After what I can only describe as a year that felt like I was trudging through molasses while being pelted with hailstones, I found myself in need of a break. So, when a good friend invited me on a late fall fishing trip to a lake deep in the Interior of British Columbia, I jumped at the opportunity. The lake itself wasn’t exactly my favorite—mainly because, despite its abundance of prime trout, I had never managed to catch a single one. And by “never managed,” I mean I’ve had absolutely zero luck there. It’s like the fish have a secret society that collectively agrees to ignore my best efforts. It’s humbling, really.

But despite the dubious track record, I packed my gear and headed out, hoping for a change of fortune—or at least some much-needed distraction.

What started as a classic fishing trip—one that, in true form, was living up to my low expectations—took a turn for the absurd. After hours of casting into the same stretch of water, not even the trout seemed to care about my fly, I decided it was time to make a change. The sinking line wasn’t cutting it, so I switched over to the floating line. I reached around for the rod I’d stashed in the back of the pontoon boat.

And it wasn’t there.

I did the standard “check once, check twice” routine. No rod. Not even the reassuring sight of it in the usual spot.

“Hmm, must have left it on the shore when I launched,” I thought to myself, already trying to convince my rational brain that I knew exactly where I’d left it.

I paddled back to shore, with all the confidence of a man who is sure he’s just left his rod behind on solid ground. I looked. It wasn’t there.

At this point, I recalled something I had pushed out of my mind in a desperate attempt to avoid the inevitable sinking feeling: while paddling into position earlier, I had felt something bump my leg. A strange, almost imperceptible contact that made me jump out of my skin. At the time, I thought it was some random branch or stick brushing against me. But now, standing on the shore, I realized that what I had felt was not a stick at all—it was my fly rod, reel, and brand new line taking a dive into the abyss of the lake after being dislodged from its spot on the pontoon.

And there it went, slowly sinking into the depths, leaving me with nothing but the ghost of a lost fishing setup and a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Now, I could’ve let this small (yet monumental) setback ruin the trip. It certainly seemed like the kind of moment that could spiral into frustration. But I didn’t. Instead, I decided to head back to camp, where I started a roaring campfire, slapped a steak on the grill, and cooked up a perfectly medium-rare piece of meat. Sitting by the fire, a glass of whiskey in hand, gazing out at the serene, glassy lake, I came to a rather unexpected conclusion: this was still a good trip. By the time the trip wrapped up, it wasn’t the fishing (or lack thereof) that defined it. It was the time spent sitting around the campfire, shooting the breeze, and solving all the world’s problems with a good friend. I had lost a rod, reel, and line worth hundreds—possibly thousands—of dollars, and yet, I left that campsite a better person.