The day Lumi fell in the ditch and tried to get herself out
I’ve told one story about Lumi already – the clever little white dog with the uncanny memory and incredible trail sense. But today, I want to share one of the most emotional moments I’ve ever had with her. It’s a story about determination, loyalty, and that mix of brilliance and stubbornness that made Lumi so unforgettable.
This one takes place during a five-day expedition tour I used to guide. It was just me, Lumi, my main dog team, and four or five guest teams. We’d travel about 250 kilometers over five days, moving from cabin to cabin, with everything we needed packed into sleds.
Now, these tours took some serious prep. I only had one chance to groom the entire trail before each new group arrived – just one run-through with the snowmobile to make sure the trail was marked and safe, and that the cabins were stocked. Once that was done, it was up to the dogs and me to make it work, no matter the weather.
A Blizzard Changed Everything
Right before this particular tour started, a massive blizzard swept through and completely wiped the trail clean. The markers? Gone. The tracks? Buried. We were going out into the wild with no visible signs of the trail left.
There was one stretch that always gave me trouble: a long, flat swamp section, and just past it, a hidden little bridge over a narrow stream. The bridge itself was tucked into the trees and surrounded by dense vegetation, so not something you could spot easily, even in good conditions.
Knowing how good Lumi was at sniffing out old trails, I decided to let her run loose ahead of my team. Her job was to find the firm base of the trail under the snow, and guide us all toward that little bridge.
Lumi in the Lead
The thing about deep, unpacked snow is this: where the trail once was, the snow is firmer. Step off it, and you’re waist-deep in fluff. Lumi would charge ahead, and every time she veered off, she’d sink, scramble back up, and try again. Before long, she found the rhythm and more importantly, the trail.
She was doing an incredible job, weaving through the snowy swamp, leading the way like a four-legged compass. I was behind her, plowing through with my sled, and the guests followed behind me with their smaller teams.
Now, the plan was to stop for lunch right after the bridge. So even though the going was tough – snow so deep that stepping off the sled could put you in up to your hips – we were nearly there.
But then, Lumi made a decision.
The Wrong Turn
I saw her hesitate. We were close – I could just make out the spot where the bridge should be, slightly to the left. But Lumi had made up her mind. She veered off to the right, through the deep snow, convinced that’s where the crossing was.
“No! Lumi! Left!” I yelled, but she was already committed. My team followed her blindly into the drift, and I had no choice but to go after them.
As I got closer, I saw Lumi’s tracks end abruptly at the edge of the stream … and vanish over the side.
She wasn’t coming when I called. No bark, no rustle, no sound. And Lumi always came when I called. That silence hit me like a punch to the gut.
Into the Snow
I tied off my team to a tiny spruce – barely thick enough to hang a hat on, let alone hold back a sled – and started crawling. Walking wasn’t an option. The snow was too deep. I swam through it, dragging myself to the edge of the stream where her trail disappeared.
And there she was.
Soaked, shivering, and exhausted – halfway out of the icy water, her little paws having dug and clawed at the snow, trying to get back to me. She had tried to return the second I called her. She had broken through thin ice while running, and still, she’d tried to fight her way back up the bank, just to reach me.
When I called again, she gave it one last push. I grabbed her collar and pulled her up the final stretch.
I wrapped her in my coat and loaded her into the sled. We continued to the fireplace stop, where she could dry off and warm up. She didn’t say a word (of course not) but if looks could talk, hers said everything.
The Look of Humiliation
Now, I don’t normally talk about dogs being “self-conscious,” but Lumi… Lumi knew. She knew she’d made the wrong call. She knew she’d taken the team into the wrong spot. And I swear, she looked at me like she was mortified.
Not because she’d fallen. Not even because she was wet and cold.
But because she’d let me down.
And that, more than anything, tells you the kind of dog Lumi was. Driven. Determined. Dead set on getting it right. Even when she was wrong, her heart was in the right place. That mistake stayed with her, but so did her loyalty.
That was the day Lumi fell in the ditch. And that was the day I knew that, no matter what, I could always count on her to try her hardest. Even if she got it wrong, she never quit.
And in the world of sled dogs, that means more than words can say.
— Valentijn Beets
Bearhill Husky
