It was late June and snowbanks still lingered in the trees along the stream bank. The young burro peered into the clear water, then snorted, turned his short, stiff neck, and yanked me back through the icy creek. This was not the first time I had been in — in fact my feet were pretty much numb. Around and around we went. I pushed. I pulled. And finally I managed to get one of his hooves to touch the edge of the water. The burro thought about it for a couple of seconds and I saw in his eyes a lightbulb go off. Suddenly with a great leap he launched himself over the full width of the stream, nearly snatching me out of my wet shoes. I swore this was the last one of these critters I would ever train. But I was quite wrong. I’ve wrestled with frustration and had changes of heart numerous times in this life and not just about jackasses. This sort of psychic wrestling is quite possibly the only way I’ve ever managed to get anything done. Sunday, tomorrow, is the World Championship Pack-Burro Race in Fairplay. The race starts at 10:30 a.m. at the “Prunes — A Burro” Monument on Front Street.
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