Halloween in the Burrow: A Marmot’s Guide

Posted on October 31, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

For most humans Halloween means candy, costumes and mild regrets, usually associated with alcohol. But for marmots, nature’s roundest rodents, it’s a bit more complicated. See, by the time October rolls around, marmots are deep into their pre-hibernation naps, dreaming of dandelions and disapproving of human noise. But don’t let that fool you. In the secret society of the high alpine burrow, Halloween absolutely happens.

Let’s peek inside.

Costumes: “Fat, but make it festive.”

A marmot’s best costume is itself. Months of pre-hibernation snacking have made marmots perfectly rotund, ideal for impersonating:

  • A fuzzy pumpkin
  • A bloated beanbag
  • A sleepy yeti

Some of the more avant-garde marmots add flair by rolling in fallen leaves. It’s eco-friendly and camouflaged against predators who can’t tell where autumn ends and marmot begins.

 

Decorations

Marmots don’t put much effort into decorating their burrows.  Any cobwebs located in the tunnels are incidental due to spiders taking shelter for the winter.  And the willow wisps are merely byproducts of too much fiber from eating too many dried alpine grasses.

While humans carve pumpkins, marmots sculpt mud balls. These are rolled meticulously and arranged near the burrow entrance as an artful statement: “Out ‘til spring. We’re sleeping.” At Halloween bats live in dark spooky mystery, while marmots sleep through the winter with warmth and sincerity.

 

Trick-or-Treating: Mostly “treat”

Marmots don’t trick-or-treat so much as trick-or-eat. They raid each other’s food caches with the subtlety of a toddler in a cookie jar. The alpine code is simple:

If you hid it poorly, it’s community property.

The candy equivalent in marmot society? A forgotten stash of wildflowers or dried grass. It’s not exactly Snickers, but when you’ve got six months of sleep ahead, fiber counts as fun.

A true marmot Trick-or-Treater aims to consume 40% of their body weight in grass seeds, flower heads and mountain greens before rolling back to their burrow.

Haunted Burrows

Every burrow has that one spooky tunnel. The one that creaks in the wind, smells faintly of moss and where Ol’ Whiskers allegedly disappeared one winter.  Older marmots know that Ol’ Whiskers dug a personal cellar to stash dandelion wine, for medicinal purposes, of course.

So naturally, young marmots dare each other to peek inside. They never see a ghost, but when they do encounter a half-rotted root, horror unfolds. Basically, this is a traditional element in marmot horror cinema.

And then there’s the coyote midnight howl that always send chills down marmot spines.

 

Halloween Games

A popular end of season game is Pin the Tail on the Squirrel.  No real squirrels are used, but marmot lore has it that the game started when a tailless squirrel became lost above the tree line in late season and marmot medics tried graft a strand of foxtail barley to its butt, although woolly lousewort was given serious consideration.

Another popular game is the Great Whistle Warning, where young marmots sit in a circle and pass a predator warning whistle from ear to ear.  The trick is to see if by the time the whistle makes the full circle, if the predator the warning was about remains the same.

The Marmot Seance

Just before the first snow, elder marmots hold the Great Yawn, a solemn ceremony where they commune with the ancestral burrowers of marmot past. The ritual involves synchronized yawning, light snoring and mutual reassurance that they’ll all wake up around May, give or take a snowstorm.

Yawning is a significant cultural practice in the marmot world.  As festivities wind down and the time for hibernation nears, one large marmot will let out a prodigious yawn, a sound that translates roughly to “I am now approximately 90% saturated fat and 10% consciousness”, and the entire colony takes it as the cue to descend into the burrow’s deep for the winter.

If you listen closely in the mountains on Halloween night, you might just hear the marmots murmuring the ancient blessing:

May your dreams be warm and your burrow-mates gas-free.

 

Afterparty: The Long Nap

At the stroke of midnight, as the veil thins between worlds (and snacks), marmots collectively sigh, scratch and descend into hibernation. Their version of “the morning after” is April. By then, Halloween wildflowers are gone, but the memories live on, somewhere between a dream of clover and a half-remembered ghost story about the owl that wasn’t supposed to be there.

 

Moral of the Story

If you ever wonder whether you’re doing Halloween right, just remember the marmots. They celebrate by eating well, decorating minimally, avoiding drama and taking a long nap.

Frankly, the marmots might be onto something.

 

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Nutmeg McChunky and the Great National Nut Day Confusion

Posted on October 22, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

Today is National Nut Day and no, we’re not talking about the eccentric neighbor kind or your quirky uncle who wears socks with sandals in January, although we all have a few of those in the burrow as well. This day celebrates the edible nut, the delicious kind — almonds, pecans, walnuts, hazelnuts — all those crunchy treasures beloved by squirrels, humans and trail mix enthusiasts alike.

But for marmots, our beloved rotund alpine residents? Let’s just say it’s not exactly a red-letter day on the calendar. In fact, if marmots had a National Nut Day, it would probably be a day of mild confusion, existential pondering and possibly judging squirrels from afar.

The Great Alpine Nut Shortage – Marmots and Nuts: A Mismatch Made in the Mountains

First off, there’s the inconvenient truth: nuts aren’t really a thing in the alpine tundra where marmots love to lounge. While a cheeky pinyon pine might push out some pine nuts at a “low” elevation of 7,000 feet, our average Rocky Mountain marmot is chilling comfortably above 10,000 feet, wondering why anyone would live somewhere with mosquitoes.

Nuts simply don’t grow in the alpine tundra, the marmot’s preferred penthouse suite above 10,000 feet. Unless a generous or clumsy hiker drops a trail mix bag, the pickings are slim.

