Seasonal Depression
A December Reflection
It’s cold where I live. It’s grey. There are days in May and September that teem with delightful color and life, but many dark days in the late fall and long winter. Seasonal depression is a well worn phrase around here.
Doctors and fishing guides use it to describe the gloom that can set in when the summer fades away with the turning leaves, and the cold, rainy, slate colored skies fill the space until spring. You hear about it in extreme forms from far away places where daylight is at a premium, but it gets to folks here as well. It hits me too, seasonal depression, though not in the same time frame. Not in the same way at all, really.
I used to spend the warm, sunny, vibrant months drinking beer and avoiding the responsibilities of life. Now I spend them in a bit of a funk. A funk that does not set in when the skies turn dark and the days grow short, but rather when the ducks are out of season, the wild ramps wilt and die off, and the perch quit biting.
In June and July, the heat and sunshine that used to bring me so much pleasure just seem like a hindrance to a day well spent. The bugs are thick, the birds are off limits, and the deer are akin to livestock. I can fish in these months, sure. Smallmouth and pike, which I’ve always loved. On the cooler mornings I can run my dog. There’s no shortage of things to do, parties to attend, chores to finish, but the spirit within me is not at its peak.
Right now, though, with a crisp November in the rearview and December snow on the ground, I am alive. My body welcomes the cold. My spirit welcomes the grey. I’ve spent the autumnal months doing what I love most. My legs are tired. My boots are worn. The freezer is full and the Christmas tree is up. My wife is happy. My dog is happy. My cup is full again.
My September was spent in great preparation, with a few goose and grouse hunts sprinkled in for good measure. I turned thirty in a tent, camped out with Jess, the loons, and a wood fire under a celebratory Adirondack sky. I bought a notebook. I wrote, just for me. I drank coffee. Coffee starts to taste better in September. And I waited for October.
My October, beautifully chaotic. Running dogs every chance I could. Breaking bread with bird hunters and dedicating each day to wildlife. I bought a new (to me) truck and put some quality miles on it. I missed a lot of ducks and shot a couple. I killed my first pintail over good dogs with new friends and old ones. I killed grouse and woodcock over my own dog, his time and effort paying off one bird at a time. I went to camp. I fed the wood stove. I wrote in the log book. More coffee. More waiting.
November, sweet November. It arrived as if unannounced, like overnight flight birds provoking a slough of phone calls from eager friends. One moment I was arming the neighborhood youth with enough Twix bars and peanut butter cups to hook them for life and the next I was overindulged in all of my favorite things. Mountain whitetails, leaf-off in the thickets, family, camp, mashed potatoes. Hunting with my wife. The first snowfall. Elation. Exhaustion. More firewood. More bird dogs. More coffee. Sweet November bliss. I filled my buck tag. I ate six pies in four days. I avoided the gym. I went to Maine. I went back to camp. I lived, and I loved every single minute of it.
In Robert Ruarks, “The Old Man and the Boy”, the author writes, “We were talking about the seasons one time, and the Old Man said that if he had to he could do without summer and all of spring except maybe May, and he would be just as happy to settle for October through January, and give the rest away. He said he would pick November as the best one, because it wasn’t too hot, and wasn’t too cold, and you could do practically anything in it better than any other time of the year, except maybe get sunburnt or fall in love. Although, he said, there ain't nothing wrong with November, or any other month, for falling in love if the moon’s right. But mainly the reason I like November best is that it reminds me of me.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever related more to any one piece of the written word.
When the rent came due and the porch pumpkins were swapped out for Christmas lights, I could feel it. I can still feel it. This is my time. Our time.
I’ve kept truckin’ through December. I hunted here at home. Deer and grouse and late season ducks. I took a quick trip to Georgia and experienced my first quail hunt. I’m home for the holidays, happy to be settled in with my wife and dog. I’ll write more, now that I can start earning back those early mornings and late nights that are the usual down payment for any well invested hunting season. I’ll read more, trading gas station energy bombs for home brewed coffee and snowy Saturday mornings. Seasonal depression be damned. I’m alive and well.
I’ll smile my way through the next few months as much as possible, saving whatever gloomy sadness I can for the far-off Summer. If you should find yourself feeling melancholic as we head into another long, grey, North Country winter, I invite you to take comfort in knowing this: you provide an important balance. You and I, and all those like us, are the yin and yang to this seasonal depression stuff. You take the first shift, and I’ll cover you in July. My winter morning coffee for your boat day Busch Light. Deal?
Love it!
I love this, Nate. Thanks for sharing!