The Call of the Wild shows how nature tests Buck and reshapes a life torn from civilization.

Buck, the wild, and a question worth asking in any AP U.S. History discussion: what happens when civilization’s comforts are stripped away and the raw force of nature takes center stage? Jack London’s The Call of the Wild answers that with a loud, cinematic yes. The book isn’t just a canine adventure; it’s a compact map of late 19th-century America’s urgent questions about survival, industry, and our place in a world that’s not shy about harshing our vibe.

What the question gets right—and what it misses

So, the quick answer to the multiple-choice prompt you’ll see in the readings is B: The Call of the Wild. It’s the story that foregrounds the struggle against nature, following Buck as he’s yanked from a comfortable California home and hurled into the brutal climate of the Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush.

But let me explain why this particular book matters beyond a single plotline. London’s hero is less about dogs and sleds and more about a test: what happens when the civilized self tries to endure something utterly elemental? Buck’s arc isn’t a cute montage of fetch and loyalty; it’s a slow, often hard lesson in instinct, adaptation, and the fact that the environment doesn’t negotiate. Nature doesn’t bend to your plans—it tests them, often by turning up the stakes and shaving away the extras you didn’t realize you were carrying.

A window into Period 6 themes

Period 6 in U.S. history schools often hangs on big shifts: industrialization, expansion into frontiers, the emergence of new social realities, and the changing ways Americans understood work, risk, and community. The Call of the Wild fits neatly into that tapestry. It’s a frontier tale in literary form, showing how the same forces that drive economic growth—competition, scarcity, the allure of resources—also shape personal identity and group dynamics.

Think of London’s Alaska chapters as a laboratory for naturalism. The movement was interested in forces bigger than a single human will: environment, biology, social pressure, even luck. Buck doesn’t “choose” to become a survivor so much as he’s reshaped by a world that doesn’t care about comfort, only about survival. The story’s crisp survival physics—tracks, cold, hunger, fealty to the pack—offers a vivid, memorable way to connect literary themes to the historical realities of American expansion and the harsher sides of frontier life.

Who London is talking to—and why it matters for students

Jack London isn’t just telling a dog’s story. He’s presenting a critique and a celebration of a certain American temperament: a willingness to endure, improvise, and sometimes dominate in the face of a relentless environment. This was the era that tested industries and individuals alike. The gold rush saga was not just about wealth—it was about the rough edge of modern capitalism: supply chains, risk, and the brutal competition that leaves marks on both people and landscapes.

In class discussions, you’ll often hear debates about whether nature is a villain or a teacher. London gives you both sides in one voice. Buck endures frostbite, hunger, and brutal dogfights, and in those moments you can feel the cold realness of a world where human plans collide with the raw forces of nature. Yet the very same Buck learns cunning, quick thinking, and a kind of cunning-minded independence that mirrors a broader American ethos—the impulse to adapt rapidly when the map changes under your feet.

The other options on the list—and what they illuminate instead

If you’re ever tempted to mix up your authors or themes, here’s a quick compass:

• The Jungle by Upton Sinclair: This one’s a sharp, relentless look at immigrant labor and the social machinery of Chicago’s meatpacking industry. It’s about exploitation, labor politics, and the search for dignity in industrial cities. It foregrounds human systems and social forces rather than the wilderness.

• The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck: A Depression-era story about displacement, family endurance, and collective resilience in the face of economic catastrophe. It’s about social justice, migration, and the evolving relationship between people and the land.

• The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald: A cool, stylish critique of American dreams in the Jazz Age. It’s about wealth, class, identity, and the seductive lure—and the hollowness—of prosperity.

So, if you’re scanning for a work that hones in on “the struggle against nature,” London’s piece stands apart in this quartet. It’s a study in how an environment can press back against everything we call domestic or tender, forcing a redefinition of what “survival” really means.

Naturalism, the era, and a literary lens

Here’s the through line you’ll want to carry into your notes: naturalism ties people to environments, and it makes character be less about choice and more about response to force. London’s Yukon isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a catalyst. It accelerates Buck’s transformation from pampered pet to creature finely attuned to the rhythms of ice and snow.

Think of it like this: the historical period was about power—power of tech, power of capital, power of the land itself. The literature of the time often asks, how does power shape life at the margins? The Call of the Wild answers with a decisive, atmospheric yes. It shows that survival can be both a personal victory and a surrender to something older and bigger than any one individual plan.

Reading tips that don’t feel like a cram guide

• Focus on Buck’s transitions. Each shift—from domestic ease to wild command—pins a thematic thread: what civilization gives you, and what nature can strip away.

• Notice the setting as a character. The cold, the snow, the food scarcity—these are not backdrop details. They push Buck, and they push the story forward.

• Track the tension between instinct and training. London is asking you to watch how instinct often wins when training starts to fray under pressure.

• Tie scenes to larger themes. Ask: What does this say about American expansion, about labor, about the pull toward wealth? These links help you see the novel as part of a bigger conversation about American life in the era.

A little context goes a long way

If you’re stitching this into your understanding of Period 6, you’ll also want to keep an eye on the era’s bigger shifts—the ways Americans moved across landscapes, mined for gold, pumped up industry, and wrestled with the ethics of progress. The Call of the Wild captures a moment when the land still held on to a raw, almost mythic power. It’s a contrast to the more social or industrial narratives that often fill the period’s pages.

Reading Buck’s trials can spark discussions about how Americans reconciled with nature, and how that relationship informs broader questions about national identity and economic development. It’s a thread that connects literature to history in a way that feels tangible, almost tactile.

A quick narrative thread you can tell in class

Here’s a simple way to frame it when you’re hashing out ideas in discussion or writing a short response: London gives us the wilderness as a force that tests every layer of a character—body, mind, memory of a home. The result isn’t just survival; it’s a re-remembering of what counts when the lights go out on comfort. In that sense, Buck’s journey is less about conquering the wild than about learning how to live with its rules. And that message resonates with the era’s mood—modern America pulling away from small-town purity toward a world of risk, big business, and new frontiers.

A friendly nudge toward broader connections

If you’re curious about how this lines up with other readings or lectures, look for moments when literature probes the limits of human control. The late 19th century wasn’t shy about telling tall tales, but it also wasn’t shy about showing consequences—of greed, of crowding, of rapid change. The Call of the Wild sits right at that crossroads, offering a visceral reminder that even in the most urban, industrialized times there are landscapes that remind us who we are, and what we’re capable of when the going gets truly tough.

Final thought: why this book deserves a place in the conversation

The Call of the Wild isn’t just a story about a dog and a trek through snow. It’s a compact, powerful meditation on force—of nature, of market, of history—that shaped a generation and left a lasting imprint on American storytelling. It invites readers to feel the cold, to hear the calls of the wild, and to reflect on how far a society will go when it’s chasing something as elusive as progress.

So next time you encounter Buck and the Klondike, lean in. Let the pages pull you into a moment when courage and instinct synchronize with a world that’s determined to test you. It’s not merely a favorite of the period; it’s a lens that helps us see the era—its opportunities, its dangers, and its enduring questions—more clearly. And that, in the end, is what makes this book worth returning to again and again.