Smithsonian Magazine - 11.2019

(Joyce) #1
November 2019 | SMITHSONIAN.COM 41

steamship heading to San Francisco. The fi nal entry in the jour-
nal is: “Leave St. Michaels—unregrettable moment.”


THAT SUMMER THE KLONDIKE gold rush reached its full fren-
zy. The population of Dawson City exploded to 40,000, close to
that of Seattle and Portland. A lucky few did become fantastical-
ly rich. Swede Anderson dug out a million dollars in gold from a
claim that everyone said was worthless. But the great majority of
rushers found no gold, and many didn’t even try, because almost
every gold-bearing creek within 50 miles of Dawson had already


been claimed. By the end of summer in 1899, the rush was over,
and Dawson City’s population had shrunk by three-quarters.
When Jack London reached San Francisco, he made a slow
recovery from scurvy, and then started writing articles, essays,
poems and short stories. He threw himself into it with character-
istic energy, often working 18 hours a day, and he read as much as
possible, studying the formulas for commercial success. But ev-
erything he submitted for publication was rejected, and he grew
depressed and disheartened. Finally, Overland Monthly maga-


zine off ered to publish a Klondike short story, “To the Man on the
Trail,” if he could content himself with the meager payment of $5.
Flat broke, Jack accepted, and had to borrow a dime to buy the
issue when it came out in January 1899.
Later that year, he hit literary paydirt. He sold “An Odyssey of
the North” to the Atlantic for $120, and after that, he never looked
back. It was the golden age of American magazines, editors were
looking for vivid action-packed short fi ction, and Jack London,
through hard work, perseverance, and trial and error mastered
the form. Within two years of leaving the Klondike, he was the

best-paid short story writer in America. By the age of 24, London
was famed as the “American Kipling.”
The idea for The Call of the Wild, London’s seventh book and
arguably his best, came to him in 1903 after a depressing stint as
an undercover journalist in the slums of London’s East End. He
started thinking back to the pristine Yukon wilderness and that
140-pound Saint Bernard mix in Dawson, the northern lights
and the sled-dog teams racing through the snow in 50 below zero
temperatures. He intended to write a CONTINUED ON PAGE 80
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