Why I Hate Chipmunks
An introduction to living among the wildlife of Yellowstone — one witness, one cabin, one foot scar, and the first strange imprints from my first days in one of the wildest places in America.
Contains adult language, rodent crimes, and one unresolved Yellowstone grievance.
Opening Statement
So, chipmunks.
This is the story of why I have the right -- yes, right -- to call bullshit whenever anyone, very young to the very old, says something stupid like:
“Aren’t chipmunks so cute! I just love them!”
Bullshit.
Chipmunks are evil and they make you eat things you never want to eat.
Hate is a very strong word. Let me explain why the word is appropriate when used alongside the term chipmunk.
In ’84 I worked at Yellowstone National Park for the summer cleaning the public areas of the Lake Yellowstone Hotel. You ever been? It has a hallway like the hotel in the movie The Shining. One door at the end of the long hall, but I digress...
I lived in a cabin that was 1.8 road miles from the hotel. Gorgeous daily or nightly walk along the shore of Lake Yellowstone. Truly a walk on the wild side.
The first week I was there, me and my cabin-mate Jason were there to open the hotel for the season... along with several hundred others. There was still three feet of snow in June! More than beautiful.
The First Morning
Our first night in the cabin was peaceful, plus I was dead tired from traveling.
But when I woke up in the morning... invasion of the ’munks to the 100th power!
This is a one-room cabin with a one-shirt closet housing the flush toilet; a tiny cold-water sink on the outside of the “lavatory”; and a noisy but working electric wall heater. No ceiling either.
Jason took the loft in the cabin’s rafters. Just plywood and a mattress, really. He could look down into the “bathroom” and my bed.
I slept on the 1920s metal spring bed with a hotdog bun for a mattress.
Everybody loves chipmunks. Are you still with me?
We are dead asleep and Jason’s alarm clock goes off. It’s still dark.
I heard:
Jason’s “bed” creak,
the “bathroom” wall groan,
a thud on the floor,
and Jason saying, “Holy-shit-dude-did-you-see-that?”
...in the most rapid-fire kid’s voice rant I’ve ever heard.
Not what I expected from my first ever mountain-climbing geologist student friend.
What I saw was Jason doing an awesome mountain-climber-style dismount from his bed and the shadow on the floor move away from him.
I don’t think the wall will last long.
The Discovery
I said, “That was impressive, but you better figure out another way when you’re hung-over!”
He said, “I think you’re right, but did you see the floor?”
I looked, saying, “What?”
“The-the-the-floor! It-was-covered-in-chipmunks.”
Rapid and high again.
Then he said, “What, thuh, hell? There’s chipmunk poo all over the floor! It’s fresh!”
Exact words.
Little bigger than mouse pellets they are. Some are in piles of threes, fours, fives... really, I’m not counting turd piles. Many more single discharges though.
I wonder if one could make money with chipmunk poo.
Digressing.
I sat up and turned on the light.
Sure enough -- enough pellets to fill half a red Solo cup from the floor; and my mattress; and my sleeping bag, inside and out; on the toilet; on our luggage; everything.
I even shook some out of my stylin’ long curly hair.
I sometimes think that’s why I’m bald today.
But that is not why I hate chipmunks, as they were there for the winter and it snowed more. Or...
Bison Intermission
The head of a bison added snow to the front of our door.
Why would I think that, you may ask?
Because when I opened the door to walk the half mile to the showers, upon looking up after a snow pile fell on my shoes and ankles, a four-foot-tall bison head, covered in snow, was close enough to the door to snort, blow snot on my hand and legs, and stare at me.
One eye at a time.
Sneezed-off head snow melted on my t-shirt.
His head jerked a little as the closing door creaked.
“Jason... we’re gonna be here awhile.”
We had to climb out the 2x2 window.
All of the bison moved on by the end of our showers. I appreciated the trail they left behind.
Did you know that a mixture of fresh chipmunk poo, fresh bison snot, and freshly melted snow could be used as an adhesive?
Yes. The poo dissolves in the mixture as you mix it like old-world wine makers, and everything sticks to it.
Like attracted to it.
Like tar.
Who knew?
Had to ruin a pair of socks to go shower. Hot water helped.
But that’s not why I hate chipmunks.
Cute little buggers, aren’t they!
We did a whole bunch of stuff that day, like attend maid school. That was fun, as all the maids were there. Jason and I were chosen to be porters.
And that’s another story or five.
Continuing on:
Pâté: Or More Properly, You’ll Never See Pâté the Same Way Again
So it came time to bed down.
Water was running everywhere from melting snow all day.
That night, it snowed.
That morning, I woke up to the same noises, but I didn’t react.
Creak.
Groan.
Thud.
Won’t be a problem waking up every morning.
“HOLY SHIT DUDE.”
All in about three seconds, I started to say, “What now?”
...but I ended up getting ’munk turds in my mouth.
Some are sticking to the bottom of my tongue now, and I noticed my eyelashes tickle as I squinch my disliking face.
Yes, I had turds in my eyes too.
I gag a bit.
