Lessons From Jack London

Tom woke to the sound of the chatter of his own teeth. Shivering and confused, he tried to open his eyes to no avail. His eyelids were frozen shut. Burying himself under his blanket, Tom had only two thoughts in his head. Where the hell am I, and why is it so damn cold. Outside, he could hear the icy winter winds howling. Curling himself into the fetal position and wrapped in his blanket was his only escape. After cocooning himself for a few minutes, Tom could finally and painfully peel his eyelids open. When he peaked out from under the covers, the fog from his breath was thick enough that he still couldn’t see. The ice dam of his thoughts slowly thawed enough to remember that he let the fire go out. The stove was the only heat in his little cabin, and he forgot to add wood to the flames before going to bed. 

Tom was warned about how harsh and cold it could get when he moved to the valley. Now he understood just how brutal winters can get. The dense cold air settled at the valley floor, dropping the temperature below what any humans are meant to function in. Dusky gray skies told him the sun was still behind the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. It was early and hours away from anything resembling warmth. Still wrapped in his blanket, Tom tripped over a giant pile of fur while stumbling across the room toward the wood stove. “Damnit Buck!” Tom growled at the massively lazy Saint Bernard. “You could have climbed on the bed to keep me warm, but nooo, you just lay there on the floor. Do you even feel cold?” The dog looked up at Tom and gave him a WOOF. 

Tom’s hands were shaking as he tried to open the front of the stove. The metal handle was painful to grip, not from heat but an extreme lack of. The chilly dry desert air sucked the moisture out of everything, and Tom’s hands ached as a result. Finally getting the little door open, he found the ash inside was as cold as the dust on the floor. No ambers to kindle back to life. Tom would have to build a new fire. The wood bin was empty. Maybe that was why he didn’t add a log. Shivering, Tom realized he would have to go outside to get more wood. He reached for the coffee pot on top of the stove. Cold caffeine was better than no caffeine, he thought as he attempted to pour a cup. CLANK! was the only sound as the dark popsicle rattled around the old, dented aluminum percolator. There would be no help to defrost his brain or body. 

Tom’s one saving grace was he passed out in all his clothes. At least he has a start to the many layers he’d have to wear just to go outside. Pulling on a pair fleece-lined denim pants, two coats, two pairs of thick socks, boots, gloves, and his wool cap. Tom was finally ready to go outside. Glancing at the thermometer at the door was pointless. The mercury didn’t come up high enough to register a temperature. The wintry winds instantly froze any exposed skin. Tom longed for the balmy winter days of Chicago. Somehow, he ended up in Colorado, trying to eke out a living in the San Luis Valley. The desert was beautiful but this was no place for someone fresh from the city. Winter temperatures here can dip way below zero, oftentimes in the ungodly negative temperatures. He glances around at the snow-capped mountains that towered over the cold dry desert. The valley floor had no snow but was still colder than anywhere he had been before. . 

Buck joined Tom outside with an excited WOOF. It was ideal weather for the giant fur ball. With ancestry from the Alps, subzero landscapes did not bother the dog. Buck sniffed around while Tom made his way over to the wood pile. At least he listened to the old timers about how much wood was needed for the winter. But what was he thinking, letting the fire go out? All the wood he had stored were still in full rounds. There was nothing small enough to fit into his stove. Tom would have to split the logs. He’d have to stay outside in these abysmal temperatures longer than he wanted to. 

The thing about splitting firewood is that you start to sweat after a short while, no matter how cold it was. As long as he was already out here, Tom was going to chop enough wood to fill the bin and then some. After ten minutes, he had worked up a good sweat. But the moisture dripping from under his wool cap instantly froze to his face. Tom took off his gloves and dropped them on the chopping block to clear the ice. He immediately regretted the action. His hands were turning a bright red from the cold. Grabbing his gloves again, he found they had frozen where he had dropped them. Big mistake. Tom called Buck to him. With a WOOF, the alpine fur ball loped over. Saint Bernards are just as home in glacial conditions as in front of a fire. Tom wrapped his arms around the beast and dug his hands into the dog’s thick fur. “Good boy, Buck. At least one of us is useful.” 

While warming his hands, Tom sat on the chopping block to defrost his gloves. He could feel the cold radiate through the two layers of pants he had on, but it seemed to be working. Soon, Tom was able to slide his gloves back on. The ice collecting on his face would just have to stay there till he was done. He would warm back up with the work, and after another fifteen minutes, he had enough split wood to last a while. Tom grabbed an armful and, with Buck at his heels, headed back in to build a fire. 

Arms loaded down with the precious fuel, Tom had to kick the door shut. Carefully he walked over to the cold stove. Dropping the wood meant taking too long getting a fire going. He started the painstaking task of positioning the wood just right. Larger pieces on the bottom, kindling spanning the gap just like he was taught. He reached for the newspaper to act as a fire starter. Only one sheet left. He’d need to find more soon. The sweat from all his work, mixed with the December temperatures, caused Tom to shiver uncontrollably. Remembering his dad’s saying about coal miners and their rear ends, Tom shook as he tried to get a match out of the box. The gloves were making it difficult. There was no way he could strike a match with them still on. Working with bare hands was not much better. His hands were so stiff from the cold that he could barely hold onto the tiny stick. He tried to strike the match, but only managed to drop everything. The box fell open, scattering matchsticks everywhere. 

Tom’s hands were throbbing from the cold. He no longer had feeling in his fingertips. Having to visually confirm his actions, getting the fire built was taking too long. His movement slowed to a glacial pace. Hypothermia was not that far away. Tom crawled over to where Buck lay and held onto his furry friend. The gentle giant accepted his assignment with a Woof. Feeling a bit warmer, Tom went back to the stove. 

His hands were working better now, and Tom could manipulate the matchstick in his grasp. He struck the match and held it to the paper. As the flames grew, a strong gust of cold mountain wind blew the door open. In his frozen stupor, Tom forgot to latch the door. Cussing, he slammed the door, making sure it was latched this time. Buck watched lazily from his spot on the floor. Making his way back to the stove, Tom saw that the fire had gone out and his last Firestarter was wasted. 

Desperate, Tom frantically searched the cabin for anything to act as a Firestarter. The only other paper he could find was his tattered copy of Jack London’s To Build a Fire. Ironic, Tom thought. Tearing a couple of pages out, he wadded the paper before stuffing it under the wood. With fading dexterity, Tom managed to get another match lit. This time, the flame ignited the kindling. Tom kept his hands before the fire, afraid to breathe too hard, worried that any bit of wind would snuff it out. He couldn’t afford to start over again. But as he watched, the flames began to grow. Warmth slowly started to creep into the cabin. Unlike the character in the book, Tom was going to be alright. “If only I had heeded Mr. London’s lessons from the beginning, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Tom told Buck. The dog replied with a contemplative WOOF.