July 4, 2026, dawned clear over the tundra of Rocky Mountain National Park. Wildflowers swayed in the breeze. Pikas whistled from their rocky hideouts. Hikers admired the sweeping views from the Alpine Visitor Center.
Then, sometime before lunch, park rangers pulled over a suspicious, heavily loaded pickup truck on Trail Ridge Road. Upon inspection, rangers discovered a massive haul of heavy-duty, leave-the-ground fireworks: artillery shells, Roman candles and multi-shot repeaters. In the state of Colorado, these are absolutely illegal.
The occupants were arrested as the rangers realized that not only was the cargo illegal, there were enough illegal aerial fireworks to make the entire county nervous. Colorado law takes a rather dim view of fireworks that launch into the air, particularly inside one of America’s most spectacular national parks.
The boxes were stacked beside the road while rangers handcuffed the suspects and documented the evidence.
This should have been the end of the story.
The Unexpected Haul
Instead, Picktail Grumblepelt happened to be foraging nearby. Now, Picktail had many admirable qualities. He was persistent. He was optimistic. He could eat an astonishing amount of alpine clover.
Reading, however, was not among Picktail’s talents.
He saw the rangers unloading massive, brightly colored cardboard boxes. He stared at the labels. His eyes went wide. He couldn’t read the word WARNING, but he recognized the red cylinders immediately: Dynamite.
He slowly stood up on his hind legs and nodded confidently. “Dynamite.”
He looked around. The park rangers were busy talking with deputies. Slowly, quietly, one suspiciously heavy box disappeared into the tundra.
The Excavation Problem
For years, Picktail had dreamed of digging a transit tunnel straight through the Continental Divide, overlooking the alpine basin. Many marmots had questioned the project. Some questioned the engineering. Some questioned the destination. One asked why anyone would tunnel through a mountain when one could simply go over it.
Picktail dismissed these critics as “small thinkers”.
His excavation methods had remained largely unchanged:
- One slightly bent rusty fork.
- One stolen camping spoon.
- Stubbornness.
Dig progress had been agonizingly slow, averaging approximately six inches per week. Now, however, professional excavation equipment had arrived. “Explosives?” Picktail’s eyes lit up. “Excellent. This will save me three weeks of digging.”
The Deluxe Excavation Package
Hauling the mysterious box nearly broke Picktail’s back.
By sunset, he had dragged it to the tunnel entrance. He arranged dozens of colorful cylinders exactly where he imagined the dynamite should go, rigging the entire stash together. He somehow procured a pack of matches, a mystery the colony is still investigating since marmots generally lack both opposable thumbs and pockets. Park officials have also repeatedly declined to speculate.
From a neighboring ridge, a group of marmots gathered to watch.
Old Mossback McGrump squinted toward the tunnel. “What exactly is he doing?”
Nutmeg McChunky shrugged. “He says he’s modernizing.”
“With what?”
“Dynamite.”
“Oh.” They all considered this. “Seems efficient.”
Picktail struck the match. The fuse hissed. He scampered behind a massive rock displaced by a slowly moving glacier eons earlier. He waited for the mountain to rumble.
What happened next was not a localized, rock-shattering thud.
Instead, a single brilliant comet screamed into the evening sky. It burst into a gigantic red chrysanthemum. Another followed. Then five more. Then twenty. Then what experts would later describe as “far, far too many”.
Red, white and blue starbursts filled the night sky. Glittering silver showers rained down on the peaks. Golden willows spilled across the sky. Blue stars exploded over the Continental Divide. Green comets whistled across the alpine tundra. Crackling palms erupted one after another. Massive aerial shells climbed thousands of feet before bursting into shimmering rings that echoed from valley to valley.
Every fuse seemed connected to three others. Every tube launched another shell. Every shell ignited six more. The ridge vanished beneath smoke, sparks, whistles, fountains, spinning wheels, screaming rockets and explosions that painted the night in impossible colors.
Picktail peeked around the boulder just long enough to watch another barrage explode over the Continental Divide. “That’s new.” He ducked as another shell screamed overhead. “Modern dynamite is considerably fancier than I expected. This is clearly the deluxe excavation package.”
If anyone there had been familiar with Bilbo Baggins’ birthday celebration or Gandalf’s legendary fireworks, they might have recognized the resemblance. Unfortunately, no marmot had ever seen The Lord of the Rings.
The Audience Review
The audience watched in complete silence. Finally, Nutmeg cleared his throat. “Pretty.”
Polite applause followed.
Old Mossback nodded thoughtfully. “Seven whistles out of ten.”
“I liked the green ones.”
“The ones shaped like flowers?”
“No. The screaming ones.”
“Oh yes. Excellent screaming.”
They agreed it was, without question, the finest fireworks display Rocky Mountain National Park had never intended to host. The show illuminated both sides of the Continental Divide. Campers dozens of miles away wondered who on earth had received permission to light up the sky with so many explosives.
While the rest of the United States was celebrating its 250th birthday with backyard barbecues and official city drone fireworks shows, the Alpine Tundra of Rocky Mountain National Park accidentally hosted the most spectacular, highly illegal and entirely unintentional fireworks display in Colorado history.
When the last shell fizzled out, Picktail emerged from behind his rock. His tunnel remained exactly fourteen inches deep. He frowned. “Worst dynamite ever.”
The Investigation
The following morning, park rangers hiked to the ridge after reports of mysterious explosions during the night. What they discovered raised several questions.
Hundreds of spent firework tubes, charred launch racks assembled from sticks and rocks, scorch marks across the tundra and one very disappointed excavation site.
And, scattered everywhere through the ash, tiny marmot paw prints.
The official report noted that “unknown persons” had apparently removed part of the confiscated evidence before it could be secured. Unofficially, Ranger Lopez reportedly stared at the paw prints for nearly a minute before quietly saying, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
No suspects have ever been identified, although Picktail Grumblepelt still insists that, given actual dynamite, he could finish that tunnel by Labor Day.
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