EXTRACTS & READINGS

- THE HAPPIEST REFUGEE –

ANH DO
- UMASKED – TURIA PITT
- THE ROAD TO WINTER –
MARK SMITH

SURVIVAL
- SPARROW – SCOT GARDNER
- HOLES – LOUIS SACHAR
- TO BUILD A FIRE – JACK
LONDON

Year 9 Area of Study

The Happiest Refugee
Anh Do

Anh Do nearly didn’t make it to Australia. His entire family came

close to losing their lives on the sea as they escaped from war-
torn Vietnam in an overcrowded boat. But nothing – not
murderous pirates, nor the imminent threat of death by hunger,
disease or dehydration as they drifted for days – could quench
their desire to make a better life in a country where freedom
existed…
*One*
My mother has seven brothers and sisters. She was the third of the eight. When the war
ended her two older brothers, high-ranking paratroopers who fought alongside American
and Australian soldiers, were put into communist ‘re-education’ camps. The propaganda
was that they would learn about the new way of life they would experience under the
communist government. In truth these were more like concentration camps. Uncle Thanh
jokes that it was like staying at a ‘minus- five star hotel’. That brown thing on your pillow
wasn’t a chocolate. My uncles went in thinking they would be out in two weeks; but they
were there for three years. Better than some of their mates who never came out at all.

~
My father grew up in extreme poverty. His mother gave birth to twelve children but four
had died in childbirth or early infancy. Even with eight mouths to feed Grandma found it in
her heart to adopt two more boys. So Dad grew up as one of ten – nine boys and one girl,
who was the last child, a whimsical gift to Grandma from nature.
Many large Vietnamese families have so many kids that they give them a nickname which is
simply the order they were born. My dad was the fourth born. His name is Tam, but his
brothers simply call him ‘Four’. It was a system that evolved in poor villages where large
families were common, and it just made things easier. When Grandma needed to get
everyone in for dinner she would just stick her head out of the hut and shout: ‘Two, Three,
Four, Six, Eight…time to eat!’

~
My grandfather was in the army, so Grandma was left to look after ten kids on her own in
the little hut, and they eked out an existence on one soldier’s meagre wages. The family
were so poor that all nine boys were sleep on the floor in a row. At night Grandma would
move a long and simply count the feet to make sure there were eighteen. At dinnertime
each child would sit down on the dirt floor in a circle, pick up their little bowl of rice and in
the middle of the circle there would be a tiny plate of sweet potato, seasoned heavily with

1
salt so the flavour would last as long as possible with the rice. Any type of meat was a rare
and special event.
One of my dad’s earliest memories as a kid was receiving big pats on the back for catching
three little fish from a nearby stream. Dad’s father cooked them up in a broth of rice and
sweet potatoes and the flavour of the fish permeated right through the vegetables. It was
one of the best meals of his childhood.
One afternoon during the war my father was walking home with his brother, Six, one of the
adopted boys and they found themselves in the middle of Vietcong gunfire. He and his
brother had to run away, literally skipping through the gunshots hitting the ground. Once
they were safe, they realised that everyone else had fled the village and they were alone.
They noticed a huge plum tree nearby. Dad had had his eye on this tree for some time and
he really hated the idea that these Vietcong soldiers would get to enjoy its fruit. He and
Uncle Six climbed the tree and picked as many plums as they could, wrapped them up in
their shirts and took them home. That afternoon all ten siblings feasted on as many plums
as they could eat- my uncles still talk fondly about the famous ‘plum banquet’.

~
Uncle Thanh and Uncle Huy had been in the re-education camp for three years, and during
that time saw many prisoners die around them. Some died of sickness, some of starvation,
some were executed. My uncles had misrepresented their true rank in the army to their
captors; playing down their role because they were fearful of the repercussions. They spent
their time in the camps terrified of what might happen if the truth became known. My mum
was understandably anxious about her brothers and my father could see that his young wife
was worried. As usual Dad decided to take matters into his own hands.
The strange thing about civil wars is that often good friends, and sometimes, even family
end up on opposite sides. Dad had a friend called Vu, whose uncle had become a high-
ranking communist official. Dad had known Vu just about all his life and he asked a huge
favour of his friends: ‘Vu, when your uncle goes north next week, I need you to sneak in and
borrow a uniform and some paperwork for me.’
One sunny afternoon my father walked into the remote re-education camp dressed as a
high-ranking communist officer. He marched right through the front door of the
commanding officer’s room.
‘These two men need to come with me’, he demanded. The commanding officer was
bewildered. He was afraid to disobey such a high-ranking official so he did not resist. My
father then walked my uncles out of the camp, right through the front gate…

*Two*
My extended family pooled all their money, called in favours with friends and relatives and
sold everything they had – every possession- just to buy a boat. Getting your hands on a

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boat was an extremely risky business. They were only available on the black market and
after a couple of false starts, they finally managed to acquire a small vessel.
It was old and creaky and stank of fish. Sleeping quarters were basic- a few wooden benches
in a cabin just under the waterline. If nature called you would have to deal with it in a
bucket or over the edge. The deck had long wooden seats on one side, where the
youngsters and older family members could rest. If you wanted protection from the
elements, you had to go below. Everyone would be exposed to the sun and wind.
The boat was nine metres long by two and a half metres wide and there would be forty
people crowded on board – immediate family, uncles (including the two who had been in
the camps for three years), aunts, and friends, including toddlers, babies and teenagers
whose parents were too old or sick to make the journey. No belongings would be taken
except the clothes on their backs, though everyone had been stockpiling food and water for
months. There wasn’t a lot but enough to last the week they expected to be at sea. Any
leftover funds were swapped for small amounts of gold, the ‘international currency’, in hope
that wherever we ended up it could be traded for local money.
My dad and uncles had spent hours huddled together at night planning the escape. The goal
was to reach Malaysia and the journey was going to be complicated and potentially life
threatening…

~
Our group of forty did not head out together [the same] day. Starting early, under cover of
darkness, we set off in groups of three or four in small motorised canoes that were usually
used for carrying food to the morning markets. This process took many hours because the
main boat, ‘the Motherfish’ was so far away, the canoes had to follow different convoluted
routes through the canals so that they didn’t attract attention. The communists were on the
alert for potential boat people and everyone knew there was a chance you could get
stopped and caught by the army…

~
The next morning was going to be the most nerve-wracking because we needed to cross the
invisible border between Vietnam and international waters. Armed communist patrol boats
made routine surveillance missions along this stretch. We had two engines on the
Motherfish, the main one and a smaller back-up engine. Dad got both of them going to get
us across this patch of sea as fast as possible.
Just when it seemed we were finally beyond the border patrol area, Uncle Eight screamed
out ‘Patrol Boat!’
Behind us a patrol boat was heading in our direction at full speed. Dad cranked up both the
motors to maximum thrust and we bounced violently across the waves.
Bang! Bang!

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The patrol boat began shooting at us, and the women on our boat screamed.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The patrol boat was gaining on us and Dad knew that being caught meant jail for nearly
everyone on board, and possibly executions for my paratrooper uncles and himself. All of a
sudden there was a loud ‘Snap!’ the back-up engine stopped.
‘Jesus!’
Dad steered the boat onwards and with just one engine. The soldiers would surely catch us.
Suddenly Uncle Eight called out, ‘They’ve turned back!’
Everyone went to look and he was right. The patrol boat decided not to pursue us any
further outsider their zone of surveillance. They now headed away from us.
‘Thank you, God.’
Some people started clapping and cheering. Dad shushed them all and bean guiding the
boat out of the bay and into the open sea.
He knew there was a long, long way to go.

~
There was nothing but flat, blue water in every direction. The heat of the tropical afternoon
sun clung to our skin and shoulders, and people tried to shield their eyes from the glare as
the boat skidded along the frothy waves. The engine was spewing out thick petrol fumes
and these, combined with the up-and-down motion, meant that our first few hours on-
board were punctuated by bodies retching over the side of the vessel.
The boat was so small that we were jammed into every crevice, corner and spare patch of
deck. It was almost impossible to get downstairs into the hold, which was heaving with
sweating bodies and the suffocating stench of old fish. Forty people had transformed this
tiny fishing boat into a living, seething mass of human desperation floating in the Eastern
Sea…

~
The second day was much the same, a hot burning sun and a horizon that stretched on
forever. Later in the day, though, the hard blue sky clouded over and gave us welcome
respite from the heat. Mum brought Khoa and me up onto the deck for some fresh air- by
now the stench of petrol fumes and old fish had combined with vomit and human
excrement to fill the hold with an unbearable smell.
As the afternoon wore on, the soft white cushions scudding across the sky turned into angry
grey storm clouds and the wind whipped waves into heaving swells – our little fishing boat
pitched from side to side. With every wave that hit, water washed over us and every able

4
body scrambled to bail it out. Soon the sky darkened further, turning a sinister, tumultuous
black as the wind shrieked and skidded across the deck like a panicked ghost.
Mum grabbed us and shoved Khoa and me through the hatch door into the darkness of the
hold and aunty’s waiting arms. Mum climbed in and looked back, taking one last anxious
look at the men of her family, who were rushing and yelling, their screams torn from their
throats by the howling wind. She heard Dad’s strained voice – ‘Go Hien, now!’ which had an
unexpected tone that she recognised as fear. She looked up to see an enormous wall of
grey-green water that appeared to have swallowed the sky. It was as though the bottom of
the ocean was about to crash down on top of us. She screamed and fell down the steps into
the hold, the hatch door banging shut behind her.
A deafening darkness. Mum felt like a blind woman groping wildly amidst flailing arms and
knees and hair, all the sounds intensified by her loss of sight. She could hear her babies
screeching with terror; others were moaning, praying, shouting; wood was cracking under
the full force of the sea smashing against our little wooden boat. As the boat pitched, the
bodies in the hold rolled and fell from side to side. My mother managed to get hold of Khoa
and me and we clung to her neck as we were shoved and pushed by the mass of limbs…
We hung on and waited…and waited some more. Mum managed to keep hold of her post
and her children. The boat kept pitching, the wind kept howling and people kept praying.
Slowly the storm began to subside. I whimpered against my mother’s chest. My brother’s
crying became more audible. Mum rocked us gently on her lap.
‘Shhh, shhh. It’s okay now. Everything is okay.’ And she sang a Vietnamese mother’s lullaby
to us…

~
Much of our cooked rice was ruined by seawater, and a good portion of our fresh water
supply was lost overboard in the storm. But at least we were alive. Once the weather
cleared, the sun returned in force and again we faced the choice of being cooked on the
deck or crouched below in the dark, stinking hold.
There was no escaping the heat or the people. There was no space to stretch out your legs
and arms. Everywhere were sweating, salty bodies with brown, dirty faces peeling from
sunburn and slowly darkening…
Another day passed. Mum carried her two exhausted children up onto the deck. It was
swelteringly hot, but she needed a break from the stench of the hold – at least the air was
fresh up top. Everyone was still and silent and the heat of the sun pushing down on us,
making already hungry and thirsty human beings thirstier still, rendering us incapable of
speech.
Suddenly a distant shout broke Mum’s thoughts. She shook her head and returned to the
present. Yes, a man on board was shouting and waving his arms. He had seen a boat! And

5
there it was, a small brown speck marring the smooth blue surface of the ocean. Mum’s
heart flooded with relief and she felt hot tears on her cheeks. At last we will be rescued.
Much of our food had deteriorated and our water supply was down to almost nothing, but
we had survived.
We all started jumping up and down waving for this boat to come to us – thirsty-nine pairs
of eyes, brightened by hope, watched the brown speck’s progress toward us. As it got bigger
we could see it was an old fishing boat, a little larger than ours. It pulled up alongside our
vessel.
Fishermen. Thank goodness. We couldn’t tell where they were from but from the insignia on
their boat, maybe Thailand. We didn’t care. They were going to save us. Before any of our
group could figure out what was going on, the fishermen quickly jumped onto our boat.
‘Sit down all of you and SHUT UP!’ their leader barked.
We were quickly surrounded by seven men with knives and guns. They were pirates. They
descended on us angrily, striking random faces to assert their intent, yanking off bracelets
and rings from trembling hands.
They ordered all of us to take our clothes off and we did.
Mum was standing next to Uncle Eight who looked over and saw the gold cross Grandma
had given to Mum before the journey dangling around her neck. He ripped it off her neck
and stuck it in his mouth, flicking the fake-gold chain into the ocean.
His plan was to hide the cross under his tongue but, as the pirates made their way towards
him, he could see them ordering people to open their mouths, so he swallowed it.
Once they had everything of value they could see, the pirates readied to leave, except for
one angry moustached pirate, who called out obscenities from the back. An old lady, Bao,
had a beautiful jade bracelet that was tight around her wrist. In Vietnam it is tradition for
young girls to receive one of these bracelets on their eighteenth birthday – they would put it
on and never take it off. Naturally, as the girl got older, the bracelet would get tighter until it
was impossible to slip beyond the hand. The pirate was tugging so hard Bao’s knuckles were
white, but the bracelet would not budge. He grabbed her arm and stretched it over the side
of the boat. Another pirate raised his machete high up into the air…
My Aunty Huong stepped in and greased the old lady’s wrist with a handful of day-old
vomit, a makeshift lubricant. The bracelet slipped off reluctantly and Aunty handed it to the
pirate in a begging stoop. They took the bracelet. They took everything, even our engine.
Then they were gone, just like that.
All was still. The silence was broken only by waves lapping at our boat and an old lady’s
weeping.

