Outdoors: Finally landing that dinosaur

The wind gathered momentum and funneled directly down the narrow stretch of the river channel, unleashing its strength against the far bank before dissipating around the bend. Current and wind and waves blustered past. Collar popped against the torrent, I sat plopped along the edge of the chocolate-milk stained St. Louis River of early April. For the 15th time, I tried to convince myself I knew what I was doing.

My target was a springtime dinosaur; a sturgeon I could call my own. I chucked a 2-ounce sinker as far as I could into the rushing current. On a short leader, I had strung a dozen crawlers on a large circle hook - my offering to the migrating beasts. Ice chunks from far upstream made a last-ditch escape toward Lake Superior. They clinked like champagne glasses as they floated past. Hidden beneath the ice floe, a horde of sturgeon struggled against the current, pushing relentlessly upstream to their destination: the rock and rubble below the Fond du Lac Dam, a primal push to perpetuate the species.

From the comfort of my couch, I had chosen the deep hole stretched out in front of me. I envisioned it cavernous enough for a sturgeon to duck into for a breather as the current ripped overhead. Helplessly my sinker and ball of worms tumbled quickly through the trough, pushed by the raging current. On each cast, my offering was in and out of the strike zone in a matter of seconds. I sat, defeated.

As the afternoon progressed, the sun began to warm the basalt rocks I had nestled into. The wind also decided to relent, allowing some semblance of a decent spring day. Upriver I watched a father and son work their own spot. Their rods pointed midriver, obviously anchored with more weight, better equipped for the conditions.

As I contemplated a trek back to the Suburban for another sinker or two, excitement upstream caught my attention. Hours of staring at rod tips and boredom turned to chaos. I watched the young man battle and ultimately beach a small sturgeon against the rubble of the bank. Apparently that was the fish they were after. They soon packed up and headed home. Confidence quickly replaced my pessimism.

I added two more ounces of weight and lobbed my gob of crawlers into the hole where the sturgeon had just been caught and promptly released. My line pinned straight at 45 degrees, the extra weight holding in the current. Minutes turned to hours. A couple of bites had got the blood pumping but a few small suckers provided my only reward.

Another small tap-tap-tap of my rod tip brought me to attention. I tightened the line and began reeling furiously against the weight. With circle hooks you don't set the hook with traditional rod sweeping action, you simply reel tight and let the hook bury into the side of the fish's mouth. By the time everything aligned, I knew I had finally hooked what I was after.

My rod doubled over and surged against the mass below. I lifted and strained, my back already screaming in disagreement to the ensuing battle. For the first five minutes, I highly doubt the sturgeon knew it was hooked. It wanted to go farther out into the river. That's where it went. It decided to mosey on downstream near shore. That's where it went. After 10 minutes, my adrenaline caught up with me. My heart raced as my eyes scanned the shoreline for the best place to beach my catch. Heart racing and excitement pivoted quickly to panic as the battle came to an abrupt standstill. Somewhere far below, the sturgeon had wrapped itself in a log. I pulled hard against the tangled mass of fish and wood and heartbreak but made no progress. I frantically weighed my options.

Desperate, I disengaged from the battle. I stripped line from my spool and gave the fish a reprieve from the struggle. My only hope was for him to swim himself free from his entanglement. My heart sank, knowing that I had probably lost the battle. This never works. I counted to 10 and tightened back up on the sturgeon to feel him bolt upstream, drag screaming from my reel. He was free and the fight was back on.

A short time later, the tide turned. He finally tired against my constant pressure and began slipping closer and closer to the river bank.

Taking me by surprise he appeared suddenly from the dark brown water directly below my feet. I reared back on him and walked him into the shallows. The net I had brought would prove worthlessly small. I waded ankle-deep into the freezing water and wrapped my arms around his upper half. I held the massive beast, quickly popping the hook out for a quick measurement, picture, and release. Excitement and contentment surrounded me as I cradled the massive catch: My very own dinosaur to call my own.

Bret Baker is an award-winning outdoors columnist who is a lifetime resident of Cloquet and avid husband, father, educator and outdoorsman.