Cleaning Eventing Jumps at Home After a Muddy Training Session

Archie and I came back from a school at a mate's property outside Camden looking like we'd done a dressage test in a swamp. The tyres on the float had a centimetre of clay on them, my boots were unrecognisable, and the wings we'd borrowed were basically solid blocks of NSW red soil. I've been riding eventers long enough to know that the job doesn't end when you untack the horse. The jumps need attention too, and leaving mud to set overnight turns a quick rinse into a weekend of scrubbing.

Cleaning eventing jumps isn't glamorous work, but it's the kind of routine that protects your gear, keeps your horses safe, and makes the next training day easier. Mud holds moisture against timber and metal, paint fades, brackets rust, and before you know it your cross-country wings are sagging or your rails are splitting. After years of doing it the hard way, I've settled on a method that works in my backyard shed, even when the weather doesn't cooperate. Here's exactly what I do once Archie is rugged up and the kettle is on.

Stage	Time Required	Key Tools	Pro Tip
Knock off dry mud	10–15 mins	Stiff brush, plastic scraper	Tackle it before it fully dries and bakes on
Disassemble hardware	20 mins	Socket set, labelled bins	Snap a photo of the layout before you start
Wash timber components	30 mins	Bucket, mild detergent, sponge	Work with the grain, not across it
Treat metal fittings	15 mins	Wire brush, light machine oil	Inspect brackets for hairline cracks
Dry and reassemble	24–48 hrs	Tarp, breezy spot, pegs	Flip rails halfway through drying

Bringing the Mud Home Without Spreading It

The first mistake I used to make was chucking the muddy wings straight into the float and driving home, only to find red dirt ground into the trailer floor. Now I do a rough scrape-down at the venue before loading. A stiff brush and a plastic scraper take off 80% of the caked clay, and that saves hours later. If the grounds are particularly wet — which they often are in the Hunter Valley during a La Niña spring — I'll lay a tarp in the float first to contain the mess.

When I get home, I hose off the float exterior before pulling into the driveway, partly out of respect for my neighbours and partly because I don't want to track contaminated soil into the arena. AEL guidelines and most agistment contracts actually expect you to manage biosecurity when you move between venues, especially if you're crossing into or out of the cattle tick zone along the QLD/NSW border. A quick brush-down and a change of boots isn't just polite — it's the rule.

My Cleaning Kit for Aussie Conditions

I keep a dedicated cleaning kit in a plastic crate under the tack room bench, and it's shaped by what actually works in our climate. Inside there's a stiff-bristled yard brush, a soft-bristled vehicle brush for the painted surfaces, a plastic scraper, a couple of buckets, a spray bottle, a bottle of mild dish detergent, a wire brush for metal, a small socket set, rags, nitrile gloves, and a tin of light machine oil for the brackets. I also keep a spare roll of paper towels and a few old toothbrushes for getting into the corners of the cup fittings.

Water is a real consideration here. I'm on tank water at home, and during the dry months the council's permanent water restrictions mean I can't just leave a hose running for an hour. I fill the buckets from the tank, add detergent, and work in a small area so nothing goes to waste. If it's been a particularly dusty summer, I'll do the wash on a morning when I'm already running the garden irrigation, so the timing lines up. A few drops of eucalyptus oil in the rinse water also helps repel insects while the gear dries, which is a trick I picked up from a coach in Adelaide.

The First Knock-Down Pass

Before anything gets wet, I do a dry pass on every component. I lay the wings, rails, and fillers out on the grass in roughly the order they came off the jump, and I scrape or brush away all the loose, dry mud. This is the most satisfying part of the job, honestly. You'll see the original paint colour return in patches, and you can spot any damage that was hidden under the mud — a cracked rail end, a missing screw, a filler board that's started to delaminate.

If the mud is still tacky from a fresh session, I let it dry for a few hours first. Trying to clean wet mud just smears it around and wastes water. The scraper I use is an old plastic ice-scraper from the kitchen drawer, which is perfect for getting under the heavier clods without gouging the timber. For the brush wings, which are usually the worst hit, I tap them gently against a fence post to knock out the thickest chunks before I go in with the brush.