6
In the back corner of the hold, covered in old rags, was one thing the pirates had missed –
the second engine that had broken down during the chase. Miraculously, they’d overlooked
it. Dad pulled it out and looked at the broken down motor, trying to figure out a way to
mend the snapped rubber ring. He’d fixed old engines before, but without tools and
equipment it all seemed hopeless.
Just then Uncle Eight wandered over to see how it was all going. Dad looked down and
noticed the old pair of sandals his brother was wearing. That’s it!
Using a knife, Dad cut a hole into the rubber sole of one of the sandals and made a round
hoop, roughly the same size as the snapped rubber ring. He tested its elasticity and with a
bit of shaping and re-shaping, stretch it over the engine’s motor and made it fit.
Everyone watched as Dad pulled the starter cord. The engine roared to life and we all
cheered. This time Dad didn’t tell any of us to be quiet…he cheered loudest of all.

~
Uncle Eight was staring at the blue horizon, thinking about his mother whom he’d left
behind, thinking about food, and thinking about how he was going to retrieve the cross he’d
just swallowed. All of a sudden he yelled out ‘Boat!’
We all squeezed onto the deck again and looked out across the blue. This time all of the
bodies dressed in dirty clothes were stiff with fear. We had no weapons and nowhere to
hide. We were an exposed pimple on the vast face of the ocean. But there was still a
chance, still a small amount of hope that the boat approaching us was benevolent. We
might be rescued. We waited.
As the boat got closer we realised they were also pirates but Dad could do nothing. The
vessel rammed into ours and within minutes a gang of nine men were on our boat waving
guns in the air and screaming.
It was too much. We stood there silent and numb, like sheep awaiting slaughter. We were
forced to strip off our clothes again, and the pirates stalked up and down the rows of naked
bodies, inspecting opened, trembling mouths, occasionally pulling out a gold capping. My
father stated what appeared to be the obvious, ‘We have nothing left.’
A pirate with black front teeth leered at Aunty Huong. He muttered something and without
warning, grabbed her arm and dragged her onto the other boat.
‘Huong!’ Uncle Thanh screamed and lunged for his wife. A rifle butt cracked him across the
back of the head. With the tip of a gun sticking into her lower back, my Aunty was pushed
into the pilothouse on the pirate vessel. Black teeth was breathing heavily on her naked
flesh.
Back on our boat one of the pirates grabbed hold of the smallest child. He lifted up the baby
and ripped open the child’s nappy. A tiny slice of gold fell out. The pirate picked up the
metal and wantonly dangled the baby over the side of the boat, threatening to throw the

7
infant in. My father screamed at the top of his lungs, ‘We must save the child! We will fight
to the death to SAVE THE CHILD!’
Suddenly guns were lifted and machetes raised. The robbery now turned into a full-blown
standoff: nine men with weapons against thirty-seven starving refugees, a baby dangling
over the ocean and a naked woman awaiting hell.
The most dangerous animal is one cornered and fearful. My uncles, ex-army paratroopers,
suddenly felt a surge of adrenaline and stood up in unison. They were tired and hungry and
weak, but they had one last fight left in them. Then the teenage boys started calling out to
each other, psyching each other up, their fear now turned to desperate rage. Everyone was
ready to fight till the end. If the child was thrown into the ocean, there would be no
survivors.
The head pirate sized up the situation and barked frantically at the man dangling the baby.
The child was thrown to the feet of his mother. His life was spared.
That baby was my brother Khoa. My crying mother gathered him up and held him tight, like
a son who had returned from the dead.
One by one the pirates went back to their vessel, taking with them every little thing they
could find, even our broken second engine. The pirate with black teeth angrily yanked my
aunty out of the pilothouse and shoved her back onto our boat. She fell on the deck and was
protectively covered by the arms and bodies of our family, grateful that nothing further had
happened to her. The pirate’s noisy diesel motor started up and fumed filled the air.
As their boat veered away, one of the pirates did something strange. He was a young kid
according to my uncles, no more than eighteen years old, and had been less aggressive
throughout the whole encounter. Suddenly and for no apparent reason he threw us a gallon
of water.
That water saved our lives.
You can’t drink jewellery or eat gold teeth caps, but that water meant everything because it
bought us an extra day. That second pirate attack saved our lives.

~
Now we drifted according to the breeze, our boat a small blimp in a vast blue universe of
ocean. We had been at sea for four days and that gallon of water did not last long. We lay
quietly, waiting for death or a miracle.
On the fifth day Mum squinted at a distant shape. Another boat, but it looked different to
the others. The boat grew bigger and bigger and bigger still. We saw a flag waving on its
mast. It was a huge boat. A ship, actually. Our boatload of beaten refugees stirred and
stared – waiting, hoping, but terrified to hope too much. The ship came closer and suddenly
a voice blared through a loudspeaker. It was incomprehensible, shocking in its loudness.

8
These were no Thai pirates. We looked up at a dozen fair, foreign faces. They were
Germans.
Their fair faces smiled down at us, giving us benevolent looks that said ‘You will be okay
now’. My mother sank to her knees, clutching Khoa and me to her chest, and said ‘Thank
you God’. Parched mouths murmured with excitement, tears rolled down dirty cheeks,
bodies hugged and breathed great sights of relief. It had finally come to an end.
Dad looked up at the Germans and spotted an older man with a long aquiline nose, peaked
hat and many stripes on his jacket sleeve. He was obviously the captain. A torrent of foreign
words poured from his mouth. We continued to gaze up at our saviours with blank, but
smiling faces.
The captain dropped down behind the ship’s railing for a moment and then reappeared with
something in his hands. Dad couldn’t quite make it out. The captain threw the object onto
our boat.
Whack! A heavy axe landed on the deck. Everyone jumped, startled by the appearance of a
weapon. A flicker of concern crossed Dad’s face as he looked up at the captain again the
captain pointed to the axe and gesticulated with his arms. More strange words came
tumbling out.
What’s he saying?
Now the other sailors joined their captain in this crazy, cross-cultural game of charades.
Some were point at our boat and some were making whacking actions with their arms, as
though chopping something with an axe.
‘What are they doing? Do you think they’re going to attack us?’
Uncle Eight asked, confused.
He was making his way across to Mum, psyching himself up to swallow that gold cross he’d
only just managed to return to her that morning.
And then a flash of enlightenment.
‘Maybe they can only rescue us if our boat is sinking!’ shouted Dad. So he picked up the axe,
swung it above his head and struck our little wooden boat.
Thwack!
It was as though we’d finally got the secret password. Open sesame! A rope ladder
appeared over the side of the ship and the sailors began pulling us on board, one by one,
carefully nursing the women and children with a tenderness that will always stick in my
mother’s mind.
Dad, with barely enough energy left to list the axe, let alone use it properly, finally broke
through the wooden hull and water began gushing in. He was the last to be taken on board
and by the time he stepped off the rope ladder his dry sunburnt face had cracked open into
a whopping great big smile as he tasted his own salty tears of relief.

9
Unmasked
Turia Pitt

1. The Fire
My life will be forever divided into two parts: before the fire and after the fire.
As much as I refuse to be defined by a few seconds, I can’t escape the fact that what
happened to me one September afternoon in 2011 will give shape to the rest of my life
story. I’m determined it won’t be the most important moment in my life, but it will always
be a significant one.
The day started with so much promise. We had all risen early, and in the bus transporting
competitors to the ultramarathon start line, I remember chatting animatedly, proudly
showing off the Kimberley. It had been over six months since I had arrived in the region to
start work as a mining engineer at the Argyle diamond mine. I struck up a conversation with
three men at the back of the bus: fellow engineers, as it happened, from the nearby
Newcrest mine. We spoke excitedly about the day ahead. As the bus rumbled through the
early morning stillness of the outback, I remember seeing the sun peek over the horizon and
set the countryside alight. If there is a more visually stunning part of Australia, I have yet to
see it. The colours are so vivid, the landscape so varied. My boyfriend Michael and I had
fallen effortlessly in love with the area, and in the short time we’d lived there we’d begun to
build a life there and get to know the place. I’d been doing some volunteering for the
ambulance service, which is run out of Kununurra and we’d gone on lots of camping trips
and walks on the weekends, swimming and fishing in waterholes and visiting the local
towns.
I had registered for the race six months before. A lover of all things extreme, to me the
thought of running 100 kilometres in a single day through the Australian desert was oddly
appealing, and I was fairly sure I was fit enough: I’d been doing runs between the mine and
the mine camp, had won a half-marathon recently, and was certainly acclimatised to
running in the heat of this part of Australia. And I wasn’t bothered about how long the race
took me – I just wanted to push myself and finish.
At the starter’s gun, I set off amid the forty or so other competitors. I knew the race was
going to be about endurance rather than speed, but after about 10 kilometres I pulled away
from the three guys I had been running alongside and set out at my own pace. As per my
custom, I had my earphones in as I ran, my iPod rolling through the hip-hop tunes on my
running playlist.
At the 19-kilometre mark, I stopped at the second checkpoint to have some water and catch
my breath. The day was getting warmer as the sun rose in the sky. The landscape around
was scrubby, rocky and dramatic: red earth against a clear blue sky. Leaving the checkpoint
and running towards Tier Gorge, I passed a pair of fellow competitors sitting by the track
and having a quick bite to eat. A father and son duo, I would later discover. I took my

10
earphones out briefly to say hello, and hear a roaring noise in the distance. I figured it must
be a road train rumbling along the nearby Great Northern Highway. I put my earphones
back in, put my head down, and headed into the gorge. It was just after 1pm.
The terrain was uneven so my focus was on where I put my feet. Behind me, two other
competitors, Hal Benson and Kate Sanderson, had also entered the gorge, emerging from its
narrow, high-walled entrance and onto its floor – a space about 800 metres wide. The
course, marked by fluorescent pink flags, wove its way through the valley and out the other
side. A shoulder-high wall of brittle desert grass spread out on either side of the track to the
rocky escarpments that formed a sort of natural amphitheatre.
Kate and Hal say they stopped in their tracks, taking in a smouldering grass fire to their right.
The roaring noise I had heard minutes earlier had started to build to a thunder. They saw me
running just ahead of them, directly into the path of the fire – but with my earphones in and
head down I hadn’t registered the danger. Behind them, three more runners were making
their way into the gorge- unaware of the fire trap into which they were stumbling.
By the time Michael Hull and father-and-son pair Martin and Shaun Van der Merwe had
caught up with Kate and Hal at the bottom of the gorge’s entrance, I had seen the fire and
was sprinting back to join them. I was terrified. Where seemingly there had been no fire
moments before, there was now a wall of flames advancing towards the five of us. The grass
crackled noisily as the radiant heat from the blaze swept across the valley floor. Smoke
engulfed us, restricting our vision. Embers flew wildly around us. Everything seemed to
move in fast- forward.
We hurriedly considered our options. Going forwards was out of the question: it would have
meant walking directly into the furnace and certain death. Going backwards seemed fraught
with danger: the narrow, rocky gorge entrance had been near impossible to navigate in the
full light of day. Now shrouded in smoke and beginning to funnel the heat out of the fast-
moving blaze, it was quickly deemed by the group to be not an option.
‘I’m scared,’ I said to no one in particular, and started to cry. I felt a hand rest gently on my
arm and give a reassuring squeeze.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ said the stranger. ‘We’ll be all right if we all stick together.’
I wasn’t sure I believed him, but I appreciated the gesture.
There was barely time to think as the wall of fire screamed towards us. The roar of the blaze
was so loud now, I could barely hear the person shouting next to me. I looked around for
somewhere to hide: a crevasse, a rock, a creek bed- anything that might provide a fire
break. But there was nothing. Halfway up the side of the valley, to our right, I could just
make out a rocky outcrop. It appeared to not have too much vegetation on it: perhaps the
fire would jump over it? As the heat started hitting us in ever increasing waves, Kate made
the call to run for it. With no other option, and terrified at being left alone, I followed.

