Escape from the Land of Electric Light
You may never have seen them, but flying squirrels are out there

By Robert Winkler
About the Author

hen darkness fell as I took a summer walk through woods adjacent to a Connecticut reservoir, I was surprised at how late the birds sang. I had to resort to my flashlight before the lazy voice of the Eastern wood pewee faded away, and a duel between wood thrushes—supreme songsters of the forest—lasted until nine o'clock.

In a hemlock grove, the inkiest part of the trail, I pointed my light at a squeaking, chattering sound and caught a two-second glimpse of a flying squirrel before it dashed to the other side of a massive tree trunk. Reaching the deserted road, I walked to the edge of the reservoir and heard a long "hooooo" from a barred owl. The evening's only interlopers were a car that roared past, upper-beams blazing the roadside trees white, and two planes whining and blinking high above the water.

Although I had only a fleeting look, the image of the flying squirrel, poised on a horizontal branch in my spotlight, stayed riveted in my mind. The squirrel's "wings"—flaps of skin between the front and hind legs—have a black border, and the fur appears soft, but what struck me most were the eyes: large, black, expressive disks that gather enough light for the squirrel to glide safely through starlit woods. I recall the sound of its claws biting into the hemlock bark as it escaped my own eyes, so ineffective in darkness.

At home, I read what little I could find on this nocturnal phantom and learned that flying squirrels are common, perhaps the commonest squirrel in southern New England. I am almost embarrassed to admit that in 20 years of woodland rambles I had never seen one. The following evening, I returned to the woods to get better acquainted with what surely is a familiar sight to owls and foxes. Perhaps even our dogs and cats, who can see in the dark, know the flying squirrel, but seldom is it seen by us night-blind humans.



Sitting on a rock at the site of the previous night's meeting, I gazed at the darkening forest canopy. Would I see the ghostlike form of a flying squirrel launch from a treetop and glide 80 yards to the trunk of another tree, using its outstretched membrane of loose skin to steer around obstacles, veering up at the last moment to soften its landing? The pewee and the thrushes sang on schedule, and 20 minutes after sunset came the same squeaks that led me to the flying squirrel the night before.

I followed the sounds deep into the hemlock grove, stabbing into the darkness with my flashlight. I drew the beam up tree trunks and across limbs, but tonight the squirrel refused to reveal itself.

Through rustling leaves, the lights of a house became visible, and I realized that a strange blue glow in the yard was a device for electrocuting insects. When a dog barked, I felt discovered and started on the mile-long trail back to the car. If flying squirrels were indeed common, I should encounter others.

As night advanced, my ears became sensitized to the degree that my eyes weakened. The barred owl hooting on the far side of the reservoir must have been more than a mile away, but I heard it plainly. A siren sent a family of coyotes into a paroxysm of howls that, distorted by distance, sounded like a pack of laughing girls. Distant rumblings were probably summer fireworks, rather than an approaching storm, and though far beyond the bug zapper, I heard an occasional spatter as it claimed another victim.

My books were not mistaken about the flying squirrel's abundance. From the trees that night, I heard five squeaky sounds identical to the ones made by the squirrel I had seen. The sounds were separated by intervals of walking, so I believe they came from different individuals. I found nuts neatly opened in the manner of the flying squirrel, and old stumps and tree cavities that seemed likely squirrel homes, but the little gliders kept hidden.

I'm sure, however, that they saw me and perhaps were amused by my antics: stumbling over rocks and roots, waving my flashlight, trying to attract them with ludicrous imitations of their squeaks.

Although impenetrable darkness to us, the moonless night to flying squirrels and other nocturnal creatures appears as a cloudy day. In their dim world, we are the aliens, helpless and puzzling escapees from the land of electric light.

Related article: To Catch an Alien

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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.

"Common Flying Squirrel" by John James Audubon, a plate in an octavo edition of his Viviparous Quadrupeds of North America (1845-48)
"The Flying Squirrel" by Mark Catesby, a plate in his Natural History of Carolina, Florida, and the Bahama Islands (1731-43)
Text Copyright © 2000 Robert Winkler

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