Fireflies Blinking
I’ve been in Great Smoky Mountains National Park for less than an hour when I’m mistaken for a woodland fairy. Even though I’m here to witness the ethereal phenomenon of synchronous fireflies—a species famed for its ability to flash in unison—the association is surprising since I’m feeling more like a haggard dweller of the modern world than an enchanted being of old-world mythology. In fact, when I hear a stranger calling out from across the forest glen I’m wandering, it takes me a second to realize that she’s addressing me. She waves me over and asks again: “Are you a magical creature?”
The woman gestures toward the two young children with her and says, “We saw you walk down to the river, and then you disappeared. I told the girls you must be magical. This whole place is magical. Reminds me of Narnia or something.”
It does feel like we’ve traveled through a portal to another realm. The woman is sitting on a porch stoop, but there’s no porch. And there’s a chimney nearby, but no house. To reach the Elkmont-area trailhead, we—along with hundreds of other visitors here to witness the synchronous fireflies’ light show, which generally occurs in a two-week period around early June—had to walk through an avenue of mountain cabins, abandoned after the park was formed. Remnants of the former human settlement—some of which has been lost to the elements—are visible everywhere, scattered among river-rounded stones and beds of fern.
In 2021, Tufts University released the first-ever comprehensive study of firefly tourism. They found that, globally, one million people travel to witness firefly-related phenomena every year. Given that the synchronous fireflies of Elkmont are some of the most famous fireflies in the world—and that I live in Southern Appalachia, their home region—coming across the study during a pandemic lockdown made me think it was past time for me to see these brilliant creatures.
The firefly event in Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which straddles this section of Tennessee and North Carolina, draws visitors from across the continent. Years ago, the National Park Service instituted a lottery for people to secure passes since the species’ growing popularity raised concerns about conservation. I explain to the woman that I’d dipped down to the river for a brief respite from the crowd. She empathizes. Even with attendance limitations, the annual gathering isn’t a small one.
I’m here hoping to glimpse fireflies’ bioluminescence, or living light, partly because I’ve been spending too much time basking in the illumination of screens. I’ve fallen under the influence of phones, computers, and tablets. For several seasons now, I’ve been beating myself against screens like a moth against a lightbulb, seeking entertainment that might numb me, news that might serve to comfort me. In a time of global confusion, I’ve been trying to find answers that do not exist. The process has only served to disrupt my animal instincts—and the influence of artificial light in my life isn’t limited to electronics.
According to DarkSky International, 99 percent of people in the United States live under the influence of skyglow—diffuse, artificial brightening of the night sky—with a loss of unfettered access to the blinking sun-and-moon patterns with which we evolved. Internationally, light pollution is increasing at exponential rates with no signs of slowing. It’s as if we, as a species, have grown afraid of the dark. Tonight, I’m hoping to break the spell that artificial lights have cast.
Along the trail designated for firefly viewing, people have been setting up folding chairs as if they’re waiting for a parade. They’re a diverse bunch. Despite the awkwardness of talking to strangers in the dark, I learn that there are nine-month-olds and ninety-year-olds among them. Some of them have been to the firefly viewing several times. Some, from the West Coast, are awaiting the first firefly sighting of their lives. They’ve come alone. They’ve come with their families. They’ve come because this event is something they’ve always wanted to attend and, due to the state of the world, they’ve stopped taking next year for granted.
Firefly habitat is so specific, so mercurial, that it’s possible to see a great show from one section of the trail while another remains relatively dark. No one, not even rangers, can predict the best seats for the evening, so people mill around until they find a spot that feels right to them. Finally, dusk comes.
When the first synchronous fireflies appear, sporadically flashing, they don’t seem, to my untrained eye, to be much different from common species that illuminate backyards across the country. But as their numbers grow, expectant murmurs travel up and down the row of spectators. Instinctually, when hundreds of insects grow to be thousands—each appearing to light the next in line, like a candle being passed—the crowd stands.
For a while, the insects’ rhythms remain a bit discordant, like those of an orchestra warming up. Scientists have found that the more individuals participate, the more in tune the insects become. Before long, it’s clear that the fireflies are working in unison. The effect isn’t a lights-on-lights-off situation, as I’d expected; it’s more like watching one of those raised-hand stadium waves, when people at a sporting event sequentially lift their hands, swept into the fervor of something larger than themselves.
