If you’ve spent any real time in the North Carolina woods—not just a Sunday drive through the National Forest—then you know black bear are part of the deal. They’re as much a part of this place as dogwoods and tobacco barns. Around here, everybody’s got a bear story. And if they don’t, they know somebody who does.
Even folks just passing through end up with a tale—spotting one from the car on a gravel road in Cataloochee, or watching one wander through a campground like it owns the place (because honestly, it kinda does).
They’re beautiful animals. The way they move—slow and unbothered—like time runs on their schedule. From a distance, it’s easy to picture teddy bears or cartoons. But don’t be fooled: they’re anything but cuddly.
Black bears are smart, quick, and stronger than they look. And while most of ’em would rather steer clear of people, if you get between a mama and her cub—or wave a MoonPie around like a dinner bell—you’re asking for trouble.
Growing up in Canton, black bears were just part of the landscape. They’d come down out of Pisgah to drink from the creek at Long Branch in Dutch Cove. Sometimes Papaw or Daddy would take me up the hill to watch the mamas with their cubs from a safe distance. That’s when I first understood: we were in their woods, not the other way around. It’s a lesson that stuck.
I’ll never forget the day Kodecker FaceTimed me, whispering like we were in church. There was a cub standing on her porch, staring at Bubba through the glass door.
Mama bear was out in the driveway, trying to break into her car. Bubba was knee-high to a grasshopper and thought it was the greatest thing he’d ever seen. Kodecker, not so much. She had to wait it out till the bears moved on before she could even leave the house.
Black bears—Ursus americanus—called North Carolina home long before two-lane roads or wraparound porches. Most are dark brown or black, though every now and then you’ll see one with a reddish tint, especially farther west. Males can weigh over 600 pounds. Females run smaller, but they’re just as tough. They’ve got sharp noses and sharp memories. If they find food once—birdseed, trash, dog food—they’ll be back.
They’re woven into the deeper stories of this land, too. The Cherokee, who’ve lived in Western North Carolina for centuries, have long honored the bear. One of their seven original clans is the Bear Clan, known for raising medicine people, especially healers for children. There’s a Cherokee story about a boy who left his people to live with the bears. After a time, he brought his family to join him. Before they disappeared into the woods, they said, “We’ll always live in the forest. If you’re hungry, call for us. We’ll come.”
That mix of reverence and respect—it’s always stayed with me. Because black bears aren’t pests. They aren’t Instagram fodder. They’re part of the story of this place. Our cultural heritage.
And while they’re making a strong comeback thanks to conservation efforts—and folks like Appalachian Bear Rescue doing good work—that also means we’re crossing paths with them more often. That’s where things get tricky.
I’ve seen people walk right up to a bear in Cades Cove like it was a golden retriever. I’ve seen videos of folks pulling cubs out of trees for selfies. And all I can think is—y’all should know better. At the very least, you ought to act like it.
So if you’re hiking through Pisgah or sitting on your back porch and a bear ambles by, enjoy the moment. Take a picture, sure. But don’t feed them. Don’t follow them. Don’t chase them off. And for the love of sweet baby Jesus, don’t pet them.
Just remember: this is their home, too.
They were here long before us—and if we’re smart about it, they’ll still be here long after we’re gone.