Jason said, “You are covered in turds! How’d you sleep through that?”
Maybe it took less than three seconds.
FUCK ME.
I swallowed a bunch.
They rolled down my shirt as I flung my bag open and promptly realized I was now also standing on turds in my bare feet.
Feels like standing on soft rice.
Tastes like grass pâté.
“This means fucking war,” I mumbled, spitting and scraping my natural immediate breakfast-in-bed with my finger.
Some are dissolving.
“Fuck, they got my toothbrush too! Two turds on it! How does that happen? Bastards.”
Realizing I should stop talking to stop swallowing turds, the sink stopped the descent of turds from my hair.
Not as many as last time though.
I found out our 1910s cabin, of the eight left, was the only one infested with anything.
At least our water worked. Everyone else’s was froze.
A clue as to why the evil crapping ’munks chose this as their happy crappy place.
And I started my plan...
Don’t they have cute brown eyes that are too big for their heads?
And stomachs to match...
Hotel-Bed-Making School
That day we missed our ride due to our broom-dancing card, so we walked to work for the first time.
Missed breakfast for it though.
Nice path along Lake Yellowstone. The lake was still frozen.
I entered in the betting pool for when the last piece of ice drifts under Fishing Bridge, which is the name of the area my cabin is in. It’s also the marked fishing boundary of the mouth of the Mighty Yellowstone River and the lake.
The path was well trod by a moose, deer, and what I later identified as porcupine. Many tracks were made just overnight after the fresh snow.
I was chased by a bull moose here once, but I’m digressing again.
That day, upon graduating from hotel-bed-making school, we helped the Linen Brothers fill all of the closets with sheets and towels.
The maids were setting up hotel rooms.
No elevator.
Three floors.
The dumbwaiter got filled with blankets and small stuff.
So this part of the story -- the end of the chipmunk story, that is -- is hard to describe in text.
I believe you have to see my face to know it’s true...
The Plan
The lights were going out early that night.
I sat on my bed with my legs crossed and my sleeping bag against the wall and over my legs. It was snowing again, and the little wall heater wasn’t worth the noise it made. It ticked ever slower when I turned it off. Silence.
I began eating some extra Oreo® cookies I took from the cafeteria.
I was finishing stitching a patch on my backpack.
Twenty minutes after a dark-room chat, the cabin was starting to have tiny nail scratch, tiny squeak, and I swear I heard tiny crap-grunt noises too.
I could hear them breathing.
And sneezes.
It started to smell like wet animal.
Not five minutes into this new fascinating Yellowstone experience, I felt one touch my arm.
It licked me!
It hit the bottom of Jason’s bed too!
I turned on the flashlight and cussed the critters off my bed.
Jason laughed.
The room suddenly was void of chipmunks.
Where did they go?
I had to know.
They invaded my personal space. I have a right to know where theirs is.
I turned off the light.
And waited.
This time I think it tried to take a bite out of my big toe!
Again, a flying chipmunk and a scatter after the light was on.
Not a bad cross-legged kick, as I heard something thump the shared metal dresser across the room from me.
Under the dresser.
In the “bathroom.”
Under my bed.
Holes under all of them!
Ah, the solution to get an eye-poop-less night.
I stuffed all the holes with rolled-up socks and fell fast asleep.
I was already closer to morning than to bedtime.
Well, at least waking up this time, neither Jason nor I stood in much poo at sunrise.
Seems we scared some away.
I did see that chipmunks like Oreo® cookies, as of the two I forgot about in the snack package, a half-eaten Oreo® was left.
No, it was eaten whole like a normal person eats Oreo® cookies.
Not like those cream-filling-licker Oreo® eaters.
So ’munks do have some intelligence.
Fascinating.
I’m a former biology major.
I never considered myself sadistic until...
Number 41
The next evening I had a plan of capture, interrogation, and the intent of gaining pleasure from the retaliation.
The very first setting of darkness, with the evening snowstorm about to start, several of the little buggers exposed their bug-eyed heads at the scent of the strategically placed pieces of Oreo® leading to the noose -- or lasso, if you will.
It stopped snowing and began to clear a path for moonlight to flood our cabin through two of the three windows.
It’s bright.
Coming out from the same general direction on each wall:
one,
three,
ten...
I stopped counting at forty-two chipmunks.
We have more holes to find and few socks left.
The 41st chipmunk bypassed all of the Oreo® pieces his buds were munching and fighting over to get to the important and largest piece setting in the circular portion of my noose.
“I got you now you little motherfucker...”
I let him get to the piece of Oreo®.
He sat up holding and munching the cookie.
I thought I missed my opportunity, but being the jittery personality they are, his right back foot went into the noose.
Jason, looking down from the loft, whispered, “Now.”
I yanked swiftly and firmly on the thread lasso, still attached to the spool.
Mewahaha.
My yank was a little hard as Number 41 flew up into the air, dropping his cookie and bouncing off the side of my mattress.
I lifted him higher as Jason and I both yelled, “Got’im!”
