Courtesy Photo The author’s tent is pitched in the lee of a building at the airport in Northway, Alaska in July 1971.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 22nd in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelly marveled at the growing mountains as he crossed the Yukon.

More colors than can be mixed from a rainbow’s palette dazzled me.

Greens of trees and grass, blues of sky, rivers, and lakes — all a different hue — rock of every color imaginable. Unblemished beauty.

Pure.

Raw.

Massive.

Rugged.

Then, I looked at a cloud through the skylight above my head.

It was curved like the wings of a dove. The base frayed as if primary feathers had seen much wear. Pure white set against bottomless blue sky. Gentleness at that time of massiveness, where the raw power of glaciers ooze from mountain crevices.

Visions of sacrifice danced on plateaus, glanced off stone faces to scatter on snow-covered peaks. Whether Indian, white man, or those who came before, I wondered how many had slaughtered wooly mammoths in that valley.

A large lake formed in the windscreen.

Kluane Lake — pronounced “coo-ah-ne” — was the bluest lake I had ever seen. Not a deep, greenish blue, but soft and powdery. It is a relatively deep lake, but, because of its clay and silt bottom (a result of glacial melt) and the reflections of mountains that surround it, it has a soft blue hue.

The highway follows the river for several miles before branching off on its own. I was flying to the right of the road when a plane came into view. He followed it, too, from the other side.

That is standard, to keep to the right side of a highway or stream while one navigates in the mountains. That is, unless the updrafts and downdrafts are a problem. Those are treated as emergencies, when the pilot does whatever works to survive.

Two hours and 50 minutes after leaving Whitehorse, I crossed the Yukon-Alaska border.

There was no difference in terrain, no line to mark it. No sign in the sky to say, “Here it is.”

Northway had a VOR — which stands for very high frequency omni-directional range, a radio navigation system — on the field.

Finally, after what seemed weeks but was really only a few days without a navigation radio, I could navigate with more than the compass, chart, and road.

I tuned the radio and waited. Soon, I heard the signal and saw the needle flicker. The signal grew stronger. I waited. The needle centered.

Finally, in the hazy distance, somewhat to the left of the highway, I saw a flat stretch of marshy terrain. The chart showed Northway to be in a grassy, marshy area.

I strained my eyes and lined the plane with the compass and chart and saw a lake a few miles ahead. The chart showed Northway to be north and east of the lake.

I watched.

Slowly, the airport worked its way toward me.

Five days after leaving Alpena, I prepared to land at Northway, Alaska.

The airport at Northway is the result of World War II. The runway was built long to accommodate military planes that were stationed there to defend against Japanese attacks on the Aleutian Islands or the main body of Alaska.

There were only a few small attacks in the Aleutians.

After the war, the airport was released for civilian use.

The last few miles into Northway went fast as I traded altitude for airspeed.

Flight Service cleared me to land but told me to avoid the first thousand feet of runway, as it was quite rough. Since the runway was so long, I didn’t need that part, anyway. I slowed to approach speed and landed.

At last, I was on Alaskan soil.

Five years after I bought the 140, I was in Alaska.

Wish Grandpa could have been with me.

The atmosphere around Northway appeared relaxed, and the customs official might not have minded if I didn’t check customs right away.

However, to avoid any questions, I waited around the plane until an agent arrived, as I was required, and answered all his questions. Then I checked the weather for the leg into Anchorage.

Most airports in Alaska, at that time, had Flight Service stations on the field. I’m not sure if they have suffered cutbacks like stations in the Lower 48 or not.

They perform a vital function where weather conditions can become severe in a short time. Survival depends on coordination of rescue planes and personnel. Being on the field assures maximum efficiency.

Weather in the pass prompted the observer to say, “Not recommended for VFR flight at this time,” referring to visual flight rules. A later check with them produced the same results.

I decided to stay in Northway for the night.

I called the family I was to visit in Anchorage as soon as customs was cleared. Alan’s father’s farm was around the corner to the south from my parents’ farm when we were youngsters. He wasn’t home when I called.

After I decided to stay the night, I tied the plane near the lodge and pitched my tent where it would be protected by the storeroom walls of the lodge.

Then I had something to eat.

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.