NATURAL LIGHT SHOW
Fireflies put on quite a show as they flash in sync, all in the name of love
Fireflies in the Smoky Mountains
For two or three weeks in late May and early June, Great Smoky Mountains National Park pulsates with light and darkness, the beginning and end of life, and Photinus carolinus and Homo sapiens.
The park in eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina is home to the uncommon synchronous firefly who turns the springtime mating ritual into a dazzling incandescent performance. After lying low in a larval and pupal state for one to two years, the freshly winged males rise from the forest floor and twinkle in concert, entrancing thousands of observers.
Apparently, girl fireflies are attracted to in sync sparkle.
Spoiler alert: The adults die after mission accomplished.
I took my place behind a group of six adults. At 7 p.m. on Wednesday, the trolley line was several links long. It shimmied down one side of the lot, parted at the vehicle entryway, then resumed along the grass. People carried folding lawn chairs, blankets and coolers. A few minutes after 8:30, I finally boarded the trolley, one of seven vehicles provided by the town of Gatlinburg. I gave a buck to an attendant and sat down on a hard, wooden bench for the 15-minute ride.
A park ranger stationed on the trolley prepared us for the upcoming attraction. He told us the fireflies hover in the knee-highto-waist range. He explained they sometimes move like a wave formation at a sports stadium. And he introduced us to the other bioluminescent bugs in the ’hood: the blue ghost, which emits a Cookie Monster-hued light that lasts for 30 to 40 seconds, and the flashbulb, which mimics other fireflies’ signals — and not because it wants to make an OkInsect connection.
“If the light goes out, are they mating?” he said. “No, the flashbulb is eating the other firefly.”
The synchronous fireflies start to flicker at about 9:30, but they don’t really rev up until 10. (They call it a night at around 11:30.) “If you leave before 10,” he said, “you will make Ranger John very sad.”
I disembarked with the Hill family, who had struck lightning twice, including last year. The group of six, including two children, hauled folding chairs, chips, milk, bug spray, ginger ale and a stuffed kitten named Lylah.
“You just sit and wait on them,” advised the dad, Dickie.
Before entering the inky trail, park employees handed out squares of red cellophane and rubber bands, for covering flashlights and smartphones. Direct light can disturb the fireflies. Visitors set up their gear along the ruddy path, which ended with a row of orange cones about three-quarters of mile from the trail head. The scene resembled a parade route with people facing outward, at the thicket of tulip poplars, hemlocks, red oaks and maple trees. Pinpricks of red light appeared like beady mouse eyes in the woods, evidence of bushwhackers braving the poison ivy for a closer look.
When scouting out a viewing spot, choose a quiet area with an open understory and a dark canopy. Similar to a bar, the fireflies don’t want obstacles obstructing their communication channels. Instead of husky frat boys and pool tables, the insects have to contend with second-growth trees and boulders.
I walked a few steps in and saw a spark of light.
I had mistakenly assumed the fireflies would switch on like floodlights at an evening baseball game, but the synchronicity was much more subtle and less choreographed. For eight to 10 seconds, pops of light swirled before me: high and low, to the left and to the right, in the foreground and the background. And then, without warning, someone would pull the plug and the fireflies would plunge into darkness.
During this seconds-long period, the females would respond with a double flash. However, their light was too faint to see, so I used my downtime to count Mississippis until the males resumed their courtship.
The moon was bright and the fireflies weren’t as outgoing as the first night. (They tend to peak on the fourth evening.) I discovered a pocket of activity halfway up the trail and watched transfixed. At 11 p.m., a park employee broke the magical spell. Time to catch the trolley. I reconnected with the Hills on the return trek. The littlest member, Kennedy, was asleep in her grandfather’s arms. Her mother, Whitney Johnson, was stiff from carrying her, plus itchy from bugs. Her brother, Dustin, had to catch a 7 a.m. flight back to New York. They had a 90-minute drive ahead of them, and we didn’t board the trolley till close to midnight.
I asked the family if they planned to try for a third year of synchronous fireflies. They all said yes.