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Cove The Smokies are full of stories—tales of mountain spirits and shadows that move when no one's looking. But those are just old campfire stories, right?
The Smokies are full of stories—tales of mountain spirits and shadows that move when no one's looking. But those are just old campfire stories, right?
By: Audrey Lanier Andersen
Cades Cove, a serene valley nestled deep in the Smokies, feels like a place where time stands still. Weathered homesteads, oneroom churches, and abandoned family cemeteries lie scattered across the valley, serving as silent reminders of the resilient Appalachian settlers who once called this place home. Their lives were marked by self-reliance and a deep-rooted connection to the land, and though they are long gone, their presence lingers in the misty fields and dense woodlands.
I spent the afternoon of October 6 in Cades Cove, hiking along the Rich Mountain Loop Trail in search of black bears while admiring the beauty of autumn in Southern Appalachia. As the day wore on, the fading light signaled that evening was approaching, and with it, an opportunity I had long awaited— a perfectly dark night to capture the Milky Way from Cades Cove.
The sun set at 7:13 p.m. just as I passed the visitor
center and headed down
Ghost
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Parson’s Branch Road, hoping to catch a glimpse of “Hollywood,” a coyote I often encounter in that area. By the time I reached Hyatt Lane, darkness had enveloped the landscape, and the usual bustle had faded into the tranquil sounds of nature. The last visitors had trickled out, leaving behind an eerie yet peaceful solitude—a rare moment in this ordinarily crowded place.
I put my car in park and rolled down the windows. Twilight faded into the deep blues of night. I knew that in about 10 minutes, the Milky Way would become visible in the southern sky. There was so little light I could not even see the fields of tall grass that line both sides of Hyatt Lane. I knew the crescent moon would soon fall below the horizon, leaving the sky perfectly dark for the shot I’d been dreaming of.
I stepped out onto the dirt road, camera in hand, to prepare for the shot. I took a few 12-second exposures just to frame the shot and confirm my settings, then I turned off my camera and stood silently to wait on the moon to set. A cool breeze whispered through the valley, and the deepening night wrapped around me like a soft, dark blanket. I welcomed the quiet and solitude, at peace beneath the vast sky. But as the moon faded and darkness deepened, the air subtly shifted. The silence grew heavier, as if the night itself was holding its breath, watching.
Then something caught my ear—a sound, faint but distinct, coming from nearby.
I froze; ears straining to identify the noise. It was close—too close—and not small. My mind raced. “Do bears move at night?” I wondered, suddenly aware of the vast black wilderness that surrounded me. A pack of coyotes howled in the distance, their mournful calls echoing off the mountains lining the valley. Normally, I would have reveled in such a wild, untamed sound, but tonight it seemed to carry a sense of foreboding.
The once-familiar landscape now felt foreign, almost otherworldly. I became acutely aware that I was alone in the darkness. The campground was approximately 5 miles away from where I stood, and there was zero cell phone signal. A part of me wanted to stay, to absorb the beauty of the Milky Way as it slowly revealed itself against the deepening night sky. But another part of me urged caution, warning of the things that move in the darkness unseen.
Playing it safe, I climbed back into my Bronco, leaving my camera outside atop the tripod. I rolled the windows down to better listen for any further sounds. Again, the noise broke the silence, closer this time—something moving through the thick grass to my left. My pulse quickened, and instinctively, I reached for the ignition.
The Bronco roared to life, casting bright beams of light onto the dirt road ahead. I promptly engaged the 360-degree cameras, hoping they’d offer a better view of whatever was out there. As I glanced at the screen—a jolt of fear shot through me.
Something dashed across Hyatt Lane, right in front of the car—mere feet beyond the headlights. It moved so fast that I barely registered it, but what I did see sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn’t an animal— at least, not one I recognized. It was large, about the size of a bear or a wild boar, but there was something off.
It didn’t run, not exactly. It floated—low to the ground, moving with an unnatural grace, as if it wasn’t tethered to the earth. The figure was white, but not solid—almost translucent, like a wisp of fog or a shadow of light. It was there, and yet, it wasn’t. I blinked, straining to make sense of what I had just seen, but it was already gone, swallowed by the darkness.
I sat there, frozen, heart pounding. Part of me wanted to drive away immediately, but my tripod and camera were still out there, standing in the middle of Hyatt Lane. After a long, shaky breath, I leaned out the window, trying to grab them without getting out of the Bronco. No such luck—they were too far away There was no avoiding it—I had to step back out into the night. As I stepped out of the safety of my vehicle, the coyotes howled again, closer this time, as if reminding me of my isolation. I moved quickly, heart racing as I disconnected the camera from the ball head and collapsed the tripod. My hands shook as I fumbled with each of the tripod’s nine joints, all the while feeling as though unseen eyes watched me from the shadows.
Once I had my equipment, I bolted back into the Bronco, slammed the door, immediately locked the doors and hit the gas. The tires kicked up gravel on the narrow dirt road, but I didn’t care—I just wanted to get out of there!I barely slowed down as I made the left turn from Hyatt Lane onto the paved Loop Road. Four miles stretched between me and the exit, and with every turn, I glanced nervously in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see something strange chasing me.
Finally I reached the “Support the Bears” collection box, a sign I knew meant I was nearing the exit. Relief washed over me as the familiar sight of the stop sign across from the Cades Cove Campground Store came into view. The moment I reached it, I finally exhaled. I was no longer alone in the depths of the dark cove.
As I drove out of Cades Cove and on toward Townsend, Tennessee that night, heart still racing from the frightening encounter, I couldn’t help but reflect on the strangeness of it all. I had come to capture the Milky Way, only to find myself fleeing from a “ghost” like some character in an old Scooby-Doo cartoon. My Milky Way shot was nice, but not quite what I had envisioned— the faint glow of the crescent moon lingered in the frame, softening the darkness I had hoped for. Yet, as I reviewed the image, I understood it was now a testament to the night’s unexpected encounter, a reflection of the mysteries waiting to be uncovered in the Smoky Mountains.
What had I seen out there? Perhaps it was just the wind teasing the tall grass, or maybe my mind played tricks on me under the weight of the night’s stillness. But part of me wonders if I caught a glimpse of something far more mysterious—something woven into the very fabric of the ancient valley. Maybe, just maybe, the spirits of those who once walked these hills and worked this land were there with me that evening, reminding me that some mysteries of the Smoky Mountains are meant to remain unsolved.
In the end, whether it was a fleeting brush with the past or simply the magic of the mountains, I left with a deeper appreciation for this place—its beauty, its history, and the way it can make even the most rational among us question what’s real, and what’s not. Cades Cove may be serene by day, but as night falls, it whispers of things long forgotten—its people, its stories, and the boundary between this world and the one unseen.
