News Photo by William Kelley The author poses next to his plane, which he named Clyde, on a road west of Talkeetna, Alaska, between Anchorage and Fairbanks, in July 1971.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 31st in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley and a friend spent a shivering night on a roadside before meeting up with other friends near Mount McKinley, where Kelley met his friend’s beautiful wife.

Not many girls — and none I had known — would spend five days and nights three miles from the road and nearest neighbors with a pup, shotgun, and a .30-06 to keep bears from tearing apart their building supplies.

Fantastic.

Kathy had become ill shortly after Rick left for Anchorage. She staggered the three miles to the road and hitched a ride to Talkeetna for medical attention. Then she hitched back to the trail and spent the night with the folks we had visited that first night at the trailhead.

While at the site, her lodging was the tent with all their belongings. A lean-to covered their building supplies and served as a kitchen for meals. A layer of canvas had shielded her from all that nature could throw at her.

We had just dropped our packs when I had an urgent request for a restroom. I was pointed to a pole next to a hole behind the lean-to. The object was to hang onto the pole and hit the hole.

I dashed for the position pole with paper in one hand and my belt in the other. It was the runs. Luckily, they lasted only one day.

That was a first for me. Exposed in front of the world at the base of Mount McKinley, but, when mother nature calls, anything other than natural selection is not an option.

Once we had eaten, we talked about the process involved to stake a five-acre claim for a homestead.

Rick and I took a walk over the land. We walked a good five miles in that muskeg and mosquitoes, looking for a suitable spot.

At that time, an “outsider” could claim one of the pieces of land the government had released for homesteading. There were stipulations to stake, file, and improve it.

To someone who lived in Alaska, that might not have been a big deal.

However, to handle that business from 3,000 miles away could present problems.

We returned to camp in the late afternoon. The possibility of land in Alaska thrilled me, but what good would it be if I never saw it again? I never did stake five acres, and, two years later, the government closed the doors to land claims.

Al had to work the next day, so it was important that we wrap up the visit and head for the road. The trek back to the road didn’t seem to take as long. It could be that we carried a lot less weight. Each had at least a hundred pounds on our backs on the walk to the cabin-site.

I dropped my hunting knife on the trip to the road. It was given to me by my brother-in-law from Idaho, Bud, and was quite special to me.

I backtracked a short distance and found it where I had to climb over some tree roots that extended into the trail. The extra leg movement had lifted it clear of the sheath.

Fully armed once more with a .41 magnum Ruger revolver and knife, we continued to the road.

Darkness was close by the time we were ready to take off.

We pushed the plane out of the ditch and did a thorough pre-flight inspection. I guessed we’d lost about five gallons of fuel, which is an hour’s worth. We headed to Talkeetna to get fuel and check weather and file a flight plan.

The fuel truck at Talkeetna Airport, where the Flight Service Station was located, was not attended. By the time we waited for the attendant, fueled the right tank, and checked with Flight Service, it was dark.

Five gallons filled the right tank. The left one was not topped off. If we got water in the right tank, we would still have the left one to get home.

That is, if we didn’t get lost.

Time is our ally.

It can be our enemy.

It depends on how we view it, and which side of time we’re on.

The trip to Anchorage would have been much easier and safer had we followed the winding river, which may have taken 10 minutes longer. Even though it was dark, residual light reflected off the water enough to follow it.

We left the river a few minutes after liftoff. Not much later, we ran into low ceilings. I descended. Below me a few hundred feet, I could see the tree tops.

In the Anchorage area, there is a 26.5-degree magnetic correction for the compass. The very high frequency omnidirectional range, or VOR, compensates for that. I set the VOR, but tried to correct for an additional 26.5 degrees. My friend just sat there and looked out the window at the blackness.

The plane wandered off course and I couldn’t figure out why.

At that moment, somebody should have kicked my butt.

Another case of deja vu.

The mountains were to our left. I saw treetops below us. Each time I corrected, the plane drifted off course. I suspected twilight-zone type winds. The clouds got lower. Fear pounded at my brain, but I didn’t acknowledge it, afraid it would scare my friend. I called Anchorage radio and told them we were about 50 miles north, but not sure of our position.

The weather briefer told me when I filed the flight plan that a front was just southeast of Anchorage, moving northeast. Low visibility was expected within the hour. I knew it would take more than an hour to reach Merrill Field, but hoped the briefer was wrong.

When I called Anchorage radio, Flight Service informed me Anchorage International Airport was closed. That meant planes with the latest in sophisticated radio gear could not land.

What could I do with a needle-ball and airspeed?

They advised me to return to Talkeetna.

That would have been nice, but we were lost.

We flew on.

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.