11
In the back of my mind, I knew the fact: fire moved faster uphill and trying to outrun a fire
was pointless. But when faced with the choice of standing still and being engulfed by flames
or running for your life, there’s little time for reason.
As we ran up the hill, I could feel the flames getting closer. The roar was deafening – and
apocalyptic, otherworldly rumble that seemed to pass right through me. The heat grew
more intense. It felt like it was melting my clothes into my skin and setting the ends of my
hair alight. I was crying as I clambered up the rocky slope, losing my footing, slipping, falling
and dragging myself upwards, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I couldn’t see the
others – we’d all scattered as we tried to flee. I scrambled onto the outcrop – the ledge
looking far smaller and more exposed than it had appeared from below. With flames licking
at my feet and the crackling sound of burning spinifex in my ears, I looked desperately
around me for a depression in the rocks in which to hide. The time for running was over; I
thought my only hope was to find some sort of barrier, squeeze myself into it and hope the
fire might pass over me. But I couldn’t see shelter anywhere.
I dragged a long-sleeved shirt out of my backpack and draped it over my legs, curling myself
instinctively into a ball. The heat was unbearable, so hot I couldn’t breathe. Each breath I
took felt like I was inhaling flames.
Finally, I couldn’t stand the heat anymore. I stood up and started to run further up the hill,
and as I did I fell. That’s when the fire caught me. I remember looking down at my hands
and arms and they were both on fire. I started to scream. The pain was indescribable.
The only person I could think of was Michael. This is it, I thought. I am never going to see
Michael again. This is how I die.
And then, just as quickly as it was upon me, the fire passed. The roar stopped and there was
silence. An eerie silence. Everything around me was black and smouldering. Smoke rose up
in wisps off the charred remains of tree stumps. I stood there flailing – a mixture of panic,
confusion and extreme pain. The flames on me had gone out, somehow. I couldn’t see
anyone else. All I could hear, distant at first, then getting louder, was a wild, animal-like
hysterical scream. Then I realised it was me.
‘Wake up!’ I remember telling myself. ‘Wake up, Turia! This is a dream – it’s all just a bad
dream. You need to wake up.’ It’s from about this point that my memory gets a bit hazy.
The shock began to set in, and the next few hours passed in a blur.
I vaguely recall Martin stumbling towards me in the first few minutes after the fire. His legs
were burned to the thighs and he had burns to his right hand. We may have exchanged
words, I don’t remember. All I remember if him moving me gentle to try to make me more
comfortable. He reached into what was left of his backpack, brought out two Panadol and
gave them to me with the remains of his water bottle.
‘How badly burned am I?’ I asked.
He looked at me, uncertain how to reply, before answering: ‘You’re okay. And you’ll heal
well.’

12
I recall seeing Kate, huddled not far from where I was. The back of her skirt had melted and
the skin on her back was burned. The blackened landscape around me started to come alive
with fellow competitors. Fellow survivors of the fire storm. It was like a war zone – bloodied,
bruised and variously burned bodies limping towards one another to take stock.
It’s hard to describe what I felt. I was in shock. Everything seemed to unfold around me in a
slow-motion fog.
I remember the three mining engineers from Newcrest appearing after a while. As it
happened, they had arrived at the top of the gorge just as the fire was advancing on us
down below. They had watched in horror as the flames overtook me and Kate, and heard
our screams echo across the valley.
They were uninjured and busied themselves with first-aid duties: dousing with water a few
crepe bandages and applying them to the worst of the burns, then pulling space blankets
and silk sleeping-bag liners from their packs and fashioning a pair of temporary shelters
above Kate and me.
One of them made a manifest of names and set off back along the track to raise the alarm.
The sun beat down and blew hot on my wounds, the full extent of which I had no concept.
At a certain moment, I am told, my voice broke the silence.
‘Excuse me, please,’ I apparently said. ‘Can someone please get the ants off me?’
I had been sitting on an ants’ nest for over an hour and only just realised. It was decided to
move me into the shade next to Kate. As Shaun and Trent took hold of my arms to help me
stand, my skin peeled off at their touch…

2 On a Knife Edge
In the early morning of Sunday 4 September, barely two days after I had set off from the
start line of the ultra-marathon, I was admitted to the intensive care unit at Sydney’s
concord hospital.
In an induced coma, my body reeling from the emergency procedures that successive
medical teams had undertaken at Kununurra and Darwin hospitals, I had no idea where I
was or what was going on. My body was working overtime to keep up with my injuries: I’d
been burned on my legs, arms, hands, face, neck and some of my torso. The resting heart
rate of a normal person is 60- 80 beats per minute. Even though I was lying completely still,
my heart was racing between 120 and 150 beats per minutes as my body battled to fight
infection.
The doctors in Darwin had performed the emergency burns surgery required to keep me
alive – the details of which are frankly too gory to explain. Now that I was back in Sydney,
the real fight for my life began.
The immediate task for the intensive care team was to stop me from dying. While my
relative youth and fitness level meant my heart was strong and immune system efficient,

13
because of my low body fat I had less insulation when the fire hit, so the burns had gone
deeper into my tissue.
Without bandages, I would have been a confronting sight. Fluid retention had swollen my
head to the size of a basketball; my arms and legs had been sliced down the middle to
relieved the pressure. I would have looked for all the world as if I had been skinned.
Dad, Mum, my brother Genji and his wife Angela arrived at my bedside. I can’t imagine how
hard it must have been for them to walk into my room for my mum to see her child in such a
state.
Michael and his dad arrived not long after, and had to take in the full realisation not only of
the extent of my injuries, but also that if I pulled through (which at that point was a big if),
there would be a long and painful road to recovery in front of us.
I might have kicked off solo in the red dust of the Kimberley two days previously, but now I
was caught in a life-and-death struggle in which many others had a stake.
Early the next morning, I was rolled into theatre for my first encounter with two men to
whom I will be forever indebted: Professor Peter Maitz and Peter Haertsch. I didn’t know it
at the time – because I didn’t know anything, such was the level of my sedation – but this
was to be a fateful meeting that would change the course of my life.
Over the next four hours, the two doctors worked assiduously to see what tissue could be
salvaged: what was healthy enough for grafting, what was dead and had to be removed and
what required an immediate layer of artificial skin. Neck, arms, legs, feet, torso. By the time
they had finished, they had removed 60 percent of my body surface and replaced it with
temporary artificial skin.
Any healthy skin they were able to locate was removed and taken directly to a lab where it
under went a process to stretch it to four times its original size in preparation for skin grafts.
(Something I’ve learned from this experience, from a medical point of view, is how durable
and elastic human skin is.”
Three days later I was back in the operation theatre. Section of the artificial skin that had
been applied to my legs, arms and face had become infected meaning the doctors had to
start all over again. Test results indicated I had picked up an infection – most likely during
the wait on the side of the canyon before being airlifted to hospital. Thanks to this infection,
my face became irreparable as they lay me once again on the operating table and started
scraping off infected tissue.
Professor Haertsch located donor skin at a bank in the States and immediately arranged to
have it cryo-packed and sent to Sydney. Upon arrival at Sydney Airport – and with my life
hanging in the balance some 20 kilometres away in Concord – the skin was held up by
customs officials concerns that the importation contravened the Human Tissues Act, which
prevents the sale of human tissue products. Thankfully for me, Professor Haertsch is not a
man to be messed with. A message to customs officials from his registrar read; ‘If we don’t
get it this afternoon, this patient will die.’ The skin was released on the spot.

14
The operation that took place a day later saved my life. Again. Without the donated skin,
without it being let through customs, without the expert surgical work of Professors Maitz
and Haertsch, I wouldn’t be here today. Professor Haertsch applied the skin to no less than
65 percent of my body. It was to be a critical turning point in my recovery.
This was point zero…the hard work was only just beginning.
There were many points during my recovery when I felt like I didn’t have the strength to
keep living, and easily one of the worst was waking up to discover that all the digits on my
right hand and two fingers on my left hand had been amputated. It’s impossible to describe
the feeling of desolation…

22. Chasing the ‘Big Life’

I’ve always said that to achieve any big goal, you need a strong emotional connection to it:
you need a very good reason for it. Because when you’re hating the grind and wondering
why you’re doing what you’re doing, you need a foundation to fall back on.
Before the fire, I was an independent, vivacious go-getter. After the fire, doctors told me I
was going to need a carer for the rest of my life – but, it I was lucky, there was always the
possibility that one day I might drive again. I might even get married! And while I would
never belittle these goals (I wanted and want those things too), put together they didn’t add
up to what I would call a ‘big life’ – the kind of life I’ve always wanted to live for myself.
That was the reason I trained for and completed two Ironmans. That was the reason I kept
grinding away with my training, waking up each morning in the dark and hitting the road.
The reason I kept pushing myself, even when I wanted more than anything else to give up.
When I was training, in the middle of a six-hour bike ride, in the middle of a miserable
downpour, I kept coming back to this reason: I want to be fitter than I was in the Kimberley.
I hate being told what I can and can’t do. I hate being limited. And the thing I hate the most
is being underestimated.
I faced training for Ironman like I had faced everything else in my journey. In the same way,
during my recovery from the fire I would congratulate myself for getting through yet
another day in hospital (literally: every night before I went to sleep I’d say to myself, ‘Well
done, Mate. You made it through another day.’) I would just focus on the day I had ahead of
myself.
The thing about achieving a big goal like Ironman is that it always gives back more than you
put into it. I poured in hours and hours and hours and hours. I sweated, I cried, I wondered
why I was doing it. I wondered what I was trying to prove. But in the end, it was so
empowering. It made me realise that the ‘process’ I’d used for recovering from hospital
wasn’t just a fluke. I wasn’t just ‘born this way’. Doing the Ironman made me realise that
anything I want to achieve in life is possible – if I’m willing to put in the work to get myself
there.

15
The Road to Winter
by Mark Smith

1
The wind’s picked up off the strait again, whistling hard and sharp through the coastal
wattles. The bay has turned to white caps all the way out to the open ocean. The weather
will force me and Rowdy indoors, laying low and huddling together for warmth. We can’t
risk a fire for fear of the smoke being seen.
But at least now I’ve got time to take stock after the last few days of hunting and fishing.
I get the rabbit traps out of the shed and oil the springs and plates, then run the chains
through a greasy rag to keep them from rusting up. My hands are soon black with grime.
There are big calluses on the palms and half-circles of dirt under my nails.
After two winters on my own I’ve almost given up trying to stay clean. Sometimes when I
walk past the mirror in the bathroom I hardly recognise myself. My hair’s long and matted,
bleached by the sun, and my face is usually peeling – either from the wind or sunburn. I’ve
tried hacking at my hair with scissors, but I think I made it worse. Once a month or so I heat
water for a proper wash, but mostly I just rinse off in the ocean.
Angowrie is deserted now, all the shops cleaned out and most of the houses stripped of
anything useful. Before the virus, when the town was still a town, we thought our isolation
would save us. We were two hours drive from the city, a little town with a pub, a couple of
churches and shops all lined up and looking out to sea. Early on, when we still believed it
would all blow over, we followed the news reports and daily updates about quarantined
areas. The health authorities tried to reassure everyone they had it under control, but when
the hospitals were locked down and law and order fell away, people start panic- buying.
And there was the weather. I was only thirteen then, but even I could see it changing: the
summers longer, the winters shorter, the ocean staying warmer right through the autumn.
The storms came more regularly, the king tides pushing right up the river valley and flooding
the houses that used to sit well clear of the water. Up until the internet went down for good
and all the communications fell away – phones, radio, everything - there were theories
flying around about how the warmer climate was making everyone sick.
The main road into town was barricaded and patrols were set up to stop people coming
from the north. But they came anyway, finding their way down through the bush tracks to
somewhere they thought would be safer.
That’s probably how the virus reached us.
At first, I didn’t really understand the seriousness of it. I was happy we didn’t have to go to
school. All summer I’d been dreading moving to Wentworth High, not because I didn’t like
school but because it was so big and different and new.

16
And, of course, I’d always copped shit for my voice.
For years I had problems talking; I couldn’t seem to form the words properly. It was like
trying to talk with a mouth full of sand, so mostly I just stated quiet. Mum and Dad could
understand my well enough, and Rowdy too.
I didn’t know it at the time, but everything I learned back them would help me survive. For
as long as I could remember I’d hunted rabbits up on the edge of the farmland, dived off the
point for abalone and caught crays in season. I knew every nook and cranny of the tea trees
along the dunes and every trail and bike track through the bush. I understood the weather
patterns like they were part of me. The big westerlies that pushed up the swell, the
southerlies that brought the chill up from Anatarctica and, in summer, the northerlies that
blew heat down off the inland.
Outside the wind has turned to rain, beating on the iron roof. Rowdy sits at my feet and
rests his face on his paws.
He likes it when I lift my foot and scratch him on his belly. I got Rowdy as a pup when I was
ten. He’s a bitser, but somewhere back in his line Dad reckoned there must have been some
dingo. He’s lean and strong and always on the lookout for a rabbit to chase down. We’re a
team, the two of us. Before the virus we did things together just for fun – now we do them
to stay alive.
Later in the afternoon the rain eases and I decide to check out the beach. The wind’s backed
off and the river mouth will be getting some protection. It sounds pretty stupid to say that I
will still surf whenever I can, but once I’d worked out how to survive, how to hunt, grow
some veggies and forage in the forest, I knew I needed something more. Something that
kept me in touch with my old life. It’s dangerous, not because of anything in the water but
because of what’s on the land – who might arrive in town while I’m caught up enjoying
myself. But it’s a risk that’s worth taking to stay sane.
Rowdy watches me put on my old raincoat, and straight away he knows what’s up. He
jumps to his feet and waits by the back door until I’ve pulled on my boots.
We scout through the stand of sheoaks at the back of the house, cross Parker Street and
make our way into the thick tea trees at the back of the dunes, following the tracks and
tunnels to the base of the lookout at the river mouth.
From the top I can see all the way back up to the bridge. I check for movement. For two
winters there’s been nothing, but I know, one day, the Wilders will come looking for food or
fuel or people.
I keep my board and wetsuit hidden up here under the platform. The sets up are lining up
and peeling off into the river mouth. The sky is clear to the west so I take a chance on
getting a few waves before the next storm front hits.
It always feels good to be out in the water, looking back at the town and the ridge beyond it.
Rowdy prowls up and down the beach, chasing seagulls and sniffing the wind for danger.

