Training through the splash: how I prepare Archie for steep water

There's a particular kind of knot in my stomach that only shows up when I open the course map and see the dreaded blue square sitting right at the bottom of a hill. Archie, my bright bay eventer, lifts his head whenever he spots a tarp on the way to the warm-up, and I know I've got my work cut out for me if I'm going to ask him to launch himself into a cold, dark pond with a near-vertical exit on the other side. Training for a steep-entry water obstacle isn't something you cram into the week before the comp — it's a slow build of small wins that turn a wary horse into one who actually enjoys the splash.

I've been campaigning Archie at preliminary and novice level for the last three seasons, and every event we've entered together has tested us in different ways. Show jumping at the Equestriad in Camden tends to tighten up his canter, while cross-country at Wallaby Hill throws everything at us from skinny logs to technical corners. The water complex is always the make-or-break moment. When I started eventing, I treated it like any other fence and pulled Archie up at the first sign of a wobble. That approach got us home, but it left him anxious. These days I plan the schooling around his brain as much as his body.

The current goal is the Melbourne International Three Day Event at Werribee Park, where the course designer has a habit of placing the water at the lowest point of the terrain. The footing out there can shift from dust to sticky black clay in a single morning, especially after a Melbourne spring rain. We've got six weeks, a borrowed set of portable rails, and a dam at the back of the agistment that I can partially flood with a pump. It's not exactly Werribee, but it's honest work.

The thing that changed everything for me was treating the steep water like a gymnastics exercise rather than a monster. Instead of worrying about the size of the splash, I started asking Archie to soften his topline, stay balanced on his hindquarters, and listen for my half-halt before the drop. Once he understood the pattern — approach, balance, slide, splash, climb — the dread in his eye softened into something closer to curiosity.

Reading the course and ground conditions before you school

Australian eventing venues each have their own personality, and the water question changes depending on where you're heading. Werribee's water sits in a natural depression in the parkland, and after a wet August the exit can bog up so badly that even the best-conditioned horses struggle for traction. Willinga Park on the South Coast of NSW tends to run sandier and dries out fast under the northerly winds, so the entry there is often firmer than the exit. Out at Wallaby Hill, the water is fed by a creek and the slope is properly steep, so a two-stride combination in the middle is a real test of adjustability. Knowing the quirks of the ground before you arrive saves a lot of blind faith on course-walk day.

I always check the Bureau of Meteorology forecast in the week leading up to the event. A sudden 30-degree day in November can turn the splash zone into a tepid bath that Archie will happily paw at, while a cold front coming through from the Antarctic can make the same water feel like an ice bath he wants to leap over entirely. Heat also affects the footing out at places like Adelaide Hills, where the clay base goes rock hard by lunchtime and then sticky again by five o'clock. I plan my schooling sessions for the early morning or late arvo when the ground is at its most forgiving.

Walk the course twice if you can. The first time is for your own eyes — read the lines, count the strides, notice where the ground has been worn. The second time is for your horse, if you have the chance to walk it in-hand or pop them over a practice element. Look at the angle of the entry, the depth of the pond, and what's on the other side. A steep exit that drops onto flat ground is a different problem to a steep exit that immediately turns uphill toward the next combination. The answers change the way I school at home.

Building trust at the walk and trot first

Before Archie ever sees a splash, we work the pattern on dry land. I'll set up two parallel poles a few strides apart and ask him to walk and trot through them, treating the space like the imaginary pond. He learns to shorten, balance, and then lengthen again without me hauling on his face. The poles help him find his own rhythm and give him permission to use his hind end rather than diving on his forehand. Once he's bored with poles, I graduate to small cross-rails arranged in a chute, so the sides funnel him toward the centre.

The first time I introduce Archie to actual water, I pick the shallowest, quietest spot on the property and walk him in beside me on a long rein. No pressure, no expectation. He'll sniff, paw, and probably try a tentative lick before he commits. I let him stand in it for as long as he likes. Horses are creatures of habit, and once water becomes a place where he can stand and graze, the panic leaves his body. I bring treats, scratch his withers, and make the whole experience feel like a spa day. By the second or third session, he'll walk in without a moment's hesitation.

Trotting through water for the first time is a milestone I never rush. I'll ask for a working trot on the way in, keep my leg steady, and let him pick his line. If he slows down, I slow with him rather than kicking forward. The aim is to show him that the splash is just a transition, no different from trotting over a strip of arena board. The sound of his hooves in the water is something he has to get used to, especially if I'm wearing a rider who's clucking and patting him on the neck at the same time. Voice and rein consistency matter more than anything else here.

