Great Smokies, Greater Sweat

 

Chapter 14: Elk Don’t Care About My Itinerary

We rolled into Smokemont Campground after a scenic drive, only to be stopped by elk casually wandering across the road. They moved with the kind of entitlement you usually only see in Manhattan pedestrians. At camp, I looked around at the setups people hauled in — giant rigs with awnings, fairy lights, and portable living rooms — while we parked our little van by a quiet creekside. Nights were sticky, the kind where you debate whether to suffocate with the windows closed or risk bears with them open. No bears came, but the sweat always did.

Chapter 15: Too Many Butterflies and Questionable Decisions

The Smokemont loop was billed as “moderate,” which in park ranger speak means “you’ll regret this.” The trail was humid, horsey, and way too many butterflies swarming suspiciously close to my face. I am not sure this is common knowledge, but butterflies love pee and poop because apparently, salt and nutrients taste better than nectar, killed the romantic mood didn't I!  I remember from my childhood that a friend of my dad's was an aspiring wildlife photographer, and he always talked about his secret to beautiful photos of butterflies being to wee next to a bush that he wanted as the background of the photos!  We hiked past some backcountry camp sites and I thoroughly admired the bear pulley system (basically “hang your food or good luck to you”) as thunder started rolling in. We hustled back just in time to avoid a drenching, ate dinner by the creek, and pretended it was all part of the plan.

Chapter 16: A Walk in the Woods, Minus the Views

We set out from Newfound Gap full of optimism, convinced I was about to have my own Bill Bryson moment — some mix of transcendence, comic revelation, and sweeping mountain views. What I got instead was an unbroken parade of trees. Just trees. (Bryson did warn me about this LOL) Imagine walking on a treadmill in a humidifier showroom and you’ve got the general vibe.

Bryson wrote that a walk in the woods teaches you about yourself. I learned that I can sweat through fabrics I didn’t think possible, and that when the trail map says “scenic,” it might just mean “scenery exists, somewhere, but not for you.”  Having said all that, it is special to be able to say 'I have hiked the Appalachian Trail' (fine print: the hike was 4 out of the 2,174 miles of the AT) and I wouldn't skip this for anything else.

The real entertainment came later, in Cades Cove, when eight — yes, eight — bears wandered across the loop in one late afternoon. Some visitors immediately leapt from their cars with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for Black Friday sales. Kids ran after the bears like they were auditioning for When Natural Selection Strikes Back. Bryson would have loved it: the solemn majesty of nature, interrupted by humans doing their absolute best to get eaten.

I, meanwhile, stayed firmly buckled in, the way any sensible coward does, watching the chaos and thinking: At least I don’t have to out-hike a bear today.

Chapter 17: The Pee Pee Express

Cades Cove closes its gate to cars every Wednesday and the whole 11 mile is reserved for cyclists and hikers only.  I was super excited for the ride... However, after surviving the grueling 11-mile ride around the loop, I realized my ambition to ride it multiple times was laughably optimistic. One full loop had completely wiped me out. From that point on, the bicycle’s main function was no longer grand adventure or sightseeing—it had been demoted to the campground restroom shuttle. Every trip to the toilets became a quick ride on two wheels, earning my own personal nickname: the “pee pee express.”

John Oliver's cabin (not THAT John Oliver) in Cade's Cove

Even so, these little jaunts had their perks. On one such ride, Nelson and I indulged in a brief but glorious ice cream break—$5.50 for a single scoop, but worth every cent in the sweltering heat. As we sat in the shade, savoring that overpriced sweetness, I realized this was the perfect way to slow down and enjoy the Smokies, even if my legs had decided otherwise.

Returning to the van each time brought a tiny sense of triumph: dry clothes, cool air, and the knowledge that I had survived Cades Cove in my own exhausted, slightly ridiculous way. The “pee pee express” might not have been glamorous, but it was effective—and in a park this beautiful, even the smallest victories felt epic.

Epilogue: From Snow-In to Seasoned

As we packed up to leave the Smokies after a jam-packed 5 days, I thought about how far we’d come since that winter of 2020, huddled behind home-made suction cup curtains while using an IKEA shoe rack as shelf + cook top and pretending it counted as vanlife. Back then, it was all trial and error (mostly error). Now, in 2025, it feels like real luxury to have real systems and the satisfying ache of miles well-traveled. I was bug-bitten, sunburned, and occasionally soaked through, but I was also learning to love this strange rhythm of the road. Somewhere between the elk traffic jams, the hot-and-sour soup daydreams, and that overpriced ice cream cone, vanlife started to feel less like a trip and more like a life.

Christmas Eve 2020 in Cade's Cove, fellow campers who went into town for dinner that night never made it back since NPS closed the road.