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Duluth has always been able to tell its own story. The lake does most of the talking — that steel-blue inland sea of freshwater that changes mood more often than a mayoral race. The hillside carries the rest — church steeples and smokestacks standing guard over neighborhoods that lean against the incline like stubborn drunks at last call.
That’s the pitch. Always has been. But we forgot it. Somewhere along the line, we decided we weren’t good enough, that our rough-edged charm needed polishing by someone with another ZIP code. So we rented out our story, signed a $3-million deal with an out-of-town ad shop, and asked them to sell our lake back to us.
The current setup is simple: an out-of-town firm runs the marketing show until the end of 2026. Visit Duluth, the old guard that used to steer everything, sits in the background like an aging uncle at the card table, waiting for its turn to get dealt back in. Mayor Roger Reinert has made it clear: when this contract runs dry, Duluth retakes the reins. No more outsourcing. No more fake gloss. Bring it back home.
And thank god for that. Only Duluth can sell Duluth.
A Town That Built Its Own Pitch
Visit Duluth didn’t appear out of nowhere. It was built out of cigarette smoke and rotary phones in the 1930s, when the city’s “publicity bureau” thought it could lure conventioneers north by promising cool breezes and walleye dinners. By 1970, the hoteliers taxed themselves voluntarily to fund a proper convention and visitors bureau. It wasn’t glamorous, but it worked.
We were never perfect. But we were honest. We didn’t try to sell ourselves as Maui. We sold ourselves as Duluth: cold, quirky, and unforgettable.
And then the consultants arrived. By the 2010s, we were told our lake wasn’t enough. We needed “brand elevation.” We required “professional storytelling.” So we forked over millions to agencies with more hashtags than common sense. They gave us slogans that sounded like they’d fit any town with a marina and a brewpub. They sold “Love It Like We Do.” Cute. Generic. Forgettable.
Meanwhile, the real Duluth story kept writing itself: grain dust in the air, ship horns in the night, potholes swallowing sedans on London Road. You don’t put that in a brochure, but you can’t tell Duluth without it.
Sports Always Told the Story Better
If you want to understand how Duluth sells itself, go to a rink.
Start with UMD hockey. Legendary Scott Sandelin has been behind that bench for a quarter century, muttering into his folded arms while turning kids from Hermantown and Hibbing into Frozen Four heroes. On Friday night in January, Amsoil Arena — students pounding the glass, old-timers in Bulldogs jackets two sizes too small, the whole building rising when the Gophers come to town — that’s Duluth’s tourism pitch. It’s raw, loud, and honest. No ad agency can buy that.
Or take Wade Stadium on a summer evening. The local college wood-bat team might not draw like they did in the early 2000s, but when the lights flicker on and you hear the PA announcer stumble through another sponsor, you remember why people love small-town baseball. That brick ballpark is one of the last of its kind, built during the WPA, holding stories of every kid who thought he’d make it to The Show. That’s authenticity.
And now we’ve got the Harbor Monsters. An indoor football team playing in the historic Duluth Arena, with a logo that looks like it was pulled off a video game but a fan base desperate for another reason to shout. You think a tourist ad sells Duluth better than a spring Saturday where some journeyman quarterback from Iowa scrambles for his life under the steel beams of the old barn? Not a chance.
The same goes for Hermantown football on a Friday night, or Denfeld marching into Public Schools Stadium under the lights, or Cloquet rolling in with half the town wearing purple. This is how Duluth markets itself. Not in slogans. In sweat and noise.
The Mall, the Bridge, the Tower
You want tourist “assets”? Let me give you a few.
Enger Tower, where half of Duluth got engaged. Wind whipping off the lake, a plastic ring box nearly tumbling over the ledge, and some poor guy trying to act smooth while swatting mosquitoes. That’s Duluth romance.
Miller Hill Mall, back in its heyday. Saturday mornings when you couldn’t find a parking spot, when Target was still a novelty, when the smell of Cinnabon glued itself to your coat. That was tourism, too — locals piling in, Canadians making a day of it, teenagers loitering in packs.
The Aerial Lift Bridge could raise itself 26 times on a Saturday just to let the salties and lakers slide through, while tourists stood slack-jawed with phones out, not realizing the real show was the cars stacked up on Lake Avenue honking in frustration.
Try selling that in a brochure. You can’t. But if you live here, you can tell it. And people believe it.
The Numbers Don’t Scare Us
Tourism receipts hit record highs in 2023 — almost $15 million in tax revenue — then dipped in late 2024. 2025 hasn’t been gangbusters either. Hotel occupancy has hovered in the low 70s, shoulder seasons sag, and the accountants are wringing their hands — big deal. Duluth has been through booms and busts before.
The lake doesn’t care. The bridge doesn’t care. The marathon doesn’t care. The tourists will keep coming because they always do. They want the grit as much as the gloss. And if they don’t, they’ll go somewhere else — and then they’ll come back when they remember that nowhere else feels quite like Duluth.
The outsiders look at a 2% occupancy dip and panic. The locals look at the lake and shrug. We’ll shovel, rebuild, and wait for the next boat to come in.
What We Need
We don’t need more slogans. We don’t need consultants who think Brighton Beach is in England. We don’t need to be told how to market a lake that sells itself every sunrise.
We need Visit Duluth, with a director who knows the zoo, knows the hotels, knows the potholes, knows the jokes. We need campaigns that admit it snows sideways in April and that you can still have the time of your life here. We need a voice that sounds like Duluth — raspy, sarcastic, stubborn, and proud.
The current tourism marketing contract will end. The consultants will fly home. And Duluth will pick up the mic again. That’s the real story.
Bring It Back
When you boil it all down, it’s simple.
This city doesn’t need outsiders to tell its story. It never did.
The lake tells it. The bridge tells it. The sports teams tell it. The old bars tell it. The people mean it every time they complain about the snow in April and brag about the sunset in July.
Bring it back home because nobody sells Duluth like Duluth. Not now. Not ever.
