Why I Keep A Riding Journal With Photos Of Each Fence

I keep a riding journal because eventing moves quickly, and my memory is far less reliable than I would like to admit. After a full day at a horse trial, I can usually remember the big feelings: the nerves in the warm-up, the relief after dressage, the rush of a clean cross-country round, or the sting of an unexpected rail. The smaller details disappear first. Which fence caused hesitation? Where did my upper body change? Did my horse look at the painted plank, or did I create the question by riding defensively?

A notebook gives those moments somewhere to land. Photos make the record more useful because they show the fence, the approach, and often a frozen fraction of the jump that I could never feel accurately from the saddle. I am not trying to create a glossy archive of perfect rounds. I want an honest training record that helps me understand the horse in front of me and the rider I am becoming.

This matters particularly in eventing, where dressage, show jumping, and cross-country ask for different kinds of attention. A dressage score sheet may reveal tension in the medium work, while a show jumping photograph can show that I folded too early over an oxer. A cross-country image might expose a rushing approach that felt, in the moment, like necessary bravery.

The journal has also become a record of the life surrounding competition. It includes early starts, wet rugs, family members holding cameras, float problems, takeaway coffees, and the conversations that make a horse trial feel like a shared effort. In Australia, where a competition can involve hours of driving between towns and careful planning around weather, daylight, fuel, and horse care, those practical details are part of the story too.

A record that survives the post-competition blur

My first notes are usually written before I leave home. I record the horse’s workload during the previous week, any changes in feed or routine, the weather forecast, and what I want to achieve at the event. That last point needs to be specific. “Have a good day” is too vague to guide a ride. “Keep the rhythm through the related distances” gives me something useful to carry into the warm-up.

I also write down how I feel. If I am worried about a particular bank, water complex, or combination, I name it rather than pretending confidence. Rider nerves become much easier to work with when they are visible on the page. I can compare “I am certain we will stop” with what actually happened, then decide whether the fear came from a genuine preparation gap or from an old memory arriving at the wrong moment.

After the event, I add the factual details while they are fresh. I note the scores, time faults, rails, refusals, and the horse’s recovery. I include what the ground was like, whether the course was holding moisture or becoming hard, and how the wind affected the flags. A dry, firm Australian winter course around Canberra can produce very different decisions from a humid Queensland venue after rain, so weather is not background decoration. It changes the ride.

Why a photograph says more than a score

A score sheet tells me what happened numerically, but a fence photo often tells me why. It can show whether I met a jump on a balanced stride, whether my hands followed the movement, and whether my eyes were already searching for the next element. The image may also reveal something about my horse’s expression, shoulder angle, or confidence that I did not notice while concentrating on staying in the rhythm.

I do not need a professional photographer for this to work. A friend with a phone, a family member standing near the arena, or a fellow competitor taking turns at the camera can provide enough evidence. I ask for several images around the important fences rather than one formal portrait. A sequence is especially helpful at a related distance because it captures the approach, take-off, landing, and recovery.

Each photo receives a short caption in the journal. I might write, “Fence four: good canter, too much hand,” or “Water entry: looked, but stayed straight.” The point is not to produce a technical essay below every image. It is to connect the visual evidence with the sensation I remember. Sometimes the photo confirms my impression. Sometimes it gently proves me wrong.

I also mark the fence on a printed course map when possible. The combination of map, photograph, and note creates a useful three-part record. The map shows the question, the photo shows my execution, and the note records the feel. Together, they make a much richer training tool than a result sheet stored in an envelope.

Learning from every phase of the event

Dressage photographs are easy to overlook because there is no dramatic obstacle in the frame. They are still valuable. A picture from the centre line may show crookedness, a tense jaw, or a rider who has collapsed through the hip. An image from a lengthened movement can reveal whether the horse is truly stretching into the contact or simply rushing with the neck raised.

For show jumping, I look for consistency rather than one impressive shape. I want to see the canter before the fence, the distance I presented, and what happened after landing. A rail may have been caused by a careless hind leg, but it may also have followed a weak turn, a late decision, or an approach where I stopped riding forward. Writing that distinction down stops me from reducing every mistake to “horse hit pole.”

Cross-country photos are particularly useful because the fences carry so much visual information. A solid rolltop, brush corner, trakehner, ditch, or water question asks for a different response. I record whether I kept my leg on, maintained a positive line, and allowed the horse to read the obstacle. If the image shows a horse jumping boldly but a rider pulling against the neck, that becomes a clear schooling priority.

At home, I can then recreate the lesson without copying the exact fence. A related distance can be built with poles, a ditch question can be introduced gradually, and a water entry can be practised in a calm setting. The journal turns a competition photo into a practical exercise rather than a souvenir.

