Psycho the Rope-Obsessed Squirrel
Psycho the Rope-Obsessed Squirrel
Some of the wildest friendships in the forest come from the most unexpected characters. For one unforgettable season on the Mogollon Rim, that character was Psycho — a hyperactive Albert squirrel who turned my camp into his personal rope demolition derby. I’ve shared camp with hundreds of squirrels over my ten years living off-grid, but Psycho was unlike any other. This little maniac had one all-consuming obsession: cordage. Any kind of rope, line, or string. And he was relentless.
Around my camp, I had eight solar lights hoisted high into the trees. Each one was rigged with lightweight poly line thrown over limbs a hundred feet up. I’d tie off the lights, bundle the slack, and tack the loops to nearby trunks for easy access. There were also bundles from tarps, antennas, and other hanging gear. Every morning, like clockwork, Psycho would declare war on those bundles. I’d sit in my camp chair with coffee in hand, watching the show for a solid hour. He’d attack a bundle like it had personally offended him — chewing, tugging, and wrestling with it. Sometimes I’d catch him just in time and call out, “That’s enough, Psycho!” He’d pause, look at me, and scamper off… only to return the next morning. Other days he’d start early. By the time I noticed, he’d have neatly severed the line right at the tacked loop, leaving the light safely hanging while claiming another trophy. By the end of his campaign, Psycho had stolen roughly eight bundles — around 800 feet of rope in total.
His masterpiece of mischief came the day he targeted my muletape — a heavy-duty 2,500-pound test nylon line holding my large 8-foot diameter peace sign high in the trees. This time he cut above the loop. The sign dropped suddenly, snagging on a branch before it could crash to the ground. Retrieving the line turned into a frustrating ordeal: ladder, 10-foot pole with a hook, and a lot of swearing as I tried to snag the tail end now dangling far out of reach. But Psycho wasn’t just destructive — he was pure chaos in motion. I never saw him casually walk or hop through the woods. He moved at 100 mph, karate-kicking off tree trunks and ping-ponging through the forest like a furry pinball. He constantly started trouble with the other squirrels, trying to drag them into his games.
His best friend was Mamma, a ground squirrel living in an old oak tree. Every morning Psycho would race to her tree, run up and down the trunk yelling into the entrance hole, then wait impatiently at the base. He’d only sit still for those few minutes. If she didn’t appear quickly, he’d dart off to his next rope project. Mamma usually emerged shortly after, and the two of them would chase each other around doing whatever squirrels do. That season my neighborhood included eight Albert squirrels (what I call “rockstar squirrels” for their spiked ear tufts and nonstop energy) and three ground squirrels. I spoiled them all with whatever snacks I had — popcorn became their undisputed favorite (peanuts were too expensive that year). You learn their preferences quickly when you pay attention.
Psycho was by far the most destructive animal I’ve ever camped with. He stole an entire light fixture — cord and all — and dragged it over 100 feet into the forest. Because my lights are wired in parallel, I didn’t even notice it was missing until setup at the next spot. I had to go back and hunt for it. He also completely gutted the padding from my camp chair. I searched far and wide for nests made of blue-and-white poly line but never found a trace of my missing rope. Despite all the chaos, Psycho was my favorite squirrel of that season — maybe of all time. His boundless energy and total lack of fear made every day entertaining. He reminded me why I love sharing space with wild animals: they’re unpredictable, entertaining, and completely themselves.
I put together a video compilation from the hours of footage I captured. It captures Psycho’s rope obsession and nonstop antics better than words ever could. If you ever camp in the Mogollon Rim, keep an eye on your lines — you might just meet your own little Psycho.
Help Me Spoil Them