"He was quick and alert in the things of life, but
only in the things, and not in the significances."
----------------------
DAY HAD BROKEN cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray,
when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed
the high earth-bank, where a dim and little-travelled trail led
eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank,
and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself
by looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun
nor hind of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was
a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the
face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that
was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man.
He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had
seen the sun, and he knew that a few more days must pass before
that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky line
and dip immediately from view.
The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The
Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top
of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white,
rolling in gentle undulations where the ice jams of the freeze-up
had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was
unbroken white, save for a dark hairline that curved and twisted
from around the spruce-covered island to the south, and that
curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared
behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hairline was the
trail---the main trail--that led south five hundred miles to the
Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy
miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to
Nulato, and finally to St. Michael, on Bearing Sea, a thousand
miles and half a thousand more.
But all this---the mysterious, far-reaching hairline trail,
the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the
strangeness and weirdness of it all--made no impression on the
man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer
in the land, a "chechaquo", and this was his first winter. The
trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was
quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things,
and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant
eighty odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being
cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to
meditate upon his frailty in general, able only to live within
certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did
not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's
place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite
of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of
mittens, ear flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty
degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below
zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a
thought that never entered his head.
As he turned to go, he spat speculatively. There was a
sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And
again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle
crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the
snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it
was colder than fifty below--how much colder he did not know. But
the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on
the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already.
They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek
country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at
the possibility of getting out logs in the spring from the
islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o'clock; a
bit after dark, it ws true, but the boys would be there, a fire
would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he
pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket.
It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and
lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the
biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he
thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon
grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.
He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was
faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed
over, and he was glad he was without a sled, travelling light. In
fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the
handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It
certainly was cold, he concluded, as he rubbed his numb nose and
cheekbones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man,
but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheekbones and
the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty
air.
At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the
proper wolf dog, gray-coated and without any visible or
temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The
animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was
no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than
was told to the man by the man's judgement. In reality, it was
not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty
below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since
the freezing point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one
hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know
anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no
sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in
the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a
vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink
along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every
unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp
or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had
learned fire and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow
and cuddle its warmth away from the air
The frozen moisture of its (i.e. the dog's) breathing had
settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were
its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled
breath. The man's red beard and mustache were likewise frosted,
but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and
increasing with every warm, moist breath he exhaled. Also, the
man was chewing tobacco and the muzzle of ice held his lips so
rigidly that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the
juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the color and
solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he
fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into brittle
fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty
all tobacco chewers paid in that country, and he had been out
before in two cold snaps. they had not been so cold as this, he
knew, but by the spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they
had registered at fifty below and at fifty-five.
He held on through the level stretch of woods for several
miles, crossed a wide flat of nigger heads, and dropped down a
bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson
Creek, and he knew he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at
his watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four miles an hour,
and he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at half-past
twelve. He decided to celebrate that event by eating his lunch
there.
The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping
discouragement, as the man sung along the creek bed. The furrow
of the old sled trail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of
snow covered the marks of the last runners. In a month no man had
come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He
was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had
nothing to think about save that he would eat lunch at the forks
and that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. There
was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, speech would have
been impossible because of the ice muzzle on his mouth. so he
continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length
of his amber beard.
Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was
very cold and that he had never experienced such cold. As he
walked along he rubbed his cheekbones and nose with the back of
his mittened hand. He did this automatically, now and again
changing hands. But, rub as he would, the instant he stopped his
cheekbones went numb, and the following instant the end of his
nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he knew that,
and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nose
strap of the sort Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed
across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't matter
much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? a bit painful, that
was all; they were never serious.
Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly
observant, and he noticed the changes in the creek, the curves
and bends and timber jams, and always he sharply noted where he
placed his feet. Once, coming around a bend, he shied abruptly,
like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had
been walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail.
The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom---no creek could
contain water in that arctic winter--but he knew also that there
were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along
under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the
coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise
their danger. They were traps. They hid pools of water under the
snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a
skin of ice half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was
covered by the snow. Sometimes there were alternate layers of
water and ice skin, so that when one broke through he kept on
breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the
waist.
