“I want you to tell me where I can find the ghost bride.”
That’s how it started—over a plate of lukewarm huevos rancheros at a dusty diner just outside Silverton, Colorado. My editor, who had a knack for dramatic setups, leaned in like she was pitching a blockbuster. "A legend. A haunted chapel. You’ve got this, Gray. Go find her."
As someone who’s spent a lifetime telling stories about Colorado’s past—its gunslingers, gold miners, and heartbreak-prone pioneers—this one struck a chord. The ghost bride of Silverton was supposedly the specter of a jilted woman who, legend had it, hiked up a mountain in her wedding dress, only to perish waiting for the groom who never came. Locals claimed she could be spotted around the old chapel, mournful and pacing, still clutching her bouquet like he might round the bend any second. It was the kind of Old West heartbreak I’ve built my career on. And, maybe—just maybe—it was finally the excuse I needed to buy those hiking boots I’d been eyeing.
Little did I know, ghost hunting (or whatever you call amateur field research with a side of local myths) would lead to one of the weirdest experiences of my life.
The Setup: Hiking in a Wedding Tux
I’m nothing if not thorough, and there’s a part of me that thrives on going full method for every story. When I wrote about ranch life, I spent two weeks mucking stalls on a working horse ranch. When I covered a piece on the last surviving stagecoaches in Colorado, I almost broke my tailbone trying to drive one (note to self: hire real cowboys next time). This time? I decided to channel the spectral energy of the groom who never showed.
Which is why, a week later, I was stumbling up the side of an alpine trail in a three-piece tuxedo. Let me clarify: it wasn’t a new tuxedo. No, this was the kind of polyester relic you’d find deep in the racks of a Goodwill, smelling faintly of mothballs and regret. It was also two sizes too small—a detail that would come back to haunt me, pun intended.
My theory was simple: maybe, just maybe, the ghost bride would respond to someone playing her ill-fated counterpart. You know, like those rom-coms where the protagonist has to make a grand gesture. In hindsight, though, this was less “rom-com” and more slapstick comedy meets Scooby-Doo.
Lesson 1: Don’t Believe Everything Locals Tell You
After two hours of huffing up switchbacks (pro tip: tuxedo shoes are not hiking-friendly), I reached the old chapel. I’ll admit, it looked every bit like the set of a gothic Western—weather-beaten wood, shattered stained glass, and enough eerie silence to make you second-guess your life choices. I set up camp just outside, thinking I’d wait for the ghost bride to make her evening guest appearance.
Now, here’s the thing about ghost stories in small mountain towns: locals love to embellish. By "locals," I mean a retired gold miner named Bill, who’d sold me on the idea of bringing the ghost an offering—a token, if you will, to build rapport. His suggestion? A bouquet of wildflowers tied with twine. Naturally, I showed up with said bouquet arranged like something straight out of a Pinterest wedding board. (What can I say? My ranching roots gave me nimble fingers.)
But as the winds picked up and darkness slithered across the mountaintop, it hit me: I had no idea what I was actually supposed to do. Was I supposed to call out to her? Knock on the chapel door? Yelp a poem into the void? None of this had felt particularly ridiculous during my morning coffee. Now, standing there in a sweaty tux clutching a bouquet like I’d missed my own prom date, reality sank in.
Lesson 2: Things Can Always Get Weirder
Let me paint the picture. It’s close to midnight. The stars have spilled out across the sky like shattered glass, and the nearest cell signal is at least 10 miles away. I’m halfway convinced I’ll either freeze to death or be eaten by mountain lions—and that's when I hear it: footsteps crunching on gravel.
My mind immediately darted to the least rational explanation (ghost bride, obviously) as I wheeled around, bouquet raised like some kind of floral defense mechanism. But it wasn’t a ghost. Oh no, it was something far more embarrassing—a group of campers who’d decided to trek up to the chapel after hearing about the legend from, you guessed it, Bill.
As they illuminated me with their headlamps, there stood a very real, very sweaty man in a tuxedo holding flowers. If I’ve ever radiated the energy of a deranged wedding crasher, it was in that moment. “You, uh… lose your bride?” one camper asked, his voice teetering between pity and confusion.
What do you even say to that? I mumbled something about writing a story and awkwardly shuffled away, fully aware I’d become someone else’s Colorado ghost story—the Tuxedo Man of Silverton, haunted by bad decisions.
Moral of the Story: Connection Comes in Strange Forms
While I never found the ghost bride (shocking, I know), that night turned into an unexpected conversation with the group of campers. Sitting around a fire they were kind enough to share with me, my tuxedo became less a costume and more a conversation starter. We talked about lost loves, grand gestures, and the modern-day equivalent of ghost brides—those we wait for, even when we know deep down they’re not coming.
Maybe the whole point wasn’t about finding her at all. Maybe it was about realizing that sometimes we move mountains (or climb them) chasing things we think we need, only to uncover the thing that really matters: connection. Sure, I had to endure some light ribbing about my choice of “performance art,” but I left that mountain with a half-decent story and a truth I keep coming back to, even now:
The weirdest adventures, the ones we might chalk up to mishaps or missteps, are often the ones that leave us feeling most alive. They’re the ones we tell in crowded rooms, embellishing details just enough to make them sparkle. And in my case? They’re the ones that remind me why I write in the first place.
So, if you ever find yourself on a mountainside in a tuxedo holding flowers—terrible footwear and all—know you’re in good company. Ghosts or no ghosts, you’re bound to discover something worth remembering. Or, at the very least, worth laughing about.
