Squirrel Madness
Paddling the Hudson through the city of Albany is a daunting experience. It is not that river traffic is so dense. It’s that the noise overwhelms: the incessant hum of traffic along the highways near shore, the construction under the many bridges—a clang that hurt my teeth. There were interesting sights on shore, like gas tanks and scrap yards, but little wildlife, save two Peregrine Falcons that had made their home under the Troy-Menand’s bridge.
But there, near the bow of my boat, I spied something moving in the water. I usually see beaver or musk rat, sometimes I see snapping turtles, the V of their heads cutting the surface in the Tivoli Bay. This was not any of those familiar creatures. The animal had a fluffy gray tail that floated on the surface of the water, then a tiny head that was barely cutting the surface. A squirrel!
Paddling the Hudson from the Troy Dam, through the city of Albany is a daunting experience. It is not that river traffic is so dense. It’s that the noise overwhelms: the incessant hum of traffic along the highways near shore, the construction under the many bridges—a clang that hurt my teeth. There were interesting sights on shore, like gas tanks and scrap yards, but little wildlife, save two Peregrine Falcons that had made their home under the Troy-Menand’s bridge.
But there, near the bow of my boat, I spied something moving in the water. I usually see beaver or musk rat, sometimes I see snapping turtles, the V of their heads cutting the surface in the Tivoli Bay. This was not any of those familiar creatures. The animal had a fluffy gray tail that floated on the surface of the water, then a tiny head that was barely cutting the surface. A squirrel!
Squirrels are frantic in fall. They are so busy collecting every last edible item that they ignore roads, for instance. Every day on my five mile drive to work I count several dead on the road. Most of these squirrels are not crushed, but rather knocked dead. At first glance, they might just be resting there, paws extending toward the sky. Then I see the trickle of blood from the nose or mouth. It’s hard to say it any other way: I’m sick of the slaughter.
But here was a squirrel swimming the river, an athletic feat I had only seen once before. I steered toward the squirrel, then dropped my paddle and reached for my camera. As I started to point and shoot, I realized we were on a collision course. I tried to back stroke, but heard a small thunk. My heart sunk: I had just run over a squirrel, with my kayak. Then I saw the tiny paws reach up, grab one of the deck lines, and do a small pull up. Suddenly the soaked squirrel was perched on my sponge. We looked at each other. I apologized. I promised the squirrel I would take it to shore. The squirrel walked daintily to the end of my boat, and waited for safe passage. I slid onto shore and it sat there for a moment. Then it made the leap, and walked off to the woods.
