Too Many Mornings

I know what you're thinking, but I Googled Jack London and this is what came up. It's weird.

When the jet plane touched down on the tarmac last Friday night, I immediately knew my new life was going to be very different.

It was going to be warmer.

Much warmer.

You see, when I left Denver Friday evening bound for a hockey tournament in Phoenix, a snowstorm was blowing in from the northwest and the temperature was about to drop to 17 degrees Fahrenheit. Anybody stupid or unlucky enough to still be outside was either bundled up in a coat or about to freeze to death.

I nearly died myself, in fact.

After stepping outside without a jacket to load the luggage into the trunk, the sprinkler system unexpectedly came on and misted me with water before I could jump away. A bracing wind was blowing, and the water almost froze on my clothes and skin.

My dog was with me. It is a big gray animal, half dog and half wolf. The dog does not like the extreme cold.  It knows this weather is too cold to travel.

I was in trouble. I couldn’t feel my fingers. I hit my hands against my legs several times until I felt sharp pain. Then I quickly put my hands in pockets.

Momentarily warmed, I found some dry grass and tree branches, and lit a fire. I thought of the old men downtown, who told me no man should load luggage alone in Denver when the temperature is 20 degrees. But here I was. I’d had an accident. I was alone in the front yard. But I saved myself. I built a fire.

Those old men were weak, I thought. A real man could load luggage alone. If a man stayed calm, he would be all right. My tennis shoes were covered with cold water. The laces were as tight as steel cables. I decided to cut them with my knife. 

I leaned back against a tree and took out my knife. Suddenly, without warning, a heavy mass of slush dropped down. My movement had shaken the young tree only a tiny bit. But it was enough to cause the branches of the tree to drop their heavy load. I was shocked. I sat and looked at the place where the fire had been.

The old men were right. If I had a companion, he could light the fire. I collected more wood and grass. But this time I could not hold the matches. The tremendous cold drove the life out of my fingers. I called my dog over. Maybe I could warm my hands in its fur. But it sensed danger and stayed back.

I started to walk toward the house. But I could not feel my feet. It felt strange to hear my feet hitting the ground and not to be able to feel my feet. I decided to rest a while. As I lay on the lawn, I noticed I was not shaking. I could not feel my nose or fingers or feet. Yet, I was feeling quite warm and comfortable.  I realized I was going to die.

I decided I might as well take it like a man. There were worse ways to die.

I closed my eyes and floated into the most comfortable sleep I had ever known. 

My dog sat facing me, waiting. Finally, the dog moved closer to me and caught the smell of death. I had Mexican for lunch, what can I say? The animal threw back its head. It let out a long, soft cry to the cold clouds in the blackening sky.

That’s when my wife, Kerry, opened the front door.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Uhmm, re-enacting the pivotal scene from To Build a Fire.”

“What?”

“The Jack London story. It’s about life in the Yukon. It’s famous.”

“You do realize we need to get the airport in a few minutes so that we can fly to Phoenix and watch our son, Gabe, play hockey?”

“Sure. But it’s cold. I was just taking a break.”

We got to the airport on time, and to Phoenix, of course. The temperature there was about 75 degrees. At midnight. People were wearing shorts and T-shirts. Some of them were sweating. The next day, after the sun rose, the temperature hit 90 degrees.

I hate hot weather.

But for the next four days, I lived in Satan’s Sunroom, longing for the Yukon, and snow.

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