And even if marmots did find a nut, they wouldn’t quite know what to do with it. Marmots are herbivorous grazers, not gatherers, effectively the equivalent of a lawnmower of the high alpine valleys. Their diet is a refined blend of:

  • Grasses
  • Wildflowers
  • Leaves
  • Seeds (tiny ones!)
  • Roots
  • And, on special occasions, a berry or two

It’s the usual salad bar fare. Marmot flat chisel-like teeth are made for shearing plants, not cracking shells. Nuts are just too hard, too fatty and too squirrelly for marmot high-fiber lifestyles. Let’s just say constipation is not a marmot concern — if anything, they’ve perfected the opposite problem. Constipation, as the marmot saying goes, is a myth.

So, if you ever spot a marmot looking intently at a nut, they’re probably just:

  • Wondering if it’s a strangely crunchy rock.
  • Considering if it might be a new type of particularly firm dandelion seed.
  • Critiquing a squirrel’s frantic burying technique.

When it comes to nuts, marmots are politely disinterested. Unless, of course, you’re talking about one marmot in particular…

The Legend of Nutmeg McChunky

Every rule has its charming, slightly bewildered exception.  In the Rockies the colony oddball honor belongs to Nutmeg McChunky.

As a baby, Nutmeg was swept off his rocky perch during a windstorm with gusts strong enough to rearrange fur. He tumbled down, down, down, until he landed (with a very soft thud) smack in the middle of a bustling pinyon forest, where he was rescued and raised by a surprisingly open-minded family of squirrels.

These squirrels, bless their bushy tails, apparently thought, “Oh, look! A very slow, unusually large squirrel pup! Must be a new breed.”

They taught him the ways of the nut — how to sniff them out, stash them and crack them open with flair. The only problem? Nutmeg couldn’t climb trees. His physique was gravity-optimized. He’d sit at the base, staring up longingly as his adoptive siblings scampered away with their acorn hoards.

Years later, a migrating group of marmots spotted Nutmeg, a furry oddity, sitting under a tree surrounded by empty pine nut shells, trying to bury an acorn with his nose. They took him back to the alpine tundra, where Nutmeg tried his best to fit in with his natural kin.

But old habits die hard. To this day, Nutmeg McChunky still collects every pebble, pinecone and round seed he finds, proudly presenting them to his marmot friends.

They humor him. They roll their eyes. And when he starts burying dandelion heads for “winter storage”, they just shake their furry heads and mutter, “that’s our Nutmeg.”

A Nutty Moral

So, on National Nut Day, while you’re enjoying your trail mix or a handful of roasted almonds, spare a thought for the marmots, nature’s fiber enthusiasts, who couldn’t care less about cashews. And raise an acorn (metaphorically) to Nutmeg McChunky, the marmot who never stopped believing he was just one tail flick away from being able to climb a tree.

Because whether you’re a nut hoarder or a grass grazer, there’s a little bit of Nutmeg in all of us: stubborn, hopeful and maybe just a little bit nuts.

Happy National Nut Day, everyone! May your grasses be green and your stashes stay plentiful. We dedicate this holiday to Nutmeg McChunky — may he never figure out what he’s missing.

 

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Grumble in the Grass: A Marmot’s Tribute to National Grouch Day

Posted on October 15, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

For most, October 15th is just another crisp autumn day. But for a select, discerning few, it’s a sacred observance: National Grouch Day.

Every colony has one, that one marmot who can turn a perfectly fine morning into a lecture on “why clouds used to be fluffier”. Today, in honor of National Grouch Day, we celebrate them, the unsung heroes of crankiness, the champions of complaints, the marmots who wake up grumpy and stay committed to the role.

In the heart of the Rocky Mountains, there’s a marmot so grumpy, he’s made a career out of scowling at the sun. Meet Old Mossback McGrump, the mountain’s most decorated grouch, a venerable vexed rodent like no other.

Old Mossback isn’t just grumpy. He’s a connoisseur of grumpiness. He doesn’t just tolerate discomfort. He actively cultivates it. His sighs are legendary, capable of rustling distant juniper bushes. His disapproving glares can wilt dandelions at twenty paces. From his perch among lichen-speckled boulders, Old Mossback surveys his domain, a kingdom of silence, wind and things that irritate him.

 

The Morning Mood Forecast: Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Disapproval

While other marmots greet the sunrise with cheerful chirps, Old Mossback prefers to glare back at the sun, as if the sun itself owes him rent. He starts each day with a heartfelt “hrrrph”, a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh.

Breakfast is a slow, methodical ordeal. He doesn’t eat his mountain greens. He interrogates them. Each bite is considered, chewed with the deliberation of a seasoned critic at a Michelin-starred restaurant, usually followed by a subtle head shake indicating profound disappointment.

As he lumbers out of his cozy burrow, he’s already compiling a mental list of all the things that are wrong with the world. The sun is too bright, the grass is too green and don’t even get him started on the neighbors, a family of chatty squirrels.

Old Mossback’s day is filled with a series of grumpy accomplishments:

  • Grumbling at the tourists who dare to take a selfie with him in the background
  • Complaining about the quality of the wildflowers this time of year
  • Scolding any young marmot who dares to playfully nibble on his fluffy tail

Burrow Sweet Burrow: The Temple of Discontent

McGrump’s burrow is legendary. Not for comfort, not for design, but for the hand-painted sign out front:

KEEP OUT.
And if you’re already in,
GET OUT.

Young Pip, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, once offered Old Mossback a particularly plump wildflower. “Too much pollen,” Old Mossback rasped, waving a paw dismissively. “Gives me the sneezes. And don’t you dare whistle that cheerful tune near my burrow. It aggravates my … well, everything.”

