man versus nature; Twenty minutes with Jack London/ draft 1

man versus nature; Twenty minutes with Jack London/ draft 1

fiction
edward w Pritchard

You were right old timer, I did stray too far North and didn't carry enough baggage to ward off the extreme cold. Now I know, nature is brutal and unforgiving and is about to enforce an inopportune sense of embarrassing timing against me, inviting me to die well ahead of my time.

I have to blame the boys though sitting comfortably in front of their fire at the forks of Henderson creek. Tomorrow the boys will find me frozen and pathetic here where I stumbled and fell after a wild dash to reach them. The boys will philosophize a bit on how harsh life is up here in the extreme North. A bit smug will the boys be knowing it couldn't happen to them; freezing to death like a new comer. Spot on their minds will race back to the cabin at Henderson creek and sneak a plan of how to split up my share of our Gold. That damn indifferent and disloyal trotting dog will want my share of the meat in the smoke house as well.

If I could get up one last time before I die I would go back to that fire I made under that tree and remove all the evidence of my epic rookie mistake; a fire under a tree a blunder too mundane to joke about. What I would tell the boys is it, death, is going to happen to you too, later; you will die and meanwhile, while you suffer along, I will be comfortably sleeping waiting for you somewhere.

Jones, Thomas Jones my friend, I leave Matty to you, the blond dancer back in Seattle at the can-can club. Sorry about the fisticuffs old buddy. Matty, that blond, was too tall for my tastes anyway, me fighting over a woman with me mates, embarrassing. More than any woman right now I sure would like to be back in Ohio for a few hours. Under a tin roof in a warm spring rain. Someone should invent a device that automatically lights fires. So you don't have to burn the heels of your hands doing the match thing when one is about to unceremoniously freeze to death and die. Nature can be brutal and unforgiving I suppose. Sort of like a woman. I wish I cold remember one special woman to think about in the next twenty minutes while I lie here freezing to death while I think about the boys at the forks of Henderson creek sitting by the blazing fire flush full of the crackling wood I cut last spring. Save some of my money for later boys and try to invent a device to automatically start fires, in case, in case your hands are too cold to strike a match one last time.