Then out of the blue, an SR-71 pilot out of Beale came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a SR-71 jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. "Center, Aspen 20, altitude check". Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Aspen 20 has a precision altimeter in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol' Aspen here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true altitude is. "Aspen 20, Center, we have you at 78,000 feet the ground."

And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the right seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: "Los Angeles Center, Sam 29, can you give us an altitude check?" There was no hesitation, and the reply came as if was an everyday request. "Sam 29, I show you at flight level 1160."

So proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: "Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to 117,000 on the money."

For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A.came back with, "Roger that Sam, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one."

It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Air Force had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Altitude, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.

For just one day, it truly was fun being the highest guys out there.