EDITOR’S NOTE: The following is the 45th 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 went fishing with some friends in Idaho.

It is always hard to leave, but it was time to be headed toward home.

During most of the summer, the sky over Grangeville and White Bird is clear. On the off chance it is cloudy, the clouds are high. When I awoke that last morning and prepared to head for home, the sky was bright and sunny. A great day to fly across the mountains.

Originally, I had planned to depart Grangeville shortly after sunrise. However, that is not how it went. Loris didn’t feel well that morning. The summer heat really bothered her that year. We had planned to have a chat while she took me to the airport, but she didn’t go. So, as she fixed breakfast, we had our parting conversation.

She didn’t get much chance to get away from the ranch and hauling me to the airport was to be one of those times. So we had sourdough pancakes and bacon and discussed my stay and upcoming trip back home. When the car was loaded, we said our goodbyes.

Loris’s sister drove me out. As much as it was like coming home when I arrived, it was like leaving home as we crossed the cattle guard at the yard entrance and headed up the White Bird Hill switchbacks.

It was 10:00 Pacific Time by the time I was airborne. The majority of the summer winds are from the northwest in that area, and they were that day. It took 20 minutes to climb up the 4,200 feet to reach 7,500 feet. By that time, I was near Kooskia, Idaho, headed up the Clearwater and Lochsa river valleys toward Missoula, Montana.

My destination for the day was Kansas City, Missouri. It would be a long haul in the 140, but feasible, had I left at 5:00. It was clear sky, so I decided to still try it.

Oil drops appeared on the windscreen about the time I thought of reasons why I drive myself so hard when I travel.

When the engine was topped three years before, the mechanic told me the plane could use a new prop seal, but he had never acquired one for me. The nose had pointed into the sun while at the Grangeville Airport. The seal must have dried out a little more those past five days. Oil accumulated on the cowl hinges, then blew onto the windshield when enough had collected. The engine didn’t seem to lose enough to affect oil pressure, so I continued eastward.

The flight to Billings, Montana, took four hours. When I checked the oil, the engine hadn’t used any more than usual, so I didn’t worry about it. However, the right tire was a little soft, as pointed out by the lineboy. I guess all those air miles had been hard for it.

He retrieved an air tank and pumped it for me. He talked about buying a plane like the 140.

When I told him I’d like a Cessna 180, he was interested in the 140. I told him I’d call if I decided to sell.

The next planned stop was Scottsbluff, Nebraska. The winds were still out of the west-northwest. The weather looked good all the way. As I taxied out, I requested an intersection takeoff. The tower approved it, most likely under the assumption I knew what I was doing.

I began to roll on the west runway. When I thought the plane should be airborne, I pulled back on the stick and dumped the flaps. That is a mountain technique for short strips. The 140 jumped into the air like a stallion over a barrier. For a moment, I was proud of myself. Then, just as quickly, it settled back on the runway. I had forgotten density altitude. The elevation is 4,000 feet. The temperature was warm. The intersection gave me about 4,000 feet of runway at most, compared to the 7,000 feet I could have had had I taxied all the way to the end.

With the warm temperatures, performance was more like trying to take off on a 7,500-foot-high airport. Billings Airport is on a bluff, with the city below. Just as I became airborne that first time, tower called.

“Cessna one-one-eight, Billings Tower. What are your intentions?”

“To get this thing off the ground.”

“Roger, one-one-eight. What is your destination?”

“If this thing doesn’t get airborne pretty soon, it will be Billings town proper.”

The plane struggled into the air and staggered past the bluff over the city.

“Scottsbluff, Nebraska,” I said, at that point.

Sweat beaded my forehead and added to what was already there from the sunshine.

“Roger, one-one-eight. Have a good day.”

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.