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A group of high schoolers in southern Appalachia has started pointing microphones at their world — at creek hollows and ridge lines, at logging roads and predawn forests — and what they're capturing is both a portrait of a place and a warning about what's slipping away. Sound, it turns out, is one of the most honest things a landscape can tell you.
When the last hiker heads home and the trail goes quiet, a whole other Appalachia wakes up. Biologists and backyard citizen scientists are piecing together what's actually happening in these mountains after sunset — and what they're finding is equal parts surprising and hopeful.
Across Southern Appalachia, a determined coalition of landowners, conservationists, and nonprofit leaders is waging a slow, steady fight to keep mountain ridgelines from falling to the highest bidder. For families who've worked these hills for generations, it's not just about land — it's about what gets passed down. Here's a look at the movement reshaping the region's future, one deed at a time.
Every June, a small but fiercely devoted group of researchers and volunteers disappears into the dark hollows of Southern Appalachia armed with headlamps, data sheets, and a whole lot of bug spray. They're chasing fireflies — and what they're finding should concern all of us who love these mountains.
For generations, the whippoorwill's haunting nighttime call was as reliable as a summer almanac across the Southern Appalachians. Now, old-timers and wildlife biologists alike are straining to hear a song that's growing quieter every year — and what's silencing it says a lot about what's changing in our mountains.