17
The river mouth is my favourite way to the shore break. I get half-a-dozen good rides before
the sky darkens again and I decide to make my way in. Rowdy’s waiting in the shallows and
he dances around my legs as we head back up to the platform. I change quickly, the cold
wind biting at my skin, and stash my board and wetsuit.
With the last of the light fading behind the next big storm head, we make our way back
down into the tea trees, Rowdy running ahead now, eager for the warmth of his blanket in
the corner of the kitchen.
Out of habit, I look at Sarah Watford’s place as I cross Parker Street, thinking that one day
she’ll be there, standing on the front porch in her school dress and waving me over. But the
screen door is still hanging by one hinge, the windows are still smashed and the path is still
overgrown. Time to get home.

~
A few months after I lost Mum and Dad, I discovered Ray. I had been hunting out in the
Addiscot Valley, about two hours east of town. As I was setting traps along a fence line, I
looked up to see this old bloke pointing a shotgun at me from about twenty metres away.
‘Oi,’ he said ‘Bugger off.’
I was so shocked to hear another voice I just stood there staring at him.
‘Go on,’ he said ‘I told you to bugger off my land.’ He jerked the shotgun at the bush behind
me.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Just trying to catch some food.’
He lowered the gun and turned his head to the side like he was hard of hearing.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ He said.
I couldn’t place him. His hair was long and wild and grey, and most of his face was hidden
behind a bear.
‘You’re Tom Morrison’s boy aren’t you? From the hardware?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You always spoke funny,’ he said, scratching his chin. ‘I recognise your dog, too.’
‘Rowdy.’
‘Year, well,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, son, but I only got enough food for myself. How you faring?’
‘Getting by. Mostly rabbits and fish.’
‘Your mum and dad?’
‘Both gone.’
‘How long you been on your own?’

18
I shrugged. ‘Maybe six months.’
He was nodding and looking past me into bush, as though he was expecting someone else to
be with me.
‘Seen any wilders about?’
This was the first time I’d hear about the gangs of men roaming the country to the north.
‘Nope,’ I said.
‘Many people left in town?’
‘None. Just Rowdy and me.’
‘None?’
‘Yep.’
‘Shit.’
Through that first winter me and Ray traded food every month or so. I’d catch rabbits for
him and he’d give me honey from his hives or veggies grown in his garden. It was tempting
to move out there and live with him – I reckon he would have liked that – but I had my
stores to protect and his farm was too far from the surf.
This storm is taking its time to clear. I don’t sleep well, worrying about how the house will
stand up in the rain and wind. The next day, when I check the river mouth in the afternoon,
the sets are lining up like corduroy. Dad used to say that; meant they were one after the
other. So I grab my board and paddle out again, duck diving under the sets as they crash
over the bar. They’re bigger today and I need to be careful not to drift too far inside the
peak.
But I’ve only had a couple of waves when I hear Rowdy going apeshit. When I look back to
the beach I can hardly believe what I see. He’s got someone bailed up, leaping up and down
and barking at them, then dropping to the ground like he’s ready to go at them. I’m
whistling for him to back off, but the waves are making too much noise for him to hear me.
There’s nothing for it, I end up thinking. I’ll have to head in.
I undo my leg-rope in the shallows and hold the board in front of me in case I need
protection. But this bloke’s just standing there, putting his hand out, trying to soothe
Rowdy. When I get closer I see he’s as small as me, thin as a whippet. Rangy. Hair long and
ropey right down his back and falling across his face. He’s wearing an old pair of shorts and a
way too big jumper.
Then he starts talking and it hits me. It’s a girl. Voice real high and panicky.
‘You gotta help me,’ she says. ‘Wilders. They’re coming. They’re tracking me.’

19
Sparrow
By Scot Gardner

Overboard
The boy’s guts grew tight. The week of boot camp had been tense enough, especially after
Ratcliffe, hyper at the best of times, stopped taking his meds. Now, on their way back to
Derby, the boat had broken down and it felt like a flashpoint. The guards were on edge and
the survival instructor, Maddox, was mutinous.
‘We have a responsibility to the kids,’ Maddox insisted.
‘Crack the thing,’ he said, turning to the biggest guard.
The guard peeled the emergency beacon from its carry pouch.
‘Don’t!’ the captain barked.
Maddox nodded to the guard. ‘It’ll be dark in thirty minutes.’
‘We’ve got lights,’ the captain said. ‘Did you reset the sat phone? Try the radio again.’
Maddox tore off his cap, scruffed his hair. ‘We’ve done all that. We’re out of options.’
The boy and the other detainees – Ratcliffe, four other guys and three girls – stared through
their tiredness as though the drama in front of them was unfolding on a TV screen.
‘You crack that EPIRB’, said the captain, breathing hard, ‘and this…inconvenience becomes
an emergency. The authorities are notified and it costs you ten or twelve grand to get your
crew to Derby. That’s what you’ll be up for if you fire that beacon.’
The guard swore under his breath. Maddox looked uncertain.
‘Give it to me!’ Ratcliffe chirped, manic. Let me do it.’
‘Sit down, Bradley,’ Maddox said curtly and for once Ratcliffe did as he was told.
The tightness in the boy’s guts shifted to his chest. He wanted out. He knew he could make
it to the rock coastline, a k or more away – he’d swum twice that distance in the pool at
juvie – but there were monsters in the gulf. They’d seen the long shadows of sharks in the
water below them on their outward trip. They’d seen the floating tree trunks- with eyes- all
along the coast. Estuarine crocodiles. They’d found the translucent body of a box jellyfish on
the beach; dead, but still deadly according to Maddox.
Maddox would be the only one likely to dive after him. He was fit and a reasonable
swimmer and, unlike the guards, he actually seemed to give a shit. He had hauled Ratcliffe
out of the waterhole by his shirt the previous day after he’d dog-paddled out of his depth.

20
In the end, the decision was made for him. Ratcliffe discovered a thin black tube under his
seat. With practised stealth, he sliced the tube with the shiv he’d sharpened on rocks at the
waterhole the day before. The stench of petrol jolted the boy to his feet. He scissor-kicked
over the side rail and hit the water shoulder – first. He was deaf for a second before his life
jacket buoyed him to the surface. His skin prickled with relief and he started swimming for
the coast.
Someone roared at him, but he paddled on. Others joined the chorus and he heard a body
slice into the water. The bass-drum WHUMPH of ignition turned the chorus to screams. The
boy stole a glance over his shoulder. Flames were leaping to the roof of the cabin and
Maddox had stopped swimming to watch bodies plunging from the gunnels. The boy swam
on. When the fuel tank blew, he felt the thunder in his whole body. For a moment, the
water around him glowed orange, like a second sunset, but by the time he’d turned his head
again the flames had become thick black smoke that surged skyward in a rolling mushroom
cloud. Parts of the boat rained down around him. The evening air sparked with screams of
pain.
‘Over here,’ Maddox yelled. ‘Swim to me. Come on! You can do it.’
The boy turned his back on the mess – the mess of the boat and the mess of his prison life –
then lowered his face into the water and swam, stroke after stroke, for the distant
silhouette of coastline.
After a dozen strokes, the boy felt his life jacket dragging at his throat, holding him back.
‘Spaz!’ a voice shouted from behind. Ratcliffe’s voice. ‘Spaz! Wait up!’
In a moment of calculated rashness, the boy unclipped and unzipped his jacket and set it
floating on the tide. He tore the Velcro on his runners, and kicked them and his wet socks off
with his toes.
‘Spaz!’ Ratcliffe screamed. His voice broke and he squealed, ‘Wait for me!’
But the boy didn’t wait. He stretched out in the water, set his feet kicking and counted his
strokes.
One two three breath one two three.
…

Shoreline
One two three breath one two three.
The waves were slight and they urged the boy on. His shoulders burned, his heavy arms
slapped the water and his salt breath grazed his throat raw, but he knew this pain.
One two three breath one two three.

21
His body would make it, sure, but it was as though each stroke chipped at his mind’s
defences. He could always see the bottom of the pool in prison; out there in the gulf, the
darkness just kept getting deeper and more dangerous.
One two three breath one two three four.
After the dusk burned out and the stars began winking in his salt-stung eyes it became
impossible to judge the distance to shore. The stars finished some way above the waterline,
but was that the Kimberley coast he could see, or clouds hanging low over an endless
ocean?
One two breath one two breath.
Grabs of angry and frightened voices came from the wreckage – so there were survivors –
and the boy kept their panic as his back. His own panic rolled in his belly. He tried to clamp a
lid on it, but his foot bumped something rough.
One two…
In a split second, the panic had him by the throat and he flailed, breathed water, began to
drown. He thrashed at invisible jaws in the dark and bumped something rough again, then
gathered purchase and thrust himself to the surface. Coughing and spluttering, he heard the
unmistakable murmuration of water lapping at edges. Not a monster, but the root of a
mangrove tree. His wrinkled fingers pawed the rough trunk and discovered a branch. He
hauled his body clear of the water and up into the canopy.
For an hour, he dripped and shivered, listening to the voices carried to him on the warm
breeze. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they rose and fell in volume and pitch,
some challenging, some reassuring. Nobody laughed.
…

Pursuit
The sound of a chopper snapped him awake some time during the night. He started and
slipped but caught himself before he fell. The helicopter passed low overhead, its
searchlight flashing bright on his hands, then banked and seemed to disappear. The moon- a
waxing quarter, Maddox had told him the night before – had bathed his tree in light that
appeared to be filtered through new denim.
The lapping of the water had been replaced by the squelching and clicking of all manner of
creatures. The tide had gone out. The boy lowered himself into the cool, silky mud, sinking
to his knees. Water squirted from crab-holes and wet his shorts. His instincts had him
heading for higher ground, but the dense canopy and jumbled roots beneath his bare feet
made uphill difficult to judge. The mud sucked and farted around his toes, sending small
crabs scurrying with every step. He made little progress, hanging from branches where he
could and slipping on roots. Soon the mud caked his hands and arms as well, until he
thought its gassy pong might penetrate his core and never leave him.

22
An exhausting hour passed and the helicopter appeared again. The boy followed its
searchlight through the canopy and saw the beginnings of a new day bleaching the stars
from the sky. The light revealed animal tracks in the mud – the long sweeping S of a snake or
an eel, patterned pinholes and slides, and the punch and drag of something big. Human.
With a deflating sigh, he realised the tracks were his own – he’d stumbled a full circle – and
the incoming tide now filled the marks he’d made with an unsettling urgency. Moving at
ninety degrees to the advancing water, he trudged on. His calf muscles and the arches of his
feet threatened to cramp. Ahead, the trunks seemed to thin, the dawn light suggesting a
clearing just a few hundred metres away. He could see proper handholds in the branches,
and the mess of roots became much more navigable in daylight, though no less slippery.
Something cracked underfoot and he leapt and grabbed a low branch. He tucked his legs
beneath him – swinging – and could see the creature pressed into the silt. Mud crab. It was
dead and had been for some time. Most of its legs were missing. The shell appeared wider
than the span of the boy’s hand and its remaining pincer looked like something that should
be hanging on a nail in a tool shed. Eyes wide, the boy lowered himself into the sludge and
pressed on.
The clearing he’d seen through the trees wasn’t a clearing -it was a river. The mangroves
stopped as if a line had been drawn in the mud, and brown water rippled and shimmered
for three hundred metres, maybe more, before the mangroves began again on the other
side. For a moment, the boy considered throwing himself in to wash off his crust of mud,
but a log to his left moved and let out a hiss like a ruptured airbed.
Crocodile.
The creature’s movement disturbed another to the boy’s right. He bit his tongue in fright
and scrambled into the canopy of a young mangrove tree. The second breast was longer
than the boy was tall and he held his breath as he watched its serrated tail disappear into
the turbid water. It took an age for his heartbeat to settle and to get the taste of blood out
of his mouth.
He realised that the tide had already begun to cover the mud beneath his tree, its army of
rivulets marching around roots and drowning the world again. The boy had sprung his own
trap. He’d probably swum ashore in that river the night before, but then the crocodiles were
in his imagination. Now they were real and hidden in the water, the same water that was
climbing his tree. He searched the trunk and branches for a high-tide mark but could find
nothing. Did that mean the tide just covered its roots, or that the tree became totally
submerged?
The mud on his skin and clothing had dried and cracked. When he repositioned himself,
clumps rained into the water, scattering small fish. But the mud appeared to keep the
midges away and it certainly rendered him invisible among the branches. His red prison T-
shirt had lost most of its brightness. His shorts, once khaki, had been transformed to
camouflage with splashed silt.

