LnR 095 TO BUILD  A FIRE 3 by Jack London

The frozen moisture of its 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 moustache 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 colour 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 been 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 n#$%@-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 swung 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 cheek-bones 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 cheek-bones 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.