Tony and I climbed Mt. Sherman, a 14er that has a fabulous ridge walk, last weekend. On the way down, we were exploring some mine ruins when a marmot bumbled past.
“What is that?” Tony asked, in his I’ve-never-seen-this-before tone.
“It’s a marmot,” I answered.
“A what?”
“A marmot. You know, like the company that makes jackets and outdoor gear.”
“But what is a marmot?” he asked.
Perhaps one of us had misheard. “That is a marmot,” I said, pointing.
“But what is it?”
“A marmot. That’s a marmot.”
Soon we were both laughing. It was a classic communications conundrum. In my mind, the word “marmot” equaled the furry creature that disappeared behind the ruins. Yet Tony wanted more information about this mysterious new critter. What did it eat? Was it a kind of prairie dog? Why did it live up so high? He was seeking the very essence of marmot, and I had few answers to give.
Later on, as Tony took pictures, I chatted with a wild west type named Travis, who told me about the town that used to support the mine and about other ruins nearby.
On the drive out, as we bumped slowly down the rough road, the pickup in front of us pulled over. As we passed, the driver waved, his cowboy hat pulled low and his cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth.
“Oh, that’s Travis,” I said, waving back.
“What?” Tony asked.
This time I was ready.
“Travis. The man who was telling me about the mine workers’ town. What, you didn’t think I knew him?” I teased.
“I was just wondering what Travis was,” said Tony. And all was well.
Recent Comments