23
He lifted his feet above the advancing waterline – again – and heard a new sound: a droning
motor and shouting voices. An orange Zodiac bawled past his tree, heading upriver. There
were two men in the boat. They wore emergency service coveralls and snug-fitting PFDs.
‘The empty life jacket wasn’t a good sign,’ one yelled over the whine of the outboard. ‘Was
it a girl or a guy, d’you think?’
‘Dunno. They’d be history now.’
‘You reckon?’
The boat and the voices powered into the distance. The boy could feel his pulse racing in his
fingertips.
The boat would have to return. If he braved the crocodile soup washing the branches below
him, he could swim into their path. Perhaps they’d rescue him before the reptiles could drag
him under? They’d have water, maybe a muesli bar or some chocolate. There’d be a short
boat ride to wherever they’d landed the helicopter. The others would be amazed to see
him. He’d get more food, more water, maybe a ride in the helicopter back to Darwin.
Back to juvie.
He shimmied up the mangrove as high as he could go, punched his head through the leaves
and blinked at the sudden sunlight. The river wound serpentine through the trees into a
featureless line of horizon that must be the gulf. Upstream, where the Zodiac had gone, the
river appeared to hug the skirt of a massive escarpment spotted with red-grey boulders and
tufted trees. The immensity of it made the boy draw breath.
He felt so small.
So free.
He’d find food and water.
He always did.

24
Holes
By Louis Sachar

Stanley Yelnat’s family has a history of bad luck, so he isn’t too surprised when a miscarriage of justice
sends him to a boys’ juvenile detention centre. At Camp Green Lake the boys must dig a hole a day, five
feet deep, five feet across, in the dried up lake bed. The Warden claims the labour is character building,
but it is a lie. Stanley must dig up the truth.

1.
There is no lake at Camp Green Lake. There once was a very large lake here, the largest lake
in Texas. That was over a hundred years ago. Now it is just a dry, flat wasteland.
There used to be a town of Green Lake as well. The town shrivelled and dried up along with
the lake, and the people who lived there.
During the summer the daytime temperature hovers around ninety-five degrees in the
shade -if you can find any shade. There’s not much shade in a big dry lake.
The only trees are two old oaks on the eastern edge of the “lake”. A hammock is stretch
between the two trees, and a log cabin stands behind that.
The campers are forbidden to lie in the hammock. It belongs to the Warden. The Warden
owns the shade. Out on the lake, rattlesnakes and scorpions find shade under rocks and in
the holes dug by the campers.
Here’s a god rule to remember about rattlesnakes and scorpions: If you don’t bother them,
they won’t bother you.
Usually.
Being bitten by a scorpion or even a rattlesnake is not that worst thing that can happen to
you. You won’t die.
Usually.
Sometimes a camper will try to be bitten by a scorpion, or even a small rattlesnake. Then he
will get to spend a day or two recovering in his tent, instead of having to dig a hole out on
the lake.
But you don’t want to be bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard.
That’s the worst thing that can happen to you. You will die a low and painful death.
Always. If you get bitten by a yellow-spotted lizard, you might as well go into the shade of
the oak trees and lie in the hammock.
There is nothing anyone can do to you anymore.

25
2.
The reader is probably asking: Why would anyone go to Camp Green Lake?
Most campers weren’t given a choice. Camp Green Lake is a camp for bad boys.
If you take a bad boy and make him dig a hole every day in the hot sun, it will turn him into a
good boy.
That was what some people thought.
Stanley Yelnats was given a choice. The judge said “You may go to jail, or you may go to
Camp Green Lake.”
Stanley was from a poor family. He had never been to a camp before…

4.
Stanley felt somewhat dazed as the guard unlocked his handcuffs and led him off the bus.
He’d been on the bus for over eight hours.
“Be careful,” the bus driver said as Stanley walked down the steps.
Stanley wasn’t sure if the bus driver meant for him to be careful going down the steps, or if
he was telling him to be careful about Camp Green Lake. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. His
mouth was dry and his throat hurt. He stepped onto the hard, dry dirt. There was a band of
sweat around his wrist where the handcuff had been.
The land was barren and desolate. He could see a few rundown buildings and some tents.
Farther away there was a cabin beneath two tall trees. Those two trees were the only plant
life he could see. There weren’t even weeds.
The guard led Stanley to a small building. A sign on front said YOU ARE ENTERING CAMP
GREEN LAKE JUVENILLE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY. Next to it was another sign which declared
that it was a violation of the Texas Penal Code to bring guns, explosives, weapons drugs or
alcohol onto the premises.
As Stanley read the sign he couldn’t hep but think, Well duh!
The guard led Stanley into the building, where he felt the welcome relief of air-conditioning.
A man was sitting with his feet up on a desk. He turned his head when Stanley and the guard
entered, but otherwise didn’t move. Even though he was inside, he wore sunglasses and a
cowboy hat. He also held a can of soda, and the sight of it made Stanley even more aware of
his own thirst.
He waited while the bus guard gave the man some papers to sign.
“That’s a lot of sunflower seeds,” the bus guard said.
Stanley noticed a burlap sack filled with sunflower seeds on the floor next to the desk.

26
“I quite smoking last month,” said the man in the cowboy hat. He had a tattoo of a
rattlesnake on his arm, and as he signed his name, the snake’s rattle seemed to wiggle. “I
used to smoke a pack a day. Now I eat a sack of these every week.”
The guard laughed.
There must have been a small refrigerator behind his desk because the man in the cowboy
hat produced two more cans of soda. For a second Stanley hoped that one might be for him,
but the man gave one to the guard and said the other was for the driver.
"Nine hours here, and now nine hours back," the guard grumbled. "What a day."
Stanley thought about the long, miserable bus ride and felt a little sorry for the guard and
the bus driver.
The man in the cowboy hat spit sunflower seed shells into a wastepaper basket. Then he
walked around the desk to Stanley. "My name is Mr. Sir," he said "Whenever you speak to
me you must call me by my name, is that clear?"
Stanley hesitated. "Uh, yes, Mr. Sir," he said, though he couldn't imagine that was really the
man's name.
"You're not in the Girl Scouts anymore," Mr. Sir said.
Stanley had to remove his clothes in front of Mr. Sir, who made sure he wasn't hiding
anything. He was then given two sets of clothes and a towel. Each set consisted of a long-
sleeve orange jumpsuit, an orange T-shirt, and yellow socks. Stanley wasn't sure if the socks
had been yellow originally.
He was also given white sneakers, an orange cap, and a canteen made of heavy plastic,
which unfortunately was empty. The cap had a piece of cloth sewn on the back of it, for
neck protection.
Stanley got dressed. The clothes smelled like soap.
Mr. Sir told him he should wear one set to work in and one set for relaxation. Laundry was
done every three days. On that day his work clothes would be washed. Then the other set
would become his work clothes, and he would get clean clothes to wear while resting.
"You are to dig one hole each day, including Saturdays and Sundays. Each hole must be five
feet deep, and five feet across in every direction. Your shovel is your measuring stick.
Breakfast is served at 4:30."
Stanley must have looked surprised, because Mr. Sir went on to explain that they started
early to avoid the hottest part of the day. "No one is going to baby-sit you," he added. "The
longer it takes you to dig, the longer you will be out in the sun. If you dig up anything
interesting, you are to report it to me or any other counselor. When you finish, the rest of
the day is yours."
Stanley nodded to show he understood. "This isn't a Girl Scout camp," said Mr. Sir.

27
He checked Stanley's backpack and allowed him to keep it. Then he led Stanley outside into
the blazing heat.
"Take a good look around you," Mr. Sir said. "What do you see?"
Stanley looked out across the vast wasteland. The air seemed thick with heat and dirt. "Not
much," he said, then hastily added, "Mr. Sir." Mr. Sir laughed. "You see any guard towers?"
"No."
"How about an electric fence?" "No, Mr. Sir." "There's no fence at all, is there?" "No, Mr.
Sir."
"You want to run away?" Mr. Sir asked him. Stanley looked back at him, unsure what he
meant. "If you want to run away, go ahead, start running. I'm not going to stop you."
Stanley didn't know what kind of game Mr. Sir was playing. "I see you're looking at my gun.
Don't worry. I'm not going to shoot you." He tapped his holster. "This is for yellow-spotted
lizards. I wouldn't waste a bullet on you."
"I'm not going to run away," Stanley said.
"Good thinking," said Mr. Sir. "Nobody runs away from here. We don't need a fence. Know
why? Because we've got the only water for a hundred miles. You want to run away? You'll
be buzzard food in three days."
Stanley could see some kids dressed in orange and carrying shovels dragging themselves
toward the tents. "You thirsty?" asked Mr. Sir. "Yes, Mr. Sir," Stanley said gratefully. "Well,
you better get used to it. You're going to be thirsty for the next eighteen months."

5
There were six large gray tents, and each one had a black letter on it: A, B, C, D, E, or F. The
first five tents were for the campers. The counselors slept in F. Stanley was assigned to D
tent. Mr. Pendanski was his counselor.
"My name is easy to remember," said Mr. Pendanski as he shook hands with Stanley just
outside the tent. "Three easy words: pen, dance, key." Mr. Sir returned to the office.
Mr. Pendanski was younger than Mr. Sir, and not nearly as scary looking. The top of his head
was shaved so close it was almost bald, but his face was covered in a thick curly black beard.
His nose was badly sunburned.
"Mr. Sir isn't really so bad," said Mr. Pendanski. "He's just been in a bad mood ever since he
quit smoking. The person you've got to worry about is the Warden. There's really only one
rule at Camp Green Lake: Don't upset the Warden."
Stanley nodded, as if he understood. "I want you to know, Stanley, that I respect you," Mr.
Pendanski said. "I understand you've made some bad mistakes in your life. Otherwise you

28
wouldn't be here. But everyone makes mistakes. You may have done some bad things, but
that doesn't mean you're a bad kid." Stanley nodded.
It seemed pointless to try and tell his counselor that he was innocent. He figured that
everyone probably said that. He didn't want Mr. Pen-dance-key to think he had a bad
attitude.
"I'm going to help you turn your life around," said his counselor. "But you're going to have
to help, too. Can I count on your help?"
"Yes, sir," Stanley said. Mr. Pendanski said, "Good," and patted Stanley on the back.
Two boys, each carrying a shovel, were coming across the compound. Mr. Pendanski called
to them. "Rex! Alan! I want you to come say hello to Stanley. He's the newest member of
our team." The boys glanced wearily at Stanley.
They were dripping with sweat, and their faces were so dirty that it took Stanley a moment
to notice that one kid was white and the other black.
"What happened to Barf Bag?" asked the black kid.
"Lewis is still in the hospital," said Mr. Pendanski. "He won't be returning." He told the boys
to come shake Stanley's hand and introduce themselves, "like gentlemen."
"Hi," the white kid grunted.
"That's Alan," said Mr. Pendanski.
"My name's not Alan," the boy said. "It's Squid. And that's X-Ray."
"Hey," said X-Ray. He smiled and shook Stanley's hand. He wore glasses, but they were so
dirty that Stanley wondered how he could see out of them.
Mr. Pendanski told Alan to go to the Rec Hall and bring the other boys to meet Stanley. Then
he led him inside the tent. There were seven cots, each one less than two feet from the one
next to it. "Which was Lewis's cot?" Mr. Pendanski asked.
"Barf Bag slept here," said X-Ray, kicking at one of the beds.
"All right, Stanley, that'll be yours," said Mr. Pendanski. Stanley looked at the cot and
nodded. He wasn't particularly thrilled about sleeping in the same cot that had been used by
somebody named Barf Bag.
Seven crates were stacked in two piles at one side of the tent. The open end of the crates
faced outward. Stanley put his backpack, change of clothes, and towel in what used to be
Barf Bag's crate. It was at the bottom of the stack that had three in it. Squid returned with
four other boys. The first three were introduced by Mr. Pendanski as Jose, Theodore, and
Ricky. They called themselves Magnet, Armpit, and Zigzag.
"They all have nicknames," explained Mr. Pendanski. "However, I prefer to use the names
their parents gave them— the names that society will recognize them by when they return
to become useful and hardworking members of society."

