EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 44th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers,” which is available for purchase at The News, 130 Park Place in downtown Alpena. Last week, Kelley made it to his friends’ ranch.

Inhabitants of such an area have big, open ideas for life.

Life is to live.

Love of the area and what it does for them is the reason most stay. It is cattle country. Irrigated areas produce much of the hay for livestock and gardens for the people. Things went well as long as cattle prices were up, but it wasn’t long before the bottom dropped out.

I still love it.

It just happened that the day after my arrival had been scheduled for a fishing trip to a place called the Gospels. We were up bright and early, like 4:00. That was becoming a bad habit, arising so early.

Everyone met at the ranch after breakfast. Jerry drove his pickup, a Ford four-wheel drive with a cattle rack on it. The rack protected us from being thrown out on the bumpy back roads.

I carried my camera and film in my backpack. I put in the backpack my camera, lens, film, and anything else I thought I’d need.

Next time I fish the Gospels, I’m traveling light.

The road was dirt and gravel all the way to the lakes. The dust was an element I figured would exist, and it did. I was excited, though, as I tried to breathe that clean mountain air, dust and all.

It was adventure, the kind I thrive on.

To reach the Lower Gospel, the lake we were to fish, we had to descend a steep, rough embankment of broken rock. Once at the bottom, we had to climb a long slope of slippery solid rock, water-covered and worn through the years, to reach the shelf that contained the lake. Then we had to descend again, over rocks and broken stones and trees, to the lake level.

I couldn’t believe the beauty of the area.

The exertion expended to climb the slippery, water-worn rock had been well worth it. The whole area was surrounded by spruce trees. Rugged rocks stood stark in the sun to look at us, just as they must have looked at the first man to fish that area. I made a note in my notebook: “God is alive and well, as I stand at Heaven’s door and gaze within.”

The area had a pair of high peaks at the south end. A large crevice between the two peaks contained snow that melted and fed the lake. What a ride. That little mountain lake had its own mini-glacier.

The mountains were every color, from gray, brown, and purple to many shades of green from the trees. The lake was a deep blue, with the sky being a lighter hue of blue.

Few fish were caught. No one minded. We all just relaxed. I took a roll of pictures, trying to capture just the right shot. All of them are just right.

Loris had packed us a large lunch. We sat on a large, level layer of granite and dangled our lines over the side as we ate the sandwiches. It had been awhile since I felt that I had dined in heaven. A perfect setting for communion among the souls as we gazed at the heavens and listened to the Gospels.

The sun revolved around the lake. When it started its descent toward the western rim of mountains that surround the lake, we started the climb up and down and up again, out of the basin. Finally, we reached the road. By that time, my pack was quite heavy, and the truck was a welcome sight.

On the way out of the hills, we stopped at a cabin among the trees. Jerry and Bruce knew the people who lived there. There was a young man wanted by the law for some infraction in one of the local towns. He didn’t seem too worried and rode out of the mountains with us. He worked at one of the ranches in White Bird, and, as we reached the valley, left the truck.

It was a tiring day, and, after supper, everyone hit the hay. I slept upstairs, and the bedroom window had a view of the whole hill north of the house. In the morning, I watched two of the ranch horses, Stormy and Camas, pick grass at the base of White Bird Hill.

Stormy was such a part of the ranch that he reminded me of Smokey the Cow Pony of Will James’ writings. He was part of the scene until August 1974. It was suspected a rattlesnake struck him, for he puffed up and died. Another possibility is blood poison from being poked with a wire or rusty nail. Anyway, his flank was quite swollen before he died.

Several times during the next three days, I walked or rode around the ranch. Stormy and I ambled back to White Bird Creek. There was a road that meandered about a mile eastward from the house. At the end of that road, a brook trickled toward the town of White Bird.

I rode there to watch life float past.

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.