To Build a Fire Part I (Jack London)

To Build a Fire
DAY HAD DAWNED COLD AND GRAY WHEN
the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail. He climbed the high
earth-bank where a little-traveled trail led east through the pine forest. It was a high bank, and he paused to breathe at the top. He excused
the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock in the
morning. There was no sun or promise of sun, although there was not
a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day. However, there seemed to be an
indescribable darkness over the face of things. That was because the sun
was absent from the sky. This fact did not worry the man. He was not
alarmed by the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun.
The man looked 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. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white. The one thing that relieved
the whiteness was a thin dark line that curved from the pine-covered
island to the south. It curved into the north, where it disappeared
be
hind another pine-covered island. This dark line was the trail—the
main trail. It led south 500 miles to the Chilcoot Pass, and salt water.
It led north 75 miles to Dawson, and still farther on to the north a
thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael, on Bering Sea,
a thousand miles and half a thousand more.
But all this—the distant trail, no sun in the sky, the great cold,
and the strangeness of it all—had no effect on the man. It was not
be
cause he was long familiar with it. He was a newcomer in the land, and
this was his first winter.
The trouble with him was that he was not able to imagine. He
was quick and ready in the things of life, but only in the things, and not
in their meanings. Fifty
degrees
below
zero
meant 80 degrees of frost.
Such facts told him that it was cold and uncomfortable, and that was
all. It did not lead him to consider his weaknesses as a creature affected
by temperature. Nor did he think about man’s general weakness, able
to live only within narrow limits of heat and cold. From there, it did
not lead him to thoughts of heaven and the meaning of a man’s life.
50 degrees below zero meant a bite of frost that hurt and that must be
guarded against by the use of mittens, ear coverings, warm moccasins,
and thick socks. 50 degrees below zero was to him nothing more than
50 degrees below zero. That it should be more important than that was
a thought that never entered his head.
As he turned to go, he forced some water from his mouth as an
experiment. There was a sudden noise that surprised him. He tried it
again. And again, in the air, before they could fall to the snow, the
drops of water became ice that broke with a noise. He knew that at 50
below zero water from the mouth made a noise when it hit the snow.
But this had done that in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than 50
below. But exactly how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter.
He was headed for the old camp on Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come across the mountain from the Indian
Creek country. He had taken the long trail to look at the possibility of
floating logs from the islands in the Yukon down the river when the
ice melted. He would be in camp by six o’clock that evening. It would
be a little after dark, but the boys would be there, a fire would be burn

ing, and a hot supper would be ready. As he thought of lunch, he pressed
his hand against the package under his jacket. It was also under his
shirt, wrapped in a handkerchief, and lying for warmth against the
naked skin. Otherwise, the bread would freeze. He smiled contentedly
to himself as he thought of those pieces of bread, each of which
enclosed a generous portion of cooked meat.
He plunged among the big pine trees. The trail was not well
marked here. Several inches of snow had fallen since the last sled had
passed. He was glad he was without a sled. Actually, he carried noth

ing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, how

ever, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he decided, as he rubbed his
nose and face with his mittened hand. He had a good growth of hair
on his face, but that did not protect his nose or the upper part of his
face from the frosty air.
Following at the man’s heels was a big native dog. It was a wolf
dog, gray-coated and not noticeably different from its brother, the wild
wolf. The animal was worried by the great cold. It knew that this was
no time for traveling. Its own feeling was closer to the truth than the
man’s judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than 50 below
zero; it was colder than 60 below, than 70 below. It was 75 below zero.
Because the freezing point is 32 above zero, it meant that there were
107 degrees of frost.
The dog did not know anything about temperatures. Possibly in
its brain there was no understanding of a condition of very cold, such
as was in the man’s brain. But the animal sensed the danger. Its fear
made it question eagerly every 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 about fire, and it wanted fire. Otherwise, it would dig
itself into the snow and find shelter from the cold air.The frozen moistness of its breathing had settled on its fur in a
fine powder of frost. The hair on the man’s face was similarly frosted,
but more solidly. It took the form of ice and increased with every warm,
moist breath from his mouth. Also, the man had tobacco in his mouth.
The ice held his lips so tightly together that he could not empty the
juice from his mouth. The result was a long piece of yellow ice hang

