When Archie Slipped on Wet Grass at a Show Jumping Event

The weather had been unsettled all week, but the forecast for Archie’s show jumping class looked manageable. There was a little rain on the radar, nothing that seemed likely to cancel the competition, so I loaded the float, packed extra rugs and headed off with the usual mixture of optimism and nerves. By the time we arrived, the grounds were damp and the grass had that glossy, slick appearance that makes every rider look twice.

Archie and I had jumped on wet surfaces before, although never with much room for error. He is usually careful and honest, the sort of horse who tries hard even when I make a poor decision. That morning, however, one awkward stride on the turn changed the entire feel of the round. Archie slipped on the wet grass during show jumping, and the moments afterwards tested my riding, my judgement and my ability to stay calm when a competition suddenly became a horse-care situation.

A wet arrival and a changed arena

The showground looked familiar when we pulled in, but the conditions had altered it completely. Water sat in shallow patches near the warm-up ring, and the grass between the rails had become soft underfoot. This was the sort of Australian winter morning when the rain is not dramatic enough to stop the day, yet persistent enough to make every surface unpredictable. A few riders were walking their horses around carefully, looking at the take-off spots and avoiding the darkest patches.

At home, Archie had already been worked on damp ground, so I did not want to overreact. I gave him a long, quiet walk around the venue, allowing him to look at the tents, parked floats and movement around the arenas. The plan was to keep the warm-up short and simple. We would not spend energy drilling fences on a slippery surface, and I would pay attention to the way he was placing his feet.

The ring steward called us forward while the grass was still wet from another shower. The course itself was not enormous, but it had several turns that encouraged riders to cut across the arena. That can save time in a jump-off, yet it also means asking a horse to balance and turn on ground that may not provide a secure grip. I reminded myself to ride for rhythm rather than chase a fast time.

The round started with the right feeling

Archie warmed up sensibly. He was attentive without being tense, and his canter felt more contained than it had on the drive to the venue. We jumped a small upright and an oxer, then walked quietly while the other competitors had their turns. I checked my girth, shortened my reins a fraction and tried to keep my expectations modest.

The first few fences went well. Archie jumped the opening vertical cleanly, landed in balance and listened through the corner. The next line rode smoothly, although I could feel that the grass was making him more careful with his hind feet. I sat a little deeper through the turns and focused on keeping my upper body quiet. It was not a spectacular round, but it felt organised, which was exactly what I wanted.

The trouble came after a fence on the far side of the arena. We landed and turned towards the next obstacle, which stood on a diagonal line. I asked for a forward canter, but I did not make enough allowance for the wet patch near the corner. Archie placed his inside front foot, lost traction and slid sideways. It happened in a fraction of a second: his shoulder dropped, his legs scrambled, and the canter disappeared beneath us.

The moment Archie lost his footing

I stayed on, although my balance was thrown forward and to the outside. Archie recovered quickly enough to remain upright, but the slip had broken the line to the fence. He was understandably startled, and I could feel him trying to work out where his feet were before taking another stride. My first instinct was to push on and finish, yet that instinct lasted only a moment.

I brought him back to trot and then to walk, giving him a chance to regain his balance. The next fence was no longer the priority. I glanced down at his legs, watched his head carriage and listened to his breathing. He was standing evenly and did not appear lame, but that did not mean it was sensible to continue jumping. The judge rang us out, and I was relieved rather than disappointed.

Walking out of the arena felt strangely quiet. I could hear other horses jumping, people talking near the ring and the familiar clink of bits and stirrups, but my attention stayed on Archie. He had not fallen, yet a slip can still cause a strain, a knock or a loss of confidence. I wanted to assess him properly before deciding what happened next.

Making the first checks at the show

I led Archie on a firm, level path away from the ring. He walked forward without shortening his stride, and he was interested in the grass beside the path. I ran my hands down each leg, checking for heat, swelling or tenderness. His digital pulses felt normal to me, and there was no obvious filling around the fetlocks or tendons.

A friend held him while I picked out his feet and checked for packed mud or a stone. His shoes were secure, with no loose clips or obvious damage. The slip had not twisted a shoe, although I knew that a quick inspection could not rule out every injury. I kept walking him for several minutes rather than tying him up immediately, because movement gave me more information than a horse standing still on adrenaline.