And Numbers 1 through 60 or so scattered as Number 41 squealed to my delight.
“Squeal, you turd-making machine!”
The deepest, growl-like, sadistic laugh came out of my mouth.
“Mewahaha, little crapper, I got you! Have you been the one shitting on my eyes? Hmm? You are lying! Let’s get a close look at you.”
So I lifted him directly into my face.
41 had stopped flailing and was trying to gain perspective on his situation.
I acted like I was gonna eat him.
Chomp.
Chomp.
As he decreasingly slowly spun, he would turn his head to keep an eye on me.
The End of the War
“Jason, would you like some fried chipmunk for breakfast?” I asked.
He said hell no, but he is curious as to why I have his beard scissors.
“It’s the only sharp object I could find at the moment.”
“Bill...” Jason drones, father-like. “This is a national park. All of the animals are protected...”
I ignored him.
I snapped the scissors as Number 41 once again fidgets and tries to get out of his upside-down predicament.
“Shouldn’t have eaten my Oreo® and you might have been able to reach the thread, you glutton chipmunk!”
I started to rub his back with the back edge of the scissors.
I think he liked it.
That made me feel I had even more reason to prove my dominance.
I put the scissors down and picked up the spool of thread, still holding 41’s leg leash with the other hand.
I wound up the slack on the spool.
“Where do you live? How did you get in here with all of the holes blocked?” I asked 41.
I let go of the leash and 41’s full ounces weight is now on the spool.
I stuck the point of the scissors into the hole at the center of the spool and lightly pressured my finger on the hole at the other end of the spool.
41 dropped more rapidly than he would have liked, but I was able to stop the spinning spool inches before the little claw stretched out to touch the wood lap floor.
“Listen to me, you punk chipmunk. This is our cabin now. Show me where you sleep and I may let you live.”
To this day I do not know why 41 did not chomp on the thread to escape.
I was expecting it.
Counting on it.
After all, I had my shoes and jacket at the rapid-on ready and a flashlight in my back pocket.
I’m ready to dig him out.
In the snow.
In the dark.
In the “wilderness” that is our cabin’s area.
Snotty bison are roaming.
My chipmunk species representative is now on a free-spooling leash.
He zippily scurries across the floor to the dresser.
There is a hole.
It has a white, blue, and gold striped tube sock stuck in it.
He stops to think, I believe, and he comes right back at me -- attack style.
Jason cackles something about me being a cat.
I’m now fully on the bed.
Fuckin’ chipmunk.
I can’t believe I just did that.
41 turned and then turned again to go between the wall and the bed leg.
I jumped to the floor on all fours.
Mistake.
Ouch.
My hand, still holding the spool, crushes the big Oreo® piece and it sticks to my hand.
Behind the far bed leg.
Huh?
He jumped and disappeared!
All except the leash that has helped me keep my sanity all these years.
The spool stops spinning.
The leash is slack.
Immediately I start pulling him back.
Like fishing for chipmunks.
“You big dummy, stop squeelin’ and bite the thread!” I shouted Fred Sanford-like as I watched 41 uncomfortably come out of the hole and do a rapid, three-legged moonwalk back toward me.
Reminds me of when the Flintstones start to run.
The leash is getting ruined and sticky by the Oreo® frosting on my hand.
The pieces are sticking to the bottoms of my feet as I maneuver my body for a smooth transition.
I think I must have given a sadistic giggle as Jason said, “Bill...”
...in that fatherly tone.
I stand up before 41 flies out from under the bed.
He misses the bottom bedrail as I reach for the scissors.
He bounced off my left knee and started spinning.
Pretty fast too.
“Wee,” I sing to him.
The scissors slowed him down as I laid them perpendicular to his spinning stomach and back.
“Dizzy ’munk?” I growled.
I gather taut thread up in my hand and with the other I ready the scissors to do what they do best.
“Don’t. Shit. On. People. Or their things.” I stated emphatically.
I raised the scissors to his leg and snipped the thread loose.
His swing momentum caused him to land on my barefoot and scratch it as he dizzily tried to stand on all fours.
Their nails are sharp.
I began to bleed and cuss as he rapidly ran under the toilet.
“Nothing like getting your ass kicked by a rodent,” Jason yodeled and clapped his hands.
That morning, the snow was gone.
It rained almost the rest of the night.
In telling this story for the first time that day, I was invited to learn what fly fishing is about with Lance.
Seems cutthroat trout can “kick one’s ass” as well, but that’s a story made that day for another.
Lance thought I was too nice to the chipmunk and thus why I received a painful but just punishment from my first trout.
Chipmunks are a nuisance.
Their crap tastes like shit.
They drew blood on me.
Left me scarred.
And that’s why I hate chipmunks.
Afterword: Chimpunks
I haven’t ever been able to capture them being angry with each other in a photograph.
They’re always cute in the picture.
I hate that.
But that look, I witnessed, while interrogated under duress, is the guilt look of every chimpu…, er, chipmunk. Even the ugly ones.
“Chimpunks,” as my son called them. Funny how my Mother would always correct me.