Chancey of the Maury River (21 page)

Trevor again nodded. His head darted around, looking left, then right, at every other team near us. As his head turned, so did his shoulders, his hands, and his hips. It was difficult for me to keep from dancing around, for with each nervous movement the boy made, the bit in my mouth followed likewise. I could tell that being close to so many other horses had unnerved him. I knew, however, that his excitability was not to be mistaken for intentional communication with me. I followed Claire’s instruction on the course. Once Trevor refocused, though his hands gripped the reins tightly, he posted expertly in good time with me.

When the course entered the forest for the first time, I felt sure that we must be nearing the halfway point. Up until then, the entire route had been up and down through open fields, much like our trails at home. As we entered the forest, we realized that the terrain had been deceitfully comfortable. None of us had anticipated a steep and slippery cliff down so far into a ravine that the bottom could not be seen.

Our competitors, evidently, had not anticipated this obstacle either. The forest floor was muddy from several days prior of rain. Only a few strides into the woods, the forest floor dropped off so steeply that I could not see below to the point where it would level off again. A gray pony in front of us lost her footing in the mud and fell to her knees before stabilizing and bolting through the trees, off course. When the pony bolted, she caused a cedar branch, rife with berries, to snap back into Claire’s face. Claire did not lose her seat or her courage.

Claire may well have been afraid, but she did not choose fear as her advisor. She called back to Trevor, “Chancey’s an App; he’s made for this stuff. Do what I do: breathe and lean back. Lean way back. We’re going down one step at a time.”

Trevor breathed in deeply. He gave me my head and leaned back, keeping his center of gravity weighted exactly with mine. Had he been too far forward, no doubt, I would have slid easily. There was a point in our descent where both Claire and Trevor were stretched out flat on their backs, loosely holding on to Mac and me, allowing us to do the work. Neither child panicked once. I was proud of them both, especially Trevor.

Some horses behind us whinnied and bolted back up the cliff. I heard a rider thud to the ground. Trevor began to sing; he was breathing. Mac and I did not speak, but head to tail, we got down the cliff together. My Appaloosa feet served my team well. There was no hint of slipping or sliding, only an easy, steady walk in the forest. Trevor did his job of staying relaxed; I did my job of keeping Trevor safe.

When we reached the bottom, Claire turned back to us. “Awesome! Y’all are awesome!”

For the first time on the course, I felt Trevor relax. “We did it, Claire!” He patted me on the shoulder. “Chancey, we did it!”

Claire brought us back into the open field. “Don’t get too fired up just yet. As soon as we’re totally out of the forest, we’ve got to canter up that hill. Then we’ll need to stop at the checkpoint and get our halfway chip. It doesn’t count as a finish unless we turn in the chip at the end. Come on, let’s go!” Claire and Mac cantered away, and I stayed right with them.

Finding the spot in the saddle that is secure and balanced is not easy. Claire is the only one I’ve known to find that spot right away, without effort and without fail. It’s a spot where I feel the legs of my rider secure against me, almost holding us both up, moving us both forward together and in good time. If my rider can find the spot and hold it, we can achieve a unison that is not dependent on my eyesight. We can move together, galloping up hills, through forests, and over streams as if we are welded. Claire knows this spot on me, and I suspect on Mac and every other horse she has ever joined.

Trevor was a different story. He was, at times, consumed so greatly with his own fear that he failed to realize even the most obvious mistakes, such as placing the bridle on me upside down, in a convoluted mess. Often he sat high, perched up in the saddle, with all his weight gathered atop of me in a compact triangle on the saddle. Carrying Trevor sometimes felt as I imagined it would feel to carry two or three hay bales all stacked up on the saddle, and I was constantly shifting my own weight to keep the unstable tower from toppling over.

The hunter pace was the occasion that presented a perfect teaching moment to show Trevor how it felt to ride together, moving as a team. On one of the final hills, we cantered at first, and as I moved into a gallop, Trevor’s imbalance caused him to grab my mane to keep from falling. Thankfully, he did not lean his weight onto my neck, nor did he pull back on the reins. He grabbed a handful of my mane to steady himself, and, as I had by now several times witnessed his courage, I was not surprised that though feeling unbalanced, he did not ask me to stop.

What I did next was risky to be sure, but I felt for the first time that Trevor was feeling confident. He was breathing. I could not see it, but I believe he was smiling. On this day, Trevor was riding with heart.

What I did, actually, was to lob him into the perfect spot. If I could have used words, I might have told him to sit deeply, close his knees around me, and drop his pelvis into me. I did not have words available to me, and, truthfully, Trevor had heard these words from Mrs. Maiden and Claire many times in his own lessons. He needed to feel what the words meant. I wagered that if I got Trevor into the spot on my own, he would feel it and know it was right. It happened just like that.

Midway up the hill at a gallop, I pushed Trevor into the right place. He stuck to me; he let go of my mane.

Trevor hollered through the wind to me, “Woohoo! We’re flying, Chancey!”

He stayed in the right place throughout the remainder of the course, only once losing his left stirrup and even then not losing the spot. When I felt the loose stirrup slapping my barrel, I slowed enough for Trevor to pick it back up. As he did, he yelled to me, “Good boy, Chancey. Go on — I’ve got it!”

Trevor was one of two boys his age that I had observed on the field that day. The other boy and his paint pony each carried a girth that far exceeded that of anyone on our team, save Mac. As we neared the checkpoint, the chunky pony and her boy cut us off, inserting themselves directly behind Claire and Mac. Claire and Mac stretched out beyond us, not realizing that Trevor and I had been left behind. The pony and her boy challenged us to race them up the hill at a gallop.

