Not far off route 321, within the western boundaries of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, there lies a piece of land known from the time of the earliest settlers as Cade’s Cove. Some say it got its name from a Cherokee Indian Chief by the name of Kade. His people, so it’s told, were among the first human beings to hunt this land and to cut the first trails, some of which still crisscross the tributaries and fields of the valley floor.

It’s called a cove because the mountains surround it. A valley runs between the mountains with a passageway at both ends. Cade’s Cove has one narrow entrance between the mountains on the east end. The only way out along any other boundary is up and over. Like a cove on a lake, there’s one way in and one way out.

I came here for the first time in the summer of 2022. I had rented a cabin for me and the kids and their families over in Wear’s Valley, about 30 minutes away. They all wanted to spend the day at Dollywood in Pigeon Forge. I wanted to take in the beauty of the National Park.

I didn’t know much about Cade’s Cove. I had heard of it but didn’t really know what it had to offer. So, I spent the first part of the day meandering along the Little River. I took a lot of pictures that day. I found great pleasure in sitting on the rocks at the water’s edge, just letting the river rush by along with a thousand thoughts about my life.

I packed a sandwich for lunch. It was past noon when I finished. I put my camera and thermos away and headed west through the park toward The Cove. Right where the Little River turns north toward Townsend, the park highway bends a little southwest. The sign reads, “Cade’s Cove Straight Ahead.”

There’s nothing straight about the road to Cade’s Cove. Steep and winding. Massive rock retaining walls built by the park service that hold back the slope of the mountains. The road’s edge kisses up against the creek that falls down through the hollow. Every slope is blanketed in Rhododendron as far as the eye can see.

It was a Wednesday when I pulled into the parking lot at the entrance. I rolled past all the cars down to the gate at the far end only to find it was closed. A large sign stood in front of the gate, and I read these words…

Closed Wednesdays to Vehicular Traffic
Pedestrians and Bicycles Only

Just my luck. I pick the one day of the week to visit a place where, if I want to see it, I’ve got two choices. My feet or a bicycle, and I don’t have a bicycle.

I walked for about an hour. I saw a few horses in the field near the stables. An old, barbed wire fence followed the road in and out of the shade that occasionally arched over my path. Kids on bicycles sped by me like I was standing still. Old people on electric bikes whirred by. When I got to the sign that said it was 9 more miles around the loop, I turned around and walked back to my truck.

Marion teases me. “So, you’ve never been to Cade’s Cove.”

“No. I’ve been there once before.”

“Okay…you went there, but you really didn’t see the Cove.”

“Not a blessed thing but a wire fence.”

When we left the youth conference last Sunday, the plan was to visit Cade’s Cove on the way home. We had plenty of time. It wasn’t that far away. I was eager to see what I had missed years before. And it wasn’t a Wednesday.

The parking lot was empty. Maybe one other car. We stopped at the shelter to get a map of the road that loops through the valley. This time the gate at the end of the parking lot was open.

I pointed out to Marion the sign where I had turned around on my first visit. She had no mercy.

“You really didn’t see anything, did you?”

When the first European settlers came to the Cove around 1820, there were few if any fields here. Ancient forests covered the mountain slopes and most of the flat lands along the creeks. They chose this spot because it was protected on all sides by the mountains. It was a safe place, almost isolated from the rest of the world. And they knew that the bottom lands would be rich for farming.

Tennessee had been ratified as the 16th State only 24 years earlier. Land deeds were being offered for this 6,800 acre hidden gem of the Appalachian Mountains. The pioneers built their cabins and barns at the foot of the mountains, leaving the bottom lands to be cleared and farmed. At its peak, the Cove was home to over 700 people. And for generations, their families remained here until their homesteads became part of the National Park in 1935.

Much of what they built remains. Their church buildings. Their log homes. The mills. The barns. Some of the structures are original. Some were destroyed by fire. Some have been recreated by the National Park. To stop and walk here is to touch a part of our common history.

We walked inside the Primitive Baptist Church. Ancient wood floors, walls and ceiling. No light fixtures. No conveniences. A handful of windows allowing the sunlight to enter. A couple dozen wooden pews that bear the marks and scuffs of boots and hands hardened by the labor it took to make a life here.

We were alone. The acoustics of the room begged for a hymn to be sung. I’m no singer, but I obliged with a verse of Victory in Jesus. The voices of my childhood reverberated like an echo in a cavern.

There’s a soulful tranquility found in Cade’s Cove. We step out of the truck to watch a massive white tail buck grazing in the field. The mountains rise up in the distance. The blue haze filters the light of an overcast day. Snow flurries are falling in the silence around us.

All the while I imagine the people who once lived here. Listening hard, I can hear the rattle and creak of a farm wagon making its way across Abram’s creek that splits the valley floor in half. I can hear an old woman in a long dress calling the men in for supper. Smoke is rising from a dozen chimneys scattered along the mountains.

There’s something magical about this quiet land. I could stand here for a long time soaking up the lore of its rich imagery. I can almost see it covered in snow. I can see the fields and the trees emerging green in the early spring. I can touch the notches in the hand hewn logs and know something of the sacrifices made to make this place a home.

No doubt, I will need to return here someday. There’s a serenity in this place not easily forgotten.

My second visit was much better than my first.