Washing Timber Rails and Filler Boards

Once the loose dirt is gone, I move on to the actual wash. I mix a small amount of dish detergent in a bucket of warm water — never hot, because hot water can swell timber and open up the grain — and I work one rail at a time with a soft sponge. I always go with the grain, never across it, and I rinse the sponge frequently so I'm not grinding dried clay back into the surface. For the painted faces of the wings, I use the softer vehicle brush and a bit more pressure on the stubborn spots.

Bleach and strong solvents are off-limits for me. They strip the paint, dry out the timber, and they kill the grass where I rinse. If a rail has algae or mould growing on it after a wet week — common in our coastal humidity — I use a diluted vinegar rinse afterwards, about one part vinegar to four parts water, and that sorts it out without damaging the finish. After washing, I stack the rails on a pair of saw horses so air can circulate around them, rather than laying them flat on the ground where moisture gets trapped underneath.

Metal Hardware, Cups, and Brackets

The metal bits are where I used to cut corners, and where I learned the hard way. Rust on a jump cup or a bracket pin isn't just cosmetic; it can make the mechanism stick, which is a genuine safety issue for both horse and rider. After the timber is set aside to dry, I pull all the cups, pins, and brackets off and lay them out on a sheet of cardboard. I give each one a scrub with the wire brush, then wipe it down with a rag lightly dampened with machine oil.

I also use this stage to inspect for wear. Cross-country takes a hammering on fittings, and the cups on solid brush jumps especially can develop small cracks around the spring mechanism. I check the pins for bending, the welds for fatigue, and the base plates for any twisting. Anything suspect gets set aside for the welder, or replaced before it goes back into the rotation. The whole inspection takes about fifteen minutes for a full set of portable fences, and it's saved me from a couple of near-misses at speed.

Drying in the Australian Climate

Drying is where our weather is both a blessing and a curse. A hot, breezy summer afternoon will have timber rails bone-dry in a few hours, but the same UV will also fade painted surfaces and dry out any exposed end-grain. A drizzly winter week can leave timber damp for days, which invites rot. I've learned to read the forecast before I start, and to position the gear accordingly. In summer, I work in the shade of the big eucalyptus on the eastern side of the shed. In winter, I set up a simple tarp shelter with one side open to catch any breeze.

I flip the rails and wings halfway through drying so both faces get airflow, and I prop the filler boards up at an angle rather than leaning them flat against a wall. For metal fittings, I bring them inside the shed after the oil treatment so the overnight dew doesn't undo the work. A small dehumidifier running in the tack room helps take the edge off the damp during the June-July stretch, and it costs less than replacing a rusted set of cup springs.

Storage and Prep for the Next Event

Once everything is dry and reassembled, I stack the wings on their dedicated rack, hang the rails on the wall hooks, and bag the small hardware in labelled zip-ties so nothing wanders off in the float. I keep a laminated checklist on the inside of the shed door so the next session — or the next person helping me — can see what's where. If I'm prepping for a specific event, I cross-check my gear against the course walk photos and the technical delegate's published schedule, because there's nothing worse than rocking up to a one-day event and finding you left a key filler behind.

This is also the point where I start thinking ahead to the dressage phase. A clean, well-presented arena makes a real difference when you're trying to settle a horse in unfamiliar surroundings, and the routine of walking the letters the night before has become a habit I rely on. If you're working through your own preparation, I wrote up my full process for preparing for a dressage test with unfamiliar lettering after a particularly tricky day at a Melbourne horse trial where the test layout was nothing like my home arena. It's the same idea, really: a bit of methodical work before you get there saves a lot of faffing about on the day.

By the time I'm locking the shed on a Sunday evening, the jumps are back where they belong, the float is hosed out, and Archie is in his paddock with a hay net. The next training session starts with gear that works, looks respectable, and isn't going to fall apart when I'm halfway through a grid. That's the whole point of the routine — small, consistent effort that keeps the bigger picture rolling.