To date, there are 14 skin mounts in my collection, the most prized of which are a 10-pound bonefish and a 20-inch palomino trout. Based on the bone’s aqua paint job and heavy plaster core, and the fact that it’s no longer PC to kill a gray ghost, I figure the mount is from the ’50s or ’60s, and I know I’ll probably never find another like it. The palomino, while being one of the worst mount jobs I’ve ever seen, was a must-have for a guy who grew up in Jersey where the “golden trout” was such a coveted opening-day prize. If you’re not from the Northeast, you may not understand. Every time I see that gaudy orange fish hanging in the garage with the others, I wonder if the person who caught it was the lucky one standing around a hole with 20 other fishermen, bombarding the poor glowing trout with corn, worms, and spinners. I think about whether photos of Ed Hogan holding his 50-pound king salmon on June 16, 1984, still exist, or if the name and date that are scribbled on his mount (now hanging over my lawn mower) are the only remaining record of the feat. And I wonder how long the stories behind the mounts of fish I’ve caught will get passed on through my family before they become hazy or disappear altogether, to leave future owners guessing.