Up where we were, it was smooth, cruising along at Flight Level 270, Utah's Painted Desert, swaths of reds, browns and golds panning behind us as we flew. Just like the light, we were, as they say, golden, with pilots in other planes at altitudes both below us and above squawking nonstop about the rough rides they were suffering. Here in the 20s, not only were we by ourselves—the airliners thousands of feet above us and the pistons thousands below—but we were also apparently the only ones enjoying a smooth ride. Not a bump anywhere.
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