Eddie the Trail Dog: An Unlikely Companion on the Lycian Way

The dogs had been barking since the crack of dawn. The second the sunshine tipped over the ridgeline and the first signs of daylight spilled into the valley, a chorus of howls erupted from the backyard, waking the rooster who had been snoozing nearby. He quickly attempted to regain his authority, ruffling his feathers and letting out a morning caw, but it was too late, his cries drowned out by the barks echoing across the Taurus Mountains. 

I was jolted awake by the commotion, buried under layers of wool blankets in an upstairs guesthouse in Yediburunlar. Our house was one of four buildings in the tiny Turkish town, the other three comprising a fellow homestay, a mosque, and a small grocer. Our hosts had graciously brought us a small space heater the night before, which now sat between the two beds, sputtering and shaking while emitting barely enough heat to warm your fingertips. 

Beside me, I heard Ruth groan. 

“I guess that’s our cue.” She rolled onto her side in the bed beside me, careful to keep herself covered beneath the warmth of the blankets. “Time for brekkie?”

“I suppose so.” I braced myself, wincing as I tossed aside my own blankets and swung my feet off the side of the bed. I’d slept in wool socks, and yet the cold shot through my legs the moment my feet hit the ground. I quickly grabbed my boots from the foot of the bed – and another pair of socks for good measure. 

All bundled up, I opened the door to the outside world, heading down the staircase to the garden. The air outside was even colder, but the sunshine spilling onto my face momentarily distracted me from the frost still nipping at my fingers. I felt a pair of paws jump against my leg, a rough tongue brushed my arm, and before long my face was buried in the unruly fur of one of the dogs, all early morning wake up calls forgiven.

There were two dogs responsible for the early summons, both disheveled mutts clearly sustained by the goodwill of fellow hikers. We’d encountered others like them elsewhere along our trek of the Lycian Way — strays who wandered along the trails or found small towns to call home. It’s not exactly uncommon to find stray dogs in Turkey, most of them wanderers cared for by passerby or local communities.

The staircase creaked behind me and I was soon forgotten as the dogs rushed to give Ruth her morning welcome. She stood in the garden, clutching the space heater in her hands, shivering from the cold.

“I don’t know about you,” she said, teeth chattering, “but I could use a cup of tea.”

Breakfast consisted of the typical Turkish spread, washed down with enough cups of çay to keep us warm until the sun inevitably rose above the mountains. With our bellies full and bags packed, we waved goodbye to our guesthouse and turned onto the small paved road through the village. On the outskirts of town we would reconnect with the Lycian Way, which would take us over the peaks of the Taurus onwards towards Antalya, nearly 400 kilometers away. 

The dogs scampered ahead of us as we walked through town, stopping here and there to examine markings left by former canine visitors. On the edge of town, a familiar green and yellow sign pointed us in the direction of the trail, which began just behind a short retaining wall, equipped with a small wooden ladder. We bid the dogs goodbye, before clumsily making our way over the wall, backpacks and all. 

We’d hardly taken two steps onto the trail when I heard a soft grunt behind us. The larger of the dogs stood on the retaining wall, his fur sticking out every which way and his mouth hanging open in what appeared like a quasi-smile. Without missing a beat, he leapt onto the path beside us, happily jauntering down the trail without a care in the world. 

“He seems like he knows where he’s going.” Ruth chuckled, shifting the weight of her bag from one shoulder to the other. “Do you suppose we ought to try and rally him back to town?”

The dog was already far ahead, his tail waving alongside the tall grasses in the distance. He paused momentarily, as if waiting for us to catch up. 

“I’m not sure,” I responded. “But it seems like he wants us to follow him.”

For nearly an hour we followed the dog along the trail, over the terraced farmland and Lycian ruins that lay on the outskirts of Yediburunlar. He happily scampered ahead, turning around every so often to ensure we were still following behind. By the time we reached the next town of Bel, he was waiting for us.

Bel was a small agricultural village, larger than that from where we’d come but still with enough buildings to count on two hands. We took a break on a large rock on the edge of town, sharing a candy bar from the local grocer while the dog relaxed at our feet. 

“I feel like we ought to name him.” Ruth unclipped a small tin cup from her backpack, placing it in front of the dog. Unscrewing the cap of her water bottle, she filled the cup with water, which the dog lapped at happily. 

“I agree.” I watched as the dog’s ears perked up, as if he could sense we were talking about him. He paused momentarily, tipping his head to face us, eyes curious behind a tuft of sandy-colored fur. “But what name fits?”