I also contacted the event’s first-aid or veterinary support rather than relying on guesswork. At larger Australian competitions, people are generally used to riders asking for a second opinion, and there is no prize for pretending everything is fine. The advice was to monitor him, avoid further jumping and arrange a more thorough assessment if any unevenness, heat or soreness developed.

Recovering my own confidence

The physical check was only part of the recovery. I was shaken, and that surprised me because I had not fallen. My hands had tightened during the slip, my heart was still racing and I kept replaying the moment in my mind. I wondered whether I had turned too sharply, asked for too much speed or failed to notice how slick that section of grass had become.

I spent the next hour walking Archie and watching him move in hand. He remained bright and comfortable, but we were finished for the day. There was another class later, and it was tempting to tell myself that a smaller round would rebuild my confidence. In reality, putting him back into the ring would have been for my emotions rather than his welfare.

A few fellow riders came over to check on us. The Australian horse world has a generous way of responding after an incident: someone offers a spare rug, another person produces liniment, and somebody says, “That was a proper heart-in-the-mouth moment.” Their support helped me stop treating the slip as a personal failure. Wet grass had changed the risk, and I needed to respect that fact.

The trip home and the next morning

Archie travelled home quietly in the float. I checked his legs again when we arrived, then settled him in a clean, dry yard with water and hay. There was no heat or swelling, and he walked comfortably from the float to his stable. I resisted the urge to keep handling his legs every five minutes, since constant fussing would not improve the situation or help either of us relax.

The following morning, I walked him on a firm surface before turning him out. His stride looked even, and he showed no reluctance when moving away from me or stepping over the stable threshold. I repeated the check later that day and again before riding. If he had shown any sign of soreness, I would have stopped and called my veterinarian, but his movement remained normal.

I did not get back on immediately. Instead, I spent a few days doing quiet groundwork, loose rein walking and gentle transitions on a surface with reliable footing. Archie was calm and willing, which suggested that the slip had not damaged his confidence. I still wanted to rebuild my own trust in the canter, because a rider who is expecting the ground to disappear will communicate tension to the horse.

Changing our preparation for wet conditions

The incident changed how I prepare for competitions. I now walk the venue with greater attention to the ground, especially the landing areas, corners and shortcuts between fences. A course can look rideable from the side while containing one slick patch that becomes important when a horse is turning, accelerating or landing from a jump.

I also became more careful about the distinction between soft and slippery footing. Soft ground can sometimes provide support, while wet grass over a hard base may offer very little grip. I look at the colour and texture of the surface, feel it under my boots where possible and watch other horses during the warm-up. If several riders are having trouble balancing, that information matters more than the original plan.

For future shows, I carry more practical gear in the float: spare towels, extra rugs, a torch, hoof-picking tools and a notebook for recording how Archie moves after work. I discuss shoeing and traction with my farrier rather than making rushed changes on show day. Studs or other options need to suit the horse, the footing and the rules of the competition, and they are not a substitute for sensible riding.

Returning to the ring with a clearer plan

Our first jump session after the slip took place at home in dry conditions. I kept the fences low and concentrated on straight approaches, balanced turns and a steady canter. Archie felt willing, but I allowed him time to look at the jumps instead of trying to prove that nothing had happened. Once we were both relaxed, I included a few wider turns and transitions so that the session resembled competition work without recreating the risk.

A week later, we attended a training day at a familiar venue. The weather was dry, and the footing was good, but I still rode with more awareness. I kept my eyes up through every corner, sat quietly on the landing and avoided cutting in unnecessarily. Archie jumped well, and I finished before either of us became tired. Ending on a calm, positive effort was more valuable than squeezing in extra fences.

The lesson was not that wet grass makes show jumping impossible. Competitions across Australia continue in changeable conditions, from winter events near Melbourne and Werribee to damp coastal venues around New South Wales and Queensland. The lesson was that conditions must be part of the riding plan. A horse may be fit, experienced and careful, yet still lose balance when the surface changes beneath a foot.

Archie and I did not leave that show with a ribbon, but we came home with a better understanding of our responsibilities. I learned to stop sooner, check more thoroughly and separate pride from good horsemanship. Archie taught me that recovery does not require immediately repeating the difficult moment. Sometimes it means walking quietly, giving the body time to settle and returning to the arena when both horse and rider are ready.