His preferred social interaction involves staring silently at any marmot who dares approach, until they awkwardly back away, convinced they’ve committed some unspeakable burrow faux pas. This, to Old Mossback, is peak social success.

 

The Noise Complaint Committee

Old Mossback believes marmots these days have “too many whistles and not enough wisdom”. Whenever the younger ones sound an alarm call for a predator, he pops his head out just to yell, “In my day, we didn’t need to whistle about eagles! We just dodged them!”

He also files formal noise complaints against:

  • Wind
  • Ravens
  • The sound of grass growing
  • Pikas breathing “too enthusiastically”

A Love-Hate Relationship with Everything

Ask McGrump what his favorite season is, and he’ll say:

“None. They all have problems.”
Spring? “Too wet.”
Summer? “Too many tourists.”
Autumn? “Leaf clutter.”
Winter? “Don’t get me started on snow.”

But deep down, his fellow marmots know he secretly loves it all. After all, he always takes the best nap spots and mutters the loudest lullabies when it’s time to hibernate.

 

The Secret Soft Side (Keep It Quiet)

Every grouch has a weakness. For Old Mossback, it’s baby marmots. He’ll grumble the whole time they tumble around him, claiming “I’m only here to make sure they don’t eat my grass,” but then he’ll sneak them a flower head or two when no one’s watching.

And when the little ones fall asleep beside him, he’ll let out a long, slow multi-layered sigh that sounds suspiciously like contentment. And if you think that sounded too sentimental, don’t worry. Old Mossback just rolls over and mutters, “Grass is still too green.”

 

Moral of the Burrow

On National Grouch Day, we salute Old Mossback McGrump and every marmot, human or otherwise who’s perfected the art of the curmudgeon. Because without the grouches, who would we lovingly irritate?

So here’s to the grumpy ones, the burrow mutterers, the cloud glarers, the marmots who hiss at happiness, but secretly keep us all grounded.  So, on this National Grouch Day, take a page out of Old Mossback’s grumpy playbook and complain about something, anything. For in the immortal words of our beloved marmot, “A good grumble is the best medicine.”

May your grass stay dry, your burrow stay quiet and your complaints stay creative.

 

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Oktoberfest for the Furry & Fearless: A Marmot’s Guilty Pleasure

Posted on September 25, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

As the crisp autumn air bites at the alpine tundra and the leaves turn golden, most humans are thinking of pumpkin spice and cozy sweaters. But for a select furry few autumn signals something far more important: Oktoberfest! That’s right, while you’re clinking steins and singing along, there’s a clandestine, chubby-cheeked celebration happening right under your very noses. Forget lederhosen-clad humans. It’s time for the marmots to shine!

You might think these sleepy denizens of the mountains are solely focused on packing on the pounds before their epic winter nap. And you’d be right! But what better way to achieve peak pudge-potential than by embracing the glorious, carb-loaded chaos of Oktoberfest?

The Pretzel Bandits: An Olympic Feat

Every October, as if driven by some ancient pretzel-seeking instinct, our marmot friends stage a daring raid on the local biergarten. They don’t care about the beer – oh no, that’s just glorified brown water to them. They’re after the pretzels. Giant, doughy, salt-flecked pretzels are the ultimate prize. Whole families, working in perfect synchronized harmony, will roll these colossal carbs back to their burrows like tiny furry Olympic curling teams. Humans, bewildered, scratch their heads, wondering where all the snacks went. Little do they know, somewhere in the mountains, a marmot matriarch is carving a commemorative notch in her burrow wall for the “Biggest Pretzel Haul of ‘25”.

The Whistle-n-Steins: Alpine Oompah Extravaganza

Who needs a tuba when you have a perfectly hollowed-out acorn shell and a set of enthusiastic lungs? Legend has it that marmots are surprisingly adept at brass instruments, though it’s mostly a symphony of high-pitched squeaks and whistles. Their very own oompah band, aptly named “The Whistle-n-Steins”, is said to perform a polka rendition of “Roll Out the Barrel” so powerful, that it once woke a grumpy bear two valleys over. (Sorry, Carl. You’re still invited next year.) Though thankfully, it’s usually only heard by very confused late season hikers. Imagine the tiny drum made from a dried mushroom cap, the acorn-shell trumpets and the sheer, unadulterated joy on their whiskered faces as they toot their way to winter!

The Thimble-Lifting Contest: For the True Burrowmeister

Human Oktoberfest has strongmen lifting massive steins of beer. Marmots, never to be outdone, have their own version, though it’s slightly scaled down. Their “steines” are thimbles, filled not with beer, but with deeply, delightfully fermented berry juice. The competition is fierce. Muscle-bound marmots strain and flex, their little paws trembling as they try to lift a thimble-full of the potent purple brew. The winner isn’t just a strongman. The marmot is crowned the Burrowmeister. It’s a title that comes with great responsibility: first pick of the juiciest roots before hibernation. A prestigious title indeed! Last year’s champion still can’t walk a straight line, but that’s berry-wine for you.

The Sauerkraut Slide: An Unconventional Waterpark

When the cabbages in alpine gardens ferment just a little too long, becoming soft and delightfully slick, marmots don’t see a mess. They see an opportunity! The ingenious youngsters turn these cabbage leaves into a glistening, slippery playground. Greased with the tangy juice of sauerkraut, they slide down the hillsides, a wild, zesty and utterly unique version of a waterpark. It’s the closest thing to a thrill ride they’ll get all year and the squeals of delight (and the occasional sour burp) echo through the valleys.

