It was the most subtle of sensations, but it was different. I was walking through tall, wet grass alongside a spring creek. The sodden blades had soaked my shoes and bottom eight inches of my pant legs. My toes were wet, and I could feel the dampness on my ankles. So I was quite surprised that I even felt the slight tap on the back of my heel.

When I turned around, there it was: my little fly box.

I’d been negligent. The three-by-two case was completely filled with flies. I hadn’t unloaded it in months. There were tiny midges, poppers, streamers, and who knows what else crammed into the little box. Dozens of flies.

Secured to my sling pack by just a clip, it made sense that it would fall off. That day I had been bouncing from spot to spot, taking my pack off and throwing it in the back of the car. Things get jostled and fasteners get loosened. So there it was, laying on the ground.

I’ve been lucky. I can’t recall anything of value that I have lost while fishing. And really, isn’t fly fishing the kind of activity that is just perfectly suited to losing things? You take dozens of tiny objects deep into the woods and stand in moving water. That is a recipe for disaster if I’ve ever heard one.

Prior to losing/not losing my little fly box, I almost lost my sole. Not the fish, not my self; the bottom of my wading shoe. I was fishing a high-gradient stream in the fall, and I kept slipping. It was like every time I planted my right foot, I’d slide a bit. A few times I almost lost it, but I regained my balance. On the way back to the car, I saw what I thought was a moderately-sized rodent perched on a rock. It didn’t move as I approached, and it was startlingly two-dimensional. As it so happened, it was a felt sole from a wading boot. I stopped, peeked at the bottom of my boot, and realized I was looking at my sole.

Another bizarre moment came when I was fishing a slow-moving freestone. All geared up, I had to cross the creek to get on a path and head downstream to the water I wanted to fish. As I climbed the bank, I looked down and saw that one of my Velcro-closure gravel guards was missing. Stuff like that stinks to lose, because you still have one. But you can only buy two. I was whining to myself about this as I walked to where I reentered the stream. After a few minutes of fishing, I noticed something drifting towards me. I thought it might be a turtle or log, but the fuzz of the Velcro quickly came into view. The gravel guard must have popped off while I was crossing.

I hear about guys losing fly rods, reels, and boxes full of flies. Additionally, cell phones, car keys, and wedding rings disappear in trout streams – never to be seen again. A gravel guard, felt sole, or fly patch are hardly worth fussing about. But losing something is never fun. It means replacing it and spending money, sure. But more than that, there is something inherently unsettling about misplacing an object and being unable to find it. It is almost as if we have some sort of phobia that if we lost this, what would happen if we lost something else – something actually of value?

Bending over, I picked up the fly box. I snapped it back into its harness, and gave it some tugs to ensure it was secure. I also checked my nippers, tippet holder, forceps, flotant, and license holder. Chances were that I wouldn’t be so fortunate to have them hit my foot at just the right moment if they fell off as I walked back to my car. And as much as I like to buy gear, I want it to be on my terms.