The insects are responding to each other’s light, working with their neighbors to find their role in the whole. From a distance, the activity appears as a shimmering current of light running through the forest from right to left: Whoosh. Then darkness. Then again, a whoosh of light.
I cannot see the face of the woman beside me, but I come to attention when she calls out, “Dun, dun, dun, dunnn,” mimicking Beethoven’s famous symphony motif. “It’s like they’re playing music,” she says to someone beside her.
Spontaneously, I pipe up: “I couldn’t help overhearing what you just said about music. Have you heard about how the synchronous fireflies were found here?”
“Whoa, a messenger from the dark!” she says, laughing. “No, tell us!”
So I share what I’ve heard, about how naturalist Lynn Faust, who used to spend summers in the now-defunct Elkmont community, grew up admiring the fireflies we’re watching. As an adult, she came across an article about synchronous-flashing fireflies in Asia, and she recognized similarities in what the scientists were reporting and what she’d seen as a child.
When she reached out to researchers in the 1990s, they were skeptical that an unknown-to-science species existed in the most-visited national park in the country, so she sent a musical composition mimicking the sequence of flashes in Elkmont. It’s what convinced firefly scientists that they should make the trip to Great Smoky Mountains National Park, where they confirmed a never-before-recorded synchronous species: Photinus carolinus. This is, ultimately, how we all ended up here, bearing witness this evening.
I can sense more people gathering around me as I’m speaking. When I finish, strangers’ voices ping to my left, to my right, from the trail behind me. Their words ring like bells.
“Amazing!” says a baritone.
“Fantastic!” shouts a soprano.
“What, exactly, do you think they’re singing?” a man asks the crowd.
“Beyoncé! ‘All the Single Ladies’!” a woman says. Laughter ripples up and down the trail.
Most people in attendance seem to be familiar with the concept of firefly flashes as a function of courtship. The insects we’re seeing are males, signaling to females who stay close to the ground. Scientists generally agree about the utility of fireflies’ bioluminescence as mating-related, but they’ve long tussled over how, exactly, fireflies make light. It’s generally thought that illumination occurs when fireflies send nerve signals to their lanterns—allowing oxygen to ignite inborn organic compounds in their bodies. This means, in a roundabout way, that when you see fireflies light up, you’re watching them inhale. And these fireflies are pulsating like cells of a glowing, forest-size lung.
Collectively, the crowd gasps and sighs as fireflies crackle. But despite the dazzle, I find my eyes drifting downward toward the infinitely dark ground. Because once I started researching fireflies, I came across this unshakable fact: By the time we see fireflies in flight, they have potentially been living among us for up to two years in various life stages, dimly glowing on the ground. What we’re witnessing now is the grand finale of a long-term metamorphosis. These famed fireflies have spent much of the past year crawling around in the dark to find what they needed to survive so that their species might ultimately thrive.
There are more than 2,500 known species of fireflies in the world, and 19 of those—with synchronous being the most famous—reside within the borders of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Will Kuhn, Director of Science and Research at Discover Life in America, a nonprofit centered on biodiversity, believes there are even more. “I don’t think we’ve found all firefly species in the park,” he says. “And there’s still a lot we don’t know about the ones we have found.” If that’s true, there is a chance we won’t know what we’ve got even after it’s gone. Globally, firefly populations are under assault, and the largest threats to their well-being—according to the Tufts report—are habitat loss, pesticide use, and light pollution.
When I meet Will, the day after the Elkmont event, he’s chatting with two dozen people who’ve signed up for a synchronous firefly viewing party hosted by his organization, which often partners with universities and other research institutions. Since Discover Life in America’s founding in 1998, the group’s efforts have led to the documentation of more than 10,000 animal and plant species in Great Smoky Mountains National Park—with more than 1,000 of those being previously unknown to science.
We’re getting ready to travel down the mountain to a private creek-side habitat outside of the national park. Will knows Norton Creek to be home to a large population of synchronous fireflies, which have now been observed in Appalachia as far north as Pennsylvania. The group is already buzzing with questions. Many of them have turned to Discover Life in America because, year after year, they’ve failed to win federal lottery passes. Since they’ve found another route to witness the synchronous phenomenon, they’re already feeling lucky.
