to breathe in the thin air, then enjoying another fabulous four-course meal in the lodge’s dining room before flopping into our beds, exhausted.

The next day we had reserved the ultimate ticket to ride; a three-hour tour into the Yellowstone via snow coach—a bright yellow vehicle with tracks in the rear and skis in the front. After early November these vehicles, including snowmobiles, snowshoes and skis were the only way into the park.

We were mesmerized by the sights. Flocks of snow geese and trumpeter swans floating on the Yellowstone River. Fox, elk, moose, and of course the main attraction—big shaggy bison. There were large groups and loners, bulls with fearsome horns, mothers with calves, all working hard to survive the harsh winter conditions. In particularly severe cold, they would huddle as close as they dared to the mud pots and geysers for warmth, sometimes slipping or breaking through the thin crust of earth surrounding the scalding hot thermal pools—some as deep as 40 feet—leaving neither hide nor hair to discover in the spring thaw, only skeletal remains if that.

Bonnie and I were the only passengers onboard the snow coach, and we were hesitant to leave the warmth within to brave the icy boardwalk for an up close view of Old Faithful erupting—which it did every 35 to 120 minutes. 

You might assume that to a couple of veteran Alaska gals, this would be a walk in the park, but until you’ve felt the wind and accompanying -30 degrees at an elevation of 8,000 feet in Wyoming, in January, you really haven’t experienced winter. It could make an Eskimo weep. Only the warmth from the mud pots and geysers on both sides of the boardwalk made the trek bearable.

On Day Three, our plan was to back-country ski out beyond Old Faithful on a seven-mile round-trip track. Unlike the brutal weather of the previous day, this particular morning promised to be sunny and mild, with no wind. 

“Hey Bon! Rise and shine!” I chirped.

“Ohhhhhh, Kath, I can’t! I don’t feel good at all. No energy. You go on.”

The cold and physical exertion at an elevation we were not acclimated to had taken its toll. I wasn’t feeling totally up to snuff myself, but we only had four days and I wanted to get everything I’d paid two months in advance for. 

“Okay, Bon. Stay in bed. In fact, you can get in mine and stretch out.”

—

The snow coach stopped at the trailhead and I disembarked clumsily, dropping my rented skis and poles with a clatter and then tripping over them in a face-planting splat. I was relieved that the driver had already closed the door and didn’t notice my ungraceful landing. A couple of other skiers got off ahead of me and were taking the trail in the opposite direction. I was grateful to be alone with my injured pride. Brushing myself off, donning my daypack filled with water and protein bars, adjusting my glare-resistant goggles and getting boots locked into the skis, I started out on the seven-mile loop. 

—

I hadn’t gone a mile when I noticed the lone bison tracks going my direction on the snow-packed trail. There was so much steam coming off the mud pots that I couldn’t see if it was far ahead or near ahead. I was rooting for far ahead. After another mile or so, I spotted the bull on the other side of a bubbling hot spring, its giant head and horns lowered and one hoof pawing at the snow while fixing a steely glare on me. His expression was, You’ve been following me. Why? I was happy about the geyser between us.

Still a couple miles from the halfway point the wind started to pick up. I was plenty warm from the exertion, so I wasn’t concerned. It crossed my mind to turn around, but I like to complete what I start. Another mile and the wind had really picked up and I was getting cold. Finally at the turnaround point, I headed back. There were several bison now on the other side of a string of small geysers, all staring at me like I was crazy. 

It wasn’t like me to not check the weather forecast for the entire day. Bonnie was a pilot and had owned her own small bush plane in Alaska, and she’d taught me the importance of doing your homework—it could mean life or death. 

The wind was blowing snow over the trail and it was getting harder to see. The morning’s bright sunshine was becoming obscured by dark clouds. I was getting off-track and knew it when I spotted the Old Faithful Inn, which I hadn’t seen on the way out. By now I was getting very cold and disoriented, and the inn looked like a good place to warm up with a hot chocolate. A large plywood sign dashed my hopes:

—CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS (May 2004 to April 2005)—

Now what? The red front door to the lodge was unlocked. Miracle of miracles. Out here on the edge of wilderness, they must not have been too concerned about trespassers. Inside, the lobby was impressively grand. All big timbers and rock. At one end of the great room was a messy jumble of visqueen plastic sheeting, plywood, scaffolding and ladders. At the opposite end was a massive stone fireplace with firewood stacked three feet high on both sides. A bronze plaque on the wall read:

The Old Faithful Inn was designed by Robert C. Reamer, who is said to have wanted the asymmetry of the building to reflect the chaos of nature. Completed in 1904 at a cost of $140,000, the enormous wood structure with its soaring, seventy-six foot tall lobby is considered a masterpiece of rustic “Parkitecture.” The hotel remains one of the largest log-style structures in the world and is a National Historic Landmark.

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Wowza! And I had the whole National Historic Landmark all to myself! If I wanted to, I could run up and down the empty hallways in wild, uninhibited freedom wearing nothing more than my thermal-fleece Cudl Duds. But visions of Jack Nicholson in The Shining prevented the wanting to.