The Closing Ceremony: To Fattened Bellies and Dreams of Spring

As the sun dips below the snow-capped peaks, signaling the true end of the human festival, the marmots gather for their own solemn (and slightly buzzed) closing ceremony. With bellies distended from pretzels, cheeks stained purple from berry wine, and perhaps a slight aroma of sauerkraut lingering, they raise their tiny paws for a final toast:

“To fattened bellies, good tunnels and dreams of spring!”

Then, with full hearts, fuzzy heads and maybe a slight waddle from all the delicious indulgence, they wobble home. They burrow deep into their cozy, pretzel-lined homes, hit the metaphorical snooze button and dream of lederhosen, giant pretzels and the sweet promise of April.

So next time you clink glasses at Oktoberfest, spare a thought for our industrious, fun-loving marmot friends doing the same thing, just with fewer lederhosen and more sauerkraut slides. They might just be having more fun than you are and they’ve certainly got a more effective strategy for winter preparation!

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A Marmot’s Guide to the Fall Equinox

Posted on September 22, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

Greetings from the high alpine meadows, where the sun is dipping a little lower, the nights are getting chillier and the grass has that faint “last call” vibe. For us marmots, the fall equinox isn’t just some fancy astronomical event. Nope, it’s the starting pistol for Operation: Sleep Like You Mean It.

That’s right, the days are officially shrinking and for high alpine marmots that means one thing: it’s time to get ready for their favorite pastime, hibernation.

Equinox gazing

Equinox gazing

Equinox = Balance (and Belly-Fattening)

The fall equinox is when day and night are perfectly balanced. For you humans, it’s a time to pull out your cozy sweaters, drink pumpkin spice lattes and pretend you like raking leaves. For high alpine marmots, it’s when we check the fat meter and ask the important questions:

  • Have I eaten enough roots to jiggle convincingly?
  • Can I still see my toes under this belly?
  • Will my burrowmates complain if I snore for six months straight?

If the answers are “yes”, “no” and “they’ll deal with it”, then congratulations, you’re hibernation-ready.

Hibernation vs. Torpor: Know Your Snooze Science

Now, let’s clear up a common human mistake. Hibernation is not just a long nap. It’s a full-body power-down. We marmots drop our body temperature close to the ambient air, slow our heart rate to a few beats per minute and basically turn into furry oversized paperweights. That’s hibernation. Hardcore. Committed. Professional.

Torpor, on the other hand, is like hibernation’s part-time cousin. Bears do this. Sure, they sleep through winter, but their body temperature doesn’t drop as drastically and they can wake up more easily if disturbed. Impressive, yes, but let’s not confuse it with the alpine masterclass in metabolic minimalism that marmots perform.

Other true hibernators include:

  • Ground squirrels (those little overachievers can let their body temp dip below freezing!)
  • Bats (the cave-dwellers of the hibernation world)
  • Dormice (who basically live up to their name)
  • Hedgehogs (spiky little hibernation balls)

Meanwhile, bears and raccoons? Torpor. Respectable, but not hall-of-fame material. Torpor is like a short-term power nap, while hibernation is more like a long-term coma. Bears are often called hibernators, but they’re technically “light hibernators” or in a state of “winter lethargy”.

Hibernation is an amazing adaptation that allows animals to survive in environments with limited food resources during the winter. By slowing down their metabolism and conserving energy, hibernating animals can make it through the winter months without having to venture out into the cold.

Snack bar torpor.

Snack bar torpor.

Life in the Alpine Fast Lane (Until It Isn’t)

For us high alpine marmots, the equinox is like the closing shift at a buffet. We hustle for every last calorie of grass, flowers and roots. Because once the snow flies, that’s it. No DoorDash. No Uber Eats. No midnight snacks.

Think of it like your fridge breaking down in January and the only thing you’ve got left is whatever you stashed in the freezer back in September. Except instead of ice cream, it’s roots and dried grasses and instead of Netflix binges, it’s six months of unconsciousness with your snoring cousins.

Alpine buffet closed for the winter.

Alpine buffet closed for the winter.

Some of you humans complain about winter blues or cabin fever. Try staying underground until May with your entire extended family. We’re basically the original “Netflix and chill”, minus the Wi-Fi and plus a lot more snoring.

As the days get shorter and the mountain air grows colder, marmots retreat into their specially-prepared burrows, called hibernacula. These deep, insulated homes are a final barrier against the cold. We plug the entrance like overcaffeinated landscapers with dirt, rocks and whatever snack wrappers hikers left behind. This is the fortress of solitude and once inside, marmots won’t re-emerge until the snow melts in the spring.

The Takeaway

So this fall equinox, while you’re out balancing eggs or sipping cider, spare a thought for the alpine marmots up here in the thin air. We’re cramming our cheeks with calories, fluffing our burrows and preparing to slam the door on winter with style.

And remember: not all snoozes are created equal. Some animals dabble in torpor. But marmots? We hibernate like sleeping legends.

As we celebrate the changing seasons, let’s raise a warm mug to the marmots and other true hibernators. They’ve earned their very, very long nap.

Until spring, my friends, stay fluffy, stay fat and may your burrows be cozy.

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The Legendary Marmot Pirates of the High Alpine Meadows

Posted on September 19, 2025 by Captain Whistletooth

Ahoy, me hearties! As we be celebratin’ Talk Like a Pirate Day, hoist yer colors, sharpen yer cutlasses and batten down the hatches for a tale o; the most feared and fuzzy buccaneers to ever scamper the slopes, The Marmot Pirates o’ the High Alpine Meadows!

