Jack London, King Of The Klondike

by Kim Harris Thacker

 (image via)

I grew up in the mountains of Wyoming, so I’m no stranger to the cold. Snow frequently fell in July, and sometimes, in deep winter, the temperature got down to 40 degrees below zero.

Now I live in Florida.

We have Christmas lights here, and I’ve finally been able to don my sweaters (in the early hours of the morning, at least), but the holiday season just isn’t the same for me without snow. I miss sledding, snowshoeing, and drinking hot chocolate for the purpose of getting warm. And I really miss building bonfires on top of the snow and roasting sausages until they start to sing and the skins split.

I can’t have snow, but I can have the next best thing: Jack London’s short stories, many of which take place in the Yukon and elsewhere in the far north. And I can enjoy them from the comfort of my cozy house in the Sunshine State.

London is known as a writer of outdoor survival-type stories; but in his short stories, few of his main characters survive. Many of these people are deeply flawed individuals, whose weaknesses are portrayed early on and in such a way that the reader isn’t surprised when the character snuffs it.

For example, in “To Build a Fire,” which is considered by many scholars to be London’s best short story, the main character ignores the warning of an old timer who tells him never to go outside alone when it’s colder than 50 degrees below zero. Little does the main character know that it’s 75 degrees below zero when he and his dog set out on a journey to another camp. The main character also doesn’t know enough not to build his fire (which is a feat of its own, given his frozen hands) beneath a snow-laden tree branch. As you may have guessed, the heat of the fire causes the snow on the bough to shift and to slide off, right on top of the fire. With the fire’s demise comes the promise of the main character’s demise. And, of course, there will be no singing sausages for that poor man. Maybe for the dog, once it arrives at the camp.

(Incidentally, 75 degrees below zero is 150 degrees colder than today’s outdoor temperature where I live.)

London experienced true cold first hand, having traveled to the Klondike as a young man in the hopes of making his fortune in the gold rush. He may not have struck it rich in the mines, but he did come away from the experience with a head full of story-inspiration that would later make him both wealthy and famous. Not all of his stories are about surviving in cold weather—some take place on tropical islands and in other warm climates—but I think London’s true talent is exhibited in the stories wherein he drew upon his experiences as a gold miner in the icy Klondike.

Here’s an example of some incredible, descriptive writing from the short story, “The White Silence”:

Nature has many tricks wherewith she convinces man of his finity—the ceaseless flow of the tides, the fury of the storm, the shock of the earthquake, the long roll of heaven’s artillery—but the most tremendous, the most stupefying of all, is the passive phase of the White Silence. All movement ceases, the sky clears, the heavens are as brass; the slightest whisper seems sacrilege, and man becomes timid, affrighted at the sound of his own voice. Sole speck of life journeying across the ghostly wastes of a dead world, he trembles at his audacity, realizes that his is a maggot’s life, nothing more.

Here’s another example from the short story, “An Odyssey of the North”:

...[i]n the heart of the great mountains, we cut ice steps against the wall of a divide. One looked for a valley beyond, but there was no valley; the snow spread away, level as the great harvest plains, and here and there about us mighty mountains shoved their white heads among the stars. And midway on that strange plain which should have been a valley the earth and snow fell away, straight down toward the heart of the world.

And finally, from “The Law of Life”:

When the last stick had surrendered up its heat, the frost would begin to gather strength. First his feet would yield, then his hands; and the numbness would travel, slowly, from the extremities to the body. His head would fall forward upon his knees, and he would rest. It was easy. All men must die.

“Chilling” writing, in my opinion! So if you find yourself dreaming of a white Christmas, pick up a Jack London novel or collection of short stories and get ready to freeze!