Nutmeg McChunky and the Great Fat Marmot Week Disaster

There are moments in every marmot colony when a member looks around, surveys the situation and says, “We should absolutely make this worse.”

This was one of those moments.

The trouble began on a Wednesday morning when Young Pip found out about Fat Marmot Week.

He had been reading over the shoulder of a human tourist who was staring at something on a glowing rectangle. Pip couldn’t read all of it, because the human kept moving the rectangle around, but he caught three important words: Fat. Marmot. Week.

Pip dropped his blade of grass. Then he ran. “WE HAVE A CHAMPION!”

Within minutes, the entire colony had assembled.

Ol’ Whiskers arrived last, because he had been asleep. “Back before the snow learned manners,” he stated, “we had Fat Marmot Month every summer.”

Mossback McGrump stared at him. “We did not.”

“We did.”

“We’ve never had this.”

“That’s because,” said Ol’ Whiskers gravely, “you weren’t paying attention.”

Mossback sighed. This was already going badly. It got worse.

“It is a sacred rite!” proclaimed Ol’ Whiskers, brushing a trail mix crumb from his venerable beard. “Before history was recorded, our ancestors wrestled black bears for the right to be called The Chonk. We must send a warrior. A marmot whose midsection strikes terror into the hearts of red-tailed hawks!”

Then Nutmeg McChunky waddled into the meeting.

There was a silence. A very long silence.

Nutmeg was, objectively, enormous. Not a warrior. Nutmeg looked like a furry sack of wet flour that had been rolled down a talus slope and then fed three pounds of buttered wildflowers. He was an absolute unit, a marvel of biological density.

Nutmeg had spent the summer approaching food consumption with the same philosophical commitment that other marmots reserved for hibernation.

Grass? Yes.
Flowers? Obviously.
A stolen picnic cracker? A moral imperative.
The occasional object that was definitely not food? Well… “That’s how squirrels do it.”

Nobody knew what that meant. Nobody had ever known what that meant.

But it was Nutmeg’s answer to almost everything.

Cap’n Cheeks McSnatch squinted at Nutmeg. “Arrr,” he said, “that there be a formidable vessel.”

“I am not a vessel,” Nutmeg replied.

“Ye are if ye float.”

“I don’t think that’s how vessels work.”

“Quiet, landlubber.”

Master Squeak Windwhisker watched the proceedings levitating above a warm rock. “The path to victory,” he said calmly, “begins by accepting what already is.”

Everyone turned toward him.

Nutmeg blinked. “Is what already is?”

“You are… considerably substantial.”

Nutmeg smiled. “Thank you.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“It sounded like one.”

And so the colony made a decision. Nutmeg McChunky would compete in Fat Marmot Week. There was only one problem. Nobody knew how to enter him.

“This is a mistake,” grumbled Mossback McGrump, deeply embedded in a sun-warmed rock crevice. “In my day, if you got fat, you sat on a boulder, you whistled at hikers and you went to sleep for seven months. Now we need validation? From people in town? It’s unnatural.”

“Consarnit, Mossback! Ye’ve got no vision for the mineral wealth of fame!” rasped Picktail Grumblepelt, adjusting his battered miner’s helmet, secured firmly with a bootlace chin strap, and tapping his rusted spoon against a rock. “Nutmeg here’s got the vein! The Golden Granola Vein! Back in ’58 during the Pikes Peak rush, I seen a groundhog half this size sell for three ounces of dust! Put the soft-pawed flunkie in the contest!”

“Is it worse to be soft-pawed or a flunkie?” Nutmeg asked.

“Neither is worse, Nutmeg. Soft paws can learn. A flunkie can choose. But a marmot who asks which is worse…” Master Squeak paused. “…both must be.”

 

Operation: Get Nutmeg Famous

The first plan was proposed by Lt. Butterball. “We need an official entry.”

“Excellent,” said Midge Marmot.

“What does that mean?”

“A photograph. Measurements. Identification. Probably paperwork.”

Everyone looked at Nutmeg.

Nutmeg looked back. “How much paperwork?”

Midge shrugged. “Enough.”

Nutmeg immediately became concerned. “How much is enough?”

“More than you want.”

“I don’t want any.”

“Then we’re already behind.”

The Alpine Marmot Commandos were assigned the mission. Whiskerblade would obtain the necessary paperwork. Snackpaw would handle the technical equipment. Mittens would provide unpredictable operational support. Nobody knew what that meant. Nobody asked.

Cap’n Cheeks volunteered to obtain a camera. This was universally rejected because the last camera he had obtained was still attached to a tourist’s backpack, which the tourist was still wearing. Park rangers were all over the mountain for a week.

Picktail Grumblepelt offered an old device he had discovered in a mining tunnel. “It’s a telegraph,” he rasped.

