Looking For Lights in the Swamp

Congaree's fireflies ghosted us. But the owls delivered

I’ve been checking off bucket list items since turning 50.

Grand Canyon? Check.
Yellowstone? Check.

This year: synchronous fireflies. The kind that blink together like a living constellation. There are only a handful of places you can see them, and Congaree National Park is one. Four hours away. Easy.

I planned this trip months ago. I’d watched the predictions, read the ranger updates, and booked a campsite. And as the date of the trip approached, I grew giddy over the idea of watching unified flashes light up the woods like earthbound stars.

Then a bad migraine flattened me. I spent two days in a darkened room, flat on my back, fighting nausea and vertigo. It sucked. Migraines like that are not exactly conducive to camping. So we rolled into our campsite a full week late.

I knew we’d missed the peak, but hope is stubborn. Even if they weren’t still in sync, I figured there’d still be hundreds of lightning bugs floating through the trees like tiny lanterns. That’s what I told myself as we set up camp at dusk and headed into the dark with Penny Dog trotting ahead.

A few single flashes blinked here and there. But nothing like the spectacle I’d had in my head. I blamed the big thunderstorm that had rolled through right before we arrived. Maybe tomorrow night, I thought. Let things dry out.

The next morning, we hiked deeper into the Congaree wilderness. That big rainstorm had flooded parts of the trail, so we pulled off our boots and waded barefoot into the cool, tannic water. Penny sloshed ahead, busy with all the new swamp smells. She wasn’t there for the fireflies. She just loves a good trail hike.

The swamp feels… holy. Quiet. Ancient.

Typing that feels super cheesy, but there’s no better way to explain it. These towering old-growth trees—some of the tallest east of the Mississippi—stand like silent witnesses. Most of our eastern forests were sawn down generations ago. But not here. You feel it the moment you enter. The air presses down. and there’s a subconscious urge to drop your voice. It’s like walking into a cathedral, but one that’s been standing since before there were cathedrals.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement as a single barred owl swooped to a low branch barely twelve yards away, folding into its perch like it had always been part of the tree. It was perfect camouflage. If I hadn’t seen it land, I would never have known it was there. Its round eyes locked on mine. I eased up my camera and got a few clean frames.

I stood there watching that owl watch me for a good long while. In a staring stand-off, when a group of hikers came barreling toward us, loud and laughing like they were strolling through an amusement park. I didn’t say a word. The owl stayed still. They passed without ever seeing what was watching them. I didn’t feel any need to point it out.

Congaree demands quiet. Some places do. It feels almost dirty to speak above a whisper, like you’re violating some ancient, unspoken rule.

That night, we wandered the boardwalk again, searching for one last chance at the fireflies. A few single blinks here and there like lonely sparks. The show was over. I was disappointed. I could have seen more lightning bugs in my backyard.

Then the owls started singing.

“Who cooks for you?” one called across the swamp, its voice rolling through the darkness like an old hymn. That familiar song I’ve heard so many times in the pre-dawn woods as I waited for shooting light during hunting season.

An answer echoed back. Back and forth they sang, a duet filling the woods. A perfect, wild, syncopated gospel choir.

My disappointment over the lack of lightning bugs softened into something quieter, heavier, intimate. I hadn’t found the light show I came for, but the swamp had offered up something else — the hush of ancient trees, the thrill of dark, quiet eyes, and the music of wild voices —all thoroughly uninterested in my plans and expectations.

Congaree reminded me that you don’t schedule wonder. You show up. You listen. You pay attention. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you leave with something you never saw coming.