Courtesy Photo A meandering stream east of Ironwood is seen out the window of William Kelley’s airplane in 1971.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the seventh in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley discussed the peculiar phenomenon of flight.

Lazy legs between unexciting fuel stops lend to this leisurely luxury.

The Mackinac Bridge was far behind. It seemed as if that eighth wonder of the world was passed at some point in another dimension. Forests of coniferous trees, the southern fringe of the Taiga, passed beneath, mostly unnoticed but for ribbons of river, reflected red from the silt and clay they carried, winding like pregnant reptiles among the forests’ green shapes.

Grandfather was a lumberjack down there 70 years before. Those massive white pines his crew cut were replaced by other pines and spruces that are near maturity, once more old scars from steel wagon-wheel rims are faded, but still visible when the light’s angle is right. Those too, fall behind.

The old road ran parallel to my course for a few miles, then vanished into new growth.

Towns appeared and disappeared across the Upper Peninsula, regulated by the type, amount, and longevity of the resource that created them. Iron, lumber, shipping, and small farms created the towns. Now, some are gone, and the rest are governed by a varied economy, a mixture of the above sprinkled with tourism to keep them viable.

Around Lake Superior, a wave and a right turn to a north-northwest heading.

In 3,000 miles, I would be in Alaska.

I drifted in and out of that euphoric state created by the secure feeling of engine throb, gentle waves of air which supported the plane, and the peaceful panorama.

Across Minnesota and the scars left by iron mines in the iron range, I continued. Expanses of forests were replaced by miles and miles of marsh. Thousands of shallow lakes reflected the cumulus clouds.

Shallow water, grass sticking above the surface. Channels dug across flats. Interconnected trenches and channels that seemed to extend for miles.

Then the idea hit me.

Rice.

Flat-bottom boats and canoes were used for centuries by Indians to gather rice.

Always, it is food that binds a culture to its roots, the reason for miles of channels and trenches.

Grand Rapids is a little town nestled among the trees and lakes of northern Minnesota. The area lives up to its reputation as the “Land of 10,000 Lakes.”

Much float plane flying takes place in the area. In fact, on the north end of the north-south runway, there is a little lake on which float plans are based.

As I fueled the plane, I heard a shrill scream. Initially, it startled me, but I soon discovered it was a loon. They also use the lake as their base. I had seen the bird in nature films, but never in the wild.

It seemed so appropriate. The call of the wild was already upon me, as the loons instructed their young.

A habit I picked up early in my flying was to fuel the plane myself. I’m sure line personnel could do just as well at fueling, but I like the personal association with that operation. Besides, when I finish topping off the tanks, I want to know just how full they are. When I calculate how much fuel is left in the tanks, I want to know how much there was at the outset.

Engine stoppage due to fuel starvation is not the kind of surprise a pilot wants where there is no airport in the vicinity for emergency landing.

It is necessary to file a flight plan to advise customs when landing across the border. A call to Flight Service was made, at which time I was assured the weather would hold, and the Canadian officials would meet me when I reached Winnipeg.

A large area of country — land and water — north of Grand Rapids is national forests, and Indian reservations.

The first one I encountered was Greater Leech Lake Indian Reservation. The water was not very deep, and, in many of the lakes, it was stagnant. Hence the name Leech. The bloodsuckers were plentiful when the area was named.

Most names throughout the country have a very simple reason for their origin. As I travel, I see it quite frequently. The name depicts some physical characteristic.

In this case, the second Indian reservation was named Red Lake Indian Reservation.

Red Lake is divided by a large peninsula which extends most of the way across the lake. The result is Upper Red Lake and Lower Red Lake. Most of the water of the lake lies within the reservation. The Indian Village is located near the tip of the peninsula. The name described the red soil deposits in the lake.

The sparseness of the area makes it resemble the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. One can go for many miles with no roads, except for the one I saw a few miles from my course. However, there were more miles of marsh than in Michigan, where the Upper Peninsula is mostly tree-covered.

As in many areas of our great nation, I could see why this was an Indian reservation. At the time it was divided up, no one else wanted it. The marsh just seemed to extend for miles, with nothing more than a few blades of grass or rice poking above the watery surface.

Sunshine did enhance the view with its magic on an otherwise expressionless expanse of landscape.

Check The News next week for the next installment. William Kelley was a teacher for 32 years and has been a pilot since 1966. He lives in Herron on the family farm where he was born and raised.