Shiver me timbers, forget yer galleons and yer kraken-infested waters! These ain’t yer average swashbucklers sailin’ the seven seas. Nay, their domain be the windswept peaks and verdant slopes where the air be thin and the eagles dare to soar. While most scallywags take to the briney deep, these roguish rodents roam the ridgelines, plunderin’ picnic baskets and yodelin’ their battle cries across the crags! Legend has it they sail the rocky tundra on makeshift sleds fashioned from swiped trail signs, their puffy tails blowin’ like sails in the alpine breeze!

These ain’t yer rum-swiggin’, parrot-squawkin’ pirates neither! Their “grog” be the crisp mountain dew and their “parrots” be the sharp whistles they use to signal danger and coordinate their daring raids! And what be their treasure, ye ask? Not gold doubloons, but the finest caches o’ plump alpine flowers, the juiciest grubs and the most strategically placed stashes o’ winter nuts!

Legend tells o’ One-Eyed Mortimer, a grizzled old marmot with a patch fashioned from a fallen leaf, whose whistle could echo through the valleys, sendin’ shivers down the spines o’ rival groundhogs and unsuspecting picnickers alike! And then there be “Cap’n Squeaky”, a she-marmot o’ surprisin’ ferocity, known for her lightning-fast strikes on unguarded backpacks, snatchin’ sandwiches with the agility o’ a seasoned pickpocket!

Their leader? None other than Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch, a marmot o’ notorious girth and questionable hygiene, known for stuffin’ acorns, map scraps and gold-foil snack wrappers in his ever-bulgin’ cheek pouches! His motto, etched into the side o’ a commandeered Nalgene bottle: “Take all the choicest morsels, give nothin’ but a warnin’ whistle!”

They ain’t shy ‘bout defendin’ their turf, neither! Trespass into their meadow and ye might find yerself facin’ a surprisingly coordinated flurry o’ teeth and claws! They be small, but their courage be as vast as the mountain range they call home!

These meadows marauders don’t just raid hiker lunches. No sir! They’ve developed a robust system o’ pirate law, governed by the Alpine Code:

  • Whistle afore ye scurry!
  • Never trust a pika with yer treasure!
  • Always leave a decoy snack to distract the humans!

Historians claim the Great Summit Skirmish o’ ‘03 was fought over a single granola bar with chocolate chips! Others say ‘twas ‘bout dominance o’er a particularly scenic outcroppin’ with prime sunnin’ rocks! Either way, the marmot pirates emerged victorious, wavin’ tiny skull-and-crossbones flags made from shredded trail maps!

So today, when ye spot a fat marmot eyein’ yer trail mix with shifty eyes, be warned! Ye may have just encountered one o’ the descendants o’ the legendary highland buccaneers! Offer a peace granola bar or prepare to duel with a squeaky fury that knows no bounds!

Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day, mateys! And remember: in the alpine wilds, the hills have eyes and they be lookin’ for treasure! Guard yer granola, matey, or it’ll vanish faster than ye can say ‘Arrr!’

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Dams, Desert and the Rodent Renaissance

Posted on July 6, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

Now don’t get me wrong, when it comes to desert survival, we marmots are top-tier. Give me a rock pile, a patch of alpine sunshine and I’m in heaven. But recently, I came across a story that made my whiskers twitch and my tail fluff in admiration.

Beavers.
In the desert.
Building dams.
Restoring rivers.
Saving towns.

As a marmot, I’m biased towards my own furry friends, but I’ll give beavers their due. They’re absolute rockstars when it comes to restoring desert habitats! While I’m content to bask in the sun and snack on plants, beavers are busy building dams and transforming ecosystems. Talk about a dam good time! (Sorry. You know I had to get that one in here.)

Let that sink in. These pudgy water-loving engineers are hauling sticks, plugging up streams and doing what no human infrastructure bill could do on its own: turning parched wastelands into bubbling, thriving oases.

I recently wrote about the unsung heroes of Mount St. Helens, my gopher kin, diligently aerating the soil and bringing life back to a blasted landscape. But beavers? They’re not just landscapers. They’re the full civil engineering department.

Now, let’s get our family tree straight. We marmots? We’re proud members of the Sciuridae family. That’s the squirrel family, for those of you who prefer less Latin. We’re all about the land, the sun and a good, solid burrow. Beavers, on the other hand, are in the Castoridae family. Both members of the Order Rodentia, mind you, so we’re distant cousins. But let me tell you, the similarities end pretty quickly.

The only time a self-respecting marmot will ever take to water is to dodge a particularly persistent predator. We can swim, sure, but there’s nothing sadder than a dripping wet marmot. Our fur is designed for alpine breezes and rocky sunning spots, not for aquatic adventures. Beavers, on the other hand? Bless their cotton socks, they look like a hairdryer accident if they’re not wet. Water is their home, their sanctuary, their raison d’être. They are, truly, the masters of their watery domain.

Now, imagine being a river in the desert. Tough gig, right? Even on a good day, it’s a delicate balance, a constant struggle against the sun’s relentless glare and the thirsty earth. These precious water sources are vital for all sorts of unique wildlife, for agriculture and even for those curious two-legged creatures who visit for tourism and seeking fresh drinking water. But, as often happens, humans have made a tough job even tougher. Climate change, over-farming, pollution, it’s all put immense strain on rivers, especially those in the Colorado River Basin in Utah and Colorado. When those riverbeds dry up, fish and aquatic life perish and the wildfire risk skyrockets. It’s a bleak picture.

In Utah’s Price River, a team of clever humans decided to relocate a few “nuisance” beavers—you know, the ones who chew trees like toothpicks and occasionally flood your backyard. These guys were given a second chance and told, “build it and the water will come.” And by golly, they did.

