We flew from Wyoming, through Colorado, to Arizona. After a short layover, we boarded the C-130 and returned to the air, crossing over Nevada, a portion of California, through Oregon, and finally into Wahington. It had been a long day.
My friend, Deanna Hurless, stationed at the same Wyoming base, and her family dropped me at the bus terminal. They were heading home, and I was on my way down the coast home.
It had been a bad year. Since the end of February, I’d been in trouble after turning my office into the inspector general.
The only good thing was the five-thousand-word story I’d written for Strategic Air Command following a flight in the SR-71. At six cents a word, I could see potential in becoming a writer.
As I settled in for the wait before my bus, I leaned back, and with my B-4 bag as a footstool, I fell fast asleep. A couple of hours later, I awoke, having to use the restroom.
Shortly after we pulled out of the terminal, I realized my valise, the one issued to me in basic training, was missing. I was sick to my stomach because it held two stories I was writing.
Even though my name was on the valise and I called the terminal several times, no one ever found it. And to this day, I cannot remember what those two stories were about or if they had potential.
By late June, I was out of the service, so I never learned what became of the SR-71 story, though I heard rumors Reader’s Digest published it in an issue I have yet to find. Plus, I never got paid.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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