COLUMNS
Hoof Beats: The Donkey Diet
Joan Fry
Hoof Beats
Aug. 1, 2026, 4:02 a.m. MT
No, this isn’t a how-to-lose-weight diet with a catchy name. It’s about donkeys, who — in spite of their long ears and a bray that can be heard three miles away — are horse cousins
In early April, some friends decided to drive to Cripple Creek and watch the donkeys move from their restricted winter home to their summer pasture, when they’re turned loose to graze —a tradition that gives onlookers a chance to pet a donkey. Two thousand people showed up — apparently lots of them wanted to pet a donkey — but I didn’t know that until I got home
A much smaller group, the Two Mile High Club, founded in 1931, takes care of the donkeys year-round. According to their website, “Our mission is …to raise funds and provide crucial support for the care, food, and shelter of these fantastic animals representing Cripple Creek’s [gold] mining history.” Upkeep per donkey — they can live to be 40 — is $3,000 a year. Today’s are the offspring of mine donkeys, but not necessarily Cripple Creek mine donkeys. The club hosts two fund-raisers a year. This is one of them. The other is the Donkey Derby, a much bigger deal.
There’s no entry fee, but people were standing in line to reach booths selling donkey t-shirts and club-approved donkey treats. When we arrived, the crowd was already so thick that there was no parking nearby, so Ann dropped Marlene and me off while she looked for a parking spot. We reunited near the grandstand, where a very convincing Teddy Roosevelt look-alike talked about the original donkeys who hauled ore carts underground — and who lived and died without ever seeing the sun. Vice President Teddy Roosevelt visited Cripple Creek in 1901 and urged miners to stop the practice. The miners ignored him until modern mining techniques took away the donkeys’ jobs. At that point, the miners abandoned them to their fate.
With a crowd that size, I couldn’t see anything except other people. I didn’t know the donkeys had appeared until everybody started cheering. During the summer, the donkeys roam at will, nibbling residents’ flowers and browsing through their vegetable gardens. When the people ahead of us surged forward, I saw half a dozen donkeys heading our way. One walked up to me looking expectant — did I have treats? We had been warned repeatedly not to feed them anything except “donkey biscuits” and alfalfa cubes. We were disappointed not to have gotten close enough to pet them, but we had at least seen them. And it was getting late — time to get going.
Ann had parked far, far away from donkey territory — or so I thought — up a hill so steep we had to stop halfway up to pant. Once we found her car, I asked Marlene if she had any snacks left. She gave me a packet of salted nuts and cute little micro-sized chocolate chips. Ann’s car lurched into gear, and she yelled at it: “I already released the parking brake!” Abruptly she twisted the steering wheel and then stopped. Then she tried to raise the hood. Marlene joined her. I got out too, but not to help. I know about alfalfa cubes. I know nothing about cars.
All of a sudden, half a dozen donkeys appeared. A big dun-colored donkey stopped right in front of me, followed by three others. A crowd of people instantly materialized. Ann and Marlene had opened the hood and had their phones out. Marlene seemed to think I’m a donkey whisperer. I’m not
The donkeys crowded around me, allowing me to pet them, because I had a fistful of salty nuts and melting chocolate in my right hand. I told the big dun that my trail mix was not donkey-approved, and I couldn’t feed him. He wasn’t buying it. Neither was the small shoe-polish brown donkey who joined us. But neither one got pushy the way horses can, and when I stuffed the trail mix in my pocket, they slowly drifted away. A once-in-a-lifetime experience — a feral donkey trying to cadge me out of a handful of trail mix.
Joan Fry is a lifelong horse lover and author of “Backyard Horsekeeping: The Only Guide You’ll Ever Need” (The Lyons Press, 2007). She can be reached
