I'm back from Caribou, Maine--the land of foxes and moose and flying squirrels. I learned a lot about the area from my taxi driver, Bryan, who talked about hunting (he hates "trophy hunters"), feeding the poor with road kill, and other issues I rarely consider from my urban perspective. According to Bryan, people from the city often have a hard time dealing with the sprawling vistas to be had in Caribou, which is unusual in its sense of openness for the East. Caribou is about as far north as you can get in the Northeast, close to the 47th parallel (i.e., Duluth, Minnesota) though Bryan suggested it had the same latitude as Fairbanks, Alaska, which was true give or take a few thousand miles.
My other "tour guide," so to speak, was Mark, a weatherman who advised me of a safe "moose speed limit"--40 mph or less during the evening. Mark has a fondness for small rodents, especially the northern flying squirrels that inhabit the spruce forest surrounding his home. I had the chance to watch a number of these friendly furry critters sail through the air. They don't fly--no flapping of wings, no thrust generated, and so forth--but they surely glide, deftly navigating through trees and brush. Steering is accomplished by moving their tail and legs. Their preferred mode of transport is pretty simple: Starting from a lofty perch on one tree, they glide slightly "downhill" to another tree, quickly scramble up, and then glide to another tree; they rest in hidden nooks that offer protection from owls and other predators. I watched the squirrels for hours with Mark and his wife, as we downed beers and swatted mosquitoes--a pleasant way to spend an evening, even with the mosquitoes.