Fenn and the Last Carrot — Every night, Fenn planted his striped carrot in the snow and watched the north trail from the fence. It was not a nose, though passing squirrels teased him. Read the full story →
Every night, Fenn planted his striped carrot in the snow and watched the north trail from the fence. It was not a nose, though passing squirrels teased him. It was the “crunch-key,” given by the cabin keeper, meant for the bell-deer who opened the safest path through the dark pines. Fenn waited while frost tickled his scarf and the cabin chimney breathed cedar smoke.
Until one night, star-snow burst over the hills with a fizzing hiss, and every trail shone exactly the same. Because of that, the bell-deer came racing in circles, bells clanging wild as spoons in a drawer. Because of THAT, the mail sled behind him slid toward the frozen creek, piled high with blankets for the ridge camp. Fenn did not wave the carrot at once. He counted the bells—one bright, two dull, one cracked—and waited for the cracked bell to face north.
“Now,” Fenn whispered, and held out the crunch-key. The deer nipped it, stamped twice, and the true trail flashed blue between the pines. The sled shot safely past the creek, and Fenn’s empty twig hand tingled with patient pride. If you spot the leafy carrot held high, you’ll know exactly when the north trail opened from the snow.
