![]() ![]() ![]() But, as their numbers grow, expectant murmurs travel up and down the row of spectators. 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. John Caveny, a natural resource management specialist for the Grandfather Mountain Stewardship Foundation, brings his family along to observe fireflies. Tonight, I’m hoping to break the spell that screens have cast. In a time of global confusion, I’ve been trying to find answers that do not exist, and the process has only served to disrupt my animal instincts. 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 comfort me. In a sustained state of hypervigilance, I’ve fallen under the influence of phones, tablets and computers. Since the initial covid shutdown, I’ve stayed up too late, acting as if the light of screens might stave off doom. It’s as if we, as a species, have grown afraid of the dark. Internationally, artificial light pollution is growing at a rate of 2 percent a year with no signs of slowing. According to the International Dark-Sky Association, 99 percent of people in the United States don’t have access to natural night anymore, the blinking sun-and-moon patterns with which we evolved. I’m seeking fireflies’ bioluminescence, or living light, mainly because I’ve been spending too much time basking in the artificial illumination of screens. And it doesn’t feel like we’ve figured out, as a society, how to reckon with the magnitude of what we’ve been through. Even mundane errands have, throughout the pandemic, required abstract risk assessments. It’s been hard to know what to do for a long time running. It’s hard to know what to do, know what I mean?” “People aren’t wearing masks here like they are in Michigan. The woman, visiting from Michigan, empathizes. ![]() I explain to the woman that I’d dipped down to the river for a brief respite from the crowd. But, even with these limitations, the annual gathering isn’t a small one. Years ago, the National Park Service instituted a lottery for people to secure passes, since the species’ growing popularity raised concerns about conservation. The firefly event in Great Smoky Mountains National Park, which straddles this section of Tennessee and my home state of North Carolina, draws seekers from across the continent. Given that the synchronous fireflies of Elkmont are some of the most famous fireflies in the world - and that I live in their home region of southern Appalachia - coming across the study during lockdown made me think it was past time to see these brilliant creatures.Ī synchronous firefly in western North Carolina. Researchers found that, globally, 1 million people travel to witness firefly-related phenomena every year. This year, Tufts University released the first-ever comprehensive study of firefly tourism. 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. To reach a trailhead in an area of the park known as Elkmont, 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. And there’s a chimney nearby, but no house. The woman is sitting on a porch stoop, but there’s no porch. It does feel like we’ve traveled through a portal to another realm. ![]()
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