Courtesy Photo The Nelchina Glacier is seen among the mountains between Northway and Anchorage, Alaska in July 1971.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 25th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers.” Last week, Kelley began his dangerous flight toward Anchorage.

That was the narrowest point of the valley.

Clouds sat at the top of the pass and blocked it from view. There was a steady, moderately heavy rain, and visibility wasn’t the best.

I’m sure there was more distance than I thought, but, at the time I flew through that tunnel of rock, it appeared the space was about three airplane wings wide. I doubt a 180-degree turn could have been negotiated within that space.

A few minutes later, I was through the pass and the worst was behind me.

Palmer came into view. Finally, something I recognized.

It is farm country. Palmer grows some of the biggest vegetables in the world. The soil is rich, well-watered, and the sun lights it nearly 24 hours a day during the heart of the summer.

After being riveted to the river bottom for the past couple hours, with only a handful of places to land in case of an emergency, the open farmland was a welcome sight.

The road from Palmer ran to the east side of the Knik Arm of the Cook Inlet. I followed it 40 miles or so over open country toward Anchorage.

When within hailing distance of Anchorage’s Merrill Field, I called the tower for a landing clearance.

“Merrill Tower, Cessna eight-niner-one-one-eight,” I said into the keyed microphone.

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

“Landing instructions, please.”

“One-one-eight, what is your location?”

“Northeast of your field about 10 miles.”

“One-one-eight, enter a right downwind for two-seven. Report downwind.”

“Roger, Merrill Tower, runway two-seven,” I said and looked down at the military field I’d have to fly over to comply with his instructions.

Three hours of flying through tunnels and looking at rotting glaciers dumping into river beds that looked like overgrown polar bears going to the bathroom had made me giddy. Rather than ask the tower for verification, I continued around to make a 45-degree entry to a left downwind for two-seven.

“Merrill Tower, Cessna one-one-eight, entering left downwind for runway two-seven, Merrill.”

“Cessna eight-niner-one-one-eight, Merrill Tower. You were cleared for a RIGHT downwind.”

“Merrill, I thought …”

“One-one-eight, continue approach. Report final.”

Nothing more was said of my mistake, but I felt like a boob.

As I continued toward base leg and final, the tower directed traffic away from two-seven to make room for me. I later learned Merrill Field is one of the busiest small airports in the world.

Anchorage is the hub for all flying in that area: Lake Hood, Elmondorf Air Force Base, and International Airport, as well as Merrill Field. There were planes all over the sky, coming home on Sunday evening, just like all the cars on a big-city freeway on Sunday evening.

Tower had given me a right-hand pattern over Elmondorf to be nice and work me into the system, as Elmondorf had no planes flying that evening.

Tower directed me to transient parking south of the tower. I asked the controller to cancel my flight plan. He asked me if I was sure. I affirmed it. I pulled in and parked.

It looked like a big-city parking lot at a supermarket having a super sale. There were planes tied down all over.

I shut down the engine and walked to the office at the base of the tower to register as a transient.

The first five days of parking were free. After that, a fee was charged to discourage people from using that lot as their permanent tie-down. Bush people fly to town to shop, just as other folks drive to town. They need parking spaces.

The next step was to call the family where I was going to stay. No answer. I tried again to make sure I hadn’t misdialed. No answer.

I looked out the window of the transient office and watched the setting sun shine on the mountains behind the planes. Water puddles in low spots glistened and reflected the planes and mountains. There had been a lot of rain the past two days, and I witnessed one of the nicest afternoons Anchorage had experienced in quite some time.

It was time to call my mother so my parents wouldn’t worry about me. I tried the number at their farm in Michigan. There was no answer.

They were four hours ahead of Anchorage. It was 11:00 there. They should be home. I thought of all kinds of bad things that may have happened.

Nobody was home here or there, I thought.

Here I am in the middle of God’s country, but nobody’s home.

I wonder if that’s how God feels, sometimes: Nobody is home.

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.