For Want of Warmth

He was a newcomer in this frozen land, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was not able to imagine. He was quick and ready in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in their meanings. Fifty degrees below zero meant 80 degrees of frost.

He was alone, but for the dog that trotted close at his heels. The man knew how to survive, how to move, how to build a fire—but that was all it was to him: a matter of fact. He glanced at the sky, clear and pale, no hint of sun to bring warmth.

His coat was thick, fur-lined, and efficient against the wind, but it wasn't enough—not here, not at fifty degrees below. His nose tingled, and he shifted his gloves as his fingers began to numb. He knew frostbite could set in quickly, but still, he pushed forward.

He was headed for the old camp on Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. He could see the creek ahead, thin wisps of vapour rising where the ice met air. It was only a few miles to camp. He would be in camp by six o’clock that evening. It would be a little after dark, but the boys would be there, a fire would be burning, and a hot supper would be ready.

The creek, it was dangerous, he knew. One misstep, and he’d break through to the water below, and in this cold, that was a death sentence. He knew it, but he did not fear it—not in the way a man should.

The dog halted, staring ahead, hackles raised slightly, ears twitching. The man paid no mind, urging it forward with a gruff word, and they walked on. Fifty degrees below zero meant discomfort, nothing more, as far as he was concerned. He did not know how the cold could take a man from the inside, slowly, deliberately, until the world dimmed and sleep seemed the only mercy.

It was the failure of imagination that would get him.

The dog knew better. It did not have the knowledge of these things—the reasons why the cold killed. It merely obeyed the commands that arose from the deepest part of its being. Its instincts warned it of the unseen dangers—of the cold that gnawed at the bone, the hidden traps beneath the ice. But the man, his kind had not grown in the cold. They did not see the subtle hues of the dampness of the snow. The Man was indifferent to any warnings the dog vainly attempted. He pushed ahead, glancing now and then at the pale sun that slid further behind the mountains. He wasn't worried, not yet. He figured he had time to make camp, time to build a fire. Fire—he thought—was the answer to the cold. He'd done it before, seen others do it; it was just a task to be accomplished.

But the cold was more than that. It wasn't something to be conquered or bested by human ingenuity alone. It was alive in a way he couldn't grasp, a silent force that watched and waited. The cold had none of the impatience of the man or the caution of the dog. It simply was. And it waited. The frost seeped deeper into his skin, tightening its grip. His steps were shorter now, his breath coming slower, though he scarcely noticed.

Suddenly, the dog stopped again, this time refusing to move. It whined low in its throat, staring at the man with an almost human urgency. The man cursed under his breath. He stamped his feet, trying to shake the cold from his legs, then trudged forward, leaving the dog behind for a few steps. His foot slipped—and in that split second, the ice gave way.

The water was not deep. He was wet to the knees before he got out of the water to the firm snow. The cold sank in instantly, biting at the flesh, stiffening the muscles in his legs. He cursed his luck. This would certainly delay his arrival at camp; in the back of his mind, however, for the first time was concern. It wasn’t panic that gripped him, not yet—just irritation. A minor inconvenience, he thought, and one that could be dealt with in time. He moved slowly to higher ground, where the snow was packed hard, and there he bent down to gather kindling. The twigs were brittle and dry, snapping easily in his hands, and that gave him a sense of confidence—he could build a fire, dry his legs, and move on.

He worked slowly and carefully, finally realising, in some small part, his danger. He gathered and scrounged and prepped in mechanical fashion before finally striking a match. He had built a fire. He relished the heat and began to dry out his clothes. However, in his haste, he did not realise his folly. It was his own fault, or instead, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the pine tree. He should have built it in an open space. The thin wisp of rising smoke from the fire had begun to melt the heavy snow kept in the branches. All at once, the snow fell without warning, covering man and dog and fire.

He stood there for a moment, frozen—not by the temperature this time, but by the sheer cruelty of it. He remained calm. He knew that he had made a mistake. He knew how to correct it. He rationalised the cost of his mistake also. The few minutes it would take him to build a second fire would likely cost him a few toes, but he would certainly survive.

