​​May: the time of year in Steamboat when things are a little quieter, AKA mud season. Thankfully there’ve been enough days of rain and snow to earn that name, every drop potentially staving off the imminent fire season following the less than lackluster winter snowfall. 

The quiet around town is oh so welcome, but the quiet in my massage practice is disconcerting. Busy weeks and lulls are a part of the normal rhythm, but the busy weeks this past winter paralleled the snowfall - less than the kind of busy I’ve come to expect.

And so, as has happened in prior slow periods that extend for longer than I think they should (I start panicking after a day or two), my go-to coping mechanism is to have an existential crisis. What am I even thinking, having my own business? What am I doing? Who am I? Why am I here? 

An attractive solution in the midst of this mind chaos is: “I know, I’ll go get a job with a reliable paycheck and benefits, and sit on my can behind a desk all day.” After breathing into the proverbial paper bag, I calm down and remember why I do massage therapy.

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I earned my BA in Cultural Anthropology, thinking I’d head somewhere exotic to study some fascinating people. As anthropologists do. The Amazon Basin, Africa, Central America…all intrigued me. Instead, I got a position in a legal office, saved up some dough, and headed off to travel Europe, where I planned to end up in Barcelona and establish myself prior to the ‘92 Summer Olympics. 

Instead (seeing a pattern here?), after about six weeks of solo travel I decided I really wanted to do Ironman, a triathlon consisting of a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and 26.2 mile run. So I returned to the U.S., got a job at a sporting goods store to support my athletic habit, and did my first Ironman.

Fast forward to the summer of 1996. My Great Aunt Dorie in Maryland passed that summer just before I moved from Steamboat to Boulder. Aunt Dorie was a delightful whimsical sweetheart of a person. When I was a kid I would beg to wash dishes in her kitchen because she made it such fun…something about oodles of soap bubbles and a literal spoonful of sugar when I had the hiccups, which was very often. The last time I saw her was a year before she passed, and she was in a nursing home. She had suffered a stroke, and was completely dependent on nurses and aides for her care. She could not communicate. Her once bright, twinkly blue eyes were dim, and the only bit of color in her tiny room was a small flower bouquet and a little mobile hanging above her bed. I left there heartbroken and bereft - how could magical Great Aunt Dorie, whom I loved so much, be in this situation? Somehow, in my sadness, I had the conviction that if she could be given compassionate touch, it would change the quality of her remaining life. Since we lived so far apart this was only a wish, so when she died I thought about how I could make a difference in other people’s lives, even if I could not have done that for her.

I didn’t pursue that right away. It took a second person passing to seal the deal. Surprisingly, that person was Princess Diana. I despised the whole royal wedding coverage, and detested the in-your-face tabloids at the grocery checkout blaring the latest sordid scandal of the monarchy. But when she died in August, 1997, it struck me as so wasteful that a woman - a mother - who’d been doing such meaningful work in the world (with HIV/AIDS, landmines, and the homeless) was now gone. Princess Diana’s death was the impetus for me to make some kind of a difference myself. I enrolled in the Boulder College of Massage Therapy and graduated from the 1000-hour two-year-long night program with my certification in December, 1999.

Eventually I landed a position doing massage therapy at a continuum-of-care facility in Boulder. The thirteen years there gave me the opportunity to work with many different people, young and old, and many different conditions. People with Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s patients, folks recovering from surgery, from illness, people in wheelchairs, with chronic and acute pain, and staff who were athletes. Several clients were residents who transitioned all the way through that continuum during the time I worked with them: from independent living, to assisted living, to skilled nursing, and sometimes to end of life. 

