In February, everyone loves groundhogs. They’re plump, cute, and look as though they’d enjoy a good cuddle. (Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. They’re solitary animals that vastly prefer to be left alone, and they have two-inch long yellow incisors.) But in the gray cold days of winter, their holiday makes for a welcome break. They even made a movie!
On Groundhog Day, there are news reports across the nation focusing on a reporter holding up a groggy rodent. But groundhogs don’t wake from hibernation, at least not up here in the Northeast, until it’s a whole lot warmer than it generally is on the second of February. The whole Punxsatawney Phil thing has its roots in the German immigrants who came to Pennsylvania in the eighteenth century. In the Old World, a badger, hedgehog, or other hibernating animal might emerge from its hole in early February. The tradition of seeing the animal’s shadow to foretell the weather is a very ancient one. There were no hedgehogs in America, so our ancestors settled on groundhogs for the forecaster role. Scientific studies show that the groundhog is absolutely right 50% of the time.
So the groundhog is a hero in winter. But then, once the snow melts and we start thinking garden, things change. Once the garden really gets going in summer, the tender young lettuce and juicy tomatoes are vulnerable to the attack of the ravenous woodchuck.
Of course, they’re the same animal. Groundhog = woodchuck: it’s one of those quirks of local slang, like the way they might call it a "sub" in Maine, but a "grinder" in California. The shrub called "shadbush" in New York (where the shad used to run up the Hudson abundantly in spring) is known as "serviceberry" in Tennessee (where the minister would show up in spring to perform religious services). So the plump rodents are groundhogs in most of the US, but tend to be woodchucks in parts of the Northeast and Canada.
Woodchucks are often thought of as garden-raiding pests. And while it’s true they can really do a job on your tomatoes, I have to admit I love woodchucks. They’re master builders, digging tunnels that can descend into the earth six feet or more and be as long as a bowling alley. The wily woodchuck adds a back door for quick escapes and usually a couple of side doors as well. Inside, the digs include a comfortable master bedroom, a special nursery chamber for the pups, and a designated bathroom.
Woodchucks outdo humans in site planning, and often choose sloping ground for water runoff. They construct drainage tunnels to carry off excess water and locate the main bedroom and side doors higher than the front door to minimize flooding risk.
These vast underground networks help aerate the soil. And they’re homes for other animals that are not such expert diggers. Coyotes and foxes often move into woodchuck holes and use them for dens, usually eating the landlord in the bargain. But there are other hole-dwellers too, some of whom share the hole with the original owner: rabbits, skunks, toads, mice, snakes, opossums.
There used to be a woodchuck who hung out not far from my office window, and occasionally on summer evenings I would see him (or her) nibbling clover on the lawn. Do animals ever take a break from endlessly seeking food, water, and shelter to just kick back and enjoy the beauty of nature? I don’t know. But on those warm evenings, the woodchuck would munch a dandelion leaf with his head on one side and gaze along with me at the red and orange horizon.