“It doesn’t work,” said Midge.

“It worked fine in 1887.”

“It’s 2026.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem with progress.”

Mossback nodded. For once, Picktail had a point.

 

The Official Photograph

The colony eventually decided they could take Nutmeg’s photograph themselves. This proved to be more difficult than expected.

“Stand still,” said Midge.
“I am standing still.”
“You’re chewing.”
“I can chew and stand still.”
“You’re moving.”
“My jaw is moving.”
“That counts.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”

Nutmeg stopped chewing and struck his pose. It was magnificent. He hit the camera with an angle that highlighted his absolute lack of a neck and a side profile that defied modern geometry. Everyone stared.

For approximately four seconds, Nutmeg remained motionless. Then he sneezed. The camera shutter clicked. The resulting photograph showed:

• half of Nutmeg,
• three blades of grass,
• one confused pika,
• and what appeared to be the left hind leg of Cap’n Cheeks.

“Perfect,” said Cheeks.
“It’s terrible,” said Mossback.
“It has artistic merit,” said Ol’ Whiskers.
“It’s mostly Cheeks’ butt,” said Midge.
“Art,” repeated Ol’ Whiskers. “Frame it.”

They tried again. This time Nutmeg sat upright. There was a short debate if he resembled a tennis ball on top of a bowling ball or just an unnaturally wide bowling pin. The camera clicked. Unfortunately, Nutmeg had been sitting on the camera.

They tried a third time. Nutmeg wandered out of frame because he smelled a sandwich. He could smell food a mile away, even if it was securely packed in a sealed cooler.

A fourth attempt produced a photograph of Nutmeg’s nose, a little off center.

The fifth showed his backside.

The sixth showed nothing except grass. “Arr! Deliver the payload, ye cursed slab!” Cap’n Cheeks snarled.

Nutmeg, blissfully unaware that the attempt had failed, simply sighed, rolled onto his side like a sack of damp laundry and began nibbling on a dandelion stem. Young Pip hit the shutter button and there was success.

“A perfect plan is a fragile thing,” Master Squeak noted. “One misplaced pebble can ruin it. A good plan has room for many pebbles.”

Nutmeg considered this. “How many pebbles?”

Master Squeak closed his eyes. “You are already improving the plan.”

 

Then Someone Mentioned the Internet

Midge had finally found the entry information. “There’s an online submission.”

Everyone stared at her.

“What’s online?” asked Young Pip.

“The internet.”

“What’s that?”

Midge paused. “It’s how humans make things happen without physically going anywhere.”

Ol’ Whiskers nodded knowingly. “Ah. Witchcraft.”

“No.”

“Modern witchcraft.”

“Still no.”

Nutmeg raised a paw. “Can we use it?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Wi-Fi.”

“What’s Wi-Fi?”

“Internet without wires.” Everyone stared at Midge again.

Picktail slowly removed his miner’s helmet and scratched his head. “No wires?”

“No wires.”

He looked horrified. “That ain’t natural.”

Mossback nodded.  “This is why we shouldn’t’ve started this.”

Unfortunately, the colony had already started this. Now they needed internet.

 

The Great Wi-Fi Expedition

The first attempt involved carrying a borrowed smartphone to the highest rock in the colony. Snackpaw held the phone. Young Pip held Snackpaw. Mittens held Young Pip. Nobody was entirely sure why.

Master Squeak Windwhisker sat beneath them. “Technology,” he said, “is merely a tool. Wisdom is knowing when the tool has become the problem.”

The phone displayed: NO SERVICE

Master Squeak nodded. “The mountain has spoken.”

They moved to another rock. NO SERVICE

Another. NO SERVICE

A fourth. NO SERVICE

Cap’n Cheeks climbed onto a boulder and held the phone toward the sky. “COME ON, YE BLOODY MAGIC SLAB!” Nothing.

He shook it. Nothing.
He threatened it. Nothing.
He offered it a peanut. Nothing.

“Arrr. Coward.”

Midge checked the screen. “Still nothing.”

Nutmeg looked worried. “But Fat Marmot Week is real.”

“Yes.”

“And we have to enter me.”

“Yes.”

“And there’s no internet.”

“Yes.”

Nutmeg thought about this. “So… I have become too fat for technology?”

Nobody answered.

Mossback finally muttered, “Probably. A lot of things have weight limits.”

 

The Final Attempt

There was one last idea. They would send someone down the mountain. A human could enter Nutmeg online. This was, technically, possible. It was also completely unacceptable.

“Why don’t we just ask a tourist?” suggested Young Pip. “They always take pictures and send them places.”

Everyone stared at him.

Mossback looked physically ill. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because then we’d have to explain Nutmeg.”

“What’s wrong with Nutmeg?”

A long pause. “Nothing.”

“Then why—”

“Everything.”

