Courtesy Photo The author is seen piloting his Cessna 140 in about 1970.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 38th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s unpublished book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley departed Alaska and began home to Michigan.

The winds were in my favor, blowing from the northwest.

There were no clouds, so I cranked the 140 up to 9,500 feet and followed the road.

Once into Yukon Territory, I descended to 9,000 feet and watched the mountains go past until I reached Kluane Lake. It was still blue and beautiful.

At that point, I followed the river that wound through the countryside, which looked like alluvial plain deposited many years ago.

It seemed so lazy and carefree and hypnotized me.

The road was some distance to my left, near the base of the mountains. It turned left and continued toward Whitehorse.

I missed it.

A few miles later, I checked the chart and discovered the mountains were unfamiliar. Not that I should recognize them after one pass through, but they didn’t match those on the chart. I studied the chart and realized the road had turned, so I backtracked and picked it up.

Once I saw Lake LeBarge, still north of Whitehorse, I knew I was on course. The hour was still early, so I flew near it and took more pictures. From there, I contacted the tower and was cleared to land runway one-eight right. The winds on the ground were light but favored the south runway.

Once more, I checked and sealed the revolver. As I checked customs, a man came from Fairbanks in a Bellanca to declare customs.

“Do you think it would be fair to ask you to split the $2 fee with this man? After all, he’s part of the reason I happened to be here,” the customs official said.

“That’s OK with me,” I said.

We introduced ourselves and asked pertinent questions pilots ask other pilots.

He was on his way to Spokane with his children. They were going to spend the rest of summer vacation with their mother. He was a research engineer in Fairbanks. We shook hands and parted.

The sky was still and clear, and the winds helped me. I filed a flight plan and followed the highway. I decided to try to fly by the rules in that rugged country.

Hunger began to gnaw on me. I opened a can of sardines. The smell nearly overpowered me in that confined area, but I was hungry. Hi-Ho crackers were the delivery system from the can to my mouth. That high-powered combination of food sustained me for several more hours.

On to Watson Lake.

I landed and got fuel. Before takeoff for Fort Nelson, I checked the weather. As I pulled up in front of the Flight Service Office, I saw the Bellanca again.

The pilot and I greeted. He told me the smoke in the Liard River Valley was thick and it might be impossible to follow the highway all the way. It depended on the wind. If it continued from the south, it would blow the smoke away from the road. The surface winds were still from the south. While aloft, they were from the northwest.

After I filed my flight plan, we agreed to take off together and remain in contact as long as possible. However, those who know planes realize the Bellanca is about 75 mph faster than the Cessna 140.

When the Bellanca reached the fire area, he gave me a report on the smoke. On his last transmission, he said I could get around it to the south with little trouble. At that time, I figured by the chart he was 75 miles ahead of me, but reception was still readable, though faint. He told me he was going on to Prince George, and not to Fort Nelson. Darkness would catch him, but he was instrument-rated.

That was the last I heard from him, until I met him in Fairbanks in November, more than two years later.

The fire that burned when I headed north had burned more than 200,000 acres and still burned strong. It had been started by a lightning strike during a thunderstorm.

A pilot saw the lightning strike a tree on a tall hill. He radioed Fort Nelson and told them about it. Planes couldn’t be sent right away because of the storm and a whole page of red tape. By the time the bucket brigade was organized, it was too late to put out the fire. It had burned out of control since. I was told later that autumn rains and snow had put out the fire, after it had burned more than 250,000 acres.

The sun was low by the time I reached Fort Nelson.

It would have been possible to reach Fort St. John by flying an hour after dark, but conditions were favorable for fog. Besides, I didn’t want to push it without an instrument rating. I already had 14 hours of flight time that day.

I spent the night in the terminal building, asleep on the couch.

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.