Love of Life Page #2

"Love of Life" is a short story by Jack London that encapsulates the themes of survival, resilience, and the will to live. Set in the harsh wilderness of the Yukon, it follows the harrowing journey of a prospector who faces extreme challenges after being separated from his companion. As he battles the relentless environment and his own deteriorating condition, the story highlights the indomitable spirit of humanity in the face of despair. London's vivid, evocative prose paints a gripping portrait of both the beauty and brutality of nature, making it a poignant exploration of the instinctual drive for survival.

								

for him at the cache. He was compelled to think this thought, or else
there would not be any use to strive, and he would have lain down and
died. And as the dim ball of the sun sank slowly into the northwest
he covered every inch--and many times--of his and Bill's flight south
before the downcoming winter. And he conned the grub of the cache and
the grub of the Hudson Bay Company post over and over again. He had not
eaten for two days; for a far longer time he had not had all he wanted
to eat. Often he stooped and picked pale muskeg berries, put them into
his mouth, and chewed and swallowed them. A muskeg berry is a bit of
seed enclosed in a bit of water. In the mouth the water melts away and
the seed chews sharp and bitter. The man knew there was no nourishment
in the berries, but he chewed them patiently with a hope greater than
knowledge and defying experience.

At nine o'clock he stubbed his toe on a rocky ledge, and from sheer
weariness and weakness staggered and fell. He lay for some time,
without movement, on his side. Then he slipped out of the pack-straps
and clumsily dragged himself into a sitting posture. It was not yet
dark, and in the lingering twilight he groped about among the rocks for
shreds of dry moss. When he had gathered a heap he built a fire,--a
smouldering, smudgy fire,--and put a tin pot of water on to boil.

He unwrapped his pack and the first thing he did was to count his
matches. There were sixty-seven. He counted them three times to make
sure. He divided them into several portions, wrapping them in oil
paper, disposing of one bunch in his empty tobacco pouch, of another
bunch in the inside band of his battered hat, of a third bunch under
his shirt on the chest. This accomplished, a panic came upon him,
and he unwrapped them all and counted them again. There were still
sixty-seven.

He dried his wet foot-gear by the fire. The moccasins were in soggy
shreds. The blanket socks were worn through in places, and his feet
were raw and bleeding. His ankle was throbbing, and he gave it an
examination. It had swollen to the size of his knee. He tore a long
strip from one of his two blankets and bound the ankle tightly. He tore
other strips and bound them about his feet to serve for both moccasins
and socks. Then he drank the pot of water, steaming hot, wound his
watch, and crawled between his blankets.

He slept like a dead man. The brief darkness around midnight came and
went. The sun arose in the northeast--at least the day dawned in that
quarter, for the sun was hidden by gray clouds.

At six o'clock he awoke, quietly lying on his back. He gazed straight
up into the gray sky and knew that he was hungry. As he rolled over
on his elbow he was startled by a loud snort, and saw a bull caribou
regarding him with alert curiosity. The animal was not mere than fifty
feet away, and instantly into the man's mind leaped the vision and the
savor of a caribou steak sizzling and frying over a fire. Mechanically
he reached for the empty gun, drew a bead, and pulled the trigger. The
bull snorted and leaped away, his hoofs rattling and clattering as he
fled across the ledges.

The man cursed and flung the empty gun from him. He groaned aloud as he
started to drag himself to his feet. It was a slow and arduous task.

His joints were like rusty hinges. They worked harshly in their
sockets, with much friction, and each bending or unbending was
accomplished only through a sheer exertion of will. When he finally
gained his feet, another minute or so was consumed in straightening up,
so that he could stand erect as a man should stand.

He crawled up a small knoll and surveyed the prospect. There were no
trees, no bushes, nothing but a gray sea of moss scarcely diversified
by gray rocks, gray lakelets, and gray streamlets. The sky was gray.
There was no sun nor hint of sun. He had no idea of north, and he
had forgotten the way he had come to this spot the night before. But
he was not lost. He knew that. Soon he would come to the land of the
little sticks. He felt that it lay off to the left somewhere, not
far--possibly just over the next low hill.

He went back to put his pack into shape for travelling. He assured
himself of the existence of his three separate parcels of matches,
though he did not stop to count them. But he did linger, debating,
over a squat moose-hide sack. It was not large. He could hide it under
his two hands. He knew that it weighed fifteen pounds,--as much as all
the rest of the pack,--and it worried him. He finally set it to one
side and proceeded to roll the pack. He paused to gaze at the squat
moose-hide sack. He picked it up hastily with a defiant glance about
him, as though the desolation were trying to rob him of it; and when
he rose to his feet to stagger on into the day, it was included in the
pack on his back.

He bore away to the left, stopping now and again to eat muskeg berries.
His ankle had stiffened, his limp was more pronounced, but the pain of
it was as nothing compared with the pain of his stomach. The hunger
pangs were sharp. They gnawed and gnawed until he could not keep his
mind steady on the course he must pursue to gain the land of little
sticks. The muskeg berries did not allay this gnawing, while they made
his tongue and the roof of his mouth sore with their irritating bite.

He came upon a valley where rock ptarmigan rose on whirring wings from
the ledges and muskegs. Ker--ker--ker was the cry they made. He threw
stones at them, but could not hit them. He placed his pack on the
ground and stalked them as a cat stalks a sparrow. The sharp rocks cut
through his pants' legs till his knees left a trail of blood; but the
hurt was lost in the hurt of his hunger. He squirmed over the wet moss,
saturating his clothes and chilling his body; but he was not aware of
it, so great was his fever for food. And always the ptarmigan rose,
whirring, before him, till their ker--ker--ker became a mock to him,
and he cursed them and cried aloud at them with their own cry.

Once he crawled upon one that must have been asleep. He did not see
it till it shot up in his face from its rocky nook. He made a clutch
as startled as was the rise of the ptarmigan, and there remained in
his hand three tail-feathers. As he watched its flight he hated it,
as though it had done him some terrible wrong. Then he returned and
shouldered his pack.

As the day wore along he came into valleys or swales where game was
more plentiful. A band of caribou passed by, twenty and odd animals,
tantalizingly within rifle range. He felt a wild desire to run after
them, a certitude that he could run them down. A black fox came toward
him, carrying a ptarmigan in his mouth. The man shouted. It was a
fearful cry, but the fox, leaping away in fright, did not drop the
ptarmigan.

Late in the afternoon he followed a stream, milky with lime, which ran
through sparse patches of rush-grass. Grasping these rushes firmly near
the root, he pulled up what resembled a young onion-sprout no larger
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