Courtesy Photo The author’s grandfather is seen on the family farm.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the first in a weekly series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.”

Grandpa Bartley, my mother’s father, was born and raised in Essex, Ontario, Canada.

He was 11 years old when he left home — for the second time — and headed toward the United States. Exactly when he crossed the border and settled in Michigan is uncertain.

The idea of going to Alaska was my grandfather’s dream for many years.

When I was a young boy, Grandpa and I used to sit in his garage, where he had a special seat, a place for his pipe, a collection of adventure magazines — including the Alaska Sportsman — and a seat for me.

Grandpa was a great storyteller. He would relate to me by the hour his adventures of being a lumberjack as well as a sailor on the Great Lakes.

“We sailed from Duluth to Buffalo,” he would often say as he weaved a story of some famous boat or storm. There were also tales of life in the lumber camp — the flapjacks and tamarack knots used to cook pancakes on the red-hot stovetop.

The stories wound down as we opened the Alaska Sportsman magazines and read about life on the Last Frontier.

Something I always found of interest was that many of Grandpa’s stories could have been included with the “Tales of the Far North” that appeared in many of those magazines.

Probably the most interesting story he told was of his last trip on the Great Lakes. His ship wallowed in Lake Huron, bound for Toledo, to lay up for the winter for repairs. Unfortunately, I have forgotten the name of that ship. He referred to that storm as “the Big Blow of November 1913.”

The winds were in excess of 70 mph. When possible, the crew stayed below deck. However, at one point, Grandpa and the first mate had to reattach the cover on one of the holds. The wind grabbed Grandpa and had him headed for the edge of the deck. The first mate grabbed the back of Grandpa’s peacoat and left the imprint of his hand between Grandpa’s shoulder blades that was visible for several days. The first mate’s grip was that strong — and it saved my grandfather’s life.

Grandpa exemplified adventure.

As a territory, Alaska represented the last Wild West, or the Last Frontier. After statehood, it still presented itself as a challenge, a “mountain to be climbed.” Grandpa’s stack of Alaska Sportsman magazines fueled that dream.

The idea to someday experience Alaska was permanently etched in the back of my mind.

Grandpa died in the fall of 1962, which took from me the feeding of that dream.

Life changed. School took me from the home area. Then it was a teaching position in the Mount Clemens area.

Sometimes, one dream will feed another. The lust for adventure led to my other dream, which was to one day fly like the birds. Or fly with the birds. And a small public airport, McKinley Airport, just happened to be fairly close to the school where I taught.

As a kid on the farm, we learned early that, when it was time to attack a task, there was no need to wait. So, when I decided to get my pilot’s license, I put all my extra time and energy into that endeavor.

It was the last week of April when I began flight lessons. I received my private pilot certificate on Oct. 1, 1966.

During that timeframe, I completed my first year of teaching sixth-grade middle school science. Worked the first four weeks of summer vacation on house construction for a company co-owned by the father of one of my students. Spent time working on my parents’ farm, and studied to pass the private pilot certificate exam administered by the Federal Aviation Administration.

In June 1966, I purchased my Cessna 140, a 1946 model. Whenever I could find an instructor to sign my logbook so I could fly cross-country between McKinley Airport and the Alpena airport, I took to the air. By the time I took my private pilot ride with my designated examiner and received my certificate, I had many more hours of cross-country flight than was required.

We had several hayfields on the farm that were a quarter-mile long.

Once the hay was cut, if the cattle were not using a field for pasture, I would land my plane there.

Sometimes, I even landed when the cows were present. They would stay out of the way when I landed, but were curious and would approach the plane once it was shut down behind the toolshed. Usually, though, I preferred to land where the cattle did not pasture.

It was in the Cessna 140, a two-seat tail-dragger, that I made my first flight to Alaska.

However, it was five years later and many more hours of cross-country flying before I made that flight.

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.