Nutmeg looked hurt. “I can explain myself.”

Cap’n Cheeks snorted. “Ye once spent twenty minutes explainin’ why a pinecone was a breakfast coupon.”

“It had squirrel bite marks on it. That’s how squirrels do it.”

The colony fell silent. There was no arguing with that.

Eventually, the sun began dropping behind the ridge. The temperature cooled. The wind picked up. The mountain remained gloriously, stubbornly disconnected from the modern world.

Midge looked at the phone one last time. NO SERVICE. She sighed. “That’s it.”

Nutmeg lowered his head.

“So I’m not going to be the Fat Marmot?”

Ol’ Whiskers approached him. “Back when mountains were flat, we learned an important lesson.”

“What lesson?”

“The fattest marmot does not always win.”

Nutmeg looked hopeful. “Who wins?”

Ol’ Whiskers considered this. “Usually the marmot who photographs best.”

Mossback grunted. “That’s not a lesson.”

“It is now.”

Nutmeg looked down at himself. “That seems unfair.”

“Yes,” said Ol’ Whiskers. “That is why humans invented contests.”

Nutmeg sat quietly for a moment. Then he spotted a flower. He ate it. “Honestly,” he said, “I think I’m okay with this.”

Master Squeak Windwhisker smiled. “Attachment to titles is unnecessary.”

Nutmeg nodded. “Do you have any snacks?”

“No.”

Nutmeg stood. “I’ll go find some.”

And off he waddled. The colony watched him disappear down the slope.

Cap’n Cheeks wiped a tear from his eye. “Arrr.”

Mossback looked at him. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Mountain dust.”

“We’re on grass.”

“Very dusty grass.”

 

A Note from the Real World

The colony’s failure to enter Nutmeg McChunky in a contest was entirely fictional. Fat Marmot Week, however, is very real.

The Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory’s Marmot Project is hosting the event as a playful way to get people interested in yellow-bellied marmots and the science behind their extraordinary summer weight gain before hibernation. Voting is scheduled to begin August 24. The Marmot Project itself began in 1962 and is one of the world’s longest running studies of individually marked wild mammals.

And then there is OnlyMarms.
Yes.
OnlyMarms is real.

Researchers connected with the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory created an OnlyFans page featuring wholesome photos and videos of actual marmots as a way to help support the long running research program. The project is co-led by UCLA ecologist Daniel Blumstein and University of Ottawa biologist Julien Martin and the content is intentionally family friendly: marmots eating, digging, sunning themselves, wandering around and generally behaving like marmots who have no idea what the internet is.

You can support marmot research directly through UCLA. Donations to the project are tax deductible and ensure 100% of funds directly power field operations and alpine conservation research that supports the Marmot Project.

And if you prefer your marmot philanthropy with an additional layer of internet weirdness, there is an even stranger development.

Online communities on the Solana blockchain created a cryptocurrency token called $ONLYMARMS on Pump.fun, inspired by the OnlyMarms campaign. Creator fees from the token are donated to support the marmot research.

Because apparently, after decades of studying marmots the old-fashioned way, we have arrived at the inevitable conclusion that blockchain technology must somehow be involved.

Behind the joke is something considerably more important.

Marmots are tightly tied to their alpine environments. Their behavior, survival, reproduction, hibernation and population dynamics can tell researchers a great deal about what is happening in mountain ecosystems as those environments change. Long term research has also shown that yellow-bellied marmots are important components of their ecological communities, including as prey for numerous predators.

Marmots also function as ecosystem engineers through their burrowing, altering habitat and creating resources used by other species. In some ecosystems, marmots are explicitly described in scientific literature as a keystone species.

And this work is critical.

Marmots are deeply bound to their high alpine environment and can serve as important indicators of climate change because they rely on winter snowpack for insulation during hibernation and depend on predictable spring snowmelt to access mountain vegetation. Shifts in alpine weather patterns can directly affect marmot survival, reproduction and population dynamics.

Studying how these whistling mammals adapt (or struggle to adapt) gives scientists an early look at changes taking place across western mountain ecosystems and the water resources those ecosystems help sustain.

So yes, Fat Marmot Week is funny. OnlyMarms is funny. Nutmeg McChunky being defeated by a complete lack of Wi-Fi is extremely funny. But the science behind all of it matters, because when the mountain changes, the marmots notice. And when the marmots notice, scientists have a very good reason to pay attention, preferably with a functioning internet connection.

So while Nutmeg might have missed his chance at viral glory because of bad mountain reception, you can still support his real life relatives and the scientists who have spent decades studying them by checking out the research at RMBL, subscribing to OnlyMarms, stocking up on $ONLYMARMS cryptocurrency or donating directly to the Marmot Project through UCLA.

After all, somebody has to keep an eye on these fat little climate scientists burrowing in the alpine tundra.