No moon guided the way to the edge of Linville Gorge that night about ten years ago when I decided to go see the Brown Mountain Lights. From the gorge far below, the river echo inside the calls of tree frogs.
A mile across the gorge, few flashes, like oversized lightening bug floated on the slopes that rose and curved across the star peppered sky.
The wind picked up. A group of tourists not to far away laughed and shouted happy to be on the edge of the gorge. An hour passed.
Then without a sound, the ridge line across the gorge shimmered like fluorescent fur on a fox’s back. The light increased until the whole ridge glowed for miles. The saddle of the ridge swelled and boiled until a magnificent pulsating orb rose like a helium moon on fire spitting and dripping and throbbing. It floated in the sky for a good three minutes. And just a fast as it rose, it sank back down and the gorge went black again.
As I stood there watching the stars settle back over the ridge and felt the cool air on my warm skin, I wondered, had a large orb the size of the moon just appeared over the ridge, hung in the sky, then sunk back into the mountains like something that had never happened? You tell me . . .