ing from his lips. If he fell down it would break, like glass, into many
pieces. He expected the ice formed by the tobacco juice, having been
out twice before when it was very cold. But it had not been as cold as
this, he knew.
He continued through the level forest for several miles. Then he
went down a bank to the frozen path of a small stream. This was Hen-
derson Creek and he knew he was ten miles from where the stream
divided. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. He was traveling
at the rate of four miles an hour. Thus, he figured that he would arrive
where the stream divided at half-past twelve. He decided he would eat
his lunch when he arrived there.
The dog followed again at his heels, with its tail hanging low, as
the man started to walk along the frozen stream. The old sled trail could
be seen, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last sleds.
In a month no man had traveled up or down that silent creek. The man
went steadily ahead. He was not much of a thinker. At that moment he
had nothing to think about except that he would eat lunch at the
stream’s divide 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
not have been possible because of the ice around his mouth.
Once in a while the thought repeated itself that it was very cold
and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he
rubbed his face and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did
this without thinking, frequently changing hands. But, with all his
rubbing, the instant he stopped, his face and nose became
numb
. His
face would surely be frozen. He knew that and he was sorry that he had
not worn the sort of nose guard Bud wore when it was cold. Such a
guard passed across the nose and covered the entire face. But it did not matter much, he decided. What was a little frost? A bit painful, that
was all. It was never serious.
Empty as the man’s mind was of thoughts, he was most observant.
He noticed the changes in the creek, the curves and the bends. And
always he noted where he placed his feet. Once, coming around a
bend, he moved suddenly to the side, like a frightened horse. He curved
away from the place where he had been walking and retraced his steps
several feet along the trail. He knew the creek was frozen to the bot

tom. No creek could contain water in that winter. But he knew also
that there were streams of water that came out from the hillsides and
ran along under the snow and on top of the ice of the creek. He knew
that even in the coldest weather these streams were never frozen, and
he also knew their danger. 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 was both water and thin ice, and when a man broke
through he could get very wet.
That was why he had jumped away so suddenly. He had felt the
ice move under his feet. He had also heard the noise of the snow-cov

ered ice skin breaking. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature
meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, because he
would be forced to stop and build a fire. Only under its protection
could he bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins.
He stood and studied the creek bottom and its banks. He decided
that the flowing stream of water came from the right side. He thought
a while, rubbing his nose and face. Then he walked to the left. He
stepped carefully and tested the ice at each step. Once away from the
danger, he continued at his four-mile pace.
During the next two hours he came to several similar dangers.
Usually the snow above the pools had a sunken appearance. However,
once again he came near to falling through the ice. Once, sensing dan

ger, he made the dog go ahead. The dog did not want to go. It hesitated
until the man pushed it forward. Then it went quickly across the white,
unbroken surface. Suddenly it fell through the ice, but climbed out on the other side, which was firm. It had wet its feet and legs. Almost
immediately the water on them turned to ice. The dog made quick
efforts to get the ice off its legs. Then it lay down in the snow and began
to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. The animal knew
enough to do this. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It
did not know this. It merely obeyed the commands that arose from the
deepest part of its being.
But the man knew these things, having learned them from expe

rience. He removed the mitten from his right hand and helped the dog
tear out the pieces of ice. He did not bare his fingers more than a minute,
and was surprised to find that they were numb. It certainly was cold.
He pulled on the mitten quickly and beat the hand across his breast.
At twelve o’clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun did not
appear in the sky. At half-past twelve, on the minute, he arrived at the
divide of the creek. He was pleased at his rate of speed. If he contin

ued, he would certainly be with the boys by six o’clock that evening.
He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and pulled forth his lunch.
The action took no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief
moment the numbness touched his bare fingers. He did not put the
mitten on, but instead, struck the fingers against his leg. Then he sat
down on a snow-covered log to eat. The pain that followed the strik

