The Feeling Never Dies

Wednesday, August 29, 2007
by Ray Scott

On the way back to the dock, about 50 yards away, I made one last casual cast to the shoreline with an old worn-out blue/green l/4-ounce diving bait (after scraping away the dirt and grime and looking closely, I determined it was an old Norman lure).

I cranked for a while and finally felt a fish mouth the bait. I set the hook and it didn't take long to realize this was no ordinary fish. When it turned back toward the boat, I saw a huge body and immediately thought it must be a carp or catfish. As it came closer I realized it was a bass — probably the biggest I'd ever had on my hook.

Photo: Ray Scott Outdoors The Bass Boss admires his personal best – a 13-09 mama bass taken from his backyard lake in record-breaking August heat.

I was a nervous wreck. After more than 60 years of fishing, I knew this baby – surely a female – was special.

I hung on for dear life, letting the big mama do what she wanted, praying she'd get tired soon. I knew I couldn't muscle her with l0-pound test. Finesse was the order of the day and I remembered all my lectures about the art of light line. This would be the test.

She swam out at a quartered angle. I had lightened my drag slightly and used my thumb on the reel spool to control the pressure. I felt she was wearing down and I could start to bring her to the boat. But I was still worried about a last-minute surge. She hadn't gotten this big without being plenty smart.

Even when I thought she'd given out of steam, I was still worried. Finally I got her up to the boat, ran my hand down in her mouth and quickly lifted her out of the water. I was astounded at her size. Her mouth was larger than a quart milk jug.

I remember thinking: After all these years it was still a thrill. What a sport. What a fish.

After that, everything was in fast motion. I wanted her back in the water as soon as possible. I called my son on my cell to get a scale and a tape measure. I called my wife to come to the dock. My photographer-neighbor snapped pictures. The final stats: l3 pounds, 9 ounces, and 27 l/2 inches long.

She was just 6 ounces short of the monster Rick Clunn had caught in l99l in a fundraising tournament on my lake. (His personal best.)

Finally we all gathered around to get a last glimpse. I carefully put her in the water and rocked her gently back and forth and we all held our collective breath. Finally she gave that muscular wave of the body and headed for the dark waters below.

Although she was the largest bass of my career, I had made a quick decision not to kill her, but to have a replica mount made by my buddy Archie Phillips, a renowned fish taxidermist in Fairfield, Ala. who has molds of every size bass known to man. All I had to do was call in the weight.

We knew from a tag that she'd been caught in November of 200l and weighed l.89 pounds at that time. Based on that weight, she'd probably been about 2 years old. So we figured the grand lady we now had was about 8 years old, according to my good friend and fisheries biologist Bob Lusk, an Alabama bass can reach l2 to l4 years with proper management. And if she'd reached l3 pounds at 8 years, she could definitely reach l6 pounds with more age. With the right genetic potential and proper management she has the chance to reach l8 pounds.

Photo: Ray Scott Outdoors The lady heads home: According to fisheries biologist Bob Lusk, Scott's bass can live to 12 to 14 years old and has the potential to reach 18 pounds with good genetics and proper lake management.

I've caught a number of 10-pounders in my career, and even three or four in the 11- and l2-pound class, but never one this large. And now I know she's still out there waiting to give someone another thrill.

Thank you Lord.

I have to admit I did get emotional about this catch. Because the thrill was so much like the one I felt when I was 7 years old and caught my very first bass at a modest fishing camp called Bridge Creek north of Montgomery. My parents always rented a small cabin with fishing privileges for the summer. But I was the only family member really interested. I loved to fish for bluegill with my cane pole and cork bobber and wigglers.

On a bright and hot summer day I was fishing from the bank for bluegill when I tied into my first bass. It inhaled my wiggler and I immediately knew this fish was different. All I could do was hang on. It even broke out of the water and I was electrified. I had never seen this fish before but I was determined to bring it in. It was 7 inches long and I put it on my shoelace stringer with the other smaller bluegill, and ran the l00 yards to the cabin to show my mother.

I'll never forget. "Ray Junior, you caught a bass!" It sounded special somehow. She was impressed. The whole experience lit a spark I never knew was there. It turned into a flame, and for the rest of my life that flame has never died.

The fate of that historic fish was commonplace for the time, but it brings back such happy childhood memories. My mother took all my tiny bluegill – and the monstrous 7-inch bass – and cleaned and gutted them carefully. I watched intently as she wallowed my precious catch in a mixture of salt and cornmeal and dropped them into an iron skillet of hot grease. (Followed by hushpuppies, of course).

And yes, I confess, I ate my first bass. Nothing could have been more delicious to that 7-year-old boy.

Note: To read more about the inspiring story of Ray Scott and the multi-billion-dollar sportfishing industry he created, order Robert Boyle's biography, Bass Boss, at RayScott.net, or call (800) 518-7222.