Craig Stiles lay on his stomach atop the inner-tube and trailed his chin in the cold water of the river. He could hear a woodpecker nearby, hammering on the tough bark of an old oak tree. Craig closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the water gurgling beneath the canoe that was towing him. He dipped his
chin into the water in rhythm with the canoe paddle softly breaking the river's surface. The warmth of the midday sun bore down on the back of Craig's neck, above his lifejacket and the ratty safety string that hopefully would hold his eyeglasses on should he take a spill. With his thumb, Craig pushed his glasses
back up onto the bridge of his nose, opened his eyes and squinted toward the river bend ahead. This should have been an enjoyable summer day on the river for a boy just turned twelve, but Craig was miserable.

This trip with the Boy Scouts should have helped Craig fit in with the other kids of the scout troop but everything had gone wrong; just like yesterday evening when he'd helped set up the camp. Craig had opened his Boy Scout Handbook to the pages that he'd previously book-marked. He had inserted sticky notes to help him quickly locate the illustrations of knots he was sure the troop would use while setting up tents. But since all of the tents were modern dome tents which didn't require ropes or knots, the other scouts had quickly set them up without Craig's help. So, he had wandered back and forth between the patrols comparing the camp set-up to the illustrations in his handbook. That had annoyed some of the scouts and they'd started to jeer at Craig. Mr. Todd, the Scoutmaster, had to come over and warn the other scouts about laughing at Craig over some remark he'd made. Later Tim Rausch, the troop's Senior Patrol Leader, had to stop an argument between Craig and Choppy Andersen. Although only Tenderfoot rank, Choppy had become the self-appointed bestower of nicknames within the scout troop, and Craig desperately wanted to be "Craiger," or "Craigo," or any nickname that proved the other boys accepted him. But now it seemed impossible for that to happen.

Last night the scoutmaster had quietly asked Craig why he didn't explain anything quickly. Mr. Todd had said, "Craig, learn to keep it short and to the point, O.K.? Around the other boys you tend to launch into some scientific analysis, just like tonight when you helped light the campfire." Craig knew friction heated, and then ignited the low tinder-point of the sulfur in the matchhead, producing the flame and he had started to explain this to the nearest scout. That had started the argument with Choppy. Tim had come over and separated the boys when Choppy shouted "You're not Einstein, and I'm not stupid!" In exasperation Tim had told Craig, "Look, when you're helping with a task don't give some know-it-all lecture unless someone asks for an explanation. Do you understand?" Craig had nodded, but he really didn't understand why the other boys didn't seem to care about knowledge although most were just as smart as he. Craig sullenly thought over what Tim had said to him earlier; "You've got to try to fit in, or you will be miserable."

Now it was too late to fit in. This morning the scouts had teamed up buddy style, to float the Stanislaus River, and Craig had been paired up with Choppy, who'd also brought an innertube. Other boys had brought rubber rafts, some had kayaks, and the rest were in canoes with the adults. Lifejackets were required, but Craig had brought a bulky old "Mae West" style life-jacket, which made it clumsy trying to guide the inner-tube with his paddle. He'd ended up entangling his tube with Choppy's and wrapping the tether between them around a snag jutting out of the river. Mr. Todd had to paddle over to stop the boys from arguing. Then Tim had suggested towing the inner-tubes. Now Choppy, behind Tim's kayak, had disappeared up ahead leaving Craig in tow behind Mr. Todd who'd taken the rear position for the trip.

As Craig forlornly dipped his chin into the river again, he thought he could hear an odd drumming sound lightly echoing across the water. As the sound grew louder he realized that it was coming toward the river from the bluffs above the bank. Then suddenly, with a crash of hooves through the foliage and a chorus
of angry braying, two little donkeys raced down a trail hidden among the rocks and weatherworn faces of the bluffs. Startled, Craig lifted his chin out of the water so he could focus on the animals. He realized from their shaggy coats that they had to be wild burros! Glancing around, Craig saw Mr. Todd draw his
paddle into the canoe, as he too watched the burros come down to the river. Their manes were unkempt and scarred from old battles and the animals began biting and kicking as each tried to drink from the same pool at the river's edge. Craig was astounded. The scene could have been scripted straight out of a nature film about the Grand Canyon, yet they were only a half an hour from town in the middle of California's Central Valley.