One of these clients was a woman named Florence, who transitioned through those phases with humor and happiness. Florence wore bright colors and had a zest for life. She loved to swim, to dance, and to paint. And as she progressed, those things that she loved to do became the things she used to do. Her response to this was unfailing graciousness. When I went to her apartment in assisted living, we’d walk to the peaceful greenhouse room so she could sit among the growing plants and gurgling little fountain for her massage. When I went to her room in skilled nursing, she would tell me at least once per visit how blessed she was to live there. When she had a stroke and could no longer get out of her bed without assistance and could no longer communicate, I would put on her music and massage her neck, shoulders, arms and hands, legs and feet as she lay in her bed. One day while I massaged her hand, she made a little movement with the music. On her lips was a little smile, and I thought I heard the slightest whisper of a hum. Florence was dancing.

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Do I believe I’ve made a difference in people’s lives through massage work? I do. When someone’s pain is relieved, when they perform their sport better, when their anxiety is calmed, when their grief has a little more space, when they sleep through the night on their massage days, when they move better so they can do what they want to do - I believe that these people’s lives are made somewhat better through this work. I can’t change the really hard stuff, like dear Aunt Dorie having a stroke, or Florence not being able to swim. But I can bring moments of good. And maybe, at least on some days, that is enough. Certainly enough to keep me in the game.

​It is spring, and Mr. Marmot has made his annual appearance at the gazebo outside my office building. He guards the rocky entrance to his subterranean abode, slouching back against the wooden gazebo base, short front arms resting on his chest, watching the world go by.  His lounging comes to an abrupt end when anyone or anything is too near. He glares, harrumphs, and then disappears down the burrow. 

The marmots living in Colorado are yellow-bellied marmots. Marmots are also known as rockchucks and whistle-pigs. They can be over two feet long, and weigh roughly eleven pounds. They prefer chomping on flowering plant stalks but will feast on green grasses and leaves as well - the important part is to eat, and eat all summer long, as they must put on lots of fat to make it through their long hibernation. They lose half their summer weight during hibernation, and hibernation is a major factor in their mortality: not enough weight going in, or a burrow not deep enough, means they won’t make it to spring.

With the arrival of spring, and plenty of green foodstuffs, the marmots lose no time in mating. Mama Marmot will give birth to anywhere from three to eight little ones. The gestation period is only 30 days - imagine producing up to eight babies in just one month!

No wonder Mrs. Marmot is a rare sight around our gazebo. She needs all of her energy to grow those teensy ones, and once they are born, she needs all of her energy to nurse them in the burrow. At 20-30 days the babies are weaned and begin to step out. This year I’ve counted five baby marmots at the gazebo, all roly-poly miniatures of their parents. These little balls of joy scamper about, though under the watchful eye of Mr. (and sometimes Mrs.) Marmot, and never too far away to quickly dart under the protective gazebo, inquisitive face peering out from the shadows.

Marmots are typically out of the burrow for mid morning and early evening meal times - much of the rest of the day they are in the burrow. This is partially to avoid predators like owls, golden eagles, hawks, coyotes, and weasels. 

Our marmot family doesn’t seem to follow some of the behavior mentioned in some articles. For example, there is no evidence of the burrow harem of several females - it seems Mr. and Mrs. Marmot of the gazebo are monogamous. Also, though eating is most likely high on their agenda, most of the activity I observe is playing, rolling, running around, and basking in the sun. They also don’t do a lot of whistle-warning, they simply slip into their burrow sanctuary. 

As the summer days become warmer, and the marmot babies become larger, Mr. Marmot seems to relax a bit. He waddles around showing off his successful weight-gain, and last year he somehow made it to the gazebo railing where he posed his sleek self for all to admire.

Seeing the marmots each year is something people frequenting the building take great delight in. There is a bit of happy hopefulness to see this furry family in action. Something comforting in their day to day, in the safety of their gazebo burrow, under the luxuriant green shade of old tree friends, in their play, in their cycle of life that keeps on keeping on.


Sources/Learn More
Yampatika: Wildlife of Steamboat 
Colorado Parks and Wildlife: Yellow-Bellied Marmot
National Park Service: Marmot
YouTube video: Meet Colorado’s Marmots

Originally published May, 2025