Nobody forgets the rod. People forget the net, the licence, the second pair of gloves and the key to the gate.
The pattern is consistent: what gets left behind is never the main object, it is the small enabling thing you only notice at the point of use, in the dark, an hour from home. That is not a discipline problem. It is what packing from memory at four in the morning does to everyone.
Four lists that nest
A season list you run once. A trip list you run every time. Two add-ons — water and cold — that you only pull out when the day calls for them. The nesting matters: one list long enough to cover every scenario stops being read after the third trip.
In packing order
The lists run in the order things go in the bag, not in alphabetical order and not by category. That sounds like a small thing until you have used one: a list you can walk down in one pass takes ninety seconds, and a list you have to hunt around takes ten minutes and gets abandoned.
The truck list
The separate one. Tow strap, spare key, first aid, tie-downs, the headlamp that lives in the glovebox. These get borrowed out of the vehicle in summer and are missing in October, and no amount of packing carefully the night before will catch it — only a list that treats the truck as its own kit.