a piece of felt, vinyl, leather, or other sturdy fabric, at least 9 inches wide by 9 inches high
a marker
a ruler
sharp scissors
a hole punch
two pieces of ribbon or thin cord, each about 30 inches long
optional decorations of your choice, such as beads, sequins, glitter and glue, or needle and embroidery thread
Decide on the size of your bag. A circle that is 9 inches across will make a small bag. Using a marker, lightly draw a circle on your felt, vinyl, or leather. You might want to trace around a large bowl to make the circle even.
Carefully cut out the circle just inside the marker lines and lay it flat. Using the ruler and marker, draw ten small, evenly spaced dots around the outside of the circle, about 3/4 inches in from the edge. (See figure A)
Use the hole punch to make holes where you’ve marked the dots. Keep in mind that the holes need to be just big enough for the two pieces of cord or ribbon to fit through together to make the drawstring.
Decorate the side of the circle that will become the outside of the bag however you like. You can stitch small beads to the fabric, glue on glitter, attach sequins, sew a design using embroidery thread, attach cut-out shapes of felt, or leave it plain. It’s up to you.
Make sure that the two pieces of ribbon or cord are exactly the same length. Thread the first cord through the holes, going in and out and in and out, all the way around the circle. Let the two ends of the cord dangle from holes that are side by side. (See figure B)
Take the second cord and starting at a hole opposite the loose ends of the first cord, begin threading again, as in step 5. Once you have threaded the second cord all the way around the circle, the two cords will be positioned with loose ends across from each other. (See figure C)
Knot together the two loose ends on each side of the circle. Pull the strings in opposite directions, away from the circle, to cinch the material together and form the neck of the bag. Your new bag is ready to store small treasures! (See figure D)
Pam Muñoz Ryan kept a journal of her travels to southwestern Wyoming, near the Red Desert, for a research ride in August of 2006. More journal excerpts can be heard, read by the author, on the audiobook from Scholastic Audiobooks.
Sunday. I am home in Leucadia, California, packing for the long-awaited trip. I look over the list of supplies I am supposed to bring: rain gear, sleeping bag, riding boots, sunscreen, pillow, flashlight. The list goes on. I add a few things to my duffel that are not on the list: a snakebite kit, my journal, a few pens. I recheck all my camera equipment, making sure for the tenth time that I have the telephoto lens. If and when I see wild horses, I don’t want to miss an opportunity to get a good picture. I wonder about the seven other women with whom I’ll be traveling. They are all strangers, at least for today.
Monday. I land in Salt Lake City, Utah, get my luggage, and head for the prearranged meeting place to catch a van for the long ride to Pinedale, Wyoming. It’s easy to spot my fellow horsewomen. They are all wearing jeans, western hats, vests, and pulling large duffels. We pile into a van, already asking each other questions: Where are you from? What type of horse do you ride? Do you ride Western or English? Surprisingly, most ride in the English-style discipline. Not me. I ride Western. All of them are from the eastern United States and England. I’m the only person from California or even west of the Mississippi — a Western girl, through and through. On the van ride, I pay attention to the details of the landscape: red rock mountains that have been chiseled by the wind to look like stacked dinner plates. The long strings of snow fences across the expanse of land remind me of gigantic Frankenstein scars. I take notes so I won’t forget details.
Tuesday. Another van picks us up in the morning to take our group to base camp. What my character, Maya, saw on her way to camp, was what I saw that morning: pronghorn and moose and mule deer and sagebrush. As far as the eye can see, there is sagebrush. A few hours later, we arrive at base camp on the banks of the Sweetwater River. I notice that the tepees are quite a distance from one another. My tepee ends up being the one that is the most remote. I will have to be braver than I thought. And so will my character, Maya.
That afternoon one of the outfitters gives us a short orientation. He says, “The world is divided into three types of people: Those who don’t like to ride. Those who like to ride. And horsemen and horsewomen.” He says to imagine a thought bubble above the horse, like in a comic book. What is the horse thinking about me? I want my horse to think of me as a benevolent dictator — someone who is in charge, but can be nice and affectionate, too. We tack up to take a short ride. My horse’s name is Rooster. He is an experienced remuda horse. He is accustomed to adapting to all sorts of riders. He knows the terrain. He knows how to walk and jog and lope over sagebrush. Today, Rooster is the dictator.