29
"It ain't just a nickname," X-Ray told Mr. Pendanski. He tapped the rim of his glasses. "I can
see inside you, Mom. You've got a big fat heart." The last boy either didn't have a real name
or else he didn't have a nickname. Both Mr. Pendanski and X-Ray called him Zero.
"You know why his name's Zero?" asked Mr. Pendanski. "Because there's nothing inside his
head." He smiled and playfully shook Zero's shoulder. Zero said nothing.
"And that's Mom!" a boy said.
Mr. Pendanski smiled at him. "If it makes you feel better to call me Mom, Theodore, go
ahead and call me Mom." He turned to Stanley. "If you have questions, Theodore will help
you. You got that, Theodore. I'm depending on you."
Theodore spit a thin line of saliva between his teeth, causing some of the other boys to
complain about the need to keep their "home" sanitary.
"You were all new here once," said Mr. Pendanski, "and you all know what it feels like. I'm
counting on every one of you to help Stanley."
Stanley looked at the ground. Mr. Pendanski left the tent, and soon the other boys began to
file out as well, taking their towels and change of clothes with them. Stanley was relieved to
be left alone, but he was so thirsty he felt as if he would die if he didn't get something to
drink soon.
"Hey, uh, Theodore," he said, going after him. "Do you know where I can fill my canteen?"
Theodore whirled and grabbed Stanley by his collar.
"My name's not Thee-o-dore," he said. "It's Armpit." He threw Stanley to the ground.
Stanley stared up at him, terrified. "There's a water spigot on the wall of the shower stall."
"Thanks . . . Armpit," said Stanley.
As he watched the boy turn and walk away, he couldn't for the life of him figure out why
anyone would want to be called Armpit. In a way, it made him feel a little better about
having to sleep in a cot that had been used by somebody named Barf Bag. Maybe it was a
term of respect.

6
Stanley took a shower— if you could call it that, ate dinner— if you could call it that, and
went to bed— if you could call his smelly and scratchy cot a bed. Because of the scarcity of
water, each camper was only allowed a four-minute shower. It took Stanley nearly that long
to get used to the cold water. There was no knob for hot water. He kept stepping into, then
jumping back from, the spray, until the water shut off automatically. He never managed to
use his bar of soap, which was just as well, because he wouldn't have had time to rinse off
the suds.
Dinner was some kind of stewed meat and vegetables. The meat was brown and the
vegetables had once been green. Everything tasted pretty much the same. He ate it all, and

30
used his slice of white bread to mop up the juice. Stanley had never been one to leave food
on his plate, no matter how it tasted.
"What'd you do?" one of the campers asked him. At first Stanley didn't know what he
meant. "They sent you here for a reason."
"Oh," he realized. "I stole a pair of sneakers." The other boys thought that was funny.
Stanley wasn't sure why. Maybe because their crimes were a lot worse than stealing shoes.
"From a store, or-were they on someone's feet?" asked Squid.
"Uh, neither," Stanley answered. "They belonged to Clyde Livingston." Nobody believed
him.
"Sweet Feet?" said X-Ray. "Yeah, right!"
"No way," said Squid.
Now, as Stanley lay on his cot, he thought it was kind of funny in a way. Nobody had
believed him when he said he was innocent. Now, when he said he stole them, nobody
believed him either.
Clyde "Sweet Feet" Livingston was a famous baseball player. He'd led the American League
in stolen bases over the last three years. He was also the only player in history to ever hit
four triples in one game. Stanley had a poster of him hanging on the wall of his bedroom. He
used to have the poster anyway. He didn't know where it was now. It had been taken by the
police and was used as evidence of his guilt in the courtroom. Clyde Livingston also came to
court.
In spite of everything, when Stanley found out that Sweet Feet was going to be there, he
was actually excited about the prospect of meeting his hero. Clyde Livingston testified that
they were his sneakers and that he had donated them to help raise money for the homeless
shelter. He said he couldn't imagine what kind of horrible person would steal from homeless
children. That was the worst part for Stanley. His hero thought he was a no-good-dirty-
rotten thief.
As Stanley tried to turn over on his cot, he was afraid it was going to collapse under all his
weight. He barely fit in it. When he finally managed to roll over on his stomach, the smell
was so bad that he had to turn over again and try sleeping on his back. The cot smelled like
sour milk. Though it was night, the air was still very warm. Armpit was snoring two cots
away.
Back at school, a bully named Derrick Dunne used to torment Stanley. The teachers never
took Stanley's complaints seriously, because Derrick was so much smaller than Stanley.
Some teachers even seemed to find it amusing that a little kid like Derrick could pick on
someone as big as Stanley.
On the day Stanley was arrested, Derrick had taken Stanley's notebook and, after a long
game of come-and-get-it, finally dropped it in the toilet in the boys' restroom. By the time
Stanley retrieved it, he had missed his bus and had to walk home. It was while he was

31
walking home, carrying his wet notebook, with the prospect of having to copy the ruined
pages, that the sneakers fell from the sky.
"I was walking home and the sneakers fell from the sky," he had told the judge. "One hit me
on the head." It had hurt, too. They hadn't exactly fallen from the sky. He had just walked
out from under a freeway overpass when the shoe hit him on the head.
Stanley took it as some kind of sign. His father had been trying to figure out a way to recycle
old sneakers, and suddenly a pair of sneakers fell on top of him, seemingly out of nowhere,
like a gift from God.
Naturally, he had no way of knowing they belonged to Clyde Livingston. In fact, the shoes
were anything but sweet. Whoever had worn them had had a bad case of foot odor. Stanley
couldn't help but think that there was something special about the shoes, that they would
somehow provide the key to his father's invention. It was too much of a coincidence to be a
mere accident. Stanley had felt like he was holding destiny's shoes.
He ran.
Thinking back now, he wasn't sure why he ran. Maybe he was in a hurry to bring the shoes
to his father, or maybe he was trying to run away from his miserable and humiliating day at
school. A patrol car pulled alongside him. A policeman asked him why he was running. Then
he took the shoes and made a call on his radio.
Shortly thereafter, Stanley was arrested. It turned out the sneakers had been stolen from a
display at the homeless shelter. That evening rich people were going to come to the shelter
and pay a hundred dollars to eat the food that the poor people ate every day for free. Clyde
Livingston, who had once lived at the shelter when he was younger, was going to speak and
sign autographs. His shoes would be auctioned, and it was expected that they would sell for
over five thousand dollars. All the money would go to help the homeless.
Because of the baseball schedule, Stanley's trial was delayed several months. His parents
couldn't afford a lawyer.
"You don't need a lawyer," his mother had said. "Just tell the truth." Stanley told the truth,
but perhaps it would have been better if he had lied a little. He could have said he found the
shoes in the street. No one believed they fell from the sky. It wasn't destiny, he realized. It
was his no-good-dirty-rotten-pig-stealing-great-great-grandfather! The judge called
Stanley's crime despicable.
"The shoes were valued at over five thousand dollars. It was money that would provide food
and shelter for the homeless. And you stole that from them, just so you could have a
souvenir."
The judge said that there was an opening at Camp Green Lake, and he suggested that the
discipline of the camp might improve Stanley's character. It was either that or jail. Stanley's
parents asked if they could have some time to find out more about Camp Green Lake, but
the judge advised them to make a quick decision.

32
"Vacancies don't last long at Camp Green Lake."

7
The shovel felt heavy in Stanley's soft, fleshy hands. He tried to jam it into the earth, but the
blade banged against the ground and bounced off without making a dent. The vibrations ran
up the shaft of the shovel and into Stanley's wrists, making his bones rattle.
It was still dark. The only light came from the moon and the stars, more stars than Stanley
had ever seen before. It seemed he had only just gotten to sleep when Mr. Pendanski came
in and woke everyone up.
Using all his might, he brought the shovel back down onto the dry lake bed. The force stung
his hands but made no impression on the earth. He wondered if he had a defective shovel.
He glanced at Zero, about fifteen feet away, who scooped out a shovelful of dirt and
dumped it on a pile that was already almost a foot tall.
For breakfast they'd been served some kind of lukewarm cereal. The best part was the
orange juice. They each got a pint carton. The cereal actually didn't taste too bad, but it had
smelled just like his cot. Then they filled their canteens, got their shovels, and were marched
out across the lake.
Each group was assigned a different area. The shovels were kept in a shed near the showers.
They all looked the same to Stanley, although X-Ray had his own special shovel, which no
one else was allowed to use. X-Ray claimed it was shorter than the others, but if it was, it
was only by a fraction of an inch. The shovels were five feet long, from the tip of the steel
blade to the end of the wooden shaft. Stanley's hole would have to be as deep as his shovel,
and he'd have to be able to lay the shovel flat across the bottom in any direction. That was
why X-Ray wanted the shortest shovel.
The lake was so full of holes and mounds that it reminded Stanley of pictures he'd seen of
the moon.
"If you find anything interesting or unusual," Mr. Pendanski had told him, "you should
report it either to me or Mr. Sir when we come around with the water truck. If the Warden
likes what you found, you'll get the rest of the day off."
"What are we supposed to be looking for?" Stanley asked him.
"You're not looking for anything. You're digging to build character. It's just if you find
anything, the Warden would like to know about it."
He glanced helplessly at his shovel. It wasn't defective. He was defective. He noticed a thin
crack in the ground. He placed the point of his shovel on top of it, then jumped on the back
of the blade with both feet. The shovel sank a few inches into the packed earth. He smiled.
For once in his life it paid to be overweight. He leaned on the shaft and pried up his first
shovelful of dirt, then dumped it off to the side.

33
Only ten million more to go, he thought, then placed the shovel back in the crack and
jumped on it again. He unearthed several shovelfuls of dirt in this manner, before it
occurred to him that he was dumping his dirt within the perimeter of his hole. He laid his
shovel flat on the ground and marked where the edges of his hole would be. Five feet was
awfully wide. He moved the dirt he'd already dug up out past his mark. He took a drink from
his canteen. Five feet would be awfully deep, too. The digging got easier after a while. The
ground was hardest at the surface, where the sun had baked a crust about eight inches
deep. Beneath that, the earth was looser.
But by the time Stanley broke past the crust, a blister had formed in the middle of his right
thumb, and it hurt to hold the shovel.
Stanley was still digging. His hole was about three feet deep, but only in the center. It sloped
upward to the edges. The sun had only just come up over the horizon, but he already could
feel its hot rays against his face. As he reached down to pick up his canteen, he felt a sudden
rush of dizziness and put his hands on his knees to steady himself. For a moment he was
afraid he would throw up, but the moment passed. He drank the last drop of water from his
canteen. He had blisters on every one of his fingers, and one in the center of each palm.
Everyone else's hole was a lot deeper than his. He couldn't actually see their holes but could
tell by the size of their dirt piles.
He saw a cloud of dust moving across the wasteland and noticed that the other boys had
stopped digging and were watching it, too. The dirt cloud moved closer, and he could see
that it trailed behind a red pickup truck. The truck stopped near where they were digging,
and the boys lined up behind it, X-Ray in front, Zero at the rear. Stanley got in line behind
Zero. Mr. Sir filled each of their canteens from a tank of water in the bed of the pickup. As
he took Stanley's canteen from him, he said, "This isn't the Girl Scouts, is it?"
Stanley raised and lowered one shoulder. Mr. Sir followed Stanley back to his hole to see
how he was doing.
"You better get with it," he said. "Or else you're going to be digging in the hottest part of the
day." He popped some sunflower seeds into his mouth, deftly removed the shells with his
teeth, and spat them into Stanley's hole.
Stanley's blisters had ripped open, and new blisters formed. He kept changing his grip on
the shovel to try to avoid the pain. Finally, he removed his cap and held it between the shaft
of his shovel and his raw hands. This helped, but digging was harder because the cap would
slip and slide.
The sun beat down on his unprotected head and neck. Though he tried to convince himself
otherwise, he'd been aware for a while that his piles of dirt were too close to his hole. The
piles were outside his five-foot circle, but he could see he was going to run out of room. Still,
he pretended otherwise and kept adding more dirt to the piles, piles that he would
eventually have to move. The problem was that when the dirt was in the ground, it was
compacted. It expanded when it was excavated. The piles were a lot bigger than his hole

34
was deep. It was either now or later. Reluctantly, he climbed up out of his hole, and once
again dug his shovel into his previously dug dirt.
The next time the water truck came it was driven by Mr. Pendanski, who also brought sack
lunches. Stanley sat with his back against a pile of dirt and ate. He had a baloney sandwich,
potato chips, and a large chocolate-chip cookie.
"How you doin'?" asked Magnet.
"Not real good," said Stanley.
"Well, the first hole's the hardest," Magnet said.
Stanley took a long, deep breath. He couldn't afford to dawdle. He was way behind the
others, and the sun just kept getting hotter. It wasn't even noon yet. But he didn't know if
he had the strength to stand up. He thought about quitting. He wondered what they would
do to him. What could they do to him? His clothes were soaked with sweat. In school he had
learned that sweating was good for you. It was nature's way of keeping you cool. So why
was he so hot? Using his shovel for support, he managed to get to his feet.
"Where are we supposed to go to the bathroom?" he asked Magnet. Magnet gestured with
his arms to the great expanse around them.
"Pick a hole, any hole," he said. Stanley staggered across the lake, almost falling over a dirt
pile. Behind him he heard Magnet say, "But first make sure nothing's living in it."
Zero was the smallest kid in Group D, but he was the first one to finish digging. "You're
finished?" Stanley asked enviously. Zero said nothing. Stanley walked to Zero's hole and
watched him measure it with his shovel. The top of his hole was a perfect circle, and the
sides were smooth and steep. Not one dirt clod more than necessary had been removed
from the earth.
Zero pulled himself up to the surface. He didn't even smile. He looked down at his perfectly
dug hole, spat in it, then turned and headed back to the camp compound.
"Zero's one weird dude," said Zigzag. Stanley would have laughed, but he didn't have the
strength. Zigzag had to be the "weirdest dude" Stanley had ever seen. He had a long skinny
neck, and a big round head with wild frizzy blond hair that stuck out in all directions. His
head seemed to bob up and down on his neck, like it was on a spring.
Armpit was the second one to finish digging. He also spat into his hole before heading back
to the camp compound. One by one, Stanley watched each of the boys spit into his hole and
return to the camp compound.
Stanley kept digging. His hole was almost up to his shoulders, although it was hard to tell
exactly where ground level was because his dirt piles completely surrounded the hole. The
deeper he got, the harder it was to raise the dirt up and out of the hole. Once again, he
realized, he was going to have to move the piles. His cap was stained with blood from his
hands. He felt like he was digging his own grave.

