No Country for Old Burros
Nicole attends a wild horse and burro adoption. Can she make it out empty- handed?
This article appeared as a feature in the Spring Issue of our newsprint magazine eponymously titled ‘The Westrn’. Get a print copy shipped from The Westrn Store for just $15.
The trainer stood in the center of the round pen, an athletic red colt circling him at a high energy trot.
“It’s about timing,” he said, stepping back, pulling off both pressure and energy. The colt quickly stopped, turned, and faced the man.
In the stands, a decent-sized audience listened attentively. In the mid-afternoon heat, horses and burros lazed in square pens at the Livingston, Montana fairgrounds. Their necks sported intricate white freeze brands, along with a loop of unique four digit tags, indicating their identities to prospective adopters.
The “First Steps” Horsemanship Clinic — led by a clinician who goes by the name ‘Mustang Matt’ — served as the educational leg of the Wild Horse and Burro Adoption Event in early June. The Bureau of Land Management (BLM) brought nearly 60 unhandled mustangs and burros from public lands and corrals around the American West.
The adoption process for BLM mustangs and burros is unlike anything else in the horse world. America’s wild equines are protected by The Wild Free-Roaming Horses and Burros Act of 1971, signed into law by President Nixon. The animals’ ownership is held in the public trust, meaning that all Americans collectively own our wild horses and burros. The government has a vested interest in their continued care. So getting approved to take home an untouched burro or mustang means fulfilling requirements, including adequate fence heights, appropriate shelter, minimum pen sizes, and enduring a time commitment before the agency transfers ownership. Then, after a full year of care, adopters submit a final application for a ‘title of ownership.’ Once approved, a ‘titled’ mustang or burro is essentially like any horse in the equine market.
Currently, more than 80,000 wild horses and burros roam on public land, plus we have nearly 50,000 in government-funded holding corrals. This comes at an enormous expense to taxpayers, to the tune of $100 million annually. To me, taking mouths off the government feed bill is an act of public service — not only for feral animals coming into human care, but for the reduction of harm to native wildlife and sensitive ecosystems.
Though the truly wild ancestors of horses once roamed North America in the Pleistocene epoch, today’s wild horses and burros are better described as a feral and non-native species. Horses, in particular, are intensive and destructive grazers with a high need for water intake. They’re hard on the drought-ridden landscapes they mostly inhabit, and they’re just as hard on native flora and fauna. Rather, these 16th-century transplants evolved long ago to live and work in partnership with people. If I had my way, feral mustangs and burros would go the way of the covered wagon, and each would have hoof care, immunizations, dental care, and the nutrition they need to thrive.
Unsurprisingly, few others share my viewpoint. The majesty and freedom of wild mustangs in particular gins up a certain kind of Western image. That picture is less rose-colored once filtered through the reality of a a busted tooth abscess, easily-preventable permanent lameness, death by dehydration, or worse. The wild horses and burros act passed to protect these animals. Yet in many ways it accomplished the opposite: it limits our ability to manage wild equines as we manage most wildlife — at the state level and independent to the needs of the landscape they’re affecting.
At least I have a leg (or sixteen) to stand on in this argument. All but one equine on my farm started life on public lands. My four-year-old mustang, Seven, comes from the White Mountain Herd Management Area of Wyoming. I somehow ended up saying yes to taking on her titling process at a wedding. (It’s a wanting metaphor I do not care to indulge.) I received her official title a few months ago. She grows bigger and more golden with each passing day.
Another friend — one Kestrel Keller — keeps their BLM donkey, Rocco, with me. (‘Donkey’ and ‘burro’ are synonymous.) Now seven years old Rocco is well accustomed to domestication. He loves cuddles, demands both daily hugs and affirmations of his unfailing beauty, and struts his way through life like a prized rooster in his prime. I hunted with him last fall. When he out-walked my mule in rough-and-tumble country, I became an evangelist of his surefooted virtues. My mind ran rampant with donkey-powered daydreams.
At Friday afternoon’s event preview, I daydreamed once again. I stood with my arms crossed over the rails of the burro pen for the better part of four hours. That unrepentant hyperfocus is what turned me on to hunting. Once animals are in front of me, I don’t want to do anything but watch. I will watch, and I will watch, and I will continue to watch. The downside to this is that the intimacy of understanding behavior will eventually drive me close to something like love. It’s difficult when you’re trying to fill the freezer and instead have developed some level of attachment to a wild animal. It’s even more difficult when you’re trying not to take a wild animal home with you.
So, I left my horse trailer at home. I told myself that I came to this event to write a story, not to add to my herd of critters. I eased up when I realized the burros were older and a bit unkempt. They weren’t the bigger and heftier burros I’d pictured packing elk. But some burros appear more structurally sound than others.
No! I tell myself. No! Not this time. So, I watch. And I continue watching. At this event, the attendees are just as interesting as the equines.