That night, as we all sit around the campfire and as the dark closes in on us, I can’t help but think about how far away my tepee is from the others. The outfitter’s daughter has three dogs and I have made friends with the black-and-white mutt. When the girl goes to bed, she holds out the rope leash to the group and asks if anyone wants the dog for the night. I jump at the chance for a roommate. I am suddenly not so afraid of the distance between my tepee and the others. The dog is sweet and obedient and camp-savvy. It snuggles between my sleeping bag and the canvas wall of the tepee. Not even the mice skittering up and down my tent bother me now that I have a guard dog. It occurs to me that most people this far out in the middle of nowhere would probably have dogs and that it would make sense to have a dog in my story, too. As the camp dog settled into my tent, Golly crawled into my story.
Wednesday. We get up with the sun and have breakfast, then tack our horses. I am on a new horse, named Chinook. We ride to the Pacific Butte’s Ridge where the wind is incessant and unforgiving, but the view is magnificent. The ride is long and hard. I’m not used to so many hours in the saddle. My feet cramp, and my new boots are still a little stiff. As we head back to base camp, I realize that the boots aren’t the only thing that need breaking in. My body needs to get used to these long rides. I can already tell I will be sore in the morning.
We arrive back at camp in the late afternoon, hot and tired and dusty from head to toe. We take care of the horses, store our tack, and agree to meet upriver at the swimming spot.
I scream at my first dunk in the Sweetwater! We bathe in the shallow pools. I know that there are small, black non-poisonous snakes along the river, so I splash and stamp around to make sure if there are any around me, they will leave. I’m not afraid of them, but I don’t want to feel one beneath my feet, either.
Later, as we all sit around the campfire, the outfitter’s daughter rides bareback up the hill next to camp. There’s a rope tied around the withers of the horse and her knees are tucked beneath it on each side of its barrel. She’s loping fast, perfectly secure and centered as she holds onto the mane. The outfitter calls it a Comanche Coil, or a belly loop. I am already trying to figure out how I can use this in my story.
At night in the tent, with a camp dog next to me, I hear coyotes and sometimes cowbells from the “bell and hobbled” horses. The gentle clinking and clanking becomes a lullaby.
Thursday evening. We take a night ride, saddling up just as the sun sets orange on the prow of The Winds. We walk the horses over and through sagebrush. It grows increasingly dark, and I wonder how I’ll guide the horse. The remains of daylight disappear. I realize that I won’t guide the horse. The horse’s eyes adapt and expertly choose the path. We pause on a plateau. There is a lone white dot in the distance — a truck on a highway, traversing the horizon. The stars come slowly, one by one. The Milky Way emerges as a smear — a giant swipe across the speckled blanket of sky. It is peaceful and comforting. And at the same time, sobering. Against it, I am nothing.
Saturday. We trailor to the edge of the Red Desert. After only twenty minutes of riding, the outfitters spot a band of wild horses. That
first moment I see them is awe-inspiring. I have profound respect for the horses’ ability to withstand the elements and the restraints of man. Their spirits are self-righteous and noble. The outfitters plan our approach. We circumvent the wild horses. When we dismount, we keep our horses between the wild band and our bodies, to hide our human form as much as possible. I watch, trying to take it all in, frantically snapping pictures with the telephoto lens. I’m so worried that I will miss something. I suddenly remember a quote I read somewhere: “How destitute is the heart that misses nothing.” I calm myself. There’s no way I can see every movement, every interaction. I focus on one horse. And then another. And then another. They are magnificent.
This book was originally published in hardcover by Scholastic Press in 2007.
Copyright © 2007 by Pam Muñoz Ryan.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, APPLE PAPERBACKS, AFTER WORDS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First Scholastic paperback printing, February 2009
Cover art by Sterling Hundley
Cover design by Marijka Kostiw
e-ISBN 978-0-545-28140-9
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Pam Muñoz Ryan, Paint the Wind
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