On Tuesday the Wall Street Journal carried a story about the depressive effects of long winters, noting developments in Norway that intend to keep cold-weather suicide rates at a minimum.
OK, maybe not suicides. But the blues. That's what the Norwegian town of Rjukan hoped to chase away when it propped $1 million worth of mirrors on a hilltop last year to reflect sunlight into its otherwise dark town square.
It's worth noting that Rjukan sits at 59 degrees north latitude, about the same as Juneau, Alaska, while the Twin Cities cohabit considerably farther south, at 45 degrees north. So relatively speaking we should be better off. Yet in Minneapolis-St. Paul on Friday the high is expected to be about 34. With clouds. Whereas the good citizens of Rjukan will bask in temperatures near the mid-40s. Beneath reflected sunlight.
Go figure.
The issue arises because winter has lost its appeal, and I really want to be fishing over azure water with turtle grass waving. Preferably my vantage point would be the bow of a shallow-running boat with a spotter swinging a push-pole from a platform astern. Then again whether I am alone or in the company of trained gibbons I couldn't give a rip. I just want to be warm, fish tailing and a long line flying.
Minnesotans unaware that much of the world conducts its business as usual during winter are better off than those who at various times have flown the coop to points south in January, February or March. It's the latter bunch that comes to know firsthand that in many locales bikes can be ridden in winter, rods can be cast and stop signs obeyed without the benefit of ABS brakes. As eye-openers go, this is Timothy Leary-grade stuff, and once you've experienced it, you're constantly looking for more hits.
Years ago when I drove a truck I could load for Houston in January and be smiling already five hours down the road, in Des Moines. Four hours farther south still, in Kansas City, I was downright giddy, and by the time I angled into in Tulsa, euphoria reigned. And it wasn't the truck stop hookers who knocked on my sleeper that amped my mojo. Nor was it my vintage ride, a twin-stick Cornbinder that cascaded plumes of black smoke through rusty pipes. Instead, for reasons both mysterious and obvious, with each declination of latitude my attitude improved, an observation Jimmy Buffett has strummed to the bank over many years, pedal steel pitched perfect.
But it wasn't until I fished the Caribbean in winter that I fully appreciated the come-hither caresses of island breezes. The sweet song of a fly reel backpedaling against its drag added to the allure, and come evening fresh conch and vodka gimlets didn't hurt. These first outings occurred decades ago, in the Bahamas, before Great Exuma boasted scheduled flights from Miami and a Four Seasons Hotel. It was then that Dick Hanousek of St. Paul and I rented a room there a few winters running.