Walking a show jumping course when part of the ring disappears

Walking a show jumping course is usually about building a picture in my head before I ever pick up the reins. I look at the related distances, the approach to each fence, the likely rhythm and the places where Archie might lose focus. That mental map becomes much more important when part of the ring is hidden from view.

At one competition, the arena layout created a genuine blind spot. A line of trees and the side of the judges’ vehicle concealed the far corner from where I stood near the in-gate. I could see the first fence and most of the middle of the course, but the turn after the oxer vanished completely. I had to walk it carefully rather than rely on a quick visual scan.

The situation was familiar to riders who compete at Australian showgrounds. Rings are often set up beside marquees, trade stalls, car parks, portable yards or another arena, and the terrain is not always perfectly level. At a country agricultural show, a course can look quite different from the neat diagram in the programme once vehicles, spectators and temporary fencing are in place.

This is how I approached the round with Archie: I treated the concealed section as a navigation exercise, gathered information from several viewpoints, and used fixed markers to connect the visible parts of the course. The aim was not to memorise every stride. It was to make the next decision obvious, even when the whole track could not be seen at once.

Finding the blind spot before walking the track

I first walked around the outside of the arena rather than heading straight to the start flags. From the gate, the course appeared to have a simple flow, but the view changed significantly as I moved along the rail. The wing of an upright blocked the landing side of the fence before the hidden turn, and a parked float covered the line beyond it.

I made a mental note of exactly what disappeared and where. A blind spot is rarely the whole corner; it is usually a particular moment in the turn, approach or landing. In my case, I could see the fence itself, then lost sight of Archie’s intended track for several seconds as we would bend left behind the obstacle.

That distinction mattered. If I had simply told myself that the corner was hidden, I might have become tense and over-managed the reins. Knowing that the actual problem was the exit from the oxer to the next upright gave me something practical to solve: land straight, rebalance, find the marker and then turn.

I also checked whether the obstruction was likely to move. At some Australian venues, a ute, golf buggy or ring steward can be repositioned before the class begins. A temporary tent might flap in the wind, while a row of spectators can grow along the rail during the round. I planned for the current view without assuming it would remain exactly the same.

Building a route from fixed reference points

When a section of the arena cannot be seen, fixed reference points become more useful than trying to hold a complete picture in my mind. I picked out the large gum tree beyond the rail, the white standard of the previous fence and the corner of the judge’s box. Those objects formed a chain of landmarks that could guide the turn.

I then walked the course from both directions. First I followed the numbered sequence, concentrating on the actual track Archie would take. Then I walked back through the blind section from the opposite side of the ring, starting at the fence after the hidden turn. This showed me where the next obstacle sat in relation to the rail and whether my intended line would leave enough room for a balanced approach.

The course diagram helped, but it was only a starting point. A printed plan cannot show a sloping patch of ground, a distracting banner or the way a fence wing sits several metres inside the boundary. At a busy showground, the steward may also place a rope or mesh barrier closer to the arena than expected. I use the plan for sequence and the physical walk for accuracy.

I like to pause at the spot where visibility disappears and say the route quietly to myself: land, straight for three strides, bend around the tree, then ride to the middle of the next fence. That small verbal sequence stops the concealed part becoming an undefined gap in my memory.

Counting strides without becoming mechanical

Walking the distances was essential, but I did not want to turn the round into a rigid counting exercise. Archie is a forward, athletic horse, and his stride can change according to the ground, the atmosphere and how much room I give him. A distance that walks as eight ordinary strides may ride differently if I land crooked or allow him to rush.

For the blind turn, I counted from the landing side of the oxer to a point level with the gum tree. That gave me a rough idea of how long I had before starting the bend. I counted again from the tree to the centre of the next upright. The numbers were useful as a guide, yet the more important information was the shape of the line and the available space.

I also inspected the footing in that part of the ring. Some outdoor arenas in Australia have a sand surface that rides beautifully in dry weather but becomes heavier after rain. Others are grass, where worn patches near the gate or a dip around the corner can influence balance. On a warm day, a hard surface can make me shorten my plan because I need Archie’s feet and shoulders organised before the turn.

The lesson for me was to count strides while preserving feel. I wanted to know when to support the outside shoulder, when to soften the inside rein and where to look, but I did not want to stare at the landmark and forget to ride the horse underneath me.

Choosing where to look during the round

A blind spot can make a rider look too early. I have done this before: I turned my head towards the next fence before Archie had landed and allowed my upper body to lead the corner. The result was a drifting exit and a late correction. With this course, I decided that my eyes would stay on the landing for the first moment, then move to the gum tree, then to the centre of the following fence.

That sequence gave Archie time to finish the jump before I asked for the turn. Looking at the next obstacle is useful, but it has to happen at the right stage. The horse needs a clear balance and a straight body before the rider’s focus can create a new direction. In a concealed section, rushing that process can make the horse feel that the rider is uncertain.

During my warm-up, I practised the same eye pattern in a plain arena. I jumped a small upright, landed, looked to a marker, and then rode a turn to another fence. This did not reproduce the actual blind spot, but it rehearsed the communication I needed. Archie responded well when my hands remained quiet and my leg explained the line.

The way people talk at shows can add pressure too. A helper might call, “You’re right, keep coming,” while someone at the gate says, “Good on ya, that’s the line.” I appreciate the support, but once I enter the ring I need to trust the plan rather than follow every outside comment.

Using the warm-up to test the plan

The warm-up arena gave me a chance to observe Archie’s state of mind. He was alert because the venue was busy, with horses arriving from several directions and riders discussing their rounds beside the rail. This is common at local competitions, where one arena may sit close to the secretary’s office, food vans and horse floats. I allowed him to look, then brought his attention back to my aids.

I did not try to recreate the whole course in the warm-up. Instead, I checked the ingredients: a forward approach, a straight landing, a balanced half-halt and a turn without pulling him around. I jumped a small fence, landed in a steady rhythm and asked for a change of direction using my outside aids. When that felt reliable, I stopped adjusting.

It is tempting to gather endless opinions when a section is hidden. I asked one experienced friend to confirm that my intended route was sensible, then left it alone. Too many last-minute instructions can replace a clear plan with a collection of competing thoughts. A coach’s view is valuable, but the rider still has to make the decisions once the bell rings.

I recorded the details in the same way I record other show-day observations for my eventing diary. Writing down what I saw, where I looked and how Archie reacted helps me recognise patterns between venues rather than treating every difficult course as a one-off surprise.

Riding the round when the view closes

When we entered the ring, I gave myself enough time to look at the first fence and breathe. The opening line was visible, so I used it to establish Archie’s rhythm rather than hurrying because I knew the hidden section was coming. He jumped well, and I kept my body quiet on the landing instead of immediately preparing for the corner.

The oxer came up with a good stride. As soon as we landed, the course disappeared behind the wing, but the landmark sequence took over. I kept my outside rein supportive, placed my eyes on the gum tree and rode three straight strides before allowing the bend. Archie stayed with me, and the next upright appeared exactly where I expected it to be.

The key was accepting that I would not see the entire line at once. I could not make the hidden part visible by staring harder. I could make it rideable by entering it with balance, using a known marker and keeping enough energy for the next fence. That approach also prevented me from cutting the corner in an attempt to regain sight of the obstacle too quickly.

After the round, the course looked less mysterious from the ground. The blind spot had been a visual problem, not a missing piece of information. By walking from multiple angles, counting the useful sections and deciding where to look, I had turned it into a sequence Archie and I could manage together. At an Australian show, with its temporary rings, busy sidelines and changing conditions, that kind of preparation is often more dependable than a perfect view.