First Mount

Grayson Curtis with his first mounted bass.

I have a distinct memory from when I was 5 years old. My grandfather and I walked down to the dock at his house on Lake Oconee on a hot August day in 1990. I had my push-button reel and my Snoopy lifejacket on as I watched my grandfather pop up the top of the pale blue container to retrieve a wiggly worm. After threading the bait on my hook, he instructed me to cast on the north side of the dock where trees offered a little afternoon shade.

Nearly as soon as my cork hit the water, it dove beneath the surface. I heard my grandfather holler, “You got one! Reel him in!”

The fish on the other end of the line felt bigger than anything I had ever hooked before. I struggled to get the fish to the surface, and when I did, I couldn’t believe my little eyes. It was a bass! I had only ever caught bream and catfish before. I frantically swung the feisty bass over the dock rail, and the hook ripped out of its mouth. The fish landed with a thud on the wooden walkway.

I watched in dismay as the bass flipped to the edge of the dock with its tail hanging off. One more wiggle, and that fish was gone.

But then I saw my grandfather’s hands wrap firmly around my prize and lift it up for me to see. I remember asking over and over, “Can I mount it?”

To this day I can see my grandfather’s smile.

That bass still hangs proudly on my wall. Even though it was only a pound, and I have had several big bass mounted through the years, that little one carries the most meaning. There is only ever one first mount.

Thirty four years later, I am writing this just after returning home from the taxidermist. My 6-year-old son Grayson caught his largest bass this past July, and it only took one question from his mouth to halt my hands from releasing the fish back into the water.

“Dad, can I mount him?”

That simple question hit me harder than I was prepared for. I immediately thought of my first mount, that bass that has been such a fixture in my life. In many ways, it defined who I was and who I would become. I was an outdoorsman even at the age of 5. I craved it. I dreamed of it. I lived for it. I loved the outdoors with a passion. I still do.

So, I gave Grayson that same smile that my grandfather gave me on the Oconee dock all those years ago. I didn’t say a word; I simply grabbed a 5-gallon bucket, plopped the bass in and handed the bucket to Grayson.

That is another smile that will never fade from my mind.

Grayson’s bass is more than a mount. It symbolizes so much embedded in my boy’s heart and soul. He’s passionate about the outdoors like I was, and I want to do everything I can to fuel it… just like my grandfather did to the little 5-year-old boy in 1990.