35
Stanley's hole was as deep as his shovel, but not quite wide enough on the bottom. He
grimaced as he sliced off a chunk of dirt, then raised it up and flung it onto a pile. He laid his
shovel back down on the bottom of his hole and, to his surprise, it fit. He rotated it and only
had to chip off a few chunks of dirt, here and there, before it could lie flat across his hole in
every direction.
He heard the water truck approaching, and felt a strange sense of pride at being able to
show Mr. Sir, or Mr. Pendanski, that he had dug his first hole. He put his hands on the rim
and tried to pull himself up. He couldn't do it. His arms were too weak to lift his heavy body.
He used his legs to help, but he just didn't have any strength.
He was trapped in his hole. It was almost funny, but he wasn't in the mood to laugh.
"Stanley!" he heard Mr. Pendanski call. Using his shovel, he dug two footholds in the hole
wall. He climbed out to see Mr. Pendanski walking over to him. "I was afraid you'd fainted,"
Mr. Pendanski said. "You wouldn't have been the first."
"I'm finished," Stanley said, putting his blood-spotted cap back on his head.
"All right!" said Mr. Pendanski, raising his hand for a high five, but Stanley ignored it. He
didn't have the strength. Mr. Pendanski lowered his hand and looked down at Stanley's
hole. "Well done," he said. "You want a ride back?" Stanley shook his head.
"I'll walk." Mr. Pendanski climbed back into the truck without filling Stanley's canteen.
Stanley waited for him to drive away, then took another look at his hole.
He knew it was nothing to be proud of, but he felt proud nonetheless.
He sucked up his last bit of saliva and spat.

36
To Build a Fire
By Jack London
Day had dawned cold and grey when the man turned
aside from the main Yukon trail. He climbed the high
earth-bank where a little-travelled trail led east
through the pine forest. It was a high bank, and he
paused to breathe at the top. He excused the act to
himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock in
the morning. There was no sun or promise of sun,
although there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a
clear day. However, there seemed to be an
indescribable darkness over the face of things. That was because the sun was absent from
the sky. This fact did not worry the man. He was not alarmed by the lack of sun. It had been
days since he had seen the sun.
The man looked 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. North
and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white. The one thing that relieved the
whiteness was a thin dark line that curved from the pine-covered island to the south. It
curved into the north, where it disappeared behind another pine-covered island. This dark
line was the trail—the main trail. It led south 500 miles to the Chilcoot Pass, and salt water.
It led north 75 miles to Dawson, and still farther 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 distant trail, no sun in the sky, the great cold, and the strangeness of it all—
had no effect on the man. It was not because he was long familiar with it. He was a
newcomer in the 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 (Fahrenheit)
below zero meant 80 degrees of frost. Such facts told him that it was cold and
uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to consider his weaknesses as a creature
affected by temperature. Nor did he think about man’s general weakness, able to live only
within narrow limits of heat and cold. From there, it did not lead him to thoughts of heaven
and the meaning of a man’s life. 50 degrees below zero meant a bite of frost that hurt and
that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear coverings, warm moccasins, and
thick socks. 50 degrees below zero was to him nothing more than 50 degrees below zero.
That it should be more important than that was a thought that never entered his head.
As he turned to go, he forced some water from his mouth as an experiment. There was a
sudden noise that surprised him. He tried it again. And again, in the air, before they could
fall to the snow, the drops of water became ice that broke with a noise. He knew that at 50
below zero water from the mouth made a noise when it hit the snow. But this had done that

37
in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than 50 below. But exactly how much colder he did not
know. But the temperature did not matter.
He was headed for the old camp on Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They
had come across the mountain from the Indian Creek country. He had taken the long trail to
look at the possibility of floating logs from the islands in the Yukon down the river when the
ice melted. 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. As
he thought of lunch, he pressed his hand against the package under his jacket. It was also
under his shirt, wrapped in a handkerchief, and lying for warmth against the naked skin.
Otherwise, the bread would freeze. He smiled contentedly to himself as he thought of those
pieces of bread, each of which enclosed a generous portion of cooked meat.
He plunged among the big pine trees. The trail was not well marked here. Several inches of
snow had fallen since the last sled had passed. He was glad he was without a sled. Actually,
he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however,
at the cold. It certainly was cold, he decided, as he rubbed his nose and face with his
mittened hand. He had a good growth of hair on his face, but that did not protect his nose
or the upper part of his face from the frosty air.
Following at the man’s heels was a big native dog. It was a wolf dog, gray-coated and not
noticeably different from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was worried by the great
cold. It knew that this was no time for traveling. Its own feeling was closer to the truth than
the man’s judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than 50 below zero; it was colder
than 60 below, than 70 below. It was 75 below zero. Because the freezing point is 32 above
zero, it meant that there were 107 degrees of frost.
The dog did not know anything about temperatures. Possibly in its brain there was no
understanding of a condition of very cold, such as was in the man’s brain. But the animal
sensed the danger. Its fear made it question eagerly every movement of the man as if
expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had
learned about fire, and it wanted fire. Otherwise, it would dig itself into the snow and find
shelter from the cold air. The frozen moistness of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine
powder of frost. The hair on the man’s face was similarly frosted, but more solidly. It took
the form of ice and increased with every warm, moist breath from his mouth. Also, the man
had tobacco in his mouth. The ice held his lips so tightly together that he could not empty
the juice from his mouth. The result was a long piece of yellow ice hanging from his lips. If
he fell down it would break, like glass, into many pieces. He expected the ice formed by the
tobacco juice, having been out twice before when it was very cold. But it had not been as
cold as this, he knew.
He continued through the level forest for several miles. Then he went down a bank to the
frozen path of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek and he knew he was ten miles
from where the stream divided. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. He was traveling
at the rate of four miles an hour. Thus, he figured that he would arrive where the stream
divided at half-past twelve. He decided he would eat his lunch when he arrived there.

38
The dog followed again at his heels, with its tail hanging low, as the man started to walk
along the frozen stream. The old sled trail could be seen, but a dozen inches of snow
covered the marks of the last sleds. In a month no man had travelled up or down that silent
creek. The man went steadily ahead. He was not much of a thinker. At that moment he had
nothing to think about except that he would eat lunch at the stream’s divide and that at six
o’clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to; and, had there
been, speech would not have been possible because of the ice around his mouth.
Once in a while the thought repeated itself that it was very cold and that he had never
experienced such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his face and nose with the back of his
mittened hand. He did this without thinking, frequently changing hands. But, with all his
rubbing, the instant he stopped, his face and nose became numb. His face would surely be
frozen. He knew that and he was sorry that he had not worn the sort of nose guard Bud
wore when it was cold. Such a guard passed across the nose and covered the entire face.
But it did not matter much, he decided. What was a little frost? A bit painful, that was all. It
was never serious.
Empty as the man’s mind was of thoughts, he was most observant. He noticed the changes
in the creek, the curves and the bends. And always he noted where he placed his feet. Once,
coming around a bend, he moved suddenly to the side, like a frightened horse. He curved
away from the place where he had been walking and retraced his steps several feet along
the trail. He knew the creek was frozen to the bottom. No creek could contain water in that
winter. But he knew also that there were streams of water that came out from the hillsides
and ran along under the snow and on top of the ice of the creek. He knew that even in the
coldest weather these streams were never frozen, and he also knew their danger. They hid
pools of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a
skin of ice half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow. Sometimes
there was both water and thin ice, and when a man broke through he could get very wet.
That was why he had jumped away so suddenly. He had felt the ice move under his feet. He
had also heard the noise of the snow-covered ice skin breaking. And to get his feet wet in
such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, because he
would be forced to stop and build a fire. Only under its protection could he bare his feet
while he dried his socks and moccasins.
He stood and studied the creek bottom and its banks. He decided that the flowing stream of
water came from the right side. He thought a while, rubbing his nose and face. Then he
walked to the left. He stepped carefully and tested the ice at each step. Once away from the
danger, he continued at his four-mile pace.
During the next two hours he came to several similar dangers. Usually the snow above the
pools had a sunken appearance. However, once again he came near to falling through the
ice. Once, sensing danger, he made the dog go ahead. The dog did not want to go. It
hesitated until the man pushed it forward. Then it went quickly across the white, unbroken
surface. Suddenly it fell through the ice, but climbed out on the other side, which was firm.
It had wet its feet and legs. Almost immediately the water on them turned to ice. The dog

39
made quick efforts to get the ice off its legs. Then it lay down in the snow and began to bite
out the ice that had formed between the toes. The animal knew enough to do this. To
permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed the
commands that arose from the deepest part of its being.
But the man knew these things, having learned them from experience. He removed the
mitten from his right hand and helped the dog tear out the pieces of ice. He did not bare his
fingers more than a minute, and was surprised to find that they were numb. It certainly was
cold. He pulled on the mitten quickly and beat the hand across his breast.
At twelve o’clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun did not appear in the sky. At half-
past twelve, on the minute, he arrived at the divide of the creek. He was pleased at his rate
of speed. If he continued, he would certainly be with the boys by six o’clock that evening.
He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and pulled forth his lunch. The action took no more than
a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness touched his bare fingers. He
did not put the mitten on, but instead, struck the fingers against his leg. Then he sat down
on a snow-covered log to eat. The pain that followed the striking of his fingers against his leg
ceased so quickly that he was frightened. He had not had time to take a bite of his lunch. He
struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten. Then he bared the other
hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice around his mouth
prevented him.
Then he knew what was wrong. He had forgotten to build a fire and warm himself. He
laughed at his own foolishness. As he laughed, he noted the numbness in his bare fingers.
Also, he noted that the feeling which had first come to his toes when he sat down was
already passing away. He wondered whether the toes were warm or whether they were
numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numb.
He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was some-what frightened. He stamped
forcefully until the feeling returned to his feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That
man from Sulphur Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in this
country. And he had laughed at him at the time! That showed one must not be too sure of
things. There was no mistake about it, it was cold. He walked a few steps, stamping his feet
and waving his arms, until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he took some matches
and proceeded to make a fire. In the bushes, the high water had left a supply of sticks. From
here he got wood for his fire. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a
roaring fire.
Bending over the fire, he first melted the ice from his face. With the protection of the fire’s
warmth he ate his lunch. For the moment, the cold had been forced away. The dog took
comfort in the fire, lying at full length close enough for warmth and far enough away to
escape being burned. When the man had finished eating, he filled his pipe with tobacco and
had a comfortable time with a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens, settled his cap firmly
about his ears, and started along the creek trail toward the left.

