Why I always check the weather before heading off to an event
There's a particular kind of panic that hits when you're halfway down the M1, the trailer lights bouncing in the mirrors, and the sky ahead turns the colour of a bruise. I've learned, after a few too many close calls, that the five seconds it takes to check the radar before I hook up the float saves a whole lot of stress later. In Australia, the weather isn't really a topic you can leave to chance, because it can turn on a ten-cent piece from one post-and-rail fence to the next.
Whether I'm off to a small one-day event at Boneo Park, a proper three-day at Wallaby Hill, or just a club day at a dusty little cross-country course somewhere regional, the forecast decides what I pack, how I braid, and whether I bother with the white gloves. It's not superstition, either. It's just that horses, riders, and gear all behave differently when the temperature drops ten degrees and the wind swings south. The Bureau of Meteorology has lived on my home screen for years, and I trust it more than my own optimism.
The BOM app lives on my home screen
I keep the Bureau of Meteorology app pinned to the first page of my phone, alongside the Equipe app and the bank. It's the first thing I open with my morning cuppa, even before I scroll through the rider chats. The radar loop is mesmerising if you let it run too long, but it's the warnings tab I actually care about: severe thunderstorm alerts, damaging wind warnings, those little yellow triangles that mean hail is on the way. I reckon most eventers in Australia have a story about driving through a black cell over the Great Dividing Range while praying the horses don't start spinning in the float behind them.
For longer trips I'll cross-check with Willy Weather for the wind shifts and tide times if I'm anywhere near the coast, and I'll have a look at MetEye for the hourly breakdown. Cross-country day is where the fine details really matter, because a southerly change can roll through at two in the afternoon and turn an otherwise perfect going surface into something else entirely. If the radar shows a green blob heading my way at lunchtime, I'm packing the waterproof coat and the spare woollen underlay, and I'm warning the strapper that we might be in for a damp warm-up arena.
Reading the sky from the driveway
Technology is great, but I still glance up before I back the trailer out of the driveway. Australian skies are loud, and they tell you plenty if you take the time to look. You see the high cloud building over the Dandenongs, you can smell the rain in the dust, and you know a change is coming before any app catches up. My grandfather used to say the sky was a better forecast than anything the radio could tell you, and even with all the gadgets, he's mostly right. If the magpies are quiet in the gum out front, if the cows over the back paddock are lying down, if there's that particular stillness in the air before a southerly buster hits Port Phillip, I take note.
Country events are my favourite for this kind of reading. Driving up to Gidgegannup, over to the Adelaide Hills, or out towards somewhere like Berringama, the horizon stretches out so far you can watch weather systems move for an hour before they reach you. I'll pull over at a roadhouse in Ballan, grab a flat white in Kyneton, or stretch the legs at a servo in Tarcutta, and have another proper look at the sky. There's no point in pretending the radar can read the local microclimate of a property tucked in behind a hill, where the wind curls around the stables and the frost settles low on the cross-country course.
Packing for heat, wind, and sudden southerlies
An Aussie summer event is a different beast to a winter one, and the forecast tells me which kit to load. In January, I'm packing two sets of breathable coolers, a salt block for the float, an extra bucket for sponging down between phases, and enough water to see us through a long day. Heat stress in horses sneaks up on you. A 38-degree day with no cloud cover can undo all the careful walking you did the day before, and the judges aren't going to score a tired horse any differently just because it's stinking hot and the flies are murder. If I see a high UV index on the forecast, the day sheet changes: I'll ride early, rest in the middle, and save the schooling for last.
Wind is the other big one. A gusty day at Boneo or Melbourne International can rattle the dressage arena in a way that wrecks a young horse's brain, and a sudden squall mid-round will test even the boldest partnership. That's why I always have the right rug in the float, a spare set of bell boots, and the trusty old fly veil that still does its job. I've written before about lessons from a loose shoe, and the same logic applies to packing. If you think you might need it, you will need it.
Winter brings its own checklist. A cold, clear morning at Wallaby Hill means the warm-up will be slow, and I'm packing the quarter sheet, the heated bucket for the post-xc wash, and a flask of something strong for the strapper. Wet weather adds the waterproof overreach boots, the canadian-style rug for the horse in the float, and an extra set of gloves for me, because riding frozen fingers through a 4B is nobody's idea of fun. The forecast makes the call, but the float always carries the backup plan.
How weather shapes my horse on cross-country day
My horse reads the weather as well as I do, possibly better. On a still, warm morning he's soft and willing, his ears flicking lazily at the photographer by the dressage arena. The moment the wind picks up and the clouds roll in, his whole posture changes. He'll jog a little on the way to the start box, his eye a touch sharper, and I'll know we need a longer warm-up. Cold weather makes him fresh in a different way: he's tighter behind, less willing to come through the back, and I have to ride the first two fences like they're made of glass until he loosens up into the course.
Footing is the other thing the forecast dictates. Heavy rain the night before a cross-country run can turn an inviting log stack into a greasy mess, and the ground crew will be out early cutting lanes and rolling the going. I've been to events where a sudden downpour at lunch turned the water complex into a question mark, and the organisers had to reroute the track on the fly. When that happens, you find out quickly who has ridden in the mud before. None of it matters if you don't know what's coming, which is why that radar check on Friday night is non-negotiable.
Heat and humidity hit him differently again. Heavier going, longer recovery times, and that sluggish feeling through the shoulder that makes half-halts harder to land. I try to ride the cross-country as early as possible on those days, even if it means a 4am start, because the cooler part of the morning gives us a better horse for the effort. There's a chapter in his eventing life, I think, that only opens when the weather is right, and chasing that feeling is half the fun of this sport.
What a last-minute changed forecast has taught me
The forecast can lie. Even in Australia, where the BOM is generally gold, a system can speed up, slow down, or split in two and miss you entirely. I've rocked up to a one-day event expecting a dry morning and walked the cross-country in a steady drizzle, and I've cancelled the plaiting session only to find blue skies overhead by eight o'clock. You learn to pack for two weather events at once, because Australian conditions are rarely one thing for long. Melbourne gets its four seasons in a day for a reason, and even the most reliable regional event can surprise you.
I've also learned to plan around the worst-case scenario, especially when I'm riding a young or green horse. If there's a 40 per cent chance of storms in the afternoon, I ride my test earlier in the day, I make sure the strapper has the right rug ready, and I keep the warm-up short. There's no point in arriving with a perfect plan that the weather has quietly rearranged for you. I've spent years watching my horse's mood shift with the barometric pressure, and that's given me a much better sense of when to push and when to just take the long way home. I wrote recently about what his ears say during a test, and it gets right into this kind of reading.
Above all, the forecast has taught me humility. I used to think I knew my horse inside out, but the weather has a quiet way of reminding me that I don't control anything beyond my own preparation. The best rides I've had have been the ones where I respected the conditions from the float onwards, and the worst have been the ones where I rolled the dice and hoped the BOM was wrong. These days, I roll fewer dice. I check the radar, I pack the spare, and I trust that the day will look after itself once I've done the work on my end. The macca's run on the way home tastes better when the horses are clean, dry, and unspooked.
If you're loading the float for your next event this weekend, do yourself the favour and spend ten minutes with the radar tonight. Pack the spare, plan for the worst, and let yourself be surprised by a sunny day. It's the cheapest insurance you'll ever buy, and it might just save your dressage score, your horse's temperament, and your sanity on the long drive home. Safe travels, and may the southerly hold off until after your final phase.