As swiftly as they'd arrived, the burros turned and raced back up the trail to disappear among the wild blackberry bushes lining the bluffs. Astonished, Craig called out, "Were those burros?" Mr. Todd had started paddling again, and he answered over his shoulder, "Yes, Craig. Pretty cool, huh? They were wild
burros." As they rounded the next bend of the river, Craig and Mr. Todd reached the pullout point where the other scouts and adults were already ashore and packing up the gear. Mr. Todd's canoe glided up to the sandy beach and Craig leapt from his inner-tube to splash ashore. "Did you guys see the burros?" He
called out, "Wild burros came down to drink from the river!" The boys stopped packing and just stared at Craig. Then one laughed, "You almost had us on that, Craig! But, wild burros?" Craig vigorously nodded his head, "Yes, two wild burros came down the bank, just back there!" Several scouts laughed and turned back to the task of hauling the canoes up the sandy bank. "Really," Craig insisted, "Mr. Todd and I saw wild burros!" But Mr. Todd had already started up the bank with his canoe hoisted on his shoulders and he didn't seem to hear. Craig looked back toward the other scouts. "Wild burros," he repeated. One of the boys called out "Hee-haw" in Craig's direction as he made donkey ears with his hands alongside of his head. "Hee-haw," he called out again, "Hee-haw! Hey, Hee-haw Pedro!" A chorus of "Hee-haw Pedro," erupted from the other scouts. Craig glanced up the beach. An obviously frustrated Tim was just standing there, not stopping any of the jeering.

Mr. Todd had returned and Tim had gotten the boys back on task. Soon the canoes were loaded onto several cars and pickups for the trip through the park and back to the campsite. As the scouts hiked along behind the vehicles Craig was discouraged. He'd hoped for a nickname, but not "Hee-haw Pedro," like the little cartoon burro, Pedro, who hauled mailbags across the pages of Boys' Life magazine. "Hee-haw Pedro," how could he ever shake that? When they reached the camp, Craig glumly helped prepare "spuds," foil wrapped potatoes, as part of the campfire dinner. But, this entire campout was turning into a nightmare for Craig. Mr. Todd had mysteriously disappeared and the other adults tried to help Tim keep order, but some scouts would still walk by, making donkey ears with their hands and mouthing "Hee-haw" at Craig.

The sun was setting and the scouts were just dishing up dinner when Mr. Todd's van rolled in, followed by a woman driving a pickup truck. Mr. Todd walked into camp with the stranger and announced, "We have a dinner guest. This is Mrs. Gates. She has a ranch just across the river here from Caswell Park." The scouts welcomed their guest and began to set another place at one of the picnic tables. The rancher sat down near the lantern and opened a scrapbook she'd carried in under her arm. Looking around she asked, "Now who is it that says he saw wild burros today?" Amid the snickers and donkey ear gestures, Craig stood up. "I did see wild burros," he said quietly, "and Mr. Todd saw them too." Mrs. Gates had an amused smile on her face as she licked her thumb and began to leaf through her scrapbook.

"Well, I've got to say," she began, " I think that you must have stumbled across a secret burro trail hidden alongside the river." In the lantern light, Mrs. Gates held up the scrapbook, and Craig stared in astonishment. There were photographs of burros being unloaded from a horse trailer. In the photos the burros looked just as unkempt as the ones today and they were trying to bite aand kick the ranch hands unloading them.

"Donkeys," exclaimed one of the scouts. "No," said Mrs. Gates, "actually they are burros, wild burros. I got them through the BLM Wild Horse and Burro Project." A scout asked, "What's the BLM burro project?" Instinctively Craig answered, "BLM, that's the Bureau of Land Management and they are in charge of the wilderness lands. So, to make sure that the wild herds stay healthy, the BLM needs to keep the horses and burros from overgrazing the range-lands." Craig realized he had started off on a long explanation and he looked around. The other boys were all listening, and Mr. Todd winked and gave a thumbs-up signal, so Craig continued, "They used to thin out the wild herds by shooting some of the animals, but now the BLM project adopts them out, instead." Mrs. Gates nodded and said, "Some folks domesticate these animals, but I brought 'em out here and turned 'em loose to live as wild and free as they were born. My scrapbook shows how spooked these burros get around humans, so nobody ever sees them. I was amazed when your Scoutmaster showed up and said a scout saw these rascals on that hidden trail today!"

Mrs. Gates looked up at Craig. "You're Craig, the scout nobody believed?" Craig nodded and in embarrassment looked down at his feet. From just beyond the lantern light, Tim, the Senior Patrol Leader, spoke up, "I owe Craig an apology." He continued quietly, "A scout is trustworthy, courteous too. That's part of what we learned when we joined scouting. So, I should have realized you were telling the truth today." Sheepishly the other scouts also began to murmur their apologies.

The rancher closed her scrapbook and with a friendly smile she spoke to the boys, "Well, my boy was a scout when he was your age, and I know sometimes the rules were hard for him to follow. I suppose today my burros decided to make you think about what it means to be a scout. It appears to me that Craig should be welcome in your troop." Choppy cleared his throat, and said loudly, "Excuse me, Mrs. Gates, he's not Craig. He's 'Pedro, Pedro Craig,' yeah, 'P.C.' Old 'P.C.' with a mailbag full of knowledge!"

Craig blinked his eyes in confusion as the scouts crowded around to pat him on the back or elbow him good-naturedly in the ribs. Then as the boys gathered around the campfire to serve dinner, one called out, "Hey, P.C. pass those spuds on down!" And Craig grinned with satisfaction as he realized that a pair of shaggy burros had helped him earn his own nickname on the river today; a nickname magically transformed into one of pride and respect.