This year I decided to spend fishing opener in Duluth, Minnesota. There were two rivers I planned to fish from shore, and I was hoping to catch something I could eat. I headed north two days early. I’d read about how pelicans gather at the St. Louis River estuary between mid-April and mid-May. Perfect timing to check them out. (Opener was May 10.)
On my way up Thursday evening, I took a little detour. I went to a park where I’d read pelicans are frequently spotted. Didn’t see any, so I drove around the area. I drove across a bridge—there they were. My first pelicans. Some flying, some floating lazily on the water. I was quite a distance away, and sure, I would’ve liked to be closer, but I take what I get.
I drove to my son’s house, where I was staying, and told myself I’d seen enough pelicans. I had the following day marked for work, and I had a lot of writing to do and told myself I’d get after it first thing in the morning.
But the next morning, after my usual time of reading and prayer, walking my dog, and breakfast, I found myself driving to see the pelicans again. My destination was about a half hour away, and ten minutes into the drive it hit me—what was I doing? It’s like my brain conveniently forgot what I told myself the night before, and my body just moved toward what it really wanted. More pelicans. There’d be plenty of time for work later. Why not do both?
About five minutes from the park, the sky shifted—full sun to full haze. To my left, the river wore a layer of low mist. A little eerie. A lot beautiful. I wondered—would the pelicans be there? And if they were, would they be cloaked in fog?
As soon as I turned into Chambers Grove Park, I could see them. Distant, but unmistakable. Pelicans on the river. No one else was at the park. Perfect. I parked far away, hoping to quietly creep up on them.
The night before, the park had been busy with people. But now? Just me, the river, and a whole lot of birds.
I walked slowly. Luckily, there was a line of tall grass and twigs between the river and the park. Maybe the pelicans wouldn’t notice me. The gulls, however, were making enough noise to wake the dead. To my left, what I thought were pelicans floated in the gentle current. They looked like sea ice. It was thrilling—to be the only human out there with all the birds. Not just pelicans and gulls, but songbirds too—most of which I could hear, a few I could see. All of nature seemed to be exploding around me.
Then, as I got closer to the river, I realized… those “pelicans” floating in the distance? Yep. Ice chunks. I had no idea there was still ice on the open river.
The gulls got louder. It was as if they were warning everyone that a human was present. I kind of wanted them to shut up, but they didn’t. Still, the pelicans stayed put. They didn’t seem disturbed, so I stayed for a while and just watched them. They didn’t do much—spread their wings occasionally, flapped a bit, resumed an awkward stance.
I can relate to awkward stances. At one point, I slipped in the mud and found myself on hands and knees. Ouch. Maybe it was time to get my muddy self to a coffee shop and knock out some writing.
The Main Event: Fishing Opener
Saturday morning, just after 5 a.m., I headed to the Cloquet River. It was a gorgeous morning—lazy water, lights sparkling on the surface, songbirds in full concert mode, and a grouse drumming somewhere in the distance. I was the only human around. Just me, my dog, and (hopefully) some fish.
I rigged my line with an eye jig and worm. A kingfisher skimmed the surface of the water and called with its mechanical rattle. Meanwhile, I was figuring things out. If a more “serious angler” had been with me, I probably would’ve been corrected nonstop. Using the wrong rig. Wrong bait. Wrong… but I was alone, so I didn’t care. I usually catch fish even if I’m doing it “wrong.”
The jig kept getting stuck under rocks. Over and over. I decided to give up and switch to my crankbait. It’s been a good luck lure in the past, and honestly, I was just tired of fighting with the jig.
Well, that jig never came back. My line broke. Lost the clasp too. Drat. I prefer clasping lures to tying them because, well, I’m lazy—but there I was. Once I tied on my lure, my morning finally found a rhythm:
Cast.
Reel.
Songbird.
Cast.
Reel.
Grouse drumming.
I made a game out of seeing how far across the river I could cast. My dog was snoozing in the car. The air was cool but invigorating. I wasn’t getting a single bite, but I didn’t care. The morning, the peace, the birds, the mallards… it was all just good for the soul.
Things got exciting when I saw a fish jump about 20 feet in front of me.
I moved up and down the bank, looking for better spots. One area looked promising—stagnant but shallow. Eventually I saw a fish jump there too. Mostly, I was moving around just to warm up. It was chilly, but honestly, I didn’t notice the cold most of the time. Nature had my attention. The river was always moving.
A couple hours in, I’d had one bite and lots of “rock action.”
So, I took a break and went for a walk. I was still the only person out there. The scenery? Stunning.
Eventually, I decided to head to another spot and try my luck there. I swung by the St. Louis estuary again—not far from the pelicans—and joined some friends on a fishing pier. We soaked up the beautiful weather, laughed, swapped stories.
Only thing missing? Fish.
I didn’t catch a thing. Not even a nibble.
On my drive home, I thought back over the days leading up to opener and the day itself. The pelicans were incredible. The peace and beauty of the Cloquet River was pure therapy. And fishing the St. Louis River was fun, even without bites.
There’s an old saying: There’s more to fishing than catching fish.
I wholeheartedly agree.
(Even if that’s just me trying to pacify myself for getting skunked.)