Comparing home schooling with competition pressure

A horse can jump beautifully at home and still feel different at a busy event. The warm-up may be crowded, the surface unfamiliar, and the timetable less predictable than a normal lesson. That contrast is why I keep notes about both ordinary training days and competition rounds. My own post on training and competing away comes back to this same gap between a controlled home environment and the pressure of travelling to perform.

The photos help me identify which parts of the performance changed. Perhaps the horse stayed rideable over every fence at home but became strong after landing at a show. Perhaps I jumped the same height confidently in lessons but started staring at the obstacle during competition. These are not signs that the training has failed. They show where training needs to include more atmosphere, waiting, transitions, and decision-making.

Travel itself deserves a place in the record. A long float trip from Melbourne to a regional event can affect hydration, stiffness, and concentration. Sydney traffic can make a supposedly generous arrival time disappear, while a venue near a major city may offer limited space for quiet walking. I record when we arrived, how the horse settled, and whether I had enough time to hand-walk, feed, and prepare without rushing.

When an event involves international travel or a stopover, I even keep practical notes about accommodation and transport. Budget planning matters when the horse expenses are already substantial, and reading guides to budget Tokyo stays can be as useful to a travelling equestrian as any competition checklist. The broader lesson is simple: logistical stress affects riding decisions, so it belongs in the training record.

Finding patterns across several months

One competition rarely provides enough information to identify a real pattern. A single photograph can be affected by timing, lens angle, or an awkward moment. After several events, however, repeated images begin to speak clearly. I may see that I consistently lean forward into downhill fences, lose the outside rein in left-handed turns, or sit too heavily after landing.

I review the journal at the end of each month rather than waiting for the end of the season. I choose a few images, compare the captions, and write a short summary. The summary might say that the horse is confident with solid fences but needs a quieter approach to narrow questions. It might say that my dressage scores improve when I spend less time worrying about the final mark and more time riding each transition.

This process also helps with conversations with instructors. Instead of saying, “We keep struggling with cross-country,” I can show three photos from different venues and explain what I felt at each one. A coach can often spot the common feature quickly. The discussion becomes more precise, and the homework is easier to remember because it is connected to an actual image.

The journal has a practical financial benefit as well. Lessons, lessons on course, clinics, agistment, feed, entry fees, and fuel all add up in the Australian market. When I can identify a specific weakness, I spend training money more thoughtfully. I am less likely to book a random jumping session when what I really need is help with rhythm, balance, or confidence through a turn.

Keeping the horse at the centre

It would be easy for a riding journal to become entirely about my position, my nerves, and my performance. The photographs remind me to study the horse first. Is the expression soft or worried? Is the back lifting? Are the ears focused on the question? Does the horse land balanced and ready to continue, or does the body show tension even when the result looks successful?

I write down small behavioural details that may matter later. A horse that walks quietly on a loose rein after cross-country has had a different experience from one that needs twenty minutes to settle. A horse that eats normally, drinks well, and lies down in the stable is giving me useful information. So is a horse that becomes unsettled when the loudspeaker starts or when competitors crowd the warm-up.

These observations deepen the horse-and-rider partnership. I can celebrate a clear round while still acknowledging that the approach was hurried. I can accept a rail when the horse tried honestly and I made a poor decision. The record keeps me from confusing a rosette with progress or a mistake with failure.

Family and community appear in these pages too. Someone may be holding the phone in cold rain, calling split times, filling water buckets, or reminding me to eat before the next phase. At many Australian events, the shared routine of rugs, thermoses, shade tents, and borrowed gear is part of what makes the sport sustainable. The photos preserve those people alongside the fences.

Making the journal easy enough to maintain

A journal only works if I can keep using it during a busy season. Mine is deliberately simple: one page for preparation, one page for each phase, and a few printed photographs added later. I use a small folder for course maps and score sheets, then transfer the most important points into a digital album so the images are searchable by horse, venue, and date.

I do not print every fence from every round. I choose the fences that taught me something: the one where I changed the plan, the one that produced a strong jump, and the one that exposed a gap. This keeps the record manageable and prevents the useful observations from being buried under hundreds of similar images.

The Australian seasons make regular review especially worthwhile. A summer event in New South Wales may involve heat management and early starts, while winter competitions in Victoria can bring cold mornings, wet footing, and horses that need longer to loosen. Looking back across those conditions helps me separate a genuine schooling issue from a temporary response to the day.

The most important rule is to write honestly but kindly. “Terrible ride” does not help me improve. “Lost the canter before the corner and stopped supporting the line” gives me something I can practise. A clear photograph makes that honesty easier, because I am responding to evidence rather than relying on embarrassment or adrenaline.

A riding journal with photographs of each fence has become far more than a scrapbook. It is a record of decisions, a visual training diary, and a way to notice the quiet progress that competition results often miss. Start with one notebook, a phone camera, and three useful sentences after your next lesson or horse trial. Add the images, label the fence, and return to the page before your next ride. Over time, those small records will give you a clearer partnership with your horse and a more generous understanding of your own riding.