Fear of the Great Unknown

 Ever get that sinking feeling? Like the universe just whispered, “What can possibly go wrong now?” It’s that eerie, foreboding vibe, the kind that makes you glance over your shoulder and wonder if today’s the day you meet your doom—or worse, forget your lunch.

For me, that feeling struck hardest one crisp morning on the river. I’d tied on a fly that was, let’s say, “experimental.” It looked less like something a fish would eat and more like something a 5-year-old glued together at craft camp. Feathers sticking out at odd angles, a color scheme only a parrot could love—it was a masterpiece of chaos.

But hey, I thought, trust the fly, right? That’s what the pros say. I cast it out with all the confidence of someone who just double-knotted their shoes for the first time. And then I waited.

Nothing.

The foreboding grew. Maybe the fish were laughing at me down there. Maybe I’d invented the first fly designed to repel trout. I stared at my line, muttering to myself like a lunatic. “What kind of self-respecting trout would eat this? Should I pack it up and take up knitting?”

And then it happened. The line zipped tight, and my rod bent in a way that said, “Oh yeah, buddy, you’re in for it now.” My heart leapt. I was on! The battle was on! I fought that fish like it had insulted my mother, grinning like a fool the whole time.

When I finally reeled it in, there it was: a gorgeous rainbow trout, gleaming in the sunlight. It stared at me with what I can only describe as pure disappointment, as if to say, This? This is what fooled me?

But I didn’t care. I trusted the fly, and it worked. The sense of foreboding vanished, replaced by the joy of victory and a fish tale I’d be telling for years.

So, what’s the moral? Fear of the unknown can hold you back—or it can make the reward that much sweeter when you take the leap. Sometimes, the fly doesn’t have to be perfect; you just have to trust it. And if it works, well, the fish don’t care how ridiculous it looks.

So next time you feel that dread creeping in, remember: trust your fly. Or at least tie on something colorful enough to distract the fish—and yourself—from the fear of the unknown.

How does that land? Too absurd, or the right mix of humor and wisdom?