Courtesy Photo William Kelley’s plane is tied down and his tent is pitched at the Watson Lake airfield in Canada’s Yukon Territory in July 1971. The author spent the night with “one million and ten hungry mosquitos.”

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 19th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley flew near a wildfire in Canada.

Watson Lake also has a sea plane base.

As my plane was being fueled, I noticed several float planes on the water, next to the airport. One was a twin-Beech, a D-18. There was also a DC-3 on floats. Those are two of my favorite planes.

To see them both on floats — and at the same time — was like a glimpse of the door to heaven.

The attendant filled out my gas slip. I asked him if I could pitch my tent on the tiedown area. He told me it was not accepted airport policy, but, if no one said anything, it should be all right.

When he finished with the receipt, I paid and taxied to the tiedown area and fastened the 140 to the ground.

The three-man tent I carried around the country was well-used. It had been to Europe with three of my friends. Several times, it had been to Florida and California, all before I bought it from a friend with whom I taught.

The tiedown area at Watson Lake was all gravel and rocks. It wasn’t the best place I’d ever pitched a tent. I sorted the stones and found the softest, smoothest ones, and made preparations for the evening.

The sun set later and rose earlier the farther north I went. It was 10 p.m. and still very light. I was a little cold, but didn’t want to pitch the tent in daylight for fear of being ejected from the premises.

It hadn’t eaten all day. I was starved.

I rummaged through my box of whole food, saving the freeze-dried for emergencies. The mosquitoes must have smelled me, for, as I stood outside the door and dug through the food, I noticed a dark cloud approaching at low altitude.

Soon, large mosquitoes were dive-bombing me. I swear some of them were twin-engined.

I found a can of chili con carne that looked good. It didn’t require cooking, which was a good thing, as I had no campfire.

The can opener was located. All I needed was a spoon.

Everything was removed from the box of goodies. I had everything except for eating utensils. Then I remembered I had left them on the table at home.

As hungry as I was, I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I decided I’d eat the can if I had to.

Once everything was replaced in the box, I made room to sit in the plane, out of the line of fire of the mosquitoes and out of the cool late afternoon air.

I looked at the can. It stared at me like a cyclops with a large bloodshot eye and smiled.

I was tired, ravenous, a bit goofy after so many hours in the air, and in no mood to entertain a can of chili that smirked.

The opener was placed atop the reddish-colored can. It punctured the sealed can and I heard the air hiss out. With the air, the smell of prepared chili seeped through the evening and tickled my nose hairs.

The unattached lid gave me an idea. I bent it into a scoop and devoured the contents of the chili con carne, mixed with some saltine crackers I had brought.

Evening settled on Watson Lake, my first experience in the Yukon.

I pitched the tent. The stakes didn’t go into the rocks very well, but there wasn’t much wind to worry about. I blocked those rocks with more rocks, the harder ones. I threw in the sleeping bag, wriggled inside, and, bushed as I was, soon fell asleep.

It must have been 11 p.m. when I hit the sack. I had just gotten to sleep when I heard a loud “bang.”

Scared from sound sleep, I jumped to attention.

My first thought was that somebody was shooting at me for having the tent. The next thought was that somebody was shooting to scare the bears and wolves away from the airport. The bears and wolves didn’t bother me, but the shooting did.

I was so tired.

It was summer, and the bears couldn’t be that hungry that they’d come for me. The fact some ninny shot at me did bother me.

It sounded like a shotgun, sort of a hollow sound, unlike the sharp crack of a rifle shot.

Finally, I decided they were just trying to scare me and would probably ask me to leave before they shot me. I went back to sleep.

Sometime in the night, the banging ceased. For about four hours, I had sound sleep.

Then it started all over again.

At 6:15 a.m., I arose.

The sun had beat on my tent for two hours. That was the beginning of my fifth day on the trip.

I packed the tent (which had dried a little during the night) and sleeping bag in the plane and used the latrine beside the bush near the plane.

Boy, it was neat being in the Yukon.

I was about to leave the area when I discovered what was making all the noise the previous night and morning.

When I parked the plane, it didn’t dawn on me that the barrels stacked near the tiedown area would contract when it became dark and the temperature cooled and expand again when warmed by the morning sun.

That was the cause of all the “explosions” during the night.

There really wasn’t someone shooting at me.

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.