A Flip Fable

Stan Beaulier’s pickup, towing a five-owner Clacka, idles by the Grand Motel’s parking lot, which is occupied by our ancient gang-of-four fly-gear fiddlers. A fine young guide, Stan wears sandals for shoe-demanding river bottoms and is frequently laughing while spouting common and Latin names of Wisconsin’s eleven native turtles, cardinal flowers, and five different redhorse species known only to McClane’s.

“Stan, guy back there looks just like Flip Pallot, the TV saltwater guy!” exclaims his client, who suddenly sprang to life. “I’m sure it’s him.” 

Stan keeps rolling and agreeing, “That is Flip Pallot,” he says, “and I’ll bet he’s right there this evening, building a tailgate dinner, splashing Frigate rum, and storytelling with the rest of our guides.”

This story embraces the best of times—August 11th to 13th, 2025—before the worst of times, which came two weeks later. 

Let’s enjoy the former.

Philip “Flip” Pallot was a product from another time in South Florida. He reveled in its vacant spaces, waterways, swamps, oceans, tropical wonders, and wildlife. Flip’s inquisitive mind and clinical understanding rolled this substantial knowledge into a desirable lifestyle that over his 83 years earned an enormous following. Flip evolved into an internationally known media influencer, television star, and believable promoter of conservation and outdoor recreation. Flyfishing was his trademark.

Of the majority of accomplished fishermen I’ve met—and I grew up in Flip’s identical South Florida period—it’s rare that a saltwater practitioner, even with a fly, embraces freshwater with anything close to the enthusiasm reserved for the salt. 

Happily, Flip was an exception to this saltwater-superior attitude. Along with a shared love of food-crafting, toylike ultra-light spinning gear, and memory-testing each other on ancient landmarks, characters, and factoids, we both craved all sorts of freshwater fishing. Hence our second year tagging along with river smallmouth veterans of Wisconsin’s Great North Woods: retired Naples fishing guide Jim Grace and addicted fly-toting thoracic surgeon Dr. Ed Hall, both from Thomasville, Georgia.

A special joy erupts when an identifiable personality like Flip is recognized during a chance encounter with a fishing fan like Stan’s client later that evening. Even more interesting is enjoying Flip’s enthusiasm throughout a driftboat day with a fishing-history starved guide. All the best stories start spinning. 

That’s exactly how things unfolded for Flip and me on our first Menominee River day in Bart Landwehr’s Adipose. We launched south of Iron Mountain where the river occasionally slices in and out of Michigan on its way to Green Bay.

Bart and his cousin, Tight Lines Fly Fishing Company founder/owner, Tim Landwehr, have devoted twenty-five summers to chasing smallies and piloting thousands of clients in driftboats, inflatables, and now power drifters. Addressing my surprise at Tight Lines’ astonishing number of repeat fly rod bass customers, Tim wryly smiles, “People like driftboats, are comfortable in them, and they’re great for chasing bass,” Tim says. “The western driftboat was the gateway drug for our guide program.”

Everyone enjoys a peek into Flip’s flyrod quiver. Last August he was testing longer-than-standard-eight-foot Echo Bad Ass Glass prototypes. These handsome, deep-blue-toned rods slinging orange and white heavily front-tapered Cortland Hi-Viz “Flip” Lines were a photographer’s dream. But forgotten on the charger in the motel room, of course, was my camera phone.

Popping bugs often automatically appear at any mention of black bass and flyfishing. I heard Flip recalling his first Wisconsin smallmouth experience to an engrossed group during a late-winter Florida seminar. “Don’t you make a lot of noise with the popper?” Flip was asked. And to the surprise of everyone, the famed saltwater flats icon said, “It’s the quietest popper fishing I’ve ever seen.”

In August the “quiet treatment” continued to produce when either my bright, size 4 Boogle Bug Solar Flare or Flip’s favorite number 6 black version plopped into the Menominee’s tannic water. “Too much boat noise and fly popping scares these fish,” Bart reiterated, repeating the proven method of a single, firm pop or twitch following a pause after the bug’s initial landing.

Adjusting to this novel stillborn-popping bug behavior can take a while. After witnessing a fat smallmouth slowly rise to snatch your leggy floater—then watching the fish vanish when you give what should be the triggering twitch—is like being glaringly shushed by a librarian: “Oh. Guess I won’t do that again!”

It was probably 2 p.m., after every crumb of Bart’s steaming brisket-sandwich lunch had evaporated, that Flip was acclimating to the latest 9-foot, 2-inch Echo Bad Ass Glass 7-weight. My bank-tickling casts were adequate follow-ups from the stern but the precise orange loops Flip’s glasser was smoothly transmitting were growing tighter and longer.

Abandoning my 7-weight, I took the rear seat to let this show unfold. Bart, too, was motionless, his oars unmanned. We were transfixed as those powerful loops continued narrowing until I swear Flip was sending out a single straight orange line. Bart turned around grinning like Garfield the cat. We were both laughing in disbelief!

A beefy dark-brown smallmouth slammed Flip’s marinating Mr. Wiggly, a rubber-leg, floating foam creation that instantly made smallmouth-devouring history after its North Woods debut by our mutual Everglades-prowling friend, the late Jack “Bass” Allen.

There’s plenty more Flip and Menominee lore to rattle on about, like his weapons-grade venison burgers infused with honey smoked bacon that he drove to Wisconsin to feed Grand Motel parking lot scofflaws. Evenings of heavy gluttony didn’t faze Flip and Dr. Hall, as early every morning they tore into the double-barreled griddle cakes with eggs and sausage sides at Winter’s Family Restaurant in Pembine. Flip behaved like he’d never seen a pancake hanging over a plate before!

Our entire party, from guides Tim and Bart to the Gang of Four—Jim, Ed, Flip and myself—all had shared favorite fishing events with many mutual friends, an invisible but powerful bond evident on that August trip.

In September, Tim Landwehr shared a shocking realization that longtime friends and fly masters Dave Whitlock, Lefty Kreh, and now Flip Pallot’s last fishing trips were all with him in Wisconsin. 

Since reconnecting in the early 1970s at a Miami Sport Fishing Club meeting, Flip and I had remained in contact. Lately we’d shared more outings since my wife Jean and I swapped Wyoming winters for Florida, which put us much closer to Diane and Flip’s headquarters in Mims.

Reliving pieces of our last shared trip a mere month ago is comforting. But when I come across a photo or story that I know would’ve brought a chuckle to Philip, and I begin to send it… then it’s again painful. So long, Flip. There are a lot of us missing you.