
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.











