EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 48th 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 flew into storms again as he left Kansas City.

The clouds to my left piled, milled, and spilled rapidly.

All the while, I watched as the clouds built along and in front of me, out-distancing me.

All of a sudden, a violent thrust of turbulence hit the plane full force. It was probably a microburst that slammed into me as it spilled itself on the earth below.

I thought it had ripped off the wings.

I was so intent on the clouds to the side of the plane I had run into the base of a sloped cloud, a thunderhead. The cloud picked the plane up hard and slammed it down harder.

Those are the types of clouds that have enough force in them that, should a small plane become trapped in its grasp, it can tear the plane apart.

Each time I flew, for the past four weeks, I had secured the items in the front seat. That day, being near home, I hadn’t. The duffle bag in the right seat flew up and landed on my lap, against the instrument panel and the control stick. The charts flew all over the plane, mostly on me. I pushed the stick forward and dropped from 3,000 to 2,000 feet in a few seconds and headed south, 90 degrees away from the storm.

I replaced the duffle on the seat and threw the charts in the back.

Everything had happened so fast and I was so shook up I didn’t think about what went where. I just threw things off me.

When I had everything under control, I reached for my Kansas City chart to find my location. The chart was gone. I had thrown it behind the seat and couldn’t reach it. I looked out the window to figure what to do and noticed a four-lane expressway right beneath me that led south. I followed it. I figured a road of that size would come to a town sometime, and the town would have an airport.

For 10 miles, I later learned, I flew that way. Scared isn’t the right word, but it will do. It is half of the two-word phrase.

Suddenly, a city appeared out of the haze and dust ahead of me. I looked again and saw an airport. I checked the windsock and entered the pattern. Just as I began a turn from base to final, I saw another plane approach the runway. I guess he had made a straight-in approach, as I hadn’t seen the plane until I turned final. I waited for him to land.

The plane turned onto a taxiway, and I landed right behind it and followed to the ramp.

Just as I shut down the engine, some fellow — I later learned he was the manager of the airport — ran up to my left window.

“Can I help you?” he said.

He had to shout, as the wind gusted and rocked the plane.

“Yes. I hope so. Where am I?”

“What do you mean? You’re in a plane.”

“No. What town is this?”

Another time, that might have been quite funny. At the moment, it was anything but funny.

“Jacksonville,” he said as his hair and shirt flew before the wind like miniature windsocks.

“Jacksonville what? Florida?” I asked.

I was quite shook-up.

“No. Illinois.”

He stuck his face up to my window. I had it open by that time.

“There’s a big storm coming. I’ll help you tie down your plane.”

“OK,” I said, and fought the wind as it banged against the door and slammed it into my arm.

We put the chains tight so the wind couldn’t whip the wings. I tied the elevator with the seat belt. I plugged the pitot tube with the little piece of apple tree twig I had shaped for that purpose, and ran into the terminal.

The door was no more than shut when the rains came. The wind drove water under the door about 10 feet into the lobby. There was no let-up to the rain. Lightning flashed and turned the sky a liquid white. A few seconds later, thunder slammed the air and vibrated everything inside the building.

The storm moved off to the east. We all breathed a little easier. About two deep breaths, and the storm backed up and started all over again.

Most of the people in the terminal went home.

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.