One of the women encircling Will says that she’s excited for a good show, because she only has “plain old fireflies” on her farm in Ohio. Will suggests that if she does a little research, she’ll find that her region is likely home to several species, each with their own songs. The most common firefly in the United States is the big dipper, but there are 150 species across the country, all with their own specific habitats and behaviors. Each firefly species that flashes has patterns that are as unique as fingerprints. And where you find one species in a meadow, there’s a good chance you’ll be able to find others in forests nearby. Diverse habitats breed diverse kinds of light.
Susan George, a nurse from San Antonio, Texas, lives in the city proper, and she’s always been amazed that fireflies are tenacious enough to find homes there, in rare squares of land that have been spared from asphalt and concrete. “Sometimes when I’m sitting out in my yard, fireflies land right on me,” she says.
The farmer from Ohio nods. “When they do that,” she says, “it feels like love.”
Susan gives a weak smile. “I’m here because, at the hospital, I work with bugs of a different kind,” she says. “And I really needed a break.” Everyone falls silent. We are—as any group of humans might be in the wake of a pandemic—a swarm of loss embodied.
Unfortunately, when we finally make it to the waterway, the local population of synchronous fireflies fails to greet us. There are only a few partnered dots of light. Predicting emergence dates of fireflies at Norton Creek involves, as it does everywhere, a formula of temperature patterns and other factors. But even with careful calculation, the details of firefly metamorphosis can be difficult to precisely predict. It’s several degrees cooler here than it has been in the Elkmont region of Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The synchronous residents of Norton Creek apparently need a few more days to fully wake.
Long after it’s clear that we’ve been stood up, the group continues to loiter at the edge of the woods. Just when it seems spirits are irretrievably waning, someone spots a strange orb of light rising from the understory. It peers at us from across the creek, blue and unblinking.
I’ve been familiar with the term “blue ghost” for years. Until recently, though, I didn’t understand that synchronous and blue ghost fireflies were different species. They have slightly different mating seasons, but these often overlap as conditions transition from evening to evening. Currently, on Norton Creek, it’s the blue ghost population that’s peaking.
The ghost moves toward us, floating more than flying.
Soon, there are carpets of light in and around the forest on all sides of us. These creatures, notable for their neon-blue color and enduring flashes—which hold for up to sixty seconds at a time—are visible demonstrations of how to breathe deeply. Their traceable flight patterns make them look as though they’re intoxicated.
As people scatter, I find myself walking alone. But with every step I take, more fireflies reveal themselves, until the entire mountain is trembling. Blue orb-fairies, hundreds of them, appear to be following me. They’re continuously swooping and swerving and serenading me—not as a visitor to this landscape, but as part of it.
I’ve seen the aurora borealis in the Arctic. I’ve witnessed migrations in the Serengeti. I’ve snorkeled the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. Yet I’m not sure that I’ve ever appreciated any natural phenomenon more than this marvel of Appalachia.
By the time I hear voices on the road ahead, I’ve lost all sense of time and space. In dim moonlight, I can make out half a dozen silhouettes in the distance. Will’s voice is hushed. “People typically don’t walk around at night without lights on,” he says. “But it’s amazing what happens when you let your eyes adjust to the dark, when you take the time to really look.”
For weeks after I return home, I find myself scanning meadows and creeks—not as scenic backdrops, but as habitat. Every plot of land I see is suddenly weighted with potential glory. And each night, around 9:30 p.m., when I’d typically be logging on to Netflix, I get the urge to go outside to check on the local firefly population.
The mountains of North Carolina, where I live, are primed to become the next firefly tourism hot spot. In 2019, a population of synchronous fireflies was discovered on Grandfather Mountain, a beloved regional attraction near my hometown of Boone. The entomologist who found the species—during a nocturnal stroll, taken on a whim—had been traveling a trail I’ve walked dozens of times in daylight.
The mountain is closed to night visitors, but natural resource staff members are investigating how Grandfather might host future firefly viewings without harming habitat. Surveys of synchronous populations on the mountain have led participants to find—in locales frequented by more than half a million visitors a year—previously overlooked blue ghost populations as well.
