Quade’s Canyon Compass — Every day before the sun struck the highest ledge, Quade trotted the canyon rim collecting scraps for his wind compass: a bent pinon twig, a circle of cactus fiber, one blue jay feather dropped near the spring. Read the full story →
Every day before the sun struck the highest ledge, Quade trotted the canyon rim collecting scraps for his wind compass: a bent pinon twig, a circle of cactus fiber, one blue jay feather dropped near the spring. He wanted it finished before the mustang band crossed the dry maze at noon. The feather looked like nothing to the others, but Quade had traded three sweet mouthfuls of grass to the jay for it, and he tied it on with his own teeth.
Until one day, a dust squall slammed through the red rocks with a hiss like shaken beans. The trail vanished. Because of that, the lead mare halted at a fork where both paths smelled of hot stone and sage. Because of that, the younger foals stamped and squealed as pebbles skittered into the wash below.
Quade reared high, holding his little compass where the wind could catch it. “Turn, feather—show me,” he snorted. The blue feather spun, tugged east, then steadied toward a narrow gap bright with cooler air. Quade plunged down first, hooves clacking, and the band thundered after him into the safe side canyon. By sunset, every horse had passed his handmade compass with a proud nicker; next time you see his flying mane, can you spot the canyon wind still pointing from the feather he tied with his own teeth?
