Free Chancey of the Maury River by Gigi Amateau Page B

her strength.
    Mrs. Maiden also had Claire count our strides out loud on the approach of every jump. Beginning about six strides out, Claire would count us over the jump. “One, two, one, two, one, two, jump!” This was begun entirely as a finishing technique for Claire, but we all soon realized that hearing her helped me compensate for my shortcomings. In our training, I learned to keep my ears turning always toward Claire’s voice, readying myself for her cues.
    “Trot, Chancey, trot!” Claire invited me.
    For most of my life, it had been fundamentally contrary to my philosophy to respond to voice commands only, except for the command
whoa,
which I had taken quite seriously. I suppose one of the characteristics that had contributed to my reputation as an obstinate horse was that I required much more of my students than the simple voice command to walk, trot, or canter.
    I firmly believe that children don’t learn well on push-button ponies, or automatic horses, and so I myself had always determined not to be automatic in any way. Children deserve to learn the basics upon which a strong foundation is built, and that cannot be done through voice command alone, in my humble opinion.
    But Claire was different. In working with Claire, I did not feel I was giving her lessons, but learning to move with her as if we were a single being.
    “Trot, Chancey,” she said again. I obliged. I picked up, and held, an easy trot while Claire performed around-the-world by turning herself around and around in the saddle while I circled the entire ring at the trot.
    “And, whoa,” Claire sang as she directed me toward Mrs. Maiden, who was still standing in the ring.
    A barn mother, watching from the fence, yelled, “He’s gorgeous. He doesn’t even look like the same horse; his coat is so shiny. They look beautiful together.” Claire and I came to rest with Claire sitting backward in the saddle. Mrs. Maiden got back to the lesson.
    “Okay, Claire, enough play. Let’s practice the outside line.”
    We worked hard to correct my bad jumping habits in time for the summer series. Claire’s strong legs became most important to our training. Mrs. Maiden worked us both hard, always pushing us each to do our best individually and to do our best as a team. She liked to pull us into the center of the ring for an explanation of the task before she set us loose to attack the jumps.
    “Claire,” Mrs. Maiden would say, “you’ve got to hold him up with both legs. He’s not Daisy, remember? If you drop him, he’s going to want to duck out, but don’t let him. Don’t get ahead of Chancey, and don’t fall behind him. Use your legs to tell him when it’s time to jump. It’s almost like you’re going to lift him up with your legs, then hold him up the whole way over the fence. He’ll listen to you once he knows he can trust you. Remember, he can’t see out of that left eye. You’ve got to see for him.”
    I learned, with Claire, to wait for that moment where together we would defy gravity. We would canter around half of the ring, with Claire counting my strides on the approach. I felt what was coming from the shift in Claire’s weight and the tilt of her head. I felt when it was time to fly.
    Claire would rise up from her seat with just enough spring. Steady with her entire leg, and with both of us looking far beyond the fence into the mountains, we would hover for an eternal instant. Once over the jump, Claire would always laugh out loud, delighting in the thrill of jumping with me. She held me straight, and cantering away from the first fence, we would soar, again, over the second fence in the line. We touched the ground, rounded the corner, and again and again we flew over the two small fences, each time with less effort and more lift. During those early days of jumping with Claire, I felt that if I had wings, they would be named Claire.
    We progressed rapidly together. My desire to be a great first horse for Claire, combined with