Courtesy Photo The sun sets at the airport at Watson Lake in Canada’s Yukon in July 1971.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 20th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley landed at Watson Lake in the Yukon.

The weather was great.

Perfectly clear sky. No clouds.

It had been forecast to be good that day when I checked the previous evening, so I didn’t check the weather or file a flight plan at Watson Lake. I just took off.

On I rode, headed west and north toward Whitehorse, that legendary gold rush town.

The visibility seemed to extend forever at 8,000 feet. The road curved south, left the Yukon Territory to enter British Columbia again. The chart showed it curved back to the north a few miles farther on, so I continued straight.

At one point, I was about 50 miles from the highway, but I could see its dust rising among the trees, so I wasn’t concerned.

A forced landing, though, might have changed my mind.

Mountains either influenced or dominated the last two days. Raw, monstrous structures, unforgiving by nature, but, at a distance, they invited caresses and softness.

The Cassair Mountains passed to the side, then it was the Englishman’s Mountains. Morris and Wolf lakes slipped past. Then Teslin Lake came into view.

The highway met the lake at its midpoint and followed it around the north end before heading westward. I headed for the north end of the lake and met the highway.

It got cold again, so I applied cabin heat.

From there, I followed the highway.

Two-and-a-half hours after leaving Watson Lake, Whitehorse appeared.

Nestled in the river basin, the old, historic town was protected by mountains on one side and water on the other. There is a paleness to the town when viewed with the mountains as a backdrop. Almost a mystical appearance. Maybe it’s the memories of the gold rush days.

“Whitehorse Tower, Cessna eight-niner-one-one-eight.”

“Cessna one-one-eight, Whitehorse Tower. Go ahead.”

Most control towers sound the same. At least any I have encountered. All controllers must go to the same school.

“Roger. Winds and active, please.”

“Cessna one-one-eight. Winds light and variable. Cleared to land one-eight right.”

I flew past the mountain on the east side of the airport. Over the valley that just drops away without any warning. The plane flew as if it were part of the scenery.

The landing was picture perfect. I was proud of myself.

As I turned onto the taxiway, I contacted ground control.

“Whitehorse ground, Cessna one-one-eight clear active runway.”

“Roger one-one-eight, cleared to the ramp.”

I taxied toward the ramp at the base of the control tower. It was a relaxed taxi. Then ground control came back.

“One-one-eight, ground,” he said.

“Roger ground, one-one-eight.”

“We received a report from Watson Lake about two-and-a-half hours ago, shortly after your takeoff, that you hadn’t filed a flight plan. Is that right?”

He was to the point.

“Yes, that’s right.”

I figured they would ground me or give me a fine, the way the controller talked.

“He said you had checked the route yesterday and thought we could expect you. Was there any reason for your not filing?”

“Not really. The weather looked good, so I just took off.”

I was anxious.

“One-one-eight, do you know why we require a flight plan in sparsely populated areas?”

He unkeyed the microphone and I felt alone.

“To aid in search and rescue, should you go down,” I said, hoping he would go easy on me.

“That’s right. For every 10 planes reported missing when not on a flight plan, we never find six of them. Or, if we do, it’s too late to do any good.”

I didn’t interrupt him. After some of the terrain I had been over because of a shortcut in a loop of the road, I knew he spoke the truth.

“The flight plan is for your protection. We find most lost planes that file a flight plan and stick close to their stated course.”

He let that sink in, then let me taxi to customs.

When I stopped, he gave me more food for thought.

“You were over terrain where, a hundred yards off the highway, no white man has ever walked. And probably few Indians.”

From that point until I left Canada, I filed a flight plan when in rough, unsettled terrain.

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.