40
The dog was sorry to leave and looked toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Possibly
none of his ancestors had known cold, real cold. But the dog knew and all of its family knew.
And it knew that it was not good to walk outside in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie in
a hole in the snow and to wait for this awful cold to stop. There was no real bond between
the dog and the man. The one was the slave of the other. The dog made no effort to
indicate its fears to the man. It was not concerned with the well-being of the man. It was for
its own sake that it looked toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to it with the
sound of the whip in his voice. So the dog started walking close to the man’s heels and
followed him along the trail.
The man put more tobacco in his mouth and started a new growth of yellow ice on his face.
Again his moist breath quickly powdered the hair on his face with white. He looked around
him. There did not seem to be so many pools of water under the snow on the left side of
Henderson Creek, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any.
And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, the man broke through. It was
not deep. He was wet to the knees before he got out of the water to the firm snow.
He was angry and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six
o’clock, and this would delay him an hour. Now he would have to build a fire and dry his
moccasins and socks. This was most important at that low temperature. He knew that
much.
So he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, under several small pine trees, he
found some firewood which had been carried there by the high water of last year. There
were some sticks, but also larger branches, and some dry grasses. He threw several large
branches on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the young flame
from dying in the wet snow. He made a flame by touching a match to a small piece of tree
bark that he took from his pocket. This burned even better than paper. Placing it on the
foundation, he fed the young flame with pieces of dry grass and with the smallest dry sticks.
He worked slowly and carefully, realizing his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew stronger,
he increased the size of the sticks with which he fed it. He sat in the snow, pulling the sticks
from the bushes under the trees and feeding them directly to the flame. He knew he must
not fail. When it is 75 below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire. This
is especially true if his feet are wet. If his feet are dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail
for half a mile to keep his blood moving. But the blood in wet and freezing feet cannot be
kept moving by running when it is 75 degrees below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet
feet will freeze even harder.
All this the man knew. The old man on Sulphur Creek had told him about it, and now he was
grateful for the advice. Already all feeling had gone from his feet. To build the fire he had
been forced to remove his mittens, and the fingers had quickly become numb. His pace of
four miles an hour had kept his heart pushing the blood to all parts of his body. But the
instant he stopped, the action of the heart slowed down. He now received the full force of
the cold. The blood of his body drew back from it. The blood was alive, like the dog. Like the
dog, it wanted to hide and seek cover, away from the fearful cold. As long as he walked four

41
miles an hour, the blood rose to the surface. But now it sank down into the lowest depths of
his body. His feet and hands were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze first. His
bare fingers were numb, although they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose and face were
already freezing, while the skin of all his body became cold as it lost its blood.
But he was safe. Toes and nose and face would be only touched by the frost, because the
fire was beginning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with sticks the size of his finger.
In another minute he would be able to feed it with larger branches. Then he could remove
his wet moccasins and socks. While they dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by the
fire, rubbing them first with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe.
He remembered the advice of the old man on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The man had been
very serious when he said that no man should travel alone in that country after 50 below
zero. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself.
Those old men were rather womanish, he thought. All a man must do was to keep his head,
and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising, the
rapidity with which his face and nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers
could lose their feeling in so short a time. Without feeling they were, because he found it
very difficult to make them move together to grasp a stick. They seemed far from his body
and from him. When he touched a stick, he had to look to see whether or not he was
holding it.
All of which mattered little. There was the fire, promising life with every dancing flame. He
started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice. The thick socks were like iron
almost to the knees. The moccasin’s strings were like ropes of steel. For a moment he pulled
them with his unfeeling fingers. Then, realizing the foolishness of it, he grasped his knife.
But before he could cut the strings, it happened. 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. But it had been easier to pull the sticks from the bushes and drop them directly on
the fire.
Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its branches. No
wind had been blowing for weeks and each branch was heavy with snow. Each time he
pulled a stick he shook the tree slightly. There had been just enough movement to cause the
awful thing to happen. High up in the tree one branch dropped its load of snow. This fell on
the branches beneath. This process continued, spreading through the whole tree. The snow
fell without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was dead. Where it had burned
was a pile of fresh snow.
The man was shocked. It was like hearing his own judgment of death. For a moment he sat
and stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm. Perhaps the old
man on Sulphur Creek was right. If he had a companion on the trail he would be in no
danger now. The companion could have built the fire. Now, he must build the fire again, and
this second time he must not fail. Even if he succeeded, he would be likely to lose some
toes. His feet must be badly frozen by now, and there would be some time before the
second fire was ready.

42
Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He was busy all the time they
were passing through his mind. He made a new foundation for a fire, this time in the open
space, where no tree would be above it. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny sticks. He
could not bring his fingers together to pull them out of the ground, but he was able to
gather them by the handful. In this way he also got many pieces that were undesirable, but
it was the best he could do. He worked carefully, even collecting an armful of the larger
branches to be used later when the fire gathered strength. And all the while the dog sat and
watched him. There was an anxious look in its eyes, because it depended upon him as the
fire provider, and the fire was slow in coming.
When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for the second piece of tree bark. He
knew the bark was there, although he could not feel it with his fingers. He tried again and
again, but he could not grasp it. And all the time, in his mind, he knew that each instant his
feet were freezing. This thought alarmed him, but he fought against it and kept calm.
He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and began swinging his arms. Then he beat his
hands with all his strength against his sides. He did this while he was sitting down. Then he
stood up to do it. All the while the dog sat in the snow, its tail curled warmly over its feet
and its sharp wolf ears bent forward as it looked at the man. And the man, as he waved his
arms and hands, looked with longing at the creature that was warm and secure in the
covering provided by nature.
After a time, he began to notice some feeling in his beaten fingers. The feeling grew
stronger until it became very painful, but the man welcomed the pain. He pulled the mitten
from his right hand and grasped the tree bark from his pocket. The bare fingers were quickly
numb again. Next, he brought out his pack of matches. But the awful cold had already
driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match from the others, the
whole pack fell in the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers
could neither touch nor hold.
Now he was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, and nose, and face, from
his mind. He devoted his whole soul to picking up the matches. He followed the movement
of his fingers with his eyes, using his sense of sight instead of that of touch. 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. He put the mitten on the right hand again, and beat it fiercely
against his knee. Then, with both mittened hands, he lifted up the pack of matches, along
with much snow, to the front of his jacket. But he had gained nothing.
After some struggling he managed to get the pack between his mittened hands. In this
manner he carried it to his mouth. The ice broke as he opened his mouth with a fierce
effort. He used his upper teeth to rub across the pack in order to separate a single match.
He succeeded in getting one, which he dropped on his jacket. His condition was no better.
He could not pick up the match. Then he thought how he might do it. He picked up the
match in his teeth and drew it across his leg. Twenty times he did this before he succeeded
in lighting it. As it flamed he held it with his teeth to the tree bark. But the burning smell
went up his nose, causing him to cough. The match fell into the snow and the flame died.

43
The old man on Sulphur Creek was right, he thought in the moment of controlled despair
that followed. After 50 below zero, a man should travel with a companion. He beat his
hands, but failed to produce any feeling in them. Suddenly he bared both hands, removing
the mittens with his teeth. He caught the whole pack of matches between his 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!
There was no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one side to escape the burning
smell, and held the flaming pack to the tree bark. As he so held it, he noticed some feeling in
his hand. His flesh was burning. He could smell it. The feeling developed into pain. He
continued to endure it. He held the flame of the matches to the bark that would not light
readily because his own burning hands were taking most of the flame.
Finally, when he could endure no more, he pulled his hands apart. The flaming matches fell
into the snow, but the tree bark was burning. He began laying dry grasses and the tiniest
sticks on the flame. He could not choose carefully because they must be pieces that could
be lifted between his hands. Small pieces of green grass stayed on the sticks, and he bit
them off as well as he could with his teeth. He treated the flame carefully. It meant life, and
it must not cease.
The blood had left the surface of his body and he now began to shake from the cold. A large
piece of a wet plant fell on the little fire. He tried to push it out with his fingers. His shaking
body made him push it too far and he scattered the little fire over a wide space. He tried to
push the burning grasses and sticks together again. Even with the strong effort that he
made, his trembling fingers would not obey and the sticks were hopelessly scattered. Each
stick smoked a little and died. The fire provider had failed. As he looked about him, his eyes
noticed the dog sitting across the ruins of the fire from him. It was making uneasy
movements, slightly lifting one foot and then the other.
The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. He remembered the story of the man,
caught in a storm, who killed an animal and sheltered himself inside the dead body and thus
was saved. He would kill the dog and bury his hands in the warm body until feeling returned
to them. Then he could build another fire.
He spoke to the dog, calling it to him. But in his voice was a strange note of fear that
frightened the animal. It had never known the man to speak in such a tone before.
Something was wrong and it sensed danger. It knew not what danger, but somewhere in its
brain arose a fear of the man. It flattened its ears at the sound of the man’s voice; its uneasy
movements and the liftings of its feet became more noticeable. But it would not come to
the man. He got down on his hands and knees and went toward the dog. But this unusual
position again excited fear and the animal moved away.
The man sat in the snow for a moment and struggled for calmness. Then he pulled on his
mittens, using his teeth, and then stood on his feet. He glanced down to assure himself that
he was really standing, because lack of feeling in his feet gave him no relation to the earth.
His position, however, removed the fear from the dog’s mind.

44
When he commanded the dog with his usual voice, the dog obeyed and came to him. As it
came within his reach, the man lost control. His arms stretched out to hold the dog and he
experienced real surprise when he discovered that his hands could not grasp. There was
neither bend nor feeling in the fingers. He had forgotten for the moment that they were
frozen and that they were freezing more and more. All this happened quickly and before the
animal could escape, he encircled its body with his arms. He sat down in the snow, and in
this fashion held the dog, while it barked and struggled.
But it was all he could do: hold its body encircled in his arms and sit there. He realized that
he could not kill the dog. There was no way to do it. With his frozen hands he could neither
draw nor hold his knife. Nor could he grasp the dog around the throat. He freed it and it
dashed wildly away, still barking. It stopped 40 feet away and observed him curiously, with
ears sharply bent forward.
The man looked down at his hands to locate them and found them hanging on the ends of
his arms. He thought it curious that it was necessary to use his eyes to discover where his
hands were. He began waving his arms, beating the mittened hands against his sides. He did
this for five minutes. His heart produced enough blood to stop his shaking. But no feeling
was created in his hands.
A certain fear of death came upon him. He realized that it was no longer a mere problem of
freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet. Now it was a problem of life
and death with the circumstances against him. The fear made him lose control of himself
and he turned and ran along the creek bed on the old trail. The dog joined him and followed
closely behind. The man ran blindly in fear such as he had never known in his life. Slowly, as
he struggled through the snow, he began to see things again—the banks of the creek, the
bare trees, and the sky.
The running made him feel better. He did not shake any more. Maybe, if he continued to
run, his feet would stop freezing. Maybe if he ran far enough, he would find the camp and
the boys. Without doubt, he would lose some fingers and toes and some of his face. But the
boys would take care of him and save the rest of him when he got there. And at the same
time, there was another thought in his mind that said he would never get to the camp and
the boys. It told him that it was too many miles away, that the freezing had too great a start
and that he would soon be dead. He pushed this thought to the back of his mind and
refused to consider it. Sometimes it came forward and demanded to be heard. But he
pushed it away and tried to think of other things.
It seemed strange to him that he could run on feet so frozen that he could not feel them
when they struck the earth and took the weight of his body. He seemed to be flying along
above the surface and to have no connection with the earth.
His idea of running until he arrived at the camp and the boys presented one problem: he
lacked the endurance. Several times he caught himself as he was falling. Finally, he dropped
to the ground, unable to stop his fall. When he tried to rise, he failed. He must sit and rest,
he decided. Next time he would merely walk and keep going.

45
As he sat and regained his breath, he noted that he was feeling warm and comfortable. He
was not shaking, and it even seemed that a warm glow had come to his body. And yet, when
he touched his nose or face, there was no feeling. Running would not bring life to them. Nor
would it help his hands and feet. Then the thought came to him that the frozen portions of
his body must be increasing. He tried to keep this thought out of his mind and to forget it.
He knew that such thoughts caused a feeling of fright in him and he was afraid of such
feelings. But the thought returned and continued, until he could picture his body totally
frozen. This was too much, and again he ran wildly along the trail. Once he slowed to a walk,
but the thought that the freezing of his body was increasing made him run again.
And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell a second time, the dog
curled its tail over its feet and sat in front of him, facing him, curiously eager. The warmth
and security of the animal angered him. He cursed it until it flattened its ears. This time the
shaking because of the cold began more quickly. He was losing his battle with the frost. It
was moving into his body from all sides. This thought drove him forward. But he ran no
more than 100 feet, when he fell head first.
It was his last moment of fear. When he had recovered his breath and his control, he sat and
thought about meeting death with dignity. However, the idea did not come to him in exactly
this manner. His idea was that he had been acting like a fool. He had been running around
like a chicken with its head cut off. 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.
A good idea, he thought, to sleep his way to death. Freezing was not as bad as people
thought. There were many worse ways to die.
He pictured the boys finding his body the next day. Suddenly he saw himself with them,
coming along the trail and looking for himself. And, still with them, he came around a turn in
the trail and found himself lying in the snow. He did not belong with himself any more. Even
then he was outside of himself, standing with the boys and looking at himself in the snow. It
certainly was cold, was his thought. When he returned to the United States he could tell the
folks what real cold was.
His mind went from this to the thought of the old man of Sulphur Creek. He could see him
quite clearly, warm and comfortable, and smoking a pipe.
“You were right, old fellow. You were right,” he murmured to the old man of Sulphur Creek.
Then the man dropped into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep
he had ever known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The brief day ended in a long
evening. There were no signs of a fire to be made. Never in the dog’s experience had it
known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the evening grew darker, its
eager longing for the fire mastered it. With much lifting of its feet, it cried softly. Then it
flattened its ears, expecting the man’s curse. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog
howled loudly. And still later it moved close to the man and caught the smell of death. This
made the animal back away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the stars that leaped
and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it turned and ran along the trail toward
the camp it knew, where there were the other food providers and fire providers.

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