18-05-2025
These invisible ‘wild neighbors' need our help
Carla Rhodes is a photographer based in the Catskill Mountains of New York.
A hickory nut, opened with such precision it could belong in the Museum of Modern Art, lay at the base of a towering, dead eastern hemlock. That nut, its delicate grooves unmistakably carved by a flying squirrel, was a clue and an invitation to look through a doorway into a secret world.
The elusive, acrobatic lives of flying squirrels — North America's only gliding mammal — range across the Northeastern United States, including in urban areas such as New York City and D.C. But they remain practically invisible to us. Not because they are rare, but because we aren't looking.
Mostly silent and nocturnal, they glide like sprites through the canopy, planting seeds, spreading mycelium and keeping ecosystems alive in ways we are only beginning to understand.
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A flying squirrel peers from its nest box, placed on a dead eastern hemlock, quietly watching me, the real space invader, wander through my backyard.
A flying squirrel pauses dramatically at a nest box. With incredibly delicate whiskers, these animals extend their vibrissae forward upon landing, using them to help pinpoint the perfect touchdown spot.
A flying squirrel ventures down to the ground, navigating an eastern hemlock snag — the very snag that led me to the discovery of the hickory nut.
A hickory nut, marked by the delicate grooves of a flying squirrel's teeth, signaled their hidden presence in my backyard ecosystem.
Yet, when people do encounter flying squirrels in my area of New York's Catskill Mountains, the animals are often dismissed as pesky attic invaders, and their magic is downgraded to mere nuisance. Flying squirrels, like so many overlooked species, depend on dead and dying trees, called snags, for survival. We humans have a bad habit of tidying up nature, cutting down 'messy' deadwood, and, as a result, removing critical habitat. When we clear their homes, the fliers don't disappear, they adapt. That's why flying squirrels often end up in attics, seeking warmth and shelter. What others call a nuisance is actually survival in response to human encroachment.
While it's easy to feel powerless in the face of climate disasters and willful habitat destruction, conservation doesn't have to start with grand gestures. It can start with something simple, such as pausing to notice the wild neighbors we share space with, whether in a forest, a city park or just the tree outside a window.
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A flying squirrel surveys the backyard winter wonderland.
Since humans have a bad habit of tidying up their surroundings, snags — especially the nesting cavities they offer — are often in high demand. This proved to be true in my backyard, with an assortment of 'nosy neighbors' like this tufted titmouse, who would check out the nest boxes.
A raccoon proved to be another nosy neighbor.
Flying squirrels come alive while most humans are asleep, and often live in tight family units.
Pulled by obsessive curiosity about flying squirrels, I took small steps in my own backyard. I left dead trees standing if it was safe to do so, planted natives and installed nest boxes to help steward my surroundings. Over time, my backyard has transformed into not only a flier-friendly habitat, but also a sanctuary for countless species, many that are overlooked, misunderstood or forgotten in the larger conservation narrative. (I'm looking at you, northern short-tailed shrews)
What started as a quest to photograph flying squirrels turned into something much deeper: a practice in mindfulness, a way to remind myself that the world is full of small miracles, even when it feels like it's falling apart.