The desire to touch something wild seems to be attached, like a barnacle, to the human condition. Human fingers clamored for the velveteen touch of a muzzle, the strong curve of a neck, the full roundness of a rump. Begging hands reached in toward the burros from two fence lines. The burros responded by pressing against the back rails of the pen, as far as possible from the spiny tentacles of wanting energy stretched in their direction. People jotted down numbers. They laughed at donkey antics. They crossed arms and watched.
Any herd of animals becomes a herd of personalities if you pay attention long enough. To my eye, the burros evolved with each passing minute. A shaggy donkey with fluffy ears laid down and rolled happily, finally stopping to scan the crowd with curious eyes. A tiny ragged fella harassed the whole herd, biting and kicking unremittingly. The youngest donkey had a happy-go-lucky Hi! How are ya! sort of expression that all but guaranteed him a home. He was the first to come around to the reaching hands. Over the weekend, a few other donkeys did as well — realizing that scritches and pats weren’t that bad after all.
Other donks looked on with dismissive judgment in their hearts. Enjoy being eaten, a small and curmudgeonly black burro seemed to say. He stayed tucked into the far back corner, wearing an oh hell no look that endured. He occasionally pinned his ears at any long-eared compatriot that seemed to be enjoying himself too much.
I begin jotting down numbers, just for fun, and without supposed attachment to an outcome. I like this one. I’d write it down. I see the solid build on that one. I’d write it down. One particular donkey held strong at the top of the list. One ear fell goofily to the side. He possessed both a flat, strong back and a big gentle eye. I read his tag number: 3024. But there were others. 3452. 1102. 3177.
My friend Elise showed up halfway through the preview. Hunting partners since 2018, we talked about how packing with donkeys could allow us to go further into the mountains, carrying less, and hunting more. Rocco was a constant inspiration. Elise decided she was in, and her donkey would live with me for the time being. Her excitement riled me up. I’d be going back to get my trailer after all. My heart softened. I pictured 3024 and his crooked ear happy at home with whoever Elise might end up with. Maybe I should get one too, I said. Elise grinned. Folks perusing the burros caught pieces of our conversation and became curious.
They can pack? How much weight? Can they keep up with a horse? The questions rolled in, and the efficacy of these small yet resilient pack animals changed shape as we conversed. I became a de facto salesperson, extolling the virtues of Equus asinus. Donkeys aren’t simply cute lawn ornaments, I’d say. Currently, more than 40 million donkeys exist worldwide, and the majority still work for a living, mostly in arid and rugged third world countries. Pound for pound, a healthy donkey can typically carry 20% of its body weight under most circumstances.
Donkeys are thrifty eaters, desert drinkers, healthy to a fault, and thus live longer than other equines. They often continue working well into their 30s and 40s. Gasps from the audience! Yes! I reinforced this point: burros are the parrots of the horse world. Do not be dismayed by this older herd and their teenage years — they still have much to give and many lives to live!
Their reputation for stubbornness is, I’d mention, mostly a misunderstanding. Skeptical and questioning looks. Donkeys possess an admirable sense of self-preservation, a keen eye for trouble brewing, and a bit of intellectual narcissism that renders us occasionally flummoxed. They run on what enthusiasts call ‘donkey time’ and we are so inclined to endure this time structure until one or both parties throws in the towel. Raised brows…
Ok, so sometimes they’re stubborn. But they have their reasons and we have our curse words, right?! Knowing laughs! Chuckles! Plus, they’re delightfully social, and this plays to our advantage if we’re smart about it. Donkeys possess less flight but more fight. Disarm the fight through thoughtful socializing and training, and you might cultivate a long-eared bestie, like Rocco, who will follow you to the edges of the earth and back. Though even he sometimes causes minor drama, like pulling away in a fit of joy and wildly bucking a hundred yards down the trail when you take the first turn towards home. Run…away? Like, away away?
Here, I’d laugh nonchalantly, tossing my hair behind my shoulder. Oh, it’s all in good fun! The mischief, the shenanigans, the occasional rope burns on hands! Rope burns? Well, he did pack 140 lbs of elk meat out on a six-mile trip for his previous owner. Here, I’d show them the picture of Rocco, with a meat-laden pack. Wow, they’d say. Wow. People walked away in a confused but titillated fog.
At the very least, two people were convinced. Elise and I jotted down our final list of neck tag numbers, our picks for the following morning. We decided to reconvene at 8:45 a.m. to make the 9 a.m. adoption. Coffees in hand for us both, Elise beat me to the line, which was longer than we’d imagined. Apparently, one gal got up at 4 a.m. to stand in line and assure her pick of the mustangs — a brassy palomino yearling from Oregon’s South Steens herd. Others had been in line for at least an hour. The first-come, first-serve culture of the event was a bigger deal than either of us knew.
