Only Bikes on Wednesdays: Experiencing Wildlife as a Pedestrian

My family has been visiting Cade’s Cove for as long as I can remember. From sunrise drives around the 11-mile scenic loop to semi-arduous hikes to historic buildings and roaring waterfalls, I’ve spent much time in the Cove.

The popularity of this valley in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park is also its greatest drawback. If you visit during a busy part of the day, it may take two to three hours to drive the single-lane loop—especially if cars are stopping to view American black bears or other wildlife that have wandered near the roadside. Instead of an awe-inspiring commune with nature, you might end up feeling like you’re stuck in traffic.

Hiking the trails accessible from the loop helps avoid the crowds, of course. Abrams Falls is my favorite. At the end of the 2.5-mile trail, a glorious 25-foot waterfall awaits.

I’ve also enjoyed horseback riding in the Cove. Off the beaten path, wildlife don’t shy away from the horses. But you’ll still be crossing over the car-crowded Loop Road.

On my most recent trip to Cades Cove, however, I did something I’ve never done before. I visited on a Wednesday when the Loop closes to vehicle traffic.

Abrams Falls Photo: Terri Marshall

A Brief History of the Cove

Archeology suggests that Cade’s Cove served as a hunting ground for local Cherokee Tribes. This is no surprise when you observe the volume and variety of wildlife living there—black bears, white-tailed deer, pileated woodpeckers, great blue herons, foxes, coyotes, turkeys, and more.

European settlers moved into the Cove during the 1810s, and a community of 271 individuals called Cades Cove home by 1830. In the late 1920s, it became part of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, but evidences of earlier human activity abound. You can explore barns, churches, cabins, and mills preserved there.

Vehicle-free days, enforced each Wednesday from May through September, tilt these experiences toward the transportive. These structures were born before the advent of the automobile, and it feels satisfyingly fitting to measure the distances between them with your own two feet. It provides a more vigorous sense of what the community of Cades Cove was like in its heyday, bringing to life a figurative page out of the area’s—and the country’s—history book.

I soon found, though, that the Cove was more alive than I ever imagined.

At One With the Wildlife

To my left I saw grazing horses. I wondered if any one of them was Baby Dot, the persnickety little mare I’d ridden a few years earlier. She was the only horse on the guided trail ride who’d needed to be reined in.

Next, I noticed how the wildlife—typically unafraid of the cars—were even less hesitant to approach the roads with only pedestrians present. Deer and turkey roamed everywhere.

As we passed the Pearl Harbor Tree—a photogenic gum tree planted on the day of the attack on December 7, 1941—I wondered if we would see any bears. Black bears are the unofficial mascots of the Smokies, and everyone wants to see them. I thought back to a family trip many years ago when I’d spotted a large bear lying on a branch in that tree, its legs dangling in sleep.

As we turned from Hyatt Lane onto the Cades Cove Loop Road, we met a group of cyclists raving about the bears they’d just seen. I felt a pang, worried that this trip would be bare of bears for my group.

We continued, pausing when we heard shouts behind us. A group of cyclists had become separated from one another as an adult bear crossed the road. Those nearest us continued to a safe distance, while those on the other side of the animal paused to let her pass. She was followed by several lanky, juvenile cubs who lingered, sniffing the roadside.

We were ecstatic; we’d seen our bears! We achieved the wildlife enthusiast’s main goal in coming to Cades Cove. As the bears retreated into the underbrush, we biked on.

Meeting the locals in Cades Cove! Photo: Terri Marshall

Bears Everywhere

We soon saw cyclists ahead gazing into a field. A mother bear and two nearly grown cubs grazed in the distance, their backs barely visible above the tall grass.

Biking a bit further, we saw a man standing in the middle of the road blocking our path. His hand was outstretched and his palm flat in a “stop” gesture. He wore a hi-vis “Volunteer” shirt. About 150 feet ahead, a very large black bear placidly grazed at the edge of the road.

For fifteen minutes, we stood transfixed, occasionally walking our bikes backward at the volunteer’s behest when the bear walked closer. None of the twenty or so cyclists minded the delay, especially when tiny baby bears joined their mother—so small that they must have been born in January or February, just three to four months before.

The cubs were more skittish than their mother, who was no doubt used to these strange creatures who invaded her habitat. One of the babies retreated to a tree, and we realized there were not two but three of them. We were delighted to watch them play hide-and-seek, as we perceived it, around the trunk of a tree.

Eventually, the family of bears moved on, and so did we. We saw eleven bears in total that day—far more than I’d seen on any trip before. But we would always treasure the moments we’d spent at one with them, equals of sorts, on foot and without the shielding of our noisy vehicles.

I decided that I might not see Cades Cove by car again. Instead, I’d bring my bike and plan my trip around vehicle-free Wednesdays.

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