Courtesy Photo The North Battleford weather station is seen in Saskatchewan, Canada in summer 1971.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 14th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley discussed wolves and grain elevators with Canadian friends before resuming his trek to Alaska.

On the way back to Hudson Bay, Andy talked about hunting trips he had taken in some of the woods we passed.

He explained how the trees of an area would be clear-cut and pushed into rows. It took 10 years for the frost to work its way to the surface after the land had been tilled the first time.

By that time, the rows of trees were pretty rotten and could be worked into the ground. After the frost left the ground, it was very fertile topsoil, containing mostly loam and clay.

A few miles before we reached the airport, a large, crow-like bird rose from the roadway ahead of us. When I remarked on its size, Andy informed me it was a raven. It was really a neat bird, and the closest I’d ever been to a raven. I thought of Edgar Allen Poe.

Andy helped get the plane ready. When it was checked out and running, he waved to me and I departed.

The takeoff was smoother than the landing.

It was quite late in the afternoon by the time I left Hudson Bay. The sky was scattered to broken with high cumulus clouds, and there was a westerly wind.

The next intended stop was North Battleford. Had it not been so late in the afternoon, I would have scheduled a fuel stop at Prince Albert. The name had always intrigued me. However, I wanted to reach Edmonton, Alberta before the day ended, and Prince Albert would have prevented that.

The Hemispheric Rule dictates altitude when flying above 3,000 feet. In the States, if flying east, fly at the odd thousand, plus 500 feet, such as 3,500, 5,500, 7,500 feet. In Canada, it is the same, odd thousand feet, except the 500 feet is not added.

When flying on a westerly heading, the rule states to fly the even thousand feet, plus 500 feet, in the States, such as 4,500, 6,500, or 8,500 feet. In Canada, it is the even thousand feet. No 500 feet is added, such as 4,000, 6,000, or 8,000 feet.

I knew the flight to North Battleford would be close, but I calculated I would have enough fuel.

A 45-minute reserve of fuel is required when flying in northern Canada — possibly in all of Canada — but, with the winds and calculated distance, I felt I could make that leg without refueling.

The clouds were high and, at low levels, the air was quite bumpy, so I cranked the 140 up to 6,000 feet. The ride was somewhat smoother up there. I tried to take notes as I flew along to write points of interest or descriptions, but it didn’t last long. The air was still too rough for that.

Along the way, I had the opportunity to observe a low, dark, ominous cumulus cloud near Domremy. It was 7:30 our time.

It was as if I examined the anus and rectum of some large, ornery animal when I looked into the cloud. As I passed the route that would have taken me to Prince Albert, I thought of the white box of cough drops in which Smith Brothers come, and thought, “Prince Albert was a Smith Brother.” The angry rectum of cloud still looked over my shoulder.

It took a little over three hours to reach North Battleford. To fill the tanks took 23 gallons of fuel. The time since last fuel was 4.6 hours. Thankfully, some of that time had been spent at idle, when the engine doesn’t use its normal five gallons per hour.

Daylight was short by the time I left North Battleford.

An instrument rating is required for night flight in Canada. But, after a weather update and briefing on flight plans and flight notification, the Flight Service station manager felt I would be safe as far as Edmonton.

A primary highway connected North Battleford with Edmonton. While there was daylight, I flew direct. When darkness swallowed the prairie, I was 20 miles south of Vermilion, Alberta. The highway was just to my right. My course was pretty well-established by that time, so I continued following the compass, with the knowledge I could pick up the highway if my sense of position became questionable.

Edmonton was still an hour away when night fell.

The whole world was dark. It was as if someone had turned off the lights below and above. The use of navigation lights and instruments caused the ammeter to show intermittent discharge. It concerned me, although I was sure I could make it, even if the generator retired.

Weather was of some concern.

It was good at North Battleford, but, about 50 miles west, cumulonimbus clouds had developed and threw jabs of lightning back and forth. The lightning storm appeared to be about 20 miles off the starboard wing. Darkness made it appear brighter and closer and I questioned my decision to continue toward Edmonton.

While I debated whether or not to turn back or find an alternate airport, the worst of the storm passed.

In the darkened sky, water drops began to pelt the windscreen. Small at first, they increased in density and intensity. The plane was waterproof and I wasn’t really concerned unless visibility should lower.

A chill worked its way into the cabin, so I pulled my jacket tighter around my shoulders and hunkered down in the seat.

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.