Our picks slowly dwindled. My heartbeat quickened. We started chatting with the couple in front of us. It turned out they lived just a few miles from me, in a spot I pass by often.
“Who are you standing in line for?” I asked, just making conversation.
“Two of the burros,” the couple replied.
“Oh, us too. Which ones?”
Three…oh…two…four. The first number rolled off the fella’s tongue, the second number fell into obscurity, and the air in my conversational thought bubble popped. I looked at Elise, and she looked at me, pursing her lips. My heart dropped hard and fast, like a kicked stone from a high trail, down a rocky cliff of disappointment, and into a rushing river of self-flagellation. We should have gotten there earlier.
“Oh, 3024 is a really nice one, I was hoping to get him, but it’s fun that I’ll see him in the pasture from time to time.” I meant it. The couple smiled kindly; we continued chatting. When we reached the office window, there was only one left on our list. That was good news for the adopted donkeys and bad news for me. I decided to forgo adopting a donkey, and Elise chose the sweet-eyed shaggy boy, 3177.
We filled out his paperwork and received his folder, replete with even more paperwork. After getting everything in hand, we hustled over to the arena to watch Mustang Matt’s clinic. He’d be working with two mustangs at two different levels of training, modeling how to work with the particular needs of each individual. Elise and I tucked ourselves into the stands, as Matt worked the young sorrel colt.
.
A good horseman makes the conversation between horse and trainer into a sort of interspecies waltz. Mustangs may not be socialized to humans, but they live intensely social lives and learn the equine language masterfully on the range. Matt’s many years of working with hundreds — if not thousands — of mustangs meant he too spoke their language.
Timing. Feel. Pressure. Release. To horse folk, these words invoke a sense of wonder at first. A person at the beginning of their equine journey may watch someone like Matt and think some sort of magic was at play. But, there’s as much artistry — if not more — in the human explanation. He breaks things down not only for the horse in the arena, but most importantly on a step-by-step basis for the aspiring audience, many of which hold folders of paperwork for their own new four-legged family members.
The next day, I arrived back in Livingston with a trailer behind my pickup. Six donkeys were left in the pen, including 3177. The five others were the only donks who hadn’t been adopted. In total, more than 40 animals found homes. And now, I looked at 3177 and felt compelled to offer him companionship in the journey.
The stragglers were, well, straggly. But the little curmudgeon was still there. He’d made me laugh throughout my observations, and that’s not a trait I take lightly. I looked at the sheet of available donkeys to find his number. This was 8945’s third adoption event. At 21 years old, he’d spent three years in government holding pens. Because of his age, he was eligible for what the BLM calls ‘sale authority’ rather than the year-long titling process. (The BLM does this for animals that might not otherwise be adopted.) He came from Sinbad, Utah. An omen. I smiled. A long-time household favorite, the comedian Sinbad held a space in my family lore that spanned decades.
I texted my mom: I found a donkey. He’s from Sinbad, UT lol. She sent a laughing emoji, and said she knew I wouldn’t come home empty-handed. I rolled my eyes at myself, as I wrote out the check, filled out the forms, and gathered his paperwork. A crew went to work funneling 3177 and 8945 into the gated loading zone.
The boys hopped onto my trailer, without much ado. Like so many equines and humans before us, we headed west towards home. We sailed at 70 mph on highways, with big wild stretches of country on either side of us. I imagined a future day when we would all pack into it.
When I got home, I backed the trailer up to my high-fenced run where the donkeys would get used to a new life — one of loving care and connection. Rocco snuffled tiny excited brays as two of his kind unloaded. He stretched his milk-colored muzzle through the fence, sticking out his tongue as he does when he’s at his most goofy. Noses touched. Seven and Mojo got in on the action, meeting new friends, saying polite hellos.
I stood at the green gate of the pen, folded my arms over the rail, and watched, and watched. I watched until the setting sun washed golden light over the nearby Pintler Mountains, the rugged Flint Range, and blue mountains even further off. Adventures beckoned from the ridgelines.
My pack felt lighter already.
Nicole currently writes an online column called ‘Four-Legged’ for The Westrn, where she documents the taming and training adventures of both Brasso the shaggy donkey and Kevin the curmudgeon, as well as her other four-legged creatures.
I'm sorry, the freakin' rainbow behind their little heads?! Also, you've got one ally here on seeing better care and policy for our feral equine friends. My four-legged goober did not come from our public lands (I believe his title says he spawned from a discarded Doritos bag), but living out on Colorado's Western Slope, it's pretty obvious some things need to change. So interested to hear if you're writing/reporting more on it!
Love it. You describe the feral horse and donkey communities perfectly. Their opportunities, their plight, their predicament. Just lost my mustang, he was 19. In a life filled with horses, I’ve never learned so much from one. I will miss him, even though I touched him only twice, once when he arrived, and our final goodbye. He lived life on his own terms and I loved him for that. Best of luck with your burritos!