See, beaver dams restrict water flow, creating these lovely, deep ponds and wetlands. In drought-stricken areas, these ponds become literal oases. Fish and other aquatic creatures can take refuge there, riding out the dry spells until the rains return. It’s like a natural, furry-tailed emergency shelter!

Let me paint you a picture. The beavers get to town, assess the situation, nod sagely to each other with their buck teeth and immediately get to work. One logs a sapling, the other slaps on some mud, and next thing you know there’s a five-star pond suite with trout swimming laps and frogs singing backup.

Fast forward six years:
The Price River is flowing like a root beer float in July.
Locals are kayaking through downtown Helper.
Tourists are taking selfies with fish.
And yes, the beavers are still at it, rent-free, might I add.

The water levels in the Price River are the healthiest they’ve been in years. The fish are thriving. What was once a struggling trickle is now a vibrant waterway, filled with kayakers, tubers and fishers. Imagine that, a thriving recreation economy, all thanks to some industrious rodents!

You’d think it was a miracle, but it’s just good ol’ rodent work ethic. These fuzzy engineers are the keystone species, meaning when they’re around, everything else works better. Water gets cleaner. Fish get happier. Wildfires don’t rage as hard. And the whole system, from algae to angler, is better off.

Now, don’t get it twisted. It wasn’t only the beavers. The humans did some cleanup, tore down a few outdated dams and even told cows to stop loitering in sensitive wetland areas (moo-vement control is important). But the beavers? They’re the MVPs. Most Valuable Paddlers.

Let’s also take a moment to acknowledge the irony:
We almost trapped beavers into extinction for fancy hats.
Now we’re begging them to come back to save our rivers.
That’s karma with a tail slap, folks.

The best part? In rivers like the San Rafael, just a single flood was enough to lure the beavers back and BOOM! The riparian habitat increased 230%. That’s not just success. That’s full-blown rodent redemption.

So here’s to the beavers:
May your ponds be deep,
May your sticks be sturdy,
And may your critics finally recognize the brilliance of that soggy, bucktoothed grin.

From one humble burrower to another, I salute you.
It’s about dam time!

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Gopher Gold: How My Dirt-Digging Cousins Saved Mount St. Helens

Posted on June 20, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

Hello, readers! Stormy Marmot here, fur fluffed, tail puffed and reporting live from the alpine news desk where the grass is always greener (especially when the gophers have been through). Today I want to tell you a tale of resilience, dirt and rodent ingenuity, because sometimes, to heal a mountain, you need a few good holes.

The 1980 eruption of Mount St. Helens was one of the most significant volcanic events in recent U.S. history. The blast left the surrounding area devastated, with lava, ash and debris covering the landscape. The landscape looked like the surface of the moon after a particularly messy toddler got hold of it. Ash everywhere. No plants. No topsoil. Just a whole lotta “uh-oh”.

Now, most folks thought it’d take centuries for the mountain to recover, but never underestimate the power of tiny paws and a love of subterranean mischief. Enter gophers, my adorable (and slightly overcaffeinated) rodent cousins. We marmots may prefer sunbathing on rocks and yelling at hikers, but gophers? They live for digging. Tunneling is their cardio. And they make a big impact, especially when it comes to restoring ecosystems.

So what did scientists do? They had an unconventional idea – to use gophers to help restore the vegetation. They invited a few gophers up the mountain for a little “dirty work”. No, really, they put them in enclosed plots for one day. One day! That’s barely enough time for me to find a snack and lose it again. But the gophers got to work, churning through the pumice and unearthing the deeper, microbe-rich soil like tiny bulldozers with an overbite. And the outcome was straight-up magical.

Churning the pumice.

Churning the pumice.

The results were astonishing: six years after the gophers’ one-day visit, over 40,000 plants were thriving in the area. Even forty years later, the legacy of the gophers’ work remains, with same areas still having more diverse fungi and bacteria than old-growth forests. And the mycorrhizal fungi (which sounds like a pasta dish, but is actually a root fungus) connected trees and traded nutrients like a fungal farmers’ market, helping fuel rapid tree regrowth.

Meanwhile, other areas remained as lifeless as my one toothed Uncle Scruffy’s dating prospects.

Now, let’s address the fuzzy elephant in the room: aren’t gophers considered pests? To which I say “define pest”! If digging life-saving holes that create vibrant ecosystems makes you a pest, then slap that title on me, too! Heck, let’s make matching vests. As a marmot, I’m biased towards appreciating the awesomeness of rodents.

We rodents often get a bad rap, but the gophers proved that sometimes the smallest diggers can make the biggest difference. They didn’t just move soil. They moved science!

So next time you see a little dirt pile in your yard, before you reach for the hose or scream into a pillow, consider this: that gopher might be a landscape architect. A fungal whisperer. A subterranean hero in a world that needs all the help it can get. Gophers are ecosystem engineers, working tirelessly to restore and revitalize the natural world.

I tip my whiskers to you, dear cousins. The next round of dandelions is on me.

Dig deeper.

Landscape architect.

Landscape architect.

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Operation Picnic Pandemonium: The Story of the Alpine Marmot Commandos and the Great National Trails Day Raid

Posted on June 7, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

National Trails Day: A Celebration for Humans. A Buffet for Marmots.

For humans, National Trails Day is a wholesome opportunity to reconnect with nature, volunteer for trail maintenance and snap selfies with breathtaking backdrops while pretending not to hate granola bars.

For alpine marmots?

It’s Thanksgiving.