We debated as we finished our candy bar, throwing out names to see how they stuck. At some point the dog grew bored of our conversation, turning to face the sunshine, eyes rolling back in relaxation. All of a sudden his ears perked up again – he’d heard his name. 

It was Edison. Eddie, for short.

We have no way of knowing whether Eddie had another name before he became a trail dog. But it’s funny that Eddie stuck – a name so closely aligned with my own reasoning for being on that trail that it hardly felt like a coincidence. 

My grandfather was Eddie, a man whose walls were always filled with dog-eared maps and whose love of the world was so deeply ingrained in his being that it was obvious before he even said a word. He was my travel inspiration, his final request that I continue filling up his map the driving force behind my decision to say yes to this trek. I’d thought about him with each new town we reached – how I hoped he was somewhere watching, proud to discover the world along with me. 

Here I encountered another Eddie, this one with sandy-brown fur and an unruly demeanor. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the two were connected somehow. Whatever it may be, he was our trail dog now, and we were his people.

Our hike that day continued towards Patara Beach, a long stretch of sand littered with the ruins of ancient Lycia’s largest port city. From our elevation, the trek trailed steeply downhill through rocky terrain, past terraced farms seemingly seconds from topping into the Mediterranean below. Eddie trekked loyally by our sides, unphased by the incline and indifferent to his role in its difficulty. 

“He’s driving me nuts!” Ruth chuckled as she stepped over Eddie, who lay smack in the middle of the trail without a care in the world. He immediately jumped up, running ahead before sprawling out again, like the added hurdles were a fun addition to the death-defying slope. Ruth shot me a look that was one part annoyance, one part humor. 

“I know he’s a nuisance, but I can’t help but love him.” She carefully stepped over Eddie again, who rose shot ahead on the path almost immediately. The game continued. 

By mid-afternoon, the sandy dunes of Patara began to appear in the distance, and by early evening, we’d found a bed at a makeshift camp on the edge of the beach. The long-haired hippie who ran the place offered us a cabin – clearly still under construction, but with a view of the sea one direction and a giant Buddha statue the other. We gratefully accepted. 

“This your dog?” he asked as we climbed the steps of the cabin, heaving sighs of relief as we finally dropped our packs and stretched our shoulders. Eddie clambered up the stairs behind us, relaxing on the porch amongst our scattered belongings. 

“Not exactly,” I felt guilt as soon as the words escaped my mouth. Nearby, Eddie lay his head on my backpack, extending his arms in a long stretch. “He’s followed us all day long.”

“I see.” The man took a drag of his cigarette, his lips curling into a smile as he watched Eddie stretch even wider, belly turning to face the sky. “I’ve seen many like him. They know the trails, but sometimes, they stay here.” He motioned to the right, where two other dogs lay outside the camp kitchen, bellies also upturned to the last rays of sunshine. 

“Get comfortable,” he turned, and I caught a slight wift of patchouli. “Dinner is at eight.”

With the last few rays of sunshine still hanging in the sky, Ruth and I crossed the campsite to a small trail, which descended a few meters down to the seaside. We soon heard the familiar patter of footsteps behind us as Eddie raced to catch up. 

The entrance to the beach forked behind a small cabin, nestled alongside a small inlet and nearly hidden under a low-hanging willow. A small blue boat was docked outside, gently bobbing in the waves before the trail opened to a wide stretch of beach.

Patara Beach, with its vast coastline and soft golden sand, reminded me of the beaches of my childhood. Summers spent in coastal Virginia, filled with sandcastles and seashells, novels devoured in dilapidated beach chairs resting along the edge of foamy waves. My grandfather, in his aviators and sun hat, watching his family enjoy his favorite place in the world. It was where he belonged.

The sand shifted beneath my feet, and I suddenly noticed Eddie had run ahead. His entire body shook with joy, paws bounding through the sand and fur tossed about by the salty air. Suddenly he was airborne, sneezing with joy as he leapt into the waves. He emerged from the sea, rushing towards us in a spray of sea, paws leaving a trail of footprints in the sand behind him. 

“He’s a beach dog!” Ruth exclaimed as Eddie rushed past, airborne once again as he leapt over a dune. “He’s found his way home!”

It was certainly true. Whether he’d followed us out of companionship, out of curiosity, or out of a longing for the seaside, we’ll never truly know. Perhaps, it was a bit of all three. 

But one thing was for sure. Eddie was now here with his people, in his favorite place. It was clearly where he belonged. 

---

LOOKING FOR MORE STORIES?

Looking for more? Click here to find all travel stories from Broken Boots Travel.