Why I Teach My Horse to Stand Still While Mounting

Years ago, I treated mounting as the least important part of getting ready to ride. If my horse shuffled forward, I blamed her feet. If she stepped sideways, I blamed her mood. If the reins bounced in my hands, I simply hauled myself into the saddle and hoped the problem would disappear once I was aboard. It was a quick solution to a habit that deserved more thought.

I teach my horse to stand still while mounting because those first few seconds reveal a great deal about communication, trust and safety. When she chooses to remain quiet and balanced, mounting becomes a shared exercise rather than a wrestling match. That calm gives us a steadier start to dressage, show jumping or cross-country, and it helps me arrive at the start line with a clearer head.

Mounting Is a Training Session

Every time I put a foot in the stirrup, I am asking my horse to trust the noise, movement and pressure of a human climbing aboard. She cannot understand why I suddenly shift my weight to the left, tug the reins or put one hand on her neck. All she knows is that something unfamiliar is happening beside her shoulder.

If I only work on this at the competition, she has no chance to understand the exercise. Instead, I practise at home on quiet days, beginning with the stirrup shortened and my body close to her side. I ask for a halt, settle my own weight and wait. When she stays still, I give her a quiet reward and release the pressure. The sequence becomes predictable in a useful way.

This matters in Australia, where early starts can mean heat, flies and hard sunlight before the day is properly under way. A horse distracted by blowflies may toss her head or pace in the mounting yard, so I use insect repellents, a fly mask when appropriate and plenty of patience. At country clubs across regional New South Wales and Victoria, many riders have learned to make calm handling the first job of the morning, before the arena becomes busy.

What Standing Still Should Mean

To me, standing still means remaining in place with her body quiet and her attention near me. I am not looking for a rigid statue or a perfect parade-square halt. I want her able to adjust a foot, breathe naturally and respond softly if I move in the saddle.

The useful outcome is simple: my foot goes up, the stirrup touches her side, and she does not feel the need to escape. She may shift once because a fly lands near her elbow or because the ground is uneven. That is different from repeatedly walking on, backing up or swinging her hindquarters away. I can accept a sensible adjustment while still asking her to settle after it.

My cues are deliberately small. I stop walking, shorten my reins without pulling, sit back in my heels and say “stand” in a low, ordinary voice. Australian riders often use plain, direct language: “easy,” “whoa,” “good lad” and “that’s it.” The words matter less than the timing. If I say “stand” while still bouncing in the stirrup, she hears fuss; if I say it while my body becomes still, the word has a clear meaning.

Why Calm Mounting Matters

A horse that moves forward as I mount can leave me off balance, with my foot searching for the stirrup and my weight pulling against the reins. That is uncomfortable for both of us, and it can frighten a sensitive horse before the real work begins. Teaching her to wait gives me time to organise my hands, shoulders and seat without yanking or scrambling.

There is also a sporting benefit. In eventing, the atmosphere around a cross-country start can be loud and busy. A horse that has practised staying with me at the mounting block is less likely to interpret sudden movement as a cue to bolt. In the dressage arena, a quiet departure from the rail can save precious time and help me settle into the first stride. Before show jumping, a steady mount can preserve the forward rhythm I worked on at home.

Competition days have their own Australian character. I have mounted at satellite events where horse floats arrive late, volunteers call changes over crackling radios and the grass around the starting area is damp from an overnight storm. At a country show in Tamworth, the air might carry the sound of another ring, machinery and a commentator announcing the next class. Teaching calm at home cannot remove that atmosphere, but it gives my horse a familiar answer to uncertainty.

Building the Behaviour Step by Step

I begin on the ground. Once my horse is comfortable with a foot in the stirrup, I rest my weight against her side without climbing all the way up. I return to the ground, repeat the exercise and reward any moment when she remains settled. Later, I climb into the saddle and dismount again. Breaking the task into manageable pieces makes it much easier for her to understand what I want.

The reward needs to arrive while she is doing the right thing. A scratch under the chin, a handful of feed or a quiet pat can help, but the timing carries more value than the treat itself. I also keep the pressure light. Holding the reins tightly does not teach her to stand; it may simply make her tense and wait for the next pull. Once she offers the behaviour, I soften my hands and let her know she has it right.

Staying strong and balanced also affects the lesson. When my core and hips are tired, I tend to lean and pull more heavily during mounting. General fitness work helps, and functional movement work can support better body control off the horse. The aim is not to create unnecessary tension in my body, but to mount with enough stability that my horse receives clear signals instead of a clumsy scramble.

Trust at the Mounting Block

Standing still is partly physical, but it is emotional too. If my horse has had a bad experience with being mounted, rushed or handled roughly, she may remain still out of confusion rather than confidence. I watch her face, shoulders and breathing. Tension behind the ears, a clenched mouth or a repeated attempt to move away tells me to slow down and rebuild the exercise.

I have written previously about trusting my horse over a fence, and the same principle appears here. Trust does not mean believing the horse will always get everything right. It means she feels safe enough to give me a try, learns from the outcome and knows I will not punish her for communicating honestly.

My nerves can get in the way as much as hers. When I am anxious about a competition, I rush the mounting and then resent my horse for moving. Recognising that pattern has changed my preparation. I put my feet on the ground, check the girth and stirrups, breathe and make the same quiet request I use at home. Familiarity gives both of us somewhere steady to return to.

Make Standing Part of the Ride

A short, consistent routine is enough. On mounting day, I ask my horse to halt, shorten the reins, place my foot and wait. If she stays quiet, I reward her and climb with control. If she moves, I reset without frustration, then try again. I sometimes practise only the first step and finish the exercise there. There is no prize for completing the full mount at the cost of rushing her.

I also keep notes on what worked. A note might say she stood comfortably on the grass, became restless on concrete or was best approached after lunging. These observations make the next session more useful. A horse at a large pony club, a yard in western Sydney or a small stud in Queensland may need a different setting, yet the basic process remains the same: clear cue, light pressure, timely reward and no punishment for honest communication.

My next session can begin with one simple goal: stop, settle and stand. Reward the first quiet moment, then build from there. When mounting feels ordinary instead of chaotic, both my horse and I carry that calm into everything that follows.