ing of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was fright

ened. He had not had time to take a bite of his lunch. He struck the
fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten. Then he bared the
other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but
the ice around his mouth prevented him.
Then he knew what was wrong. He had forgotten to build a fire
and warm himself. He laughed at his own foolishness. As he laughed,
he noted the numbness in his bare fingers. Also, he noted that the
feeling which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already
passing away. He wondered whether the toes were warm or whether
they were numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided
that they were numb.
He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was some-what frightened. He stamped forcefully until the feeling returned to his
feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur
Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in
this 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 walked a few steps, stamping his feet and waving his arms,
until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he took some matches
and proceeded to make a fire. In the bushes, the high water had left a
supply of sticks. From here he got wood for his fire. Working carefully
from a small beginning, he soon had a roaring fire.
Bending over the fire, he first melted the ice from his face. With
the protection of the fire’s warmth he ate his lunch. For the moment,
the cold had been forced away. The dog took comfort in the fire, lying
at full length close enough for warmth and far enough away to escape
being burned. When the man had finished eating, he filled his pipe
with tobacco and had a comfortable time with a smoke. Then he pulled
on his mittens, settled his cap firmly about his ears, and started along
the creek trail toward the left.
The dog was sorry to leave and looked toward the fire. This man
did not know cold. Possibly none of his ancestors had known cold, real
cold. But the dog knew and all of its family knew. And it knew that it
was not good to walk outside in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie
in a hole in the snow and to wait for this awful cold to stop. There was
no real bond between the dog and the man. The one was the slave of
the other. The dog made no effort to indicate its fears to the man. It
was not concerned with the well-being of the man. It was for its own
sake that it looked toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to
it with the sound of the whip in his voice. So the dog started walking
close to the man’s heels and followed him along the trail.
The man put more tobacco in his mouth and started a new growth
of yellow ice on his face. Again his moist breath quickly powdered the
hair on his face with white. He looked around him. There did not
seem to be so many pools of water under the snow on the left side of
Henderson Creek, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, the man
broke through. It was not deep. He was wet to the knees before he got
out of the water to the firm snow.
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.
Now he would have to build a fire and dry his moccasins and socks.
This was most important at that low temperature. He knew that much.
So he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, under
several small pine trees, he found some firewood which had been car

ried there by the high water of last year. There were some sticks, but also
larger branches, and some dry grasses. He threw several large branches
on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the
young flame from dying in the wet snow. He made a flame by touch

ing a match to a small piece of tree bark that he took from his pocket.
This burned even better than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he
fed the young flame with pieces of dry grass and with the smallest dry
sticks.
He worked slowly and carefully, realizing his danger. Gradually,
as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of the sticks with which
he fed it. He sat in the snow, pulling the sticks from the bushes under
the trees and feeding them directly to the flame. He knew he must not
fail. When it is 75 below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt
to build a fire. This is especially true if his feet are wet. If his feet are
dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile to keep his
blood moving. But the blood in wet and freezing feet cannot be kept
moving by running when it is 75 degrees below. No matter how fast he
runs, the wet feet will freeze even harder.
All this the man knew. The old man on Sulphur Creek had told
him about it, and now he was grateful for the advice. Already all feel

ing had gone from his feet. To build the fire he had been forced to
remove his mittens, and the fingers had quickly become numb. His
pace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pushing the blood to all
parts of his body. But the instant he stopped, the action of the heart
slowed down. He now received the full force of the cold. The blood of his body drew back from it. The blood was alive, like the dog. Like the
dog, it wanted to hide and seek cover, away from the fearful cold. As
long as he walked four miles an hour, the blood rose to the surface. But
now it sank down into the lowest depths of his body. His feet and
hands were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze first. His bare
fingers were numb, although they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose
and face were already freezing, while the skin of all his body became
cold as it lost its blood.
But he was safe. Toes and nose and face would be only touched by
the frost, because the fire was beginning to burn with strength. He was
feeding it with sticks the size of his finger. In another minute he would
be able to feed it with larger branches. Then he could remove his wet
moccasins and socks. While they dried, he could keep his naked feet
warm by the fire, rubbing them first with snow. The fire was a success.
He was safe.
He remembered the advice of the old man on Sulphur Creek, and
smiled. The man had been very serious when he said that no man should
travel alone in that country after 50 below zero. Well, here he was; he
had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those
old men were rather womanish, he thought. All a man must do was to
keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could
travel alone. But it was surprising, the rapidity with which his face and
nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could lose their
feeling in so short a time. Without feeling they were, because he found
it very difficult to make them move together to grasp a stick. They
seemed far from his body and from him. When he touched a stick, he
had to look to see whether or not he was holding it.
All of which mattered little. There was the fire, promising life
with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were
coated with ice. The thick socks were like iron almost to the knees. The
moccasin’s strings were like ropes of steel. For a moment he pulled
them with his unfeeling fingers. Then, realizing the foolishness of it, he
grasped his knife.
But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own