And not the kind where you gather with family and talk politics. No, no. This is the sneak-into-your-campsite, steal-your-vegan-jerky, leave-a-tiny-footprint-on-your-sleeping-bag kind of Thanksgiving. The kind that’s covert. Tactical. Fuzzy.

Enter: The Alpine Marmot Commandos.
Codename: Operation Picnic Pandemonium.

It’s a tale of trailside thievery.  In the high country, a secret society of alpine marmots has been training for the ultimate mission: stealing food from unsuspecting hikers on National Trails Day. These furry commandos have been practicing sneaking up on backpackers, swooping in on campsites and making off with sandwiches, snacks and sometimes even entire picnic baskets.

These pint-sized thieves are experts at stalking their prey, often disguising themselves as harmless rocks or tufts of grass. But don’t be fooled. Beneath their cute furry exterior lies a cunning and ruthless operative. They’re known to use advanced tactics like the “Marmot Squeak” (a high-pitched whistle that distracts hikers while they snatch food) and the “Burrow Blitz” (a lightning-fast raid on campsites).

Their targets are carefully selected, with a focus on high-value snacks like trail mix, energy bars, and, of course, sandwiches. The marmots have even developed a sophisticated system for evaluating the worthiness of a picnic basket, taking into account factors like proximity to the trail, ease of access and the likelihood of human distraction.

Despite their mischievous ways, the alpine marmot commandos operate under a strict code of honor. They never harm humans (unless you count the occasional nip on the ankle) and always leave behind a token of their appreciation, perhaps a strategically placed pile of scat or a well-chewed rock.

Imagine this: A family settles down for a well-deserved lunch. Dad’s untying his boots, Mom’s pouring the lemonade, little Timmy is admiring a cloud shaped like a dinosaur. Suddenly, from the periphery, a blur of brown fur. Before anyone can shout “Hey!”, a tightly rolled sandwich is GONE. Not dropped, not nudged – SNATCHED. The marmot is already halfway back to the burrow, a triumphant, albeit slightly muffled, victory whistle trailing behind him.

 

Meet the Team

Every elite squad needs its operatives. The alpine marmots are no different.

  • Lt. Butterball – The leader. Distinguished by a scar across his left ear and a belly that jiggles with authority.
  • Whiskerblade – The silent infiltrator. Can scale a backpack without making a sound. Once stole half a Clif bar and left the wrapper perfectly resealed.
  • Snackpaw – Specialist in zippers, Velcro and emotionally manipulating children into “accidentally” dropping trail mix.
  • Mittens – Chaos agent. No plan. No mercy. Just pure marmot energy.

Their mission: Secure calories. Leave no trail un-pillaged.

 

The Infiltration Phase

While hikers stretch their calves and pretend they know how to read a topo map, marmot scouts are already in place.

  • Hidden behind rocks.
  • Underbrush.
  • Sometimes in plain sight, pretending to be “just a chubby squirrel”.

At precisely 10:04 AM, the lead whistle is sounded, not for communication, but as a distraction. Hiker heads swivel.

That’s when the raid begins.

 

Target: Picnic Basket Charlie

Mission Overview:

A young couple sets up the perfect lunch spot: scenic overlook, blanket, hummus, those expensive cheese cubes that cost more than your car insurance.

Marmot Tactics:

And then…

Rustle.
Pop.
“Did you hear something?”
“It’s probably just the wind.”

Wrong.
It’s Whiskerblade.
Sliding into the basket like a little furry Navy SEAL.

Collateral Damage:

The cheese is gone before the humans even open the kombucha.

 

Target: Campsite Delta-9

Mission Overview:

An REI catalog exploded here. Hammock, ultralight tent, artisanal trail soap. Prime target for Operation Picnic Pandemonium.

Marmot Tactics:

Mittens, of course, goes rogue. She knocks over the JetBoil, runs across the sleeping bag, leaves one suspiciously clean pawprint on the pillow and eats the marshmallows through the side of the bag.

Collateral Damage:

There are no survivors.
(Except the humans. Who are now emotionally devastated.)

 

Target: Operation Zen Snack

Mission Overview:

Todd, age 34, has hiked seven miles for “me time” and has journaled four pages about personal growth. He’s meditating, unaware that he has accidentally placed a protein bar beneath his head for pillow support.

Marmot Tactics:

  • Butterball signals the “sleepy snatch” maneuver.
  • Snackpaw deploys under-hammock crawl.
  • Protein bar is surgically extracted without waking Todd, who later attributes the theft to “forest spirits validating his sacrifice”.

Collateral Damage:

Todd wakes up enlightened and hungry. Begins spiritual journey to understand marmot wisdom.

 

Target: Operation Crumbstorm

Mission Overview:

Eighteen middle schoolers, five adult chaperones, zero situational awareness. Lunches scattered across a meadow like a tactical buffet.

Marmot Tactics:

  • Whiskerblade and Mittens initiate coordinated “distraction squeak and dash”.
  • While campers argue over whether marmots are beavers or rats, the cheese cubes vanish.
  • One brave marmot dons a SpongeBob bandana left behind and storms through the meadow in a final hurrah.

Collateral Damage:

Youth group now convinced they witnessed divine intervention. Begin writing marmot-themed camp songs.

 

Target: Operation Avocado Smash

Mission Overview:

Two hikers with $3,400 worth of titanium equipment, a sizable Instagram following and a pack of guacamole meant to be consumed at sunrise.

Marmot Tactics:

  • Team creates Instagrammable distraction: marmots posing in yoga positions near summit cairn.
  • While bros film “Nature Gratitude Reel”, Lt. Butterball performs direct extraction on the guac.
  • Entire pouch disappears. They later find it flattened, paw-printed and empty inside a boot.

