Squirrelly behavior

Sometimes when we least expect it, we stumble into small wonders that enlarge our understanding of the world, or deepen our appreciation of the wild beings with whom we share the landscape.

This happened to me recently while walking along the Turnagain Arm Trail, at Anchorage’s southern fringes. I’d taken a side path to an open rocky bench that offers sweeping views of Cook Inlet and adjoining lands, and was headed back to the main trail, when off to my right I noticed a most curious thing: a tree cavity stuffed with a dozen or so bright red rose hips.

About head high—which means some 5 to 6 feet off the ground—the cache had been placed in a dead cottonwood, the tree’s upper parts snapped off and a hole pecked into its trunk by some cavity-nesting bird.

The bird must have abandoned its efforts, because the hole—about two inches across—appeared too shallow to serve as a nest. But it proved large enough for an enterprising animal to store some food, that critter almost certainly a squirrel (which may have widened the entryway a bit to make its job easier). At least that’s my best guess.

From past walks through these woods, I know that red squirrels eat rose hips. And I can’t imagine what other forest creature would haul a bunch of the fruits several feet up a tree trunk and place them so carefully into such a small space.

There’s also plenty of evidence that squirrels are diligent stockpilers of food, particularly as winter approaches, the best example being the large reserves of spruce cones that they accumulate, in some places creating huge middens.

My detection of the rose hips cache reminds me of a couple other surprising discoveries I made along this trail more than a decade ago. In one instance I was alerted to a squirrel’s presence by its rustling scamper through the forest understory to a nearby cottonwood. Following the squirrel’s movements, I spotted its stretched-out, tree-hugging body about 30 feet off the trail, a large, reddish clump in its mouth.

Wishing to know more, I put binoculars to eyes, focused on the animal, and learned something new: the red squirrel’s diet includes devil’s club berries. This one had plucked a spiny stem rich with the bright red fruits.

Though considered bitterly inedible by humans, devil’s club berries are known to be a favorite food of black bears. I’ve also seen songbirds nibbling the berries in winter, when food choices are limited. But I never imagined them to be part of a squirrel’s diet.

I wished I could have seen the squirrel collecting its prize. I know they’re nimble creatures, but would have loved to observe one balancing atop a devil’s club bush while snipping the berry cluster. Aren’t they bothered by the plant’s thorny stalks and leaves?

That same year I witnessed another amazing sight: perched on a large cottonwood limb, a red squirrel squatted beside a pile of white fluff. Hunched over, tail laid flat along the branch, it was eating the seeds from green, cob-like cottonwood pods, much like a person would eat corn-on-the-cob, discarding the pod’s cottony fibers as it dined. Scanning the tree, I spotted a half-dozen more cotton piles scattered along its branches, some as large as cantaloupe melons.

I’m not sure why the discovery of squirrels’ fondness for devil’s club berries and cottonwood seeds or their caching of rose hips has surprised me so much. From research I’ve done and my own observations, I know that red squirrels, like bears and humans and ravens, are opportunistic omnivores. In other words they’ll eat just about anything, depending on the circumstances. In the wilds, their forest diet ranges from seeds to berries to fungi, leaf buds, insects and bird eggs and even the occasional songbird nestling.

For all of that, I tend to link our local squirrels most closely with two basic food groups: spruce cones and birdseed.

Of course their reliance on spruce cones has been greatly compromised by the large-scale die-off of spruce trees throughout much of Southcentral Alaska during the recent (and ongoing) spruce bark beetle outbreak. Now, more than ever, red squirrels must improvise and be flexible in the foods they consume.

The problem isn’t nearly as severe in places like Anchorage, thanks to the abundance of bird feeders put out by us humans. Squirrels seem especially partial to black-oil sunflower seeds, peanuts and peanut butter. It’s no coincidence that all of those are calorie-rich foods, especially valuable in winter.

I first experienced squirrels’ passion for sunflower seeds when I lived on Anchorage’s Hillside. After I’d scattered the seeds along my upper-deck railing, it was a toss-up as to which critters would find the seed first: black-capped chickadees and red-breasted nuthatches, or squirrels. Eventually I scattered peanuts on the ground, hoping they would satisfy the squirrels’ appetites but that strategy worked only some of the time.

Truth be told, I really didn’t mind an occasional raid. It’s only when they became marauding regulars that I, in turn, became territorially assertive and chased them off, pounding my fist on the railing and screaming expletives. Squirrels, I liked to think, understood such combative behavior, since they too aggressively defend their small homelands from one another, driving off trespassing sneaks.

Since I moved to west Anchorage squirrels haven’t been as much of a problem, almost certainly because some of my neighbors put out much more elaborate and easy to reach offerings of food than I; and my few bird feeders are difficult, if not impossible, to reach.

Because they’re small and common and sometimes an annoyance, red squirrels are usually overlooked or ignored or disdained by people, even those who consider themselves wildlife lovers. Rarely, if ever, do you see folks oohing or aahing at a squirrel, as they do at bears, moose, Dall sheep, or even beavers or porcupines.

I too sometimes take squirrels for granted. And yes, I’ve occasionally cursed them. But they’re among my favorite forest critters and I routinely listen for their chatter on my hikes, just as I keep my ears alert for bird song.

The simple fact is this: our forests would seem much emptier without squirrels and songbirds. In deepest winter, when sometimes even squirrels and chickadees are quiet, local woodlands are indeed lonelier places to someone who appreciates their company and voices.

When I’m walking through the woods, the presence of a nearby squirrel is almost always enough to get me to stop. Their energy and antics lift my spirits, bring a smile to my face, occasionally even make me goofy. Sometimes we simply watch each other a while; other times we may engage in conversations that to most folks might seem nonsensical.

I know it’s silly, if not downright odd, but occasionally I chitter and chatter back to the squirrel. It’s my way of being playful, though I’m not sure the squirrels agree. As often as not, they respond with what seems like agitated scolding.

In gaining my attention, squirrels have revealed bits and pieces of their lives that I never would have imagined. Here are two more examples I’ll share: I once discovered that a squirrel inhabiting a campground area had somehow lugged a full roll of toilet paper high into a spruce tree. The roll was partially shredded, its new owner apparently using the paper for nest material.

I have also seen a squirrel haul a mushroom up a tree. I’m especially intrigued by their taste for fungi. How do they know which mushrooms are poisonous? Do they ever become intoxicated by nibbling fungal fruits? As a companion once commented, “Some of them seem like they’re on psychedelics.”

I’ll end with an admission: for a while after I took up bird feeding, I didn’t consider red squirrels to be much more than thieving little rodents. But the more I’ve learned, the more impressed I’ve become with the ways of Tamiasciurus hudsonicus, from their climbing and jumping talents to their dietary tastes, food-harvesting methods and adaptability. Like so many other wild creatures that we humans tend to ignore or dismiss or dislike (and sometimes persecute), squirrels are remarkable animals once you begin to know them and their ways of being in the world.

Anchorage nature writer and wildlands/wildlife advocate Bill Sherwonit is a widely published essayist and the author of more than a dozen books, including “Living with Wildness: An Alaskan Odyssey” and “Animal Stories: Encounters with Alaska’s Wildlife.” Readers wishing to send comments or questions directly to Bill may do so at akgriz@hotmail.com.