I know I did.

My girlfriend, myself and my dog took the lower-spur of the West Glacier Trail in search of the ice caves Sunday afternoon and were working our way down the loosely marked rocky hill in between the Mendenhall Glacier and its lake just before 6 p.m.

We lost the path we scrambled up, but we crept down the cliffs in a route of least resistance toward the lake's northernmost cove.

The dog looked at us like we were out of our minds, which we were. The footholds were too steep for her. She was scared. And though she's the type of dog who would follow you to the ends of the Earth, this earth was just not passable for a 10-year-old beagle pit bull. I was an idiot.

The dog whimpered, out of reach, and it was as if one billion pointy swords dug their way into my soul and left my insides bloody and bursting among the soft lichen.

No way back up, we climbed to a clearing 20 feet further where she could see us. We called, we coerced, we begged, we pleaded. She barked, but wouldn't budge.

I felt as if a greater being had poked a straw into my side, sucked the yolk from my shell, and spit it haphazardly into the sea.

We knew where the trail was, but by now we were almost out of time. We made a beeline for the flat beach on the cove, yelling out to the dog, hoping she would follow us parallel on her ridge to another pathway we knew she could make down.

Scrambling through the low brush was trickier than we thought, and by the time we reached the cove it was 7:15. To make matters worse, the west line of the beach was boxed off by a cliff. The trail around it was just 100 yards away but nearly impossible to find in the dusk.

We were screwed. My girlfriend's toes were cold, and I was looking less and less like any sort of Alaskan and more and more like a white kid from northern Illinois who grew up on soccer games, Cheerios and Tic Tac Dough.

But, hey, we weren't hurt, we were relatively warm, and just then the dog waltzed up to us with that magical nonchalance that only dogs can pull off.

I called Bruce Bowler of Southeast Alaska Dogs Organized for Ground Search, humbly explained our situation and within minutes Juneau Mountain Rescue, now celebrating its 25th year, had mobilized. Two kayakers met us on the beach, and my girlfriend paddled back to Skater's Cabin.

The dog and I, armed with lamps, took the spur-trail back with one of the kayakers. We rendezvoused with four other volunteers and made quick time back to the parking lot. It was a humbling and surreal experience, and I knew what was next.

The next morning KINY was reporting that we were plucked dramatically off a "glacier ledge." Thirty well-wishers telephoned to inform me that I was a "moron," a "douche" and a "real Romeo." My girlfriend was so sore she could barely walk, and my dog slept for about 16 hours.

I was just happy to have a cup of coffee and thankful for all the volunteers who bailed us out that night.

• Korry Keeker can be reached at 523-2268 or korry.keeker@juneauempire.com.