A Lucky and True Story

Issue #14

Running across America with Lucky. July 15, 2021, on the Santa Fe Trail in Independence, Missouri.

After a loved one dies, it’s through our memories that we keep them alive, helping us believe that they never left us at all. 

Five years ago, my canine soulmate, Lucky Caminho, died. 

And what’s my greatest memory of him?

A singularly divine occurrence that took place in the mountains of Brazil under a Wolf Moon. It was a golden moment that holds the magic I chase when running on the open road.

At 8 a.m. on February 1, 2018, I kicked off the Brazil 135 Ultramarathon that takes place in the Serra da Mantiqueira mountain range, north of São Paulo. It’s a sixty-hour endurance test that’s like a mini Tour de France of running, walking and mountain climbing. It was my fifth year running it and alongside me were my friends Amy, Bob and Will.

Moving through the day and night, we covered fifty-four miles, completing the most difficult technical section through dense jungle trails and up a murderous climb. By 7 a.m. on day two, we dragged our sleep-deprived and aching bodies into Ouro Fino, a small mountainous village, where Alan and Nivaldo, our crew team, had booked us rooms at a small pousada, across from the cobblestoned village square. 

We reemerged at 10 a.m., feeling recharged after a couple of hours of sleep and a shower. I was also nursing a bad case of blisters on my feet, so I wrapped them up in protective tape and was ready to go.

“Let’s get some food and coffee,” I told my team, ushering them across the square to a small bakery, where I ordered a round of strong cafés com leite, freshly squeezed orange juice and pãezinhos — warm cheese breads. 

That’s when I noticed him. A mangy, skinny street dog, standing meekly at the door. He looked at me and wagged his tail. He had the coloring of a German Sheperd, but smaller and softer. His left ear was erect and his right ear flopped down, and he seemed friendly. His ribs were clearly visible, so I knew that his irresistible facial expression—sort of raising his eyebrows up and down in a dance —was a deliberate ploy for food. 

“Yes, I’m mooching,” his dancing eyes said.

 It worked. I got him a pãozinho, which he inhaled, licking his mouth, his tail thumping against the door frame in gratitude. He was sad looking, emaciated and filthy. Yet, behind that pathetic exterior, I saw a beautiful soul. I crouched down so that my face was level with his and looked into his eyes. He held my gaze as though reading my energy.

He followed us out of town and we all smiled at his jaunty gait. When crossing through rural landscapes and villages, especially in developing countries like Brazil, these street mutts invariably introduce themselves, hoping for a scrap of food or a scratch behind their grimy ears. Sometimes, they tagged along and their happy presence offered an instant boost of energy. So, we called them Tinkerbells. And then, just as magically as they had appeared, they would leave, off to their next mooching target.

Lucky on the Caminho da Fé

We were all thrilled to have our Ouro Fino Tinkerbell alongside us that day, and we called him Rover. He stayed with us for more than twenty miles, veering off occasionally to cool down in a puddle. When we stopped at a roadside restaurant to fuel, I got him a plate of pasta, which he devoured like an industrial-strength vacuum cleaner.

By late afternoon, my blistered feet were screaming, every step was a plea to stop. I was looking at another seventy miles to the finish line. Could I run in this state? Not a chance in hell. 

As we approached the town of Borda da Mata, I saw a makeshift medical station that was set up in an old ambulance in the town square, so I told my team to carry on without me while I got some much-needed medical attention. I asked our crew chief Alan to accompany the others to ensure they finished the race without incident, while Nivaldo would stay with me. As I crawled into the ambulance around six that evening, I saw Rover watching me intently before sauntering off. 

An hour later, my blisters aspirated and treated, I was able to put my shoes back on and walk outside, gingerly. Nivaldo was there to greet me, but Rover was nowhere in sight. Oh well, I knew the drill. Probably following another runner, already thinking about his next meal. 

“Goodbye, boy,” I whispered, looking off into the distance.