A large kitchen off the grandiose lobby contained modern appliances, and flipping a switch, I was delighted to find that the electricity was on. Apparently the contractors working on the renovations made their meals right there due to the remote location. The refrigerator had milk, eggs, butter, orange juice and beer. The freezer was stocked with ribeyes and ice cream. For a historical structure built at the turn of the century, it was particularly weird to see a Keurig coffee maker with multiple flavors of K-cups in a stainless steel carousel on the granite countertops.

—

My phone battery was waning, but I was able to get a text out to Bonnie and tell her my situation and the deteriorating weather.

Hey Bon, I’m ok. Don’t alert anyone. I’m spending the night at The Old Faithful Inn. My phone’s about to die, so don’t freak out if you can’t reach me. See you tomorrow. 

She and I had done enough whacky stuff together over the years that I knew she would take the information in stride and simply roll over onto her other side in my bed, muttering “What-everrr.” 

Now that I was safe, and famished, I was determined to make myself comfortable. It was Saturday so I figured construction workers wouldn’t be back until Monday and I’d be long gone. Time to head back to the kitchen to look for snacks. Hanging on hooks above the massive island were every shape and size of pots and pans. And knowing what I knew about the bountiful provisions, I asked myself, Why just snack? Why not pull out all the stops and go ‘full-tilt boogie’? (You're googling that, don’t lie).

While the frozen ribeye was sizzling in one frying pan, a couple of eggs were being scrambled in another. After an hour of feasting on steak, eggs and ice cream, I was ready to feather my nest for the night. The old Boy Scout principle, Leave No Trace, was important to me, so I was careful to clean up after myself. Who would miss a ribeye and a pint of fudge ribbon ice cream, anyways? Besides, it was already dark outside and the weather had devolved into a full-blown blizzard, with the wind howling like a pack of wolves on the other side of the thick log walls. In Yellowstone National Park, the howling wolves was entirely possible. If I was going to be charged with trespassing, surely they’d understand that I was just trying to survive a Wyoming snowstorm.

—

In no time I had a roaring fire crackling in the fireplace. Taking cushions from the mission-style sofas to place close to the warmth, I made myself a cozy sleeping platform and settled in. Yeah, it was kind of creepy, but I wasn’t one to jump to paranormal conclusions with every creak in the floorboards or flutterings in the rafters. Noises like footfalls, sighs and groans were to be expected in a 100-year-old structure made mostly of timbers, right? I’d always had the opinion that folks who got spooked by such things were just silly and superstitious.

I was curious, though, to learn more of the history of this place, so with the remaining battery power I had left, I searched “Old Faithful Inn.” The first article to pop up was as follows:

Headless Bride Ghost of Old Faithful Inn

Yellowstone has many ghosts stories, but the most famous tale is that of a headless bride who walks down the stairs from the Crow’s Nest in the Old Faithful Inn. The legend starts in 1915 New York. The wealthy owner of a shipping company had a teenage daughter who rebelliously married an older man who worked as a servant in the house. They went to Yellowstone for their honeymoon, staying in the Old Faithful Inn’s room 127. It was a fairly new hotel then, and it was “the” place to take a fashionable vacation.

On the way to Yellowstone, the groom spent his bride’s dowry at taverns and playing poker. The couple soon ran out of money. There wasn’t even enough left to pay their hotel bill. Staff at the Old Faithful Inn witnessed nightly arguments, loud enough to be heard outside their private room. 

Then one night the argument was louder and more violent than usual. The husband stormed out of the hotel room slamming the door. This was the last anyone would see of him. The hotel staff gave the new bride her privacy for a couple of days, but then they became worried and took a peek inside the room. It looked like a hurricane had thrown every bit of bedding and clothing about the room, but the bride was not in the bedroom. A hotel maid ventured into the bathroom and her screams brought many of the staff and guests to find the bride in the bathtub, bloody, and missing her head. Although they searched the hotel, her head was nowhere to be found.

Over the years, guests have sighted an apparition of a woman wearing a flowing white dress, walking down the stairs from the Crow’s Nest, with her head under her arm.

—

Okaaay, whaaat? Room 127? That had to be on the main floor level—my level—probably off a hallway just beyond the visqueen, ladders and scaffolding at the other end of the great room.

Curiosity and bravado left me simultaneously and I slapped the flip-phone shut with a loud snap, hands shaking. I felt the blood leaving my head and rushing somewhere else. My main focus now was to see no evil and hear no evil for the next eight hours, so after tossing several big logs on the fire to keep it going through the night, I covered my head with my down jacket and prayed for daylight.

In the morning, though the snowstorm had passed and the sun was shining brightly, I would’ve been hard-pressed to find the ski trail if it hadn’t been for an early morning snowmobile group passing through and leaving their tracks for me to follow.

I had told Bonnie some tall tales over the years, and this one was sure to be a doozie.