Flying squirrel: denizen of the night woods, common but rarely seen

To Catch an Alien
Taking advantage of a moonlight glider's curiosity

liens live among us. They have big black eyes, speak in a strange high-pitched tongue, and glide through the air like little UFOs.

There is evidence that they consume massive quantities of nuts. Lots of them are out there. If you look up, you might see one, but generally they stay in a part of the world that many of us shun. And they come out only at night.

The first mile of an autumn walk along the west bank of the Housatonic River gave no hint that, in a sense, I would capture one.

Two great horned owls, a mated pair, were hooting from the other side of the river. As their voices boomed into the surrounding hills, a yellow moon pushed up through a cloud and spread its reflection over the water.

It would be a dark two miles through the forest back to my car. I crossed the boulder-strewn brook where two evenings before I had flushed a barred owl, climbed the slope that by day belongs to a goshawk, and passed the old double-trunked white oak, ghostly in the moonlight.

"Evening Landscape with Rising Moon" by Vincent van Gogh

Soon after turning onto the logging road, I suspected that something was watching me. Through the crackling interference of leaves underfoot, I heard tiny claws biting into wood. I drew my flashlight and pointed it in the direction of the sound. The beam landed squarely on a flying squirrel.

Fifteen feet above ground, the squirrel was clinging to a tree trunk, head toward the ground. Apparently stunned by my light, it did not move for almost 30 seconds, time enough for a good look.

On its side, I saw the black edge of the broad flap of skin, now retracted by special muscles, that joins the front and hind legs. Would it turn around, climb high, then leap from the tree and let me see it fly through the moonlit woods, drawing the flaps taut with extended legs and becoming, before my eyes, a flattened parachute of fur with a bushy tail?

Two species of flying squirrels, southern and northern, occur in the United States. They are our only strictly nocturnal squirrels, and in the Northeast their ranges overlap. The one I had found was probably the smaller southern flying squirrel, which is about the size of an eastern chipmunk. A fawn back and a white underside sandwich the black-edged skin flaps, or patagia.

From its outspread toes to its blunt-pointed ears, the squirrel had not twitched a muscle. It seemed like a wooden carving until I focused on the eyes—large, black, and charged with life. Trying to catch their reddish-orange shine in my light, I shuffled my feet in the leaves. The squirrel snapped out of its trance and, with a twitter, scrambled to the opposite side of the trunk.

I tried to keep up with it, but the steep shoulder of the logging road slowed me down. When I got around the tree, the squirrel had vanished. It could have entered a cavity midway up the trunk or launched itself to another tree.

The flying squirrel's predators share its proclivity for darkness. Owls are the primary threat, not only great horned and barred owls, but also barn, long-eared, and screech owls. Even the diminutive saw-whet owl, hardly bigger than a robin, has been known to swallow a flying squirrel whole.

Beset by ravenous enemies, flying squirrels somehow thrive, though we diurnal beings rarely see them. Empty hickory nuts with a smooth-edged circular opening at one end are a sign that flying squirrels live in the area.

There is, however, an easier way to detect their immediate presence: listen for their voices. Like red and gray squirrels, they sometimes come out to scold passersby; cloaked in darkness, they chatter softly and whistle on a very high pitch. Some of their calls remind me of birds. Their twitter is like a dark-eyed junco's and, like a tufted titmouse, they produce a thin, rising squeak. If you hear these sounds coming from the trees at night, chances are you have found a flying squirrel.

Flying Squirrel by Louis Agassiz Fuertes

Flying squirrels are not confined to the forest. I have heard them along country roads and have glimpsed them sailing by a floodlit yard bordered by suburban woods. At night, their fondness for seeds may move them to venture from their nether world to the bird feeder. Occasionally, they get into attics; in the wild they usually nest in woodpecker holes. They gather together in winter, when 20 might den in the same tree.

Once I met a hunter who had stumbled onto one of their dormitories. While taking aim at something, he braced himself against a rotting tree, which began to topple. Several flying squirrels bailed out of the top and glided over his head.

"It was scary," he said, confirming that, even in broad daylight, the flying squirrel is a virtual creature from another planet.

Related article: Escape from the Land of Electric Light

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A message from Robert Winkler

Jeff Brush/Connecticut Post (used with permission)

If you enjoyed this essay, I know you'll enjoy my critically acclaimed book, Going Wild: Adventures with Birds in the Suburban Wilderness (National Geographic), which expands on many of the short pieces I've posted here. Why do I write about birds? Because they represent the wild in all its glory. They're numerous, diverse, intelligent, talkative, and beautiful; their power of flight never ceases to amaze; and they're the most conspicuous class of wild animal—even in the suburb, they're just about everywhere. Whether you're a beginning or advanced birder, a fan of nature writing, a curious suburbanite, or a reader in search of that rare bird known as a good book, Going Wild could very well change how you view your world. So get your copy now, or buy one for your favorite birder or nature lover. Best deal on the Web: brand new, perfect copies $5 each (69% off) at National Geographic Books.

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