EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 46th in a series of stories adapted from William Kelley’s book, “Wind Socks, Grass Strips, and Tail-Draggers,” which is available for purchase at The News, 130 Park Place in downtown Alpena. Last week, Kelley had trouble taking off from the airport in Billings, Montana.

It took an hour to reach the Wyoming border.

It took nearly that long to reach 9,500 feet.

During that time, I watched many valleys and mountains pass. The mountain peaks reminded me of various people, mostly women.

Sheridan, Wyoming, came into view. It is romanticism at its finest to think of all those famous places when flying. A real love affair is created to fly over them — or, better yet, to visit them. To my right, the Big Horn Mountains stood tall and proud, the way they must have tempted Jim Bridger.

A few miles farther east, I saw several check-dams built in the little ravines to slow the water runoff and prevent gully erosion. I photographed them for classroom use.

The air was still warm, even at that altitude. The massiveness of the mountains gave the impression I wasn’t moving very fast — at least, not fast enough.

“This thing flies like a bathtub,” I said to myself.

Density altitude made it move drunkenly, in what little turbulence there was at that height. The plane reminded me of a pig wallowing in mud. They like to do that when it is warm.

The chosen route took me along the eastern fringe of Wyoming’s mountains. Two hours later, I entered lower, flatter country. It felt as if someone had opened a door to another room when I left the mountains to enter the prairie.

It took two-and-a-half hours to cross Wyoming. Then I was in Nebraska airspace.

The view out into the flatter land was like standing on a landing at the top of the stairs and looking down into the living room.

The sun settled toward the western horizon behind me. Evening was soon to follow. Somewhere over the flat lands — not low or prairie, but flat, compared to tall mountains — to the northwest of Scottsbluff, the idea of faith and religion began to seep into my consciousness.

“Faith is to believe in yourself, maybe with the help of another being. Supreme? The Voice?”

With calmness that comes with the close of day, I envisioned something out there, bigger than me, wallowing through the air in a drunken bathtub.

It was quite late in the afternoon when I taxied up to the ramp at Scottsbluff and stopped dead center on the arrow the lineboy indicated.

He grounded his truck to the 140 to prevent static electricity from causing an explosion of fuel fumes, and filled the tanks. The sun dropped behind the main hangar as I walked into the Flight Service Station.

During the afternoon, there had been thunderstorms east of Scottsbluff, some over the course I planned to follow to Kansas City. They advised me to wait awhile to see if the new weather data due out at the top of the hour would be any better.

I waited.

It improved, but not to the extent I would have liked.

However, sometimes, improvement is relative, I tried to convince myself. I really don’t like thunderstorms at night when I am flying. Really, I don’t like them any time I’m flying.

Lightning flashed to my left. It was very dark when I left Scottsbluff, and the flash lit up the sky. When lightning seemed too concentrated in one area, I’d make a detour. Several times, I had to do that during the more than two hours to North Platte, Nebraska.

The one consolation was that there were many more airports along my route than there had been in the mountains of Wyoming and Montana. There were many more than there had been in Canada or Alaska, for that matter.

That didn’t improve the weather, though.

From Scottsbluff, I had called the folks I intended to see in Kansas City. I told them I was headed their way and planned to arrive before midnight, but the detours and loss of help from the winds had slowed my flight.

It was about 11:00 when I landed at North Platte. There was no one at the field to fuel me. I went over the weather thoroughly as I debated my next move.

Flight Service told me a plane was expected shortly, piloted by personnel who could fuel me. It would save a $5 after-hours fee.

I waited.

Again, I called the folks in Kansas City and told them I would be a little late, but to still expect me before morning. The family went to bed, but the mother kept vigilant beside the phone.

When the plane was refueled, I continued toward Kansas City. Several times, lightning jumped me to attention.

At one point, I was at 7,500 feet. The lightning intensified and the frequency increased, so I put on my sunglasses to avoid cockpit blindness. Ahead, I saw several airport beacons. I lined up on one and descended to 4,000 feet. When I reached it, though, the lightning had diminished, so I didn’t land. I climbed back to 5,500 feet and continued eastward.

The lights of Topeka, Kansas, came into view. I estimated it was still 75 miles to the east when I picked up the airport beacon. It was a little to my right. A few minutes later, I saw three airports around what I thought must be Kansas City. It was quite a relief to know I finally approached my destination after most of a night of flying with thunderstorms.

It was 3 a.m., and I was dog-eared.

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.