By Alex Nash
About 90 minutes north of Pittsburg lies the town of Punxsutawney, PA, tucked away under the belly of I-80 as it snakes its way through cities built on steel and coal. Once every year, the eyes of a nation descend upon the small Pennsylvania town in hopes of catching a glimpse of the most famous of its 5,600 residents. Clutching either winter coat or crochet sweater, ski boots or swim trunks, a number of faithful onlookers will wait with bated breath for the appearance of a large rodent.
Coming in at just over 22 inches and weighing nearly 20 pounds, the allegedly 139-year-old groundhog by the name Phil is a force of potentially supernatural proportions. On Feb. 2 of each year, he stretches his ancient bones and emerges from a frosted northeastern burrow. For a handful of top-hat adorned devotees (self-identified as Phil’s “inner circle”), Groundhog Day brings with it a sacred weather forecast for the next six weeks. If the sun is shining and Phil is greeted by his shadow, he returns to his burrow and winter persists. But if his first glance of the new year is met with clouds, the promise of warm weather, and (most importantly) the absence of a shadow, spring arrives early. This past Sunday, Phil’s prediction of an extended winter sent ripples through Pennsylvania’s meteorological community and was invariably met with long and drawn out sighs from American citizens everywhere.
From a strictly scientific perspective, a more critical observer might argue that Phil’s ability to predict the weather is slightly dubious. For starters, the average lifespan of a groundhog is two to three years (six if it makes a conscious effort to eliminate microplastics and avoid teflon pans). Assuming the average lifespan of an adult man is nearly 75 years, a 139-year-old groundhog is roughly equivalent to a 5,200 year old man, older than the Great Pyramids by over half a millennium. But regardless of his age, the real issue — the one that people truly care about — is whether or not Phil, like Karen from Mean Girls, has “ESPN or something.” And by that, I mean he can predict the weather.
Generally speaking, wild animals are considered to be far more observant of weather patterns than humans. Birds will take shelter in trees before the indicators of a storm are apparent to humans and cows are said to huddle up before a cold front moves in. These behaviors are undoubtedly influenced by a certain aptitude associated with spending the entirety of life outdoors. But alas, psychic weather-predicting traits of the magnitude ascribed to Phil are still uncommon, bordering on unheard of. The changes in air and soil temperature that signal the end of hibernation may be more indicative of Phil’s desire to emerge than his shadow, likely plagued by five months of unkempt hair.
Despite what you may have been told as a child, Phil is not shaking off the aches and pains of winter in hopes of nabbing a tasty springtime bite to eat. He is leaving his burrow to pursue a mate. This fact challenges the impartial nature of Phil’s forecasting position, making his credibility as a practitioner of science even more tenuous. All of a sudden, the motivation for predicting an early spring turns into a question of first dates, empty promises, groundhog romance and late-night dramas; all things that could distract Phil from his scientific duty. And if we look back at Phil’s predictive success rate, history has not been on his side.
Since Groundhog Day’s inception in 1886, Phil’s ability to accurately predict the weather has been uninspiring. With a 39% accuracy rate, his credibility in professional forecasting spheres has all but crumbled. According to rival weather forecasting organization NOAA, what was already bad has only gotten worse in recent years, as this stat has plummeted to 30% since 2014.
Regardless of Phil’s terrible track record, dubious and conflicting motives, an evolutionary history that omits any record of weather predicting, and an age that’s improbable at best, I will vehemently defend him against the naysayers of our generation. If I were better informed, I would try to root my defense in something tangible. I could tell you that Groundhog Day helps bring attention to the preservation of an animal and its environment. I could tell you about the conservation value of attaching symbolism to an animal and the ways in which similar practices in the marine world (think “Free Willy”) helped unite a generation against captivity and whaling. I could weigh the benefits of awareness against the controversy associated with pseudoscientific illusions and the delicate balance between the two. And while all these arguments would be honest and true, the real reason for my defense is rooted not in science or reason but emotion.
With a predictive success rate somehow worse than a coin toss, it is unlikely that Phil will be winning any meteorology awards. Despite this, he gives us something we have been desperately lacking — hope. In a world of instant gratification and handheld computers, Phil represents a sliver of light. He is all we have left, a tiny scrap from a waning era of wonderment and community when a rodent could draw miners and bankers alike from the burrows of their own lives to the grassy sloped hills of rural Pennsylvania. Phil represents a dying world that has been gobbled down by shiny screens and fancy things, where the convenience afforded by geostationary satellites has eclipsed the small but beautiful quirks. The things that should still be celebrated with fierce passion, like a large ground squirrel peering at his shadow and waiting for the man in the top hat to put him back in his stump. So while Phil’s grasp on the scientific method is likely to remain remedial at best, his place in our culture, and in our hearts, will last forever.
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