Courtesy Photo Low clouds are seen on a river through the window of WIlliam Kelley’s plane flying west of Northway, Alaska in July 1971.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 24th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley heard several sad stories at and near the airport in Northway, Alaska.

A check with weather showed Chickaloon Pass was open.

Of course, there were places where the weather could be bad, but there was no one there to report it.

Flight Service reminded me to be careful, being a stranger to those parts. More importantly, they reminded me to not get myself into a situation beyond my capabilities or the capabilities of the plane.

I was anxious to see more of Alaska. I’d been there one day and found things, including the weather, could be classified as depressing. In some ways, I had already received more than I had bartered, and it was early in the trip.

Clouds hung at various levels in the marshy flatlands around Northway as I taxied to the runway and lifted off.

The clouds were fairly high in relation to the terrain, but, farther south and west, there were more mountains.

The sky was overcast, but forecast to be OK all the way to Anchorage.

A Beech Debonair had just come up the pass. He said it was a little tight, but safe, if a pilot was careful and kept his eyes open.

Most of the horizon visible below the cloud deck was filled with mountains. To my left, views of huge, snow-covered peaks in excess of 16,000 feet filled the window whenever there were breaks in the overcast. It was like sticking one’s head from beneath the blankets and looking at the ceiling.

From Northway, I headed west to Tetlin Lake. A low ridge of mountains bordered that area. I crossed over them and entered Mentasta Pass.

Now, I had to be more diligent in my observation and flying.

That was new to me.

I followed the Copper River at 2,500 feet, with the overcast above me at 5,000 feet. The highway and river were below me. Just to be safe, I decided to follow the highway in case the river decided to flow to the base of a mountain.

The clouds lowered.

Near Slana, I rounded a shoulder of mountain and the road disappeared into the clouds.

The river was still close to the highway, but down in a valley beside the road. I dropped into the river valley and flew along the river, with the clouds just above me.

The chart showed the road descended to lower terrain a few miles ahead, so I followed the river until the road was visible again.

It excited me to follow a river, right on the deck, just as I had read that some of Alaska’s finest bush pilots have done from time to time.

Now that I think about it, I probably didn’t read to the end of the article. As I flew along thinking what a real bush pilot I was, a call came over the radio.

“This is Gulkana radio. If anyone knows the whereabouts of a red and white Cessna one-eighty on floats, believed last reported in the Gulkana area, please contact Gulkana radio.”

Gee, I was excited. A real bush plane. I may be able to spot it. I looked in the valley for the 180, at the same time trying to keep the 140 out of trouble.

Gulkana was just ahead. When I reached it, I took the Glenn Highway, which would take me to Anchorage.

A few minutes later, another call came over the speaker.

“This is Gulkana radio with a special announcement.”

It was 30 minutes after the first alert.

“The red and white Cessna one-eighty on floats is enroute to Merrill Field in Anchorage.”

I felt better.

There are airstrips along the highways where local people land and keep their planes. Some of them are charted and others are not. To help pass the time — and make everything as safe as possible — I made it my job to locate all those strips and draw them on the chart should I have to land in a hurry.

The valley along the highway got narrower and deeper.

Part of the perception may have been my imagination.

Tazlina Glacier appeared off the left wing. A little farther along, it was the Nelchina Glacier I flew beside. Air that slid off the glaciers into the valley was moisture-laden and formed a dense layer of white cloud right above the glaciers’ base, where the ice crumbled and melted.

The clouds hung there as if balloons attached to the glacier by invisible strings.

South of Sheep Mountain, which stood high and close to the road, the Matanuska Glacier melted and formed the river by the same name. I maneuvered close for photographs and hoped to see sheep. Near the glacier’s base, I saw glacial droppings — till, if you will — mostly gray rock and mud.

The glaciers I had observed thus far looked like large amoebic organisms that had fallen into a crevice — the valley — and couldn’t get up. In the course of their season, they had delivered babies in the form of rotten snow and ice pocked with tumbled rock and mud as afterbirth.

Chickaloon Pass loomed ahead.

I could see why it was so dangerous even before I was adjacent to it.

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.