Tales from the 'angler's playground'

Most every Friday as I arrive home from work, the kids pepper me with requests. Inevitably the questions fall along a common theme. "Can so-and-so come over?" "Can we go do A, B, or C with them?" Or the all-time favorite, "Can (insert friend's name) spend the night?"

This Friday I turned the tables on my unsuspecting wife. "Jamie, can I go play with Mr. Horvat in the morning?" Of course it was worded a lot manlier, but that was the basic question. Translated to the outdoorsman's wife: I'm going fishing, and it's going to be godawful early when I leave.

The sun is a couple of hours from breaking loose from the horizon when my phone alarm rouses me from sleep. Immediately I break into the task at hand. I had already laid out all my clothes and equipment, but the real challenge is getting myself out of the house without alarming Mogli, our young black lab springer mix, or waking the other five members of the Baker clan.

With all my ducks in a row I sneak back to give Jamie a quick kiss and let her know I'm on my way. She casually whispers, "Have fun, don't die." I reassure her with a confident "I will ... and I won't."

I have commandeered my son's sled for the trip; the hill at Churchill school is safe for the morning. I feel largely overpacked for a quick morning jaunt. I stand in the middle of the driveway taking inventory of its contents as I await my ride. Two box tip ups, two rods, a chair, a tackle box and my graph threaten to spill out onto the concrete. Lance Horvat, a special education teacher from Cloquet, pulls up in the darkness. We quickly add my pile of stuff to his pile of stuff, and we are off.

Lance has the auger, shelter, heater, minnows and the knowledge. The trip is a new one for me: targeting ice walleyes on the Duluth-Superior Harbor.

I'm used to guiding; today I will be the guest. We quickly make our way from Cloquet to Park Point. As we drive the length of the peninsula, I'm shocked by the number of vehicles and fishermen lining the sides of the road. This is no secret spot or under-tapped resource.

We park and quickly gather our bearings and equipment. It isn't until we drop down onto the ice I realize we will be walking out into the darkness. The black ice scratches against my newly purchased ice cleats. The bay is free of snow and, for me, walking like a penguin is my only hope of not wiping out in dramatic fashion. Lance leads the way ­- experience and GPS guiding his way. The sun is still a half-hour from rising, but our path is illuminated by the Duluth and Superior skylines reflecting off the ice in all directions. Bobbing headlamps to our left and right signal we are not the only fishermen making the trek this morning.

The tromp ends abruptly as Lance's sled slides to a stop. Out comes his shelter, and it pops up without much cursing or wrangling. We punch a couple of holes through seven inches of root-beer-colored ice. I efficiently set one of the tip ups for Lance to monitor inside the shelter. In quick fashion, he has his Vexilar up and running and has settled into his jigging routine. I venture from the shelter in search of my hole locations.

From what I can tell, the main channel is still being broken for ship traffic; so we will focus well away from the channel, atop the mostly featureless flats. The walleyes use the flats to feed, and if we are fortunate in our location, we should put some fish topside as they make the rounds. I set my tip up in 9.5 feet of water; suspending a lively fathead minnow just off the sand bottom. My jigging rod is armed with a 1/4 oz. Lindy glow spoon tipped with a minnow's head.

I sit jigging for the first half-hour staring intently at my Lowrance graph. It shows my jig perfectly in unison with the action I'm imparting on it 9 feet below my feet. It also shows that not a single fish has visited the cone of my transducer. I scan up and down the flats and once again I'm struck by the sheer number of fisherman. Small villages of shelters have popped up in all directions. Most stick to approximately the same depth we have chosen. Some work their way closer to the main channel, and others have set up just off shore. To me, the spectacle resembles an angler's playground. As the day progresses, hockey pucks, footballs, frisbees, and grills will all make an appearance. I estimate there are 150-200 fishermen within eyesight, but none have crowded closer than 50 yards from where I sit.

The first fish shows itself around 7:30 a.m. It takes very little coaxing for it to crush my offering. A short battle later and I'm making my way towards the shelter. We stretch the walleye against the tape measure, and it tapes out at just over 15 inches. Allowed two over-15 inches apiece, the fish will be one of four that will make the trip back to Cloquet with us. The flip has been switched. Each time I shuffle back to my hole and drop my jigging spoon to the bottom, I'm greeted by a new mark on the graph. Some come and go, apparently not impressed; most inhale the bait as I raise it above their heads and shake it, proving too much to resist. I find myself forgoing the chair and eagerly anticipating each fight. My heart beats as each new fish appears on the graph and a new game of cat-and-mouse ensues.

To my left I catch the commotion of a solid hookset and drag screaming off a reel. I stare at the scene. A fellow angler is bent over his hole as his rod doubles; he's gaining zero ground on his prey. I mind my own business for a couple of minutes, but my instincts are to help. I make my way over to his location and offer my assistance. The man is wide eyed and a little distraught. "This isn't going to end well," he concedes.

I assess the situation. By the bend of the rod and the duration of the fight, I know he has undoubtedly hooked a sturgeon. First things first, we work together to adjust his drag and tighten it so the fish at least knows it's hooked. Secondly, I clear his second line entangled in the fight. The struggle lasts another five minutes; we hope at least to glimpse the monster under the clear ice ... but, alas, his line snaps unceremoniously.

In the time I've been gone, Lance has finished off our limit and begun packing up. I check my phone, not quite 9 a.m. For the morning, the set lines have produced very little, but the jigging rods have pulled their weight nicely. We make our way back to the truck, and in short order we arrive home. Jamie is up and gone to work, but Mogli and the kids are just starting to stir. David, the owner of the borrowed sled, meets us in the driveway, a little out of sorts he didn't get a chance to tag along.

"Can we go fishing, Dad?" he asks as Lance pulls away, translated to my ears as, "Can we go play, Dad?"

"Of course," I reply. There isn't much I'd rather do.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, educator and outdoorsman. Baker began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures available in our region.