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Home > Archive > Apr 17, 2008

The Ghost That Flies at Midnight
By Al Cooper
For the first three decades of our Utah years, our home nestled among old stands of conifer forest at 7,000 feet in the Northern Wasatch mountains east of the Salt Lake Valley.  We had selected the area because of its relatively undiscovered nature, and because it resembled in many ways the Northern New England landscape we had left behind.  It will always be remembered by our adult children as the place where they grew up, and for each of us it is bound up with a host of memories that enrich our ongoing lives. 
The home was designed by its builders to fit into alpine surroundings, with exposed timbers, and covered decks and balcony; its three living levels capped with, and dominated by a roof of wide, hand-cut cedar shakes.  The upper level, where the bedrooms were located was low-ceilinged, and in a storm, the sound of rain drops and hail bouncing off the thick cedar roof shingles just overhead rang like a lullaby to the sleepers below.
Sometime, during the late summer and autumn of that first year under the pines, we became aware of night-time visitors somewhere overhead.  We at first feared that the narrow attic space had witnessed an outbreak of mice, or something even worse.  Investigation though, revealed no evidence of a rodent population beneath the canted attic braces.  I began staying awake, listening intently; waiting for that first mysterious tread somewhere over my pillowed head.  It was almost always near or just after the hour of midnight that I would catch the first soft, stealthy footfall.  It would come as if from out of nowhere, with no hint of a claw-footed approach.  It was more like a light, cushioned “thump.” Often, there was more than one such thump, always followed by unmistakable “scurrying” of animated motion.
By a process of careful listening and elimination, I came to realize that our visitors were not IN the attic, but OVER the attic.  Something was climbing or otherwise getting onto the high roof itself.  It had to be small, of very light weight, and great agility, and possessed of soft furry feet.  Of course I thought of the tall pine trees, but the nearest of these was a lofty distance from any part of our roof, much too distant I thought for even the most nimble of leapers.   
That was before the night of a full moon, on which I lay in wait on the path leading to our front door, a five-cell flashlight beneath the lawn chair set up to make my midnight vigil more comfortable.  Just when I thought about giving up and returning to the comfort of a warm bed, I was rewarded by a sight few ever get to enjoy, as a kite-like “something,” outlined against a moon-lit sky, soared silently from the top of a tall pine tree to our roof-top, followed by a second and third “something.”  My flashlight became reflected off the large convex eyeballs of a small, furry creature, staring back at me in almost-comic surprise, tufted ears standing erect and alert from the edge of the roof's overhang.   
Known by the scientific name Glaucomys Sabrinus, the Northern Flying Squirrel is one of two varieties of this nocturnal member of the rodent family resident to conifer and mixed forests of the North, from Alaska to Nova Scotia.  Bearing only a small resemblance to other squirrels, this creature of the night comes equipped with a flat tail for steering, and a webbed membrane connecting front and rear paws which acts as a “wing,” permitting it to sail like a glider over descending distances of sixty or seventy feet at a clip.
The largely-communal Glaucomys fills an unusual role in Nature's ecosystem: it has a remarkable ability to sniff out its favorite food, underground fungi such as the truffle, and in the act of digging these hidden morsels from beneath inches of forest duff, it carries spores of those fungi, scattering them elsewhere as they go.  In yet another way, the flying squirrels themselves constitute an important food source for owls – including the fast-disappearing spotted owls – which prey upon them. 
Years have gone by since the roof of that mountain home became a “landing strip” for those space visitors, but even today, on dark and sleepless nights, I find that I am listening for the quiet footfalls of those ghosts that fly at midnight. 
When not chasing “ghosts,” Al Cooper teaches family preparedness classes around Utah for the Department of Public Safety.  He hosts a weekly radio program known as “Provident Living – Home & Country” each Monday at 4:00 pm on KSUB 590 AM in Cedar City.  He can be reached at acooper@utah.gov

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