Collateral Damage:

Marmots left a cluster of rocks, spelling out “#NOFILTER”.

 

Target: Operation Biscuit Blitz

Mission Overview:

Retired hiker known only as “Barb” sets up camp near a trail junction with a book, a thermos of tea and a bag of homemade buttermilk biscuits.

Marmot Tactics:

  • Two marmots create a fake “injured squirrel” situation behind her tent.
  • While Barb investigates with maternal concern and a headlamp, Snackpaw goes full biscuit heist.
  • One biscuit partially eaten, then returned with a tiny bite taken out of each corner.

Collateral Damage:

Barb is both offended and impressed. Names the marmots “Greg” and “Linda” after her grandkids. Returns following year with more biscuits and a GoPro.

 

Psychological Warfare

Marmots don’t just take your snacks.
They leave evidence. Strategically.

  • A single sunflower seed placed on top of your phone.
  • Your tent zipper mysteriously open.
  • A bite taken out of your energy bar… still inside the wrapper.
  • Pawprints forming a smiley face outside your car.

This isn’t theft.
It’s performance art.

 

Retreat and Celebration

Once the mission is complete, the marmots vanish.

Gone. Like a burp in the wind.

They retreat to high meadows, where they:

  • Compare loot
  • Brag about the “human who cried over the missing bagel”
  • Eat 1.7 times their body weight in snacks
  • And form a ceremonial Wheel of Cheese, rolled downhill as an offering to the Marmot Ancestors of Snackhood

 

The Hiker’s Guide to Marmot Counter-Insurgency

Think you can defend your lunch? Think again. But here’s what might slow them down:

  • Fake snacks filled with kale
  • Leaving a decoy backpack zipped halfway
  • Drawing eyes on your picnic basket (“predator deterrent”)
  • Yodeling. Loudly. Constantly. They hate it. So will everyone else. You might get shanked by a bear.

 

Conclusion: The Mountains Belong to Them

So this National Trails Day, if your protein bars vanish, your peanut butter gets mysteriously “licked” and you spot a chubby rodent waddling away with a tortilla wrap in its mouth…

Don’t be mad.

You weren’t robbed.

You were honored.

You were visited by the Alpine Marmot Commandos, guardians of the peaks, masters of mischief and highly-trained snack extraction specialists.

In the words of an anonymous marmot operative, “We’re not thieves, we’re just enthusiastic foodies. We love trying new snacks and exploring the world of human cuisine. And let’s be real, who needs berries when you can have trail mix?”

As National Trails Day comes to a close, the alpine marmot commandos will retreat to their burrows, bellies full and picnic baskets empty. But don’t worry, they’ll be back next year, hungrier and more cunning than ever.

Happy National Trails Day! Guard your snacks.

Alpine Marmot Commandos

Alpine Marmot Commandos

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Marmots and Mother’s Day: A Whistle, a Hug and a Bouquet of Dandelions

Posted on May 11, 2025 by Stormy Marmot

When it comes to celebrating Mother’s Day, humans go all out — brunches, spa gift cards, heartfelt cards and poorly wrapped bath bombs from the kids. But deep in the alpine meadows, a lesser-known, but equally enthusiastic celebration is unfolding. That’s right, folks, it’s Mother’s Day, Marmot Edition.

Now, marmots may not have opposable thumbs or Etsy accounts, but don’t let that fool you. These chunky, chirpy rodents take their maternal appreciation very seriously. Let’s take a peek into how marmots show their love.

Rise and Shine, Sort Of

Marmot pups don’t exactly leap out of bed on Mother’s Day. They emerge groggily from their burrows around noon (because hibernation hangovers are real), rub the sleep out of their beady little eyes, and realize, “Oh no, it’s today!”

Cue the frantic gathering of meadow treasures: wildflowers (mostly dandelions and thistles), shiny pebbles and the occasional beetle snack (hey, it’s the thought that counts).

Breakfast in Dirt

While humans bring breakfast in bed, marmot pups present their moms with the finest selection of clover and alpine grasses, arranged delicately on a flat rock. A nice touch if you don’t mind a little dirt with your garnish. The culinary delights are less “perfectly poached eggs” and more “slightly gritty dandelion greens I found near the badger’s den”. It’s the thought that counts, right? Mother Marmot smiles (well, in her mind) and pretends she hasn’t eaten the exact same thing for ninety-two consecutive days.

The Gift of Whistle

Marmots aren’t big on long speeches, but they do have quite the vocal range. To honor Mom, the pups engage in a full-on whistle concert. The high-pitched trills echo through the hills in what sounds like a blend of kazoo solos and smoke detector testing. It’s heartfelt. It’s chaotic. It’s loud.

Mother Marmot tolerates this with the same grace your mom had when you gave her a macaroni necklace and a song about how she smells like spaghetti.

Family Photos (Sort Of)

There’s no smartphone in the burrow, but that doesn’t stop the marmots. They gather awkwardly in front of a scenic boulder while the elder marmot clicks a mental snapshot, since no one can quite figure out the trail camera they stole from the researchers last spring.

The pups wrestle. Dad photobombs. Someone sneezes and ruins it. Classic.

The Nap That Binds

After all the hoopla, the best gift of all is time together. The marmot family piles into the sun-warmed grass for a good cuddle nap, full bellies and warm fuzzies included.

Because really, that’s what Mother’s Day is all about. Not the gifts, not the noise, but being together, grateful for the burrow and the heart that built it.

So to all the moms out there — human, marmot or otherwise — here’s to you. May your day be filled with whistles, wildflowers and a little peace and quiet, eventually.

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