Introducing the steep entry without scaring him

The steep entry is where most horses lose confidence, and Archie is no exception. A drop into water feels like falling, even when it's only a few feet. I built a small mound out of dirt and old logs in the corner of the dam to simulate the kind of slope we'd see at Werribee or Willinga. The mound is about half a metre high and angles down into the water at roughly forty-five degrees. The first time Archie saw it, he planted his feet and snorted. I let him stand, then walked him away and tried again from a different angle until he found a line he could live with.

Once he was willing to put one foot on the mound, I added a ground rail at the top so he had a clear visual marker. Horses read lines better than shapes, and a rail tells them exactly where to put their feet. I started at the walk, asking him to step down the rail, halt in the water, and then walk back up. Repetition is the quiet miracle of horse training — after six or eight approaches, his breathing slowed and his ears flicked forward instead of back. He started offering the down-step on his own, almost proud of himself.

The real progress came when I added the trot. A slow, balanced trot down a slope teaches the horse to shift his weight back and engage his hindquarters. I sit deep, keep my legs long, and let him find the bottom in his own time. Archie tends to rush the landing if I'm not careful, so I use my voice — a low "steady, steady, boy" in the Aussie drawl that feels natural to us — to half-halt him through the splash. The reward is a pat, a breath, and a loose rein the moment he picks up the canter on the far side.

Practising the climb out and the re-balance

The exit is half the puzzle. A steep climb out of water demands power, balance, and a rider who doesn't get in the way. I've seen too many horses clatter their way up an embankment and lose momentum for the next fence, which is usually where the trouble really starts. With Archie, I school the exit as its own exercise, with a ground line at the top and a placing pole a stride before to help him judge the take-off. The first few times, he left a stride out and ended up too close to the rail. I reset, shortened my reins, and asked him to listen for the half-halt before the climb rather than during it.

Ground choice matters here too. The dam at the back of the agistment has a gravelly bank on one side and a muddy scramble on the other. We work both, because you never know what the conditions will be like on competition day. A wet exit at Werribee might as well be a small drop into a swimming pool, so Archie needs to know he can bound up a slippery surface without me grabbing his mouth. I keep my hands low and my weight in my heels, letting him use his topline to push up rather than pulling him into the bridle. The first clean climb felt like winning a mini-event all on its own.

Cantering through the whole sequence is the final piece. I want him to enter in a balanced canter, stay soft through the splash, and rebalance within two strides of the exit so he can turn toward the next fence. We link the water obstacle to a small log or a brush arrow, depending on what I'm trying to simulate. If Archie can shift from power to finesse without a hiccup, I know he's ready. If he dives, rushes, or props, I go back a step and rebuild. There's no point in forcing a breakthrough the week before a major event.

Travel day, float loading, and the final tune-up

Loading Archie onto the float is its own production, especially on the morning of a long trip. He travels better with a small haynet, a friend in the adjacent bay if possible, and plenty of room to balance. From the agistment to Werribee is a solid eight-hour drive if we take the Hume, so I plan for an overnight stop at a friend's property in Gundagai to break the journey. Two short trips of four hours each are kinder on his legs than one marathon session, and the biosecurity paperwork for crossing the NSW-Victoria border needs to be sorted in advance anyway.

The day before we leave, I give Archie a light lunge in the morning and a short hack in the arvo. Nothing taxing — just enough to keep his brain ticking over. He gets a normal feed with a splash of electrolytes in his water to keep him hydrated, since the float can get warm even with the windows open. I check his boots, his bridle, my own helmet, and the contents of the first-aid kit twice. A forgotten hoof pick or a missing boot stud can undo a season of training in a single stride.

When we arrive at the event, I give him twenty-four hours to settle before I school anything technical. He'll walk the cross-country course with me on a loose rein, snorting at the flags and probably trying to nibble the photographer's bag. By the second morning, his eye is soft and his ears are forward. That's when I know he's ready — not because I've drilled him into submission, but because we've built a language together. The splash will come, the climb will follow, and somewhere on the other side of the water, Archie will lift his head and look for the next fence like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Schooling stage	Focus	Terrain or setup	Sign Archie is ready
Walk and trot poles	Rhythm and balance	Two parallel poles on flat ground	He lengthens and shortens on a soft contact
First splash	Confidence and curiosity	Shallow edge of the dam	He walks in without hesitation and stands relaxed
Trot through water	Acceptance of sound	Same shallow edge, working trot	He stays in front of my leg through the splash
Steep entry at walk	Trust and foot placement	Built-up mound with ground rail	He offers the down-step on his own
Steep entry at trot	Weight shift and engagement	Mound with rail and light seat	He stays balanced and lands in a soft trot
Climb out, walk	Power and traction	Gravelly and muddy banks	He pushes up without pulling on the bridle
Full sequence at canter	Re-balance to next fence	Water complex linked to a log	He canter away and turn toward the next element