By Jack London
Day had broken cold and grey， exceedingly cold and grey，when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail andclimbed the high earth-bank， where a dim and little-travelledtrail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was asteep bank， and he paused for breath at the top， excusing the actto himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock. Therewas no sun nor hint of sun， though there was not a cloud in thesky. It was a clear day， and yet there seemed an intangible pallover 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 worrythe man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days sincehe had seen the sun， and he knew that a few more days mustpass before that cheerful orb， due south， would just peep abovethe sky-line and dip immediately from view.
The man flung a look back along the way he had come. TheYukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. Ontop of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white，rolling in gentle undulations where the ice-jams of the freezeuphad formed. North and south， as far as his eye could see， itwas unbroken white， save for a dark hair-line that curved andtwisted from around the spruce-covered island to the south，and that curved and twisted away into the north， where itdisappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This darkhair-line was the trail—the main trail—that led south fivehundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass， Dyea， and the salt water；and that led north seventy miles to Dawson， and still on to thesea a thousand miles to Nulato， and finally to St. Michael onBering Sea， a thousand miles and half a thousand more.
But all this—the mysterious， far-reaching hairline trail， theabsence of sun from the sky， the tremendous cold， and thestrangeness and weirdness of it all—made no impression on theman. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomerto the land， a chechaquo， and this was his first winter.
The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. Hewas quick and alert in the things of life， but only in the things，and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meanteighty odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as beingcold and uncomfortable， and that was all. It did not lead himto meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature， andupon man’s frailty in general， able only to live within certainnarrow limits of heat and cold； and from there on it did notlead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man’splace in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a biteof frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the useof mittens， ear-flaps， warm moccasins， and thick socks. Fiftydegrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degreesbelow zero. That there should be anything more to it than thatwas a thought that never entered his head.
As he turned to go on， he spat speculatively. There was asharp， explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. Andagain， in the air， before it could fall to the snow， the spittlecrackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on thesnow， but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly itwas colder than fifty below—how much colder he did notknow. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound forthe old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek， where theboys were already. They had come over across the divide fromthe Indian Creek country， while he had come the roundaboutway to take a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in thespring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to campby six o’clock； a bit after dark， it was true， but the boys wouldbe there， a fire would be going， and a hot supper would beready. As for lunch， he pressed his hand against the protrudingbundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt， wrappedup in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It wasthe only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiledagreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits， eachcut open and sopped in bacon grease， and each enclosing agenerous slice of fried bacon.
He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail wasfaint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passedover， and he was glad he was without a sled， travelling light.
In fact， he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in thehandkerchief. He was surprised， however， at the cold. Itcertainly was cold， he concluded， as he rubbed his numbednose and cheek-bones with his mittened hand. He was a warmwhiskeredman， but the hair on his face did not protect the highcheek-bones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressivelyinto the frosty air.
At the man’s heels trotted a dog， a big native husky， theproper wolf-dog， grey-coated and without any visible ortemperamental difference from its brother， the wild wolf. Theanimal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that itwas no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale thanwas told to the man by the man’s judgment. In reality， it wasnot merely colder than fifty below zero； it was colder thansixty below， than seventy below. It was seventy-five belowzero. Since the freezing-point is thirty-two above zero， itmeant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained.
The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possiblyin its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition ofvery cold such as was in the man’s brain. But the brute had itsinstinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehensionthat subdued it and made it slink along at the man’s heels， andthat made it question eagerly every unwonted movement ofthe man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek sheltersomewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire， and itwanted fire， or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle itswarmth away from the air.