The Marmot’s Complaint

A thin frost had crept down the trail overnight, laying a pale glaze across the high country. In a meadow fed by the slow seep of a nearby creek, the earth had swelled into frost boils, the mud rising and splitting as if the ground itself were drawing breath.

Just beyond, in a north-facing copse where sunlight rarely lingers, the porous soil still held the soft imprints of mule deer hooves. Frost crystals clung to the sedge like scattered shards of glass, and the once-bright shooting-star blossoms, now bowed and withered, sagged on their stems in a quiet surrender to the season.

A fat marmot, already drowsy from the impulse to hibernate, whistled its disapproval at our approaching horses and then waddled slowly into its rock burrow. If you’ve never had a marmot yell at you, I’ll tell you this—it’s like being scolded by an overfed uncle who thinks the chair you’re about to sit in belongs exclusively to him.

Ty, who was riding just ahead of me, pulled his horse to a stop and turned in the saddle with that half-smile he used when something amused him more than it should have.

“Guess we woke him up,” he said.

“Looks like he’s been awake plenty,” I replied, taking note of the marmot’s rolling belly. “That fella’s carrying two lunches, maybe three.”

The marmot, now tucked into the shadows of his hole, let out another shrill whistle, as if to tell us that our humor was unnecessary. I could’ve sworn I heard him mutter, “Get off my lawn.”

We moved on, our horses’ hooves crunching frost that crackled like breaking glass. The air was thin and sharp enough to remind me that summer was no longer in charge. Even though the sun hung bright in the blue Sierra sky, it couldn’t quite push back the bite of the season sneaking in.

I’ve long believed that nature has a way of keeping us honest. When a fat marmot complains at you, when your fingers go numb even though the sun is shining, when the trail beneath you shifts from dust to ice in the span of a half-hour’s ride—you’re reminded that you’re not in charge of as much as you think.

That lesson has carried me through more than the high country.

Ty and I rode on in silence for a while, except for the occasional clink of a stirrup or snort from the pack mules behind us. I found myself thinking about how much of life boils down to whether you see a whistle-blowing marmot as a nuisance or a gift.

For some, it’s just noise–an animal being cranky because you crossed its path. For others, it’s comic relief, a reminder that the world is still full of characters, even when they come in fur. And for a few—and I’d like to count myself among them—it’s a kind of sermon, short and sharp–don’t get so full of yourself that you forget where you are.

I don’t need a pulpit when a marmot can handle the job.

At one point, Ty cleared his throat and said, “That marmot’s smarter than us.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. “He knows when it’s time to hole up. He’s got food stored, a bed ready, and he’s not about to climb another mountain pass for no reason. Meanwhile, we’re out here hauling mule strings over granite because…”

He paused and raised an eyebrow. “…why, again?”

I laughed. “Because we said yes to something that sounded like a good idea in July, when the air was warm and the mosquitoes were the only ones giving us trouble.”

He nodded. “Yep. And now it’s September, and we’re wishing we were marmots.”

It’s hard to argue with logic like that.

The truth is, most of us could stand to live a little more like marmots. Not the eating-yourself-silly part, although I can’t say I haven’t attempted that on Thanksgiving. I mean the preparedness, the acceptance that seasons change, and you’d better have a plan for it.

We human beings spend a lot of time pretending frost won’t come, that the blossoms won’t sag, that the trail won’t ice up. Then we act surprised when life tells us otherwise.

We push back against change like it’s a personal insult, rather than a natural fact. Meanwhile, the marmot shrugs, whistles, and waddles into its hole, ready for whatever winter tosses its way.

By the time we crested a ridge and looked down over another stretch of canyon, the sun had started its slow slide west. Shadows stretched long, painting the granite in silver and blue. The mules plodded, unbothered by philosophy or frost, focused only on the steady rhythm of the trail.

I thought again of that marmot—chubby, annoyed, but wise in his own way. He didn’t need us to understand him.

He just needed to tell us off and get back to his preparations. There’s a kind of freedom in that–do what you need to do, say your piece, then duck into your burrow and rest easy.

That’s a lesson I’m still learning. Too often, I find myself wasting breath trying to convince someone of something, or carrying more weight than I need to, or fighting against a season that’s already arrived. The marmot doesn’t do that as it knows when to save its energy.

When we finally stopped to make camp, Ty leaned back on his bedroll, looked up at the first stars, and said, “If I had half the marmot’s sense, I’d be asleep already.”

I chuckled. “And if you had half his belly, I’d roll you down the hill to get you moving.”

He grinned, eyes already closing. “Fair enough.”

The fire popped. The night cooled fast, the kind of chill that sneaks into your bones if you sit still too long. I pulled my blanket tight and thought of frost crystals on meadow sedge, of hoofprints frozen in mud, of blossoms sagging but still holding onto their stems. Beauty doesn’t vanish just because the season changes—it shifts, it teaches, it reminds.

That marmot may never know it, but he handed me a sermon worth carrying: accept the season, do your work, and when the time comes, don’t be afraid to rest.

We spend our lives rushing through summers, complaining through winters, and acting like spring and fall are interruptions. But I’ll tell you, fall in the high country is no interruption. It’s the season that tells you the truth straight: nothing lasts forever, so notice it while you can.

The frost on the meadow, the shriveled blossoms, the cranky marmot—they’re all reminders that life is short, but it’s also layered, textured, and sometimes downright funny if you let it be.

So next time a marmot whistles at you, don’t just take it as noise. Hear it for what it is: a warning, a joke, and a bit of advice rolled into one. After all, if a fat rodent in the Sierra can keep his priorities straight, maybe we can too.