The Blond Marmot

            The blond marmot on the ranch we took care of 7,700 feet up in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado was a close relative of the groundhog who tells us if spring will be early or late, according to whether it sees its shadow on groundhog day or not and a close relative of the woodchuck who we wonder how much wood could it chuck if it would chuck wood. The adaptation of these wild animals into humankind’s mythology might be appropriate for the blond marmot at Magic Sky ranch, because it was, in all marmotonian innocence, something it was not supposed to be. Yellow-bellied marmots, (Marmota flaviventris) the species common in the Rocky Mountains, are yellow underneath and dark brown to dark reddish brown above, with some grey, and with black heads, but the blond marmot was light golden blond all over.

            Some call these large rodents of the Sciuridae (squirrel) family whistle pigs, because their alarm call is a shrill whistle that notifies all nearby marmots that the whistler has spotted danger, and it would be good for the future of the species if everyone took shelter in their tunnels in the ground. Possibly, the “pig” part of that nickname comes because marmots lead a sedentary life and tend toward corpulence.

            Some call these marmots rock chucks, because they live in rocky areas and some of them take up observation posts on some of the tallest rocks in the area while others graze grasses for their sustenance. I think they take turns at lookout duty and feeding, though I can’t confirm that, because I haven’t been successful at communicating with marmots, though I did try, in crude human ways, to get a very simple message across to the blond marmot, failed, and was only rescued from dire consequences by powers beyond those I could bring to bear on the situation.

            I became sure the blond marmot was female when I saw part of the marmot’s courtship early in spring. I walked along the dirt road just below the big lodge. The blond marmot ran up the road toward me, avidly pursued by a marmot of normal color. The blond marmot saw me and veered off into tall grass. Her pursuer didn’t realize at first that she had turned and stuck to the road at full speed until he was quite close to me and suddenly realized that, not only was the blond marmot no longer in front of him, but a large, potentially dangerous human had somehow taken her place. He stopped in confusion and then retreated hastily up the hill, in the opposite direction from that the female had taken. Male marmots pursue female marmots. Only males get addled enough to lose track of the female and to get that close to a human.

            The blond marmot decided to live under the lodge well house. She dug her way under. That was not okay, because any animal living that close to drinking water could contaminate the water. As caretaker of the ranch and as water master, I was responsible for the purity of water that Girl Scouts who used the ranch drank, bathed in, washed their dishes in, and used for cleaning the buildings before they left the mountains and returned to their various cities. I was also under orders to get the marmot out from under the well house by whatever means it took to make the eviction permanent.

            Shoveling her entrance tunnel full of dirt and packing it tight did nothing, though I tried it several times. Digging is as natural to marmots as driving cars is to resident humans in the United States, and she just dug her tunnel again. Stomping on the floor above her had no effect. I couldn’t be there much of the time, and she outlasted me.

            I was wondering if I could get a large enough live trap to catch her and move her and doubting if that would work, when there was a large intervention.

            The well was a surface well dug twelve feet deep and cased with an aluminum culvert. It had long been considered inadequate for the lodge, and preparations for a better well had been wending their way through all the necessary steps for a long time. Just when I was wondering how to convince the blond marmot that, by the order of the Girl Scouts and the county health department, she had to get out and stay out, workers drove a well-drilling rig onto the meadow, drilled a hole over three hundred feet deep, developed a very good well, cased it with contamination-proof steel pipe, left only a small, covered pipe sticking out of the ground, no well house, moved away the old well house, took the culvert out of the ground, and filled the hole.

            And did the blond marmot survive all that disruption?

            I was pleased, when I took an early spring walk with our dog, Thorn, to hear a shrill whistle, look up, and there, on a tall rock at the base of the granite ridge, was the blond marmot. I had no doubt that it was the same animal. I have seen many marmots, but that was the only blond one I have ever seen.

            I asked her, “Are you grateful for the turn of events that evicted you from under the well house? That saved you from a lot of trouble. That may have saved your life. Have you expressed gratitude? I have. I’ve been hoping to see you again and to know that you’re all right.”

            As I said earlier, my communication with marmots is not effective. I have no idea what her thoughts were about what I said, but I do know that, as Thorn and I went on our way through spring sunshine up the wild ranch, I was very pleased that she was still making her way in the world.