Why so SAD?

Tomorrow, the weatherman says, the Aprilesque weather we’ve had since last weekend will give way to sleet, snow, and bitter cold. Fitting, I guess since it will be the first of December. I like winter, especially when we get enough snow for cross-country skiing, or to turn the land into a sugary white dreamscape. I don’t even mind the raw, drizzly days blow through (most often) in November or March. In Ireland, another damp, chilly place, people supposedly refer to those as “good Irish days.” I think they’re good days in Michigan too. “Bracing” is the word that comes to mind.

But an article in my campus’s student newspaper today reminds me that many people do not welcome the arrival of winter, and not only because of the hazardous driving conditions, the heating bills, or the chore of shoveling or blowing snow out of the driveway. Seasonal Affective Disorder, depression brought on by the darkness and relative confinement of the winter months, affects two to four percent of Americans, about 25 million folks.

I wonder if fishermen are disproportionately absent from their ranks.

I don’t mean to make light of the condition: one of my sisters has SAD, and it takes a substantial toll on her energy and enjoyment of life. I cope with major depression myself, and wouldn’t wish the condition on anyone, even for three or four months.
Still, my passion has led me to look fondly on weather many people consider adverse.
Cloudy, rainy weather puts steelhead on the move, or triggers mayfly hatches. Snowstorms mean more water to seep into the ground come springtime and subsequently filter into rivers to keep them cool in summer. Winter thaws that turn streets slushy and earth muddy also dump water into rivers and urge lake-run fish upstream. Stifling, humid days in late June or early July become more tolerable with the knowledge that they will drive hexagenia mayflies out of their burrows and into the air, or the mouths of trout. A cold snap in August foretells a spike in the Ephoron mayfly hatch once the warm weather resumes.

This pursuit can shift one’s frames of reference in many ways, though I have to concede that this is true only to a point. Fishing has only intermittently provided an antidote to my own depression. I used to tell myself that taking antidepressants during a fishing trip was like drinking a white wine spritzer in the middle of a whiskey bender, but have since been forced to abandon the theory. While I’ve never foregone an outing because of feeling low, there have been times when I was simply going through the motions, or staring at the water as much as actually working it.

So maybe the piscatorial import of inclement weather is lost on anglers who suffer from SAD. The import of many things may be lost on those who think about fishing too much.