So there we were—rolling through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in a motor coach big enough to qualify for its own zip code—when the guide announced we’d be pulling over to see bears. Actual bears. Black bears. In the wild! Not behind glass or in a nature documentary. Live bears, no cage, no rewind button.
My wife Trish, the more pragmatic half of our duo, peered out the window and declared, “I can see them from here. I’m all set.” This is the same woman who once tried to shoo a coyote out of our yard with a Coke can with coins in it, but draws the line at walking toward anything with claws and dietary flexibility.
“Have fun,” she added. “Take some nice pictures—preferably before the mauling starts.”
Emboldened by either curiosity or a caffeine high, I hopped off the coach with my camera slung around my neck like a press badge for the Discovery Channel. What struck me first about the black bears of Tennessee wasn’t their size or even the adorable cubs frolicking like forest toddlers. No, it was how they somehow managed to vanish into broad daylight. A black bear in the Smokies is basically a shadow with fur.
Trying to photograph them was like aiming your camera at a patch of darkness and saying, “Say cheese!” My camera’s spot metering was doing its best impression of a blindfolded toddler playing hide-and-seek. You don’t really notice the bear until you notice the plants aren’t rustling the way they should, and there’s this oddly bear-shaped blob lurking just behind them.
At one point, I spotted a mother bear crossing the road with four cubs in tow, looking like a proud but overworked kindergarten teacher. I managed to snap a few shots and was already mentally composing my National Geographic submission when I noticed a shadow that could be another bear just off the path.
I really couldn’t make out any shape so I took two photos—one with normal exposure, and another with spot metering to overexpose the picture, where you could clearly see the bear. And it wasn’t just a bear. She was sitting with her back against a tree like a hiker who gave up halfway through a trail snack, three cubs clambering around her.
Honestly, if I hadn’t seen a bear revealed in the darkness before, I’d have walked right past her thinking, “Huh. Weird shadow.”
And that’s what amazed me most: these majestic, lumbering creatures can disappear into the forest like magicians wearing fur coats. Nature is incredible—and sneaky. It’ll hide a 300-pound predator 30 feet in front of you just to teach you a lesson in humility and maybe photography.
Next time, I might just join Trish on the bus. She looked perfectly relaxed, scrolling through the photos I risked life and limb to take – exaggeration for emphasis.
From a safe distance, of course.
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