Trevor, with his newly found confidence, leaned into me and whispered, “Yah, boy! Yah!” I understood his command, and this time I welcomed it. Though already at a gallop, and nearing the end of my capacity, I reached down into my reserves to give Trevor the extra bit of speed that a command such as “Yah, boy” deserved.
This,
I thought,
is the greatest contest of my life.

We galloped away from our challengers and caught Claire and Mac, who were waiting for us at the checkpoint. Claire encouraged Trevor to take the chip, so that he could officially represent our team at the finish.

“Are you sure?” Trevor asked Claire.

Claire nodded. “Come on, we’re almost there!”

Trevor yelled over to Claire, “That kid was trying to race me! Did you see him?”

“The boy on the fat pony?” Claire gobbled up the challenge. She collected Mac’s reins and dug her heels into his side. “Ever race a paint before, Trev? Easy peasy. There’s no way he’ll catch us.”

Trevor pressed his heels into me with conviction. He clucked at me and yelled into the wind, “Yah, boy!”

The rest of the course was open, flat field, with only a few small hills left. Claire and Trevor galloped to the end, and both children hollered wildly when we spotted the Maury River Stables delegation standing near the finish, waiting for us. Mrs. Strickler and Mother were jumping up and down, clapping their hands together and holding on to each other like old friends. Mrs. Maiden threw her head back and laughed. Stu pumped his fist in the air to show his support. Tommy tore away from his leash and ran up to me, sniffing each of my legs for a replay of the course we had run. I whinnied my gratitude to them all. Mac echoed my sentiment then and together, we four crossed the finish line of the Ridgemore Hunt unharmed and grateful for a victorious ride through the blue mountains, for, ribbon or no ribbon, all of us had ridden the hunter pace course exactly as it was meant to be ridden: with confidence, patience, strategy, and endurance.

Our fine team was exhausted after the Ridgemore Hunt. For the entirety of the race, Claire and Mac led the way through seven miles of beautiful gallop hills. All four of us needed refreshment. Claire hitched Mac and me to the trailer; Trevor tied fresh hay nets nearby. Trevor and Claire ran off together, still giddy from our race. Tommy curled up in the shade underneath me and took a nap. I felt quite content that day. Claire and Trevor, I knew, would soon return.

I was proud of Trevor and his many displays of courage throughout the difficult course. He had trusted me, and I had trusted him. I knew the boy was tired and was glad that Claire had taken him off to find food and water. I finished off the last of the hay in my net and remembered to thank Mac for taking such good care of Claire. He rumbled, but did not stop eating.

“We were a good team this morning, Macadoo. We should do this more often,” I said, ignoring my quivering haunches. I tried to catch my breath. Mac was tied to the right of me, and though he was on my good side, I could hardly make him out. I attributed my clouded vision to the perspiration still running into my eye, as it had from our first canter up a hill. Mac must have sensed my difficulty, for he did not reciprocate the congratulatory praise. He inquired, with concern in his voice, “How are you, Old App?”

I had no opportunity to reply or form a response, for the children came sprinting back, bursting with some news.

Trevor and Claire each clutched a blue ribbon in one hand. The boy threw his arms around me. “Chancey! We won! We won the hunter pace!” Claire was laughing; she came to me first.

“I knew you could do it, pony. You’re the best friend in the world. I knew you could do it! You made Trevor a champion!”

Then she whispered in my ear, “Next time, I’ll ride you myself, like we planned.”

She kissed me, then congratulated Mac and tucked her ribbon into his halter.

Trevor, likewise, tucked his blue ribbon into my halter and, more to show off his win than anything else, I’m sure, he untied me and we walked to the watering place. Seeing no one else around but some mares from the course, Trevor shared his grand news with them. “We won! Chancey, Claire, Mac, and I won! I’ve never won anything; I won today!” I rumbled low and affirmed my own elation. That day to one boy, I became a champion.

After the hunter pace, throughout the fall and into the winter, Trevor continued to come to the barn for his weekly riding lessons, but he did not ride. He resumed his earlier habit of standing in my room; this time I stood beside him. Trevor leaned his head out of the window, as is also my habit. I recognized that he was trying to catch the wind and nickered softly to him, letting him know he was welcome to remain as long as he liked, for Trevor was a champion; he had won us a blue ribbon. Claire often stayed in my room with him, and she never pressed him to ride.

“Look how blue the sky is, Chancey, and not a cloud to be seen. Snow will be here soon; can you smell it?” Trevor asked me.

I looked at Trevor, turned out in fresh riding clothes that smelled of plastic, not hay or dirt. I understood then that our riding together as a team had come to an end.

I was content to stand with him, noting every change in the sky and clouds for many days in a row. He loved to describe for me every hawk and pileated woodpecker he spotted. He explained to me that which I already knew — how the river birch, clustered just below the gelding field, told us in which direction we would find the Maury River.

Trevor also told me much that I did not know; I was happy to listen to all he had to say, and so was Claire. During these times, Claire spoke not a word, but would sit atop me or lean against me and listen to Trevor teach us about the natural world around us.

“Chancey, did you know that in some other mountains, far away in Utah, there lives a stand of forty-seven thousand aspen trees that are really all the same organism? That’s the largest living organism on Earth. Can you believe it? I’ve been there myself, and it’s amazing to think that all of those trees grow from the same exact root system: all one tree. If you cut one down, it wouldn’t die; another would grow in its place.”

Trevor closed his eyes. I closed mine, too, in order to imagine such an aspen grove. He leaned into me and grew quiet. Then he whispered, “I wish I could see Utah again.”

We never competed together again, but the three of us often walked down to the river together. Whatever the weather, we three enjoyed the trail to our private spot. Trevor usually sat on my back, while Claire was content to lead us both, as long as Trevor would promise to sing. Even though it was too cold for swimming, the two friends would hop across the rocks, Trevor always on the lookout for the belted kingfisher.