Now he was very careful. He began to build a fire, only this time he could not feel his fingers. The awful cold had already driven the life out of his fingers. Eventually, using his frozen appendages more as stumps than hands, he managed to erect a pitiful pile of tinder.

He fumbled in his pocket, his deadened fingers brushing against the matchbox, unfeeling. He dragged the box out with his unfeeling claw. It dropped in the snow. He attempted to grab it. When he saw his fingers on each side of the pack, he closed them. That is, he willed to close them, because the fingers did not obey. Eventually, he managed to take a single match in his teeth and strike it against the box.

The first match flared weakly, then sputtered out. A second match followed, but he dropped it before he could bring it to the twigs. For the third his teeth clenched so hard it snapped the match in two. Twenty matches succeeded in like fashion. Failure. Exasperated, the man caught the whole pack of matches between his bare hands. His arm muscles were not frozen and he was able to press the hands tightly against the matches. Then he drew the whole pack along his leg. It burst into flame, 70 matches at once!

He plunged the inferno in his bare hands into his pitiful kindling. His flesh was burning, he could smell it. A single plume of smoke rose from the dry kindling. The final fire he had made was small but it was his lifeline. He was shaking violently. He needed to tend the fire, or else it would die. He tried, how he tried to be careful but his uncontrollable trembling caused him to knock it aside. The scattered twigs fell into the snow, hissing softly as they were swallowed by the cold.

He was dying—he could see it, feel it. He was afraid.

He lay in the snow for a moment, breathing shallow, ragged breaths. He could not feel his limbs at all now. But somewhere, deep in the corners of his mind, a thought began to stir. The dog. He turned his head slowly, eyes fixing on the animal, its fur thick and warm against the unforgiving cold.

The thought grew, sharper now, more urgent. He could kill the dog. It was a cruel notion, but survival had no room for kindness. If he could just cut it open and stick his hands into its warmth he may regain enough feeling to try one more time. He called the dog softly, his voice cracked and weak. The animal sensed the shift in the man’s intent, its instincts telling it to stay back. It was no fool—it could smell the desperation. The man gave the slightest chuckle. Killing the dog was impossible. He didn’t have the strength, and even if he did, he couldn’t strike, couldn’t hold the knife. The warmth and security of the animal angered him. He cursed it until it flattened its ears.

And then something shifted. It was as if the thought of his own imminent death lit a final fire inside him—a fire of panic, of desperate adrenaline. He pushed himself to his feet with a sudden burst of energy, driven not by rationality but by pure, animal fear. He pushed himself to his feet with an energy he didn't know he had.

He sprinted. He didn’t know where he was going, didn’t think about camp or shelter, only the need to escape the cold that was crawling inside his body. The snow crunched under his boots as he stumbled forward, his legs burning with the effort, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. He ran harder, faster, his mind a blur of frantic thoughts. His body, deadened by the cold, suddenly felt alive again, every nerve firing in response to the burst of adrenaline. He didn’t notice the deepening snow, the way his legs began to falter, the way his vision blurred. He was running, fleeing, but from what? The cold? Death? He couldn’t tell anymore.

The warmth—the false warmth—spread through his limbs, tricking him into thinking he had time. But the cold was there, waiting. His lungs burned, his breath came in shorter and shorter gasps, and the strength in his legs began to fade. The warmth was a lie, a final illusion offered by the body’s last reserves. He staggered, his legs buckling beneath him, and he collapsed into the snow. When he had recovered his breath and his control, he sat and thought about meeting death with dignity. He was certain to freeze in his present circumstances, and he should accept it calmly. With this newfound peace of mind came the first sleepiness. It certainly was cold, was his thought before he closed his eyes.

The dog, watching from a distance, saw the man fall. It trotted forward, sniffed at the motionless body and whined. The dog, sensing something was wrong, circled the man and then sat down nearby. This time though, the dog didn’t leave. Instead, it waited, its breath visible in the frigid air as it stayed near its master, as if uncertain of what came next. The man remained where he had fallen, alone in the vast, frozen expanse save for a lone loyal mutt. The wilderness had taken him, as it always would.