I work at my desk on summer evenings, under a large open window that admits breezes and mosquitoes in roughly equal measure. And for as long as I can manage to sit still, that window is my only eye on the outside world. It is also my ears and my nose. The small sounds of the night enter unmuted, and an ever-changing medley of subtle smells drifts in from every point on the compass.

Lately the sounds have been dominated by a gentle, persistent scraping, interrupted from time to time by soft grunts. It didn’t take me long to identify the source: a pair of young skunks, striped tails waving proudly, foraging for grubs and seeds under the lilacs that grow near my window. I’m pretty sure they’re siblings, and I’ve sometimes glimpsed a larger skunk keeping what I can only presume to be a motherly eye on her two offspring. In any case, the trio have the unmistakable air of a family group, and their relations are invariably cordial, though the two younger skunks’ animal spirits manifest themselves in a lively roughhouse every now and then. These friendly bouts usually begin with a playful shove or head-butt and end minutes later in a brief, if rather frenzied, tumble. But it’s all in good fun. The erstwhile combatants soon return to the real business of the evening, padding patiently along, side by side, stopping only to dig up a tasty morsel. And soon they’re on their way back to their home in the surrounding woods.

But they almost always leave me something to remember them by. A not unpleasant hint of musk, perhaps, or one or two tangible reminders that all animals are really nothing more than highly elaborat tubes, so that what goes in one end must sooner or later emerge at the other. And since—for reasons I can’t begin to guess at—”skunk scat” is one of the most frequent search terms bringing new readers to this site, I figured I ought to give the questors what they’re looking for, at least now and then. So here it is: the real thing, guaranteed fresh and totally organic…

It has a certain viscid elegance, I admit, though I probably won’t be framing the photo to hang over my desk. But I will be listening again tonight, hoping to catch the first faint sound of claws tearing at the earth in search of something good to eat. I’ve always liked picnics, whatever the time of day.

 
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If my site stats can be believed, a lot of folks come to Outside seeking answers, and one of their most pressing questions is this: “Do chipmunks climb trees?” Until today, however, the question has languished unanswered, at least by me. But that’s about to change. In my never-ending quest to give the public what it wants, I’m going to resolve this burning issue once and for all. So here goes…

Do chipmunks climb trees? Yes. That was easy, wasn’t it? Chipmunks do climb trees. Of course, most of us think of these tireless little foragers as ground dwellers, and so they are. Chipmunks make their homes in underground burrows. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t equally at home up high. After all, chipmunks are squirrels, and squirrels are well-known climbers, quite capable of hanging upside down, prevented from tumbling into the void by their hind feet alone.

And when I picked up my camera, this fine fellow was doing just that: suspended from his hind feet, he was having a bit of a stretch to get the kinks out. By the time I clicked the shutter, however, he’d put his right forefoot back down. (The left is still curled against his chest.) It was a remarkable performance, and I hoped he’d give me an encore. He didn’t, though. Still, the photo reveals the squirrel’s secret weapon—hind feet that can be rotated round till they’re nearly back to front. Toenails then become grappling hooks. What could be simpler?

But gray squirrels (and their red cousins) aren’t alone in having this helpful anatomic adaptation. Chipmunks share it, too. As this grande dame is happy to demonstrate:

What works on a stump works equally well in a tree, of course. And once our grand dame has finished hanging out, she turns her feet right way round once more, the better to leap and sprint and dig. (The sunflower seeds are her fee, by the way. You can’t expect a professional to work for nothing, can you?)

OK. Chipmunks climb trees. We’ve established that. But we’re left with another question: Why? And there’s no one answer. Here are a few of the possibilities: To gather food. To catch the first warm rays of the sun on a chilly morning. To eyeball the whole sweep of the landscape at one go. To escape less agile predators. Or to give the alarm…

Sometimes, there’s no reason but curiosity. And why should there be, anyway? Chipmunks are indefatigable explorers. Their lives depend on their having an intimate knowledge of every corner of their home territory, the high points as well as the low…

But food is never far from a chipmunk’s mind. Here’s the grande dame again, making short work of some tasty lilac seed capsules:

Observe the confident spraddle stance and the natural balance. There’s no doubt that this lady is used to working above ground. And speaking of balance, check this out:

Then, once the makings of a good lunch have been collected, it’s time to eyeball the area:

That’s another good reason for going high. If you were only six inches tall in your stocking feet, you’d be mighty glad of an elevated observation post, too.

Now, having completed her threat assessment and found no imminent danger, she gets back to work. There’s always one more seed capsule just a little higher up:

Going down is easier, of course:

Caution! Professional climber. Don’t try this at home!

Finally, with all her work done—for the moment, at any rate—she takes a well-earned rest, calmly and confidently surveying her world…

With her tail wrapped securely around the branch and her tightly curled front feet held close to her chest. No chipmunk needs a fur muff, even on a chilly day!

Can chipmunks climb trees? Well, I referred that question to a panel of local experts. And now you’ve seen their answer for yourself.

 
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When I was young, summer held no greater pleasure than splashing around in a nearby pond or stream under the hot sun. Young and old alike retreated to the water after a sultry day, cooling off and relaxing with family and friends. There were no lifeguards, but parents kept an eye on their children, and older siblings looked out for their younger brothers and sisters. No one drowned. And when we packed up to go home for supper, we picked up after ourselves so others would find the swimming hole as welcoming as we did.

If anyone asked us what we’d been doing, we simply replied, “Swimming.” We would have laughed out loud at the notion that this should be prefaced with the qualifying adjective “wild.” Swimming was swimming, and the local swimming holes were community meeting places, about as wild as the grange hall. So you can imagine how bemused I was when I read of the new big thing in Britain. Yes, you guessed it, it’s “wild swimming.” And what does this mean? Heading down to a nearby lake or river and diving in. Wild swimming? The mind boggles.

This could be yet another example in support of the Shavian witticism that England and America are two countries separated by a common language. Or maybe it’s just an understandable reaction to the chlorinated sterility of most swimming pools. In any case, I’m with the Brits here: wild swimming beats tame any day. In fact, swimming in a flooded concrete basin doesn’t rate so much as a mention in my book. I’ll always cherish memories of digging my bare toes into warm ooze, competing with friends to see how long we could hold our breath underwater, and diving from rafts and rock outcrops as the breeze ruffled the treetops and clouds scudded across the blue sky. No laps, no lanes, no stinging eyes. No whistle and no showers. Just the play of light on water, and the heady incense of the sun-warmed pines. (OK. If the cows had been down to the water for a drink and a cooling dip, there might be other smells, too. But cow flops trump chorine any day.)

Wild swimming? Is there any other kind?

 
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