Even my ordinary front door, on the far end of neighboring Watauga County, is a portal to a parallel universe once the sun has set, though I hadn’t previously recognized it. My guided night walks in Great Smoky Mountains National Park have acted as training. Even so, it still takes me a few nights of distant firefly watching to leave the familiarity of my front porch. This ease-in approach gives me an opportunity to correct the light pollution seeping from my house, mitigating trespasses against my bioluminescent neighbors that I hadn’t been aware I was making. I close curtains, turn off porch lights. The difference made by these small changes is staggering.
As the darkness around my house deepens, I move farther out. I take to sitting beyond an old chicken coop, watching what I now understand to be femme fatale fireflies winking from treetops and big dippers plunging through meadows. Then, one night, I decide that I’m going to leave my immediate environs to explore the valley beyond.
I set out for a place where fields and forest meet. When I reach a neighbor’s livestock gate—open since its last inhabitants, a family of goats, were killed by an unidentified predator—I pause, mustering the courage to enter the rhododendron thicket in front of me, beyond briars where I often see rabbits munching and jumping. But before I embark on my chosen path, I hear rustling in the feral pasture above me.
My eyes are not fully attuned, but they’re adjusting. I use vestiges of twilight to trace the ragged outline of high grass on the hill. I’m on the verge of dismissing the sounds as manifestations of anxiety when a bobcat streaks through the air. I can see the animal arched like a crescent moon that rises and sets, nearly close enough to touch.
The predator has pounced onto something I cannot see—so quickly that I hardly have time to register what’s going on. Then, from thorny bramble, the bobcat exhales in a guttural hiss. The sound slithers around me, and I yelp from the pressure of it.
I turn to run, but somewhere beyond my conscious mind, I have a vague understanding that fleeing would trigger the animal’s prey instinct. It takes everything I have to resist running. I pivot to an alternate route, keeping my pace steady, targeting the pool of a distant security light, even though I know the light cannot save me. When I realize this, I mutter to myself: The light cannot save you. That’s when it registers: I might have set out on my firefly pilgrimage because I wanted to revel in light, but what I needed was a reconciliation with darkness.
Fireflies are light bearers, but—blue ghosts notwithstanding—it is the darkness between most species’ flashes that reveals their true character. Without intermittent darkness, there would be no firefly music, no signal, no communication. There would be no synchronized light shows, no J-stroke patterns from the common big dipper. There would only be glare. Stars are, after all, in the sky above us, even at midday, but we only see them when the sun takes its leave. Because, while it’s true that only light can drive out darkness, there are some forms of light that only darkness can reveal.
We live in an age that’s asking us to get comfortable with constant disruption. There will always be, as there always have been, threats beyond our line of sight. But as we venture into the unknown, we also stand to encounter wonders yet unimaginable. Of this, I needed to be reminded. I keep walking.
When I’m half a mile from the site of my bobcat encounter, I slow my pace. Out of the corner of my eye, a lone firefly is blinking in what appears to be the synchronous species’ recognizable pattern. It repeats, with a dark pause that holds, beat after beat. I cannot imagine that I’ve found a synchronous firefly, but I’m no longer willing to discount the potential of any patch of land in Southern Appalachia.
There are, in my best estimation, half a dozen firefly dialects being spoken here. These creatures are getting their bearings in a place that, up until now, they’ve only seen from ground level. We are simultaneously gaining new perspective of our shared habitat. In their presence, my shoulders—long tense and recently tightened by the breath of a bobcat—begin to soften. I realize that, in facing the fight-or-flight unknowns of night, even my hand muscles have clenched. I consciously unfurl my fists to accept darkness as a gift.
It was only after I started communing with fireflies that I discovered that foxfire, the region’s famed bioluminescent fungi, isn’t a single species, as I’ve always thought; it’s a term used for a myriad of glowing organisms that people once collected from the forest floor to serve as lanterns. These mountains are full of hooting owls and entire landscapes that bloom only when touched by the moon. I’m beginning to know darkness, for the first time in my life, not as a realm of unknowns best avoided, but rather as a potential state of enchantment. I begin to wonder: If fireflies can be unexpected mentors of meaning, what might moths and salamanders and the other living marvels of this dark landscape have to teach?
Slowly, entire constellations of fireflies rise from the coal-black earth around me, twinkling with oxygen. I attempt to align with their rhythm: Inhale, light. Exhale, dark. We are breathing, in sync, on this complicated planet. And even the deepest parts of the valley I’m standing in are pulsating with life, illuminated.