 With the sun dipping, Nivaldo and I slowly walked onto the red dirt trails up into the mountains. Being separated from my friends and now facing the possibility of not finishing the race, had dampened my spirits. Still, I was able to walk mostly pain-free, so Nivaldo phoned Alan to let him know that we were moving forward, slowly but steadily. Alan joined us a couple of hours later, with a chair and food.

It was almost 10 p.m. and the three of us sat for a while in a clearing off to the side so that I could rest my feet and regroup. Overhead, the moon was full. The Brazil 135 was always scheduled around the new year’s Wolf Moon to help runners navigate through the darkness of night. It felt good to sit for a moment under the big, glorious orb.

Suddenly, from out of the dark mountainside, he reappeared. Rover, his eyes shining, round and silver, like two full moons. My brain struggled to comprehend, but he walked over and casually flopped down in our midst, as though he had always been a part of our group and was happy to be back where he belonged.  

The moment Lucky found me on the mountainside, February 2, 2018.

I screamed. “No way! This is freakin’ unbelievable! How the hell did you find us?”

He smiled back, radiating delight. He had run about six miles from Borda da Mata. At least that’s where I had last seen him. 

“Caramba!!! Meu Deus!!” Nivaldo and Alan yelled, stunned. Rover was unfazed by our outbursts and simply thumped his tail against the dirt. 

“Come here, boy,” I said, and he jumped up to join me. He wasn’t a beautiful dog, not even particularly handsome. And, he stank! But underneath that malnourished exterior, I saw a brilliant spirit, longing for an opportunity. 

I held his face in my hands and looked into his big eyes. A bolt of electricity shot between us and I jumped. My world flipped. He was no Tinkerbell. He was something far greater, much more profound, and my heart soared. I stood up stiffly and gave my crew the thumbs up.

Rover stood, too. “Let’s go!” he said and led the way down the moonlit trail. 

I FaceTimed Mônica, who was at home in Florida, and told her about my crazy, magical, surreal experience, and pointed my phone at Rover. 

“Ai, que bonitinho!” she said in Portuguese. He’s so cute! 

“I feel so lucky, Mônica, to have met this guy, here on the Caminho!”

 “You need to bring him home with you,” she said, without hesitation. “And we’ll call him Lucky Caminho.” 

In the three short years I got to spend with Lucky, we were a familiar duo running through the Jacksonville Beach streets and beyond. It was quite the fantastical story, like Slumdog Millionaire meets Forrest Gump — a black and tan, free-roaming scrawny creature, catapulted from the streets of Brazil to living the life in America. What a pair we made.

It was Lucky who gave me the courage to take the first step in my run across America in 2021. In him, I had my perfect running mate, a friend by my side on those long, lonely roads. His presence emboldened me.

I began each day of running by asking him, “Lucky, do you want to run?” It was a way to gauge his readiness to accompany me for long stretches. I also never wanted to take his companionship for granted. It had to be his choice.

He ran for 2,297 miles with me, almost the width of the United States, chased cows, horses, rabbits and antelope. He climbed mountains, jumped in rivers and lakes, developed a Starbucks addiction and licked the bottom of every bowl of ice cream I ate along the way. 

But on the morning of August 24, 2021, he stood outside the RV, in Farson, Wyoming, and looked into my eyes. He let me know that he could run no more. 

Lucky went to sleep peacefully that afternoon five years ago, after succumbing to cancer. 

Lucky, August 24, 2021, the day he passed.

Lucky was a gift — a precious reminder of why I chose to move through the world slowly and with intention, at a pace that won’t bring me records, only unexpected joys. Like shooting the breeze with strangers and meeting my canine soulmate one day in Brazil.

R.I.P. my trail angel, Lucky Caminho. We will forever be two great mates who once performed a beautiful tango.

Here’s to finding magic on the trail! Hope to see you out there.

Cheers,

David.

You can read the full and remarkable story of Lucky Caminho in my book, Lucky: A True Story.