Jack was a little grey donkey, a genuine little burro owned by the cook of a lumber camp in northern British Columbia. He was used for odd jobs around the men’s quarters and, when off duty, roamed about aimlessly at his own free will. He was old, tame as a dog and very wise.
We hired him one day to carry our grub and blankets on a fishing expedition. We had no fixed place to go. We simply cut across country through bush and hills, stopping to fish at every likely stream, camping when we felt like it. Jack behaved perfectly for three days. He carried his little load quietly and steered his way through any kind of ground according to our instructions, which we telegraphed to him from behind with a tap of the hand or an occasional shove.
On the third day at sundown, we pitched our tent on an old camping ground and found there two large cans of tomatoes which someone had left behind. The next morning, we loaded the little burro and placed the two cans on the top of his pack. Jack gave a grunt and promptly lay down.
Nothing would induce him to rise until one of us thought of taking the two cans off. Then he proceeded on his way as if nothing had happened.
For at least two hours we tried to fool him with those two tomato tins—but failed utterly. Each time we laid them on his pack, ever so gently from behind, he would stop dead and lie down again. Finally we had to give it up and throw the two cans away.
When the time came to return to the lumber camp, we were not certain of our way. In fact, we had only had a very hazy idea of our direction as we had been travelling in a round about sort of way in a very hilly country thickly covered with large trees. We decided to put our faith in Jack. He seemed to understand that we were going home. He took us back, foot by foot, exactly the same way we had come. His memory was uncanny.
All the unnecessary little detours we had made, around a bush or a rock on our way up, he scrupulously made again on the way down. He never changed his pace once. He just jogged along with his head down and his eyes half closed. But nothing would make him step out of what he thought was the proper trail.
Two miles from camp, when we could already see the tents in the valley, we tried to make him take a short cut. He absolutely refused and showed the usual signs of lying down. He had been in charge all the way back and intended remaining so until we arrived.