Phelps Creek, Day 3: Whistling Pigs

In the wilderness, it’s not unusual to awaken to a rosy finch or other alpine avian before dawn's first light. However, on this day, my alarm clock was the melancholy whistle of a mountain marmot.

Known as “whistling pigs” to the miners in upper Phelps Creek (above) and vicinity, the marmot is actually a large ground squirrel that tends to live in mountainous areas of the world. They typically live in burrows -- or in the case of the yellow-bellied marmot common in the Cascades -- rockpiles, where they hibernate through the winter.

Also know as a rockchuck, most marmots are social beasts and use their prominent whistles to communicate with one another, particularly when they are alarmed. They primarily eat greens and many types of grasses, berries, lichens (an algae and a fungus that took a “lichen” for one another), mosses, roots and flowers. The marmot inhabits steppes, meadows, talus fields and other open habitats on the edge of forests.

They dig burrows under rocks because predators are less likely to see their burrow. Predators include wolves, foxes, coyotes, and of course, humans and dogs. When they see a predator, the marmot whistles to warn other marmots in the area, and then typically hide in a nearby rockpile. The miners took note of the marmot, which turned out to be essential to their very existence in the wilderness.

Mining historian L.K. Hodges wrote in the Seattle Post Intelligencer that “among the rocks, the whistling marmot burrows his holes, from which he comes to feed and sit on the rocks. He is shaped like a small pig, with gray fur striped with brown, and is nimble as a cricket and shy of human society.”

“Instead of being no better than dog meat, as I was led to say in writing about the whistlers in Horseshoe Basin, his flesh is sweet and tender as that of a rabbit and is a favorite article of diet up Phelps Creek. I feasted off the boiled whistler at Mr. Harvey’s cabin and in the Phelps Basin and found it sumptuous fare.”

Phelps Creek, Day 2: Spider Glacier

Since it’s been more than 30 years since I last set foot on Spider Glacier (above), I was curious to see how much the ice field had receded from the early 80s. With more glaciers than any state in the lower 48, the Cascades in Washington remain the bellwether for global warming, and the signs are not encouraging.

During last year’s sojourn to Buck Creek Pass, the consensus among our group was that Chocolate Glacier and the others on Glacier Peak had significantly diminished over the last three decades. Statistics appear to confirm our admittedly anecdotal observations.

Since the dawn of the Industrial Revolution some 150 years ago, glaciers in the North Cascades have collectively shrunk by 40 percent, and the pace is accelerating, according to the U.S. Geological Service.

Glaciers are affected by two climactic conditions: snowfall, which adds to their mass in the winter, and warm temperatures, which spur melting in the summer. USGS scientists say the amount of snow in the Northwest is declining, while temperatures are rising. Despite some heavy snowfall in the 1990s, the overall trend is negative.

That said, walking on Spider Glacier was as relatively straightforward as I remember.

Along the way, we witnessed stunning views of the Entiat Mountains and Phelps Ridge, including Seven-Fingered Jack and Mt. Maude (above).

At Spider Gap (right), the narrow pass at the top of the glacier, we peered over the rim to see the Upper Lyman Lakes as they were beginning to thaw.

As we proceeded down Spider Glacier, it was clear that any visual evaluation of the effect of global warming would need to wait for another day. Winter snows stubbornly clung to the narrow basin, making it difficult to assess the true size of the glacier.

The “watermelon snow” was pervasive as usual; also known as “snow algae,” “red snow” or most appropriately, “blood snow,” this species of green algae contains a secondary red pigment in addition to chlorophyll and thrives in freezing water.

Near the bottom of the glacier, Phelps Creek emerges briefly before disappearing again beneath the ice (above). On the way back down, we saw an actual spider (below) making its long and arduous journey across Spider Glacier. How apropos.