The man flung a look back along the way he had come.  The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice.  On top of this ice were as many feet of snow.  It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations where the ice-jams of the freeze-up had formed.  North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hair-line that curved and twisted from around the spruce-covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island.  This dark hair-line was the trail—­the main trail—­that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.

But all this—­the mysterious, far-reaching hairline trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all—­made no impression on the man.  It was not because he was long used to it.  He was a new-comer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter.  The trouble with him was that he was without imagination.  He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances.  Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty odd degrees of frost.  Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all.  It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man’s frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man’s place in the universe.  Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks.  Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero.  That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.

As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively.  There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him.  He spat again.  And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled.  He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air.  Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below—­how much colder he did not know.  But the temperature did not matter.  He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already.  They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon.  He would be in to camp by six o’clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready.  As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket.  It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin.  It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing.  He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.