That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the
give under his feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice
skin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble
and danger. At the very least it meant delay, for he would be
forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare
his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and
studied the creek bed and its banks, and decided that the flow of
water came from the right. He reflected awhile, rubbing his nose
and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and
testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he
took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile
gait. Continuing with Jack London's "To Build A Fire". the danger
of falling through the ice has become a factor.
In the course of the next two hours he came upon several
similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a
sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once
again, however, he had a close call; and once, suspecting danger,
he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to
go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward, and then it
went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it
broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer
footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately
the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts
to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped down in the snow and
began to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. This
was a matter of instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean
sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed the mysterious
prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its being. But the
man knew, having achieved a judgement on the subject, and he
removed the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out the
ice particles. He did not expose his fingers more than a minute,
and was astonished at the swift numbness that smote them. It
certainly was cold. He pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the
hand savagely across his chest.
At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun
was too far south on its winter journey to clear the horizon. The
bulge of the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek,
where the man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no
shadow. At half-past twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the
forks of the creek. He was pleased at the speed he had made. If
he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He
unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The
action consumed no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that
brief moment the numbness laid hold of his exposed fingers. He
did not put the mitten on, but, instead, struck the fingers a
dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snow-
covered log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of
his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was
startled. He had had no chance to take a bit of biscuit. He
struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten,
baring the other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take
a mouthful, but the ice muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to
build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as
he chuckled he noted that the stinging which had first come to
his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wondered
whether the toes were warm or numb. He moved them inside the
moccasins and decided that they were numb.
He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bit
frightened. He stamped up and down until the stinging returned to
his feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from
Sulpher Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it
sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him at the
time! That showed one must not be too sure of things. There was
no mistake about it, it *was* cold. He strode up and down,
stamping his feet and threshing his arms, until reassured by the
returning warmth. Then he got out matches and proceeded to make a
fire. >From the undergrowth, where high water of the previous
spring had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs, he got his
firewood. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a
roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in
the protection of which he ate his biscuits. For the moment the
cold of space was outwitted. The dog took satisfaction in the
fire, stretching out close enough for warmth and far enough away
to escape being singed.
When the man had finished, he filled his pipe and took his
comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens,
settled the ear flaps of his cap firmly about his ears, and took
the creek trail up the left fork. The dog was disappointed and
yearned back toward the fire. The man did not know cold. Possibly
all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold, of
real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees below freezing
point. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had
inherited the knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walk
abroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a
hole in the snow and wait for a curtain of cloud to be drawn
across the face of outer space whence this cold came. On the
other hand, there was no keen intimacy between the dog and the
man. The one was the toil slave of the other, and the only
caresses it had ever received were the caresses of the whip lash
and of harsh and menacing throat sounds that threatened the whip
lash. So the dog made no effort to communicate its apprehension
to the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of the man; it
was for its own sake that it yearned back toward the fire. But
the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of whip lashes,
and the dog swung in at the man's heels and followed after.
The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new
amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly powdered with white
his mustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so
many springs on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an
hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a
place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow
seemed to advertise solidity beneath, the man broke through. It
was not deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before he
floundered out to the firm crust.
He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get
into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this would delay him
an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his
footgear. This was imperative at that low temperature--for he
knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he
climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of
several small spruce trees, was a high water deposit of dry
firewood--sticks and twigs, principally, but also larger portions
of seasoned branches and fine, dry, last year's grasses. He threw
down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a
foundation and prevented the young flame from drowning itself in
the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by touching a
match to a small shred of birch bark that he took from his
pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on
the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass
and with the tiniest dry twigs.
He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger.
Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of
the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow, pulling
the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding
directly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it
is seventy-five below zero, a man must not fail in his first
attempt to build a fire---that is, if his feet are wet. If his
feet are dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a
mile and restore his circulation. But the circulation of wet and
freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-
five below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will freeze
the harder.