Read Online Macadoo of the Maury River by Gigi Amateau - Free Book Online Page B

better care of him on our first trail ride. I had more learning to do, too.
    Being out on a trail was different from our practice with Poppa in the ring. On the trail, in the forest, and in the mountain, I could hear and see and feel better than Izzy could. My mistake that day was not taking care of my boy from our first step out. The trouble started when Poppa asked if Izzy felt ready to canter.
    “Yes, I know what to do. You always say that riding Mac’s like riding a sofa; he’ll take care of me.”
    “That’s right, Mac is easy and safe. Now, sit deep, grab mane, pull your leg back —”
    Izzy shortened my reins. He breathed a full deep breath, placed his calf at the girth, and then pressed his boot into my barrel.
    “I’m a good rider,” Izzy said to himself. “I can do this.”
    He rose just out of the saddle, posting faster and faster, and I picked up speed with him until we were cantering.
    In all the excitement of cantering on the trail, I lost sight of Poppa and Molly, so instead I followed Izzy’s hands and legs. But Izzy wasn’t paying attention either and soon he had steered me into a nest of long vines, thicker than the limbs of an old dogwood. Poppa and Molly had disappeared so we stopped while Izzy tried to figure his way out.
    “Poppa, come back. I can’t see which way to go.”
    But Poppa didn’t answer.
    I halted and asked the mountain which way to go. Job had taught me to think of myself as part of the mountain and to pay attention to the air and the ground, the river and the sky, and to every living thing.
    Izzy panicked. He kicked at my sides, urging me forward. He pulled the reins left then right. He pressed the heel of his boot into my side, telling me to turn, then changed his mind and pulled on the reins and made the bit tight in my mouth. He wanted me to back up. He was afraid.
    I blocked out all of the confusing, fearful aids from Izzy. To get him safely reunited with our family, I ignored his squirming and kicking and his fast, shallow breathing.
    “Poppa, help! Where are you? What do I do?” Izzy panicked and shouted into the trees.
    No answer came. Not from a mule or a blue jay or a goldfinch. With another jab to my barrel, Izzy tried to make me move again. Somehow, we had gotten turned around. Izzy didn’t know which way to go.
    “We’re lost, Mac! What if Poppa can’t find us? I don’t know what to do. What if we never find him?”
    If we were to find our family, I needed to take over. As long as Izzy stayed in the saddle, I could lead us. If he dismounted, Izzy would lead me or I’d have to overtake him. If I could get to the Maury River, we could find Poppa.
    Straight ahead, the forest understory was a twisted, tangled mess of vines so thick that sunlight could barely pass through.
    To our west, a beaver had gnawed down young hardwoods and left a jagged path of pointy stumps. The footing was loose with rocks that covered a steep cliff. Nearby a still-wet snake had coiled herself in the sun to dry. I smelled around for the dampest spot of earth.
    A small copper butterfly with gossamer orange wings flitted around us. She landed near my cleft ear and I thought of my father.
    “You don’t even know who you are. Who we are,” he had said.
    The copper fluttered up, then back down on me. I tried to twitch her away, but she clung to my ear with her dainty legs.
Remember.
    And even though I had been gelded at John Macadoo’s and didn’t have the blood of a stallion, there in the mountain forest I found that I could remember. “We are movers of mountain and forest,” my father had also said.
    With the copper’s help, I realized that the beaver and the rocks and the snake were pointing the way to the Maury River. I heard tumbling water below and the
chip-chip, po-ta-to chip
of a goldfinch. We would find our family there, but we would need to go down. Straight down.
    I reached back and nudged Izzy’s boot to get his attention and nodded my head toward the river. Izzy